#I have to read other works in a similar vein to see how they pull off the violence and stuff

[therealjammy]

Currently writing a medium burn fantasy story by hand (the writer’s cramp is real y’all) about a guard hired by a queen to protect her daughter after an assassination attempt falling in love with said princess, featuring politics, plotting, violence, questioning loyalties, longing, sex… all that good fantasy shit

[sh1-n0bu]

𝔫𝔬𝔟𝔲’𝔰 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 2023!

day 4: pegging with childe from genshin impact

warnings: pegging, affirmation of consent, slight masochism, hair pulling, oral, degrading, mistress kink, reader is fem!!! or afab!!!!! anyways reader doesn’t have a cock!!!!!

notes: masochist childe canon🥰

it was just supposed to be a kiss. a single little peck. a quick little smooch. but that little peck turned into a few pecks. a few more kisses. until it developed into a messy kiss of tongues and salivas.

before you both knew it, you were already stripping each other of each other’s clothes. the fabrics making a quiet rustling sounds as they hit the floor of the bedroom. during the make out session, childe pulled away for a moment with a finger held up in a silent plea to wait. nodding, you let him lean over the bed, his hand pulling out a box from under the bed.

oh. oh, so that’s what he had in mind.

the ginger pulls out a dildo, one that is eerily similar in size to his own cock alongside a strap. he looked eager when showing them to you.

“i thought of this when i was reading a book about bdsm! i got the dildo made in my own size and… i kinda want you to fuck me with it” he trailed off with a nervous giggle, blush rising to his freckled cheeks as he explains himself.

“why were you reading a book about bdsm in the first place, darling?” you giggle, taking the fake replica of his own cock. whoever or whatever place he went to, they did an amazing job at making a copy of your boyfriend’s cock. they even added a few little small detail such as the vein that bulges right under the head of his cock when he gets hard.

“just wanted to try out a few things with you, dear!” your fox of a boyfriend chirps with a smile, watching as you work to put the dildo into the strap. his breath hitches in his throat when he sees you secure the strap-on, feeling a lump in his throat and a hot swelling in his stomach.

archons, he never really realized just how big he was. he never paid attention to it. but now here he was, watching and waiting with a perverted anticipation as he watches you click on the last strap around your thigh.

when you grin at him with a knowing look and curl your finger, asking him to come over to him, the harbinger wastes no time. getting out of the bed, he waits patiently on the rug covered floor on his knees until you get comfortable on the edge of the bed. when you spread your legs and tilt your head, that’s the green light for childe.

“thank you, mistress” slips out of his lips as he places kisses on the head of the fake cock. kissing all around the dildo before opening his mouth slightly, sticking out his cute pink tongue before taking the head of the cock into his mouth. he starts slow and little.

light sucking before trying to take in more of the cock. he gags and chokes around the dildo, sucking and whining around the toy until finally, he manages to put all of the toy inside his throat.

fuck, you could already just cum from watching that. there was a cute bulge in his throat, looking up at you with a hazy blue eyes, batting his lashes as he hollows his cheek. he was treating the fake cock like a real thing. almost worshipping the thing as he pulls back to place a kiss to the slit before taking it back into his mouth.

once he deems the toy was wet enough from his saliva, he pulls away before getting on the bed on all fours. wiggling his hips enticingly, childe waits with an excited giggle as you get comfortable behind him.

“color?” you ask, teasing him with the tip pressed against his puckering hole. he just wanted you to ram the whole toy inside already.

“green” childe moans, barely holding himself up as his knees shake and tremble as you slowly push the fake cock inside. ah, just the tip was enough to push him down to lay on the bed with his face against the pillow.

the stretch was so sudden without any proper preparation beforehand. it was big, he was big, his mistress’ cock was big! but archons, it felt so good. it felt so good when you slowly pushed and pushed until the entire dildo was inside him. it stretched his hole so good, a burning and stinging feeling inside him.

“aaannnhh~ so biiiggg… my mistress’ cock is so big♡︎♡︎” childe moans loudly, one of his hand traveling down to rest over the small bulge in his stomach. oh archons, he was gonna cum from just that feeling alone.

fuck, this sight was absolutely enticing to see. his cute pink hole was taking the dildo so well. deep inside himself, stretching his hole out as the slight fat of his adorable freckled ass jiggles every time his knees quiver. and not to mention childe was moaning so loudly, rambling on and on like a whore about how big you were, how you were his mistress , how his mistress’ cock was splitting him open.

“naughty boy… you love having your tight hole fucked open like this? you like it when a replica of your own cock splits you open hmm?” you hum, a hand traveling up to yank his head away from the pillow where his face was mushed into. that created a beautiful arch as the harbinger under you moans, delirious words tumbling out of his mouth as you slowly thrust the toy in and out.

if celestia is what this feels like, childe will surely ask you to do this more with him. fuck him open on the cock. he will surely buy dildos that are bugger and longer than this one so he can feel more of this addicting feeling of being fucked stupid on a fake cock. he loved the feeling so much. and the way you would call him mean names as you tug on his hair, forcing him to buck his hips back to meet your thrusts had him whining and whimpering in a high-pitched voice.

he could briefly hear you call him a slut in his pleasure hazed mind. without even realizing, he tightens around the toy, making it harder for you to keep thrusting the toy in and out of him. but it was alright. just a single harsh tug to his locks and he would let out a squeal.

“mistress! my mistress—shit! f-feels so good… maaahhg♡︎! mistress’ cock… feelsh sshoo gooddd♡︎♡︎” childe blabbers on, drool slipping down his chin as he weakly bucks himself back to meet your thrusts. but he suddenly lets out a loud sob when the toy hits something inside him, making his cock spurt out cum on the bed without you having to touch him.

“found it…” you grin, letting go of his hair and instead gripping his slim waist in a bruising grip. thrusting the fake cock back inside him, angling your thrusts to hit his prostate whenever you would fuck the toy back inside his puckering hole, you can see childe’s thighs shake and tremble as his sobs get louder.

just a few more thrusts and calling him your “good slut��� had him keening as he cums all over the bed again. untouched. slowing your hips, you rub your palm over his back soothingly.

“you okay, my sweets? doing alright?” you ask, leaning down to hear his muffled words better.

“y-yesshhh… unngh feels so fucking good..” childe drawls out his words from where his face was pressed against the pillows, legs still shaking and hips twitching.

“mind if we go another round?”

“yes please! fuck me again, mistress♡︎”

[hades-in-bloom]

Shower Thoughts

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: Leon has just returned from another soul-crushing mission—and you didn't happen to be home yet.

warnings & contents: heavy angst, our sweetpea is hurt; suicide trigger/thoughts; implied severe depression; assumed older Leon; implied military training on the reader; more hurt than comfort; mentions of death and violence, and blood; could be read as age gap but could be none; the reader could be of any gender; there's light at the end of the tunnel.

a/n: I was craving some angst but didn't plan it to go that far; oh well. Our sweet boy deserves all the happiness though—but author is a bitch. Also, I don't believe Leon would be seriously considering harming himself, but I do believe that he's an empathetic human being kidnapped in his youth to do a shitty job, so there could be a moment of weakness; otherwise, “we owe it to the people who died alongside us, so we have to continue living.” As always, proceed at your own risk. DNI minors & if mentions of suicide affect you. This is a work of fiction and shouldn't be used as guidance on how to behave in similar sensitive situations. Masterlist

***

Leon rubbed his hands under the hot tap forcefully, willing to wash off the blood; the water coming off his fingers was clean for a while, but he seemed not to notice it—after all, there was always blood on his hands, whether others could see it or not. The man only stopped when the touch started to hurt, his abused skin red from friction.

“Shit,” Leon grunted under his breath and turned off the faucet angrily, his breathing ragged. Others might say that it was adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but he knew it wasn’t it. For how long he’s done this job, he was past the prolonged adrenaline rush a while ago. Leon put his palm over his forehead, barely covering his exhausted eyes; his hands slightly shaking.

How many more people had to die before this shit would end?

He remembered them all, those he couldn’t save, and he only kept counting. Leon knew he wasn’t supposed to—saving ordinary folk was a luxury in his position—but it was hard for him to accept who he had become. The extensive bathroom mirror in front of him, he couldn’t level his gaze to take a look at himself, and when he did, his teeth clenched, and his glance shot into the corner of the reflection—there was his essential gear, a pistol and a knife, thoughtlessly dropped on the bathroom floor.

Suddenly, he felt exhausted. A carnal thought made him blush in a fever—wouldn’t it be so easy? Leon was never the type to look for easy ways out—but he was only of flesh and blood, too; isn't he only human? Despite what reports said about him always being “the survivor” and “the golden boy.” Screw the odds.

He picked up his gear from the floor, his palm sliding across the pistol barrel. Leon counted the bullets left in the magazine with another hand, pulling it back into the grip compartment right after; his facial expression was unreadable, deprived of emotion. In moments like this, the man wasn't sure if he could feel anything anymore.

Wouldn't it be so easy, after all? Maybe after that, he'll be able to wake up from this bloody nightmare.

Consumed by his thoughts, he didn't hear how the keys screeched in the lock of the apartment door, and you came in.

You noticed his jacket on the hanger, and your eyebrows shot to your forehead in surprise.

“Leon?” you called to him, dropping bags full of groceries next to the kitchen island; your body tensed in anticipation. You didn't expect him so early. After his assignments, he usually barged in the middle of the night and not in the light of day. You didn't complain, though. You missed him.

You gently knocked on the bathroom door when you heard muffled sounds from another side. “Hey,” your voice was calm and soothing. “Can I come in? Do you need help?” At this point, you got used to his bruises and stitches, caring only about him getting back home in one piece.

There was something more to his injuries this time.

“Shit,” Leon cursed under his breath again when you stepped into the bathroom, despairing of getting a word out of him. You were worried; he could see it on your face. You quickly noticed his scalded hands, the right one behind his back, hiding something. He looked like a curious teenager who got caught watching adult movies.

“Hey,” his lips stretched into an unnatural smile. “Sorry, I didn't hear you come in…”

“You should've called me,” you scolded him calmly, making a step forward. His body tensed and froze as soon as you stretched your hand toward him, and you held back a frown. “…I would’ve been home in a heartbeat.”

The man’s eyes were bloodshot, his lips chapped, and his breath ragged; and then you saw it—the reflection in the mirror betraying him—his long fingers clinging to the gun. Your mouth went agape, and you dashed forward with a precision of a trained police officer.

“Give it to me,” you hissed, your heart beating in your throat. You were scared—you haven't been that afraid of in ages. Leon gasped, bamboozled, and his hand easily let go of a weapon. You didn’t ask—you slapped him across the face, letting your frustration out. “Are you mad? What were you going to do with this thing?”

You would react differently if he wasn’t hiding it; somehow this bothered you more than anything. After all, Leon should’ve known that you wouldn’t fumble at the sight of a gun, which made his attempts to cover its presence even more pointless.

His cheeks flushed, and he gulped, incapable of looking at you; he was confirming your worst fears, and after giving him a long stare, your hand covered your mouth to stop you from sobbing.

“Moron,” you grunted under your breath. His head got even lower, and you saw a tear falling onto the lightly colored tile. It took you a moment before you grabbed him into an angry, desperate embrace. His hands wrapped around your waist, then one shot into your hair, pressing at the back of your head, pulling you closer. His face was buried into your neck, and his body shook violently as he let himself cry.

You held him painfully close as long as it was necessary. “I am sorry,” you whispered next to his ear while he clung to you like a drowning man to a lifeboat; you sounded hurt and angry—and hopeful. “I am so, so sorry.”

[aphpuffinchild]

since it's out i can finally post my piece for @hws-anthology as well as the timelapse for it. as is arguably all my hetalia work, it's a love letter to my friend @pyrrhocorax 's fic Sendlingur og Sandlóa - i'll ramble a bit about how much it means to me, as well as the symbolism i wormed into this piece below the read more :)

i originally had two pages planned for this piece, potentially more - the fic is a good 74k words long and certainly not light on scenes i could and wanted to pull from, but various things led into other various things and one page was all i could manage, so i tried to cram in what i could, so here's that (in a rough, somewhat arbitrary order of focal points)

the opening chapter! the car is a framing device for the piece as much as it is for the journey the characters will take following that first chapter, so i wanted to use the car window/shapes as a literal framing device in my drawing

joi, shaky at best in his sense of self, sees no reflection in the window, instead there's a silhouetted raven to signify the search he must go on to find it

while not perfectly transcribed by virtue of wonky (plus an extra) line(s), the notes coming from joi's headphones are the opening to the song sendlingur og sandlóa, the fic's namesake, which a loved one kindly transposed by ear for me for the purpose of this piece

in a similar vein, the stickers on joi's suitcase are of a purple sandpiper and a ringed plover, the birds after which the song is named - here they are as transparents and in their original colours

i wanted to create a sliiight impression that joi is the one knocking over the chessboard, representing his repeated rejections of it (both physically, and the things it represents)

the chess pieces were also chosen specifically! originally i was going to use a black rook and a white pawn to match chapter 41, but for the sake of having alternating colours and the rest of my metaphors working (iirc) i swapped those colours around. that, and i wanted to match chapter 13's white king and black pawn - the black pawn stuck, the white king was colour swapped for colour cohesion reasons like the other's. (visual contrast was important to me, but the white queen blending slightly into the sky was okay for symbolism reasons) (there was also black king, white rook from chapter 3, so it all worked out anyway - there's a lot of chess in this story and i only had space for so many pieces and colours, basically)

speaking of which, the black pawn is for joi (chapter 13), the white queen is for halle (someone who, from joi's perspective, can go anywhere, vs joi's pawn, someone to be used -> see chapter 35 and perspective).

the king piece is falling (but hasn't quite fallen) between halle and henrik (chapter 3, 7, 13, though i most clearly thought of 19)

the person in the top right corner is eduard! i desperately wanted to include him because i think he's deserved it, and i considered a lot of ways of working him in, but i think an ambiguous silhouette that isn't Quite part of the main picture works better narratively

note also that he's separated from the other's through a red curtain, to represent the iron curtain (naturally) i wanted it to match ber + tino's part in some way, to sorta emphasise their similar foundations despite being split apart across places

the flowers at eduard's window are placed and chosen purposefully as well! orange/red zinnia's outside (for familial ties, steadfastness, friendship and remembrance) for what eduard puts out in to the world, then lily-of-the-valley for tino and cornflower for him inside to show what he wants to hold close :)

halle and joi are the only characters with their eyes open - halle looks towards the viewer/author/reader/joi, while joi looks away all together. if you've read the fic (which i assume you have because i can't imagine this is interested to read otherwise) you probably don't need me to explain why that reflects their roles in the story

similarly, every character apart from the brothers is turned towards another in some way (eduard does not count when his flowers do, and his role in the story is based around that disconnect partially anyway) tino towards ber and eduard (and hana, i guess), ber towards tino, henrik to halle, halle to henrik (though he looks away - his values are elsewhere even when they are together). joi, at best, looks at his own reflection in the window

the colour scheme, while arbitrarily picked from gradient maps based on what i felt "fit" has been approved by the author as being very "SoS core"

finally, the poem on the note, chapter 46

all that being said, i can and will now talk about my personal relationship with SoS, so unless that interests you i imagine the post is done now! thank you for reading :)

the first comment i posted on SoS is dated 2nd November 2016 - logging into my old account i can see i bookmarked it on the 31st August that same year, so i can safely assume i first read or at least found it then. a month after my first comment, i posted another on a different account, pouring a few bits of my heart out and the author responded! we went back and forth a bit and eventually talked (i think) via tumblr for a little, but the majority of our conversations were via skype for whatever reason (we didn't call, just texted). it was a lot of me looking for writing advice, insight to their work/process/skill, talking about The Brothers and talking about psychology/the brain on a general and personal level. i think if i read our conversations back now i'd cringe, given that i was an awkward, fumbling 16 year old, but i dont think anything else wouldve been fitting given the subject matter. eventually our conversations fizzled out and we stopped talking for years, but i'd go back to SoS routinely and cry.

in may of 2021, i posted another comment during what in hindsight was definitely another relatively minor mental health episode - i think it was half trying to emphasise how important the work was to me on the off chance pyrr saw it, and half a bid for connection since i had no idea if they even remembered us talking. i assumed nothing would come of it, and for about a year that was true - until pyrr responded after all in february of 2022 - i'm happy to say we've been talking consistently on discord since then. i feel a little weird speaking too intimately about our friendship as it is now since it's not just my story to tell (though pyrr, if you're reading this) (i'm sure you are at some point) (you're welcome to talk about it however, i just didn't want to without consulting you) but i can say with some certainty that it's at least a little bit my fault that we have a sequel now - cementing my place as official number #1 fan and validating the me from almost 8 years ago in a way i don't think either of us processes well.

it's here that i feel the need to talk about my other dear friend, @hws-lceland , who i'm grateful to have met through the zine's discord server. i'm sure they're reading this too, and a lot of what our relationship means to me is stuff that's probably a bit too vulnerable for either of us to speak publicly, but i *can* say that i love them very much, and i'm really grateful to have someone else to understand, and that he read SoS for me. i thought he needed it, and i hope i was right

sendlingur is...endlessly important to me. i'm aiming to not write an essay here (a goal i think i've already sorta shot in the foot) but i think it's important for me to talk about some of this a little loudly, all the same. my writing has changed because of the series - remeeting with pyrr and showing them some of my more recent work was interesting since it was apparent even to them the influences i'd taken (to be fair, in one section i explicitly asked and did borrow a format of theirs, but this goes beyond that). when i was 16 i asked my mum to read the fic in a desperate bid to be understood. i've cried reading the fic many, many times. i've signed off letters and poems with my switched around version of i'm sorry / thank you / i love you (i swap the first two around) many, many, many times, including in a close friend's wedding gift. SoS has very sincerely changed my definition of love. the name halle is a part of my abstract mindscape. id already considered changing my name to johannes anyway and this fic certainly didnt help. i've gained a friendship of 7 and a half years through it. i've gained another newer one now, too. i am not well. i wasn't well then, reading it, and it hasn't fixed me (i am worse, now, arguably), but it healed something, or at least made me feel understood. i could go on, and maybe sometime i will (there were so many things i wanted to include in my piece and pay homage to!), but for now i will thank anyone who took the time to read all this (again), and say that i look forward to experiencing the sequel

as always, i'm sorry, thank you, i love you

[thesleepyfable]

~ SWTD: Still Here AU Part 3 ~

He's Still in There: Part 1:

Yes, this is two-parter. I tried to make it into one singular chapter, but with more characters being introduced and everyone's timeline starting to connect, it seemed to drag. I personally can't stand long chapters due to my own style of reading, so I had to break this up.

