#I did not expect this to turn into a whole illustration

[mochiwei]

She knows how to accessorize 💎💅🏼

[talesfromthebandgeekmafia]

Guys wtf I think I might actually be good at my job

[amoscontorta]

Sylus gets a headache | ao3 | other fics in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus has secured the promise from you that he can use your place as a safe house if he's in the area and needs it. Sylus's definition of "need", it turns out, might be different than your own, as illustrated by the first time he shows up unannounced at your door.

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, no use of y/n. This story contains: fluff, banter, Sylus has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, legal arguments, bad puns, self-indulgent writing, repetitive finger caressing, insomnia that Sylus is determined to vanquish by any means, Xavier is an innocent victim in all this and has no idea, except has Xavier ever been innocent in his entire life? CWs: insomnia, consumption of alcohol, profanity SFW, mostly. With some filthy innuendos at the end. It's Sylus, after all.

It has been a few days since you had the best night’s rest you can remember on the back of a certain miscreant crime lord’s motorcycle, and you’re once again preparing for a long, torturous night of staring at the ceiling and trying to catalogue all the classes of wanderers in an attempt to lull yourself to sleep—Nero’s suggestion. You have your doubts about whether it will work, but he gave the advice so earnestly after overhearing you talking to Tara about your insomnia that you feel obligated to give it a go. Sylus would probably scoff and say something about ‘people pleasing,’—you shake your head. That man does not get to live rent free in your brain, no matter how suspiciously kind he was the last time you saw him.

The kettle squeals, and you pour the boiling water into your chipped “World’s Greatest Hunter” mug that Caleb had gifted you once you were admitted into the Association’s ranks. The hot liquid steams soothingly into your face as it drowns a chamomile teabag, and you try not to think about the last time you saw him, when he was smiling. Patting your head. Whole, and so, so vibrantly alive. You take a deep, shaky breath.

After a suggestion from Tara, you add some honey and then slice a lime and squeeze the juice into the tea, absently stirring the spoon and gazing out your balcony window. You’re home early for once, and the sun is only just setting. You can’t see it through the high rises around you, but dusk filters down into the streets below your flat. The gentle sounds of the city moving into late evening drift up, the traffic like waves crashing on the shore, laughter and shop bells tinkling, a dog barking somewhere.

Suddenly, your doorbell chimes through your apartment and startles you out of your reverie. Did you forget that you had ordered something to be delivered today?

Without thinking too hard about it, you take your still piping-hot tea and pad to the foyer to answer the door.

Only to have your sense of calm shattered as you fling the mug out of sheer, instinctual self-preservation that Zayne accuses you of not having, when you see who is standing on the other side.

Quicker than your brain can actually process Sylus’s presence outside your flat, scarlet-night tendrils have prevented the mug from shattering on the floor, but have failed to stop the liquid from continuing its projectile path right onto his red, standing collar shirt and black vest.

“The fuck, Sylus?”

“You really, and I mean really, need to work on your greetings, kitten,” he tells you calmly, evol delivering the mug into his waiting hand while he holds the suitcase he has in the other hand away from his body to avoid being dripped on by his now soaked torso.

“Sorry, you were the last person I was expecting.” You wince, heart still threatening to beat its way out of your rib cage.

“Oh, expecting someone, are we?” he lifts a dark silver eyebrow.

“No, but least of all… you.” You flap your hand in his general direction. “What are you even doing here?”

“How about,” he drawls, “you let me in, and I’ll tell you. You wouldn’t want your neighbors to get curious and come to inquire about the mess I’m making on your doorstep, would you?”

You stare at him for a moment longer, trying to think of a way out of having him in your space, again, but you’re tired at the end of another long day, another long week, another long month and this whole entire fucking year. Trying to get rid of him will take more energy than just letting him do what he wants so that he’ll go away again. You run a hand down your face and shuffle aside.

He enters, and the scent of him fills the small foyer, warm and mouth-watering. He sets the briefcase and mug on the floor, removes his dress shoes and places them neatly by your own hastily-kicked-off boots next to the step leading into the rest of your flat. He then picks the mug back up and reads what’s written on it.

“World’s best hunter, indeed.” He snorts softly, eyes flicking from your face to your thin tank top and sleep shorts covered in grinning little bounce, bounce planet blobbus, to your bare feet. “Is this how the world’s greatest hunter always answers the door to unknown visitors?”

“It was a gift,” you say defensively, snatching the mug from him and cradling it to your chest. “And the only people who would be at my door this late is Xavier borrowing a cup of sugar for some doomed baking experiment, or a delivery person. I’m sure they’ve seen much worse than this,” you sweep your hand down your body in a dismissive flourish.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve seen much worse.” Sylus frowns slightly.

“Yeah, so if they don’t like it, they’re welcome to move on to their next delivery.”

“Or buy their own sugar,” Sylus murmurs, reaching out to run a finger along your knuckles as you clutch the mug. “And who gave you this highly accurate mug?”

You hesitate, knowing that his face is going to do something complicated, like it always does, when you mention your family. But fuck it, he asked. If he doesn’t like the answer, he can also move on to whatever his next nefarious errand is. “Someone who was like a brother to me.”

“Brother, huh,” he says softly, still gently stroking your skin. “Well, he wasn’t wrong in this.” His hand falls back to his side. “Invite me all the way in, kitten. With your words,” he commands.

“And why should I do that? The deal was to let you come in. You’re in now. You don’t need to come in any further. Now it’s your turn to honor the deal. Why are you here?” You glare up at him, your foyer feeling minuscule with his big body and presence filling it.

“You offered me your place if I ever needed it,” Sylus narrows his glittering eyes. “I needed it today before you flung steaming liquid all over my clothes. And now I need it even more.” He looks pointedly down at the still-dripping clothes in question.

“What did you originally need it for?” You stall, the guilt of throwing a mug full—half! Half full! of tea at him starting to creep in.

“How about you invite me all the way into your home, with your words, help me take care of this mess you caused,” he waves a lazy finger at his torso, “and I’ll tell you.”

“But you already promised to tell me why you’re here in exchange for the initial value of me letting you in, and I let you in. I already paid. You can’t make me pay twice for the same goods,” you protest.

“Remind me to take you with me the next time I have contract negotiations. You’re more useful than my own legal counsel.” He pauses, considering you. “Circumstances have changed. Force majeure prevents me from fulfilling my original promise without requiring additional time and means to fulfil that promise. You owe me the opportunity to successfully deliver what I owe you.”

“What, exactly, is preventing you from telling me why you originally came to my home right here in my entryway?”

“The consequences of an unforeseeable natural disaster,” he answers with a little helpless shrug. “Namely, the trauma of nearly getting drowned in tea following almost being taken out by a mug launched with your god-like strength. Kitten, your assault is the equivalent of an act of god, and I can’t be responsible for the fact that I now need a dry shirt and a safe place to recover from the shock of almost being murdered by your tableware.”

You can’t help it. It has been so long since you’ve actually laughed out loud, so the noise that comes out of you doesn’t even sound human. You’re laughing, and you can’t stop. The affronted look on Sylus’s face in response to your ugly-snorts, causes you to laugh even more, and you’re suddenly bending over, holding your knees, laughing like you might die if you stop.

After a long moment, when you are finally able to breathe again, you straighten and find Sylus looking at you with a soft expression, one corner of his wide mouth slightly lifted… which is alarming. But you’re too filled with gratitude for the relief of laughing that his absurd exaggeration just gave you, so you refuse to think about anything at all too hard right now. You give in.

“Sylus, would you do me the honor of coming into my home? You can tell me what the hell you’re doing here after I find you a dry shirt.” You sarcastically bow as low as you can, your arms uplifted to gesture him forward.

“I suppose I can’t refuse such a graciously extended offer,” he says, as if resigned to a terrible fate, but his smile is smug and he wastes no time striding into your living room while unbuttoning his vest. He gently lays it over the back of your couch, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You force yourself to stop staring as the pale skin slowly being revealed with each flick of his long fingers and head to your bedroom.

You paw through your chest of drawers, trying to find a shirt that will fit his broad shoulders and chest, but all you manage to do is make even more of a mess in your barely organized drawers. You stand, remembering the hoodie Xavier leant you after a recent, particularly messy battle on a chilly night. You move to your closet where you had hung it carefully to remind yourself to give it back to him after having washed it. You pull it from the hanger, turn around, and squeal loud enough to shatter glass.

Sylus is standing right behind you, chest bare, black slacks hung low around his narrow hips, and you did not heard him come in.

“I thought we were past the terror stage of our friendship, sweetheart,” he says, cocking his head, the same ruby stud earrings he was wearing at the club flashing in the light. “But that’s twice today that I’ve frightened you to the point of violence. Am I really that scary?”

“You keep… appearing, out of nowhere. A little warning would be appreciated,” you huff, heart pounding. You don’t know why you’re so nervous around him. Really. It has nothing to do with the broad expanse of creamy skin and pillowy man-tits shoved in your face at the moment. “And honestly, considering the fact that our friendship started with you choking me out and keeping me captive for days, it’s a wonder that I’m not more scared of you,” you flare, because yeah, how dare he act like you should be over the absolute shit-show of your first encounter, when you’ve hardly had any time to get to know him. That’s why you’re nervous. There is no other possible explanation. A couple friendly interactions do not make up for how much of an evil bastard he was when you first met him.

“Would you like me to wear a bell when I’m here, then?” he asks, conveniently ignoring the reminder regarding how he treated you not so long ago.

“How about you just stay out of my bedroom and stay where I can see you at other times,” you snap, feeling violent again at the intrusive thought of Sylus wearing a collar around his thick neck, cute little bell dinging every time he moved.

“I’ll do my best,” he says absently, clearly distracted by his thorough inventory of your bedroom as he takes in the tumbling plants in mismatched pots on floating shelves hanging over the unmade bed, the army of plushies scattered over the bunched up mountain of duvet and pillows. Your bed used to be your sanctuary. The place where you could find rest and relaxation after exhausting battles and long days squinting at the computer filing incident reports. Now it just gives you anxiety. You try to pull his attention away from the chaos of your former safe space by holding Xavier’s hoodie out for Sylus to take.

“Here, this might fit you.”

Sylus looks down at your offering, crosses his arms, and takes a step back, as if the hoodie is so offensive that it warrants recoiling physically from it. “That’s quite a big hoodie for you, even for days when you want to be comfortable,” he says evenly.

“It’s not mine, but it’s clean, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I have right now that will fit you,” you say, shaking it a little in the universal, impatient gesture of just take it already for fuck’s sake.

“And who is its actual owner?”

“Xavier.”

“In the habit of wearing your partner’s clothing, are we?” he asks, still staring at it, the disdain now plain in his assessment of the sweatshirt.

“Uh, sometimes? We were on a mission recently and my jacket got torn to the point of uselessness, and it was cold. He let me wear his hoodie so I wouldn't be cold. It's been washed since then, so it's clean. I’ll just wash it again when you’re done using it before I return it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

After what seems like a ridiculous amount of time for him to apparently make some mental calculations that only he will ever understand, he finally takes the soft hoodie from you, fingertips brushing yours as he grasps the fabric. You can’t figure out why he he suddenly looks more smugly evil than you’ve ever seen, with his lips curved up in a sardonic smirk. “Oh, of course, I’m sure he will not mind at all.” He pulls the hoodie over his head and shimmies a little as he drags it down is body; it’s a little tight around the shoulders, but you don’t think it’s tight enough to permanently stretch the fabric.

After it’s on, he tugs the collar up to his nose and inhales deeply.

“What are you doing?” you ask, as if you can’t see perfectly well what he is doing.

“It smells like you,” he answers, shameless, as if that is a perfectly reasonable answer to your question.

“Well, I did wear it, and wash it with my normal detergent and it has been hanging in my closet for a while, so…” your voice trails off.

“And soon it will smell like me too,” he continues, letting the collar fall with a satisfied flick of his fingers.

What even is this conversation? “Can you just be normal? For once?" A look of boredom is all the response you get, so you continue. "Now get out of my bedroom. Come tell me why you’re here in the first place.” You stride past him, making your way into the living room.

He follows you obediently and plops down on the couch, and just like last time, spreads his legs wide. This time, he is able to rest his arms on either side along the back of the couch, effectively occupying the whole damn thing. He sits quietly, looking at you expectantly.

You stand, arms folded, a safe distance away from the couch near the kitchen island.

“Well?” You prompt.

“It’s customary to offer your guest a refreshing beverage upon receiving them in your home. I believe I offered you wine the first time I hosted you in my own home.”

“Hosted?” He can’t be serious. “What a generous euphemism for ‘unlawfully imprisoned,’” you bite out.

“Po-tae-to,” he says serenely, “Po-tah-to.”

“Sylus,” you warn—about what, you’re not sure. He wants a beverage? Okay, perhaps you’ll fling more hot tea at him if he doesn’t start talking.

“Kitten.” He continues gazing at you, clearly in no hurry to move things along.

“If you don’t tell me, right now, why the hell you showed up at my place unannounced, I will report you as a burglar and have you removed by the authorities.”

“But then how will you explain to Xavier why I’ve been arrested wearing his sweater?” he asks, eyes wide, all concern for what your partner’s thoughts on the matter would be, and what they would mean for you.

“Burglars have been known to be creeps and go rooting through their victims’ closets and wearing their clothes! I’ll just say you were wearing it when I got here. Maybe he’ll be worried that it’s him you’re actually interested in harassing,” you snicker, trying to picture Xavier’s reaction.

As you’re speaking, Sylus pulls out his phone and fiddles with it with a bored expression on his face.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you? Perhaps you should go find something more interesting to do and leave me in peace,” you grind out after you’ve finished and notice his complete lack of attention.

Your irritation is interrupted by a notification on your phone. Since Sylus is so busy messing with his, you grab yours from where it has been lying on the counter since before Sylus interrupted your peaceful evening staring out into the city. You see that you have a new message from… the man currently oozing across the entirety of your couch, head lolled to the side and watching you with a hint of amusement curving his mouth.

You open the chat, and your eyes widen at the conversation that never fucking happened currently loading into your chat history, with time stamps corresponding to when Sylus showed up at your door.

You: Oh Sylus, my big, handsome partner in crime, I think there’s an intruder in my flat and I’m so scared!

The Sytuation: What makes you think theres an intruder in your home, kitten? Im on my way.

You: There is sugar missing from my pantry! I just bought a new bag yesterday, and it’s gone! Oh please, my dark knight, come protect me from the sugar thief who should buy his own sugar and stop coming to my place to pilfer mine!

The Sytuation: Of course, sweetie. Go wait by the door, Ill be there in 5.

“What. Is. This. Fuckery,” you demand, thrusting your phone in his face.

He shrugs. “You threatened to lie about why I’m here in a bid to get rid of me. Did you not expect me to counter your move to ensure that no one will believe you?” he pauses, and then narrows his eyes. "Did you really save me in your phone as 'The Situation,' with a Y?"

"Punny, right? My phone doubles as my work phone. You really think I'm going to save your real name in my contacts? I might as well just save you as 'Sylus Qin, leader of Onychinus, most wanted criminal in the N109 zone," you grumble. "And trust me, that's the nicest name I could come up with."

"Punny," he repeats derisively, unimpressed.

“And don't derail. What is this nonsense about a sugar thief?” You wave the phone again.

“Your colleague should learn to stock his own pantry if he wants to engage in… what did you call them? Doomed baking experiments?”

“How did you even… why does it look so real?” You gaze down at the texts that look so authentic that if they hadn’t been filled with such bullshit, you’d be doubting your own sanity about whether the conversation had really happened.

“You’re really surprised that faking evidence, alibis and dirt on my opponents is a part of my vast skill set? I’m hurt that you underestimate me so.” He looks at you like he’s disappointed, a little pout pulling down his stupid beautiful mouth.

“For fuck’s sake.” You’re done. The longer you resist, the longer Sylus will be in your flat, driving you up the wall. “Fine. Fine!” You set your phone down again and throw up your hands. “What do you want to drink, Sylus?”

“Two fingers of gin, if you have it. Or brandy. Or vodka.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m not feeling too picky tonight.”

“I don’t keep hard liquor in my house, you alcoholic. I have a half-open bottle of rosé in the fridge. Will that satisfy his lordship?” You turn resignedly to trod your way to your fridge.

“What vineyard and vintage?” he asks, perking up.

You open the fridge and pull out the bottle. You squint at the label. “I dunno. It has a cute fish on the label, so I bought it.”

He looks at you like you just murdered Mephisto, and you begin pouring the pink liquid into another mug. This one says UNT on the side in big block letters, matching the size of the handle so that when you hold it, the handle looks like a matching C. You walk back to where he’s sitting, and you think that maybe your smile looks as smug as Sylus’s usually does when you hand him his drink.

He takes the mug from you, snorts when he reads the side, and then look at its contents dubiously for a moment.

“You taste it first,” he finally says, looking back up at you.

“Worried I poisoned it?” You’re still grinning.

