#apparently never finished writing hammer..

[daily-isabeau]

Unfinished hammer

[reidrum]

like i would | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader

a/n: ok im gonna be honest idk how i feel about this one, i just wanted to finish it and put it out so apologies in advance if its not the best lol. this was requested with the prompt "i bet he can't fuck you like i can"! feedback and reblogs are always appreciated ! thanks for being paitent while i got this one out <3

cw: 18+ minors dni, smut, fingering, munch!spencer, jealous!spencer, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you whack it), reader's bf has a name which i hate in fics but its so hard to write this trope without a name so, afab!reader,

summary: a confession about your sex life makes it's way to the one person you'd hope wouldn't hear, and now he's determined to rectify the way you've been wronged

wc: 4.5k

_____________

you were a great asset to the bau. it was why you were personally recommended by emily to transfer out of sex crimes, the skill set you brought alongside the field training you had proved to be vital for the team’s success lately. you were also a great asset to the team. the bau was notorious for having people turnover fast, and you knew they were apprehensive with newcomers. but you managed to hit it off with every single member, one more than others.

spencer reid did not expect someone like you to join the team. not that he didn’t have faith in your talents and skills, he’s read your file and obviously knows you’re more than qualified to be here. he just did not expect someone who looked like you to join the team, someone who didn’t look beaten down by the horrors of the world and still believed in pots of gold at the end of rainbows. 

it didn’t help that you were so beautiful he literally would feel his heart ache when you walked in. like literally, would have to rub his chest to soothe the pain. and as spencer would, he would logic out his feelings with science because that’s all they are, scientific chemical reactions in the body. but what he felt in your friendship, what he felt when he was lucky enough to be in your presence, was something no textbook, theorem, or equation could explain.

so imagine the size of the fucking hammer coming down on his head when he finds out you have a boyfriend who: 1. is not him, and 2. is an actual real life bozo.

apparently you’d been seeing damon from organized crime for about a month now, that’s what he heard from penelope, and you ‘claim’ to be super happy. 

spencer doesn’t buy it.

he’s seen the way your ‘relationship’ operates, and he’s got the facts to back it up. damon never lets you get a word in when you’re in group settings, even purposefully talking over you when you’re clearly attempting to speak. majority of the time he’s condescending about your job as a profiler for the bau, saying that him and his team bring down drug rings, but you guys ‘just read their horoscope or whatever and decide the killer.’

it made spencer’s blood boil hotter than the sun. he couldn’t figure out why you put up with it, and why you continue to.

the final straw that broke the camel's back about his disapproval on your relationship choices, is what he overheard on the jet one time on the way back from a case.

the girls were talking in the back of the jet, unaware of spencer’s very awake mind despite his visibly sleeping body.

“i don’t know guys,” you had started with a sigh, “you think it’s weird right?”

“that your own boyfriend won’t go down on you? yeah hon, that’s fucking weird.” emily strikes.

“what did he say exactly?” jj asked.

“he said it increases the risk of STIs on the mouth? and doesn’t like the feeling of thighs crushing his head? and that even with all the … grooming … it’s still unnatural ?”

emily gagged while jj continued, “um…but do you like…on him?”

“yes! he literally won’t touch me unless i do!” you rage whisper.

“i am about to give him an organized crime to deal with,” emily half jokes, “what an asshole, why are you still with him?”

“i don’t know, he’s still nice to me i guess, and maybe i’m just being dramatic. or maybe i’m just not someone people go down on, who knows.” you sigh.

spencer stops listening, he can’t hear you talk so poorly of yourself. not when it’s so far from the truth yet you’ve been indoctrinated to think it’s accurate. how anyone could take advantage of you like that is beyond him, but it did light a fire inside of him and made him determined to help you realize you deserve so much better. if that happens to be him, then who is he to fight that?

—

spencer doesn’t get his chance to prove it to you for another two weeks, when you’d come over to his apartment for a movie night after getting in a fight with damon, your date night being canceled and leading you to spencer’s doorsteps, all dolled up with tears lining your eyes asking to come in.

he doesn’t even have time to be mad at your shithole boyfriend when he’s ushering you inside, offering you to sit on the couch while he goes and put a kettle on the stove for tea.

“i’m really sorry to just show up like this, spence.”

he doesn’t even blink before calling out from the kitchen, “don’t apologize, i’m always here for you. anytime and anywhere.”

you give him a soft smile before returning your gaze to the soft glow of doctor who.

he returns cradling two mugs in one hand and a pack of haribo gummies in the other. spencer doesn’t care for gummies, he’s more of a chocolate guy, but he knows it’s your favorite. so he makes sure to keep a couple bags in his apartment for you.

“my favorite!” you gush. his heart warms at your smile as he sits next to you on the couch. you naturally gravitate towards him to lean your head on his shoulder, and it’s automatic for spencer to wrap an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer.

the whirs and whooshes of the tardis fill the silence for the next hour as you visibly become calmer than when you first arrived. he decides this is a good time to ask, “do you want to talk about it?” as he turns his head to look at you.

“i don’t know,” you say quietly popping another gummy in, “i’m starting to believe it's just a me problem. like, maybe i’m just objectively not a great partner, and that’s why we keep getting in these fights. you know this time, he said i’m not worth all the effort and stress i bring him and that because of me he’s gonna bald at 29? i’m not a scientist like you or anything but even i know that, at least, can’t be my fault.” you end with a chuckle.

spencer knows he should probably comfort you in this time of honesty you’ve graced him with, squash your insecurities like a pesky bug on the windshield, and tell you how beautiful you are in as many words it’ll take for you to believe it (and he knows a lot of words).

but right now? he’s just fucking pissed.

not at you, never at you. at your situation, yes. at that sorry excuse of a partner let alone agent, immensely.

so he can’t help what escapes his mouth next, “why do you let yourself get treated like shit?”

you look up at him in surprise, at both the cursing and what he said, “what?”

“you’re constantly talking about how awful he treats you, and yet everyday you still go back to him knowing it’s going to repeat the next day. i just want to know why you don’t respect yourself enough to not let that happen to you.”

pulling away to sit far from him on the couch,  you start letting the annoyance show on your face, “spencer, that’s not fair at all. you think it’s my fault? do you really think i want to feel like this?”

“yes!” he shouts, “you seem like you do with how much you crawl back to him everytime, and everytime you let him back in.”

“okay, i think i should go,” you stand up and grab your things, “it was a mistake to come here, goodbye spencer.”

he grabs your wrist before you can get too far, “i just have to know, what is it?”

“what’s what spence, let me go.”

“what keeps you going back to him, it can’t be because you love him. it’s obviously not because you’re happy with him,” he lets out.

“you don’t know anything about me or my life, spencer!” you snatch away your arm and start heading towards the door.

“it’s definitely not because the sex is good, because i know it’s not.”

any emotion you had on your face wipes away like an etch a sketch, staring blankly at the door, hearing the man you’ve harbored a crush on since you started at the bureau years ago, telling you he knows your sex life is abysmal.

your voice comes out small, “h- how would you know that?” you don’t dare to turn around, knowing that if you did any resolve you held onto, any denial of emotions you’ve stripped from yourself would come pouring out like a broken dam.

the couch groans at a loss of weight, and the floorboards creak closer and closer to you.

“i heard you, on the jet.”

you’re especially glad he can’t see the blood draining from your face. if your heart already wasn’t at your feet, it’s most likely six feet under at this point. 

he heard you?

“when you were talking with the others about how he doesn’t reciprocate, and won’t sleep with you unless you get him off.” he continues.

the room is getting hotter by the millisecond, temperature about to be comparable to the sun’s core. it’s one thing to have just anyone hear the intimate details of your life, but spencer? the man to which you’d been using damon to get over?

the only sound that can be heard is your increasingly heavy breathing, and spencer feels like he’s caught a fish on his line and is ready to reel you in as he inches closer to you.

“you’re okay with that? not being taken care of in the way you deserve?”

his presence is merely nanometers behind you, the ghost of his fingers looking for landing on your hips. when you don’t move away, and he hears your breath hitch at the contact, he sets his hands more earnestly on your curves as he leans down to the nape of your neck.

“just don’t know,” kiss, “how anyone,” kiss, “wouldn’t want,” kiss, “to give you everything.” kiss.

your head lolls back onto his firm chest as he whispers in your ear, “cat got your tongue, sweetheart? you were so mouthy not even five minutes ago. be honest with me, has he even ever made you come?”

the whimpers escape you without warning and you find a single decibel of voice to speak, “spencer…” hoping the whine would dissuade him to let it go.

“uh uh, i asked you a question,” his arm tightens around the front of your waist to press back and fully feel him, “answer me.”

your lexicon has depleted except for the one word you know he’s desperately waiting for you to say, and the one he knows is the answer. yet you know the second it leaves your mouth, everything changes. and maybe you’re okay with that.

“no.”

spencer hums lowly, “has anyone made you come?”

“no.” you say again, softer this time.

“should we change that?”

this was not what you expected when you came to see him after your failed night out. the amount of processing you’d done in the last year to essentially not be thinking about spencer 24/7 was extensive. and you were ready to render it all useless in a matter of seconds.

so you let the strap of your bag fall down your arm and hit the ground with a thud, and finally turned around to look the good doctor in his eyes. while his voice held traces of anger and frustration, you came to see his eyes were full of reassurance and comfort, the spence you always knew to prioritize your wellbeing more than anything.

he looked down at you and slid his hand to up to cup your jaw, and he hears the smallest murmur, so delicate yet so full of want leave your lips.

“yes.”

that was all spencer needed to catch your lips in a heated kiss, moving your body to the closest wall as he places a hand behind your head to protect you from the wall’s impact while the other pins your waist to the wall.

you move your arms to wrap around his neck and keep him pinned to you with no escape, like he’d ever want to. his lips detach from yours and make a descent towards your neck again, taking deliberate effort to locate the sensitive spots.

he finds one just behind your ear and spends time sucking and bruising up the spot, relishing in the soft whimpers leaving your mouth. while you’re lost in the sensation on your neck, you don’t notice spencer move one of his hands closer to the button of your pants, effortlessly (and impressively) opening it up.

detaching from your neck with a heavy pant, he moves back to lean against your forehead with his own and look you in the eyes to ask, “is this okay? we can stop if you want, i didn’t mean to be so forw-“

“please don’t stop.”

he searches your eyes for any conflict and finds none, considering it the okay to continue his downward descent. he returns his lips to the second home they’ve made on your lips and starts to push your pants down over the curve of your ass, leaving your panties on.

the flash of purple lace underwear glares at him when he glances down, and suddenly he remembers what got him in this position in the first place.

“were you wearing this for him?” he lets out condescendingly, “you really think he deserved to see you like this?”

spencer’s fingers brush against your front, leaving your heavy breaths hitting him in the face. you can’t think of anything to say. hell, you’re not even sure if you know any words right now. all you can offer is a pathetic moan, and spencer doesn’t think that’s enough.

“come on, don’t get all shy now. what were you expecting him to even do, hm? thought you said he didn’t care about making you feel good.” he taunts as his middle finger traces the outlines of your cunt through your panties.

you shudder at the contact, leaning your head back against the wall as he refuses to break eye contact. he’s waiting for you to say something, raising his eyebrows expectantly as he’s slowed down his movements on you. taking a shallow breath you open your mouth, “h-, he didn’t care, just thought if i ke-, kept looking nice he’d wanna, fuck, do something.” you moan out.

“and did he?” he moved his hand back up to slowly slip into your panties.

his finger dips all the way down to your entrance to gather your wetness and spread it all the way back up to your clit, your mouth dropping open as you let out a whiny, “no.”

“what a shame.” he dips a finger into your hole and you let out a pornographic moan.

he drags his finger in and out slowly making sure to watch your face as it contorts in pleasure. once he feels you’ve gotten used to it he slips in a second finger, increasing the pace and moving his thumb to circle your clit again.

“oh fuck,” you cry.

“baby, you’re so tight.” he whispers. the way you clenched around his two digits made feel almost pussy drunk, and he wasn’t even inside you yet. he starts to wonder if damon was doing anything really to prioritize your pleasure, and it only just worked him up more. he felt more determined to bring you to finish, so he picks up the pace and increases the pressure on your clit.

you drop your head to his shoulder no longer being able to hold yourself up anymore, the sensation of his fingers on you taking over, loose whimpers and moans falling out of your mouth every other second.

“spencer…shit, i’m gonna come…”

“let go for me, baby.” he whispers in your ear.

the pleasure barrels through you like a wrecking ball, knocking the wind out of your mind and body. your legs turn into jelly and you almost fall before spencer holds you up. you try to regulate your breathing into his shoulder, hoping to calm down before you look up and meet his eyes again.

he makes that choice for you when he gingerly lifts your head up, his eyes silently asking if you’re okay. you don’t even bother responding before softly pressing your lips to his again, hoping he can feel your response to his silent question.

the kiss picks up in urgency, and soon his hands are back to exploring your body again. they slide down to the backs of your thighs while he murmurs a small, “jump.” and lifts you to wrap your legs around his waist. without breaking the kiss he walks you both to his bedroom and places you on his bed with care.

his fists flank you on both sides as he leans down to kiss you, and he moves further down kissing along your neck and chest. you reach down to the bottom of your top to pull it over your head, leaving you in the purple lacy bra that matches your panties.

he detaches from you and stands at full height, gazing at the sight of you spread out on his bed with your hair framing you like a halo. he can’t even help himself when he says, “you look so beautiful, angel.” the blush rises to your cheeks, and you beckon him to come back down to which he happily obliges.

spencer moves down further towards your hips, and his lips ghost over the lace band spreading along your waist. his fingers play with the fabric and he moves his face to be directly in line with your clothed cunt. your breathing gets heavy, and you anticipate what he’s about to do.

“wait, you don’t, you don’t have to do that, spence. i already came.” starting to feel a bit guilty at the man above you potentially feeling obligated to do this, as you realize that if he heard you on the jet, he heard about the one thing damon refused to do for you.

“sweetheart, i’d love to keep making you feel good as long as you let me, okay? you gonna let me make you feel good?” he breaths, pressing chaste kisses to your inner thighs.

you give a slight nod and he gently pulls your panties off your legs, marveling at the light glistening off your cunt. he kisses up the plush of your thighs before pausing right where you need him the most. you look down at him and meet his unwavering eyes full of love.

he places a long kiss to your core before licking a long stripe. you moan out languishly, the euphoric feeling taking over every sense in your body. you’re unable to comprehend how you went so long without feeling this, it almost feels criminal. and the way spencer was eating you out, felt like this was doing it for him too even though you were the one getting pleasured. 

it turned you on even more to know he was getting off on how much you were enjoying this. your head was spinning off into another realm, and the only thing tethering you to this reality was the grip of your hands in his hair. his tongue made circles and shapes all over your cunt before dipping down to thrust into your hole.

your thighs shake and threaten to clamp shut on his head, and he uses his wide hands to wrap around your thighs to hold them in place. “oh my god fuck, that feels so good…spence…please..” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for, but of course, spencer does when he adds a finger into your hole and moves his tongue to focus back on your clit. the combined sensations were enough to tip you over the edge for the second time tonight, your release glistening on his chin as he moved back up to kiss your lips again.

your heavy panting tries to bring you back down from your high, a mix of sweat and the taste of you lingering everywhere. 

spencer smooths your hair back as he moves his body to lie next to you, “i think, damon’s a fucking loser, if he doesn’t think that’s worth doing.” he says between pants.

you hum in agreement, or just in acknowledgement at whatever he said since you’re still reeling from the endorphin release. hiking your leg over his body to straddle him, you clumsily reach for his belt and attempt to undo the clasps to reach his growing member. you pull his pants down and palm him through his boxers, reveling in the broken moans falling from his mouth. you start inching downwards when spencer grabs you by the forearms and flips you over so you’re back on the bed staring up at him.