TW: Body Horror and blood.

Part 4:

A stinging in Muir's left eye quickly turned to pain. He groaned through gritted teeth, and his nails dug into his skin around the socket. It was unbearable and impossible for Innes, Sunil, Scooby, McLurg and Dobbie to ignore. The men watched Muir fall to his knees. He tried to stand but fell again; landing in a puddle.

The pain spread across his body. His arms and legs were heavy. His head felt like it was going to explode. His heart was racing, and every vein began to pop through the skin. Muir hunched over and pulled himself inwards as his body became tighter. None of the men could see what was happening, but they knew someone was wrong. No one could bring themselves to touch him, especially when they saw his hair begin to fall out under his hard-hat.

On instinct, Innes dialed for help. You had to when someone was hurt. But Davros, the crew's doctor, didn't answer. Like Muir, his heart was racing and his body tightened. When Caz answered by the 3rd attempt, it was a huge relief, but the panic and anxiety still ran through his head. Innes was known to be a man who never lost his composure, even in a high-stress work environment such as The Beria. But that's because he knew what he was doing. This entire situation was unknown to the man, and that terrified him.

'Who's that?'

'It's Caz, Innes. I-'

'Caz. Thank Christ. I-I need your help. I dunno what to do-' The echoing noise of bones cracking and yells from the others made Innes' stomach drop. His blood ran cold. He looked over his shoulder and his face turned pale. 'S-Somethings happening to him. He's...'

Muir's entire body blew open. Blood poured into the puddle. His ribs burst out of his side, twisting like tree branches. The muscles consumed his body. His left eye clouded and sunk to his nostrile as more eyes clumped together grew as a replacement. The lower half raised itself upwards. Strange legs, similar to a spider-crab began to grow, lifting the still turning Muir off the ground.

'OH NO!'

Sunil grabbed and yanked Innes away as a tendril smashed the phone, cutting off all connections. The others had already ran for the nearest storage container and were waiting with baited breath. Except for Scooby, who had long since vanished.

'Come on,' Sunil growled. He tugged on Innes' sleeve to have him pick up the pace. He knew he was faster than this. That's because Innes was transfixed on Muir, who had noticed him running away. He reached out with his right arm, only for it to dissolve and fall off. In its place grew a fleshy mass shaped after a crab claw.

'Innes. Where yer going?'

The pair made it inside and McLurg began to push the door shut.

'INNES!'

SLAM

The minutes passed by. A fog set in over the deck. Rennick's voice crackled over the speakers.

'All personnel, this is an evacuation order. In case I wasn't clear enough the first time, that means; get to the helipad NOW. It's your responsibility to get there, and we will be leaving with or without you. So move it.'

Innes, Sunil, McLurg and Dobbie sat against the cold metal of a storage container, all too scared to breathe. Muir's howling and loud footsteps made it easy to know where he was, but that didn't ease the tension. Dobbie held his legs close to his chest. Any sound from Muir caused him to flinch.

McLurg broke the silence with a whisper. 'What happened to Scooby?'

'He took off when Muir -' Sunil couldn't find the words. How could he? How could he explain what just happened? 'When he - I think when Muir's hair began to fall out.'

'So the brat abandoned us?'

'Give him some peace, Lurg. He's probably the smartest one here.'

'But he's not here, Sunil. We're trapped.'

'And hopefully he got away to find help.'

Their voices were beginning to rise.

'What help?! Who's going to help us?!'

A bang from either falling metal or Muir caused the men to go quiet. All held their breath and waited.

'You're all cruel bastards, ya' ken that?'

This entire time, Innes never spoke a word. The container had a small gash from Muir's attempt to break in, becoming a makeshift window. He never looked away. He watched as Muir's body continued to mutate. His hair fell out yet his beard remained, teeth exposed on the left-side by bursting through the skin, the flesh gripped his hard-hat, the other arm dissolved and was replaced with a claw, and finally his dried out innards dangled inches above the ground. Innes didn't know if he should cry or be sick, but he was slowly coming to the conclusion that there was nothing he could do. He looked away and began to accept defeat.

'Innes...? Where's Innes? Just need help, eh?'

Innes let out a shaky breath and his shoulders deflated. Muir was calling for him. Was he still in there? If he was, then Innes really was a cruel bastard. Leaving someone he was supposed to be looking after to suffer alone. He didn't want that. The decision was made, even if it meant risking his own life.

'Right, lads. I'm going to talk to him.' There was a pause. Sunil, McLurg, and Dobbie stared at Innes as if he was the one who grew an extra set of eyes.

'Excuse me?' McLurg asked with a cracked voice.

'I'm going to talk to him,' Innes repeated. 'You three stay here and when I have his attention, get to the crew lift.'

'H-he'll kill you,' Dobbie stuttered.

'We don't know that, Dobs. Just get to the crew lift.'

'I'm all alone...'

Innes didn't wait for someone to hold him back. He scuttled out of the container and moved through the fog. It was thick, but Muir's silhouette was easy to spot. He watched Muir aimlessly clamber over containers and metal pipes they unloaded a few hours ago. He was clumsy in his movement, the newly transformed body was trying to find balance, even with the support of the tendrils.

'No one wants to help me...'

Whilst Innes was observing his friend's mutation, he did pick up on something. Muir knew they were in the container. McLurg literally slammed shut in his face, yet he was still looking for them. Was this a trick? Had he forgotten? Was Muir confused? He hoped it was the latter.

Innes said a small prayer, followed by a 'fuck,' then stepped into the fog.

[olivyh]

hello :) may i request scenarios of a reader who is the prefect of ramshackle, so from another world, who immediately starts excelling in their classes-

catch is, they seem to never be studying and they’re very laid back, but they still get top grades (higher or even as high as riddle/azul)

with riddle, azul, deuce and whoever else seems very,,, academically competitive

i’m such a sucker for the academic rivals trope, especially when one of them is trying so hard while the other seems to not try at all

thank you :) i love your works <33

AHH ACADEMIC RIVALS!! YES!

Writing these reminds me of all the studies I can do on these characters,, maybe when I have some time I'll sit down and write out fully fledged one shots about them,,,,,

and TYSM!!! Thank you for reading!!! :)))) <<3333

Slight TW: Hints of abuse and bullying (not fully described, but hinted at)

Riddle:

-I don't think he would mind too much

-You're oddly smart for being from another world, and you don't need to spend time studying? Goof for you

-That means he doesn't have to spend countless hours tutoring ADeuce, right?

-He's actually quite thankful that you're around to keep those in his dorm up to the standards he holds

-He is a little jealous that you don't have to spend hours hunched over a desk studying, but he tries to brush it off to the best of his ability 

-That is, until you surpass him in exams

-He's not so low as to try to sabotage you, but he cant deny the envy that runs through his veins

-How? You were from another world. If anything, you should have the disadvantage. He goes back to his dorm, vanishing into his room to study more to make sure that he gets above you next time

-He finds himself making excuses as to why you were so smart. Perhaps your world was similar? Maybe you were getting extra notes or amended lessons due to your circumstances? Perhaps you had some sort of magic or trick that allowed you to see the answers for the tests?!

-He can't get you out of his head

-Eventually he tries to bring it up casually, the bite in his tone enough of an indication what was happening. Of course, you tease him and explain that you never needed to study

-As someone who spent most of his life studying, he's baffled. He was intelligent, sure, but he was trained to be and you... weren't

-Eventually he can't stop thinking about you and your words. At some point or another, he finds himself looking forward to seeing your name so high up, the jealousy slowly dissipating. When they switch places, his name on top, yours on top the next, his, yours, his, yours. 

-He found himself staring at the two names, accidentally reading off your first name paired with his

-(Name) Rosehearts

-His face flushes and he scurries away from the board, away from Trey calling out for him, confused as to why his Dorm Leader had run off despite getting the highest score. 

-He was inexperienced, but he was not naïve. He knew what feelings he had developed for you.

-And he was sweating, losing his mind. This was not supposed to happen at all. 

The redheaded boy practically collapses next to you on the couch in Heartslabyul's common room, despite trying to make it appear dignified. You chuckle, putting your phone down as he sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. 

"Tough day?" You question him, sitting back as he unclips the crown from his hair and holds it in his lap, running his gloved thumbs over the sleek surface. 

"Absolutely. Can you control those two for once?" Laughing, you go to fix the piece of hair that had been displaced from the crown, making Riddle stiffen. You notice and pull your hands back, as if burned. 

"I-I'm sorry," You mumble. "Touching, right...Right."

Riddle frowns, swallowing the embarrassed lump that formed in his throat. He longed to feel your warmth, to feel your soft touches holding his face in both your hands, wiping his stressed tears away with your thumbs after a long day. To curl into your chest, arms wrapped around your waist and hold you close late at night rather than sleeping alone in his cold bed. To kiss you when you two part for classes, to hold your hand at each and every Unbirthday party, to hug you close, bury his face in the crook of your neck and to never, ever let go. 

You gave him a hug once. 

He'd recoiled and snapped, being unused to the affection. It was stifling to him, a realization that made him cry softly into his pillow that night. You promised to not touch him again, well aware of what he'd been through. 

"You can..." He mumbles, shaky hand reaching for your own, the butterflies now creeping through his entire system, making his stomach turn as if he was sick and his head all fuzzy. His face was a bright red as he inched his shaking, gloved hand forward. You nod, resting your hand on top of his own. 

"Is this good?" 

He nodded, despite feeling that familiar, claustrophobic feeling rise in his chest. 

"We can stop," You went to take your hand away from his and he shakes his head. 

"Keep it," He says much too quickly, stumbling over his words. "Please."

You nod, and Riddle knows that this little bit of overwhelming warmth is not nearly enough for now. He still longs to hold you, to have you hold him. 

But for now, your hand over his was enough.  

Deuce Spade:

-He was so thankful to have you as a friend. 

-He didn't think he was too jealous until he saw that you just... never had to study

-He was a little upset, honestly. 

-I mean, spending hours upon hours trying to understand a single concept that most people learned in middle school? Countless days hunched over a desk and staring at a problem until frustrated tears spill from his eyes?

-And you can just... do it. No effort involved. No struggling at all and you're practically outranking his own Dorm Head....

-He tries not to hold it against you, but he can't fight the feeling of resentment seeing your perfect test scores, and then watching you do practically nothing before the day of the test

-Unlike the other three, I think he would actually have a talk with you about it.

-You're one of his closest friends, and he hates the feeling of annoyance that grows in his heart whenever test season rolls around

-He asks for your help, or at least for tricks to pick up the information better

-He's so earnest that you can't find it in you to tease him

-So you study. And you study for hours, at every opportunity. You want him to succeed, especially after seeing his excited reaction when he got a 90 on a potions exam

-Flash cards, listening exercises...

-Deuce felt overwhelmed by the amount of effort you put into helping him, how you would often turn down plans with other friends to help him, the amount of money you would spend on materials to help him keep up, how you wouldn't give up on him, even when he snapped a few times in frustration (and then proceeded to apologize profusely)

-Ace pointed it out. Deuce had crushes before, but none of them were so... intense. He had thought you were attractive at first, and then as you two grew closer those feelings grew as well. Seeing how far you were willing to go for him was what made him decide that he had to do something

"Prefect!" He practically shouts, running and pushing past the other students in the hallway. "I did it!" 

"You did?!" You shout excitedly. He nods, a grin on is face. He holds up a slightly crinkled paper, reading '100' at the top. 

He had struggled the most with history, you both knew that. He never got anything above a 70 on one of Trein's tests. You smile and laugh, pulling him in for a hug, bouncing up and down and making the boy jump too, albeit a little embarrassed to be doing so in the middle of a crowded hallway. 

He can't help but wrap his arms around your shoulders, holding you close for a few moments, feeling your warmth through both of your uniforms. A warmth he'd felt many times before, and a warmth he will never get enough of. You would bump against his leg during sleepovers, play fight with him, play with his hair and style it in ways that you thought were hilarious. 

He loved every second of it. 

"Deuce?" He didn't realize you had stopped jumping and that he had been holding you for a moment, quickly backing away with a flushed face. 

"Sorry! I got a little excited," He chuckles nervously, meeting your eyes and grinning. 

"I'm so proud of you!" There it was. His face went alight as he looked away, stammering muffled 'thank you's and 'it's because you helped's. "Come on, let's celebrate! Floyd gave Ace a bunch of vouchers for Mostro because he kicked his ass at practice!"

Deuce smiles and links his arm in yours, looking down at you as you tell some story about your friend and the eel, unconsciously squeezing your arm a little tighter. 

"Thank you, (Name)."

Azul:

-I think he would be the most bothered by it

-He spent most of his life being told that he was dumb, and now he finally had physical proof that he was among the smartest in his school. He could wave those ranking paper in the air, pin them to his wall, do anything to them but at least they were there. At least he could see that he was not dumb

-And then you came along. And he was no longer at the top of the class. 

-He was now second best in the class

-While he had no problem being second best, as least, not as much of a problem as many in the school would have, it still hurt

-Especially knowing that you did practically nothing to get where you were

-He worked his (metaphorical) mer-ass off, days of perfecting his magic and his craft, of finding any way to get ahold of the best notes to get the best scores

-And then this magicless student strolls along and gets to be in the top of the class

-He tries to find out your tricks, sending the twins after you. They come back and report that you literally do... nothing. You go to class, listen to the lectures, then go home and do something else. No notes, no reviewing, nothing.

-He was already peeved, brainstorming ways to distract you enough to bomb at least one exam

-Nothing ever worked.   

-When you outsmarted him during his overblot? His self-esteem plummeted

-You felt bad and so, you offered to help him repair the dorm

-He vehemently denied, not wanting to feel as if he was your own little charity. The more you two talked, the more you helped him find out new promotions and deals for the lounge, he'd decided that you were simply kind

-He fell for you instantly

You two sit on the couch in the lounge, with Azul leaning against the side, paperwork balanced on a clipboard resting on the arm of the couch. He taps his pen to his lips a few times, eyebrows furrowed on his forehead as his lips rest against the end. He shed his coat and tie, trying to find a smidge of comfort despite not being in his pyjamas like he'd liked. The clock read 11:46 pm, and the poor boy still had a pile of paperwork to go through. 

"Need help?"

"No thanks..." He sighs, pushing his glasses up to his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing. He reaches for his glasses and curses to himself. You look over, noticing the intense smudges on the lenses, likely from his ungloved hands. You watch as he fumbles to untuck the end of his dress shirt to wipe them off and you slowly take them, wiping them down with one of the actual lens cloths you'd learned to carry around upon seeing how often he smudged them- proof of his inexperience with things on his face all the time. 

You wipe them down, holding them up to the light every once in a while as Azul continues to scribble away, reaching out and sliding the paper on the desk before moving on to the next. You mumble his name, breaking the silence as he turns to you. You push his tousled hair out of his eyes, making him gulp as heat rises to his face at the tenderness and affection held in the action. 

You slowly slip the glasses onto his face and the mer allowed his eyes to close for a moment as to not see how close your faces had gotten. He didn't need to see you to feel your warm breath fan across his cheeks. Your hands rest on the sides of his face for a moment and he can't find it in him to open his eyes, despite how his mind is screaming at him to just do it. That this is what he was waiting for this entire time.