“As you say,” he says, tilting his head.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t demand beverages from people you don’t trust then.”

“I trust you, just not your taste in wine after learning you choose bottles based on the cuteness of the label. Indulge me,” he murmurs. “Prove to me that you’re willing to drink it, and that it’s not just swill you’re trying to get rid of by offering it to me.”

You take the mug from him and lift it to your lips, taking a sip, watching him over the rim as you swallow. His nostrils flair, and he lifts his hand in a gesture for you to return it to him. Instead of giving it back, you take one more big gulp, and his brow furrows. Only after you've slowly swallowed again do you comply, relishing the warmth spreading through your body as you lower the mug for him to take. He brushes your fingers again as he takes it back. He turns the mug, so that his mouth hovers where yours just was. He then closes his eyes and inhales, gently swirling the liquid inside. Eyes still closed, he takes a sip.

After a moment, he sighs. “Thank you. This is actually not bad, for a rosé.”

“You’re such a snob,” you smile down at him, irrationally pleased that he seems so pleased.

“Life is too difficult, and too short, to waste on inferior experiences. I only like tasting the best,” he says, bright red eyes opening and fixing on you.

He looks up at you like you should be able to draw some deeper meaning from his words, but you’re tired, warm from the wine, and despite how much he winds you up you were just moments ago, right now you’re strangely relaxed for the first time in days.

“Tell me why you’re here, Sylus,” you say quietly.

“You told me I could use your place when I needed it,” he says, just as softly. He takes another drink, rolls it around in his mouth. Swallows, his adam’s apple dipping.

“And why did you need it this evening?”

“I had some negotiations regarding a business acquisition that I’m considering in this part of Linkon City, and they were abhorrently boring. By the time they were over, I had a splitting headache, and the sunlight didn’t help. It would have been unsafe to operate a motor vehicle under those conditions, so I thought I’d come and wait for it to pass in my newest ‘safe house,’ he answers gravely, as if getting a headache was a perfectly logical reason to crash your evening and take over your couch. “Wouldn’t want to endanger the innocent citizens of Linkon City with reckless driving, now would we?”

“Aren’t all of your shady business deals done under the cover of darkness? Why were you here at a meeting during the day?”

He’s holding the mug in one hand by his fingertips now, along the rim, slowly swirling it. He crosses one long leg over the other and answers languidly. “You’re assuming that today’s business was ‘shady.’”

“So your business today was legitimate?” You’ve been standing for awhile now, and begin to shift from bare foot to bare foot.

He hums in acknowledgement. “My business interests are as varied as they are successful. You insult me by looking so surprised.”

“Well I would never want to insult you,” you drawl. “So that’s it? You got a headache and decided you’d crash my evening?”

He nods, touching his temple and grimacing. “It’s still pretty bad, to be honest.”

“The daylight bothers you that much?” you ask, genuinely curious. You have always assumed that it was the nature of his occupation and perhaps just a proclivity for being a night owl that explained his nocturnal existence, but now you’re wondering if it’s not something deeper that has him avoiding it as much as possible.

You finally decide to give your tired feet a break and perch on the little corner of couch cushion that has been freed for use by Sylus crossing his legs. “If sunlight bothers you that much, what could possibly be so important to come out in it today?”

“Are you really asking about the details of my business ventures, sweetheart?” he asks in what you suspect is feigned astonishment.

“And if I am?”

“Then I’ll tell you,” he responds easily.

“Then I am.”

“I’m in discussions for acquiring a chain of entertainment venues in Linkon City.” He leans his head on the couch’s backrest and lets it roll to the side to keep looking at you. He catches the look of disgust that is no doubt obvious on your face.

“Entertainment venues,” you say flatly.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“What kind of … entertainment venues?” you ask, hating yourself for wanting to know. It’s his business if he wants to buy porn shops, or strip clubs, or brothels—your stomach twists, and you refuse to consider why.

“What kind of ideas are racing through that fascinating brain of yours?” he asks, reaching up and running two of his fingers along your temple, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

“Nothing,” you bite out, turning your face away from his touch. You normally dislike how you have a hard time concealing how you’re feeling, but you particularly hate it right now.

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs. “Then, to answer your question, it’s a chain of arcades.”

Your brain grinds to a halt. Did he just say—

“Arcades?”

He nods, and winces, closing his eyes. You’re starting to believe that his head is actually hurting him, and you feel bad for throwing dishware and hot tea at him and refusing to offer him more than the one drink he asked for.

“Why would you be interested in acquiring an arcade chain?”

“Even for odious crime lords, it’s always wise to have a diversified business portfolio.”

You have called him a lot of things both out loud and in your head, but you’d never call him odious. Odorous, perhaps, when he’s sweating heavily after being riddled with bullets. But you have to suppress the urge to chastise him about talking about himself that way.

“Which chain is it?”

“You probably don’t know it,” he says, as if bored with the question. “It’s not a very large chain, but large enough for my interests.”

“Try me! I love going to the arcade when I have some free time. I mean, you’ve seen my plushie collection now that you invited yourself into my house,” you bounce a little on the couch.

“You invited me, kitten. You’ve had a choice, each and every time.”

“Don’t deflect! Answer the question!” You’re quite excited about this. Maybe if it’s a place you know, that has a location nearby, he’ll give you a discount if he ends up buying them? Like an employee discount or something. Is that ethical? You should check the Association’s employee handbook for conflicts of interest.

He squints, as if preparing to evaluate your reaction, and names your favorite place to play the claw machine.

“For real? You’re really going to buy them?”

“I still have to review the contract that was proposed during today’s discussions with my legal counsel, but if negotiations are successful, then yes,” he says, casually examining his nails.

Your excitement is hard to contain, but you suddenly have a troubling thought. “You’re not going to change anything, right? Like, that place is perfect as it is, and the employees are all really friendly and helpful and clearly work hard to keep it really nice,” you rush out, worried that he’s planning to reduce the staff  or try to jack up the prices for a larger profit margin.

He turns to look at you again, and doesn’t answer for long enough that you’re really starting to worry. But then he says softly, “No, I’m not going to change a thing.”

“Oh? So they’re doing well? It’s a solid financial investment?” You’re so relieved, safe in the knowledge that your plushies will continue to be accessible, insofar as claw machines by design allow them to be.

Sylus laughs softly. “Yes, the financials all look good. Considering your interest in the nature of binding agreements, would you like to look over the purchase agreement with me? I have it with me.”

“I’d actually really like to, but I’m starting to get really tired,” you yawn, the relief you were just feeling—the relief of knowing that Sylus wasn’t up to anything that would leave a blood trail today, relief that he didn’t come tonight to try to force you to resonate or finally kill you for refusing to do so, and most importantly, relief that he wasn’t going to acquire and ruin one of the little pleasures in your life—all of it is now drowned out by a heavy feeling of pleasant drowsiness.

“Then I’ll read it to you, until you fall asleep.”

“Huh? You want to stay?”

“Yes,” he says, hauling himself to his feet and offering you his hand. You take it in confusion, and he lifts you to your feet as well. He sets the now empty mug on your coffee table, and then places his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you from behind to your bedroom.

“Why?” you ask, not even thinking to object.

“Headache, remember?” He pushes you gently by your shoulders so that you’re sitting on your bed.

“How can you review legalese when you’re suffering from a headache?” You sink into the softness of the mattress.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” he says, nudging you until you’ve scooted to the middle of the bed. “Don’t move. I’m going to get my tablet out of my briefcase.” He disappears through the doorway, and you’re left sitting on your bed, surrounded by all of your plushies, and you have no idea what’s happening. You’re just too tired to argue with him. You really did miscalculate by spending all of your energy trying to get rid of him when he first arrived.

But just because you’re bone-tired, doesn’t mean you’re going to let him boss you around. You get off the bed and pad into the kitchen, passing him as he snaps his briefcase shut, tablet in hand.

“I distinctly recall telling you not to move,” he gripes, pushing up an elegant set of gold framed glasses perched on the uneven bridge of his nose with a middle finger. Huh, you didn’t know he needed glasses to read. He looks almost … cute wearing them, a little less feral. Like a leopard wearing a monocle.

Suppressing the thought of Sylus and cute in the same sentence, you ignore him, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. Then you rummage through your most chaotic kitchen drawer for a few moments, before triumphantly pulling out what you were looking for.

You pad back over to where he’s still watching you, and offer him the glass and the half-used blister pack of over-the-counter painkillers you fished out of your chaos drawer. “Here.”

He looks down at your hands, offering him what you hope is some relief from his headache. His face is impassive, and you’re worried he assumes you’re trying to poison him again. But then he tucks the tablet under one arm, and reaches out with both hands to grasp the glass and the pill pack—except he doesn’t take them from your hands. He envelops yours with his, and pulls you gently closer to him. He somehow manages to pop two tablets out of the pack with his thumb, and they drop into your curved palm. Still holding your hand, he leans down to sweep them from your skin with his tongue. In a complete daze, you watch him lift the glass that you’re still holding to his lips, and he takes a long pull of water, washing the pills down, all the while holding your gaze with his. When he’s done, he slowly lowers your hands again.

“Thank you,” he murmurs “For the benevolence of your heart.” He says it gravely, as if you’ve just saved his life instead of giving him some headache medicine.

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, feeling like you’ve been struck by a truck after… whatever that was, feeling the warmth of his tongue in the palm of your hand like he was still licking it. Sylus then turns and heads back to your bedroom.

You set the glass and the now-empty pill pack on the kitchen island, thinking you’ll clean up tomorrow if you manage to sleep tonight, and follow him.

In the bedroom, Sylus sits, leaning back against your headboard, having needed to gently scoop some plushies out of the way to make room. He stretches his legs out in front of him with a sigh. He looks so soft, wrapped in the white hoodie, silver hair rumpled, surrounded by pillows and cute little plushies.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to remember that the man currently sinking into your duvet and wiggling his sock-covered toes in contentment is the same man who straight up exploded the man who dared kidnap you, and then proceeded to kidnap you himself after choking you to the point of passing out. You try to hold both of these truths about him in your mind at the same time, but the image of Sylus dancing you gently through a press of bodies, of the way he caresses your fingers at every opportunity, the soft slide of his tongue along your palm—these images are conquering every other version of him that you know to be true in your mind. You wonder briefly if this is part of some larger scheme of his, and what his endgame could possibly be. But right now, you’re too fucking tired to care.

“What is even happening,” you ask. You’re exhausted, but you still have enough mental reserves to question how you got here, in this situation, with this man migrating from vanquishing your couch to a large part of your bed. “Is the coffee table, or kitchen table insufficient for your needs? Why are you going to review the paperwork here, on my bed?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how quickly you fell asleep on my back on the motorcycle the other night, sweetheart. I’m just reading you a bedtime story featuring limitations of liability and allocation of risk so that you can finally get some sleep again.” He pats his thigh. “Here.”

You just stare at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, tapping his thigh again with one long finger. Just for that, you glare mutinously at him and fold your arms over your chest.

He sighs again, this time in exasperation, and leans over, firmly lifting you and setting you down so that your head is pillowed against his meaty thigh. He begins to run his fingertips gently up and down the middle of your back. He returns his attention to his tablet. “Now listen carefully,” he commands, before flicking the screen with his thumb and beginning to read in his softly in his deep, rich voice.

But of course you don't. You fall asleep as the skyscrapers light up like a dragon's hoard of jewels in the night sky outside your window, to the sounds of Sylus’s quiet recitation of indeed, a terribly boring contract, and the whisper of his fingers along your skin.

When you wake up, there is another black feather on your pillow, and you are alone. You yawn, once again feeling unbelievably rested despite the chaos Sylus always brings to your door and into your life. You stretch leisurely, spreading your arms wide and turning your head on the pillow, when something catches in your earlobe. You reach up and run your fingers along a stud earring that was not there when you fell asleep. You feel your other earlobe, but it's empty. You grab your phone from the nightstand, knocking over a semiautomatic hand pistol with scarlet flames engraved along the grip that you also don't remember owning onto the floor. You stare at it briefly, ready to commit murder if you check it and find that the safety isn't on. But first things first: you put the phone camera in selfie mode and lift it to your face, but quickly lower it again after confirming that it is indeed a ruby stud in your ear, sparkling cheekily in the morning sunlight.

Later, you're relieved to find that Sylus did actually leave the safety on on your new little ... toy, and you'll find that the mugs have been washed and set neatly away, the empty pack of painkillers placed in the recycling bin. You also see that various takeout containers and other debris that had piled up on a lot of surfaces in your place are also gone, and the countertops are clean, the coffee and kitchen table gleam in the early morning sunlight. You don't notice that the white hoodie is nowhere to be found, until you meet up with Xavier later in the day. He's wearing one that looks exactly like it.

"Thanks for returning the hoodie," he yawns. "But you really didn't have to."

You pause, feeling a thread of panic start to wind its way through your stomach. You decide to just... go with it. "Oh? You found it okay?"

"Yeah, but why did you just leave it hanging from my door handle? You could have rung and come in. I had a new limited edition bag of those cookies you were looking at in the corner store last week. I would have shared some with you... but now I've eaten them all," he admits sheepishly, big blue eyes shimmering with guilt.

You try to think fast. Did Sylus give back the hoodie without washing it? What the fuck was he thinking? He could have been seen! Does this flat have surveillance footage? Does Xavier suspect anything? You realize that you still haven't answered Xavier's question as your panic spirals. "Oh, you know, didn't want to wake you up," you flap your hands, as if you can flap this entire situation right out of your messy life.

"Well, I don't know what you did to it, but it feels brand new. As if it's never even been washed. And you somehow got out the bbq sauce stain that no matter how much I sprayed it with that stain remover stuff would never come out. So you're going to have to teach me some of that laundry magic," he says contentedly, snuggling further into the entirely new hoodie that you now realize Sylus must have somehow, over the course of the night, had hand-delivered to Xavier's place. "Uh huh," you say absently, pulling out your phone to furiously text Mr. Asshat when you see that he has also changed his name in your contact list.

You: What the hell did you do with Xavier's hoodie?"

My Sy: It doesnt matter who it belonged to before me. All that matters is that its mine now.

You: It doesn't even fit you properly! You're too big for it!

My Sy: Nothing a little size training cant fix.

Your jaw drops. He cannot be implying what you think he's implying. This is your filthy mind at work. You decide that you will simply pretend this conversation never happened. Absolutely nothing good can come from trying to figure out what the fuck is going through Sylus's head at any given moment.

You: And 'My Sy?' Really?

My Sy: Its not punny, but it rhymes. And its accurate. Gotta put the phone down for a bit, kitten. Business requires my attention. Ill be seeing you soon.

You stare at his last message for long enough that Xavier asks if you're okay. You're not. You're not okay. You couldn't even bring yourself to ask him about the other earring, or the gun. You just slowly slip your phone back into your cargo pants pocket and try very hard to stop thinking, for the rest of the day.

[emotigonecreative]

Another year another invisobang! I was so stoked to be paired up with summerssixecho and sillysugargliders for this year's bang, and decided to create 1-2 illustrations for each chapter of Summer's fic Impossible Creatures.

Summary:

When Dani ends up asking Valerie for a place to stay, Val wasn't expecting to uncover more questions than answers about who this half-ghost girl is or where she really came from.

Thank you to the mods for another awesome event, and thank you to my partners for being awesome to work with!! Its been a blast~ :3c

(And if you haven't already seen it, def check out sillysugargliders piece for the fic! They did a whole animatic and it turned out so cool!!!)

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Fish are friends (?). You are not food.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

The Siren wasn’t leaving.

Which a part of you had been expecting. Because surely if there had been a snowball’s chance in Hell of him making it out into the open ocean alive before you’d cut through the ropes, he would have taken it and left you stranded without a second thought. And his odds weren’t that much better now—his fins were still a mangled mess and the wounds all along his scales and dainty featherings were still raw and oozing. It only made sense that he’d take at least a few days to try and recover.

But… But still.

Did he have to make it so obvious that he was sticking around?

The glint of the light off his tail was a constant distraction—always bright and eye-catching even at the cloudiest points of the day. Always flashing just out of the corner of your eye as a perpetual reminder that there was something in the water that would very happily gobble you up if you bothered making a swim for safety.

He’d also taken to sunning himself. Like some kind of overgrown mer-cat. Stretched out languidly on a flat rock with the tips of his violet fins hanging over the edge—just enough for the gauzy edges to play along the surf and avoid drying out entirely. His pale hair splayed out in a halo around him as he snoozed softly in the heat of the afternoon.

Which! No fair! This wasn’t a vacation! This was a stranding! An SOS! A Rose Queen Procedural Rule Four-Hundred-and-Four! And him taking up the whole of the cove to, I don’t know, tan, felt like another intentional slap in the face. The sun rose over the bay, which meant this stretch of shore was facing East. Which was the direction your vessel had been coming from. Which meant that this was the place on the little islet where you needed to be. Subsection Three of Procedural Four-O’-Four. ‘In the case of Crew Overboard, we will always travel the same route as planned. In order to give the Strandee a chance to map out a reconnection point.’ Riddle always had been so smart about these kinds of things.