“not tonight, sweetheart. it’s about you right now, wanna make sure you know what you deserve.”

“but…” you pathetically respond.

“i don’t know what that neanderthal tells you, but sex is not transactional. i think if i ever see that guy again, i’d punch him for making you think otherwise.”

the words go straight to your core, turning you on even more. spencer takes note of how your pupils widen and your chin tilts up towards him.

“besides,” he presses his crotch to yours, “the sex wasn’t even that good with him, right?”

you moan out again, unable to find words to satisfy his question. he leans back up and off the bed to fully remove his boxers and you finally get a good look at what was underneath.

holy fuck, he was huge. you propped yourself on your forearms to get a better look at him, and watched as he lazily stroked himself while he sauntered back over to you. the image was so lewd, you hoped you could borrow some of his eidetic memory so you could hold on to this moment forever.

his face held a smug smirk at your awestruck one, and he felt his ego inflate even higher, “by the looks of your reaction, i’m guessing he’s never been much of a, challenge, for you in bed has he?”

you dumbly shake your head no, “definitely not as big as you.” you whisper, more to yourself than him.

his smirk grows wider, “don’t worry, baby, i’ll take real good care of you.” he says as he climbs over you to line himself up to your entrance.

you feel him slowly start to push in, the sensation of being split open growing bigger by the second. your brows furrow and your eyes are shut tight as you wait for the pressure to turn into pleasure.

if spencer thought you around his fingers had him pussydrunk, what he’s feeling now has to be close to pussy poisoning or something because he cannot think of anything in existence that feels as good as the walls of your cunt clenching around his cock. it’s taking everything in him to not break, to just fuck you senseless and reach his peak.

once his hips are flush with yours and he’s fully settled within you, he waits for you to give him the okay to move.

you, on the other hand, have never felt more full ever. damon was not nearly this big, nor has any other guy you’ve been with. it’s a bit of a miracle on how it fit inside you, and how it felt better than anything you could’ve imagined. the pressure and slight pain subsides, and with a slight nod spencer takes the cue to start moving.

the first thrust has you both moaning out in harmony together, and he sets the pace nice and slow so as to make sure you’re comfortable.

but it's not enough for you, you need him to fuck you.

“spence…harder.”

he stills at your word, leaning up so he’s perpendicular to you.

“whatever you say, princess.”

and he starts pounding into you, hips rutting at a pace you can’t even keep up with. the whimpers and moans gush out as the familiar coil begins to build within you. he taps your leg to lift it up over his shoulder to allow him deeper access, and he’s able to reach that one spot you’d heard about from all your friends, on reddit, in movies. you had no idea this type of feeling even existed, and spencer was hitting it with precision every single thrust over and over.

“fuck,” you whine.

“that feel good, baby?” he teases, “the way you’re squeezing my cock so tight, i doubt that fucker ever made you feel like this, huh?”

your tits bounce with every thrust, and the deepened angle has you reaching your climax fast. spencer feels it too and drops his head to whisper in your ear.

“i bet he’s never fucked you like this,” he continues his taunt, “he’d never be able to fuck you like i can, make you come three times in one night like i can.”

you whimper, “spencer,”

“say it, sweetheart. say no one’s ever fucked you like me.”

he was trying to kill you, death during intercourse would be a crazy way to go out but it’s a fate you’d be willing to accept. nonetheless, you comply.

“never ever, fuck, been fucked like you, baby.”

spencer has never felt more satisfied, “good girl, now come.” and with a final thrust he lets you reach your peak as he releases himself into you.

in the midst of groans he gingerly pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss.

the next few minutes are just filled with the sounds of yours and his heavy breathing, before spencer leans over to you, “was that too much?”

still in your daze you let out a soft giggle, “spencer, i think you’ve ruined all men for me.”

he smiles back, “i meant what i said, damon’s really stupid if he’s not willing to do all that for you.”

you intertwine your hand with his, “you know, i never really liked him anyway. i was just using him to get over you.”

“me?” he says incredulously.

you nod, “i didn’t know if you would’ve felt the same so i just tried to move on to someone else, stupid i know, but i don’t know it made sense then.”

he pulls you closer to rest in the crevice of his chest, “i have been into you since the day you walked into the bullpen, and letting you slip through my fingers is a mistake i will never make again.”

you hug him tightly before groaning out loud, “shit, i have to tell damon it’s over now don’t i.”

“i mean, i could tell him if you want.”

“spence, no. i think you might kill him.” you laugh, “i can do it, i just don’t want him to get all ‘organized crime’ on me.”

“just tell him i have a gun.”

“so does he?”

“mine’s bigger.” he smirks.

you roll your eyes, “well, yes.”

[jeeaark]

Let the latest patches add whatever new dialogue they write in, but Patch 0 gave me free range to ✨interpret✨ and this will forever be Greygold's canon, HA

For all intents, I did the hell heist as the last-last quest before the finale (So as to be fully prepared and supportive "finishing" babe's personal quest) AND BECAUSE OF THIS, I was tired. Greygold was tired. I was ready to beat the game. I was rushing. STEALING FROM RAPHAEL WAS STRESSING ME OUT. and I dared not go back. So even though Greygold did not want to go through with Haarlep's "game", I couldn't have picked a worse time to forget about their "always another way" philosophy Poor Half-orc was so determined not to fail Lae'zel's personal quest that, for once, ignored companion disapproval. And apparently, with Lae'zel not disapproving nakey Greygy, it looked like Babe was willing to retrieve that hammer no matter the cost either! Until Haarlep said they wanted nakey Greygy to play a "game" with them.

Babe disapproved that time. Babe, who's been cranky all this time, thought not even this way was worth getting the hammer for. Babe still cared about what happened to Greygold.

So by the gods, I happily reloaded and thankfully found a different way, HUAH. Thank you, Babe. Found out later that apparently going the Haarlep way would've suuuuucked. Saved by the babe. Thus I concluded why Babe was so cranky and can't kiss to save her life (I'm looking at you patch 6). And why Greygold's never had another hrm- pleasant conversation with Emps since the last time.

Poor sleep-deprived Lae'zel was bugged as hell killer coconut not because she was mad at Greyg, but because she'd been burning through all of her energy and affection by trying to protect Greygold from any further illithidry influence.

[harryforvogue]

i wrote something. it has nothing to do with my existing characters, but i had fun writing it and i need different things to write here and there or else i go insane. i don't think it's coherent but here you go! <3

(no OC named, just used she/her pronouns)

***

Christmas Eve, 1947

She doesn’t understand why people accept invitations if they’re just going to stand in a corner and brood. The purpose of parties is to socialize, to flirt, to have fun. Nothing good comes from avoiding people like the plague. At that point, why even bother showing?

Although, it’s hard to be angry when the man doing the avoiding is someone she's had a crush on for a very long time.

Harry stands close to the window by the Christmas tree in the living room, staring almost angrily at his whisky. He throws his head back to finish it off, and then sighs deeply, turning his head to stare out the window. It’s been steadily snowing for a few hours now. Perhaps he’s regretting ever coming to such a bland party, or perhaps wondering how badly he’d injure himself if he flung his body out onto the white snow. Judging by the look of his face reflecting on the window, she thinks he must be the most miserable person there.

Her friend has gone all out for the party though. Brought out her most expensive gramophone to play delightful Christmas music and passed around drinks. At first, the population of people in the living room were shy. The men on one side, the women on the other. But after one daring man crossed over to speak to one of them, the night officially began. 

However, Harry remains far from the mingling people. His eyes are downcast, his index finger running over the rim of the glass. He's in his own dark thoughts.

Apparently her staring has been noticed by several of her friends who have prodded her, urging her to go speak with him. ("Come on. don't be scared." "Don't be a baby." "Maybe he'll kiss even you." "Maybe you can replace his old lover." "Maybe someone will finally show interest in you." -- The last one particularly hurts but it's just friendly banter, isn't it?) They bother her for nearly half an hour before she decides it's a decent opportunity. She gives in.

Stealing a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, she slips into the sea of people and manages to come out unscathed at the other side. Her heart hammers in her chest, but with a few quick breaths, she reminds herself that all she’s doing is pouring the man a drink. There’s absolutely no harm in that.

She stops before him, awkwardly stepping past the tree. His head turns towards her and with a single look, her heart is thundering again.

“Hi,” she says, holding up the bottle. “Can I get you another drink?”

Up close, Harry is devastatingly beautiful. She loves the crease between his eyebrows, the slight pout of his mouth, his strong brows, and his firm jaw. He towers over her by half a foot, standing in his evening suit, one hand in his pocket. Up until this point, she’s only ever seen him from afar. This close, she’s struck by his handsomeness, despite the signs of annoyance. 

She recalls the first time she’d seen him a number of years ago. He’d been casually dating another woman, and he’d taken her dancing at the same country club that she’d been at with her own date. They’d snagged eyes only once during the night, but since then, he’s been all she can think about.

When she’s lucky enough to see him in public or at these parties, she tries to convince herself to talk to him. She’s never been able to until now. Her friends ridicule her for it, but she simply does not have the confidence.

Tonight is different, however.

Harry’s attractiveness isn’t visible to only her of course. He’s been known to date often. But now, there’s another reason why people don’t speak with him.

She heard from a friend who heard from another friend who heard from her cousin that Harry’s sudden disdain for people comes after his wife died while they vacationed together in Milan. He’d left London for Italy just six months ago, and they say that all his letters told them how happy he was. How he loved the new country and its weather and how would live there forever with his new bride. She went by the name of Alessia. Or maybe it was Cecilia. 

And then she died. Caught a disease of some kind. 

Her friends have gossiped extensively about it.

“I wouldn’t ever get involved with a man in mourning,” one friend said. 

“It’s absolutely profane,” another said.

"But maybe you'll have some luck," a third said. "You always seem to get the weird ones attached to you."

(This is true given her horrible dating history, but the jab isn't very nice even if it's from a friend.)

Harry looks at the bottle in her hand and then nods, pushing his glass out. She pours in the liquid.

“Are you enjoying the party?” she asks him.

Harry takes a sip and then says, “Yes.”

“I’m sure you know everybody here, right? You’ve lived in London your whole life, I imagine.”

“I know enough of them.”

She tries to pose it as a humorous observation. “And yet I haven’t seen you talk to anyone since you’ve been here. And I haven’t seen you dance with anyone at any party. I find that you and I are invited to similar gatherings. Maybe we have mutual friends?”

Harry looks at her for some time without answering.

“Maybe,” he finally says, and then finishes his whiskey.

His eyes flicker to glance at something behind her. His brows pull together some more.

She tells him her name. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you want to move to another comfortable place? I can give you a tour of the house, if you’d like, or maybe–”

“I’d rather not.”

"Oh. Then another drink?"

"No more," he says icily.

Her heart stops. “Oh. Right, sorry.”

He puts his glass on the window sill and tucks his other hand into his pocket. “Is this amusing to you?”

She blinks, taken aback. “Sorry?”

“Getting me to talk to you. Don’t be coy. It must be so fun to mess with me.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can see all your girlfriends behind you. From the look on their faces, they’re having more fun than you right about now.” He shrugs a shoulder. His eyes are suddenly darker, the twist of his mouth making her hands clammy. “You got a laugh out of them. Are you proud of yourself?"

She whips her head to look at her friends who are indeed laughing. To her horror, it seems like they’re laughing at him.

“No,” she says, turning back to Harry. “They didn’t send me here. We’re not–”

“Just leave.” He says her name, but it’s so cold, she feels it stabbing into her ribs.

“No! No, it wasn’t– I didn’t tell them I was coming to talk to you.”

“It must be hilarious.”

“They didn’t put me up to it. I wanted to talk to you!”

Harry raises a mocking eyebrow. “And what could you have to say to me?”

She feels flushed, suddenly put on the spot. All she was prepared for was pouring him a drink. But now he looks at her like he really dislikes her and it’s all too much. And so she blurts, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

Harry’s gaze instantly hardens. “My wife?”

“I thought that you weren’t feeling well because of it so I wanted to make you feel more welcomed. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable and nobody put me up to it, I swear. I wanted to offer my condolences and I say that I didn’t think it was fair for people to treat you weird, okay? That’s all.”

She holds the bottle of whiskey close to her chest, mentally swearing at herself. With a final apology, she goes to leave, but Harry suddenly holds his arm out to block her from leaving.

He has a funny look on his face. “Condolences? For what?”

Her dress is way too tight right now. Her head is spinning.

“For your wife passing away, of course.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. “My wife is alive and well.”

And that’s supposed to make her feel better, but now she feels even more foolish. She squeezes her eyes shut and swears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, it must have been a rumor. I’ll– I need to leave, I’m sorry. I'm so so--”

He doesn’t move his arm though. “Is that what’s happening? All these people don’t know how to talk to a man with an, apparently, dead wife?” 

And then he does the strangest thing. He laughs. It’s a bitter laugh, but it’s soft and there.

“Why do people think my wife is dead?” he asks.

“I didn't know. I should really go. I’m sorry–”

“No,” he says, holding her elbow now. It’s gentle, but firm. “Do you know who started this rumor?”

“Er, no.”

“I don’t think it's me that your friends are playing a joke on.”

Tears burn in her eyes. “Yes, I realize that now.”

He releases her elbow then, and runs a hand through his hair. “My wife is not dead. She didn’t return with me from Italy, but that doesn’t mean she’s no longer alive.”

“Right, of course.” She ducks under his arm. “Goodbye now.” And then rushes away. Her ears burn with anger and embarrassment. She thinks she hears him calling her name, but she continues to leave the scene. She most definitely hears the rest of her friends laughing. 

***

It turns out that hiding in a room for the duration of a party is a lot harder than it seems. Two hours later, she calmed down enough to want to leave the party. She fixes her dress, the bow at the collar, and the gold pins in her hair. She can't do anything about her red rimmed eyes though.

She’ll have to run out of the house because there are still too many people there. She swings her door open and starts to move, but crashes into something hard instead. She nearly falls onto the floor, rubbing her head with a soft swear.

Harry stands before her, looking down with a frown on his face. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

She hastily fixes her hair. “I'm fine.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I was looking for you. I thought you left earlier.”

“I’m leaving now.”

She goes to move around him, but he grabs her hand. “Wait. I need to apologize. I didn’t handle that well at all.”

“Nothing you need to apologize for.” She tugs at her hand in his grasp. “I really need to go home.”

“I shouldn’t have just accused you of being part of something you weren’t. That was very wrong of me.”

“It’s fine. I’m just going to–”

“They’re not your friends. You should never trust–”

She doesn't need that reminder. A sudden spike of laughter from downstairs rings in her ears. “I get it. I do. Now please move.”

He blocks her way again.