You were so, so heartbreakingly gentle with him. So gentle that it made him want to melt into your arms and never leave. It was a kindness he had only received from his mother and grandmother, nobody else had ever dared to get go close to him in such a way, only pulling at his limbs despite his panicked pleas. 

He opened his eyes once you pulled away, looking back down at his paperwork. You lay back on the couch, your legs over his lap as he watches you mumble what he assumes to be a 'goodnight' and closing your eyes, drifting off to sleep due to the late hour. 

He smiles, resting his hand on your knee as his other continues to write, listening to your even breaths as he takes his glasses off, lightly tossing his things to the desk and leaning his head back, following you into a deep, well-needed sleep. 

Jamil:

-He was resentful of you at first

-That could be him at the top if he didn't have to constantly limit himself. He worked hard, he studied harder, he was supposed to be the one at the top of the leaderboard

-Instead he always had to keep his test scores a little below Kalim's which put him in the lower half of the grade despite how bright he was

-That was a fact he could accept

-But learning that you were a magicless student from another world and still at the top of the class

-He was intrigued, and incredibly jealous that you were able to flaunt your abilities

-He ignored you, knowing that he shouldn't bother, that he couldn't be at the top no matter how hard he tried.

-That is, until after winter break

-He began to show how much he could do, quickly rising to the top alongside you. He was at the top for a moment, going head to head with you and your near perfect test scores. Despite everything he had done, he believed that that he could beat you once and for all

-He blamed it on not having enough time to study. You were busy with Crowley, sure, but did you have to arrange parties every other night? Did you have to cook for said parties? Clean up the entire dorm afterwards? He didn't think so

-You were still kind to him despite his visible irritation with you. You would offer to help him clean up

-He would tell you that he was capable of doing it himself, but you insisted every single time. What did you have to gain? Were you trying to find more dirt to dig up on him? Were you working with Azul? He didn't trust you one bit

-You got closer during the VDC, and he found himself able to relax around you more ,to freely laugh at your jokes

-He knew he was falling for you, but was unable to admit it, fighting back these feelings

-He didn't want to drag you into a life of servitude, a life forced to be less than what you are solely because of who you serve

-You pushed, and he backed up. You pushed. He backed up more. 

-It got to the point where you could no longer push, and he was against a wall

"It's not too bad this time," You say offhandedly, scrubbing away at a particular stain on one of the dishes that won't leave. Jamil hums monotonously, drying off the dishes and whisking them away to their proper places in the kitchen. It was the night after one of Scarabia's infamous parties. Most of the students were either back in their rooms or asleep in the common room, and both of you knew that you would have to go around and wake them up, sending them to their proper places so you could clean up for the next day. 

The night air in the dorm was chilly. Of course, there was a spell that regulated the dorm's temperature, but it seemed as if most of the residents were okay with the extreme heat in the day being balanced with the extreme cold. You shiver, pushing your arms further into the warm water that spilled from the faucet. 

You hear a snicker from beside you and you turn to pout at the boy, who shrugs. 

"How does it feel to be the cold one for once?"

"Not funny," You deadpan.

"Serves you right for making fun of me in the snow."

"It was one time," You argue, handing him another cleaned plate. He smirks and pauses, dropping the plate and pulling his sweatshirt over his head, revealing his worn t-shirt underneath. You scrunch your nose and he frowns. 

"What?"

"You wear something under your hoodie?" He flushes and shoves the fabric into your arms. 

"You don't?!"

"No?"

"That's dumb," He puts away the plate, holding out his hand for the next dish and sighing when you're still in the same spot that you were, staring at him blankly. 

"It's a normal shirt?"

"What if you get too hot?" He retorts, rolling his eyes. 

"Then you roll up the sleeves!" You laugh and put on the sweatshirt, feeling the lingering warm cover your entire torso. "This is nice."

He stays silent, busying himself with the rest of the dishes. He hoped that you wouldn't notice the slight quiver of his hands or how he fought the urge to glance back at you, biting the inside of his cheeks as he put the rest of them away. 

He was stronger than this. He had to hide his emotions from the very start, put on a nonchalant mask. How dare you break it so easily? He huffs, lost in his own thoughts. You smile. 

"You can have it back, you know?"

"No," He says quickly, smirking and walking towards you slowly, pulling the hoodie up and over your head, trailing his warm, calloused fingers down your cheeks, you gasp as you feel him trace his hands along your jawline. 

Truthfully, he was trying to hide his own expression. His determination to mess with you outweighed the butterflies in his stomach. He licked his lips, leaning in further as his hands rested on the sweatshirt, knuckles brushing the nape of your neck. You sighed and he chuckled, leaning in until your noses were nearly touching. 

And he grabbed the strings.

And yanked as hard as he could, tying them together deftly and laughing as you yelped and scrambled to untie yourself.

"Damn you, Viper!"

He laughs loudly, turning on his heel to leave the room and waving (not that you could see it).

"You can figure that out," He walks out the doorway. "I still have cleaning to do."

He was going to tell you someday, yes. But he was going to make sure that he could control his heart around you first. He'll settle with playing for you for now.

[darksolace18]

Joyride

Biker!Namjoon x reader

Authors note : This will be based on the fanart picture above. Friggin biker BTS au has me in a chokehold.

Masterlist

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

One thing Namjoon hated, was stereotypes.

People tended to club up pastel+soft appearance = Soft girl who is kind, loved to read and do all those soft aesthetic stuff.

Or, for instance, Pierced guy with tattoos + motorcycle + leather = Bad boy who hooks up with everything has a pulse with no academic interest and most probably bullies nerds.

He had been in such circumstances a lot of times, where his personality was misinterpreted due to his fashion sense.

Yes he had tattoos, yes he had a very sexy looking bike and loved riding it, yes he looked everything like a bad boy.

But yes, he also loved to study, read books and write soft and gentle music.

He had an IQ 148 for a reason.

But still, truth is, he is clumsy. Very very clumsy. But he is never clumsy during riding a bike.

But this time, staring at you through the modern looking glass wall of the bakery you were working at, as your eyes locked in with his, he fucking lost his balance and crashed right on the gravel floor as his bike skid away from him.

The streets were empty at this hour, but a few passer-by had gasped and crowded around him, asking if he is alright.

He groaned, feeling a thick liquid run down his forehead as he cradled his right arm, which made the veins of his forehead pop out in pain.

There was a loud shout, a female voice, shouting at the crowd to stop crowding him as gentle hands held his face, lightly slapping his cheeks.

"Stay awake, stay awake, open your eyes, that's it, that's it, your doing great" The voice, sweet as tingling bells, praised him as he droopily kept his eyes open.

His vision was slightly blurred, but he could very well make out your features as you gently tried to pull him up.

You groaned at his weight, after all, he was pure muscles.

He would have chuckled in some other scenario, but it even hurt to breathe.

"Can-Can anyone hold him for a minute?" You say, trying to keep steady on your feet.

He whines at the loss of your lovely warmth as some other man held onto him.

"Hey, stay awake mate. " The guys voice entered his eardrums in a painful jab.

He wanted you to hold him.

But soon, he heard the very familiar roar of his bike.

His senses heightened, feeling angry and ready to spew shit to anyone who touched his precious bike but then-

Then-

His brain sputtered and stuttered. His thoughts going to a standstill. He could only hear the throb and beat of his heart in his ears and the pain in his forearm.

You sat perched on his bike, dressed in the soft pink shirt and brown trousers with the familiar bakery apron, as you ordered the man holding him to gently help him sit behind you.

He could not have asked for a better vision before his death.

The bike was the typical black Kawasaki Ninja ZX 4R, and seeing you sit on it with you back arched, leaning forward, it did something inside him.

But sadly, his sex appeal in that state was similar to a chicken nugget.

Slowly and steadily, he was set on the back of the raised seat of the bike, uncomfortablly flopped onto your body, breathing hard.

Is this how girls feels whenever they would sit on the back of the bike?

His ass felt like it was sitting on a pin. And his height did not help him at all.

At this rate he would fall off.

But, suprisingly, you grabbed his arms and wrapped it around your full waist, ordering him to hold on tight before you took.

Namjoon had seriously underestimated you.

You looked a soft, shy girl when he saw you through the glass window who did not know anything about being cool or whatever this was.

And he was pleasantly, happily regretful.

You knew how to ride a bike. How cool is that?!!!

"Stay awake, don't close your eyes! Talk to me, what your name?" He heard you yell over the sound of wind.

"I AM awake, thanks for asking. But i would like to know yours at first" He says, a small smile on his lips, groaning occasionally at the painful thumbs on his forearm. It must be broken but, how is he not screaming and crying right now?

You let out something similar to a laugh "I asked first!"

"Namjoon, Kim Namjoon at your service ma'am" he replies.

"Well, right now it's me who is in service. I hope you don't mind me using your bike to escort you, do you?" You speak out, words filled with mirth.

He grinned "Use it as much as you want. You look sexy anyways"

He cursed internally. This isn't how he usually advances on girls, but right now his pain made him do useless things.

But, surprisingly, you laughed yet again "Why thank you Namjoon, but I don't know if it's you or your fear of life speaking" you said as you smartly manouvered through the traffic and also the twists and turns of road.

"It's me speaking. I can see your a proffessional" he says, happily nuzzling into your neck.

"Namjoon, it tickles." You deadpan.

"Oh shit im-"

"Chill dude, why are you getting so shy? You weren't so when you were blatantly staring at me. Do you do that always?" You ask.

He shakes his head as no, his energy depleting more and more as his eyelids turned heavier.

"Don't fall asleep on a pretty girl joon, the hospital is here" you nudge him with your shoulder and keep him awake.

Soon enough, the view of the hospital came into his sight and immediately, he felt his body give out.

Well, so much for keeping up a charming appearance.

The next time he opened his eyes, he swore he saw a great wakening light.

But it turns out it was just the vicious lightbulb in his hospital room.

He felt woozy and his right hand felt heavier than usual. His throat was parched as he reached for a cup of water.

But soon, a cup had been put infront of his mouth, filled with water and urging him to drink.

Putting his lips on it, the cup tilted up as the cool refreshing water slowly trickled down his throat.

"How do you feel"

On hearing the voice, Namjoon instantly spat out thelast remains of water and coughed as water entered his sinuses.

He didn't expect you to be there.

"I think at this point I'm a hazard to your health." You say cheekily as you start to peel an orange, sitting beside him in a chair.

Namjoon blushed, hard. Why were you still there?

"Eat up" an orange was forwarded towards him.

Namjoon turned and looked at you and cursed a little.

You were out of the clothes he had last seen on you. Instead sporting a sweet yellow coloured sundress with white polka dots printed on it, your hair loosely braided.

Namjoon swear he could kiss you right now, you looked so pretty, so beautiful.

"Stop staring. You were out for 2 full days" you say as you stuff the orange in his mouth, unable to hold your hand up any longer.

"You have a broken hand and slight bruising on your ribs. Thankfully, no concussion. But i dont think your family of seven boys will be as soft as me" You said, looking at him straight in his eyes.

Namjoon's eyes widened. You even met his brothers?!

Namjoon felt a little self conscious, he wasn't the most attractive in his friends group, what if you started to like someone else there?

Namjoon's mood visibly flattened, as he slowly chewed on the orange.

You noticed his fallen expression almost immediately. Your heartstring tugging at you slightly as an innate urge to pat this pouty man's head came over you.

Unlike his exterior, he was pretty cute.

You had slightly freaked out when he passed out completely on your back on the bike, nearly falling off of it.

She managed to make it through the remaining distance and immediately screamed at the medical staff for immediate assistance.

They were quick and soon he was admitted and his brothers were contacted.

You sat there outside the emergency room for about an hour before 6 screaming voices were heard and 6 figures clad in various mismatched outfits barrelled through the glass doors.

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS KIM NAMJOON?!" A guy with broad shoulders, strikingly handsome face which was red due to the amount of screaming came into your view.

You waved at them, ushering them towards you.

"Yes hello, he is in the emergency room for now." You informed them as they tensed up.

A young boy with several piercings and a shy demeanor stepped forward, eyes darting around nervously "W-well...will help be alright?" He asked.

You gave him a comforting smile, nodding at him "A nurse informed me, he will survive. It wasn't anything major, just a broken hand and a gashes forehead and several other scratches and all that. They are just doing the final check up and will soon shift him to the general ward." You informed.

They visibly sagged their tensed shoulders, relieved.

Another silver haired guy, who strangely resembled a cat stepped forward and nodded at you "Thank you for your help, if you please, we want to pay you for your generous help. And also can you please tell us where his bike is so we can bring it back?"

You took a step back, eyes blown wide with a frantic expression "No no, I don't want money. Absolutely not. And don't worry about the bike, it's parked in the parking lot. I drove him here on it. And riding that bike was enough gift for me"

The guy's eyes widened "You rode that bike here? With him on your back?"

You nodded as a reply.

Before they could continue, the same nurse came out and informed them that he is stable but will be out for 1 or 2 days because of the sedatives to help him rest.

You heaved a sigh of relief too. You could finally feel the sticky feeling of dried blood on your back as it started to itch. This shirt was ruined.

"Yeah so, I'll get going now. Please tell him a get well soon from my side" You bow to them and head towards the exit before the silver haired man stopped you.

"W-would you visit him tomorrow again? I'm sure he would like to thank you properly" he told you.

Thinking about it, you really did want to visit him.

He caught your eye afterall.

You nod at him with a big smile "Yeah, if you don't mind I mean"

The broad shouldered guy shook his head aggressively "No no, Absolutely not, your welcome here anytime miss".

Two days passed since then,you would visit him with a basket of fruits or small muffins with you everytime you were free from work.

You also bonded with the brothers well by that time, and the youngsters practically loved the muffins you brought.

"So uh, what next?" Namjoon's voice interrupted your thoughts, as he looks at you with a forlorn look.

"Hm...I wanted to ask you something Kim, if you don't mind" You ask him, leaning towards him slightly.

"Uh yeah, anything" Namjoon felt his face heat up a little at the slight proximity.

"Do you want to go on a date with me?" You ask, completely throwing Namjoon off at the straightforward question.

Namjoon felt like a high school girl with a crush, all red faced and stuttering and stumbling in front of his crush.

"I uh- yes?" He uttered out, making you raise your eyebrows.

"Is it a question or an answer?" You quiz.

He immediately shakes his head "NO NO, I mean I would love to go on a date, if you want to i mean"

You smirk at him and continue to peel more oranges.

"so....is that a yes?" Namjoon asks, quite unsure of your expression.

You look up at him and hand him yet another orange "After you get discharge, rest for a week, then bring your bike out at the central plaza. We can go bike riding as a date" you tell him, popping a orange in your mouth this time.

He flushes up, the image of you sitting sexily on a bike was NOT what he wanted to imagine with you infront. But he couldn't help it.

"FINALLY, MY BABY BROTHER IS GETTING THAT ASS!!!" A very loud voice, interrupted them yet again. Making Namjoon groan.

"FUCK OFF SEOKJIN" He yelled, embarrassed out of his wits as the girl laughed out loud beside him.

"YAH! WHERE ARE YOUR HONORIFICS YOU SHIT MONSTER".

[blank-house]

usually i just lurk in fandoms and read the answers to other people's asks, but i litr can't hold back anymore. THE STAT RAISING SYSTEM HELLOOO???? i was already obsessed and now this too? how exactly does it work, like if i’m spring but then choose a lot of composed options, do i become winter at some point, or do i do a mix of spring and winter behaviours + will there be any sort of indicator in the game of which stats you’ve raised like a pop up/menu where you can see your 4c/li stats? tysm!!

AH YAYYY SOMEONE'S EXCITED FOR THE STAT RAISING WOO! I'm so glad you asked because I had spent the better half of December last year thinking about it. And now I can finally ramble about this lol

But yes stats! There would be an indicator made so you can easily track the 4C's and the LI affections. As for how the the attribute points work, you won't get to change your season once it's been assigned (it would be, realistically speaking, weird if we make your behavior and speech switch after establishing that this is how you would normally act) but we do make it a point to clock whatever attribute is your highest stat.

So when you start a new game, besides establishing how an MC would act, we also assign you a set of starter points based on your season. For example, if you get Fall then you have a high amount of Compassion, medium amount of Charm and Composure, and a low amount of Confidence. Other seasons would get a similarly mixed bag of these attributes.

As you progress through the game and acquire points from your choices, the balance could start to shift in what is then considered to be your highest attribute, but since you don't get to change seasons again you would just be a more Charming Fall or a Confident Fall instead and the cast will recognize this change in MC.

So if you happened to be a Summer MC that suddenly grew more composed and less confident, you might have a cast member pull you aside to ask you if something's wrong. In a similar vein, if you're a Fall MC that shot up in confidence, they would muse over your new spunk.

Let me actually grab a bit of text from the end of the extended spring demo as an example. (Scroll past the blue text if you'd rather not be spoiled of any content even if it's a blurb).