‘It’s just until he’s better,’ you reassured yourself for the umpteenth time that morning. ‘Then he’ll leave and I can get rescued or die here alone and in peace.’

A fin flicked up from the shallows to spray you with saltwater splatters and you spluttered indignantly when it ran down into your eyes. You glared at the Siren’s retreating back, musing bitterly about how you’d never thought it was possible for someone to make the tuck of their shoulders look smug.

‘Alone and in peace,’ you repeated hopefully. And it sounded like such far off dream.

.

.

On the second day post-rope-removal, the Siren waved you down with a sharp flick of his wrist.

You approached the waterline hesitantly, still mostly waiting for him to turn on you and make toothpicks out of your bones. But instead of murdering you and getting crafty with your corpse, he just pointed to some scribbles in the sand. You squinted at the loop-de-loops suspiciously. It almost looked like an illustration of dancing bubbles—the lot of them curling and popping along the ground in a line like a limerick. 

“Uhm, very nice,” you tried, and the fins flattened pissilly all along the side of his head.

He jabbed his claw towards the mess again. Then firmly at your eyes (hopefully not as a threat that he’d be happy to take them right out of your head if you continued to be obtuse). And then back again. He made a point to move the tip of his sharp nail from one swirl to the next in a little hop-hop-hop. It reminded you a bit deliriously of Riddle trying to teach some of the more socially bereft members of the crew their letters, and—

“You want me to read that?” you gaped, staring at the elegant curls of nonsense in the sand.

The Siren crossed his arms across his lean chest with a scoff that puffed past his lips hard enough to fluff out some of the paler, purple-tipped, hair hanging by his chin. He rolled his eyes at you and muttered something thin and spicy under his breath that you just knew had to be some sort of insult.

“I can read!” you defended, because it felt like it needed defending.

He leveled you with an entirely unimpressed ‘Oh, I’m sure you can’ sneer and you dropped to your knees, incensed. You dug your fingers into the sand and started sculpting out your own very cheery message into the muck.

When you were done, you waved a hand towards your proclamation and watched his brows pull together at the center into a teeny, pinched sort of expression. He let himself roll forward with the seafoam to lay more fully on the shore, and stared down at the mess you’d made like it was some strange code. Even reaching out to poke softly at the straight edge of a ‘T’ with one of his knife-sharp talons.

After a long moment of contemplation, he looked back up at you with an arched brow that was so unintentionally poised and not full of spite that it almost took your breath away. Who knew how pretty an already stunning face could become when it wasn’t twisted up in absolute vitriol? You shook away that absolutely damning thought in horror. That’s exactly what he’d want you to think. Siren, and all. Using his hotness to lure people onto his dinner table. Not you, baby. Because you were smart. And so gross from being stranded under island sunshine for a week that surely you’d taste like some absolutely rancid jerky at this point.

“Oh no,” you droned, and immediately that subtle curiosity of his ticked right back into irritation. “Two creatures from entirely different species and ecosystems have somehow managed to develop unique alphabets. What a completely unpredictable complication.”

The Siren puffed up like an angry lionfish and turned with a snarl to dive back into the shallows—making sure to whip his tail in your face and slam into the water with a huge splash as he went. The salt spray pelted down like rain and you snickered as it sloughed off your cheeks in rivulets, content to sit merrily in the wet sand beside your hastily scribbled: ‘Mermen Are Vicious Bitches. Hit Me if You Agree :)’

.

.

The next morning, there were more fish on the shoreline. Though these ones looked a bit less like they’d been dragged up by their souls and left to writhe in the wake of Siren-Screaming-Agony and more just like the unfortunate victims of a pair of too sharp claws.

You frowned down at a brown, sad-looking flounder that had clearly found itself at the very wrong end of a certain merman still swanning about in the bay not fifty feet away. It was mostly intact, and pleasantly plump for a flat, pancake-looking blob of muck. Your stomach gurgled and the thought of a nice, coal-charred, fillet really seemed quite nice. You chanced another peek at your resident Asshole, debating if it was worth swiping his snack. Another ominous rumble from your abdomen and you reached down to steal your prize and scuttle off deeper inland like a troll returning to its layer.

It didn’t take very long to get a small fire going, and within the hour you’d been fed and were more than ready for a cozy, full-bellied nap in the soft sand.

By the time you began to make your way back to the cove, the sun was high in the sky and you were already dreading sitting beneath its weighted rays for another afternoon. So you slowed your pace to a near snail crawl, dragging your feet as you went.

The little octopus from earlier was still swaying contentedly around the tide pool you’d shoved it into. It probably needed to be carried back out to the bay at some point so that it could swim back into the depths of the ocean, but the poor thing was just so small and round. Surely it’d get devoured by the first sharp-toothed thing that caught sight of it. Especially with your merman apparently being out for the blood of whatever other scaly things were swimming about in his temporary home. So for now you slipped it some small bits of leftover fish instead. You sat, crouched at the pool’s edge, and watched raptly as it grabbed the shredded bits of pale meat with its chubby tentacles to shove towards an eager beak.

“You’re the only friend I have left in the whole world,” you told the octopus miserably, wiping the greasy remnants of your lunch off your chin with a sigh.

The traitor hurriedly moved to snatch up the treat you’d offered it and hide itself away between some rocky crevices. You sighed louder. Rejected. What a time to be alive. 

.

.

The next morning, the Siren was singing again.

That familiar prickle danced its way up your arms, leaving pinpricks of goosebumps in its wake. Some pirates told tales of storms leaving their mark in such a way—that seasoned sailors could feel the tickle of thunder against their skin long before they could spot dark clouds on the horizon. You’d have to amend that little legend whenever you found your way back to The Rose Queen. Siren Sense was a lot cooler, anyways. Any idiot with arthritis could tell you when rain was due.

But either way, Mister Merman was back to idly circling the bay and calling into the distance. At least it wasn’t as miserable as it had been the other day—more of a leisurely pacing than the frantic, near-feral caterwauling that had soured your gut so terribly.

There was another fat fish on the shore. A bright, red snapper so brilliantly crimson that it was almost impossible to make out the garish wounds in its side. Almost. And even if it hadn’t been, the drooping, rust colored, rivulets dug into the sand would have been enough of a clue.

Why the Siren was bothering to leave his clawed-up kills at your feet like some overgrown cat dragging in mice, you had no idea. Maybe he was poisoning them, and subsequently you. Maybe he was bored and it was some sort of fishy enrichment. Maybe he just didn’t want to bother leaving dead things around to contaminate his favorite sunning spots, and tossing his leftovers in your vicinity was as close to a reliable dumpster as he could find on a remote island. Who’s to say.

Either way, you dutifully ignored the magical tingles racing up your shoulders and brought the newest fish back to your makeshift firepit. You grilled the snapper in silence, debating. Then you fed your octopus friend and returned to the beach, cooked fillets in tow.

You waited in awkward silence for a few moments, fish burning your palms, before raising your fingers to your lips and whistling loud enough to make your teeth ache. The mystical static faded from the air and you watched in pleasant (?) surprise as the Siren made his way back to where you’d set up camp. He rolled in with the tide, cresting on a gentle bit of surf and coming to rest neatly in the shallows—fins splayed out beneath him like a lord lying amidst his many silken robes. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at you with an arched brow and slanted frown.

You awkwardly extended a hand—roasted snapper still resting in your open palm and burning the absolute fuck out of your fingers.

“Uhm,” you said, feeling a bit too much like the local idiot trying to feed one of the rabid, wandering, strays around town. “Food?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at you.

“Do you want food?” you tried.

The other brow joined the first, nearly rising all the way into his hairline. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of surprise.

“It’s better cooked?” you coaxed in the face of his outright constipated scowl. Be fed and full, you thought hopefully. Maybe then you won’t fucking look at me like I’m a boxed lunch.

He jabbed a sharpened, black talon in your direction, and then pointedly again angled up towards your mouth. Then back to the fish still roasting your poor cuticles straight off your fingers.

You blinked, a bit thrown.

“What? It’s supposed to be for me?”

He nodded, throwing in another one of those bombastically snarky eyerolls for good measure. ‘Obviously,’ that sneer said.

“Well,” you huffed, plopping down to sit cross-legged in the sand and offering up one of the fillets. “There’s plenty for both of us.” When he stared at you like you were attempting to serve him up a choice pile of literal dog shit, you wiggled your hand and entreated, “Please just take it before my skin melts off.”

The Siren huffed and reached out, plucking up the fish with the tips of his claws. He observed your meager meal as one might a particularly unappealing cockroach, and after a long moment, his nose scrunched (cute, you thought absently before immediately suffocating every wayward braincell that would dare call your murderous shore-neighbor anything of the sort) and he leaned forward to nip at a crisped, pink corner with the barest edge of one canine.

When your culinary creation didn’t immediately strike him dead on the spot, he took another, equally dainty bite. And then another. The tight pucker of his mouth eased as he chewed, and you watched as the harsh cut of his purple irises warmed with that same intrigue as they had when you’d first scribbled your foreign letters into the sand.

He readjusted his grip on the fish between his claws to get a better angle and took a proper bite, chewing thoughtfully. Before you knew it, you were watching him nip at the pads of his fingers, his gaze going a bit round and shocked when he realized that he’d devoured the entirety of it.

“See?” you hummed, tucking into your own portion with gusto. “Not all things humans come up with are terrible.” He harumphed and turned to glare back out over the bay, slouching into the surf with an expression that was most certainly not a pout. “But maybe you’d know that if you bothered to do anything other than murder and devour us on sight,” you chirped.

To which you were immediately doused with an armful of water for your troubles. The Siren glowered petulantly from where he’d just wave-bombed you, and then dove back into the deeper waters of the sandbar. He immediately started up his stupid singing all over again—pointedly keeping his chin high above the surface and splashing brine into your face anytime he looped close enough to shore.

“I don’t know why I bother,” you huffed, and ate your sopping snapper in grumpy silence.

.

.

There was a ship wrecked off the coast.

Nothing overly cool, and definitely only a small chunk of what had probably at one point been a rather impressive vessel. But it was something. The first change in pace you’d had in days and oozing with possibilities.

The only problem was that the great, rotting, hull of the thing was dug up into a jagged skerry about a hundred yards off the shore—wedged into the pointed rocks with no chance of any wave or breeze sending it adrift. You could swim perfectly well. I mean, living your life on a ship surrounded by tumultuous, depthless, ocean would have been a hugely stupid career move otherwise. The issue, naturally, was the thing currently making its home in these waters. Sharks and barracudas, blablabla. They were just animals, no matter how many teeth they had. The Siren had a grudge. And just as many teeth.

Right now, said spiky pain in your ass was lounging in the shallows like the froth was an elegant daybed made just for him—shredded fins swaying in the soft tides and his hair floating about him that same, white-gold halo that made him look far too peaceful for anyone’s good sense. He wasn’t singing today, which was great for the local wildlife population but terrible for your Siren Sense. Once you waded into the waves, you’d have no real way to keep track of him. Hope, maybe, that he didn’t think fucking with you was worth messing up whatever tan-line he had going on. But nothing concrete that you’d be willing to bet the safety of your limbs on.

You wiggled your toes in the sand and stared longingly out at the stupid, wrecked ship that was so stupidly close. If you swam your fastest you could probably make it there in under two minutes—less than that, even. But that was still more than enough time for the Siren to rake those dark claws of his across your throat and drag you down into the depths to drown.

Riddle’s angry, red face swam through your thoughts, and you could practically see him shoving that beloved law tome of his under your nose for the umpteenth time.

‘Rule 32, never make dangerous bets that you’re certain you won’t win, particularly if you are betting against a Blue Nosed Beetle.’

‘Rule 15, do not needlessly sacrifice your life in the name of curiosity, excluding—of course—if you hail from Cheshire or are a Cat.’

‘It’s only a dumb shipwreck,’ you thought miserably, if rationally. ‘It’s probably not even that cool.’

Your captain would be so proud.

.

.

The next morning you were rolling up the cuffs on your pants and wading into the cool shallows, silently lighting a candle in your heart for your beloved, steam-faced leader and promising that you would at the very least cover the costs of your own funeral so as not to inconvenience him further.

The waves lapped against your ankles and the waters themselves were shockingly clear and blue. You could practically see each grain of sand beneath your heels—make out each pointy rock and the little, red crabs that scuttled away from your tromping like civilians fleeing from the shadow of a leviathan. The Siren was back to singing today. Perhaps his poor, overworked throat simply needed a break every now and again. But either way, your Merman Magic Missive was working in full force. The hairs on your arms stood at full attention and you liked to imagine you could see them twitching in circles to follow his long, looping arcs through the bay.  

You made it up to your knees and waited, eyes scanning the open water and nose twitching like maybe you could smell the fucker. There was nothing but a familiar prickle along your shoulders and that deep sense of ‘tug tug tug’ with no answer, so you took a deep breath and pushed further, the water sloshing up to your hips, your chest, and finally you were floating—paddling slow and cautious towards the wreckage.

It really was insanely close. Even moving at your most cautious, sneakiest crawl, you’d made it nearly three-quarters of the way there within perhaps five minutes. And no signs of a vengeful, hungry Siren circling the waters beneath you either. More rules that perhaps that you’d have to tell Riddle might need some amending  once you finally made it back home to your crew. ‘Dangerous bets,’ who? ‘Needless sacrifice,’ what? You might as well have outsmarted the whole ocean.

As you moved closer, you could make out a strange coat of arms on the side of the hull that you didn’t recognize. Twining, silver songbirds soaring against the sparkly backdrop of an otherwise plain faced crest, which honestly looked far too delicate to be heading the broken remains of what was no doubt at one point an absolute monster of a vessel. You reached out to brush your fingers against the shining plaque and then you were underwater.

You fought the immediate impulse to gasp in surprise, because expediting the process of your inevitable drowning just seemed stupid even by your standards. There was a clawed hand wrapped around your calf yanking you down, and you squinted through a stream of panicked bubbles to see your terrible, horrible, completely thankless co-strandee snarling up at you with sharp teeth and a sharper flail of his delicate gills. Thankfully the water wasn’t all that deep, so by the time you’d been dragged to the bottom you were maybe only ten feet under. But still. It was the goddamn principle! And besides, you’d heard about enough drunks drowning in puddles to know that this was more than enough Liquid Death to put you in an early grave.

The Siren looped around you in tight circles, and you could feel the brush of his tattered fins against your skin like the ghostly fingers of a reaper trailing down your spine. You’d known he was big—giant, even. Long, and impressive, and built to rule the very depths he’d dragged you into. Large enough to wrestle with sharks and capsize lifeboats. Big enough, no doubt, to eat you whole and still be hungry enough for seconds.

The salt stung your eyes and you blinked hard to keep his vibrant, amethyst tail in focus. Would he strike from the back, where you couldn’t see? Or would he go right for your throat—a direct, full frontal, ‘fuck you, human’ if there ever was one. And honestly, what were you expecting? That a good deed and a few pieces of cooked fish would sway him from devouring you whole? Maybe the island sun had fried whatever remained of your rattled brain.  

He stopped in front of you and hissed—a stream of tight, tiny, bubbles jetting past his canines. You glared in petulant confusion, absolutely refusing to give your would-be murderer whatever reaction he was hoping for. His brow pinched into a tight, angry, v and he snarled again. You snarled back, and with that, the last breath in your lungs swooped out of you in a tight squeak. You choked, and struggled, and kicked at the claws holding you down. The Siren reared back, eyes widening in something that looked insultingly like genuine surprise, and you used his moment of hesitation to propel yourself off the sandbar and back to the choppy surface.

You gasped in a hasty breath, expecting to immediately be dragged back under. But when you weren’t pulled back down to your watery grave, you took in another and another. Gasping, and hacking, and spitting up seafoam. The Siren’s head crested the surface beside you and you flailed away, nearly pushing yourself under all over again. You paddled frantically, trying to keep your nose above the tide, and then suddenly there was something under you. You squawked and kicked it on instinct. The Siren snapped his pointy teeth in your face and you realized with a start that oh. That was him, wasn’t it? The long, winding, scaled muscles of his tail curled beneath your toes in what almost seemed like an attempt to keep you upright.

He stared at you with those unnervingly bright eyes of his—blonde hair curling softly at the edges where it plastered elegantly along his finned ears, and those too-long lashes dripping with small, sparkly, drops of salt water.

“What the hell is this bullshit?” you choked, coughing up more bubbly froth. “You don’t get to look so—so put together after trying to murder me!”  

The Siren huffed out something that the delusional, still half-drowned, part of you wanted to classify as a laugh. And then he organized that bemused expression back into its usual, haughty, iciness and began to carefully make his way back towards the shore—towing you along like a poor, little, lost buoy with nowhere else to go.

You let him drag you up into the sand and only flopped around a little. He flicked his tail at you and your dramatics and you turned on him with a fierce, waterlogged scowl—a bit more confident now that he didn’t have the home field advantage.