“My wife isn’t dead. She’s not here and we’re no longer together, but she’s not dead and I’m sorry your friends did that to you. Listen, hey. I think it’s very nice of you to have come up to me to make me feel better. Really. It’s very kind. And if you’re leaving, I’d love it if you let me walk you home.”

She frowns deeply, looking up at him. “That’s not necessary.”

“I feel terribly guilty for adding onto the torture unknowingly.”

“You didn’t put them up to it.”

“No, but the way I spoke to you was wrong. Please let me walk you home.”

His eyes are earnest, his hair unraveling and falling into his eyes. He releases her hand and waits patiently for her answer.

She wasn’t planning on going home tonight. She’d asked her friend if she could stay over in case the blizzard worsened, but since she’d rather not stay, she doesn’t really have a choice but to leave. The cabs won’t even be running at this time.

“I live far,” she says. “You don’t have to do this, Harry.”

“But I want to. Also,” he shrugs and offers her a sudden charming smile. “I’m a gentleman, though I didn't act like one and I need to make it up to you. I don’t want you to walk home alone.” He turns and holds his arm out. “Come. You can wear my coat.”

She looks at him for a moment, and, afterwards, his arm.

Then, she steps forward and takes it, nodding once. “Okay.”

“Good.”

***

Outside, the snow is almost up to their calves. She’s shivering despite Harry’s coat around her shoulders and his arm around her waist. The only thing that keeps her from falling onto her face on the asphalt is their conversation.

Currently, Harry’s talking about how he was exempt from war as a medical assistant. Now, he’s opening up his own practice in London with his brothers. Family medicine in every way, he calls it. When asked what else he would do if he weren’t a doctor, he says he’d be a professor.

Harry is impressed by her own resume. A published writer. His eyes are bright when she tells him she’ll give him a copy of her book free of charge next time she sees him.

Through chattering teeth, she asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, you said you are no longer with your wife?”

The weird twist of his mouth suddenly returns. She regrets asking.

“We’re in the process of separation.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

“But still.”

They don’t say anything else about that matter.

By the time they’re home, Harry’s holding her hand and she’s all but running to her front porch.

“Would you like to come inside?” she whispers, her fingers trembling as she unlocks the door. “I could make you a hot cider before you leave?”

“I believe your family would mind."

“They’re not home. Off at their own Christmas party.”

"So you'll be home alone?"

The question excites her, but his concerned look tells her he's actually worried about her safety, not the possibility of them being alone together.

"Yes. For the night." It can't hurt to tempt him.

Harry looks conflicted. Under the grey sky and falling snowflakes, he looks near angelic. With a swipe of his hand, he removes the from his face. “No, I don’t think that would be right. But.” He steps closer. “If it’s all right. I’d like to see you again.”

Her heart jumps to life. “Would you?”

“Yes. Can we make it happen?”

Her fingers tremble for a different reason now. “Yes. I'd like that.”

“Good. This Saturday?”

“Okay,” she breathes.

“How’s dinner sound?”

“Wonderful.”

He laughs. “Good. I look forward to it. And bring me that book, yeah?"

"And you don't mind that it's a boring old romance?"

Harry smiles. "I've been looking to expand my tastes, miss." He then ducks his head in a small bow. "Goodnight, then.”

He waits a beat longer and then then turns, carefully walking back down the steps. He lingers by the sidewalk until she’s safely in her home and then puts his jacket back on. 

She locks the door, slides down onto the floor and screeches excitedly into her frozen hands.

[pinkcherryblossomphonecase]

This is a movie, right?

(A short story about Cooper being under @soonyouwillgo ability. Please check out their ability to get a understanding what's happening.)

(The people I like to tag when I write these things @oscarsgallery , @tatsuhikoshibusawa , @lets-play-a-game )

One step at a time.

One step at a time.

Deeper and deeper into this forsaken basement.

I don't want to be. I never wanted to be here. Not especially with him. Him and his horrid comedy mask, always smiling back at me. But even the smile of the mask cannot hide the true intentions and feelings of this man.

He pushes me around. Forces me to do things against my will. Beat me like a broken doll, that's because I am. This man hates me. Magician will forever hate me.

To him, I'm just some plaything, a useless mutt.

What he does to me he doesn't care.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. The blindfolded wrapped around my eyes slowly becomes undone. What I expected to be a harsh cold basements is instead a bright stage with lights all over, props on the floor, and actors standing, around reading their lines. This was a movie set. I believe it's always has been a movie set.

I think....

Magician put his hand on my shoulder before shoving me a movie script. I gave a flip through it, but there was nothing there for me to read, everything was blurry. It doesn't matter though. By Magician's orders apparently I was given the main role, which has no lines other than to do improv. I was give one task. To walk around stage and act like I'm at a festival until I beat "my enemies" with a tool hammer.

It's all for a movie. Everything is fake so no actors would be truly harmed. The hammer was fake, yet it felt so heavy in my hands. The blood was fake, yet the coldness of it against my skin felt so real. The actors screams and cries for mercy were so spot on that I can't even tell that they're acting anymore. Even when they acted dead for the shot of this "movie" they refused to get up.

The hammer was still in my hand, covered in fake blood. So was the rest of me covered in fake blood, all over my face and costume for the filming. I stood there looked at the last actor I just finished the scene with, waiting for the next set of directions for the next shot.

My gaze lingered on the actor on the floor, he's really good at actin dead like the other actors. I wonder how they do it? I turn my head towards the camera, right beside it stood Magician, slowly clapping.

Was he pleased with my performance this time? Did he like my acting? I hope so! I think I did a good job acting this time, I tried to be real as possible. Maybe he'll give me some food like he promised! More than just table scraps!

I gave a smile to the camera and then the lights when out.....

There was a pounding in my head, everything in my sight was blurry, my face was on the cold floor. What happened? Why is it so dark in here? Where's the film set?

There were no stage or lights or cameras around. Just the cold ambiance of the basement. A all too familiar place to me.

That's when it settled in.

Not again. Please don't tell me it happened again.

I gasp and sit up, looking around the room frantically. This is the basement, not a film set, but I thought we were filming a movie? We're still performing right? Right?

My eyes look down and my hands tremble with the sight of blood all over them, along with the tool hammer from earlier. The blood felt dry to the skin, how long has this been on my hands?

That's when I drop the hammer once I see a pile of all the actors I worked with in a unmoving pile on the floor. This can't be right.

It's all fake right?

It must be all fake, right?

Please tell me this is only acting right?

It must be acting. It has to be!

A inhumane laugh fills the room, mocking and laughing at my suprise. My vision is still blurry but now it has gotten worse as I felt like crying. I covered my ears as the laughing came closer and closer. Soon before I knew it, Magician and his never frowning mask stood before me, laughing his heart out.

"Great performance, Cooper. They're dead because of you, perfect for the movie. All perfectly filmed to." Magician held his camera, holding it in front of me to mock me. He pushed me out of the way as he started to head upstairs.

"Well I had my enterprise for the day, this will go great with all my other recordings." He said with a smug tone, heading up the stairs. He gave one last comment about halfway up. "Oh and by the way. I lied about giving you extra food. I ate it all since I don't want to share with a mutt like you." And with that he left the basement, locking me down here for the rest of the night.

I felt my legs gave away and I collapse onto thw floor, crying to myself. Of course this happened again....

[friendsoup]

WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS ON THE FLOOR READING THE SOBER THOUGHTS FIC⁇⁇⁇⁇⁇⁇⁇⁇ IT WAS SO GOOD ESP FOR MEDICINE POCKET.... WOULD IT BE ALRIGHT TO ASK FOR A PART 2 TO IT? like how reader finally sobers up but doesn't exactly remember what had happened after they got hit with diggers atk until pocket and dikke explain it to them ⎯ bla bla BLAH reader is flustered and embarrassed, frantically trying to hide away and make excuses for their actions even though they were completely pure truths of their affections towards them, and even going as far as to say "Pretend it never happened/you didn't hear it!" how wld pocket and dikke react ... or more like, return reader's feelings while also being embarrassed abt the situation

Sober Thoughts Pt 2

Recipe: Romantic fluff, Proper confessions, Hungover! Reader, Reader x Medicine Pocket, Reader x Dikke, GN! Reader, Devoted Dikke, Playfully teasing Medicine

WC: 1,979 (one day I'll get 1999)

Chef's Note: OUGH sorry this took so long!!! I'm working on like. 3 fics at once. I just happened to finish this one first lmao. I hope it's what you were looking for! I certainly had fun writing it!

The first thing that comes to you is the pounding in your head.

It feels like someone’s beating you with a hammer, a dull thud banging over and over again into your temples. Your brain feels like it’s being squeezed, making it hard to think, or comprehend anything but the pain. Has it always hurt so much to live? 

Against all better reasoning, you attempt to open your eyes. Slowly, they peel open, instantly flooded by the lights and colors of your room. It feels like a stab to the eyeballs, your head throbbing in response. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. Since when does seeing hurt to do? “You’re awake.” You hear a familiar voice say. Cautiously, you turn your head again, peeking out of one eye. And there they are. Medicine Pocket, sitting right next to your bed. Their hair is undone, falling over their shoulders in a messy cascade. Their eyes look tired, but they’re still managing to pull a smile. “You’ve given everyone quiiiiite the heart attack.” They chuckle, poking your forehead. “Come on, sit up. I have some water for you.” That is music to your ears. 

You scooch upwards, your sore muscles screaming at you to stop. It feels like you’ve just ran a marathon, your body inexplicably pained by… something. Something you can’t quite remember. Medicine shoves a cool glass of water in your hands, and instantly you feel better. Just the cold touch of the glass is enough to relax you, and when you put the glass to your lips? The relief is like no other. You gulp it down greedily, finishing the cup in a matter of seconds. You hand it back to Medi, feeling slightly better.

“Bunny Bunny has something she calls a ‘hangover cure’ that she’s cooking up for you.” Medi states, snorting. “Apparently it’s popular. Both Pavia and Centurion swear by it.” You can barely comprehend what they’re saying, your mind swimming in pain. But the sound of their voice is comforting. You’re glad they’re here, next to you, during this time of need. However, there’s something on your mind. “What… what happened last night?” Your confusion makes Medi burst out into laughter. You writhe in pain as the sound hits your ears, the shrill laughter doing nothing for your headache. You shrink down into your bed, hitting your head against the pillow as you prepare for something terrible to come out their mouth. “You got hit by one of Diggers’ bubbles.” Medi explains between laughter. “You were out of it.” You groan, bits and pieces returning to you. “When we got you to the suitcase, you nearly fell face first down the stairs. I had to catch you.” “Nooooo…” “You started petting Pickles, then broke into tears over how fluffy he was.” “Noooooooooo, don’t remind mee…” You hide your face under the covers. “You sang karaoke with Regulus. I have it on camera.” “Nooo you don’t! Pocket, come oooon…” “You also told me you loved me.” You freeze, suddenly tensing. Surely you didn’t… did you? “Oh.” Is all that can escape you. “That’s…” You bite your lip, not knowing what else to say. “You said I’m smart, and skilled in battle, and stupidly beautiful.” They trail on.

Your face feels as if it’s on fire. You want them to stop, yet you can’t make the words. 

“You said you think about me at night, and that every time I look at you I set you on fire.” “Please, please stop!” You beg, tears beginning to well in your eyes. You can’t stand the teasing any longer, it’s too much. “Just forget about it, alright?! I wasn’t in my right mind. I was out of it! Just act like it never happened, okay?!”

Medi flinches back at your sudden resistance. You’ve never snapped back at their teasing before. This was new. Had they accidentally hit a nerve? 

“Hey, I’m-” “No, just stop! I know you want to continue to make fun of me, but I can’t take it! Everything hurts, and I ruined our friendship, and I just want to be left alone so I can rot forever!” You sob, tears rushing from your eyes now. Your head pounds further, but nothing hurts as bad as the tear in your heart. “[Name]!” Medi exclaims. “I’m sorry!” “You’re…” You wipe your face with your blanket. “What?” “I’m sorry. For teasing you.” Medi rubs at their neck, staring at the ground. “I didn’t know you’d be a big baby about it. I’m sorry.” You blink. For as long as you’ve known Medicine Pocket, they’ve never apologized. You didn’t think it was possible for them to. That they’d explode if they ever tried. Though it wasn’t the most ideal apology, it was more than what you were used to from them. “But.” Medi continued, slowly. “I can’t just forget about it. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’ve said.” A blush falls upon their cheeks. “[Name], you make me happy. Like, really happy. There’s something about your idiotic face that makes it hard for me to think straight. I’ve never… I’ve never really felt that before. For anyone. It’s weird and confusing, and sometimes I think I hate it. But I want to be with you. Even if it’s just for a bit.” “Medicine…” You look up at them, eyes as round as saucers. “Yeah?” They ask, catching their breath. “You picked the worst time to confess!” You break into a smile, wincing at the sudden movement. “Really? While I’m hungover of all things?” You reach out a hand, playfully pushing them away. “At least I’m not doing it mid-battle! Like some of us.” They playfully whap you back, a smirk returning to their face.

The two of you laugh, before falling into a pleasant silence. “I’d like to give us a shot, [Name].” Medi says, bashfully looking towards you. “I’d like that too.”

Drunk Words pt 2

You have a nightmare that night. In your dream, a large eagle with red eyes stares daggers into you, while you attempt to escape from it’s twisted forest.

No matter where you turn, it’s always ahead of you, it's bird face full of hatred. You duck under branches, twist between trees, and hide under brush, but you can still feel it’s glare wherever you go. Always lurking.

Always ahead. You wake with a start.

The first thing you notice is that you’re covered in sweat. Your clothes stick to your body, making it nearly impossible to move and breathe. It’s a gross sensation, nearly unbearable, made worse by the fact that it’s paired with a killer headache.

Your head pounds, your stomach churns, and everything feels hot and close. You feel as though there’s been a great pressure placed on you, and it’s slowly crushing you into the bed. You force yourself to sit up, wiping your wet forehead with an equally wet arm. Your vision is hazy, blurred and swirling as the room rocks around you. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re in your room. And that there’s someone at the door. The eyes from your nightmare fall upon you, as blank and as cruel as you remember them to be. You flinch back, then flinch again at the pain, as your head spins in confusion. Wait. You know that red glare! “Dikke?” You ask. You didn’t realize it until now, but your mouth is horribly dry. It feels like someone shoved cotton into your jaw and left you to choke. “Yes, M’lord?” Dikke asks, standing up a bit straighter. “What are you doing in my room?” Dikke’s face goes red, her eyes falling to the floor. “Making sure you’re protected, M’lord. I couldn’t be too careful.” Now, you might be out of it, but you’re pretty sure there’s no threats nearby. What the hell was Dikke talking about? “From…what?”

Dikke’s face grows more embarrassed, as she lowers her head now, trying to shield her expression. “You see, you were… compromised last night. You were in a vulnerable state. I had to make sure you got the rest you needed to recover, and that no one took advantage of your stupor.” Well that was at least sweet. You think. Not that you suspect anyone in the suitcase would really do that. The worst would be Tennant, who’d probably try to swindle any remaining money out of you. But other than that? You trusted the people you worked with.

Slowly, memories return. “Oh,” You groan, the cause of all this hitting you like a freight train. “I got hit by one of Diggers’ bubbles, didn’t I?” You sigh, dragging your fingers through your hair. “I didn’t do anything too embarrassing, did I?”