If confidence is the highest stat: If Spring: mc “Oh, sweet, sweet, Cam. Frequency doesn’t dictate camaraderie. If they show up, then they show up. No need to invite them.” Deja chuckled from above you. de “Flashing your fangs, [name]? Where’s the usual sugar?” From where you laid, you grinned, bearing your proverbial weapons. Being straightforward wasn't usually in your books but you learned to take a page from your roommate. mc “I'm simply saying, the world’s not over if they're a no show, no?” If Summer: mc “Eh, who cares?” Cameron pouted, now completely tugging at their hoodie's drawstrings. ca “I know you like to speak your mind, but damn— harsh.” mc “I mean they’re good people but you don’t gotta twist yourself into a knot just because they’re not here.” mc “Who needs them, right!” de “No holds barred as always.” You shrug yourself, lips pulling back into your trademark grin. If Fall: mc “I mean… just because we’ve been in each other’s company doesn’t mean we’d all be friends.” Silence. Cameron and Deja offered you varying degrees of astonishment. You pursed your lips from their reaction, knowing full well what must be running through their head. And oddly enough, you didn’t feel guilty about it. Slowly, a smirk curled on Deja’s lips. de “Someone missed their daily dose of compassion this morning.” You scrunch your nose, fingers brushing against one of her braids as you swat it from your vision. mc "I'm okay if they're not here but if you want them to be, Cam, of course you're welcome to send them a text.” If Winter: mc “We don’t always have to invite them everywhere, you know.” ca “I mean, yeahhh, sure. But like, they’ve grown on me. Didn’t they on you?” mc “Ehh.” Your lackluster reply had Deja snickering. de “You never cared to say no before. Did one of them hit a nerve?” You rolled your eyes. mc “No. I’m just saying—” de “And that’s the thing, you. Saying something. Did you finally discover you have a voice?” You leveled her an unamused look but she only laughed harder.

It's the same scenario regardless, but because some of the seasons are less inclined to say something out loud, it's more realistic if your friends realize this change and react based on that.

That being said, we won't check for these changes often, since it's more obvious that you've changed after enough time has passed.

And other than these narration differences, attributes also have a hand at how a choice might unfold-- kind of like a DND check, if you have enough composure then you can successfully lie about this thing and if not you'd get caught. Or if you have enough compassion then the cast might feel inclined to let you in on a secret earlier etc, etc.

The attributes play an important role in the game, but like I said in a previous ask regarding the seasons-- please don't get hung up on attributes! They're more for story purposes and they won't have advantages or disadvantages when it comes to the romantic routes. I just think they'll add a wonderful layer to the immersion. ^^

~*~*~*~

Let me know if this is still confusing and I'll do my best to clarify again otherwise thank you for the ask!

[randomfoggytiger]

Starting a fic rec chain for my friend that wants to get into writing! What are some quintessential x-files fic that showcase the talent of our massive writing community?

O.O

A loooooooooooot, a lot, a lot.

I know it's a biiiiiiiiiiit of a cop-out, but my fic lists here have a lot of "the bests" under each list category; so, if your friend wants to see the same main idea done in different ways... there's that?

If you want, tell me something your friend is interested in, and I'll make a list packed with fics that fit the bill! :DDDD

Ummmmmmmm how about I stick to the different style and talent of various authors to "show them off" for your friend?

*pulls up sleeves to more successfully wrangle Google Docs*

@baronessblixen, @welsharcher, @o6666666, @ghostbustermelanieking, @lokisgame, @mldrgrl, @tinglingworld, @sigritandtheelves, and @kateyes224 write THE BEST short but complex fluff imaginable. The shorter the better for me, because it leaves a lot of room for me to fill-in with my imagination. (And don't forget yourself~, heheheh.)

Edit: Needed to add @settle-down-frohike and @cyb3rpeach to this list~!

@enigmaticdrblockhead rips my heart out and sews it back in with her gut-wrenching short fics on humanity's cruelties. I always cite her fic Ascension as the one that makes me cry every time.

@suitablyaggrieved does great at short fic, too. Her bent is less about fluff and more about dread and horror~.

In a similar vein is @dreamingofscully, whose works are longer but have that teeter-totter between weighted rumination and blissful happiness; and @wtfmulder, who is one of the best writers for "male voice" (making three differently brooding male character sound distinctly different from one another) and does the best Mulder crack headcanons and memes.

astronaught writes like David Duchovny for me (which is a high compliment)-- ex. "He needed to get out of L.A. He needed to stay in L.A. There was a comforting nausea to the unreality here. Funhouse, Pleasure Island, Lotus-Eater nausea. The subtle horror of a museum of plastic toys. Violently happy faces fading from a material that wasn’t meant to age. //Everything was a bit grotesque in L.A. and so was everything out of L.A. Who said that Hollywood lied?"

Jo_B writes a complicated, heartwarming Mulder who is relieved Scully's effortlessly sees his humanity and good intentions.

defnotmeyo writes both the best crack (heartwarming and fun and realistic) and angst short fic. She's gone from Tumblr; but some of her fics can still be found.

@melforbes is another fic author that made me ALMOST sob (but definitely cry) with her seaglass blue fic (Ao3)-- that and, again, Ascension as mentioned above.

Lapsed_Scholar wrote the best collection of Requiem variations (Mulder doesn't leave due to various snags in his departure, all involving Scully in some way.) But all of her work is FANTASTIC (as are these other authors, too!) I always pair up anything Lapsed wrote with --

Anything Apostrophic (i.e. @mappingthexfiles), @seek-its-opposite, @wtfmulder, @sigritandtheelves, and @onpaperfirst touches is always gold. They write IWTB/S11 so well; and as a "stop after S8 the canonical ending" fan, they make me love anything beyond it-- and those aren't not even including their other fics. I always think of Apostrophic's "miniseries" fics Agua Mala-Arcadia-Alpha... stupendous work.

Can't forget the multi-chapter, shot-in-the-veins of 90s grounded...ness that is @cecilysass, @aloysiavirgata, @amplifyme, and @slippinmickeys (though she also loves to dabble in AUs that are wildly entertaining.) You FEEL like you're in the X-Files era reading their work.

For Torture!Mulder (yep, it's a thing) there's Vickie Moseley (Gossamer, Ao3) and Donna-- I prefer Donna's work, but sometimes Vickie NAILS it.

For Gossamer/older fics I reread obsessively (and they're famfic, ngl):

Suki Tawdry's The Way Things Are (Mulder and Scully have a one-night stand aligning w/ Gillian's pregnancy. I skip Chapter 12-- personal preference-- but the BANTER and sarcasm on Scully is top-tier. And Mulder's journey as a slowly morphing family man is... chef's kiss. Not to mention Skinner, Maggie, Melissa, even a well-intentioned but annoying Bill, etc.) and LuvTheBeez's Snow (S5? Mulder and Scully are married and expecting a giant baby... and become hostages in a stick up. The in-control thought processes, banter, and intelligent planning on both their parts while keeping it completely lighthearted is also the best) AND Jamie Greco's Breathing (on the way to Scully's Lamaze class, dialogue only, AMAZING characterization of Mulder and Scully. All of Jamie Greco's other fics do the same-- Scarlet has Mulder high on a hallucinogen and seeing Scully as an angel.)

I'm plowing through RocketMan's works on Gossamer-- WOW are some amazing. Chef's kiss. Not finished yet (taking my time-- just reached second page), but I'll probably make a separate author shoutout when I'm done~.

I haven't even BEGUN to touch the fill-in or fix-it fics that span the series (or at least one season of it) that are incredibly impressive-- like @darwin-xf, @scenes-in-between, and touchstonea's Odyssean epics-- but I've got to cut this list short because... honestly, my list would be endless; and I have not even BEGUN to list them all. If I haven't listed anyone, it's not for lack of trying or because of any attempt at snubbing. I, a mere mortal, can only do so much. XDDD

Thank you for the ask~! Again, if your friend likes a specific category, let me know and I'll drum up a fic list! :DDDDD

[ourshadowstallerthanoursoul]

Trampled Under Foot - interview to JPJ

(by Jeff Molten, Exposé - Oct. 1, 2000 - link)

Very interesting interview as always. Definitely worth a read. Enjoy!

Your new album fits into the aggressive instrumental mode vein than most other new releases. How did you find players to do the album live?

[Elvis Costello drummer] Pete Thomas moved to Los Angeles and Trey Gunn had got King Crimson commitments so Robert Fripp suggested Nick Beggs, who used to play with Roddy Frame. He's a got a varied background. That's what I like about instruments like the touch guitar. Players who use is usually got to it by thinking differently than using traditional guitar. In fact, the stick is probably more suited to what I'm doing than the touch guitar because it really is a two in one instrument. So (live) I'm playing the basses, Nick is playing the guitar parts, which we will continue to change in the show. People seem to be blown away by the dexterity, since the reception has been tremendous!

Well, you definitely have the surprise element on your side. DGM is a good independent label, but radio airplay for new instrumental albums is difficult.

I do radio interview, and Zeppelin gets a lot of radio airplay, which is still amazing to this day. After the interview is over, I do ask them to see if they would play a track from my album. You have to be realistic: give them a few Zeppelin things and maybe they'll play a few 'Zooma' things. Having decided to do this, I wanted to avoid doing any coat tailing. The rhythm section is similar, but the works with John Bonham are similar, it couldn't be more different.

What's it like to lead your own ensemble?

It's nice for me, with different tours in the past you're not in control as to who is on the road with you to make it as pleasant as possible. It's a nice team now and we're all pulling together. In that respect, it's fantastic since it makes everything that much easier. Part of the plan is to get it right. There has been tons of press and lots of work doing the album, and getting the equipment together. But it all comes together on the stage.

Aren't there some built in challenges doing an all instrumental set and no vocal as a counterpoint?

Nobody seems to have missed it. I do all of the album, a couple of soundtrack pieces and four Zep pieces. No one seems to notice the lack of lead guitar. I play bass lap steel on a stand too. It's not so rare; it's like a lap steel guitar. It's a great blues instrument and I've got extra strings.

You're occupying a lot of the low register with these tunes. And radio is only now playing aggressive low-end music (like Primus).

I wanted it (the album) to sound of the time. Like it was made last year and not just something drug up from twenty years ago. All the weird sounds on the album are made by the Kima sound system. I came to a point about ten years ago when I was looking for a high-end computer system - there were a few DSP systems. Looking through computer music journal I found it- it's just a box of processors in a nineteen inch rack. It's got an iconic front end and I run it from a laptop. Unlike all the classic synthesizers, you can do anything with this software in real time. It waits for me. I program the entire show with triggers, when I'm ready so I don't play with clicks (tracks). There are couple of samples, which go into loops. It's still an experimental show though. I hope to use more and more.

To balance that you also have an acoustic live set:

It's mostly traditional music done on traditional instruments. I like to use technology too. When I was in Zeppelin, I used analog synthesizers like the VCS3, but we didn't tell anyone about it. I've always been interested in experimental music and music Concrete. We're skiing through the trees sometimes (in the live set) plus if something doesn't work it's over in a minute.

How did you whittle down which Zep tracks to do?

Well, 'When the Levee Breaks' was made for steel guitar. I actually tried it live when I was touring with Diamanda Galas.

As an arranger you have to wear a different hat, how did you take what you do on the album and apply it to the studio?

The impetus for this album WAS the live show. I was thinking about doing the album for a long time. If I do an album, I will have a reason to go out and play it since it's designed to be played live. I spread the basses wide in stereo and it's quite a big sound on stage. Between the two of us (Nick Beggs) we cover a lot of territory. He even does string parts on stage as well.

The disc does not come off heavy-handed.

I look at the full album as a composition, from a micro level to the macro level. I arrive at everything the same way. You have compositional questions to answers and you just have to answer them.

You don't just start from a rhythmic state and work up the tracks from there?

Normally I just start with a walk. The album started from the three heavier riffs. I had to work out what I play. I like to play blues based rock, I'm not a jazz based player and not an experimentalist. Having to work out three of the heavier riffs and walking helped to determine what I needed.

What inspires you?

Pretty much everything. Nature does, literature and other forms of music as well. It will just set me off in another direction. I like how that happens. Not a lick or someone else's song necessarily; often times I like the way someone else has answered their questions. Like when I wrote 'Black Dog'. There was a track on Muddy Waters album, 'Electric Mud'. "That's a really nice construction", I thought. In that way I was inspired by that, but 'Black Dog' sounds nothing like it.

Is it cathartic for you to write?

Not specifically, but I can play something to get out of a bad mood.

Besides touring around your new album, licensing on DGM is just the beginning of some plans going forward?

We're going to Europe, UK, Japan, then come back to the US and go down south. You can't go everywhere since we didn't know what to expect at all. People don't about you, you know until you get there. When we toured with Diamanda, people said they wish they'd gone. Your representation follows you, not precedes you. Then after that I want to make another album. I've already got more ideas from this album and tour.

Picking a label is tough situation — why not Atlantic Records?

They asked me tricky questions such as "Where is the single, where is the video?" In the old days we had Peter Grant to chase them all away. There's really not that much to understand business-wise - you either get paid for your albums or you don't. We didn't even have a contract with Peter Grant. It was done on trust. Obviously this works both ways. "What happens if you don't get paid?" Plus on DGM I like the policy of the artists owning their masters and license. They can still own their copyrights. There is nothing more soulless than losing the ownership of your work. It kills some artists (I won't mention any names) they can switch off for five years. It happens. The approach Fripp is taking is commendable. Plus DGM likes the album. And they are in touch with the Internet. He's the label leader, which is kind of funny.

How did you meet him? Having tea?

In a newspaper article in the lifestyle section "Our first meal" of the UK: They ask you what did you have to eat... I had some salmon last night. We did it for the engineer.

How did you manage to do some producing and arranging for REM?

They came to me - Scott Litt (producer/engineer) liked my stuff. I received a hand written a two-page hand written letter from Michael Stipe. Basically, I directed the sessions to ask if the musicians could come in about half way through. I came to Atlanta and used their symphony and had some good food. They paid my fair plus I enjoy getting paid and meeting interesting people.

You've worked with some developing artists such as Elephant Ride.

They were nice guys; I think they are disbanded now. Somebody re-mixed that album. And I told them that the voice is very delicate. If you lose the voice it will sound like some thin noise. I thought the singer had an interesting voice; please try to keep it clear. The label spent the whole of the budget on this remix. I thought, "Why am I doing this?" I thought we made a great record. I've remained friends with Paul Leary ever since. I put a lot of work into my productions. I beat them (the band) through pre-production. I told them "You're paying for this, not your record company, you're going to work? It was a sheer waste of time.

Budget nowadays goes to high profile artists.

Labels also decided the Buttlhole Surfers are strictly 250,000 unit act, that the band can sell up until that amount. Paul went out and bought their own promotion then they sold another 500,000. The company wasn't that interested. They would rather be working something, which make them multi-platinum. I'm happy not to be part of it. I know producers who are happy to just sit by the phone. I'm pleased with that, I'm notorious picky - you wouldn't believe who I've turned down.

Your work ethic is still intact from the early session days: ehen you were trying to get started, how did you decide you were going to be a session player?

I was in a major band when I was 17. In those days it was Duane Eddy, and surf bands. I got booked by a couple of people. I was a Motown cover artist. I was employed to make the artists sound American. Then I started to do arrangements and I connected with the Rolling Stones management. My father told me: never turn down work. That's how I got into it.

About how many sessions were you doing?

Two to three a day, six to seven days a week. All sorts of styles, country in the evening, swing from eight to nine; from nine to ten we'd do two commercials. Page got out earlier and joined the Yardbirds. I thought he was completely crazy. I couldn't spend all the money.

How did you switch over from sessions to Zeppelin?

My wife actually - she read that Page was forming a band. He said he was going up to Birmingham to try out a singer, considering, we had talked to Terry Reid first. Robert Plant was earning 40 pounds a week. We put him on wages for a while to start. I booked him on a PJ Proby session to get him some money. I booked Robert on Tambourine to get him on the session.

There is such legend about the Zeppelin chemistry during the early recording phase - you knew you hit on something so quickly.

It was a matter of timing as well. Cream just ended. We knew it was a good band. Page and I knew how to put together a good band. Plus it was the time of FM radio. You could actually hear bands such as the Buffalo Springfield on the radio. Radio played us to death. Live we started out opening for Fillmore East and West. Also at the Boston Tea Party: Arthur Lee and Janis Joplin. They couldn't believe us because we were pretty intense.

[dulcewrites]

Truly, Madly, Deeply

I got this idea while writing fcc. Maris Baratheon is gay bc I said so. Happy pride month y’all 🏳️‍🌈 🫶🏽

The deal was simple: marriage or become a silent sister.

Her father always had little patience with her, which she supposes is alright. She has little patience with him. Whenever she feels a bit too claustrophobic in the castle, the good air being sucked up from his ego, she writes little notes and leaves them on her parent’s bed.

It always requires a maester to read them. Sometimes mother does it.

Having someone else other than the voice in her head call him an illiterate imbecile was worth the punishment most times. But this time, she could tell by the twitch in his eye that he was serious this time. She had looked to mother for help, and all she got was a sympathetic glance. Not sympathetic enough, she thought.