“What was that for! I just wanted to look at the ship! I wasn’t even doing anything to you!” you wailed. “I haven’t done anything to you at all! Ever! Why do you keep—" you collapsed back into the sand with a miserable whine that rattled all the teeth in your head, and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

After a long moment of nothing, you felt a gentle tap at your shoulder.

You looked back up with a start to see Mister Merman looking nearly sheepish.Or as much of an equivalent that his aloof mask of a face was capable of pulling off. The clawed finger resting at your collarbone dropped to the sand by your hip, and he carefully began to draw more of those squiggles. No, scratch that. Not the dancing, popping, ones from the other day. These actually looked sort of like the silver songbirds from that shipwreck. More jagged, certainly. But similar enough that you felt something a bit too coldly cautious to be confusion seep through your guts.

Once he was finished, he looked up and met your gaze—sharp, pointed. And then he reached back out and smeared the birds into nothing and shook his head, firm. His red lips moved slowly, exaggerated, again and again. And you could make out the vague shape of words you’d had shouted at you a hundred times over.

‘Not safe.’

That same, shivery, nervous feeling bit at your limbs.

“…okay,” you said after a moment. And then leaned forward to dig your own fingers into the sand, dutifully ignoring how your elbows knocked against his own.

‘Not safe,’ you wrote, and watched his eyes trace each letter like a treasure map.

There was another tap at your shoulder. And then he pointed to the words in the muck, then to himself.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re not safe either.”

He sighed dramatically enough to ruffle the ends of your still soaked hair. And then pointed to the words again, tapping at the ‘N’ with the curved tip of a claw.

“Nnnn?” you mouthed, confused.

He moved to the ‘o’ next and it clicked.

“You want me to teach you how to read my letters?” you asked, flabbergasted. Another sigh, like you’d dropped the weight of all the world on his pale shoulders. Or perhaps that your idiocy was enough to put that hearty mass to shame. You decided that you were still feeling a bit too much like you’d only just barely escaped a brush with death, dismemberment, and dinner plans to push your luck with sassing him back too harshly, and just blinked owlishly in dazed surprise. “But why?”

His purple eyes trailed in the direction of the shipwreck and something cutting and poisonous clouded his expression. He pointed to the words again.

‘Not safe.’

“Alright,” you said, looking out over the water with a strange sort of sinking feeling in your gut. You leaned forward and began to draw the alphabet at your feet. His tail twitched by your fingers and you ignored the soft brush of his still-healing fins. “This one’s an ‘A’, like in ‘Asshole’—"

Whomp went the tail as he cracked it across your knuckles like a school matron with a ruler. And you couldn’t help the startled burst of genuine, tinkling laughter that bubbled past your lips for the first time since you’d been dragged overboard.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[myokk]

before it felt like a sin, ch. 1

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 3000

summary: Eloise never wanted to be different.

And yet, her differences are what have defined her life up until this point: growing up as a squib in one of the most prominent wizarding families, being exiled to muggle society, and then attending Hogwarts at the age of sixteen.

She finds herself thrust into the life she should have been prepared for from birth but was denied. As she navigates this new life and her new precarious position in her family, she must come to terms with the fact that maybe what she dreamed of her whole life isn't turning out how she ever expected it would.

a/n: Hi everyone!! I decided to post this here too...I'm slowly going through everything I've written so far, and I want to post each chapter here as I edit them. I'm hoping that this can be a way to a) get back in to writing more, and b) get better at my art as I make full illustrations for each chapter. Let me know what you think!! :)

There is nothing quite as horrible as being a muggle, Eloise thought savagely as she ripped out yet another stitch in the landscape she was embroidering. At least, it was supposed to be a landscape. Maybe with her head tilted to the left and with her eyes almost closed so everything blurred together, it might resemble one. She did just that, trying her hardest to make out some recognizable shape and blast the stupid practice of manually pushing colored thread through a fabric in some sort of -

“And what is this, Miss Babbit?”

Eloise jumped at the sound and looked up at the scowling face of her teacher, and then quickly back down at the tangled thread in her lap. Behind her, she could hear the hushed giggles of the other girls in her class.

“Oh! Er…it’s -”

“How long have you been here?” the woman interrupted.

“One hour…I just -”

“Don’t be smart with me. I mean, at this institute.”

“Five years.” Eloise glared down at her embroidery as if it had personally offended her. It wasn’t like she was actively trying to be bad at everything, but she had the distinct disadvantage - how had it ever come to be that she would be at a disadvantage to muggles? - of not having spent a lifetime being prepared for muggle society and all that it entailed. The last five years had been a monotonous, endless cycle of lessons designed to turn her into the perfect lady: French (a waste of time as Eloise was already fluent), embroidery (a waste of time as the things she embroidered weren’t actually useful), dancing (a waste of time as she was already engaged to be married - why would she bother trying to woo another silly man?), and her most dreaded class of all: etiquette. No matter how many years had been spent trying to assimilate into muggle culture, her thoughts still got muddled when she tried to remember the steps to a dance, or how to properly address the son of a duke.

Did it really matter, anyways, what the other girls thought? She had pretended her whole life to be the daughter she thought her parents had wanted - now she was simply pretending that she hadn’t been thrown into the muggle world without a second thought. What was a bit more pretending - that she didn’t care? That she hadn’t been tossed aside without a second thought?

“Exactly. Five years. And yet, you have shown no progress whatsoever. This -” a finger jabbed accusingly at the embroidery - “is absolutely horrendous. If your parents hadn’t continued to make such a sizeable donation every year, I would have deemed you a lost cause and sent you packing when you first arrived. How your family ever managed your betrothal to the son of an earl is beyond me.”

Eloise grimaced at the mention of her fiance as her teacher clapped her hands together to get the attention of the class - a wholly unnecessary action due to the fact that it was already being given. “Class is dismissed. Please collect your belongings and put them in the correct place. Remember, as future wives and mothers, you must be organized in all aspects of your life. Many of you will be managing important households and the slightest misstep -“ a slight glance to Eloise out of the corner of her eye - “can cause the biggest of scandals.”

Eloise raced to gather her things and leave the classroom before everyone else. No matter how many years had been spent at the school, she couldn’t help but hate sitting through the classes amongst the judgmental stares and snide remarks. Although things had started out shaky at the finishing school - to be expected, really, when you’ve grown up in wizarding society and then are then forced to live as a muggle - it still stung that after all these years, she still hadn’t found a friendly face. She was treated as if she were a pariah: it was as if the other girls just knew that something was different about her. But…wasn’t that the great irony of it all? She wasn’t different than them. She was a filthy squib.

When she first arrived at the school, she was an anomaly. A twelve-year-old girl who didn’t know how to play the piano or who the queen was. It was clear to everyone that Eloise wasn’t the charity case of the school - her parents were obviously quite wealthy - and yet they seemingly wanted nothing to do with her. Whereas the others got regular letters and visits from their family, it was as if Eloise were an orphan. Nothing new to her of course, but to her peers this otherness aided them in her ostracization.

Upon entering her room, she was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts. Something wasn’t right. Everything seemed the same: a twin bed perfectly made opposite a small wardrobe, a plain wooden desk placed between them. The weak afternoon sunlight shone through the window, illuminating her desk. But…there.

That…

Placed on her bed, resting on the pillow, was a letter.

She never received letters.

Eloise shoved her embroidery under her bed and hungrily grabbed at it, pausing when she saw the address. Miss E. Babbit. The Third Bedroom on the Left… It seemed vaguely familiar to her in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

As she read the letter, though, it became apparent to her exactly why this was. Although not exactly the same as the one her brother had received six years earlier, it quickly became apparent that this was a Hogwarts letter. For her. For Miss E. Babbit.

Hands shaking, she set the letter down on her desk and sat on the edge of her bed. She smoothed her hands over her skirt over and over, taking comfort in the familiar softness as she tried to even her breathing.

How was this possible? She had all but accepted the fact that she was a squib. The shame of her family, a dirty secret to be hidden away and never talked about or mentioned again. Her parents had suspected as much by the time she had turned seven without any signs of magic whatsoever manifesting around her - not even a basic transformation of brussel sprouts to sweets during dinner. It was ultimately confirmed, however, when her own Hogwarts acceptance letter never arrived. She had spent the whole year before her banishment daydreaming about her life at Hogwarts, still optimistic that there could be something magical inside of her. Her brother, Leo, came home every holiday with wonderful stories of his new friends and teachers, and the subjects he was learning at school. Even back then, at twelve years old, Eloise hadn’t been sure if he was actually hopeful she wasn’t a squib, or if he had been trying to prolong the fantasy for her before it all came crashing down.

Although she had had five years to come to terms with her new life, there was still a small part of her that hoped. A small “what if…”. She had tried time and time again to squash that tiny ray of optimism that would escape every so often, tried so very hard to cultivate a hard exterior that wouldn’t let any sort of vulnerability shine through. And that optimism was a vulnerability, after all. It was that vulnerability that had made it absolutely impossible for her to fit in the muggle world, and made it so that she didn’t really want to try.

Five years to come to terms with the fact that she needed a new purpose for her life and…

…not anymore?

Eloise grabbed the letter and greedily read through it again, drinking in all of the words. She paused at the end, thinking. Was this a forgery? Some sort of awful joke orchestrated by her brother? Leo had never been cruel to her in the past; in fact, he was the one who always encouraged her and was the most probable source of the small optimism that remained within her. However, she had no way of knowing how he had changed since she had last seen him. It had been, after all, five very long years. And not once had she heard from him, even though he had promised her through huge sobbing gulps that he would never abandon her. Maybe their parents had slowly poisoned him against her. It would be right on the nose for them, after all.

Looking at the envelope again, however…Third Bedroom on the Left…no. It was too specific. Nobody in her previous life had any reason to even want to contact her again, and nobody in her current life even knew what Hogwarts was, let alone have the ability to convincingly forge a letter just to have some fun at her expense.

A light, bubbly feeling began to spread throughout her body as it sunk in that this was real. She was going to Hogwarts. Soon, a - squinting at the letter again - a Professor Fig would be contacting her and giving her things to study. A huge grin slowly spread across her face and she hugged the letter to her chest as she fell back on her bed. She read through it again. Was it the fifth time already? It felt as though no amount of times rereading the letter would ever be enough.

Eloise got up and walked over to look at the calendar on her desk. She was surprised to see that September 1st was in only two days. The days at the finishing school moved in such a strange, sluggish way. They all felt the same. Monotonous. French and Latin and embroidery and household management and Merlin even knows what else all blending into each other in an endless parade of dusty classrooms and gossip and boredom.

The light feeling left her in an instant as, after years of practice, the optimism was squashed back down. But how will you even get to London? And, her brain added sneakily, you haven’t even shown any signs of magic. Maybe you’ll just be returned back here after they realize their mistake.

No, she thought fiercely, gripping the letter. Until -

A tapping came from the window. A tentative smile returned at the sight of a tawny brown owl with another envelope in its beak. She ripped it open as soon as it was in her hands (again addressed to Miss E. Babbit) and along with the letter a small, purple pouch fell out of the envelope and onto her bed.

Miss Eloise Babbit,

I am pleased to be the wizard charged with such an important task as escorting you to Hogwarts in two days’ time. It is something extraordinary to be accepted in your fifth-year, and as such, I expect extraordinary things from you. I have enclosed a small pouch along with this envelope, and in it are some items that will be vital to you in the upcoming days. I have included books for you to study at your leisure, and a small gobstone that will bring you to our rendezvous point in London. All you have to do is touch it at noon on the 1st and you will be transported instantly.

Your family has not been informed of your acceptance. I am sure you understand why - at this, Eloise scoffed quietly to herself - which is why I will personally be your escort.

I am looking forward to meeting you and bringing you to the sorting ceremony in two days’ time.

Yours,

Eleazar Fig

The handwriting was tiny and spidery and cramped, but it didn’t stop Eloise from reading it with the same vigor as the previous letter and as many times. Finally, she turned to the small pouch that had fallen onto her bed when she opened the second envelope. It must have had an invisible extension charm, because it was filled to the brim with books on basic spellwork and general wizarding history. Professor Fig had no way of knowing, but Eloise had already read many of these books and many more during the year her brother had started Hogwarts, as she had needed to know absolutely everything about what would be awaiting her. A few years may have passed since she had stepped foot in her family’s library, but she couldn’t get the books or their contents out of her brain even if she had wanted to. She had really wanted to forget everything she knew about the magical world when it was confirmed she was a squib but it was a futile effort. As she zoned out during her piano lessons, she would find herself mentally going through the movements to cast different charms.

It was painful to be thinking about things from the life that had been ripped away from her, to know that what she was thinking about would never come to pass, that she would never be able to wield magic - and yet she couldn’t find herself able to stop.

As Eloise picked out one of the books and settled into her armchair, a steely resolve overcame her.

She would prove that she deserved to be there, and was just as capable as any of they were. She would make her parents regret ever discarding her like she was nothing.

She was worthy. She was capable. And she would prove it.

The morning of September 1st dawned cold and rainy. Absolutely perfect.

Eloise had pretended to be sick the night before, and no one had suspected a thing when she stayed in bed long after all of the other girls had gotten ready and headed to breakfast. As the last of the chattering faded away down the hallway, Eloise finally got out of bed and prepared herself for the day. It was difficult to sit still long enough to braid her hair. Her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling and she had to restart countless times. Finally, she tied the black ribbon at the end into a neat bow and turned to the drawer of her desk to retrieve the small purple pouch she had hidden away.

Everything she deemed important enough to come along with her had already been placed inside: the books from Professor Fig, the hair ribbons gifted to her by her brother many years ago, and some clothing. Nothing else was coming with. She needed the fresh start. Besides, anything else she might need would be supplied, as her acceptance letter had specifically stated that any school supplies would be provided to her.

Waiting the hours before noon came along proved to be more difficult than Eloise had imagined. Time seemed to be moving slower than the molasses that had come with the breakfast sent up to her, the steady patter of the rain becoming a sort of metronome keeping time as she paced back and forth. Wasn’t there anything that could distract her, even for a bit? She glanced at the clock. Only five minutes had passed since the last time. 10.35.

The second hand ticking away in tandem with the sound of rain splashing against her window.

What if this was all a trick? What if she arrived at Hogwarts, and they turned her away because they realized they had made a mistake? After all, why would they admit a sixteen-year-old? Surely she was too old; every other student had started Hogwarts at the age of twelve and had shown signs of magic much earlier than that. She still hadn’t shown any signs of magical capability whatsoever, and didn’t feel any different than she had before receiving the letter. It had to be a fluke.

As her thoughts started veering into the melancholy she was prone to, she shook her head. No. Today was a happy, exciting day. She wasn’t going to squash the optimism down today, not when she needed it most. All of these thoughts she was having were simply that: thoughts. Not reality. Hogwarts never made a mistake, and in all of the history books she had read, she couldn’t recall an instance of someone being turned away at the door. Granted, she had also never heard of someone being admitted so late. But, better to focus on what she did know, which was that she had gotten the letter. It must be right in its assumption that she had magic.

Trying to pass the time was easier said than done. She ended up quizzing herself on all of the charms she had memorized in the books sent by Professor Fig, moving an imaginary wand in the precise movements needed to successfully cast and focusing on her pronunciation. She had studied all of these forms late into both nights she had had the books, and when she would eventually close her eyes to sleep, the wand movements were all she saw.

Eloise was determined that she would receive pity from nobody. Nobody was going to look at her like she was lacking. She had gotten enough of that to last a lifetime, and now that she was given this opportunity she wasn’t about to waste it.

When noon finally struck, Eloise was ready and waiting. She eagerly grabbed the gobstone that was sitting on her desk and felt the familiar tugging sensation in her navel as she was whisked away to London and the beginning of her new life.

next chapter

[dadsbongos]

PLEASE MORE AIRHEAD W GOJO SHOKO GETOU 🙏🙏PLEASE

5.1 K words

warnings - i borderline refused to proofread this, suguru wears a skirt and it awakens something in you, also suguru's anti-non sorcerers agenda, dumb timeline doesn't make sense (get over it), filler arc fic

summary - crack that i decided to take seriously, you and the gang go on a beach mission! and some things don't turn out as expected...

“Woah, ‘Toru, check out this yellow!” you jab a finger into the cold, hard plexiglass caging the many frozen flavors from onlooking civilians, “It’s, like, traffic sign yellow!”

“Who would eat that?” he grumbles, glaring at the engraving below the tub - advertising that specific hideous color as a special new taste, “For 4,000 yen?”

“Get me coffee, kay?” Shoko shoots you a glance from over her phone, thumb dancing across her cramped keypad, “And keep it down, you’ll piss off the vendor.”

“Yeah,” Suguru slips up beside you, nose wrinkled and chin tucked close to his chest to avoid the obnoxious scent of sweaty, huffing people, “You’re both making a scene,” his brows furrow over at your accomplice, “Didn’t you just get scolded by Yaga yesterday, Satoru?”