Dikke shakes her head. “You wanted to go out and, uh, socialize, but I put an end to that. Once we got back, I made you dress and go straight to bed. To prevent any further harm from being done.” You sigh in relief. “That’s good. Thank you, Dikke.” “Except- there was one thing.” 

Oh no.

“You…” She stumbles over the first word, you can see she’s struggling to get it all out. “You told me that… Well, the thing is, you said something. And I… I’m simply wondering… Ah, no, that’s not it.” You lean forward, intrigued by the hesitation. “You told me that you loved me.” She finishes, giving a pitiful look to you. “Gah! What? I did?” You exclaim. You don’t remember that at all! “How- What- Huh?” “It was not a full confession.” Dikke admits. “You told me that I was beautiful, and then exclaimed ‘I love you’. But you were quite out of it…” Her expression twists between sad and expectant. It’s clear that she wants you to say something, but you aren’t sure what. “I probably didn’t mean it in a romantic way!” Probably? God, could you be any less convincing?! “I probably just meant it as a friend thing! You know? How friends call each other beautiful and stuff?” You’re sweating bullets all over again, making the bed even more uncomfortable. “Ah.” Dikke looks quite defeated, her gaze returning to the ground. “So you mean to tell me, you do not have romantic feelings for me?” What are you even supposed to say?! The brave knight of justice has never looked so pitiful or small. She looks like a gentle wind could blow her down! You bite the inside of your cheek, closing your eyes as you try to find the correct words to say. “If I did have romantic feelings for you, hypothetically, what would you say?” You ask, opening one eye to study Dikke. “That my heart burns for you as well. And that I want to pledge my unyielding loyalty to you, and to our love.” She states, bowing. “Well, what if, again hypothetically, I said I wanted to take it slow at first? Ease into the whole, unyielding loyalty thing.” “Oh.” You see the gears turning in her head as she stands up straight. “Yes, I’m sure I can do that too.” She coughs into a closed fist, glancing away.

“Then, well…” You sigh. “I do like you. And I do want to take things slow.” You admit, crossing your arms. The light which appears in Dikke’s eyes are like no other. She’s like a kid seeing a christmas tree for the first time, all wonder filled and bright. She runs to your side, kneeling at your bed. Looking up to you with so much admiration, you could swear it was almost worship. “You’re being truthful, M’lord? Yes?” “Yeah, I am.” You sink under her gaze, not used to it being so soft. It’s cute. Too cute. “Then I will be your knight, yours and yours alone, to defend you and follow you to the ends of the earth.” She swears.

You wonder, briefly, what you’ve gotten yourself into.

[massivedrickhead]

41. "Sleep. I'll keep you safe.”

Oopsie, I got a little serious with this one. Defintely more hurt/comfort than fluff. I don't know if this is good or not, I'm very tired and this took much longer to write than I thought it would.

Trigger warnings: violence, injury, blood, panic attack

Prompt taken from here

Read on AO3

-

Chloe’s hands were shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, her driving bordering on reckless, as she sped down the highway and towards the hospital.

Theo’s words were still ringing in her ears as she thought of every possible scenario, each one worse than the last. 

“Don’t freak out, but there was an incident at Beca’s show.”

Chloe laid on her horn as a car swerved out of its lane in front of her, and she forced herself to slow down.

She’d be no use to Beca if she got herself killed.

“What do you mean an incident?! What happened?!”

“She’s okay, but we’re taking her to the hospital.”

Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest that she thought it might break through her ribs. She’d never been so happy to see the sign for her exit.

When she reached the hospital she parked haphazardly in the first space she saw, and sprinted towards the ER, where she knew Theo was waiting for her.

“You don’t need to come-”

“Don’t even bother finishing that sentence.”

She pushed her way through the crowd of paparazzi that the hospital security was managing to hold back.

By the time they realised who she was Chloe had made it through the double doors and was marching towards Theo.

Their shouts and the flashing of their cameras chased her down the hall.

“Theo!” She said, as soon as he was in sight.

She saw him tense and brace himself.

“Chloe-” he began, his hands held up as if to try and placate her.

“Where is she?” 

He sighed and gestured for her to follow him. “She’s getting stitched up. I told you, she’s okay. She’s cracking jokes with the nurses and everything.”

Chloe had to swallow every ounce of anger she had because if she didn’t she would have hit him.

“Don’t tell me she’s okay,” Chloe said. “How the hell could you let this happen?”

“Don’t blame this on me,” he snapped back. “How the hell was I supposed to know some weirdo fan would bring a brick to a meet and greet?”

Chloe stopped walking, a cold wave of nausea sweeping over her. “What?” She asked, her voice now quiet and shaking, 

He grimaced and stopped too. “Sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t told you the details yet, had I?”

Chloe felt like she was going to throw up, or pass out, or burst into tears. “Someone hit her with a brick?”

Theo nodded.

“Wha… How?”

“He wrapped it,” Theo said. “Had it in a gift bag. Venue security didn’t question it when he went through the bag check.”

Chloe’s hands were covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes. “He could have killed her,” she said.

“She’s okay,” Theo said. “They did a head CT and it came back clear, it’s just a superficial wound.”

“Please, just take me to her,” Chloe said. Theo nodded and they carried on walking.

Chloe could hear the laughter before she got to the room, and she tried to quickly remove any trace that she’d been crying.

Theo opened the door to the private room Beca had been given, and Beca’s smile grew as she saw Chloe enter.

“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Shut up,” Chloe said, any attempt at trying to seem calm out of the window. “Of course I had to come.”

Beca rolled her eyes, which was difficult for her to do while someone was stitching up the gash on her forehead. “Everyone, this is my wife Chloe. Chloe, meet Dr Bauer, who is the head of plastics.” She gestured to the doctor stitching her up. “And this is his intern Dr Larson, who apparently isn’t allowed anywhere near me with a needle.”

“Not on his first week he’s not,” Dr Bauer said. “I’m not having you out there on tour with a messy scar because I let some intern botch your stitches. Nice to meet you, by the way,” he added glancing at Chloe.

Chloe just nodded.

“Here, honey,” a nurse said, who had been sitting at Beca’s other side. She gestured to her spot. “I offered to hold her hand until you got here.”

“This is Nurse Stevens,” Beca said.

“Trish,” the nurse said, shaking Chloe’s hand.

Again, Chloe just smiled politely and took the nurse’s seat. She took hold of Beca’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

She wanted all of these people to leave.

She needed them all to leave.

Because Beca might have seemed calm, but Chloe knew her wife.

Chloe knew when she was On, and Beca was On right now. She was Beca Mitchell the popstar. The Grammy winner. The celebrity.

These people would go home and talk to their friends and family about this. They’d remember it. 

And Chloe knew that Beca was doing everything in her power to mask how she was really feeling.

Because Beca had never been good at letting her guard down, and her years in the spotlight had hardened every one of her defences. Had made her an expert at putting on a smile and hiding how she really felt.

But Chloe could see right through them.

She’d always been able to see right through them.

And she knew without a doubt that, right now, Beca was terrified. 

They’d been able to read each other like a book for years now, and Chloe could see the fear burning in her eyes. Could feel it in the way that Beca squeezed her hand. 

Beca was running on adrenaline, and she was using it all to keep the shake from her voice. To keep the persona up. 

She hated Theo for not being able to see it.

He’d told her Beca was okay, but she was far from it. 

“Do you know how much longer?” Chloe asked, voicing the question that Beca couldn’t. 

“Almost done,” he said. 

Chloe ran her thumb back and forth across Beca’s knuckles and gave her hand another light squeeze.

You’re okay, I’ve got you.

“And she can go home after this?”

“Sure,” he said. “Neuro checks came back clear, so once these are done she’ll be good to go.” He looked at his intern. “What does she need to watch out for over the next few days?”

“Uh, headaches that don’t go away with painkillers, vomiting, loss of consciousness, seizures, memory loss, changes in behaviour, vision loss-”

“Kid, I’m not going to remember any of this,” Beca said. “And that’s not because of the head injury.”

“We’ll give you some pamphlets,” he said, blushing slightly. “All the information is in there.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said.

“Okay,” Dr Bauer said, “you are good to go, Ms Mitchell.”

“Thanks so much,” Beca said. “If I ever need a face-lift, I know who I’m coming to.”

“Really, thank you for everything,” Chloe said. She turned to Trish. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

“Just doing our jobs,” she said, smiling. “Ms Mitchell, if you want to hop in here, we can get you moving.” She patted the seat of a wheelchair that an orderly had just brought.

“Really guys, I can walk,” Beca said. Chloe could see that her edges were beginning to fray. 

“Hospital policy,” Trish said. “Come on, we’ve rolled out the red carpet and everything.”

Beca shrugged and smiled, and got into the wheelchair. 

“There’s, um, a few paparazzi at the main entrance,” Chloe said, trying to sound casual. “Is there another exit we can use?”

“We’ll take care of them,” one of Beca’s security guards said. 

“I don’t want them following us to my car,” Chloe said, lowering her voice. 

“We won’t let anything happen to her, ma’am,” he said. 

“Something already happened!” Chloe snapped. “I’m trying to stop it from getting worse!”

“Chloe,” Beca said, “it’s okay. I can handle it.”

But you shouldn’t have to, Chloe wanted to scream. 

They reached the hospital entrance and Chloe saw the lights already to begin flashing through the doors. Both Beca’s personal security and hospital security managed to force them back enough to form a gap for Beca, Chloe, and Theo to walk out.

They followed them to the car. Shouting questions, camera bulbs flashing. 

“Hey!” Chloe snapped, turning on them. “She has a head injury, can you fucking cool it with the flashing lights?!”

Beca tugged Chloe’s hand and they carried on walking.

The pictures didn’t stop. 

“Chloe.”

“I know,” Chloe said, squeezing Beca’s hand as they reached the car. “I know, baby.”

Chloe could hear it in her voice.

She was about to break.

“Keys,” Theo said to Chloe. She tossed them to him without a second thought. “Beca’s security will follow us back and keep watch tonight. I can call an Uber later.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said. 

They reached the car and Chloe helped Beca into the back before climbing in beside her. The cameras couldn’t penetrate the blacked-out windows, but that didn’t stop the photographers from trying.

“Fucking cockroaches,” Chloe muttered as Theo pulled out of the parking lot, laying on the horn when they crowded the car.

Chloe waited for Beca to make a joke about her potty mouth that only came out when Chloe was stressed, but it didn’t come. 

Beca was finally letting herself feel the panic. The fear. 

“You’re okay,” Chloe said, trying not to wince as Beca’s hand tightened around hers. “Just take a breath.”

Her breathing was coming in short sharp gasps, and Chloe knew they were in the beginnings of a panic attack that would likely last the rest of the night.

“Do I need to go back to the hospital?” Theo asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“No,” Beca and Chloe said at the same time,

“I have her,” Chloe said to Theo. She focused her attention on Beca again. “I have you, okay?”

Beca nodded and tried to focus on her breathing.

“I thought I was going to die,” Beca said, between gasping breaths. “Why did he do that?”

“I don’t know, baby,” Chloe said. 

The drive home seemed to take forever, but finally, Theo was pulling up to their drive and hitting the button to open the gate. 

“Get her inside,” he said. “I’ll sort everything out, out here.”

“Thank you, Theo,” Chloe said. 

“Stay home for the next few days,” he said. “It’ll blow over.”

Beca seemed calm again as they got out of the car, and she walked steadily towards the house without looking back. 

Chloe followed, her hand resting on Beca’s back.

When the front door was finally shut behind them, Chloe wasted no time in pulling Beca into her arms, letting her own tears fall as she clung to her wife.

“I was so scared,” Chloe said. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Beca clung back, her eyes squeezed shut as she buried her face into Chloe’s neck.

Her head was hurting badly, the gash on her head stung and throbbed as the local anaesthetic began wearing off, but that all felt small compared to the panic that was growing larger in her chest.

“Can I get you anything?” Chloe asked, unwilling to let her go just yet. “Water, or something to eat?”

“No,” Beca said. “Just… Please just hold me.”

“Okay,” Chloe said, holding her tighter. “I can do that.”

They stood there for a while in the entryway of their home, Beca wrapped protectively in Chloe’s arms until Beca spoke again.

“He looked at me like he hated me,” she said. “What had I done to make him hate me like that?”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Chloe said, finally ending their hug so she could look at Beca. 

Her eye was beginning to bruise now, and Chloe thought it might have started swelling too. There was dried blood in her hair and all down the front of her shirt. 

“He gift-wrapped it,” Beca said. “He planned it. What if… What if he’d brought a knife? Or a gun?”

“Hey,” Chloe said, cupping Beca’s face with her hands. “Look at me. He can’t get you now, okay? He was arrested, and even if he wasn’t, your security guys are right outside.” 

Chloe pressed a kiss to the uninjured side of her head.

“Come on, you need to rest,” Chloe said, taking Beca’s hand and leading her upstairs. 

Beca tried to change out of her clothes, but her hands were feeling too clumsy. She couldn’t get them to cooperate enough to un-do the buttons on her shirt, so Chloe took over. 

“I don’t feel good,” Beca said, watching as Chloe eased her out of her shirt. 

“Do you feel like you need to be sick?” Chloe asked, trying not to panic.

Beca shook her head, which turned out to be a mistake. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Bec, talk to me,” Chloe said. 

“I just feel…” Beca trailed off as she searched for the word. “I keep going from numbness to fear and I just… I don’t feel like myself.” She let out a huff as tears fell quickly. “I want it to stop. I want this day to be done.”

Chloe swallowed the lump in her throat. “I know you do,” Chloe said. “I do too. I wish I could say something that would fix this, but all I can do is promise that I’ll be with you every step of the way through whatever happens next.”

Beca nodded and gave Chloe the first genuine smile she’d had all night. Chloe helped Beca out of the rest of her clothes and into a baggy t-shirt.

“Thanks,” Beca said, climbing into bed.

“Does your head hurt?” Chloe asked, looking for something concrete that she could do to help. 

“Yeah,” Beca replied. 

“I’ll get you something,” Chloe said.

She grabbed a bottle of water and some painkillers, and while she was downstairs she looked outside.

She could see that the paparazzi seemed to have left, but Beca’s security team was still there, and that made her feel safer. 

She double-checked that both the front and back doors were locked before returning to the bedroom. 

When Chloe got back, Beca was scrolling on her phone, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“It’s already on the internet,” Beca said. 

Chloe didn’t tell Beca that she already knew. While they’d been waiting for the doctor to finish stitching her head up, Chloe had been fielding texts from the Bellas.

Chloe sat on the bed beside Beca and had to stifle a gasp when she looked at her phone.

It was one thing to hear about it, but quite another to see it in high definition. To see it looped, again and again. The brick connecting with the side of her head. The confusion on her face being quickly replaced by fear and then pain. 

“Okay,” Chloe said, taking Beca’s phone from her hand. She closed whatever app had been open and put her phone on the nightstand. “Here, take these.” She handed Beca the pills and the water. Beca did so without complaint. “You need to try and get some rest.”

“I can’t,” Beca said. “Everyone has seen it now. What if they all get the same idea? What if… what if they come here? The press knows where we live, anyone could have followed us home.”