Maris always going to be the problem child, and in turn, she would always be considered expendable. She is not the prettiest, or the most duitful. Clever, they would call her. She knew that was a coverup for what they really wanted to say. Mouthy.

The Riverlands may not be that bad.

She reminded herself that through dress fittings, and mindless drowning on about decorations and food. Maris always thought their deer sygil was a bit silly. Not very intimidating like a dragon or symbolic like a glowing tower. Or even pretty like a flower.

Well, at least it is not a fucking fish.

You will make a lovely wife. It was a lie, and if Myah was in front of her, her mouth would be quirked to the side in mirth. Pretty and mischievous. Maris can hear her voice even as the words are just written on the page.

Please come to King’s Landing. You must meet Baelor.

It was not the first time Myrah had asked. The last time they had seen each other in person, she was watching Myrah and Aemond marry.

Marry and kiss. Dance and kiss. Laugh and kiss. They kissed a lot at their wedding really. Her whole family had been there on pins and needles for different reasons. Her parents upset at what could have been. Her sisters with a similar sentiment. Floris and Ellyn just tired of hearing how they let a prince slip their fingers. Cassandra the most vocal about her strife.

“I suppose her looks make up for her station,” she muttered, pushing her meat across her plate in disgust. “That or something else.”

That earned a swift kick to the shin from Maris.

What none of them wanted to admit it is that it was never going to be one of them. Anyone with a working brain could see that from the moment the Targaryens came to Storm’s End on the godsforsaken tour.

“I have to thank you,” before they left King’s Landing, Myrah pulled her to the side. Her hand intertwined with Maris’. “I cannot help but feel like you helped Aemond and I get to this point.”

It was the first time she got a sharp pang in her chest. She just smiled through it. Myrah glowed, and Maris hated it. She doesn’t know why but it flowed through her veins like blood does. They correspond to each other regularly and the pang doesn’t cease.

It debilitates and shakes her to her core as she writes back.

I would love to.

Maris feels and hears Myrah before truly gets a good look at her.

A squeal and a tight hug. Maris is hit with a wave of lavender and rose. She still smells the same. Feels the same. Hands come to squeeze her cheeks when Myrah pulls away.

“I have to pinch myself, pinch you to see if you’re actually here.”

Maris is sure her face is on fire under her hands. She finally gets a good look at Myrah as they begin to walk through the Red Keep, arm in arm. The slim silhouettes with thick fabric that Maris first saw her in when they met had been replaced by something more opulent. Reminding Maris of Myrah on her wedding day. The V-neck usually found on women in the Vale had been replaced with a square one. Puffy sleeves and full skirt to round the look. The rubies in her hair net glistening, matching the ones dangling from her ears, in the light. Maris wonders how long it took her ladies to manage to put all of Myrah’s thick curls under it.

Red, black, and gold - Maris noted. It should not come as a shock. Myrah would adopt the style of the ladies in court, and she would adopt the colors of her… husband’s house.

The word sits in her tongue like bad porridge. Thick and nasty. She chalks it up to the fear of gaining one herself soon.

Myrah immediately takes her to see Baelor. Who takes one look at Maris’ face and buries his face in his mom’s legs.

“He is a bit shy,” she beams. “Likes to hide in my skirts sometimes.”

He has that in common with father. He has Aemond’s face already, with Myrah’s coloring. His eye shape, but her eye color. A skeptical look that mirrors Aemond but dark curls that fall in front of his face in an earnest way that is all Myrah.

A perfect little combination of the two. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

They sit out on the terrace that is attached to the room. A full spread already out there of various tarts and sweets. Maris goes to pour them both a goblet of wine but Myrah stops her with a sly smile.

“I probably should not,” she pats her tummy in a knowing way.

Oh.

“Again?”

It comes out more aghast and rude than even Maris wants. But Myrah just laughs, and nods.

“Yes, again,” she’s glowing again. In the way Maris knows is special to how Myrah feels about Aemond. “It is quite early on, but the maester confirmed it a few days ago.”

She tells herself to bite her tongue. To be happy and smile because she could not live with herself if she is the reason why that glow falters, but the words slip out of her mouth.

“Even after what happened after giving birth the first one,” ok perhaps she should’ve used him name. “I know Baelor took so much out of you.”

Something flashes behind Myrah’s eyes. Fear? Pain? Anger?

“I want more children,” she says curtly. “And I want my son to experience having a sibling bond the way I do.”

Maris can tell by Myrah’s defensive tone that it not the first time she has been questioned. The air is charged now, and Maris questions throwing herself off the balcony at the way Myrah’s lips downturn in a pout.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. The words on foreign on her tongue.

Myrah gives a small smile. “I know you are just worried for me.”

“Not about that,” then she squeezes her eyes shut briefly. Words were never hard to come by till she met Myrah. “I mean yes for that, but also for not coming. After I got the letter.”

Myrah’s gaze softens. It was only a week after Myrah had given birth to Baelor that Maris recieved a letter. And though the seal on it was the typical House Everlane one she had grown accustomed to breaking. The handwriting was completely different.

The queen had written on behalf of Myrah.

Myrah’s loopy, girlish caligarphy replaced by Helaena’s short and delicate one. Maris tucked the letter under her pillow in a fugue state after reading it. She slept with it as her tears mixed in with her pillow sheet. She had built up so much resentment towards Aemond. Towards a child she did not know. Only just days old. Because she could not understand a world where Myrah was not living in it.

“I understand. I did not expect people to drop everything and come to my aid.”

But I should have. I would have. For you.

“Ok enough sappy talk, let’s talk wedding plans.”

The details are miserable to Maris but exciting to Myrah. She knows she is trying to make her feel better.

“Just think about it,” Myrah picks off the candied lemon on a lemon cake. “The weather will not be as harsh, and you will still be close to by. I am pulling ranks and making you visit more.”

Myrah leans over to grab Maris’, and gods Maris hopes it is not as sweaty as she feel it is.

“I know you are worried, but if anything happens, you can tell me,” she says seriously, before a cheeky smile suddenly appears. “You techincally have the largest dragon in the world at your disposal.”

Maris snorts at the thought at Aemond playing her protector. “And how’s that?”

“Aemond has Vhagar, I have Aemond, and you have me.”

Maris doesn’t know whether cry and or to throw up.

The throwing up option only becomes more clear when Aemond finally makes his appearance. Dressed in typical black leather, but with riding gloves on. Myrah hops up like, giddy and sweet.

Maris turns away when they kiss. The brushing of noses and whispers against the lips too much too take. His hand instantly goes to Myrah’s belly. She has no real reason to dislike Aemond. In fact, it was Myrah giggling about how much they remind her of each other that made her look at Aemond differently.

Maris wished she could fight the burn in her chest when it came to him.

“Tell Maris that the Riverlands are lovely,” Myrah tugs on his hand. “You enjoyed it when Aegon and you went.”

“The Riverlands are lovely,” he repeats monotoned. Myrah swats at his arm.

“It will be ok,” she reiterated to Maris.

And gods Maris wants to believe her so bad.

Myrah is a bleeding heart. It was one of the things Aemond loved and envied about her. She is kind almost to a farce. It can titter into naivety but it was always in good faith. She frets and worries and cares so much. It’s why she is good wife, and an even better mother.

He would repopulate Old Valyria with her if she gave him the chance.

But Aemond can tell when that pretty head is working overtime. It did during dinner that night with Maris, and continued into the night.

“I guess it just, I don’t know - it put into perspective how lucky I am,” she frowns. “Her parents are just shipping her off to a man she doesn’t know. And I understand that is the lot in life for many ladies. It could have been mine. It just makes me sad.”

She goes on and on with her brows furrowed and her arms flailing.

Aemond pulls her into his lap, hand brushing against the silk of her nightgown.

“You shouldn’t work yourself up so much. It’s not good for you or the babe.”

Myrah frowns before her eyes get wide. “We kill him.”

“What,” Aemond laughs.

“If something happens to her, we kill him,” she repeats. “You are great swordsman, my love.”

“Flattery will not convince me to kill a man.”

She wraps her arms around his neck.

“Can I do something else to convince you to kill a man.”

Aemond pauses for a moment. “Probably.”

What can he say, he is weak willed.

“Good, I’m hoping you to that.”

He knows that Myrah loves Maris, and Maris… loves Myrah. He knows that look, he gives that look everyday. It’s pathetic and hopeless, and full of want.

Longing is a cunt.

Aemond hasn’t figured it out if Myrah knows, and she’s too kind to say anything. Or if she still doesn’t get the power she has over people. One night he told her in the dark. After a feast Aegon held with diplomats from around the realm.

“You’ll never have to know what it is like to want you.”

Myrah snorted and told him he was dramatic when he had too much to drink. But he woke, albeit with an alcohol induced headche, still feeling the same. She will laugh off any suggestion that she extremely charming. Aemond buried his jelousy problem well. But they sprout and take form with Myrah.

He doesn’t know if he more envious watching people naturally gravitate towards Myrah or knowing he will never possess such power.

It pulled him. It has pulled Maris in.

Myrah is the moon. The tides will always be under her control.

[cheesybadgers]

Narcos Fic: Old Habits Die Hard (Chap. 16)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Horacio Carrillo

Words: 9,337

Summary: In the aftermath of chapter 15, Javier returns to Laredo, reuniting with Horacio once and for all. Whilst they make up for lost time, questions about their future arise now they're at a crossroads, and after the phone call they had been waiting years for. Meanwhile, Chucho once again has some words of wisdom for his son.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Discussions of canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort (with the emphasis very much on the comfort), romantic sex, religious themes and symbolism (including in a sexual context), PTSD symptoms including dreams/nightmares and insomnia, discussions of grief and parental loss, smoking, swearing, drinking.

Notes: Well, I did it, guys...Operation Happy Ending is officially happening after all this time and I am emotional 😭😩 Chapter 17 is going to be in a similar vein to this chapter, as 16/17 were originally supposed to be one chapter. But, you know me, I can't shut up about these two 😂 Chapter 17 is largely done, it just needs some more tweaking/editing but should hopefully be posted soon!

Thank you as always to those still reading/commenting/making moodboards/tagging me in inspo posts or just sending me lovely messages. It genuinely warms my heart ❤️

Oh and I’ve added to my OHDH trivia post to cover this chapter if anyone is interested. 

Whilst obviously I do not own Narcos or its characters, please do not copy, re-post, or plagiarize this fic in any capacity on this or other platforms. If you wish to create any fan works inspired by it, please provide a credit or send me a message if in doubt.

Chapter 16: Like a Prayer

The taxi pulled up in front of the closed steel gates, its engine left running whilst Javier retrieved his bag from the trunk and paid the driver. Once the car was out of sight, the tranquillity of the Laredo countryside re-emerged, a stark contrast to the chaos he had left behind.

Following a brief phone call, he was expected but had insisted on making his own way back. He wasn’t ready just yet for the small talk that a long drive would no doubt have prompted, more from his Pops than Horacio. Horacio posed an entirely different problem if they had reunited in public.

There was no greeting from the dogs this time, but as soon as he opened the door to the farmhouse, Javier was hit by the distinctive aroma of epazote.

Chucho was standing over the stove stirring a bubbling clay pot, but abandoned his station to greet his son.

“Pops.” Javier dropped his bag by the door and went in for a hug.

“Javi.” Chucho patted him on the back a couple of times, pleasantly surprised at Javier’s reluctance to let go straight away as was the usual custom. “Welcome home, Mijo.”

When Javier eventually pulled away, he inhaled with concentration etched into his brow. “Frijoles de la Olla?”

“Of course. I’m making enchiladas later to go with it, but yesterday’s leftovers are in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks, I’m good for now.”

“Flights go okay?”

“Yeah. Although, I wouldn’t recommend the chairs in Houston for getting any shut-eye.”

“And how about you?”

Of course, Chucho was going to ask. Javier had been expecting it, even though he had no answer prepared. “I’m fine.” He could see from the look in his dad’s eye he hadn’t hit a convincing tone. “Well, er, y’know. Better than I was.” Now that was closer to the truth.

Chucho merely nodded in response before returning to the stove, not wanting to push it further. Between everything he had seen in the press, his conversations with Horacio, and filling in the blanks, he knew enough without needing to hear the specifics.

“You can say I told you so if you want.” Javier wasn’t sure where that came from. There was nothing in Chucho’s demeanour to warrant being defensive. He hadn’t pried or pushed or passed judgement. He hadn’t even asked what happened or why. And yet part of Javier would have preferred if his Pops had given him both barrels.

“I could, but what good would that do, hmm? I’m guessing you’re already punishing yourself enough as it is. I’m just relieved you’re home and safe. And I know I’m not the only one.”

“Where—”

“He’s been spending a lot of time in the fallow field; by the windmill. He’s up there now with Luna. Sol and Leo are with the ranch hands, but they should be finishing up for the day soon.”

“Right, thanks. I’ll take one of the trucks. See you for dinner?”

“I’ll leave some for you both to warm up.” There was a glint in Chucho’s eye as he tried to stifle what looked suspiciously like the beginnings of a smirk.

Chucho’s shrewdness never faltered, no matter how much time passed. A fact that Javier, now rather warm-faced, concluded was both a blessing and a curse. He grabbed a couple of items from the farmhouse and climbed into the faded blue truck parked up in the nearest garage, butterflies taking flight as it hit him. He really was going home now.

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Horacio was hammering the last post on the lower perimeter fence when he heard an engine in the distance. He had needed to keep busy since Javier’s phone call, a nervous energy buzzing through him as he waited. Waiting was all he’d done lately, yet the last few hours were somehow the worst.

The bluebonnets from the spring were gone, but the weather was mild and more comfortable for physical labour than in the height of summer. Still, Horacio had become accustomed to wearing his Stetson when working outdoors, especially as he left his sunglasses somewhere back at Carlos Holguín and had never gotten around to replacing them.

Give or take a few days, it was a year since they had arrived here, and the months before Javier left for Colombia felt like a distant dream. As the beaten-up blue truck came into view on the crest of the hill, Horacio would have been forgiven for thinking he was about to wake up at any second.

Luna, who had been dozing a few minutes ago, was now barking at the incoming vehicle. Although the noise switched from a warning to a greeting once Javier killed the engine and got out.

Horacio waited patiently for Luna to receive her obligatory head pats and ear rubs, using the extra time to take in Javier’s appearance. The hair at the nape of his neck had grown to the perfect rugged length for Horacio to run fingers through, and untidy yet inviting stubble dusted his chin. His eyes were covered by aviators, but Horacio could see the exhaustion in the rest of his face and posture. However, the smile he gave Luna as he greeted her was different, looser, and more relaxed. Usually, the tension in his jaw was visible, like a vice clamping his mouth in place. But that was no more.

Once Luna was satisfied, Javier stopped and looked up at Horacio, neither moving nor speaking.

Javier took his aviators off and put them in the pocket of his pink shirt, which sat beneath a brown corduroy jacket. He needed to see Horacio unfiltered, and fuck, was that the right decision. His eyes roamed up and down, admiring the fact Horacio was dressed much like he had been that night in the guesthouse kitchen. Only with a few additions Javier certainly wasn’t complaining about.

“Hey,” Javier offered, his throat still husky from travelling.

“Hey yourself.”

They held each other’s gaze again, eyes swimming with a myriad of emotions that probably wouldn’t be unpacked for days, weeks, or months. But none of that mattered for now. Because this was it. They may have taken the long route and been thrown off course multiple times, but they had finally made it here.

It was a thought that seemed to occur to them simultaneously as they rushed forwards, closing the gap within several feet. Arms circled each other in a tight embrace, and lips fused together until they were forced to pull apart to catch their breaths.

“Nice hat, cowboy,” Javier teased, the brim of it jutting against him as he peppered kisses across Horacio’s nose and cheeks.

“You can borrow it if you want. What’s mine is yours, remember.” Horacio made to take it off, but Javier batted his hand away.

“Uh-uh, keep it on. It suits you.”

Their lips met again, reacquainting themselves with each other’s taste and scent as they clung together like they were one another’s life raft. And in so many ways, they were.

They soon moved to the back of the truck, which Javier had parked closer to the row of trees skirting the ranch boundary with the river bank beyond. They weren’t expecting anyone to come by this way, but it gave them extra privacy, just in case.

Not that they had got any further than wrapping themselves around each other, fully clothed, whilst resuming the kisses from earlier. There was a luxury in taking their time, savouring the rush each swipe of a tongue or gentle nip gave them after so long with no physical contact.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” Javier murmured against Horacio’s mouth once they had simmered down.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Javier pressed his forehead to Horacio’s and let himself breathe, slow and steady. “I should never have fucking left.”

Horacio hushed him, fingers stroking through his hair. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Javier leaned into Horacio’s touch with a contented purr, the breeze a mere whisp in their hair every now and then and the trees above providing just enough shade. Neither spoke much, the silence comfortable and almost meditative. The perfect sleeping conditions, Javier thought as his muscles relaxed one by one. It was only now he noticed just how tight and sore they were. No wonder he had fallen victim to so many tension headaches.