Suguru knows he did, actually, because who else would’ve been the one that held a bag of frozen peas to the hot red lump in Satoru’s forehead for thirty whole minutes?

“Hey,” but you’ve paid neither any mind, pointing at the other end of the display bay to a red-and-white swirled tub. The edges have browned together and its melting points have re-frozen in an unattractive slime, “Gross!” taking Satoru by the hand, you drag him over to the far corner, “Let’s check it out!”

“Hm, we’re way too early,” Shoko pokes her head through the turquoise and cream-striped tent flaps as you order.

“And one coffee scoop,” Suguru calls to you and Satoru when the clan heir beside you finishes demanding two cups of the red velvet cheesecake, pointedly ignoring the baggy-eyed, slouching teenager behind the steel counter.

“On it,” the boy grumbles, scooping up each order in hurried, jerky swings.

Satoru swings a lanky arm through one of yours, head leaning onto yours as he pathetically whines, “My blood sugar is crashing… Won’t make it much longer…”

Two plastic cups in illustrated covers of the stall’s logo slide to another awaiting couple as Satoru sets his card down in preparation to pay. You turn back to Suguru and gesture to the tubs of ice cream, frowning when he merely shakes his head. Shoko inches between you and Satoru, breaking your chain, and you take that as an opportunity to huddle into your broodier friend.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

Satoru turns back at the sound of your voice, abandoning his credit card on the counter, and Shoko watches silently.

“No, you enjoy it,” Suguru insists, smiling despite your puppy-eyed pout.

“But I don’t want you to miss out!”

“I’m happy enough that the four of us can go on a mission again.”

“How sweet,” Satoru wrangles an arm over Suguru’s shoulders, sighing with all the dramatics of a tantrum throwing toddler, “It has been too long since our last mission altogether.”

Shoko nods, moving next to you with one hand jammed into the pocket of her skirt, “It doesn’t help that you two,” she points at the boys, “decided to pick up a couple problem children.”

“Aw, c’mon,” you chirp, “That’s not fair to the girls, and Megumi’s really nice when you know him!”

“Ehh,” she waves her hand loosely, rolling her eyes, “I’ll cross those bridges when they get to high school; I’m no good with kids.”

Shrugging, you think of how well-behaved and kind both Tsumiki and Megumi are (well, Megumi has his moments), “Neither is Satoru and the Fushiguro’s seem fine.”

“Hey,” Satoru is quickly shrugged off his friend’s shoulder when he wails into Suguru’s ear with abandon, “Not fair! I’ve really improved over the months!”

“You still make him stir fry with bell peppers!”

“It’s delicious!”

You glower at his defense, “Doesn’t matter how tasty it is - Megumi’s not gonna eat it!”

Suguru can’t help but ignore the shouting in his ears in favor of appreciating the sight before him. You and Satoru and Shoko. Knowing Nanako and Mimiko are safe and happy at home. With your perfume and even Shoko’s natural nicotine cling working overtime to mask the scent of every monkey crowding this beach. Ignoring the monkeys got easier over time, keeping the real reasons he’s decided to carry on fighting in mind instead. Satoru and Shoko and Nanako and Mimiko and Haibara and Nanami and Yaga and, of course, you.

Two hands slam into his back, the rest of you just barely peeking out from around Suguru’s broad shoulders to glare at Satoru, who’s slung his tea shade sunglasses to the pad of his nose in a vague, blue-eyed threat.

Suguru claps a hand harshly against his friend’s shoulder, jostling the boy’s body, “Put them away, Satoru.”

Shoko bounds out of the small parlor with both hands in her pockets, murmuring something about needing a smoke break.

Satoru pulls his glasses entirely from his face, grinning at Suguru, “Aw, trying to be the big, brave knight?”

“Satoru,” Suguru calls lowly, impatience only thinly veiled.

Effectively cutting off the altercation, a hand cuffs the backs of yours and Satoru’s uniform collars and drags you both towards the open tent flap. Suguru curls his hands into fists at the sight but staves off a retort, even as both you and Satoru are thrown into the sand. A taller man with thicker arms, but the same sunken eyes and tight frown as the teen behind the counter squints down at the both of you, “And stay out!”

“Aw, we didn’t even get our ice cream…”

Shoko tosses her head back, melodic laugher ringing sweetly into your ears before she snaps forward, pinching at your cheek, “Sorry your boytoys couldn’t complete their mission.”

Quirking a brow at her, you don’t even bother to swipe away her fingers on your cheek, “Boytoys…?”

Satoru gasps, ‘tsk’ing at Shoko while covering your ears, “Hey, keep her innocent!”

Shoko removes her hand from you just to knock Satoru’s off the sides of your head. She looks over her shoulder, lips pursing as she surveys the cramped line of tented and umbrella’d stalls, “We should split up. You two are just causing trouble,” she grins at Satoru’s offended look, “As usual.”

Suguru hums, testy and wholly argumentative, “I think we should lay low for the next couple of hours and come back. The curse is more likely to come out at night.”

You frown at the thought of being stuffed into a yellow-walled, vaguely blood-stained, two bed hotel room.

And Suguru backtracks, “Nevermind.”

Snagging you by the arm, Shoko jerks you into her side and jabs a thumb over her shoulder, “We’ll be investigating some swimsuit tents, get a sense of any residuals or smaller curses,” then she points at the duo before you, “You two should find your own thing.”

You’ve given no say before being dragged off to a snowy white tent, sand kicked up and sticking to the flowy drapes. Even small shops for clothing can carry lingering, bothersome curses with anxiety over fat that naturally rolls and jiggles or peeking scars and colored splotches. And despite only having about two years of official sorcery under your belt, you’ve noticed that lingerie, typical underwear, and swimsuits were especially troublesome for gathering curses.

That’s especially noticeable when flyheads and low grade spirits crawl along the tarp, crinkling, unpleasant floor and clawing into the legs and necks of unassuming women. But Shoko has taken no interest in any of them.

Instead, she shoves another wood hanger into your face, “What about this one?”

“Mmm,” clicking your tongue, the sight of a neon orange with lemon yellow lining inspires no particular sparkles or electricity under your skin, “nah.”

Shoko nods and clinks the hanger back onto the rod, “Agreed.”

“Hey, Shoko?” you tilt your head at her, holding out the two swimsuit sets already dangling off your fingers, “How’re we paying for these?”

“Ah!” she snickers, fingers dipping into a skirt pocket before proudly displaying a black, plastic card in her palm, “The Strongest left his card out, so I’m teaching him a lesson,” tucking her hand back into hiding, she grins at you, “So rack up as many as you want.”

“Hmm…”

“He’ll hardly even know the money’s gone.”

“Isn’t that stealing?”

She shrugs, “No.”

Your lashes narrow at that response, brows furrowing, before beaming at Shoko with an enthusiastic nod, “Okay :D”

“That’s the spirit!” she claps you on the back, like a father after his son’s first little league championship.

And like a bushy-tailed young child unburdened by popularity contests and pinching pennies and needing to press the best words into the best order to feel adequate, you gaze out at the seven, stunted racks with wonder. Golden wheat fields that sway in long waves under the wind that whistles through pokey tree branches. A land all yours.

And like every conqueror before, you’re eager to feed on the dancing wheat you don’t yet own, “I wonder which one I’ll wear first.”

“I wonder if they’d want something…” Suguru mutters, only for his own ears.

Satoru blows a raspberry from behind his friend, chin settling onto Suguru’s shoulder and staring down at the wiry, iron shelf with painted, glazed shells and tiny red-lipsticked ladies with thick black curls and wooden curves on plastic, circle podiums and chunky plastic beaded necklaces.

“You’re so obsessed.”

Suguru grunts, slamming an elbow into Satoru’s gut and making no contact, “You were thinking it, too.”

“Not like you,” Satoru waves off, patting himself down for the thin outline of his credit card. When the first search comes up entirely empty, he looks over at Suguru, “Uh,” then returns to his pockets, hands dipping into the gaps, “Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t have my card,” Satoru taps his foot once, then twice, then shrugs, “Oops.”

“‘Oops,’” Suguru snickers, “Are you gonna cut it off?”

“It’ll turn up somewhere,” stretching his hands above his head, Satoru yawns, “Sorry we can’t get your girlfriend anything.”

“And Shoko. And she’s not my girlfriend… We really should’ve just gone to a hotel, all the smaller curses will be attracted to the dock.”

Satoru can’t even be bothered to deny Suguru his natural right to feeling smug, just turning and waltzing out from the cheap, tacky souvenir stand under a peachy umbrella. Sweat beads miserably down his back and forehead from under his black uniform, shoes sinking into the sand with every step towards the coast.

It was something that nagged at the both of them, honestly. The surface-level pointlessness of this mission, especially the early nature of your group’s settlement. And especially especially because it was so immediately easy to feel where the strongest cursed energy was coming from. Like this buzzing, tender freeze that washed over the both of them - pulling towards one spot on the cluttered beach.

A lone dock by the crashing shore. Splintering, crooked pillars with a deflated, banana yellow ducky floatie dangling between two planks. Likely yet another test of courage spot, popular among vacationing families with young siblings and cousins; eight children of varying ages missing.

“It is weird,” Satoru lowers his glasses along the bridge of his nose, “that all four of us were sent out. Nanami probably could’ve taken this out by himself if it’s just another grade two.”

Suguru shrugs from behind his friend, “Must be a good reason we were all sent out. Maybe the eight brats.”

“Jeez,” Satoru bats a hand backwards in an attempt to smack his friend, he misses completely, “At least sound sympathetic!”

Just before Suguru can reply, your voice is singing out their names. The two turn and Suguru is a little ashamed in the way his body stiffens at the sight of you in a cherry-print bikini. Shoko lingers at your back, texting who you all silently agree to be Utahime. You bounce into the spot before your friends, hands behind your back and a blinding grin curling into your cheeks.

“You look nice,” Suguru’s own voice is lost on him, heart beating so loud in his ears that he can’t quite hear himself. He hopes he sounded suave. He hopes it makes you forget every time he’s embarrassed himself in front of you, and all you see is the charming Suguru that your mom would just love.

“Aww, thanks!” you giggle, holding your bundled uniform tighter to your chest. And he’s even more humiliated over the hope that you’re trying to hide the pounding of your own heart.

Satoru nudges Suguru with an elbow and the favor is returned with a foot jamming down on Satoru’s shoe.

“Shoko and I both agreed,” you unknowingly interrupt their spat, “that before we all totally die, we should have fun on the beach!”

“You shouldn’t say it like that…” Suguru sighs, but the smile is still plain on his face. That question from earlier rises in him - why were you all sent here?

“I think that’s a great idea!” Satoru extends an arm towards you and gladly allows you to tug him towards the water, only releasing hold to let him reactivate his infinity.

Shoko watches from the shoreline with Suguru. She looks up at the man, flipping her phone shut, “You never complimented me, you know?”

“Huh?” Suguru looks first at Shoko’s twisted simper, her raised brow, her low hanging eyelids that let her lashes flutter against her cheeks. Then he notices - a black bikini hugging her own body. He flushes, not over the sight - but because he was caught, “Sorry.”

“You’re such a sucker,” she snickers.

He was caught with that familiar lump in his throat and lethally beating in his chest that only you could cause.

“Hey!” and, of course, it’s you again who calls to him, “C’mon, we wanna play chicken!”

And he’s caught again, red-faced; stripping off his shirt and shoes and socks while Shoko laughs at him. She holds out her phone and watches as he carefully wraps it in his uniform overshirt before trudging down the sands towards you and Satoru. Shoko wades through the crashing water towards Satoru, her hands find his shoulders when they all notice he hasn’t yet joined.

You’re pouting at him and Satoru is groaning, “Just get in! They’re pants - they’ll dry!”

“Easy for you to say,” Suguru huffs, squirming at the feeling of water sticking his pants to his shins as he slowly creeps into the chilled ocean, “Just use infinity for everything…”

“What was that?!” Satoru cups a hand over his ear, neck craning outwards as Suguru approaches, “Didn’t catch that last bit.”

“You’re annoying,” Suguru declares, latching to your side and crouching down just enough for you to scramble up onto his shoulders yet still keep his boxers dry. He feels your arms wrap around his neck, then your thighs bracket shakily around his waist. Suguru palms your thighs and helps lift you to sit up on the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Meanwhile, Satoru yawns, hands on his hips, as Shoko tries yanking herself up onto his back.

“Hey!” she snaps, pounding a fist into his back knowing full well he wouldn’t feel it, “Bend down, would you?!”

“Huh?” Satoru turns to stare down Shoko over his shoulder, sticking his tongue out at her, “Oh! Oops, sometimes I forget how short you are!”

“Hey!”

Suguru tilts his head back to look up at you, both arms secure around your legs, “You okay up there?”

You nod slowly, fingers gently brushing the stray hairs of his bangs from his face, “Uh-huh.”

“See,” Satoru gestures out to you and Suguru, “even our favorite bubble-brain got it done. You’re just not trying hard enough.”

And once again, Shoko digs a fist into his back (and then another when he mockingly hisses and whines).

…

“Don’t be long,” Shoko exhales, noxious smoke rising from her lips with a cigarette perched between two fingers and, in that same hand, texting Utahime once again.

“It’d be quicker if you weren’t slacking off,” Satoru ‘tsk’s, already heading down to the creaky dock with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His cheeks are flaring red from hours prior in the sun, even after the four of you had crawled into a hotspot restaurant to change and cool down.

“Thanks again,” Suguru still clings to your side and you let him, even leaning into it.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Sugu,” you grin.

You hadn’t been concerned with how civilians would perceive Suguru in your uniform skirt when he changed out of his soaked pants - not that he’d really care how non-sorcerers think of him anyway. But some bizarre part of you can’t stop looking at his legs in your skirt.

He insisted that you keep your leggings, so his skin is bare to the moonlight past his mid-thigh.

It’s bizarre, most definitely, the part of you that keeps staring at the flex of his thighs beneath your skirt as you both soldier through the sand dunes. Your hand finds Suguru’s and you cradle his arm against your chest, Satoru nowhere in sight. The both of you shuffling under the dock, eyes narrowing in search of your little white-haired friend. You shift closer to Suguru the longer your search goes, hand winding tighter within his.

Wind blows under Suguru’s stolen skirt and chills against your skin, the waves lapping at mushy sand. Your blood beats in your ears, Suguru already peering up at the midnight sky through the gaps in the dock.

Hot air puffs against the side of your face, pale skin bouncing moonlight into your peripherals in a flash, “Boo!”

“Ah!” you squeal, jumping somehow closer into Suguru, glaring at the cackling man through narrowed lashes, “Gojo!”

“Aw,” Satoru pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, flicking the nonexistent tear at you, “So formal! Aren’t we friends?”

“Not after that!”

“Satoru,” Suguru’s resilience is quieter than yours, the hand not entwined with yours is firm on his hip, “You really scared her,” you nod with a ‘hmph!’, “She was already on edge, looking for you no less.”

Satoru drapes himself over you like a frail Victorian woman in shock, “I’m sorry,” he wraps both arms around your neck and squeezes you into his chest, “Will you ever forgive me?”

“Hmm…”

A creak shutters just ahead. The deflated, wrinkly duck floatie shivers. All three heads turn into the abyss.

You tuck your chin close to your chest, wringing your arms around one of Suguru’s as you call, “Hey, Shoko?!”

“What?!” but her call is undeniably still in the direction where you three left her.

“Here it is,” Satoru murmurs, turning to grin at you, nudging his head towards the darkness just ahead, “Let’s go!”

Begrudgingly, you allow Suguru to guide you into the creaking, inky space under this dock.

“You’re making the curse stronger, you know?” Satoru turns to face you, walking backwards with both hands in his pockets.

You groan and go to argue back, but a blobby, brown, mucky curse plops in front of your group. The three of you pause and the little thing blinks up at your group.

It throbs.

“Ew!” you stomp down onto the curse, sand poofs up around your boot and the muddy body pops, splattering around your group’s feet.

“Didn’t even need a technique,” Suguru looks up from the scene of your crime, glaring back down into the darkness, “We weren’t sent here for that.”

The wind brushes past you again, your shoulders bunching up in a vain attempt to keep you warm with too-thin leggings. Suguru’s stolen skirt lifts and he pulls you tighter to his side. Satoru stares down the dock with a tight wound face, glasses slipping down his nose and eyebrows scrunched together with a scowl. You hadn’t seen him like this in a long while. Since Fushiguro, Toji had cut you down. Since that single, echoing shot in the dimly lit tomb’s main chamber.

“Ah…” Satoru switches the weight on his feet, snagging you and Suguru by the fronts of your uniforms and drags you both far to the right. Sand sloshes up in big, cloudy puffs; opaque, turquoise tentacles crash into the spot where your trio once stood, “This could actually be troublesome.”

“Stop being mysterious!” you pop your palm against the side of his head despite knowing his infinity is raised, “What’re you talking about?”