“Shh,” Chloe said, gathering Beca into her arms. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Beca said.

“I know that I’m not going to let anything else happen to you,” Chloe said. “I know that there are men and women outside right now who are here to protect you. And I know that you’re running on adrenaline right now and that sleep feels impossible, but you need to try.”

Chloe knew Beca wasn’t going to lie down and try to sleep willingly, she was too wired for that, so she adjusted their positions until Beca was lying with the uninjured side of her head on Chloe’s chest.

As carefully as she could, Chloe began stroking the hair from her face, making sure not to get anywhere near her stitches.

“Do you want an ice pack or anything for your head?”

“No,” Beca said, her breathing beginning to even out. “Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chloe said. “We’ll call your therapist in the morning to see if she can squeeze you in.”

“She’s probably seen the video,” Beca said. 

“Well, then she has all night to figure out what to say to make it better.”

Beca gave a soft laugh.

They stayed in that position for hours, the only sound was the occasional sniffle from Beca. At one point, Chloe asked if she wanted her to turn out the light, but Beca said she’d rather keep it on.

Chloe knew her eyes were fixed on the doorway, waiting for someone to burst through the door and attack her.

“You need to try and sleep,” Chloe said. 

Beca gave a grunt in response, and Chloe knew that was all she could manage. All her energy was going into just keeping her eyes open.

“Sleep,” Chloe said again. “I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

It wasn’t a choice anymore, and Chloe felt Beca’s body finally relax against hers.

[myymi]

picture frame

Sonic sighed as he fell onto the couch, grunting when he landed on his tail in an awkward way that caused it to bend weirdly. He shifted to fix it, glancing over at the table as he did so. He wasn’t sure why he did it. His eyes landed on the picture that sat atop of it—the centerpiece, he thinks is what Tails calls it. It was of the two of them, Knuckles, and Amy. Back in their younger years, after their first adventure as a group.

Amy was in the foreground, one arm holding up a peace sign as the other stretched to hold the camera with a big smile on her face. Her quills had been a lot spikier back then. She started styling her quills to mimic a more human-esc haircut when she moved into Station Square, but the spiky style would come back if you saw her early enough. He’s not sure why she felt like changing from the green and orange combo to her red dress, but she probably had her reasons. Knuckles was a bit behind her, a confused scowl on his face as he stared at the camera. They hadn’t properly explained what it was. At least—not in a way the echidna would understand. His stance was stiff and awkward, still a bit unnerved by Amy’s presence. Couldn’t blame the guy, not after spending, like, 13 years alone on a flying island. Perched on Knuckles’ shoulder was Tails, the only one who could get away with touching the echidna at the time. Actually, that’s a lie. Sonic could get away with getting a good punch if he pushed the right buttons. The newly 6 year old had an even bigger smile than Amy, brown fur still fighting the gold to be the more prominent color as one of his arms looped around Knuckles’ neck to keep him up there with the echidna's hand holding his legs. His other hand was holding Sonic’s, who had his trademark wink and grin combo while his other hand was holding up a thumbs up. Tails had grabbed his hand because he had tried to do ‘bunny ears’ behind Knuckles’ head, and the little guy apparently didn’t want that in this photo. That’s fine—he got him a later time, anyway. Sonic sat up and grabbed the picture, running his thumb over the frame. It was very detailed, but surprisingly cheap. And when he says cheap he actually means free, because Tails had made it himself. He didn’t want their first group picture to be stuck in just any old frame. It had to be a good frame, you know? Most of the carvings were just thoughtless swirls and whatnot to fill the space, but a few emerald drawings were freckled around. The main focus was the corners of the frame, each painted their respectful colors. The kid had taken the time to carve out specific shapes that he felt represented them all well enough. A chili dog for Sonic, the Master Emerald for Knuckles, and a piko piko hammer for Amy. The fox was so focused on getting his friends’ symbols down perfectly he’d forgotten to carve out something in his own corner. And, well, Sonic just couldn’t let that slide. Tails was the coolest guy around and if anyone deserved a special symbol in a picture frame it was his little buddy. So one night, after making sure the kid had fallen asleep, the hedgehog snuck out the frame and carved out his two tails. It was a bit rougher than the other symbols. Sonic never was good with tedious things like that, especially when he did it with his hands. He struggled enough with writing, but it thankfully wasn’t too noticeable. Tails had been so confused by it when he woke up the next morning, but shrugged it off. He probably assumed he just didn’t remember craving it. Sonic kept quiet about it, because he knew if he told the kit he did it he’d try to give the teen credit for the entire thing. He didn’t understand it, but Tails had this thing where if he didn’t do something 100% by himself he didn’t think he deserved the credit for it. Even if he had done 99.9% of whatever project it is, he’ll claim whoever did the 0.01% was much more deserving of recognition.

this is a snippet from a bigger fic, but that may take a minute for me to finish so here you go

[kasperl-ruprecht]

It's now been a year since my sister passed away. This past week Camp About Face held a... Melmorial for her down at Bradford Woods in Indiana.

More after the break but I think I've gotten closure since then. That and I think for the next few years I'm going to paint up a full Star in her honor. I finished the Hammerhead last year and this year, a Stormcrow TC/K. We'll see how things go from here.

So it has been one year to the day now that we held her funeral. I suppose it's true what they say. There'll always be a hole where someone leaves when they're gone but in time you'll grow around it. There will always be that random instant where you get slammed full force with and emotional brick of sorrow but in time you learn to at least move with the blow instead of against it. I won't have as much as much to write down this time around.

Riley's Children Hospital and Camp About Face decided to commemorate my sisters time here with a park bench. We haven't quite hammered down where it will end up there but we're leaning towards the Memory Garden.

She was very fond of this place. Not just the Memory Garden but the whole camp. I felt a peace there I hadn't felt in a while.

I'm glad I finally got down there to see it. It was always just kind of Mel's space for years. Apparently while things were starting to go bad during the end she would relate to my Father about her times there, the switchback trails, and the woods. I feel it matched up with what she told him. I'll miss her.

As strange as a tribute as this sounds, I have decided to paint up a Star of Mechs in the colors she chose for the Hammerhead.

Probably a bit weird, a bit touched in the head but hey, it's how my strange little mind works.

So I chose a Stormcrow TC/K for her second Mech. Specifically the Premium version from Catalyst. This particular release has had a bit of infamy as they somehow managed to invert the arms, turn it into a southpaw. This works nicely for me as my sister was left handed. Seems fitting.

I'm particularly proud on how it turned out. I used almost the same paints as last time of course, along with my usual fixation on glow in the dark pop. Although the basing is somewhat of a flourish. Earlier this year we went down to San Diego to visit family and the beach where we scattered some her cremains to the Pacific. So yeah I took some of the sand from the beach and used it as basing for the hex, along with a tuft of tundra grass from green stuff world and a bit of glow in the dark support from a FDM 3D printer. I have also took sond sand from the beach in Bradford Woods to use for the next Mech in the Star. Anyone know of some other southpaw Mechs?

Going from morbid to slightly less morbid, or at least a different kind of morbid. I know I'll never forget my sister and will always have her in the back of my head but she wouldn't want me to dwell on her passing any long than I have to. To quote her exactly, "Get over it". She'd also roll her eyes in the way only she could do. So I will endeavor to continue onward.

We have started going through some her personal odds, ends, journals, and recordings from over the years so I'll leave you all with a note she got from a friend on her birthday a few years back.

P.S.- here's a direct link to when she first passed away and me completing her Hammerhead.

[snickerdoodie]

“I can never let go”

Summary: Months had passed since that night, the night of reunion and hurt that neither of them could forget. They thought the worst had ticked by…they couldn’t have been more wrong.

Pairing: Castin Hammer x f!reader

A/N: I told ya’ll I’d post again 😋. Found this is my drafts and decided to finish and post it since you all seemed to like my last one. This one isn’t actually like a part two to my other Castin fic, but it’s another hurt-comfort situation because apparently I can’t write anything without hurting my own feelings?? Idk. But anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this one as much as you liked the other one! Enjoy!

Castin jolts awake with a choked gasp, immediately raising himself to sit up as his eyes dart around the moonlight illuminated bedroom. His vision blurry and disorienting as he tries to control his ragged breaths, soon failing as his mind thinks back to his very vivid feeling dream.

Baroness, his wife, struggling to hang onto the glimpse of life as blood squirts out from the sword impaled in her abdomen. Castins there, hands shaking as her desperately applies pressure to the wound, knowing damn well there’s nothing that can heal the every bleeding injury. He takes in shuddering breaths as he struggles to hold back his tears, the heaviness behind his eyes only increasing as he hears her own breathing become more and more shallow. As she takes in one last, staggering breath, she lets out a quiet “I love you.” His eyes widen as he lets out a wet “oh my god,” as he watches the life drain from his wife’s eyes. Looking up at the sky in hopes of a miracle, a sign that she’s living, but alas none come. He shuts his eyelids tightly, wanting to wake up, to feel her once beating heart against his own, to feel the known warmness of her now cold body. But he knows, goddess does he know the look of a dead, pleading soul by heart all too well.

Trying to decipher what’s real and what’s not, his desperate eyes soon make focus on a little bead of candle light coming from the library. As his mind switches to autopilot, his shaking hands roughly rip the sheets from his sweaty body, his stiff feet soon making contact with the cold floor, causing his body to involuntarily shiver at the feeling.

His body tries to stand in its own, not realizing its own weak state, legs and knees giving out as he grabs onto the bedside table to support himself, his quivering arms and hands knocking over glass and whatever else lays upon the table, his ringing ears not detecting the crashing and shattering of the bottles. Eyes shutting tensely when his vision blurs once again, noticing the slight sting in his palms from the shards that lay on the table and ground.

A room away the Baroness hears the commotion, looking up from her book at a source for the sound, finding nothing in her line of sight. Figuring it was her clumsy husband, she shuts her book quickly before walking over slowly to their shared bedroom, peaking over the corner, not expecting the right before her.

She sees her husband, hunched over their bedside table, shoulders shaking and head moving from side to side, his breathing erratic and quick . Taking notice in the broken bottles on the floor, she carefully starts making her way towards him, feet tapping on the floor quietly.

“Castin?” She whispers out, soon met with an uncomfortable silence. As if being pulled from a trance, her husbands head perks up, jerking to face her, but the glazed over look in his eyes makes her queasy.

“Baby,” he rasps out, voice nearly breaking. With two left feet, he tries to make his way over, as does she. But his knees soon buckle and his body falls forward, the baroness catching his heavy body in her much smaller arms. With a grunt, she tries as gently as she can to set them both on the floor, being held up by their knees. As she does, his arms frantically curl around her as if she’d disappear, face snuggling against her neck hurriedly.

“C-Castin? What-Are you alright what happened-“ Her thoughts were cut off by a small sob coming out of her husband’s mouth. It surprises her, to say the least. To hear her husband get choked up. His usual stoic and masculine self being broken down to nothing but one of a weeping child. She feels his tears soak into her sheer silk nightgown before she speaks up again, more gentle this time, much like a soothing mother.

“Castin? Oh my poor dear, what happened?” She coos, her soft hands pull his face away from her, feeling a sense of dread as she sees the absolutely heartbreaking look in his eyes. His eyes are wide, unfocused, fat tears threatening to fall down his roughed up face, eyebrows furrowed tightly as his lip quivers sadly. Surprisingly, he speaks up.

“I—I lost you..you…” he chokes up on his own words before continuing, “Oh god, you-you were bleeding ou-out e-everywhere…so..so much blood I-..” he tries to continue his thoughts but a fresh batch of tears stop him from doing so. Her hands come back up to wipe them away as they gush out. As he babbles out incoherently, she starts pressing soft kisses onto his tear soaked face as a way of grounding his scrambled mind. As if it was some kind of cure, his eyes flutter closed at the contact, piecing together the fragment of memories slowly.

Her delicate hands trace gentle circles along his rigid arms, feeling as they release the tension that lies beneath. Continuing her ministrations, she feels his body succumb to the tension and finally give out, almost collapsing on top of her if it wasn’t for her grabbing his shoulders to steady him, they both would have ended up with an even worse injury.

“Are you with me, my love? Can you feel me now?” She asks softly, one hand coming free to caress his chiseled face. It takes him a moment to compel himself to nod gently on her hold. Smiling in slight relief, her hand rests against his cheek as she watches his eyes open slowly. The moonlight catches them perfectly, the glazed over look her once held now replaced with one of a tired worker, droopy eyes meet her own sheepishly.

“My love?” He starts, voice rough and gravely, rightfully so. She nods, a sad smile coming across her features.

“Are you alright now? Whatever happened to cause that?” She questions, thumb stroking his cheek lovingly. His eyes trail down to the floor before taking a deep breath before starting.

“A..a nightmare, a very vivid one at that. I….i thought it was so real, you were…” he takes in a shuddering breath before continuing, “You were bleeding out, right in front of me. A sword straight to the stomach…I…I couldn’t stop it and…” his voice becomes watery along with his eyes once again as she shushes him gently, both hands now coming to caress his face lovingly.

“I’m right here, my love. Alive and very well, very healthy. Breathing and speaking if you wish. It was all just a dream, a figment of your imagination, none of it was real, alright?” He nods against her, hands coming to cup her own against his face, feeling the warmth of them, relishing in the fact that he can feel the pulse within. “You can feel it, no? My pulse, my heartbeat, my warmness, *thats* all real. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere any time soon.” He smiles, eyes still casted down to the soft fabric of which she wears, thanking the stars there’s no blood or weapon penetrating her porcelain skin.

“I feel you, baby, all of you.” He adds, taking in the small smile that makes its way across her face. With a loving glance, he slowly leans forward to interlock their lips, the weight of the world falling off his shoulders as he once again feels the heat radiating off her onto him.

Pulling away gently, his eyes meet her own, blinking sluggishly. His hands moving from hers to wrap around her midsection, face once again moving to her neck.

“I don’t think there’s anything in this world that can make me stop loving you, wife.”

“Likewise, husband.”

I love finding old writing from months ago that I just completely gave up on lmao. Idkw but the idea of Castin being like..so comfort starved triggers something in my brain. I love it when warrior men get all emotionalllll. Oh, this also don’t proofread either, I don’t think any of my stuff will actually be 💀. Am I gonna reuse the same Desmond image for every Castin fic??..perhaps

I hope you guys enjoyed this one too! I’ve been trying to post more but life is life and it literally stops for no one so I might just be scattering around random writes here and there lol. As always, comment about what you liked and what you didn’t like, or leave me a request in my inbox! I love ur guy’s ideas and seeing people request stuff makes me heart so happy ❤️❤️

(P.S. does anyone know how to make a master list?? I rlly wanna make one but I’ve got no clue how to work this😭. I’m doing all this on my phone so uh, help it wanted)

[snzinite]

Nothing to See Here

2k words. yes that is the fic name. i finally finished something that wasn't a headcanon! yippee!! this is for @messysneezer who requested a fic involving Mudrock. sorry this took so long, i was busy for all of January so I didn't have much time to write write. this ended up being a little longer than i pictured. i hope you enjoy it!

female sneezes (mudrock) / allergies (pollen but mostly dust), some talk about mess and spray but not really much of either

Mudrock had never been inside of a Leithanien library before. Even in a town as small as this, it was something of a wonder. The ladders moved themselves to and fro, guided by the unseen hand of the musical arts of the gramophone units. Their music was soft and ambient, and their effects were more seen than heard. Books levitated themselves off the shelves for the clientele, going so far as to flip through themselves if one decided they were only looking to have a peek instead of a read. Warm lighting splashed visibility around classy decor of ornate stone and lacquered wood. She would have liked to spend a few days in this building alone… were it not for a few problems.