The adrenaline that was vital to his survival back in Colombia had gradually drained away from his body, leaving behind a weary, aching shell. He curled closer against Horacio’s chest, arms encasing him and a soothing rhythm he never took for granted pulsing in his ear. Steady, grounding, home.

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Somewhere between Javier's dozing and waking, the light had faded, and the temperature had dropped, leaving behind a clear sky and a sea of stars. He hadn't meant to fall asleep for so long, but it was the first time in months he felt safe enough to let his guard down. And Horacio made the perfect pillow, apparently.

Horacio, meanwhile, had stayed awake, cradling Javier’s head against him, his fingers caressing unruly strands of hair. Perhaps it was Luna’s influence, but he saw it as his duty to keep watch over Javier, to reassure him the danger was over. To let his body and mind rest. Horacio might not have been able to protect Javier from whatever nightmare had unfolded in his absence, but he was here now.

It probably wasn’t as late as it seemed. But light pollution away from civilisation was scarce, giving the illusion it could be the dead of night any time after sunset. It was enough to lull Luna asleep across the front seats after Javier fed her the leftovers he had pilfered from the farmhouse fridge.

Whilst Horacio checked on her, he noticed a familiar item on the passenger seat next to Javier’s travel bag. “Handy this just happened to be in here.” He held up the offending item, knowing full well it was the same blanket Chucho had draped over him in the farmhouse.

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“Well, driving out here with the means to keep warm suggests premeditation.” Horacio dusted off his most convincing authoritative tone but still had to fight the curl of his lips when he caught Javier’s eye.

“I can think of better ways to keep warm, to be honest.” Javier nuzzled himself against Horacio’s neck as they lay back down, now nestled beneath the blanket.

Horacio chased the scrape of Javier’s moustache, shuddering at the contact despite the extra layer of warmth they shared. “Shouldn’t we be heading back for dinner soon?”

“I don’t think Pops was expecting to see us for a while. He was gonna leave us some enchiladas to reheat.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” Horacio shifted to face Javier, their lips and limbs drawn together like magnets. Not urgent, yet fervid and thorough, like they were making up for lost time. So much time wasted when they should have been doing this.

Zips and buckles clinked under the blanket whilst shirts were shed above it, their breaths fogging fleetingly in the space between them now that the air was brisk.

As Javier rolled onto his back, Horacio followed, landing on top of him. However, the burst of movement made Javier wince before he scrabbled beneath him to locate the source of discomfort.

His hand re-emerged, holding his police badge like a loaded grenade. “I signed my gun back in on my last day, but I was supposed to give this to Messina. Never got the chance with everything else going on.” He ran his thumb over the blue and gold lettering, stifling a cynical laugh at how the word justice had lost all meaning. “I’ll post it back to DC tomorrow.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask why I did it?”

“Did what?”

There was no holding a scoff back this time. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Horacio hadn’t expected this conversation to come so soon, assuming Javier wouldn’t want to talk about it. And Horacio wasn’t going to ask. But he slid off Javier, retrieving his jeans from the side of the truck where they had landed by chance. He didn’t put them back on but searched through the pockets until he found what he was looking for.

He wasn’t such a heavy smoker these days, but when it was just the two of them like this, it wasn’t a habit to be broken but an intimate ritual to uphold.

They slotted back under the blanket now that they were undressed and exposed to the elements. Javier accepted both the cigarette and the light Horacio held out for him. He took a much-needed drag and closed his eyes as he exhaled, his last smoke at the airport whilst waiting for a taxi a distant memory now.

They passed the cigarette back and forth several times until Horacio broke the silence. “If I had a good reason or something to lose, it’s what I would have done too. But…Javier, you really don’t have to do this now.”

“I know, but I want to. I think I need to.”

Horacio caught the pleading look in Javier’s eye, but it wasn’t just that. There was something else there, something he had seen flashes of before. The last time was here the previous Christmas, in the hay barn and by the fireplace. The first time, or at least the first time he noticed, was in Javier’s apartment the night Horacio returned from Madrid.

Horacio raised himself on his left elbow whilst his right hand stroked along Javier’s chilled skin.

“Did you ever meet Bill Stechner?”

Horacio expelled a sharp sneer, sending a trail of vapour up into the sky. “Unfortunately. Back in my SOA days in Panama and Fort Benning. When he was known as Mr Green. He was mostly an instructor for the Nicaraguan students. But he never missed a chance to lecture everyone on his favourite subject.”

He rolled his eyes at the memories of being stuck in a stuffy box of a room listening to Stechner drone on about the Cuban revolution. And that it was a civic duty to weed out communists at every turn.

“I bet that was…enlightening.”

This wasn’t the first time they had discussed their parallel histories involving the School of the Americas. In fact, it was one of their earliest icebreakers when Javier arrived in Colombia. Horacio attended multiple training courses courtesy of the SOA, at home and overseas. However, his path never crossed with Javier, who was required to complete the counternarcotics courses when he took the DEA transfer several years later.

During one of their first shared stakeouts, they talked of how they were looked down upon by the all-American soldiers for being police rather than military, and for being bilingual. They talked about how many of the classes were little more than propaganda and an excuse to further imperialism. A view that Horacio hadn’t expected from the latest gringo recruit to be thrown his way.

But then Javier always was an anomaly. Never in a million years did Horacio expect a DEA agent to become the most trustworthy person in his life. Let alone that it would be a longstanding friend and colleague who would be the one to betray him instead.

“Oh, it was.” The sarcasm dripped thickly off Horacio’s words, as he realised that the only real upside to the experience was the connections it gave him to senior members of the Colombian military. A relationship that would later come in handy both professionally and personally. “Why do you ask, anyway?”

Javier worked his jaw back and forth, gearing up for what was about to come. He took one last drag on their cigarette and explained everything. Even when his instincts told him to leave details out, he ignored his mind’s protest and continued anyway. Whilst Tolú was akin to a confession being extracted from him under duress, this was unprompted, freeing, purging.

Horacio said very little as he listened, the tension mounting in his jaw and the tightness gripping his chest more ferociously with each detail Javier revealed. Despite their surroundings, heat rose from his cheeks to his forehead and behind his pupils. A dense pressure hammered into his skull, threatening to overwhelm him if he gave it the release it was looking for. “I should have been there. I should have stopped those fuckers.” He closed his eyes to quell the sting, his voice shaking even as he attempted to tether it.

“Hey, come on.” Javier took hold of Horacio’s hand and gently squeezed. “There’s nothing you could’ve done that wouldn’t have got you killed. Or court-martialled.”

Not strictly true, Horacio thought. If he had been there and just happened to end up alone with Stechner, they could have gone for one of those helicopter rides Stechner was overly keen to promote. The ones used to intimidate captives that were usually one-way trips, unlike Gato, who had finally broken the pattern. But Horacio was confident he could make an exception for Stechner in the circumstances, so maybe it was for the best he wasn’t there after all. Although he made a mental note to buy Steve a drink – or several – the next time he saw him.

“I know,” Horacio conceded in the end. “I just hate to think of you dealing with it alone.”

“No chance with Steve and Trujillo around. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Someone needs to take care of you.” Easy banter was intended, but the rawness of Horacio’s voice and the delicate way he kissed Javier’s hand as though it was made of glass told another story.

Javier instinctively brushed his thumb over Horacio’s lips, allowing Horacio to capture it. “I know I should’ve told you everything. I’m sorry I shut you out whenever I called. I’m so sorry for all of this.”

Horacio hushed against Javier’s thumb. “Stop, it’s okay.” Another kiss, another brush of Javier’s thumb catching on Horacio’s bottom lip, followed by a more thorough kiss. “I know. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. You deserved the truth then. And…you deserve it now.” Javier withdrew his thumb and moved closer until they lay face to face, nose to nose and heart to heart.

Javier wanted to do this as soon as he got here, but he couldn’t whilst he was still so clandestine. Whilst he was still carrying so much baggage. But as he had laid everything out in the open now, there was no reason to keep it in any longer.

He took a deep breath, his palm cupping Horacio’s cheek. “I love you. So fucking much, Horacio.” He moored his forehead against Horacio's, eyes closed to halt the glassy sheen misting his pupils. But it was no use. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t say it sooner.”

Horacio caught the hitch in Javier’s breath, and attempts to swallow the lump in his throat were fruitless. “Better late than never,” he managed to get out eventually with a choked-up laugh that Javier matched. “I love you too, Javier. More than anything or anyone.”

It didn’t matter that the temperature had dropped further or that their clothes were tossed in all directions. The heat between them swelled and burned fiercely in their chests, spreading like molten lava through their limbs, all the way to their fingers and toes. A heat that had endured and grown over the years, shifting and transforming in ways they could never have expected. A heat that cut straight to the core, breaking them open and laying them bare. Forcing them to surrender, to sacrifice their mission rather than their lives, to give it all up for each other.

Horacio resumed his place atop Javier, once he had retrieved the strategically placed lube from the travel bag on the front seat.

“You really did think of everything, didn’t you?” Horacio rasped, his hand wrapped around their lengths whilst Javier’s slicked fingers probed and stretched in return.

“I wasn’t waiting ‘til we got back to the guesthouse.”

“And yet we’ve been here for hours.”

Javier added an extra finger and was met with the quivering gasp he was looking for. “Just think of it as extended foreplay.”

“So, you were trying to seduce me, then?”

“Like I need to try.”

Horacio kept his fist around them, swapping steady strokes for shallow, teasing thrusts. “Tell me what you do need, Javier.”

For several glorious seconds, Javier’s only response was to arch his back and make the most of any friction he could get. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. “I need you to fuck me ‘til I can’t think straight.”

With that, Horacio re-adjusted, sinking down inch by inch and groan by groan. There he held still, basking in being filled with a throbbing heat and feeling Javier’s shaky breaths beneath him.

Javier’s hands shot up to Horacio’s hips, but Horacio lifted them back and above Javier’s head, pinning him against the truck in one fell swoop. And still, he didn’t move up or down or from side to side; he simply anchored Javier in place.

Time slowed to an agonising pace for Javier as the release they both needed was within touching distance. So near, yet so far as he was balanced on the precipice. It was so close he could taste it on Horacio’s lips and fevered skin. He could smell it in the warm breath they shared and the lingering scent of Horacio’s aftershave mixed with fresh grass. But the longer this went on, the less patience he had. He wanted to chase it, run to it, let it consume and devour him, allow his mind to be reduced to a blank slate.

But he couldn’t. Each time he attempted to buck his hips upwards, the muscle in Horacio’s thighs responded and secured Javier down even tighter. The fingers laced between his own gripped harder, their palms fused together, one indistinguishable from the other.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just let go.”

Javier didn’t know if it was the words themselves or the man whispering them into the crook of his neck between scattered kisses. But it was the vocal permission he needed. The catalyst to still his hips and allow the fight to go out of his hands and arms.

With each passing second, Javier was rewarded with Horacio clenching and unclenching around his cock in almost imperceptible spasms. It was just enough to light the fire in Javier’s belly, the flames licking enticingly at his synapses before they were gone again.

It was the most exquisite agony Javier had ever experienced, and the urge to rebel bubbled under the surface of his skin. But he resisted. He didn’t want to disappoint Horacio. He needed Horacio to know he trusted him to the hilt. That he gave Horacio permission to take control. That he wanted him to.

No sooner had Horacio squeezed around Javier than he stopped once more, gauging when to ease off from the speed of Javier’s breathing. Or the way his bottom lip pouted as a sigh or a moan rumbled up from his throat. And sometimes, not moving was for Horacio's own benefit, the sight of Javier so pliant and at his mercy too tempting to resist.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Horacio praised as he leaned forwards. He captured Javier’s mouth, the change in angle causing sudden movement that had them swallowing each other’s whines.

Javier was torn between lapping up Horacio’s words of affirmation and needing him closer in any way possible; he didn’t care how. Before he could stop himself, he pushed upwards, breaking free of Horacio’s hold, but only to bring him into his lap. He was expecting some resistance, but Horacio went willingly, seemingly sharing the same visceral need for more skin-on-skin contact.

With cool metal pressed between their chests, they gripped at each other’s backs and shoulders for balance, Horacio’s legs wrapped around Javier and their foreheads connected.

It could have been minutes or hours they held each other, Horacio bringing them to the edge and back again and again. And Javier let him, never once bucking upwards or pleading for more. Trusting Horacio to give him what he needed, to take care of him and relieve the burden of all decisions and actions.

Javier’s hands mapped Horacio’s bare skin, noticing the extra muscle in his arms gifted to him this past year on the ranch. His fingers paused over Horacio’s right shoulder, skirting over the blemished scar and down to the centre of his chest. Javier held his palm in place until he felt a rhythmic thrum dancing in time with his own pulse.

In return, Horacio brought one hand to Javier’s chest, clutching at the chain around his neck, needing to feel the defined edges of the cross to ground himself. To remind him that this was real and not another vivid dream he would wake from to find he was alone.

“I want you to keep it,” Horacio whispered, the fragile timbre of his voice cutting through the laboured breaths he was trying to keep in check.

“What? But you said—”

“It’s yours, Javier.” I’m yours. “It was always yours.” I was always yours.

No words could form on Javier’s tongue. A small part of him still wanted to protest that he didn’t deserve it. That it had too much sentimental value to Horacio and that Horacio’s father would disapprove from beyond the grave. But those irrational doubts were overridden by the knowledge that this wasn’t just Horacio giving him a family heirloom. He was giving him his heart, a gift not easily or carelessly given where Horacio was concerned. So, Javier did the only thing he could; he accepted it.

His mouth covered any part of Horacio he could reach. It was his way of saying thank you, I accept, and I’m yours in return. A message received loud and clear by Horacio.

Their faces nudged against each other, lips, noses and chins scraping over coarse bristles, their wanton panting signifying it couldn’t last much longer.

But instead of increasing his motion, Horacio completely stilled. He kept them clasped as close together as possible, his length bobbing against Javier’s abdomen in sync with their breaths. The concept of time had no meaning; all they knew was the heat of each other, the simple logic of their bodies joining as one after too much time being forced apart.

Javier’s head lolled back, overwhelmed by the intensity and novelty of being surrounded so thoroughly by Horacio. His eyelids fluttered open as he looked to the heavens above. Maybe he was delirious, but the night sky had never looked brighter in all the years he had gazed up at it. It was as though he was seeing it for the first time again, only now with new clarity. A long overdue acceptance. A realisation that it wasn’t his to command and never had been. That his present and future weren’t written in the stars, but they were right here, in front of him. On top of him, under his skin, in his heart and soul, and on the verge of ecstasy.

With heads resting together and fingernails sunk into flesh, their intertwined form spasmed and trembled. Relentless torrents of white-hot pleasure surged through every nerve ending in their bodies until they almost blacked out. A release that wasn't just needed now, or even for the last year, but far beyond that. One they feared to even dream of in case they tempted fate or pushed their luck. But now it really was over. And they were safe, together, home.

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Sunlight was beginning to creep in through the gaps in the curtains when they stirred, slow and feline movements beneath the covers where they lay tangled.

Neither wanted to be the first to break the spell but nature called, and Javier unravelled himself from Horacio with a grumble.

Horacio watched Javier make his way to the bathroom with a hand cradling the base of his neck. His head tilted from side to side to shake out years, if not decades, of knots and tension.

Once Javier returned, he continued to stretch his arms and neck with a grimace.

“Did I injure you last night?”

“No, it’s been like this for months. Although…last night probably didn’t help.”

“Well, I’m not sorry about that.”

Javier climbed back into bed and hovered just above Horacio’s lips. “Neither am I.” The gap was closed as they shared a kiss as unhurried and lazy as their morning.

“I can help now, though.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that, then?”

“Lie on your front, and I’ll show you.”

That was a proposition Javier couldn’t refuse, so he shuffled onto his stomach, his arms wrapped around the pillow his head rested on.

Horacio took his turn in the bathroom and came back with a bottle in his hand.

Javier tried to read the label, but it was no use from this angle. The mattress dipped behind him, and he was greeted with warm thighs braced on either side of his body.

The lid from the mysterious bottle unscrewed. “This might feel a little cold at first.”

As the oil drizzled across Javier’s back, he tensed at the icy contact. “No fucking kidding.”

Horacio leaned forwards for a second and smirked against Javier’s neck. “Just lay back and relax. I’ve got you.” Much like the night before, his words glided into Javier’s ear with a smoothness that matched his ministrations.

The sweet scent of almonds drifted through the bedroom, filling Javier’s senses and encouraging him to close his eyes. “Where did you get this stuff anyway?”

“I was running some errands in town yesterday. Thought you might need this when you got back.”

“So, I guess I’m not the only one who thought of everything.”