“This curse,” he rolls his eyes with all the annoying arrogance possibly mustered when you and Suguru tilt your heads at his pause, “This curse definitely has one of Sukuna’s fingers.”

“That would explain the loose ofuda,” Suguru notes.

You shiver at the mere idea of the King of Curses aiding your opponent, “How would that even happen?”

“Dunno,” Satoru shrugs and releases the both of you, flexing his fingers of the remaining tension, “We definitely need to take it back though.”

“Definitely,” you nod curtly.

A bulbous head sinks into the moonlight, shiny and smooth and thin, wiry purple webs spread across the surface. The gelatinous skin ripples, entire head jiggling before the turquoise splits and gives way to an eyeball - it bulges wide and the pitch black pupils darts around the surrounding area before settling, shakily onto you, Suguru, and Satoru.

Two big, clawed hands latch onto the back of your uniform top, retching you back. A look up confirms it to be one of Suguru’s more beastly stored curses. Your friend himself stares up at you, “Try and get the eye. Satoru and I will distract the tentacles.”

You nod eagerly, showing off a thumbs up before jamming your arms straight to your sides, “You got it!”

And like the most impressive cartoon clown, you explode out towards the curse. Thrown from Suguru's strong arms ( :D ).

You rip your hands away from your sides and throw them out in front of you, fingers stretching wide as you hurdle towards the fleshy eyeball. Your fingertips are mere inches from grazing the eye, when the pupil turns onto you. A loud crash through sand rings out behind you, two calls of your name, and your heart shoots into your throat.

And the eyeball sinks back with another round of grotesque, rippling skin. You slam into the round head and bounce back off with a freshly punched-out gush of air.

“I got you!” Satoru calls from below, arms out wide to catch you before you could plummet into sand.

“That was such a dirty trick,” you huff, steadying back onto your feet and glaring at the curse. The eyeball peeps out, bumping from the top of its head.

With a teasing hum, Satoru finally tucks his glasses into his pants’ pocket, “It’d be a lot easier if you could just hurry up and learn Domain Expansion.”

“You can’t do it either, Satoru!” Suguru comes to both of your sides.

One of the forefront tentacles flicks up violently, crashing through the unstable, weak wood of the dock. Slats and splinters rain down as the tentacle flies towards your spot on the shore. Satoru and Suguru split from your sides while you remain firm in the sand.

Your arms fly out wide, grinning as you cheer, “Come in for a big hug!” wrapping your arms around the heavy limb, you squeeze and squish your hands down into the fleshy tentacle. The cursed energy of your mother and your mother’s mother and her mother and so on, courses through you in a raging fire. Your nails dig into the curse as you shout once more, “Snip!”

And the tentacle goes limp.

Sliding out from under the weight, you spot Satoru wringing a hand back - some invisible, evolving mass heaving in his palm and drawing the large octopus head forward.

Satoru calls out, “If you wanna swallow this one, you better hurry up and do something, Suguru!”

Rolling his eyes, Suguru watches his Rainbow Dragon untangle, sand flapping out with its tail and tearing up a lonely palm tree. He sweeps you up and seats you in front of him while flying forward on the creature’s back.

“Try and keep it busy for now,” he sets you back down on relatively even sand, “Satoru, make it puke out the finger! I’ll get it from behind!”

“Phrasing!”

You eye the two special grades with a groan, “I’m not a diversion, ya know?!”

But Suguru is already behind and beneath the curse’s line of sight, drawing his own ball of mass into his palm.

And, unfortunately, this pseudo-plan is one you’re already familiar with.

You attack the limbs and divert attention with Satoru as back-up while Suguru condenses and consumes.

But, also unfortunately, this pseudo-plan isn’t usually employed against special grade curses post-swallowing Sukuna’s finger. A special grade (post-swallowing Sukuna’s finger) with the intelligence to avoid your Cursed Technique.

“This isn’t working!” you shout at Satoru after having yet another tentacle shot out of grabbing-range.

He lets one of the remaining tentacles bash close against his infinity, using the force to get to your side.

“Then how ‘bout a change of plans?” Satoru takes no feedback before shooting you up and towards the creature's head, snagging and yanking tentacles to twitch the head upwards.

A gaping, drooly maw is exposed; gnashing, gummy walls in place of teeth. And beneath layers of squishy pink, is a lashing gray tongue. And where there’s a tongue, there must be a stomach.

“Woohoo!” you flail out your arms, squishing between the gums to dig your nails into the creature’s tongue (“The radula!” Shoko would tease, if she were watching). A shaky, ugly groan comes from the creature and it hangs its mouth open, trying to slip you off its organ - the sand is far below. You squeeze tighter when a gush of saliva drips down the tongue - fire rushes through your veins, scorching at your fingertips as you chant, “Snip!”

From above, a loud retch, and the deep purple roof gapes with a single, fleshy finger falling out.

You reach out hurriedly, hands clapping around the cursed object before the sudden effect of gravity takes precedent. The sand begins rushing upward, wind whipping rudely at your hair as the curse above you is sucked into an ugly mauve ball in Suguru’s palm. Not seconds after absorbing the curse, he sends his Rainbow Dragon down after you.

One arm swings around you, pulling you over in front of him, while the other holds the grotesque orb. He holds it less gingerly than you hold Sukuna’s finger, cradling the item to your chest.

“Yay! Thanks, Sugu’,” you lean into his chest, hands still tucked to your chest as you both come back down onto the uneven, pitted sand with scattered, rooted palm trees laying around carelessly.

“Are you hurt?” Suguru scans the skin he can see, “It’s saliva wasn’t venomous, right?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” you shrug, “I’ll be okay!”

“And you, Satoru?”

“Don’t worry about me, I just got to be your pretty distraction.”

Suguru nods, turning away all the same to swallow his newest curse.

Satoru comes in front of you, white button up on display with his uniform jacket held out, he nods in the direction of your hands, “Here, we can wrap it in this until we get back.”

Dumping the finger into the center of his jacket, your attention is quickly stolen away by the way Suguru gags around the cursed orb. Satoru cradles the freshly wrapped finger to his chest, settling a hand against his friend’s quivering shoulder. You pat Suguru’s back, leaning your head against his arm as he shudders down the taste, watching his face stretch into a grimace.

But he quickly overcomes it when he notices how you and Satoru are preening over him, clearing his throat and shaking out his tense shoulders.

Another throat clears, further up the shore. A lithe, dainty hand waves, Shoko’s lips grinning around an unlit cigarette - her wave turns into a single finger, pointing up at the clear sky, “None of you put up a veil!”

“Oops…” you pout under the stars, they flicker as if winking just to tease you.

Satoru groans, flinging out his arms in exasperation, already wandering towards Shoko, “It’s nighttime, what does a veil even matter?!”

Suddenly, you perk up, nodding, “Yeah! Exactly!”

Suguru sighs, “Someone’s getting punished for this.”

You take his hand, dragging him through the sand, “Who do you think Yaga will choose?”

…

“It was her!”

Both Satoru and Suguru point over at you, brows furrowed in determination. Your hands squeeze tighter around your skirt (which you freshly got back from a re-pants Suguru), fists pushing into your thighs as the three of you kneel before Yaga.

Stubbornly, you shake your head, “No way, that’s really not fair! It was on all three of us!” when Yaga maintains his stern, crossed arms, you continue, “Shoko could’ve done it! I didn’t even really notice- “

Yaga unfolds his arms, waving you up into a stand, “You don’t have to give credit to save your friends when you’re who found Sukuna’s finger.”

Once again, you try to refuse, but Suguru beats you to the punch, “She was vital in obtaining the cursed object, we couldn’t have retrieved it without her.”

Satoru nods twice to his friend’s point.

“You can join Ieiri,” Yaga’s brows somehow wrinkle even more, a finger pointing in your face, “You’re free because you found the finger. Don’t forget a veil again.”

“Yes, sir!” you chirp, the back of your uniform collar being tugged upward by Shoko. She’s already dragging you out of your teacher’s (now principal’s) office, but you spare the time to turn and wave to your friends, “Good luck, ‘Toru and Sugu’ - I’ll get nice flowers to send your moms!”

Satoru squirms from where he’s kneeling, hand shooting up as soon as you’re out of the room. He can see it perfectly now, a big red welt on the back of his head and a matching one for Suguru, “Actually, she couldn’t have gotten the finger without us, so maybe this punishment isn’t necessary!”

Suguru glares at his friend, “You can’t undo a good deed like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“I could let you off,” Yaga hums, “But you forget, Gojo, this isn’t your first time refusing to put up a veil.”

“It’s not refusing!” he honestly just forgets sometimes! He swears!

Suguru would hit Satoru himself if he weren’t trying so hard to stay still, “You’re making it worse!”

…

“I hope they’ll be okay…” you murmur, hugging Shoko’s arm to your chest as the both of you head down the long steps from Jujutsu Tech, “Yaga didn’t seem too mad, right?”

Shoko watches your step down the stairs for you (your stare now focused on a gaggle of birds singing overhead), “We’ll see if white mums are on sale - take that as our omen.”

And when you both see that banana yellow sign in your favorite old lady’s flower shop advertising bundles of white chrysanthemums for only 1,000 yen a piece - you send a prayer to Satoru and Suguru’s souls.

[fellandcrow]

I've been struggling with writer's block for weeks now, as you can probably tell (I can't believe 'Poetry Carved in Flesh' last update was nearly two months ago 😭).

BUT I'm glad to say I'm finally writing again! Working on PCIF chapter 10 as we speak, and it's all thank to the help and support of my amazing friend @friedratart 🤍✨

It's not done yet, and I still have to draw some illustrations for it, but, in the meantime, and to thank you all for your support and patience, here's a little snippet under the cut (feel free to ignore if you'd rather wait for the whole chapter to be out of course 🤍).

“Look at you, you’re gorgeous,” Crowley suddenly said, effectively pulling Aziraphale from his reverie.

Aziraphale felt himself blushing at the praise, not expecting it at all. But, when he turned his head to look at the other man, his chest full of hope even though he felt a bit disconcerted by the sudden compliment, he felt himself deflate, and rolled his eyes. Of course Crowley would be talking to the Gutenberg press he’d tattooed on his arm a few months ago, and not about Aziraphale himself. Of course. The idiot was now cooing and poking at it with a huge grin plastered on his face, completely oblivious of the heart-attack he had very nearly just caused. 

Aziraphale was not impressed.  

“Did you miss me?” Crowley went on, poking the tattoo again and staring at it with stars in his eyes.

What an insufferable man.

“I’m sure it did,” Aziraphale replied in an acerbic tone, vexed despite himself. “Can we get a wiggle on, now?”

“What?” Crowley asked, finally looking at him, all cheer gone from his voice and face.

“Tattoo appointment. Now, if you please.”

“I got that. It was the wiggle-on”, Crowley scoffed.

[genericpuff]

So I just read episode 275 and I’m sort of confused?

(I took screenshots, but the ask won’t let me include them so) At the end of the episode Hera summons these little balls of light(?) , maybe small stars(?) and then she casts them down onto Kronos.

I feel like that was really anticlimactic and not illustrated well. Along with the viewer not seeing Hera fight Kronos, a God that’s been tormenting her, her last attack(?) doesn’t feel right — like, there’s no power behind, if anything, I’d compare it to what a healers animation in a game looks like.

Rachel even emphasizes how strong and brilliant Hera is with Persephone, but then doesn’t show us anything. I know the scene was split between Hera and Hades dealing with Kronos physically and mentally (asleep), but it was sort of disappointing.

What I think really sucks about the setup for the Hera vs. Kronos fight is that, as cool of a concept as it is to have Hera and Hades both fighting Kronos in separate timelines, it fails on multiple levels:

1.) All the build up of Hera saying "I was created to destroy you" winds up meaning nothing because it cuts away to Hades for the entire fight

2.) When it does cut back to Hera, she's just kinda... sitting on Kronos? Like what did she do besides just breaking one of his fingers? Why weren't we allowed to see that? I think this is more so clearly Rachel's inability to write/draw fight scenes showing through, so she relied entirely on the Hades' sequence which was less physical fighting and more just Hades monologuing before turning Kronos into a diamond.

3.) And speaking of the diamond thing... so we're just expected to believe Hades could turn not just people, but Titans into diamonds? This whole time? How is he just suddenly able to do this? It feels like a shonen anime where the main character has a flashback to a scene from 3 seconds ago (in this case, Hades' conversation with Melinoe) and then unlocks a new special ability through it, but it somehow feels even less earned than it does in anime (and trust me, I can't stand that anime trope at the best of times LOL) Like at least in something like Naruto it's like... okay we have this ability Naruto's been trying to master and we've seen him work at it for a few episodes so seeing him finally nail it on the brink of defeat is like, really hype and fun. But Hades just turns Kronos into a rock out of nowhere when we had zero reason or build-up to believe that would ever be possible. Why not, IDK, have Morpheus finally master her ability to dream dive and use that to trap Kronos in an eternal sleep? At least that would have had some pre-existing foundation especially with how much of S3 was focused on the dream diving shit. IDK, the whole thing's really contrived and silly and relies a lot on the reader just going "okay! yeah that makes sense!"

4.) So Hades turned timey-wimey Kronos into a diamond... but then it cuts back to present Kronos who's just been somehow defeated by Hera through ✨magic✨ and that's just it? What about present Kronos? Is he just still trapped in Tartarus now? Why isn't he also a diamond if Hades turned some past form of Kronos into a diamond? Or was the goal just to free Melinoe so present Kronos couldn't keep using her powers? But who's to say Kronos can't just do what he did again by reaching through time to grab Melinoe and start the whole thing over again? Especially now that Melinoe doesn't remember what happened and would be none the wiser that Kronos has attempted this before? Is it because this is present Kronos whose time abilities were 'exhausted' to him 'long ago'? Then how was he able to pull Hades into the time-bowl to begin with? Again, just like the diamond thing, this entire conflict relies a lot on readers just shrugging and accepting it because there's zero foundation for the concepts that are being portrayed and thus zero logic besides "just go with it".

I can go on and on about it but at the end of the day LO just isn't a comic that should have attempted having any big Marvel fight scenes. This is an issue in a lot of romance comics that have gone on too long, they start to lose the plot around their third season and then just throw everything out the window for some other big plot that makes no sense within the context of the story. Somehow LO, a Greek myth fantasy adaption, made fighting the God of Time seem out of place and boring.

God I can't wait for Hades 2.

[spacer-case]

...and when the last blood-beast comes to rest unto the Earth, what next will arrive to inherit it?

i drew this sci fi piece for my portfolio, but it also turned loosely into a marcoace au because my brain got zoomies

short version: guy on a joyride (coughs ace) accidentally travels to another world filled with mythological-ish creatures, but they're actually all robots mimicking life with no real sentience of their own - except one lone, lonely consciousness (coughs marco) whose mind was digitally preserved before the rest of organic life got wiped out, and has been waiting a long time for a friend

long nerdy version under the cut:

ace's world is a fun and scrappy sci fi future world, with stuff like his hovercraft that syncs to his body's movements too

he was out riding with deuce and got too caught up in the thrill of flying that he went way out of safe bounds (not pictured: deuce panicking) and got swallowed by a giant sky beast

somehow (i haven't thought that hard about it) he appears in marco's world after this - when i first had this idea i was just thinking of a literal reference to the philosophical concept of animals as other worlds/animal alterity, a la Barbara Noske), plus i like the idea of gateways being where you least expect them

anyway yeah he gets isekai'd

enter: marco's world!! this is a land where organic life once thrived, including sentient beings (i haven't decided if they were also humans), but all organic life has long since died out and given way to a new, constructed "ecology"

it's full of seemingly mythological-ish creatures (phoenix, dragon, etc. but all are also warped from what we would imagine)!! but SIKE they are actually robots; cybernetic constructs!!! each one goes through the motions of life for many years until they steadily break down. their parts get recycled and they are remade to spawn from egg-like structures (like the one in the bottom left corner of the drawing)

and who is remaking them? MARCO! aka the last, lone remaining consciousness from the sentient race that died out. his mind was preserved digitally, but by the time he awoke he only remembers snapshots of his original life. he continuously cares for and builds all the robots, and uploads himself into different bodies whenever he wants, but no matter what he tries he can't recreate anything truly alive with its own free will

so he's lonely and sad

basically the whole thing was an exploration of the concept of a man-made mythos! and the boundaries of what defines life, will, sentience, etc. etc.

but when he meets ace - a real, living breathing organic human - it will change his life! because............because...i haven't thought that far

many questions remain...is ace's world a past version of marco's? will he find a way to restore organic life to marco's world? should he even do that? will he find a way back home? will they kiss? ? will marco get a human body?? will i ever make something bigger from this or even turn it back into ocs instead of op characters??? will they wear wigs???? when will they wear wigs????????? who knows!

but for now it is what it is hehe

i doubt anyone read all that, but if you did, thank you for your time....here i reward you with a secret:

below is an early sketch of this illustration, and underneath that, the composition originally came from A FAILED DRAWING OF MARCO!!!

the brainrot goes deep :')

[sonic-gallery]

Another World Ogiri August 2023 [What are Blaze and Silver doing...? ]

Please come home, master!