“Heh-xxng-choo!”

She scrunched her shoulders together as she pressed her finger into her lip through the sneeze. She had been waiting for that one to work its way out of her ever since she had to slip out of her suit. 

A particularly nasty Leithanien caster unit had managed to tail what remained of her squad as they made a desperate play to soldier on to Kazdel. Her men lacked the strength or the willpower to square off against them now, so their only hope had been to ditch their equipment in a safe location and scatter about this border town in disguises. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the silky smooth straps of her casual dress glide across them. The feeling almost didn’t register against the soreness from months of having her armor and mud plates weigh down on them. She wore clothing, yet she felt almost naked.

“Het-xngt-choo!”

Speaking of feeling naked, the brief moment of being exposed to the grass pollen-laden air of springtime Leithanien had been enough to cause her allergies to flare up. Not exactly pleasant in its own right, but it could prove deadly if it caused her to be found. She rubbed the underside of her nose back and forth, subtly massaging her septum and the outside of her nostrils to ease them of the stinging itch that throbbed. It helped until it didn’t, and the sensation of a fingernail scratching and itch sent a tingle up to her sinus, until–

“HeeETCH-XNGT—oo!”

She exhaled after that one, nearly losing control but managing to stifle at the last second. The volume definitely increased a few notches, and she had officially drawn the notice of the denizens of the library. An older Caprinae man shushed her with a disapproving glare before adjusting his reading spectacles and going back to his tome.

(“Excuse me,”) she whispered as an apology before rubbing her nose again. It felt warm to the touch, with moisture beginning to collect at the insides of her nostrils. She attempted to sniffle it back. In that moment, she discovered two new unfortunate things about the situation.

One: this library was very dusty. The inhale caused her to just about feel every particle of dust that was invited into her already irritated, sensitive nasal passages. It made the itching migrate to the top of her throat for the time being, but she knew that it wouldn’t stay there for long. Apparently, the grand mastery of Leithanien arts units did not extend to cleaning functions. Now that she could feel it, she saw it on every surface, book, and floor she could lay eyes on.

Two, and much more immediately deadly: a Spire Caster, one of the most elite arts users in the Leithanien military, had made their way into the library while she had occupied herself with worrying about her allergies.

She took an involuntary breath of alarm and ducked behind a shelf. Her heart began to hammer in her chest. How many of her people had also chosen this library to hide out in? She hadn’t seen any come in, but the place was fairly large; it didn’t mean there weren’t any here. She willed herself to calm down. There was a reason she chose this place–detection arts were thwarted by thick sheafs of matter, and what better place to find such obstacles than a library?

The shot of adrenaline dulled the itching for a moment, but as she calmed it returned with a vengeance. She tried to swallow to tame it, but a pang of scratchiness lanced through her mouth into her nose. She took a hitching breath, then two–

“Haehh–choo! Hah-kxnt-choo!”

And stifled with all of her willpower against the side of her wrist. As soon as she was satisfied that she wasn’t going to sneeze again, she risked opening her eyes and shooting glances around her. The Elafia woman who shared the aisle with her gave her a strange, pointed look, but everything more or less remained the same otherwise. 

She shook her head a bit and sniffled again. Blinking made her realize that tears had begun to pool at the corners of her eyes. She wiped at them with a delicate touch so not as to irritate her eyes.

Stifling meant she was now congested as all hell, not relieved of any of the itching, and generally miserable… but at least that meant her nose was clogged up to any other irritants looking to extend the misery further. She could still breathe in some troublemaking dust if she wasn’t careful, but low, shallow breaths would hopefully prevent that. She tested it out. The breath only fanned the embers of a sneeze rather than set it ablaze, so she managed to relax a little on that front.

The next step was to get clear of that Spire Caster by any means necessary. Not sneezing was half the battle–not casting out a metaphorical flare to her location was only one aspect, but merely being seen would be enough. She began to walk through the aisleways between shelves. She kept her pace measured as leisurely or academic; frantic footfalls of a run would more or less shout out that she was exactly who they were looking for.

She neared the center of the floor now. The dust on the shelves was thicker here. It made the roof of her mouth itch just looking at it. Her lips had parted so she could breathe entirely through her mouth. Any movement of air through her nose was bound to be futile and noisy at her luckiest. She needed to leave this place and regroup with her squad, but she couldn’t risk making a move so soon after she’d spotted the enemy. 

Think, she forced herself. Stop thinking about how much you need to sneeze. You’re supposed to be a scholar, remember? What kind of scholar enters a library and doesn’t look at any books?

She reached for one at random, and her heart skipped a beat as it levitated itself into her hands. She had seen it earlier, but it turned out to be quite another thing to experience it personally. She did her best to ignore the puff of dust produced by it opening its cover for her and flipping through its pages. It would have been useless to her even if she wasn’t struggling to see through watering eyes, though. She had picked up enough Leithanien to hold a conversation, but she still couldn’t read more than directory signs.

She shut the book and tucked it under her arm. She paced around the corner, hopeful to find a reading table or chair in the corner of a room to keep watch over the area from when she froze.

Standing in the middle of the small space between shelf-aisles was the Spire Caster. They didn’t look like they were looking her way, but the unseeing face of their white masks always gave precious little away.

The jolt of fear caused Mudrock to suck in a lungful of air as she pivoted her heel back to press her back against the shelf she had just walked from. She stopped herself, but it was too late; the breath had already disturbed the contents of her sinuses. The resulting noise was no more than a deep snuffle, but that was the least of her worries. The tickle that danced in her nose spiked its heels into her, and she hitched once, twice, and–

“Hah-choo.” That was fine, but she wouldn’t get away with just that. “Hah-choo!” A little louder, but both had been contained fairly well. But the tickle only magnified, and she could only draw in a huge breath. Her mouth hung open. The world seemed to stop. She felt a tear roll down the outside of her eye off of her face.

Cover yourself! The thoughts came crashing in. Hold your nose shut! But they had come too late.

“HUUUESSSHHoo!” She sneezed down toward the floor, fully uncovered. Mercifully, the lighting wasn’t right for her or anyone else to see the resulting spray. Unmercifully, she wasn’t done–

“HAAUUUUESSSSSSHH-OO!” She brought a hand up in a reflex after the next one, but it wouldn’t have done her much good anyway. She had nothing to sneeze into but her bare hand and arm, and neither would have muted the sound. Thankfully, letting these out had reduced the itching dramatically, and she managed to end off the fit with a “HA—-choo!”

Her sinuses had cleared themselves of their congestion somewhat, too. She was much less uncomfortable now. Unfortunately, she was also probably much more heard by the Spire Caster. She whipped around to look for them. She did not have to look long.

The Spire Caster rounded the same corner she had just moments ago. The robed figure stood somewhat shorter than Mudrock, but their presence made her feel small. The black eye sockets of their mask bore down on her like hateful coals. She remained rock still, hand frozen over her face as though it would prevent them from sucking her soul out. Which, for all she knew, was just the sort of terrible spell that Spire Casters were capable of.

They held her gaze for a moment, then gave a chuckle as they dug around in their pocket.

“Let me guess. Foreigner? Grass season?” Their voice was soft, muted further behind the mask.

Oh. Right. They have no idea what me or my squad look like without our gear. This line of thinking was interrupted by a wordless panic followed by a single, stifled sneeze.

“HET–ngt-choo.” It took Mudrock a moment to find her voice again. When she did, her first syllable was choked with phlegm. “How did you know?”

“Well, the horns are more or less a dead giveaway,” they said. “And this time of year is always the worst for grass pollen. My sister has it worse than you do, and we’re from the C Minor Spire.”

She didn’t know what the C Minor Spire was, but she did recognize the bundle of gilded cloth she was handed from the Spire Caster’s pocket: a handkerchief.

“Oh,” she said, before forcing her brain to engage in nicety mode. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s just a simple cloth. Please, keep it. If you’re planning on staying in this nest of dust, it sounds like you’ll need it.”

She hung in a pause before taking the handkerchief from them. She hadn’t made a mess of her face by sneezing, but removing her hand and showing her face felt like a barrier being breached by the enemy. She brought it back up by burying her nose in the cloth and blowing to get what remained in her nasal passages out of her. It felt nice on her irritated face; warmed by the Spire Caster’s body heat so it wasn’t uncomfortably cold, but not so warm that it aggravated any sensitive skin. “Thank you,” she managed.

“It’s nothing,” the Spire Caster said. “I hope you manage to feel some relief.” They turned away to leave, but they only made it one step before stopping. “Oh, right. Pardon me for asking, but you wouldn’t happen to know of any Sarkaz mercenaries by the name of Mudrock, would you?”

Nothing else could catch her off guard today. “Mud… Rock? Sounds like a silly mercenary name, no?”

The Spire Caster snorted. “Silly or not, he’s responsible for a lot of dead people. Be careful if you run into him or his men.”

“Will do,” she said, savoring the irony over a sniffle. “Thank you.”

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

10 Questions for Writers

10 Questions for Writers tagged by @sunnysideprincess

1. how many works do you have on AO3?

156, but two or three of those are Round Robins I participated in, and two are collabfics. The rest are all mine, though.

2. what’s your total AO3 word count?

902,447

3. what fandoms do you write for?

Marvel is my main squeeze fandom, but I've got one Stranger Things fic up and I want to write a few more. I've got a tiny Hannibal fic up, one solitary M*A*S*H that had been a request of one of my besties (and that was definitely enough and I love that show), and there's a Contrarywise/Trickster's Touch ficlet up. Oh yeah, and I have a few Bill and Ted fics up and some other random old stuff that I finally stuck on my AO3 (Lost Boys, From Hell)

4. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

Always. First off, it's so rare these days to get comments because of all the reasons/excuses people give for not leaving comments on fics that to get comments is such a treasure and joy, so of course, I'm going to comment back. Second, if some of those reasons/excuses are true (shyness, anxiety, awkwardness) then I'm doubly grateful for the people who do comment - esp if they are commenting while anxious/shy/awkward - that I want to make sure they realize that their comments are appreciated and that they are not bothering me with their comments. Though I still don't understand that concern. If a writer doesn't want comments on their fics, they'll set it up so that no one will comment. If we've got our comments open, we want comments and you're never bothering us with them.

5. have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so. Given how wildly unpopular I seem to be as a writer, I can't imagine anyone wanting to steal what I've written.

6. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yep. I've got two collabfics up on AO3 that I wrote with @scottxlogan, and we've got two more in the wings just needing to be finished so I can post them up.

7. what’s your all-time favorite ship?

No. I don't have one all-time favorite ship. I have many favorite ships - Loki/Tony Stark, Loki/Bucky Barnes, Loki/Steve Rogers, Loki/Emma Frost, Loki/Justin Hammer (don't give me that look, they're fun), Tony/Bucky, Tony/Steve, Tony/Scott Summers, Tony/Emma Frost, Steve/Bucky, Steve/Scott Summers, Steve/Emma, Scott/Logan, Scott/Bobby, Scott/Kurt... I mean, that's just the Marvel list, and it's not even a complete one. There's also Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, and so many others from other fandoms that I may not write for but I like to read.

8. what are your writing strengths?

Apparently humor, Easter Eggs, dialogue, fluff, sexy times, and making people hungry by including food into so many fics.

9. what are your writing weaknesses?

World building if I'm having to create a world from scratch. I can do it, but it's a lot of work and then I get stressed. I used to world-build in rp writing with my former roommate, and when we quit writing, I thought I might take some of our old rps and turn them into og fiction, but there are some that are so wildly extensive in the world building that I will probably stick to re-reading them and not actually trying to re-write them into og fiction.

10. first fandom you wrote for?

If we're talking the first time I ever wrote fanfiction without knowing that fanfiction was a word, that'd be the Children of the Corn fanfic I wrote when I was 12-13. It was in pencil, and it was big time Mary Sue, and I don't even have it anymore because over many decades, the pencil faded/smudged, and I'm pretty sure I tossed it into the trash. (It was sooooooooooooooooooo bad.) The first fandom I was in once I knew what fanfiction was - Jay and Silent Bob. Yes, I still have those fics, and no they aren't posted anywhere, and they won't be. With the exception of a Loki series fic I wrote that has a tiny crossover with Dogma (that was called a therapy fic), I won't go back to that fandom.

Thanks for the tag!

Tagging: @mistressofmuses, @stormxpadme, @soliloquent-stark, @whinysteve, @kleenexwoman, @mcfiddlestan, @chaotic-hypnotic-erotic, @chaoticgardenbread, and anyone else who wants to play!

[thatwriterchaotic]

Noisy Neighbors Chapter 5

Omg finally an update for this series. I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to write another chapter. I've always loved this series I just didn't know where to take it. Anyways let me stop rambling and let you all enjoy this chapter.

Summary: Tonight was your date with Murphy. He told you to get dressed and he would be by at 8 to pick you up. You couldn't wait for what tonight would lead too.

Pairing: Murphy MacManus x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: [18+], slow burn, complicated feelings, miscommunication, fluff, little bit of angst because why not. drinking, cursing, mentions of drug use, smoking.

Your POV:

Tonight's the night. Your date with Murphy was finally here. You had been waiting all week for this. Your job had been taking up a lot of your time lately. Apparently a big story about these two brothers was going around. Saving Boston from the mob and how they were heros. You didn't pay much attention to it. Other than looking over and editing papers at your journalist job. You sighed and glanced at the clock getting lost in your thoughts. It was about an hour and a half before Murphy would be coming to pick you up.

You got up from your bed, deciding it would be time to get ready. Heading towards your bathroom to take a shower. A faint buzz came from your phone in your pocket. You smiled seeing it was a text from Murphy.

Murph <3

“Can't wait to see you tonight beautiful ;)”

You giggled and set your phone on the counter. Feeling your heart race with excitement. You got into the shower and washed your hair. Then your body. Then the annoying part was shaving. Once you were all finished. You turned off the water and wrapped a towel around your body. Grabbing another to dry off your hair the best you could.

An hour had gone by and you had just finished your make up. Making sure everything was perfect just for Murphy. You wore a simple knee length dress. A small slit on one side. A cute pattern of small strawberries spread out across it. The skinny straps and the sweetheart neckline accentuated your chest. Making it look absolutely stunning on you. The last thing you needed to do was slip on your shoes and grab your purse.

You jumped a little hearing the sound of a car horn go off. Knowing that must have been Murphy waiting for you. You rushed and slipped on your simple black heels and grabbed your purse. Rushing out of your apartment and down the stairs. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest when you approached the car. Wondering if he borrowed it from Doc. Seeing it was a much older model and the boys rarely drove. You smiled as Murphy stepped out and went to your side. Opening the door for you.

“After you Madam” Murphy said with a smile. He thought you looked absolutely stunning in that dress. The way it shaped your body so perfectly. He had to adjust his pants a bit after you got in the car. You watched as Murphy walked back around and climbed into the driver's seat. “So where are you taking me tonight?” You asked finally wanting to know what his plans are. Murphy smirked and looked over at you. “It's a surprise, and you look absolutely stunning in that dress las” Murphy said sweetly. His cheeks a soft shade of a pink.