Javier lay his head on the pillow and let Horacio work in silence, bar the odd contented hum or sigh as thumbs pressed deeper and circled over trigger points. The more Horacio worked, the looser and lighter Javier’s body became, his lips gently parting as his jaw muscles finally took a break. He tended to forget just how much tension he carried there, the ache suddenly palpable as he unclenched his teeth and relaxed his face into the pillow.

By the time Horacio was finished, Javier was boneless yet sore. But he could rotate his neck further than he had been able to in a while, and the dull throb that had become a permanent fixture at his temples was no more.

Somewhere in his blissed-out state, Javier was manoeuvred into the shower. The heat gradually eased his aches and pains as Horacio washed away the massage oil with deft, soapy hands.

Horacio's thoughts floated to the aftermath of Diana Turbay and their first weekend together after Madrid. He felt compelled to replicate the level of care Javier took of him, not to erase what had happened because what was done was done. But as an expression of gratitude for the lengths Javier was prepared to go to. To protect Horacio. To protect them. It was an acknowledgement that Javier was just as prepared to walk away from his duties as Horacio if the price was too high. If the price was each other.

Once the soap was rinsed off, Horacio’s caretaking didn’t stop there. This time, he was on his knees, with Javier’s arms braced against the cool tiles and his ass cupped in Horacio’s hands. He worshipped ravenously with his mouth, tongue, and fingers, squeezing Javier’s cheeks further apart each time Javier whimpered, squirmed, or backed up against him. He didn’t care about the deluge of water cascading down on him; the only goal Javier’s pleasure, which he chased further by turning Javier around.

Fingers pulled and gripped wet strands of hair as Horacio mouthed at the sensitive flesh of Javier's inner thighs, burying his nose in dark curls, feasting with aplomb. As though this was his real mission and what he was put on earth to do. And Javier took it all eagerly.

It was over too soon, Horacio swallowing all Javier had to give until his writhing ceased, any remnants of tension ebbing away like an outgoing tide. The warmth of the water was replaced by the warmth of shared body heat and soft towels, by breakfast in bed and the luxury of time.

When they finally emerged from the guesthouse later that morning, Javier borrowed Chucho's typewriter. He drafted and re-drafted his resignation letter several times before slotting it into a manila envelope along with his badge. He drove downtown to the nearest post office, needing it gone now his mind was made up. Now there was no going back.

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It was two days into December when the news came. Javier and Horacio were lounging on the porch swing at the back of the guesthouse when Chucho’s voice called across the courtyard. There was a phone call for them.

“Steve?”

“It’s over, Javi. He’s dead.”

Even though Javier heard and understood Steve’s words perfectly, it was as though he was processing them on a delay. He held the receiver against his forehead as he took a much-needed deep breath.

Arms slotted around him from behind, followed by a chin resting on his shoulder and warm breath skimming across his neck. The chest now pressed against him heaved a sigh of relief so hard it reverberated through Javier's body.

“Javi, can you still hear me?”

Javier’s free hand gripped Horacio’s as he brought the receiver back up to his ear. “Yeah, sorry. Loud and clear. Thanks for calling. You okay?”

“Me? Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” The exhaustion was evident in Steve’s voice, and Javier could tell he was distracted by whatever chaos was happening around him. “Shit’s just been crazy lately. I don’t know what fuckin’ day it even is, to be honest.”

“So, business as usual, then.”

“Well, what d’you expect when my partner runs off into the sunset?”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Wish you coulda been here though, Javi.”

Javier took longer than usual to swallow and had to clear his throat before he was able to respond. “I know, man. Me too.”

“Listen, I gotta head back to start packing. There’s an early flight to Miami tomorrow morning I’m hoping to make, but we’ll talk properly soon. Before I go, though…put Carrillo on a sec.”

Javier passed the phone behind him, shrugging his shoulders in response to Horacio’s quizzical look.

“Colonel?”

“Trujillo?”

“I got a shot, Colonel. And I took it.”

Now it was Horacio’s turn to compose himself, his hand grasping at Javier’s even harder than it already was. “Never in doubt.” He hoped Trujillo could hear his smile down the line, even if he couldn’t see it. “You did Colombia proud, Trujillo. Never forget that.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Colonel. So, thank you. For everything.”

“And thank you for doing what the rest of us couldn’t.”

It was jarring for Horacio to be addressed by his rank again. Almost like someone calling him by the wrong name, despite the fact he’d worn that one with pride for a long time. But a title was just that; he knew it deep down, even though he would probably have to keep reminding himself for a while.

Their conversation was brief, with few words necessary and even fewer words able to convey how they felt after all these years. It was far easier to joke about the drink Horacio definitely owed Trujillo now.

Once Trujillo and Steve said their goodbyes and the phone was placed back in its cradle, they tightened their embrace but didn’t move, silently letting the news work its way through their bodies. It was as though someone had twisted a pressure valve in their heads that had been locked for years, triggering a chain reaction that left them dizzy and needing to sit down again. 

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They returned to the porch swing, Horacio reclining against Javier’s chest as they celebrated with a small glass of one of Chucho’s most expensive whiskeys. Not only was the whiskey Chucho’s suggestion, he already had measures poured for them by the time they got off the phone.

“I knew he could do it.”

“If it wasn’t gonna be you, it was gonna be Trujillo.”

“I’m glad it was him. He’s got his whole career ahead of him. He can do whatever he wants now.”

“So can we, Horacio.”

“I think it’s more a case of us knowing what we don’t want.”

Javier huffed and tilted his head. “True. But it’s a start. I know I want to sit here with you until the sun goes down. I know I want to have a nice dinner and fuck your brains out tonight.” He nibbled playfully at Horacio’s neck until Horacio leaned further back with a suggestive grunt of approval at Javier’s plans. “I know I want to spend Christmas here again.”

“And then what?”

“Haven’t thought further ahead than that, to be honest.”

“Do you want to stay here in the long term?”

“I…don’t know. Pops isn’t getting any younger. Although, don’t tell him I said that. But I don’t think he’s done with this place yet. You seem to have taken to ranch life, by the way. Better than I ever did. I think you might be Pops’ favourite now.”

Horacio rolled his eyes and scooted his foot along the floor in retaliation to Javier’s teasing, causing the swing to lightly sway. “It wasn’t so bad. It was good to keep busy and feel useful again. To have a routine. Maybe one day, if you were serious about sticking around here.”

“People would talk. About us.”

“I’ve lived here for a year, Javier. I’m sure they already talk.”

“True. Everyone knows everyone around here. It’s one of the reasons I left in the first place. I know we’ll have to face the music one day, but…not yet.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to face Colombia yet, either.”

“Won’t the CNP expect to hear from you soon?”

“Yes. Protocol dictates I’d have to attend a medical review to rule whether I’m fit to return to duty. But that won’t be necessary.”

Taking a leaf out of Javier’s book, Horacio already had his resignation letter drafted, including a request for compensation for an injury sustained in the line of duty. He had approved plenty of similar requests from his men, so he knew the drill and was confident his claim would be successful.

“What about your family back home? Won’t they want to see you?”

“Eventually. I know I can’t avoid them forever.” Or avoid telling them about Javier, more like. “I just need some time first. Even if it’s only a few months. Or a year, I don’t know. I don’t care as long as it’s just you and me. No offence to your father.”

“None taken. He gives us our space, but I know it’s not the same. I want it to just be us for a while too.” Javier tilted Horacio’s chin upwards and kissed him, slow and tender.

Horacio responded in kind, temporarily distracted from what he planned to say next. He licked his lips; to steel himself and savour the heady combination of Javier and whiskey. "When I was in Madrid, I imagined us living there one day."

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“Maybe. But only if it was something you wanted too.”

Javier looked out across the plains, vivid memories of his late-night conversation with Steve sitting on the same porch swing springing to mind.

“I was always so desperate to get out of Laredo. Thought leaving was the answer to all my problems. But running away just created new ones instead.”

“Tell me about it.”

Javier realised he’d put his foot in it too late. “Shit, sorry. And hey, come on, that was different, and you know it. No one was trying to kill me when I left here. Well, Lorraine probably wanted to for a while.”

“No, it’s fine. But although it felt like running away to me, like I was letting people down, like I was a coward…” Horacio trailed off, caught unawares by the traces of self-flagellation that remained. “I knew I had to do it. Maybe you need to do this too. Maybe it’s what we both need.”

“It wouldn’t always be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Us being like…this. We’ve only shared the guesthouse for a few weeks at a time. We didn’t live together in Colombia. It’d be a big step.”

“Yes, it would. But it wouldn’t be until next year. And Madrid wouldn’t have to be forever, either.”

“Never said it was a bad thing.” Javier’s eyes locked onto Horacio’s as palm met cheek. “I want to build a home with you, Horacio. Wherever that happens to be. My future is your future.”

Their lips met again, Horacio’s hand finding its way into Javier’s hair as they sunk into it, only pulling apart when necessary.

“Madrid it is, then?”

“Madrid it is.”

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

The days following Escobar’s death were something of a blur. If they switched the TV or radio on or picked up a newspaper, there was one story. Funnily enough, neither Javier nor Horacio required a blow-by-blow account of any of it. People Chucho hadn’t heard from in years suddenly called or conveniently stopped by the ranch. A couple of plucky journalists attempted the same tactic but got no further than the front gate.

One of the journalists had got wind of Judy Moncada’s 15 minutes of fame in the Miami Herald and wanted Javier to go on record. The article was published a few days after Javier left Colombia; however, it took longer to appear in the Laredo press. Luckily for Javier, his local ‘hero’ status meant few people bought it. Judy was nothing more than a desperate, washed-up criminal in their eyes. But there was a strange, conflicted part of Javier that would always be grateful to her despite everything.

Phone calls to Miami and Medellín revealed Steve and Trujillo had similar weeks. Not only did Steve have to answer questions about Escobar’s final moments, but he also had to defend his former partner. And fend off accusations from less respectable publications that he was in on it all too.

Meanwhile, Trujillo was Colombia’s new hero. He already had an offer of a promotion from Captain to Major bestowed upon him, which had Horacio smiling into the receiver again when he heard the news.

The only escape they had from the media circus was getting stuck into the jobs that needed doing on the ranch. Which was business as usual from Horacio’s point of view, but it was more of an adjustment for Javier.

But he figured he should at least try, which was why he found himself up to his eyes in paperwork alongside Chucho.

They sat at the kitchen table surrounded by neat piles of forms and invoices, stacks of files and bookkeeping records. To an outsider, it might have looked like disorganised chaos. But Chucho had been doing this for so long, and he knew where every scrap of paper and figure was recorded should he ever need to refer to them. The trouble was, Javier didn’t.

He had been leafing through a folder full of livestock inventories for the last 10 minutes, unable to find the previous month’s figures and rapidly losing patience. “You do know you can employ someone to do all of this for you.”

“I do. But even Miguel is allowed time off. Plus, I like to keep an eye on everything each month. It comes with the territory when you own a business. And I’d have thought you’d be used to boring paperwork by now.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I am," Javier mumbled as he searched through the folder until Chucho put him out of his misery, locating the missing inventory in less than a minute.

“Let’s get you some more coffee.” Chucho got up to pour two fresh cups but kept his gaze on Javier. His son seemed to be lingering even when he wasn’t being particularly helpful and would clearly rather be doing anything other than this. Which usually meant only one thing.

"Thanks." Javier accepted his refreshed cup and took a long sip to try and stimulate his senses.

“So, Madrid.” There was no point beating around the bush any longer. And there was only so much of Javier in this mood Chucho could take.

“Erm yeah. Well, in the New Year, anyway. It’s not a permanent arrangement, but we both need a change of scenery. And Horacio liked living there, so…”

“You don’t need to ask for my permission or approval, Mijo.”

“I wasn’t.” Except that’s exactly what he was doing, and of course, his dad could see right through him. “It’s just…I, er, didn’t know if you wanted us to stick around. For the ranch, I mean.”

Just as Chucho had suspected, then. “You and Horacio will always have a home here, but I don’t expect you to stay put all your lives. You’ve closed the book on a painful chapter now that monster is dead. You need to give yourselves time to heal and open a new one together. In peace, out of the spotlight and the media’s glare. And on neutral ground. Pass me the rest of those.”

Chucho gestured casually towards the remaining files piled on the table as if he hadn’t just imparted the exact words of wisdom Javier needed to hear.

Javier transferred the files across the table, a question now burning on the tip of his tongue. One he hadn’t dared to ask until now. “So, did you see that article?”

“Yes, I saw it. Didn’t think much of it, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only you know the truth about what happened over there, but I know the truth about you, Mijo. Even when you think I don’t.”

“It wasn’t all lies, Dad. It didn’t go down like that, but…it still happened and I was involved.”

“I’m sure you were, but it wasn’t the presence of lies I was talking about. It was the absence of truth. Your truth. And when it comes to protecting the ones you love, it might not be easy or free of consequence, but it’s the simplest choice of all. And you made it.”

It was the second time in the last year that Javier’s vision had blurred whilst in this kitchen, thanks to his father, although he fought back the tears more effectively this time. Just. How his Pops always had the right words up his sleeve when Javier was so often monosyllabic, he had no clue. Maybe it was something that would come to him in old age.

“I know I’m not as young as I once was,” Chucho continued, almost like he had heard Javier’s last thought, “but I’m not done with this place just yet. And it’ll still be here waiting when that day does come. I know you’ve never taken your share, but—”

“Pops, no. I’m not taking it.”

“I’ve always set the money aside for you in case you changed your mind.” Chucho finished his sentence, ignoring Javier’s usual protest. And he wasn’t going to stop there, either. “It would give you chance to get back on your feet. Take your time to figure out what you both want. Just think about it, Javi. That’s all I ask.”

Javier had never liked taking money from his father. Not least because the medical bills had already done enough of that in his Mamá’s last few months. As soon as he received his first police paycheck, he insisted Chucho kept everything from the ranch.

But as his attention left the paperwork and fell on the view of the guesthouse through the kitchen window, even Javier had to admit it would be stupid not to re-consider.

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

In the first few weeks after Javier’s return, he and Horacio established a nocturnal routine in which they were both awake at an ungodly hour. Sometimes it was bad dreams rearing their heads again. Often, it was Javier being unable to sleep and his absence from the bed disturbing Horacio.

This time, however, it was Javier’s turn to wake alone in the darkness, blinking several times to clear the sleep from his eyes. He assumed Horacio was in the living room or kitchen. But as he adjusted to his surroundings, pale moonlight cast a silhouette at the foot of the bed.

“What’re you doing?” Javier croaked, his voice still thick with slumber. Although as he sat up, Horacio’s outline became sharper.

Horacio was kneeling on the floor, hands clasped together on the bed, and his head bowed. Until now, that was. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I haven’t seen you do that in years.” There was no judgement in Javier’s tone; it was merely a statement of fact. Now that he thought about it, the last time he had witnessed Horacio praying was in Cartagena.

“I stopped for a while; I don’t know why, really.”

“What made you start again?”

Horacio expelled a light huff. “Your father, actually.”

“Pops?” Now, Javier was intrigued, and he sat up further to give Horacio his full attention.

“He showed me the box for your mother’s altar. She was beautiful.”

“She was.” A hoarse, strained sound came out of Javier’s mouth, strangely caught off guard by his own emotions even after all this time.

“We had a home altar when I was growing up, but that was for prayer and worship. It wasn’t specifically about remembering my father. Looking back, we didn’t talk about him much at all. We all grieved in secret. I used to wait until no one was around to look through photo albums. Or sneak into my parents’ room to see my Papá’s uniform. My Mamá left it hung up for about a year.”

He didn’t like to touch it too much, not wanting to dilute any traces of his father still left on the fabric. But over time, he couldn’t help but notice it smelt more like his Mamá’s perfume than anything else.

“Pops builds an ofrenda every Día de Muertos, but he used to keep it up for weeks. Just in case he’d say because she was always running late.” He snorted, thinking about how typical it was that of all the traits he could have inherited, it had to be that one. “How was he this year?”

“Quiet. He visited the cemetery but said he was getting too old for big crowds.” Although Horacio suspected it was Chucho’s kind way of allowing him to avoid being left alone on the ranch for the best part of two days and nights. Or alternatively, being eaten alive by gossip mongers without Javier there to deflect any of the attention.

Still, Horacio was lucky enough to catch glimpses of the local festivities whilst running errands on Chucho’s behalf. It was the least he could do, given his suspicions. Downtown Laredo was adorned with decorations of every colour, and Horacio had never seen it so busy. Rows of papel picado were hung across streets bustling with preparations. Food stalls stood alongside artists offering prints and calavera face painting. Florists sold marigolds with queues around the block, and bakers tempted passers-by with pan de muerto fresh from the oven. If circumstances had been different, he would have happily stuck around for the full celebrations.

“But he cooked the same amount of food as last Christmas, so that kept the ranch staff and your neighbours fed for the week.”

“Sounds about right. Did he get the buñuelos?”

“Of course.”

“They are fucking good, to be fair. I loved that diner when I was a kid. We drove passed it on the way from San Antonio when you first got here. Haven’t been for years.”

“You looked happy in the photo taken there.”

“I was. We were.”