Two characters appear every month in surprising outfits and situations! Let's enjoy Ogiri together with illustrations that will make your imagination run wild!

This time, Blaze and Silver are back with a new look! High fighting ability and awesomeness that are unbecoming of a maid or butler! What kind of enemy will these two fight against, relying on each other and working together?

What kind of lines or narration would you use?

You can style it based on the atmosphere and world view of the two of you in the game, or you can create a bold arrangement! In the example, it seems reliable enough to turn away any unwanted customers... Even such free and interesting stories are OK!

Please enjoy it and tweet with the tag "#Isekai Ogiri" on Twitter ♪

We will introduce the good ones in a reply from Sonic's official Twitter account.

We are looking forward to your fun Ogiri posts!

Act8: “Reunion of the Magical Princess”

＜＜Gashaaan! >>

A large number of sharp pieces of window glass are scattered on the hotel's luxurious scarlet carpet...!

The monster's strong arms didn't stop as it tore down the glass wall of the second-floor atrium with all its might... It gouged through the floor, grabbed a white cafe table that had been thrown up, broke it into pieces, and headed towards a point. I threw it.

＜＜Dogagagaga! >>

The terrifying throw of destruction seemed to crush the poor waiter who was near the kitchen...but all of it was blocked by a psychic barrier that shone in cobalt blue, and it shattered into pieces. Masu.

"A monster that obstructs business! I'll eliminate it!"

It was Silver, a silver hedgehog with psychic powers, who screamed and his whole body was filled with psychic green light.

The monster that stands in the way is a giant golem that looks up at you and is made of a collection of toys and junk. The moment when Silver, his black garcon apron flapping in the air, tried to wield his "power" towards the monster...!

＜＜Dooooooong! >>

This time, the crimson flame arrow grazed Silver's side and hit the monster. Blow away that giant body.

After a roar, the maid descended to protect Silver while brushing off a veil of flames, turned around with her elegant black silk apron skirt, and spoke to him without even moving an eyebrow.

"Run, waiter. This is no place for ordinary people."

...Silver is not amused by being suddenly interrupted and treated like an amateur.

"You're a maid, aren't you? What on earth are you!" "The one who protects the weak from evil monsters... is the Magic Princess Blaze!"

"Magic, Koujo...?"

Blaze jumps towards the monster, leaving behind Silver, who becomes stunned for a moment. Silver couldn't resist protesting as he hurriedly chased after him.

“Who is the weak one?”

The fight against monsters is only a defensive battle.

The flame wielded by Blaze does indeed hit the monster, but it only scrapes the surface of the monster's body...Then, the fragments are immediately pulled together by a mysterious force, coalescing and returning to their original state. It is.

"First of all, I came here with the intention of doing an undercover investigation as a maid, but I didn't expect to be suddenly involved in a battle..."

Blaze, who can't move as much as she wants in her maid uniform, can't help but click her tongue.

``I was also asked to be a bodyguard at this coffee shop, and I became a waiter waiting for a monster, but I didn't find him as good as this.''

Silver agrees that he is an unexpectedly strong enemy.

"I mean, this store provides uniforms, right? Why did you bring your maid uniform?" "I-is that so? Emmy told me to wear this..."

Blaze flinched at the unexpected remark and blushed as he pinched the frills on his shoulders...but in the meantime Blaze turned around and said this to Silver.

"Hey, don't move around in front of me! You're getting in the way and I can't concentrate my firepower!" "Attack isn't working, right? First, find the weak point that triggers recovery!"

In the end, an argument begins instead of a battle. And the monster didn't miss that chance...

<< Zugon! Dogogo...! >>

The monster slowly...gathered its strength deeply, raised both of its fists, and fired a powerful blow toward the ceiling. The impact pierced the ceiling on the coffee shop floor and the ceiling on the floor above, all the way to the roof of the hotel, causing a major collapse.

A huge waterfall of frighteningly heavy rubble attacks Blaze and the others, increasing its muddy flow as it falls. When they both looked up, it seemed like it was too late...

The next moment!

"Huh!"

Silver instantly jumps over Blaze's head, spreads his arms out as if to protect her, and deploys a psychic barrier...! After deflecting the incoming collapse, Blaze uses it as a counterattack to repel the attack of the monster that attacked Silver from within the dust, and at the same time blows away the surrounding dust with explosive flames.

...This is a moment of perfect cooperation with no compromises. After catching their breath in a close call, the two finally opened their mouths.

"My body moved on its own...I don't feel like I'm meeting you for the first time." "...Ah."

Then, as he regained his stance and restored his body, Blaze continued with a serious look on his face as he looked at the monster approaching the two of them.

"I made two mistakes. The first was that I underestimated the enemy and came here without being fully prepared."

Still in the same position, this time I continued to look into Silver's eyes.

"Waiter. Please give me 20 seconds..." "I don't mind...but before that, can I ask you the second question?"

After a moment's hesitation, Blaze answered with a resolute look on his face.

"Secondly, I was disrespectful and disrespectful to my comrades who I should be relying on. That..."

Blaze interrupts him by saying he's sorry, and Silver agrees to Blaze's request.

"It's okay Blaze, we're both good friends! It's okay. I'll hold out for 20 seconds or 200 years! ...So, would you like one for me too?" "...?"

"My name is Silver."

The next moment, Blaze is immediately engulfed in scorching flames. With her eyes closed and her mind concentrating...Silver senses that she is trying to control some great power.

"Silver, thank you......Haaaaaaaaa!"

Blaze is about to unleash a blow that will change the situation, knowing the risk of exposing his defenseless side. That expectation and trust inspired Silver.

"I'll do it! Ha!"

Silver deploys full power of psychic energy in all directions. Hold the rubble all over this floor and prevent the monster from restoring, while at the same time hitting everything with psychic attacks to keep it in check...! I will protect Blaze.

However, fighting for a long time while protecting immovable objects is disadvantageous. Since you have to endure every attack that comes your way without avoiding it, you end up in a very poor situation.

Silver's plan was to survive the attack by not allowing it to attack, but the monster also seems to have noticed the plan and intensifies its attack.

What a long time 20 seconds is! How long can we hold out? Just when Silver's knees are about to fall due to repeated bullets...!

＜＜Doooooooo! ! >>

As the explosion of loud flames spread, Blaze, enveloped in such dazzling flames that it was impossible to keep his eyes open, finally released his power... and blew away the monster. It's ready.

"Aaah...! Mysterious sun, respond to the power of my flame...!"

The seven jewels on Blaze's pochette begin to contain flames and grow brighter one by one as her power grows.

Just when the monster was about to make a desperate attack with all its might, all of its power imploded on her...Blaze declared the execution of great power.

"Magical Princess Blaze! Burning Unlimited Mode! Haaaaa!"

Blaze wears multiple layers of flame in seven colors and transforms into a pillar of scorching heat. For a moment, huge wings of flame spread across her back, but they immediately dispersed and condensed into her outstretched arms...! It becomes a tremendous torrent of flame and pours out towards the monster.

"Haaaaaa!" "Haaaaaa!"

The monster also tries to resist by taking a defensive stance, but Silver supports Blaze from behind as he is pushed by the recoil of the flames, increasing its power, and he can no longer withstand it.

Everything that formed the monster was blown away, and the energy body at its center caused a huge explosion.

<< Zudoooon! >>

A huge roaring explosion that could be heard all the way to an island in the sky. The monster finally disappeared.

"Ciao, chao!"

After the dust from the explosion finally dissipated... In the remains of the monster's explosion, there was a small Chao of light crying.

The true nature of the monster was Chao's residual thoughts.

As Blaze and the others watch, the Chao of Light eventually finds a hole in the dilapidated floor, and as if realizing something, it happily steps inside.

"......?" "this is!?"

When the two of them follow Chao, they discover that they are in the basement of a coffee shop...and beneath the floor is a lush green garden with a clear stream.

The Chao of Light then stepped inside, looked around, and with a satisfied smile, disappeared into a pale light. I see...the two of them said.

"When building this coffee shop, you blocked the Chao's home..." "That monster was a mass of grudges from the Chao's who wanted to return to their hometown."

The two of them, who have come to understand the circumstances of the incident, look relieved, but sigh at the devastation surrounding them. The area has been completely destroyed, and there is no trace of that wonderful interior.

"Well, the incident has been resolved for the time being...but the store was destroyed in a spectacular manner, so we have to clean it up."

Blaze responded in a calm manner while smiling bitterly at Silver's suggestive tone.

"Okay. What should I do?"

When the two of them looked up at the light shining in from above, what they saw through the hole in the collapsed ceiling was a dazzling blue sky cut out beautifully like a painting. It was filled with clear light, as if reflecting the brightness of their hearts.

"One month later..."

After major renovations, this shop, which connected the mysterious Chao garden as an open cafe area, has been renovated as ``Chao Garden,'' a maid-style cafe that combines formality with a Chao-friendly warmth, and has gained a great reputation. Ta.

While Silver and Blaze are busy helping rebuild the store, an unexpected visitor appears. As soon as they saw each other, they stiffened without even serving customers...

"S-Sonic...!? Are you Sonic!?" "Why are you dressed like that...and us too!? What the heck is going on!?"

The moment they saw Sonic, Blaze and Silver regained their memories.

"Hey! You guys...!"

Sonic was also surprised by this, but Tails noticed that at this time, the chaos emeralds that Sonic and his friends were holding, the jewelry of Blaze's tail, and the silver pendant all glowed faintly at the same time. I didn't miss it. While Tails was deep in thought, the two of them searched through their memories before and after the incident.

"The moment I came to this world under the guidance of the Sol Emerald, I was caught up in that light."

Blaze said while stroking the seven jewels on her pochette. Marin, who came with him, wonders what to do.

"I was fighting at Eggman's base just moments ago. I was trying to prevent some kind of weapon from activating..."

Silver worries that he can't remember properly.

"In any case, how did the two of you manage to regain your memories?"

Tails took out his proud ``energy sensor'' and explained it to Sonic.

＜＜Beep beep...＞＞

"I knew it! Blaze's tail jewelry and silver pendant are mutated Chaos Emeralds! Just like ours."

Tails explains that from the wavelength of the energy emitted, they are definitely Chaos Emeralds, which is why they definitely glowed when the two regained their memories.

“As a phenomenon, the Chaos Emeralds have the power to resist this strange phenomenon.Although one is not enough, there are several nearby, and one of them has the original memory... I think that's the condition for resurrection.'' ``There certainly doesn't seem to be any problem thinking that way. As expected, Tails!''

Tails gets shy after being praised by Sonic, and Blaze and Silver also respond.

“I hear that emeralds sometimes attract each other with a mysterious power in times of crisis.I was forced to have this one from Emmy because it was the guidance of the stars...This is also one of those powers. Maybe it's Tsuna.' ' ``Certainly. It's so easy to gather four of them like this...? Huh? Isn't it strange? If that's the case, how come Sonic and Tails, who only have one each, are safe?'' Did you?”

At the obvious question, the three people's eyes focused on Tails.

"That's... At the moment the incident occurred, Sonic and I were together, each holding a Chaos Emerald. I think that's why it didn't work from the beginning... , I guess. Sorry, I can't be sure..."

Tails was starting to lose confidence as he continued to make deductions, but Sonic assured him with a smile.

"In other words, it's because of Tails that I'm safe, and vice versa, right? Isn't it great that we're the same? This is it!"

Blaze and Silver agree while looking at Tails, who is confused and extremely shy.

"Hmm. At this point, it would be best to have a better interpretation of the details of truth or falsehood. The most important thing is..." "It means that we have found a way to restore our friends!"

"YES! That's right!" "That's right!"

Tails finally regains his composure and starts proposing strategies to his friends.

``...I'll give the detector to Blaze and Silver as well. Now let's divide up and find the friends who have Chaos Emeralds and revive them! And in the end, we'll collect 7 Chaos Emeralds. I’m sure it will be your trump card.”

"I understand. I agree with your strategy. I'll leave the rest behind." "I understand. My Sol Emerald also says we should do the same."

Blaze agrees as he strokes the Sol Emerald, which trembles as it emits a pale flame.

"It's getting interesting," Sonic said in his usual tone as he stood up, and the remaining three got ready to leave with fearless smiles on their faces.

"That Eggman guy. I don't know what he did, but we'll definitely hunt him down with our hands!"

Sonic and his friends took another step forward, and with a new hope in their hands, they took another step forward...!

[kaladinsspear]

Self indulgent fluffy modern Shakadolin AU. Because I love them.

* Kaladin is ex army. One of those people who was special forces and therefore “officially” sat on his butt and did nothing for all 6 years of his service. He didn’t of course, but his entire file is redacted so he gets nothing. No disability (how could he have ptsd? He was “never deployed”) no VA support, no GI bill, nothing.

* He is now working for Amazon as a delivery driver while he goes to school. He started premed, but ended up switching to psychology. He’s especially interested in the body/mind connection. Not necessarily medication (though, he does support its use when needed) but more things like diet, sleep, exercise, and how your physical health affects your mental/emotional health.

* He volunteers at the local animal shelter where he takes dogs on hikes each week. This is how he met Syl.

* Syl is a Veterinarian. She volunteers at the local animal shelter as well, and the two quickly became close friends. They currently share an apartment.

* They tried dating for about a week (heteronormativity ya know?) but decided that it wasn’t for them. They love each other deeply and would consider each other life partners, but they don’t love each other romantically.

* Shallan works at one of those “paint with me” art studios. She has a degree in….drawing? (Sorry! I don’t know what the specializations are in art school!) and takes commissions for technical illustrations on the side.

* She loves the Wheel of Time series and has a thriving fan art instagram and tumblr.

* She met Jasna when she was in school. Jasna was her history professor and quickly became her mentor. Somewhere between a mother and older sister with a little bit of a crush thrown in. Not that Shallan would ever actually want to be in a romantic relationship with Jasna, but she so pretty, and smart, and opinionated, and bold, and…… ya know?

* Jasna is the one who introduced her to Adolin, and he and Shallan hit it off right away.

* They dated for about 3 years before getting married. They are sickeningly adorable.

* Adolin served in the military as well because it was family tradition, but didn’t make the career out of it that was expected of him.

* Adolin was a Marine, and his service is on record. He gets a nice GI bill which he is using to study physical therapy.

* Turns out, Adolin and Kaladin go to the same school.

* At first they are kind of indifferent to each other, but soon bond over shared military experience and an interest in whole body health.

* Adolin introduces Kaladin to Shallan and the two hit it off super well.

* Fortunately, they are all adults who know how to talk to each other and Shallan and Adolin have discussed polyamory before, all be it in hypothetical terms.

* Adolin is actually the one to bring it up to Kaladin, just to make sure Kaladin doesn’t feel pressured or sneaky. All 3 of them have a conversation about what a relationship might look like, and they decide to try it out.

* Turns out, it works great for them. Kaladin and Adolin have a delightful bromance thing going on. They probably wouldn’t have gotten together without Shallan, but they love each other deeply and enjoy their relationship.

* Shallan and Syl are super close as well, and they enjoy drawing together and discussing the Wheel of Time.

* Syl and Adolin get super into cosplay and make fantastic creations together.

[franzkafkagf]

What do you think of the choice to make Aegon a rapist? That's the whole thing that really turned me off his character originally & I think it's a shame they went that route because he genuinely seemed so interesting. ( Though I don't expect everyone to have the same reaction it's all fiction and I can empathize with fictional murderers just fine so it's just a personal thing )

Your Aegonposting did kind of changed how I felt about him tho!

Hi anon! First things first thank you lmao!! It's wild to hear that people actually change their opinion/feelings on Aegon based on my ramblings! <3 (For the uninitiated: #aegonposting)

Honestly, him being a rapist in the show does not bother me as much as it bothers other Aegon girls (I understand hating the decision, though)— the implications are there in Fire & Blood (he was known to be promiscuous and to fondle serving girls even as a younger boy) -> him being a rapist is not really that big of a jump from his "characterization" (using this term loosely because we know so little of F&B Aegon).

I didn't even have that much of a problem with introducing him as a rapist in episode 8— the thing that bothers me most is that they had 8 minutes (so odd to give adult Aegon so little screentime!) to establish Aegon as a character and they decided to load so many negative traits onto him that the audience automatically saw him as a Joffrey-like figure when he is pretty clearly not that. The fighting pits was a very… interesting choice.

Now they're trying to give him other traits and people scream OOC— I already had some of those in my askbox. It's very bizarre because, as I said, we have seen adult Aegon for only 8 minutes, most of that screentime he was going through a lot -> we have not seen how Aegon acts normally and it's frustrating to see people act like they already know everything there is to know of Aegon.

Particularly grating is the entire debate on him being a proud/good father; being somewhat of a distant / uninvolved parent can definitely coexist with loving your children fiercely.