You couldn't help but smile from his compliment. He didn't look too bad himself. Freshly shaven besides his normal goatee. His hair was brushed just right, besides a few strands that stood out of place. Which you found adorable. He was dressed in a white button up and a pair of clean black slacks. And of course his signature black trench coat that he never left without. He looked so handsome, it was kind of hard to take your eyes away from him.

“Says you, did you get all dressed up just for me?” You asked softly, noticing how his cheeks and the tips of his ears turned a darker shade of red. He nodded shyly and placed his hand on your tigh. His thumb gently caressing it. “Had to look good for you, mo ghrà” Murphy said with a smirk as he started up the car. Leaning over to peck the side of your cheek softly. That made your heart flutter. Seeing Murphy being so sweet was new. Yes, he wasn't a major flirt unlike Connor but it was nice to seem him be serious about their date.

Eventually they arrived to their destination. Murphy helped you to get out of the car. Demanding that you covered your eyes until they got inside. You thought it was silly but you listened to him. Even though you did stumble a little as he guided you out of the car and onto the side walk. Then inside of a building, hearing a door shut behind you. Murphys hands rested on your shoulders and then up towards your hands that where covering your eyes. “You can look now, I hope you like it” He whispered softly into your ear as he slowly pulled your hands away from your eyes.

Your eyes settled as you looked around. Realizing that it was McGinty’s but completely different. A single table for two placed in the center of the room. A simple tablecloth with candles and flowers placed in the middle. Some petals laid scattered around the floor. The lights where dimmed just right adding to the romantic atmosphere. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.

You turned around facing Murphy, tears threatening to well up in your eyes. “You did all this for me?” You asked. Murphy noticed the tears, he quickly cupped your cheeks and wiped them away. “Of course I did las, and hey no crying don't want to ruin your make up” He teased making you both laugh softly. You smiled and leaned in. His forehead resting against yours.

How about we sit and enjoy the dinner I have for us? Go get ice cream for dessert after” Murphy spoke softly as he kisses your forehead. You nodded as he moved to pull your chair out for you before he sat down. He was being such a gentleman. You sat down as Murphy set two plates on the table. It looked delicious. You both sat there quietly at first. Glancing at one another from across the table. Soft music played in the background. He was really trying to make this perfect for you. “Wow Murphy, I'm really impressed by all of this” You said softly. He smiled as he opened a bottle of wine. Pouring a glass for you and then himself.

“Only for you, wanted to prove to you how much I care about you” He admitted as he lifted his glass, taking a sip from it. You watched as his lips wrapped around the edge of the glass. Your mind going else where. God he looked so good in that white button up. The first two where undone. Catching a glimpse of his tan skin underneath it. You felt your legs squeeze together slightly as your cheeks ran hot. Both of you started to eat. Talking back and forth about work and how your day was. It was nice to talk about mundane things with him.

As the date went on Murphy became bolder. His arm laid across the table, holding your hand in his. His thumb gently caressing your knuckles. He seemed to be genuinely intrigued about your work and what you enjoyed in your free time. You couldn't seem to pull yourself away from those piercing baby blue eyes. The way his lips turned up into his slightly crooked smile. You felt yourself swoon over him. “C'mon love, let's go get some ice cream” Murphy said as he stood up. His hand still holding yours in his. You giggled softly in excitement as you left McGinty's and started walking towards the park.

It didn't take long until your feet started killing you in your heels. You whined softly and Murphy stopped looking at you. “you okay las? Something wrong?” He asked noticing your discomfort. “It's my heels, they are killing my feet” You complained. Next thing you know Murphy picked you up bridal style. His arm resting underneath your legs and the other tightly wrapped around you so you wouldn't fall. “Murphy!! You don't have to carry me” You protested first until he looked at you with that loving look in his eyes. “Nah, you barely weigh a thing and I'm not having my lady be in pain.” He said sweetly. Loving the way you fit perfectly in his arms. Like you where meant to be there.

Hearing him call you his lady made your heart pound in your chest. You liked hearing him call you that. “Say that again” You asked. Murphy smiled “Soo you do want to be my lady?” He teased loving the way that your cheeks would flush each time. “Say it again Murphy” You begged. He chuckled and repeated himself. “My lady, My lady, My lady”. Your cheeks went red again as you hid in his neck.

It didn't take long to get to the ice cream stand. Luckily they where still opened. Murphy carefully set you down on a bench. “I'll be right back, you sit here and look pretty for me” He said softly as he approached the ice cream stand. Getting two scoops of your favorite flavor of ice cream and the one for himself. He came back and sat next to you handing you your ice cream. It was peaceful. The two of you sitting in the park, eating ice cream. He turned towards you and noticed you got some on your nose. He reached up and gently wiped it off with his thumb. Licking it off his fingers. You giggled as the space between you grew smaller. Your ice cream now long forgotten. He took your hand in his and sighed softly.

“Listen (Y/N), I really like spending time with you. Something about you just brightens my day. You always seem to know how to make me laugh. Getting to know ya has been one of the best choices in my life. Kinda glad my brother was blasting music that night we met. What I'm trying to say is, I would like to be more with you. I want to be with ya.” Murphy finally admitted. It felt like a huge brick lifted off his chest. You looked at him and smiled softly. Reaching up to cup his cheek. Closing the gap between you.

This kiss was different. It was slow and intimate. It felt like you where both pouring all your feelings and emotions for one another into it. Eventually you had to break away for air. Murphy had a big smile on his face as he looked at you with adortion. “So is that a yes?” He asked. You giggled and nodded your head. “Yes Murphy, that's a yes”. This would be a night you wouldn't forget..

[harocat]

For the ask game... 37, canglan

So I was going to write canonverse, but then @crisdrawsandcries posted figure skating AU art, so I wrote the beginning of figure skating AU. There is no actual dancing in this, but there will be eventually of course. Also I'm used to writing for THE figure skating anime fandom where I did assume a level of knowledge, so if any of this is confusing, I apologize. I'll probably add some footnotes.

----

It’s not that Lanhua was a bad skater. Objectively, you could not be someone competing at the elite level without being a good skater. There were thousands of athletes that did not manage to reach the heights that she had.

But, he remembered the one year, when they were both younger, that she had managed to reach the Junior Grand Prix Final, and he did catch her free program. She was older for a skater competing in the junior division; eighteen and soon to turn nineteen, and she had finished in last place with a disastrous short program. Her free skate was gutsy and mostly clean, and she climbed up to fifth, but whoever coached her jump technique should have been banned from the sport forever. She had one of the worst hammer toes he had ever seen. She slowed down and came to almost a complete stop before she jumped. Her flip edge was abysmal. 

Dongfang Qingcang did not usually pay attention to other skaters. They were irrelevant to his goals. The athletes in his own discipline could not beat him, let alone those in others. But he did remember that Lanhua had been loved. Her skating skills were immaculate, her spins breathtaking, and her musicality was second to none. And she was cute, apparently. She had a bright, slightly silly personality that appealed to fans. Not that he was paying attention, but he did recall her almost falling on her face on the way to the Kiss and Cry after that free skate. People found that charming, supposedly. 

Musicality, grace, emotional expression, were all things that fans loved. “Bare your soul on the ice” or some such. Changheng skated like that, and for that he was maybe, more popular a skater than Dongfang Qingcang was. But the results did not favor him. Perhaps if he spent more time cleaning up his quad lutz than he did working with modern dance troupes, he could actually win a few gold medals to go along with his endless collection of silver. 

Because none of that alone brought results. Changheng’s fangirls did not decide whose name would be etched in the history of the sport. The victories were not his, the world records were not his. 

 Lanhua vanished from international competitions only a year or so after that Junior Grand Prix Final. She’d been forced by age to move up to the senior level, and she couldn’t hold her own there, quickly overshadowed and outscored by several other skaters from her federation. It was the fate of so many young skaters. Dongfang Qingcang’s younger brother had been one of them. Though perhaps Xunfeng could have gone further in the sport if— never mind. 

His father had always told him to focus on only himself. The enemy was nothing more than a distraction, and who they were was irrelevant. On the ice there was only him, and in competition, the only skater that mattered was him. He stood atop a podium so high above the other men he skated against, that they were not worth breaking his concentration for. He was the prodigy. He was the son of his father’s dreams. There was nothing that could break him if he merely did what his father told him. Skated like his father told him. Ate like his father told him. Lived like his father told him. Dressed like his father told him. Practiced until his father told him to stop. 

His father was wrong. He had always been wrong. 

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled DJ x Reader Soulmate AU - Ch 2

EDIT: This is now being updated on ao3!

Throwing this up here for now. I have an ao3 but I don't know that I want this to be the first thing posted in it. Also it's in need of editing because the first chapter is in a different tense than the second chapter because I'd intended it to be a flashback-ish thing but that's not really clear in the finished writing. Alas.

Might delete these posts when it this story eventually makes its way to ao3, but we'll see.

[ Ch 1 ] [ Ch 2 - You are here ]

CHAPTER 2

It was either the best time to start or the worst time. That’s what your mentor had told you as she walked you through the atrium towards the West Arcade. 

Your predecessor had quit unexpectedly, which is why there had been such a fast turnaround to get you in the door. And why they don’t have that many resources to devote to training you. Your mentor is not unsympathetic. She’s at least managed to convince the upper management to let the dance hall stay closed for at least a week, giving you plenty of time to get your feet under you.

“You’ll know more about DJ Music Man than the rest of us by the time you’re done, at least,” she chuckles, giving you a supportive clap on the shoulder before leaving you in the dance hall with only a cart of supplies, a tablet full of documentation, and your own gumption.

You nod uncertainly as she leaves. You slip through the small opening in the metal shield that blocks the dance hall from the rest of the West Arcade. The sound squeaky wheel on your cart echoes through the empty space.

And there he is. The gigantic mechanical DJ Music Man, the biggest animatronic in the world. He lays on his stage, apparently in rest mode, since he doesn’t seem to register your presence as you approach.

You frown at his broken eye. Even without the lights up, you can see a few wires behind the shattered glass have been pulled loose somehow.

You climb onto the stage, circling the animatronic and surveying the damage. You’d been briefed on it of course. Broken eye, broken elbow joint, lots of graffiti…but you still wanted to take a look at it yourself before you got started.

You regard the elbow joint, figuring that would be a good thing to fix first. Between this, the eye, and the damage to the stage, you’re shocked at how much a group of kids can damage such a gigantic piece of equipment. But that’s what a few lucky shots will do, you suppose.

“They really did a number on you, huh?” you say, stepping towards his elbow and lightly touching the joint.

DJ’s optics switch on abruptly as his head shoots up. Those words! Those sacred words! Somehow he’d convinced himself he’d never actually hear them. He’d been aware of you coming in, but hadn’t bothered to actually look at you.

Now you find yourself scrambling back from a flurry of arms and hands as the DJ rights himself, dragging his bad arm as he quickly turns to see who spoke to him.

As his massive head swings toward you, you vaguely register a look of alarm on his face at the same time you register a distinct lack of ground beneath one of your feet.

Your stomach jumps into your throat as you fall backwards off the stage. You close your eyes, already imagining the eight foot drop that’s going to see you land flat on your back if you’re lucky…or on the back of your head if you're unlucky.

But it’s not the hard dance floor you hit. It’s something soft and padded. Your heart is hammering as you slowly open your eyes.

Once again you’re staring at the face of the DJ, now more worried than alarmed.

He caught you, you realize. You’re in his hands.

“Th-Thanks…” you manage, your voice thin as you resist the urge to peer over the edge of his gloved hand. You can’t tell how high up he’s holding you, and you realize you don’t want to know. Just pretend you’re only a few feet up. No more than that.

He scoots back, his bad arm scraping against the stage. He gently sets you down, but keeps his hands cupped behind you like a wall. You hope he’s only doing that to keep you from stumbling off the stage again.

DJ tilts his head, looking at you in concern.

You glance nervously at the massive gloved hands behind you. “I-I’m…okay. I won’t fall off again…” you say. Maybe he’s running some kind of safety protocol. That kind of thing usually requires some kind of positive affirmation from the human to release the robot from their obligations.

It seems to work, and his hands lower, coming to rest on either side of you. You had expected him to go back to his resting state, but he just continues watching you. Expectantly? Curiously? Despite being capable of emoting to some degree--moving his eyebrows, shuttering his eyes, and changing his mouth shape--his current expression is hard to read.

Probably because DJ barely knows what to think himself. He’d just been suddenly presented with his soulmate, and before he could process that revelation, you’d been in his hands. Though you hadn’t seemed too happy about it. He’s well aware that most humans wouldn’t be happy to find themselves in the hands of a giant robot, of course…but…

But what? What had he thought your first meeting would be like? He had already accepted that there was no way you’d know he was your soulmate when you met.

You finally find your voice, and manage to stammer out your name. The DJ perks, smiling and leaning forward eagerly, as if waiting for you to tell him more.

You have a lovely name, at least in DJ’s mind. It’s the name of his soulmate, he was destined to adore it!

You don’t bother to ask his name. You know it already, and you also have no reason to assume he puts much weight on the ritual of introductions. So you continue, “I’m…the new tech. Here to fix you up?”

Realizing he was encroaching on your space, he pulls back slightly, nodding at your statement.

You smile awkwardly up at him. Your mentor and the other techs made it sound like he wouldn’t move until you told him to. You step around his head to get to his arm, only for him to start circling with you, keeping you in his view.

“H-Hey!” you say, surprised as his bad elbow was dragged away from you.

DJ froze immediately, lowering his body to the ground and staring at you guiltily.

You frown wonderingly at the expression. Did he feel chastised? A robot shouldn’t feel anything…but you felt a bit guilty that he was programmed to act chastised for being scolded. Not that you had meant to scold him, exactly.

“S-Sorry…” you say, holding up your hands. “I was just surprised. Th-They uh…said you mostly…held still…”

He didn’t respond, continuing to watch you. You’d also been told he had no voice, so his lack of response was hardly surprising. Maybe he just didn’t understand what you wanted from him.

“I’m going to look at your elbow now, okay?” you say. You wait for him to tilt his head in a nod before you once again move around him to get to the broken joint. This time he stays put, though turns his head as far as he can to watch you from the corner of his eye.

“I know you probably want your eye fixed,” you say, taking a screwdriver from your pocket and starting to undo the fastenings of the purple orb joint of his elbow. “But I think every time you try to move your elbow, it gets worse. So I want to at least look at it first.”

It feels more natural to speak conversationally, instead of giving clipped orders like the voice commands you would give to a digital assistant. The DJ has a face. He emotes. Even though you know he’s just an AI inside a machine, the urge to talk to him as if he’s a human is winning out.

You suppose it’s harmless. Besides, you were already told that if you’re ever in front of customers, you need to “stay in character”, and talk to the animatronics as if they’re your friends. “Because everyone’s your friend at Freddy Fazbear’s!”

The DJ nods again, and you take that to mean the information is of some value to whatever processes he was running in that AI of his.

You get the casing off, tossing it aside. No need to be careful with it--you can already see it’s damaged beyond repair. You’ll have to send for another one from Parts and Services. 