“I saw your father praying in front of it, on the ofrenda. That night I prayed too. To be closer to Papá, I suppose, I don’t know. I’ve been dreaming about him for months, almost like the dreams were telling me to reconnect somehow.”

“Makes sense. Does it help?”

“It’s early days, but I think so. It helped when you weren’t here. When I didn’t know if you were safe or…”

“When you were in Madrid, just after the attacks on the CNP, I knelt with Trujillo and…I prayed with him. For him, for them, for your return. And when I was on my way to 9th Street, and I didn’t know if you’d – if you were –” He cut himself off to swallow down the lump resting at the base of his throat. “I hadn’t prayed since I was a kid. Too many bad memories and so much fucking shame everywhere. I was already drowning in enough of that. Didn’t need any more. But for you…it just felt…right.”

Horacio looked up at Javier, cursing the gloom of the bedroom but knowing without it, he might not have heard that confession in the first place.

It wasn’t enough, though, and he rose off his knees to climb across the bed, but Javier was already moving to the floor.

They met next to the bed, the rug cushioning their knees as Horacio cupped Javier’s face and brought their lips together.

Javier caught their palms between their chests, enveloping Horacio's fingers with his own. Their gaze landed on their linked hands and travelled upwards until chestnut met charcoal, the moonlight reflecting a new, unspoken question across their pupils.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Javier let go for a second and lifted his hands to the nape of his neck, lowering the chain he often slept in. He re-fastened the clasp before placing his hands back where they were, only this time, the silver chain and cross were secured between them.

Now they were on their knees, streaks of light illuminated their forms, and they could see each other more clearly. Their breathing was uneven, the nervous energy between them undeniable as they took another first step together.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Javier confessed in a low whisper.

“It’s okay. Try some deep breaths first.” Leading by example, Horacio drew several slow inhales and exhales, and Javier followed suit. “And try clear your mind. Let it go wherever it takes you. I’ve got you.”

Javier couldn’t pretend he was a natural. And it took a few attempts to stop his mind from wandering or feeling waves of self-consciousness lapping at his feet, but after several minutes, it was as though a fog had cleared.

With their eyes closed and heads bowed, foreheads touching, they gave themselves over to a different higher power. Taking comfort and guidance in each other, in the memories of those they had loved and lost. They reclaimed a ritual steeped in guilt, shame, and sin for too many years. A ritual that had encouraged them to beg for forgiveness where it wasn’t required. No longer seeking absolution, their union was a sacrament of its own. They each other’s church, the cross a symbol of their commitment and devotion.

Their lips met in a silent amen, their hands now free to worship bare skin with praise and reverence as though they were praying the Rosary. Javier’s mouth kissed over fading scar tissue; he the priest and Horacio the altar. Each cry of pleasure was a hymn or psalm only they knew, their bodies the bread and their blood the wine as they found sanctuary in their shared embrace. Taking communion afterwards as a nicotine flame passed between them. One sacred act followed by another until they fell asleep, still recovering and healing from all that had gone before, but more at peace than they had been in years.

[blorbologist]

How does being Ruidusborn also affect Percy's relationship with pseudo-sibling Keyleth? Do their discussions if responsibility shift and change with that telepathic understanding ir does Percy's politeness and additional issues provide new pitfalls? And in a similar vein, how does his telepathy influence him when it comes to secrets VM encounter? E.g. Cass re: Briarwoods, Vex re: Syngorn, Scanlan & suude (and leaving). How much of this would shift drastically?

Hmhmhmhmhmmh

I think with Keyleth it's a bit of a double-edged sword: on one hand, if ever they're really not understanding eachother, Percy can always lean into her thoughts (with her permission) to clear up any miscommunication, so any disagreements are only as long-lived as Percy or Keyleth's unwillingness to admit defeat/realize there's a problem and mind-mesh a lil.

On the other, a Percival with mind reading powers would absolutely be less socially adept (he can skip many of the social niceties and get right to the information he wants, or finding out how to get what he wants at least) - so those miscommunications would be so much more abundant if both Keyleth and Percy are lacking social grace! It does mean that they both have a lot of common ground in learning to step up and get better at that. If Percy needs help brushing up on his social skills I could see Vex being willing to step in and help him and Keyleth refine how they approach conversation (whereas I can't recall her helping much when Percy was fine and Keyleth was Keyleth).

In-universe, as soon as word begins to get out about Percival's abilities there will absolutely be measures put in Vox Machina's path to deal with them. The Briarwoods arc would likely play out similarly, potentially being one of the first times Percy can't just pull mind reading as a get-out-of-jail-free card: Ripley experimented on him and knows well how his powers work, and Cass grew up with him and likewise probably saw how their parents dealt with it, if anything. So I could see Cass having some sort of anti-telepathy ward placed on her once the Briarwoods confirm Percy is alive, with her justifying it to VM as being a way to resist Sylas' charms. Adversaries who account for the mind reading would become more common as time goes on - the impact on Percy would definitely be interesting to see. Might he grow more distrustful, with his social crutch taken away from him? Or maybe work more carefully on his other abilities to compensate, or trust in VM more to make up for his huge blindspots when telepathy is out of the question?

Likewise, Scanlan would likely know a fair bit about Percy's powers - at least what he's shared with VM to get them to trust him, and out of respect for them. I'm honestly undecided if Percy slips up once or twice when emotions run high and brushes against Scanlan being more scared/discontent than he should be and somehow figuring out he's keeping all this bottled up... or if he doesn't, if he chooses to respect his companion despite his worries and trust him, and thus Bard's Lament goes all the worse due to Percy feeling guilty for seeing it coming and not acting.

As for Vex and Syngorn, we know Vex tends to clam up a bit about scary emotional topics for her, and even in canon when she admits her fears and hurts to Percy he has to gently prompt her here and there. I think she might actually get frustrated with herself and tell him to look into her mind himself so she doesn't have to say it out loud. Which might also accidentally reveal her feelings? Unsure!

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Just started reading And Then There Were None, i can tell its gonna be good, got the muffin and vinelle quality to it... but... I just got to the bit where Carlisle pulls Edward and Bella aside and

It doesn't fit my idea of him. Of any of them.

I'm gonna admit I think the cullins are all horrible people (in a very "we go to church don't eat humans so that means we can't be horrible people" fake way) and I don't trust any of them to raise little Resume at all. I think her best bet is to run away and cut off all contact.

Gah honestly twilight Canon is so sad because like. I don't think there IS a happy ending for her at all and to have the vampire community be so small she's just stuck with these jerks. Oof.

So as an ask, well. Could she? Run away and survive on her own and avoid these terrible people and become a stable and well adjusted adult? Or is she doomed?

Back to reading now, love the fic, fingers crossed at least little Nestlé has a halfway happy ending.

And Then There Were None an anonymous Halloween special by myself and @therealvinelle that our followers found before the reveal.

(Look @therealvinelle, praise!)

An ask in a similar vein.

The Standard Disclaimer

Anon, as always, I must remind you that You Can Write the Fic.

If you want to see a version where the Cullens are peak awful then the world is yours. No need to rely on my work as the end all be all.

Also, like the other answer, I suspect the answer I give you is not what you want to hear.

Back to Your Question

No.

Renesmee grows up essentially in a cave. Beyond the very strange month where she was nearly murdered by the Volturi and she learned terrifying things exist as a toddler her main interactions are with eight other people.

One of them has imprinted on her.

She seems to have some interactions with Charlie that will probably continue while they remain in Forks. She might, maybe, interact with the tribe though it's very unlikely given that Renesmee is half of a crystal cannibal demon that they wouldn't want anywhere near anyone.

The Denali may become a larger part of her life later but they're the Denali so... Yes.

The only reason she gets a 'might' is the very awkward imprint thing but I suspect that will only extend so far.

Renesmee has no human socialization, no human... I guess set path is the way to put this, if she loses everyone in her life (which if she leaves all the Cullens she will) then she has nothing and no one.

Everyone she knows is through the Cullens or through Jacob and never saw her as a person in her own right but more a weird messiah figure.

She would have no idea how to integrate with human society and wouldn't find any kinship among humans who are such different creatures living such different lives.

She might push through and do it anyway, because she has nothing else, but if she's rejected the Cullens then she's probably rejected that kind of lifestyle that they had.

So she's... living in a cave somewhere.

She could leave but then what?

(And that's not even getting into the 'well adjusted' bit which is ah ha ha ha ha ha ha no.)

[eccentric-nucleus]

so there's this old actionbutton review of prototype (that has apparently been removed from the actual website, which i guess is fine b/c on reflection the review overall isn't super good) that has a part that i think about a lot.

Prototype is clearly a game that was originally meant to be a challenging action game that took the concept of super-powered main characters out of the ego-trip where you simply explode in ever greater fireballs the entire universe, like a Final Fantasy character in a platformer, and into the realm of the thoroughbred racer. A realm where the power is a tool that must be used carefully, because there’s so much of it, that there’s too much of it. Restraint is what we play video games for, in a sense. We restrain ourselves from making the wrong choices. We take pleasure in our sense of timing. We enjoy learning and growing and doing and, above all, not doing (the same thing over and over, due to failure).

b/c like... yeah that's the thing with power? power invites complications; that's kind of what power is: the ability to affect change at greater magnitudes, which invariably means a reduction in your fidelity of control. unintended side-effects and all that. but the entire concept of the 'power fantasy' is about not having the drawbacks of power, & that's what video games are all about, so it makes sense that that doesn't really come up that much in games. leveling up is just Good, it makes you better at things, because if it made you worse gamers would find that to be bad design, etc

this also comes up constantly in progression fantasies. unsurprisingly!! b/c their thematic content is entirely the power fantasy, so of course getting more powerful is an unalloyed good.

there's another prose chunk in a similar vein i think about a lot that's from a wizard of earthsea, near the beginning: duny (as a kid, before he's named ged) has his island raided by barbarians and they're gonna burn down the town and kill everybody.

He had worked all night at the forge-bellows, pushing and pulling the two long sleeves of goathide that fed the fire with a blast of air. Now his arms so ached and trembled from that work that he could not hold out the spear he had chosen. He did not see how he could fight or be of any good to himself or the villagers. It rankled at his heart that he should die, spitted on a Kargish lance, while still a boy: that he should go into the dark land without ever having known his own name, his true name as a man. He looked down at his thin arms, wet with cold fog-dew, and raged at his weakness, for he knew his strength. There was power in him, if he knew how to use it, and he sought among all the spells he knew for some device that might give him and his companions an advantage, or at least a chance. But need alone is not enough to set power free: there must be knowledge.

(incidentally i think reading progression fantasies has made me a worse reader. they're frequently so wordy and yet nothing happens, and the writing never really says anything or has specific sentences that capture the mind, and so i've gotten into this really bad habit of skim-reading through them snatching out nouns and verbs. so now when i go back to reading prose that's actually, you know, good, i still end up skimming it and missing out on relevant details, since relevant details actually matter in real stories, instead of just being wordcount padding.)

anyway the rest of a wizard of earthsea is basically all about the relationship between knowledge and power and what responsibility comes with that.

i guess this is yet another post all about how i really don't like the thematic simplicity of all the progression fantasy but boy have i been thinking about that a lot as i've been writing other stuff. fun fact, 'goblin cave', my royalroad story, and 'blinded by the summer sun', the tmnt porn i've been writing, have basically the same themes b/c they're both actually about the blunt nature of power + the problem of needing power to exist in the world vs. the grotesque nature of people who seek only power. b/c as you can see by all the above that is kind of a thing i've been thinking about a lot recently. it's just one of them has turtle porn.

i mean i'm fairly sure i've mentioned it here also but they're very heavily influenced by dead zones of the imagination, which i would recommend everybody read. it's only like 20 pages.

To be more precise: violence may well be the only form of human action by which it is possible to have relatively predictable effects on the actions of a person about whom you understand nothing. Pretty much any other way one might try to influence another’s actions, one at least has to have some idea who they think they are, who they think you are, what they might want out of the situation, and what their aversions and proclivities are. Hit them over the head hard enough and all of this becomes irrelevant.

It is true that the effects one can have by disabling or killing someone are very limited, but they are real enough—and critically, it is possible to know in advance exactly what they will be. Any alternative form of action cannot, without some sort of appeal to shared meanings or understandings, have any predictable effects at all.

[...]

As long as one remains within the domain of theory, then, I would argue that simplification can be a form of intelligence. The problems arise when the violence is no longer metaphorical. Here let me turn from imaginary cops to real ones. A former LAPD officer turned sociologist (Cooper 1991), observed that the overwhelming majority of those beaten by police turn out not to be guilty of any crime. “Cops don’t beat up burglars,” he observed. The reason, he explained, is simple: the one thing most guaranteed to evoke a violent reaction from police is to challenge their right to “define the situation.” If what I’ve been saying is true, then this is just what we’d expect. The police truncheon is precisely the point where the state’s bureaucratic imperative for imposing simple administrative schema, and its monopoly of coercive force, come together. It only makes sense then that bureaucratic violence should consist first and foremost of attacks on those who insist on alternative schemas or interpretations. At the same time, if one accepts Piaget’s (1936) famous definition of mature intelligence as the ability to coordinate between multiple perspectives (or possible perspectives) one can see, here, precisely how bureaucratic power, at the moment it turns to violence, becomes literally a form of infantile stupidity.

and so on. that's power, baby! the power to define a situation and stop anybody else from objecting to your framing. by killing them!

[creativia10]

Spooky Woods Experience Part 2

Emile is nervous about going to the haunted trail where Remy is working as a scare actor. Remy gives him something to help.

Pairing: Remy/Emile

Wordcount: 664

Notes: Tuliptober Prompt 8 -Gift

I mainly put this with the previous fic because they kind of go together, around Remy working the Haunter Trail. This part is still set in Laoft, but could honestly still be read without much Laoft knowledge.

@radiocrushstarcrash

@tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors

Emile fiddled a bit as Remy got ready.

“I just think I would rather go to this sort of thing with you, you know.”

Remy sighed and turned around, now in his monster makeup for the Haunted Trail. Remy had pale grey makeup on his skin and was covered by fake bulging red veins.

“I know babe. I think it’s sweet that you’re willing to go at all considering this isn’t your usual kind of thing. I just don’t know when I’ll have the time off during active hours to go through the trail off duty.”

Emile’s shoulders dropped. “I understand. It seems to keep you busy for October. I do really want to see you there, it sounds so cool what you’re doing.”

Remy smiled a little at Emile and pecked him on the cheek.

“Maybe you can go with Elliot? The kid seems to love shit like that.”

Emile sighed. “Yeah, cause the last thing I need is to go to a scary thing with someone yall constantly refer to as the baby gay. How embarrassing would that be for them to see how freaked I get.”

“Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t think any less of you, Ems.”

“Even still. Maybe I can go with a group with Patton.”

“I’m not sure if they’re going back any time soon. There was a bit of an incident last time. Besides, do you really wanna fifth wheel Pat and his quaple?”

“Oh, they’re pretty good at not leaving friends out in a group I’d say. But if they’re not up for going I’ll respect that of course. What happened anyways?”

“Oh, one of our flyers spooked the flowers out of Logan. I think the noise might have been a bit much for Vee as well.”

“Oh, I see.”

Remy reached over and squeezed Emile’s hands.

“I may have something that can make you feel better about going if it’s really something you want to do.”

Remy reached around in a bag he had, before pulling something out before Emile. It was a bracelet of sorts.

“Here,”

Remy tied it onto Emile’s wrist. It was soft, like the bracelet was made of a ribbon or a fake leather. Over his wrist, where a watch head would be, was a firm flat circle. The circle part felt like wood, except slightly softer to the touch. On it was a logo that Emile recognized. The typical jack-o-lantern face for a pumpkin, except surrounded by ghostly wisps. The logo for the Haunted Trail.

“It’s a special bracelet some of us in the cast came up with.”

Remy reached over and pushed a little button on the side. A circle just inside the edge of the bracelet head lit up in an orange.

“If the scare actors see this, they’ll know to go easy on you. There were others who found themselves in a similar situation as us. Not wanting their visiting partners to be scared too much. Except for Dom, who I think wanted to scare his partner on purpose.”

Emile looked up at Remy with a big smile.

“Rem…that is such a sweet thing for you to do for me!”

Remy shrugged, and looked away with a smile.

“Well, you know. I wouldn’t want you to be miserable after all, Especially if I’m the reason you want to go.”

Emile traced over the etchings of the Haunter Trail logo on his bracelet with a smile.

Then he looked back at Remy and went in for a kiss. Remy of course kissed him back, with a smile. Emile sighed and leaned his forehead against his boyfriend’s.

“You’re the best.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that-“

“Shoosh!” Emile said and then booped Remy. “The best!”

Remy rolled his eyes fondly with a smile.

“Yeah yeah.”

“Maybe I will bring Elliot now.”

“Oh, they’d love that.”

“Will I take away from their experience if I have the bracelet?”

“I’d ask them. They’d probably be fine with it.”

Emile nodded. “Ok.”