Getting back to your question on him being a rapist, I see the choice to portray him like that as a commentary on the broader rape culture that exists in Westeros. Theirs is a society that is so deeply entrenched in misogynistic traditions and practices, where women are often treated as commodities and men are raised with a sense of entitlement over their bodies.

In ASOIAF, noblemen are frequently seen visiting brothels, viewing it as a normal and even expected activity— the act of buying sex in itself it not bad, but it becomes violent when you realize how many of the women in westerosi brothels were sold against their will and are working under unfair indentures.

This normalization of brothels, where many women are forced into working against their will, reflects the casual acceptance of sexual exploitation and the use of women for the pleasure of men.

The tradition of First Night is another example of the institutionalized misogyny in Westeros. Though it’s mostly looked down upon in present-day Westeros, this tradition allowed lords the privilege of “taking” the bride of their vassals on their wedding night.

Aegon himself is also an example of the problematic views on consent and autonomy within Westerosi culture. His forced marriage to Helaena highlights how even the nobility often has little control over their own bodies and destinies. Both Aegon and Helaena were forced into their union to serve as pawns and nothing more. They could not and did not consent to what they were forced to do.

This lack of autonomy over one's own body is further illustrated by Aegon's behavior. He brought Aemond to a brothel to lose his virginity at the age of thirteen, suggesting that Aegon himself had likely experienced something similar, why else should he see it as a necessity for Aemond to do the same? This cycle of abuse and distorted views on sexuality perpetuates the culture of normalized sexual exploitation and a fundamental misunderstanding of consent.

Some shameless self-promo, I actually deal with Aegon's fucked up views on sex and consent in my fic The Dog Days Are Over give it a read if you’re interested in the topic.

When considering Aegon's character and the choice to make him a rapist, it's important to recognize the narrative purpose it serves. While it may turn some people off, it also provides a deeper understanding of his place in the culture and how young men are socialized in a feudal society. It highlights how systemic rape culture and the normalization of sexual exploitation can corrupt young men, even those who might otherwise be good people.

[dreadfutures]

Fan Work Friday

Rules: If you’re tagged, MAKE A NEW POST to showcase ONE fanartist and/or fanfic for any fandom you recommend (with links). Then tag someone to give their recs next! Don’t forget to reblog the rec you were tagged in, and include these rules! :) If you have more than one person to highlight, consider spreading it out!

Bonus: Choose works by people you aren’t super tight with, or choose older works that maybe haven’t gotten some love in a while. :)

This summer I think I’m going to highlight my favorite writers and artists who delve into either the wider world of Thedas than just the Ferelden/Orlais we see in the games, and the writers who I believe capture Solas the best.

Today: some of the latter.

DOUBLE THREAT: @beaubashley | beaubashley (AO3)

Art and writing - beaubashley has it all. Here are some of my favorite works Beau's produced, but please make sure to check it all out. Beau's been absent for about a year but their works are timeless!

FIC: The Taming of Fen'Harel

Six years after the events of the Exalted Council, Fen’Harel and his forces are about to turn the tide in the war for Thedas. Unbeknownst to him, ex-Inquisitor Savh’vuni Lavellan has other plans in mind. Never in his wildest dreams did Solas expect a vacation to be at the top of her list of priorities, but now that Savh’vuni has him where she wants him, he’s faced with an impossible decision.

A post-trespasser Road Trip AU. ROAD TRIP AU, you heard me! Incredibly emotional, with tension and palpable love in every detail, and illustrated with Beau's beautiful chapter pieces, I need everyone to read The Taming of Fen'Harel.

I was reading this as it was published chapter by chapter, and I read every update INSTANTLY, I was so hooked.

FIC: Even Dead Gods can Dream

When we all fall asleep, where do we go?

If there ever was a genre of fic made especially for me it's this one. Angsty and depressing and beautiful and imaginative. What a gift. I wasn't lying when I told Beau I'd be rereading this many times over to bask in the mood and the imagery and the pacing.

when we fall asleep where do we go? absolutely a Billie Eilish mood but it makes me think, and this whole story makes me think, of As I Lay Dying:

"In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I don't know what I am. I don't know if I am or not. [...] Beyond the unlamped wall I can hear the rain shaping the wagon that is ours, the load that is no longer theirs that felled and sawed it nor yet theirs that bought it and which is not ours either, lie on our wagon though it does, since only the wind and the rain shape it only to Jewel and me, that are not asleep. [...] And then I must be, or I could not empty myself for sleep in a strange room. And so if I am not emptied yet, I am is.

How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home."

Tagging people from my recent notes: share your favs, no matter the fandom!

@thebookworm0001 | @pickelda | @bishicat | @broodsys | @imasithduh

@ghostwise | @shift-shaping | @outerspacekake | @threeletterepithet | @quitefair

[quinloki]

Impromptu One-Shot go go

Thank @thus-spoke-lo and the go ahead I got from this ask

also, idk how to let them know, but shout out to Lo's anon who kicked this whole sweet series of thoughts off.

Trafalgar Law x afab!Reader - no pronouns used for reader

Summary: Your captain has a secret love of shibari and you discover this while tidying his room. He also seems to have a secret love of you, too.

CW: Fantasizing about being tied up and teased, offers being made, references of afab genitalia. 18+, I didn't edit this, good luck to all of us.

1,323 words

You loved your captain, much as the rest of the crew did, but at some point you realized your specific feelings toward him weren’t the same as the others. There was devotion there, sure. Loyalty in excess. You trusted him to make the best choices he could, and lead you and the others on a successful campaign.

To you, it didn’t even matter what that end goal was. You knew he’d get you all there.

But your devotion was romantic, your feelings passionate, your heart was full of desires that had nothing to do with him being your captain. You wanted to tell him, but you felt so far beneath him you weren’t even sure if you should.

Perhaps you should leave. Put in a resignation of sorts and stay at the next island, where ever it was.

Trying to shake the morose thoughts you entered into the Captain’s Quarters. He was out – gone on errands and you wanted to make use of the time to clean and tidy his room for him. He didn’t forbid anyone from doing so, but he never let anyone do it while he was in the room, so now was your only chance to do him this small favor.

You put maps and charts back where they belonged, tucked books away, organized notes, dusted and got some good deep cleaning in. It was productive, and you were happy with the end result. Once you were done you decided to strip the bedding and get it switched out. You don’t know the last time he did it himself, but regardless, now he wouldn’t have to worry about it for a while.

Pulling the fitted sheet up lifted the mattress enough to expose some books tucked away underneath. You paused, knowing full well what most of the boys tucked away under their mattresses. These didn’t look to be rags or trashy magazines though, they were full on books. Smiling, because it was so like your captain to get caught up in reading that he’d just tuck the book under the mattress, you lift it up enough to find a few books laid out neatly.

It was nearly a whole other bookshelf.

 Picking up the nearest one you turned to the spine to read the title. Advanced Shibari: What Knot To Do.

You could feel the blood rushing into your face, and the moment of embarrassment that you had stumbled upon something so personal. Curiosity compelled you forward, a tightness in your chest, caught between wanting to know more about the captain, and wondering if he had anyone in mind for his fantasies already.

The diagrams and illustrations were certainly more functional than recreational. The book covered safety again and again, and went over how to make certain knots from different angles. As functional as the images and words were, you couldn’t help the heat that was building up inside you.

How would that rope feel against your skin? Do the knots shift and press against the tender part of your body as effectively as the books says? You could imagine it so clearly; ropes and skin wet with steam and sweat, hair matted against your body, struggling beneath your captain’s gaze. Trying uselessly to maintain some sort of composure while his rope work causes you to come undone.

Needy and greedy, begging and whimpering and wanting nothing more than for him to rail you into oblivion. No worries about your position, or his, or anything else.

Turning another page the one beyond it pops up more than you expected, so you turn to it. Placed between the pages is a picture of you. All other details of the image are cut away, it’s just you with a smile on your face. You’re not wearing the boiler uniform, you’re in beachwear. It must’ve been taken on a summer island while the crew was relaxing.

The image itself doesn’t impact you as much as the additional lines drawn on it. A rope pattern is drawn over your figure, not too dissimilar from some of the patterns found in the book. Your earlier imaginings about how the rope would feel against your skin wash over you a second time. The sensation is stronger this time, and your hand wanders over your own body for a moment, as you begin to really feel the rough rope and knots against your skin.

Your thighs shift, rubbing against the parts of you that want more than rope to touch them. You bend a little, trying not to just undo your uniform and masturbate right there in the middle of someone else’s room. You can feel your pussy throb, and the idea of his fingers slipping into your wet, hot, trembling cunt, forcing orgasm after orgasm out of you while you writhe uselessly against the ropes and knots-.

A frustrated, and horny, moan escapes you and you stamp your foot in frustration before flipping through the book more. You should just tuck it away. You’re already a hot mess, and you need to get the bedding to the laundry room before heading to your own to take care of your frustrations.

There’s not just one picture of you, there are several. All with different rope patterns drawn on, some with notations and concerns. There was no denying that the captain fantasized about tying you up. No one else’s picture was in the first book, or the second one you picked up and flipped through.

When you flipped to the end of the third book you paused. You could feel someone right next to you. You hadn’t heard or noticed anyone, but now he was right there. You didn’t have to look, you knew it was your captain. No one else on the crew could sneak up on you so completely.

“… Sorry.” You say it very quietly, putting the book back under the mattress. You try to turn toward him, but you can’t bring yourself to face him. You don’t want to see disappointment on his face, and you don’t want him to see the shameful need on yours.

You should be angry, you think, for the pictures and what he did, but they’d been tucked away. Private. Personal. Not for you or anyone else. Tidying wasn’t an excuse for your actions.

“Sorry for snooping,” he begins, and you flinch at the implication. “Or are you apologizing for getting turned on?”

“Huh-I – I’m not…” You try to deny it, but the knowing look on his face is enough to stop your protests. “I-I’ll leave.” You stammer, looking away, wanting to be anywhere but where you are – caught between wanting him, and being deeply embarrassed. Not just about snooping, but about the realization that at the minimum, your captain found you as attractive as you did him.

He puts his arm out to stop you. It’s not the action that stops you, it’s the coil of rope in his hand. You let out an involuntary gasp, covering your mouth and taking a step back. You’re effectively trapped with a bookcase behind you and the bed beside you, Law in front of you.

“You were certainly into that book before you found the pictures.” He says in a voice that’s low and dangerous. It sends a shiver down your back that isn’t unpleasant, but you don’t know what to do with it. “The way you moved and moaned when you saw the pictures though, you really wanted to see them become reality, didn’t you?”

He leans down to speak softly into your ear, and you can see the door to his room closing at the same time. “Will you beg me to touch you, the way you were touching yourself earlier, if I tie you up properly, I wonder?”

His breath rolls over your neck, and you can feel the rope groan as his grip on it tightens. “Or will you beg me to touch you even better?”

[lemonnsss]

Moral of the Story Chapter 6

A/N: School is pain. ALSO- I changed MC’s(?) I’m universe name to make it more GN

Warnings: Trypanophobia

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Taglist: @vicmc624 , @mostlymarvelgirl , @yvonneeeee, @beetlejuicesupremacy , @moonlightreader649 , @whattheduckisupkyle , @chrisevans-realwife, @nekoannie-chan , @mrsbarnes32557038 , @imyourbratzdoll , @weallhaveadestiny

Word Count: 1.2k

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A bright blue light accompanied by the sound of the Iron Man suit’s beam powering up came as a shock, seemingly out of nowhere.

She brought her arms back up and turned around, shocked, obviously not expecting his appearance.

“You know, if you’re going to kill someone, then at least don’t call their boss to let them know their assistant’s awake. Amateur move, honestly. Although, I guess this would be your first time intentionally killing someone.” He moved his other hand languidly, illustrating his point.

Her hand moved down again, the needle almost grazing my skin, “You don’t understand. I don’t have a choice.” Unspilled tears broke her voice.

“Everyone has a choice, though the other option may not be so appealing.”

She started shaking her head from side to side and let the syringe drop against my skin, “You don’t know what it’s like to be so poor that you are used to the feeling of borderline starvation. To work two or more jobs so you don’t end up on the streets.” She couldn’t help but let the tears flow. That much was evident despite her face being turned away from me.

“So, your loyalty lies with money? How much did they pay you?”

“About forty thousand euros, enough to afford my son’s treatment.”

“What? Isn’t healthcare free in Europe?” he shifted his weight onto his other leg.

My heart was pounding in my chest so hard it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Despite that, I was breathing too much too fast. I did everything I could to stay focused and present as they spoke. I was trying to prevent myself from hyperventilating.

“... It is. He is very sick. The specialists are in America. They are his best chance.”

His features softened, still firm, yet now more sympathetic, “I can’t say I know what it’s like, financially I mean, but my mother died when I was seventeen. If I were alone in a foreign country when I discovered she wasn’t coming back. I don’t know what I would’ve done. Put the syringe away, and I’ll put double in your account. Does that sound okay?”

I couldn’t understand why Mr. Star-Tony, was doing this. Eighty-thousand euros? That’s what- fifty-six, fifty-seven thousand dollars? What could he gain from this? Is he doing this as an act of charity?

She looked at me, tears streaming down her face, staining her shirt, "They know where he is, or at least where to look. I can't put him in danger." She turned back to Tony, "I'm sorry."

The needle plunged through my skin unnoticeably initially, the sharpness of the needle to blame - then, not even a second after its insertion the entire area stung with a pinch.

If I wasn’t shaking before I was shaking now. My whole body shook as the threat of my death was coming closer to fruition. Whoever ordered my death had succeeded.

The high-pitched hum that had previously filled the room dissipated with a high shriek and a beam of bright blue light. Her arm was blown off along with the plunger of the syringe. Her arm, the muscle structure, tendons, nerves, everything that had been attached to her not even a second ago was now incinerated, leaving nothing but the blood that was spurting across the bed. 

She cried animalistically at the burnt-off nerve endings screamed out in pain, her blood spat out drenching the fabric of my hospital sheets and the floor beneath us.

The syringe was still in my arm. I expected the morphine to flow out of the needle; instead, my bloodshot up through the needle, mixing with the pain meds. I couldn’t move. Tony dashed over to me, ignoring the woman writing on the ground, and pulled what remained of the syringe before an air bubble found its way into my bloodstream. 

A little blood came out of the insertion point but Tony pressed his armored hand around, stopping the overall, minor blood flow.

Finally, another nurse ran into the doorway looking into the room, he gasped slightly, face turning white, at the sight of his coworker on the ground, her blood surrounding her.

He ran over to her, grabbing gloves and a tourniquet along the way, “What happened here?”

“Your colleague tried to kill my assistant.”

His head jolted up, “What? Maria attacked you? I-I’m sorry. You must know she hasn’t been in a great mental state recently. She isn’t normally like this.”

 “I’ll be requesting a transfer to a different hospital in the area, I’d also like to recommend telling your manager that I’ll be suing until they are transferred though I will not be leaving their room which I hope will be changed. Okay?”

After the nurse, whose name was Maria apparently, was taken out of the room to fix the end of what remained of her arm I was taken to a new room where I took a shower and returned to a new bed. The only people in the room were myself and Tony. Now felt like the best time to pop the question that had beset in my mind.

"Why did you do that?" He looked up from his phone, swiveling his head to the door I was standing beside.

"Do what? You'll have to be a bit more specific."

"I don't know. Maybe shooting a person's arm off?" He raised a brow, my sarcasm not lost on him.

"You're the first person who hasn't tried to jump my bones, who's been offended at the notion of it, in a few years. If you died, Pep would kill me. Simple as that." He shrugged his shoulders before leaning on one of the arms of the chair, “How did you transfer the gunshot wound from my body to yours? And why would someone pay to have you killed, or at least subdued? And are those questions related?”

I looked down at my feet, “I don’t know why someone would try to kill me. And I don’t know if it’s related, but I would assume yes.”

“Hm…” That was all the response I got.

It’s been about a year since I started working for Mr. Stark. Thankfully, the topic of how I healed him hasn’t come up again. His security team got buffed after the incident and I got a bonus plus the sign-on bonus plus my first month's salary - the total of which, after taxes, was more than my yearly pay from Xaviers. Things were calm.

When I came into work today the main door to Mr. Starks office was locked. It wasn’t unusual. He rarely came into work, so when he did it was typically earlier than I came in. I went to my office to finish up what I could for this week's paperwork.

A quiet ring came from the in-office phone, Mr. Stark’s line. I picked up the clunky handset- which probably hadn’t been replaced since the nineties- “Hello, Mr. Stark-”

“For the last time, it’s Tony. Stop it with the, ‘Mr. Stark’ nonsense.”

“Apologies, Tony. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah, do you mind coming into my office? There’s someone for you.”

“Of course, give me just a moment.”

I stood up and flattened the creases in my clothes before walking through the door that joined our offices. A man was wearing all black with an eyepatch standing in front of Tony’s desk.

“Hello, Mx… Eirsson?”

“Yeah, a bit of an odd last name, I know. Pardon but, what is this about?”

“My name is Director Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D.”