You flinch a bit as you look at the joint mechanism. It’s worse than you thought. The stage light falling on the joint had warped it considerably, and apparently DJ’s frantic movements afterwards had actually caused the connecting wires to get tangled in the shards of the warped joint.

“Hm…looks like these wires are going to have to be cut off and replaced. Do you think you can straighten your arm enough so that the joint is on the ground? That’ll make it easier for me to work on.” The bend in his elbow currently had the joint slightly above your eye level.

DJ grimaces, both from the bad news and the command. But he nods, albeit with a slight bit of reluctance. His body shifts as if he’d taken a breath to steady himself, and then he slowly begins to straighten his broken elbow.

He gazes blankly ahead, seeming focused as his brow knits and his lips press together in a grimace. If he could sweat, surely a sheen of it would be coating his forehead now.

He’s only lowered the joint a couple feet when you say, “W-Wait…” That look on his face…as if he’s in pain. That…can’t be right.

DJ stops, looking at you questioningly.

You hold up your hands, your fingers flexing slightly as you consider your question. “Wh-Why do you…look like you’re in pain…?” you ask.

DJ’s head tilts slightly, one brow raising.

You flinch. Of course he can’t answer. Stick to yes or no questions. “...Are you in pain?”

DJ frowns slightly before nodding. Nobody has asked that before. Not even Karter, though DJ had assumed that was because Karter already knew he could feel pain, and DJ had gotten the impression Karter had at least tried to avoid causing him pain.

You blanch. You’d heard of some robots being given pain sensors for various reasons…usually as an incentive to keep them from damaging themselves, or as an exercise in trying to make them more “alive”. But the DJ didn’t seem like the type of robot that should have them.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer out. “Th-They didn’t tell me you felt pain. I-If I’d known…”

DJ’s expression softens. You’re worried? About him? He’s flattered, but…he also hates to see you so distressed. There’s no need for you to be upset…as you said, you didn’t know. He lifts one of his good arms, lightly brushing the back of one finger against your shoulder.

Your mind had already drifted to trying to figure out the least painful way to treat--fix--the DJ’s broken joint, so when you felt something brush against your shoulder you jumped slightly.

“Wh-What?” you ask, eying the large hand somewhat nervously. You’ve never worked with a robot this large before. Not even close. You can’t help but be a little intimidated.

He regards you silently. He looks worried, though it doesn’t occur to you he would be worried about you.

You try to smile encouragingly as you pat one of his fingers. “It’ll be alright. It’ll hurt for a bit, but you’ll feel better afterwards. But I’ll try to keep it as painless as possible.”

DJ pauses, but then forces a small smile of his own. His lack of voice had never bothered him before. He had never needed to say all that much. The few sounds he’d adapted (yes, no, and his querying chirp), along with occasional pointing or waving had always gotten across whatever point he’d wanted to make. At least until Karter’s last day. And now this.

You didn’t understand he was trying to comfort you. That he didn’t want you to be upset. And he didn’t know how to make that clear. So he had to simply let it go.

Your own smile fades just a touch, as you get the sense that you didn’t actually address whatever his concern was. But you don’t know what to ask to prompt him to clarify. So like him, you have to simply let it go.

“Alright, let’s see…” you say to yourself, lightly resting a hand on his upper arm as you examine the broken joint. You glance over at him. “It doesn’t hurt if I rest my hand here, does it?” you ask.

He’s resting his chin on one of his good hands, still looking at you sideways with a look you can only describe as fondness. You must be seeing things; he has no reason to be fond of you. Maybe he’s just…friendly? But he shakes his head no, so you turn your attention back to his elbow.

DJ’s surprised you thought that gentle touch would hurt…but more than that, he’s moved that you even thought to ask. That you’re so worried about his comfort even though you’ve just met.

“Okay, I’m going to need to remove the casing on your upper arm here,” you say, patting the casing where your hand was already resting. “Will that hurt you?”

He shakes his head again. That, at least, is what you expected. Generally unscrewing and removing swappable components didn’t cause pain in robots. Making routine maintenance painful was, at best, missing the point behind giving robots pain sensors in the first place or, at worst, just plain cruel. You tended to lean towards the latter. Though you rarely admitted it--calling any treatment of robots “cruel” was controversial and generally not something the higher ups who owned said robots liked to hear.

You began unscrewing the small screws that lined the casing. You had to hunch your shoulders at a slightly awkward angle, but you’re sure it hurts less for you than it would for him if you asked him to keep moving the broken elbow. Still, you occasionally have to straighten up, roll your shoulders, and crack your neck before continuing your work.

DJ watches this with some amount of guilt. He appreciates that you’re trying to spare him pain, but he wishes it didn’t come at the cost of your comfort. If he could speak he would tell you to stop a moment, and he’d just deal with the pain of repositioning his arm. But he knows that if he starts moving unexpectedly you’ll fret over it, or maybe even think he’s being uncooperative.

The casing is starting to come loose, so you have to hold it in place with one hand while you unfasten the last few screws. This casing is undamaged, so you don’t want it to crash to the floor or start warping as the weight of the unfixed portion pulls at the screws that are still attached.

You see a movement out of the corner of your eye, and see DJ’s backmost hand reach over your shoulder and hold the casing of his bad arm in place for you.

You glance over at him, letting out an awkward laugh. “Right, you uh…have five other arms, huh?” you say.

He grins charmingly, his eyes closing briefly as he nods.

You quickly turn back to your work, something about the smile leaving you a bit flustered.

After unscrewing the last remaining screws, you keep your hand on the casing, glancing up at DJ. “Okay, I’m going to lift this part here, then you lower your end. This part of the casing seems undamaged, so I wanna keep it that way,” you say with a light smile.

He nods, and together you two carefully open and remove the casing, and you guide him to set it behind him where you won’t trip on it.

“Okay. Now…these wires are going to need to be cut,” you say, lightly tapping the now exposed wires along his upper arm. He’s already flinching before you can ask, but you ask anyway. “I…take it that’ll be painful?”

DJ nods, but waves an arm in a “go ahead” gesture. There’s no way to replace his joint without cutting the wires that are now tangled up in it.

“Will covering the ends help?” you ask.

At his nod, you give a small sigh of relief. You suspected as much, but you’re glad to get confirmation. You make your way off the stage (via the stairs this time) and rummage around in your cart until you find the electrical tape.

From what you understand of robot pain, it’s having the conductive part of the wiring exposed that triggers the pain sensors. A strong incentive for robots not to let their wires become frayed and potentially dangerous. So if you cover the ends with electrical tape shortly after cutting them, that should keep the pain to a minimum.

You climb back onto the stage, wire cutters and tape in hand. “Okay, ready?” you say, readying the cutters.

DJ nods, then quickly closes his eyes and turns away.

Well damn if that isn’t heartbreaking…

You quickly cut the wires, doing your best to ignore the shudder that runs over the DJ’s body. Not out of callousness, of course, but you need to stay focused and get this done as quickly as possible.

You toss the cutters to the floor where they land with a clatter so you can quickly get out the tape and bind the ends of the wires. As you press the ends of the tape down, you glance back up at the DJ. “How’s that feel?” you ask. Remembering the yes/no rule, you add, “Does it feel alright?”

His eyes peek open and he nods. 

“Alright. Let me detach the joint…then I think you’ll be feeling a bit better,” you say, giving him an encouraging smile. 

He nods, then turns away again. The sight of his exposed endoskeleton and the wires hanging limply from it, as well as the ruined joint were uncomfortable to look at…but despite that, your kindness was keeping his spirits high. He smiled softly, letting you work.

You unscrewed the bearings that were still intact, only to flinch when you realize some the joint is too mangled to detach conventionally. You’ll need the mini circular saw.

“Uh, hey, DJ Music Man?” you ask.

DJ glances back at you, a bit surprised to hear you use his full name. Though he supposes you have no reason to be as informal with him as Karter was.

 “Can you put a hand under here?” you gesture to his forearm. “I need to get the saw, but the joint is a bit unstable right now and I don’t want the weight to pull on you too much.”

DJ nods, once again graciously using his backmost hand to hold up his arm while you fetch what you need.

You don a pair of work gloves and safety glasses, and then you’re back to work, sawing off the bolts too damaged to remove any other way. In a moment, the last bolt breaks free.

…Leaving DJ holding his own severed arm.

You didn’t think this through.

You quickly set the saw aside, pushing the glasses onto the top of your head as you stand up. “Here, DJ Music Man, lemme take that…I-I’m sorry, I…I wasn’t thinking when I asked you to--”

You take his arm, grunting as you lower it to the ground. It’s not exactly light. You glance up at him. He doesn’t seem all that troubled, in fact, he almost looks worried as he cants his head.

You let out a nervous laugh. “I-I…guess you’re not…that squeamish, huh?”

DJ shrugs his first set of arms, then lifts a hand and wobbles it in a “so-so” gesture. Ah. So, perhaps he is not exactly unphased by having his arm removed, but it’s still far from traumatizing? At least you hope it’s far from traumatizing.

You remove the gloves, tossing them down next to the saw and wiping your hands on your pantlegs. “Is it…less painful now, at least?” you ask.

He nods. The pain sensors being triggered by the small bits you had to saw off is far less than what was being triggered by the mangled joint and tangled wires, though even that had been mostly bearable as long as he kept still.

You sigh in relief. “Good,” you say. “Then…I think this is a good time for me to break for lunch. If that’s alright,” you add.

He blinks owlishly, quirking a brow. If it’s alright? With him? You’re…asking his approval for your lunch break? As you continue to watch him expectantly, he finally tilts his head in a nod.

To his continued surprise, you thank him before once again taking the stairs off the stage. When you said you were going to lunch, DJ assumed you were heading to the atrium, or perhaps leaving the ‘Plex entirely. He didn’t expect you to grab a brown paper bag from your personal backpack within the cart, and he certainly didn’t expect you to bring it back on stage.

“I get a little shaky if I forget to eat,” you explain, sitting criss-cross in front of his face. “Nothing too bad,” you say quickly, noting the look of concern on his face. “But…probably not the best when working with wires and such,” you say with a bit of levity.

DJ gives a small nod of understanding, having no other way to respond. He’s only known you a short time but he’s constantly surprised by your kindness towards him. You’re spending your free time with him. Time you could be spending with other employees. Other humans.

But you’re here with him.

You watch as the DJ folds his hands on the stage floor, resting his chin on them and staring at you with a smile that hovers somewhere between fond and dopey. You weren’t expecting him to be so friendly…The pictures you’d seen of him from his performances made him appear a bit more aloof. Usually in those, he wore a cool smile and partially lidded eyes as he focused on his music.

You can only assume he just acts a bit different when he’s not focused on performing.

You eat your sandwich in relative silence, looking over his broken eye as well as whatever other graffiti you can see from where you sit, formulating a rough order of tasks in your head. You wish you had a way to ask his input, so you could fix what’s bothering him most.

“I…don’t suppose you know any ASL?” you say as you pick at your bag of chips.

DJ cants his head slightly. He would have played his querying chirp if the speakers were on.

“American Sign Language?” you clarify.

DJ shakes his head. He knows what sign language is, and even if he didn’t, the term itself is pretty telling.

“Hmm,” you murmur in thought. It’s strange they didn’t give such a complex robot the ability to communicate. Voice boxes aren’t the end-all, be-all of robot communication, of course, but no ASL? No text display? Nothing except nods, gestures, and cute little head tilts?

…You feel a bit rude for thinking of his head tilts as cute, given he wouldn’t need to do them so much if he’d been given a better way to communicate.

“I took some ASL classes in college. But I haven’t used it in years,” you say. “Let’s see…” You set the bag of chips aside, holding up your hands as you prepare to sign. “‘Thank you’, ‘sorry’...uh, ‘yes’, ‘no’...” You smile weakly. “‘Broccoli’,” you speak-sign, with a small laugh. “But I don’t know how useful that one would be to you.”

He grins at that, shaking his shoulders as if laughing. He repeats the signs back to you, and you say the words aloud as he does.

“You learn quick,” you say, leaning back as you look up at him. Your smile turns a bit awkward as you add, “I…guess photographic memory helps with that…”

DJ grins excitedly at you. Your small bit of praise means the world to him. He’s never been complimented like that, not directly to his face anyway. He’s overheard some people on the dance floor complimenting his music and occasionally even his overall design, but nobody ever came up to him and directly told him he was doing well at anything.

And, for the first time, he can actually start to tell you how much it means to him.

“Thank you,” he signs.

You smile up at him. “Sure…” you say.

He twirls a hand in a “go on” gesture.

“More?” you ask. You hold up your hands, pausing briefly to make sure you’re remembering the sign right. “More,” you speak-sign.

“More,” he repeats.

“Well…I guess most people start with the alphabet. You can spell out any words you don’t know the word signs for,” you explain. “Or names,” you add. You spell out your own name, saying each letter as you do.

DJ repeats it perfectly. If he had a heart it would be beating out of his chest right now. He’d never understood that phrase until this moment.

He can say your name. He can call you by your name.

“And D-J-M-U-S-I-C-M-A-N,” you sign.

He repeats it obligingly, then pauses before signing just. “DJ.” 

It takes you a moment to realize why he only signed part of his name. “Oh. You…want me to call you DJ? Instead of DJ Music Man?”

DJ nods eagerly, happy that you got it so quickly.

“Um, alright, sure,” you say, a bit bemused. You’re a bit surprised a robot would want a nickname…though maybe it’s less of a nickname and more equivalent to just calling him by his first name, instead of his first and last name. You suppose you’d probably get a similar reaction if you called Freddy “Freddy Fazbear” all the time.

“Oh, I’ve got an idea. Hang on a second,” you say, pulling out your phone. He watches you curiously as you double check your memory of a few signs. “Okay, here we go,” you say, setting your phone aside. “My name is DJ Music Man. Call me DJ,” you speak-sign. 

DJ repeats it eagerly. He’s not sure when he’d have the chance or the need to use it…but he’s happy to know it.

“Pleased to meet you, DJ,” you speak-sign. 

“Thank you!”

You don’t know why the little exchange has made you so giddy. Maybe the robot’s bright smile is just infectious. But he does also seem…genuinely happy. Excited even, to have a new way of communicating opened up to him.

You crumple your lunch bag and toss it aside. “Back to work,” you announced. “But…maybe sometime I could teach you more signs? If you want?”

DJ nodded eagerly. Of course he wanted to learn more! To be able to have actual, full conversations with you! Conversations about--

About what, exactly?

There’d be time to figure that out later.

[silentwalrus1]

Hi, can I ask you a writing question? One of my works has a place in it that i want to worldbuild and make feel authentic, or at least like i know what i'm talking about, and the fact that youve apparently never actually finished brotherhood and yet have fleshed out Amestris and it's relations down to insane minutiae honestly stuns me. So i want to ask how you're able to do that, how do you know where to look for the information you need? is hammering all that out just a continual process of interrogating yourself on 'okay, then what?' I'd be greatly obliged if you could share some wisdom. (also caveat emptor rules and i will be devouring non's fics later)

Worldbuilding! Arguably my favorite thing to do in stories!

Let’s take a look at this from the top down. 

Step one: notice stuff. 

I write what I like to read, and often what’s most interesting to me is the physical worlds built in fiction, as well as the cultures and behaviors etc that arise from them and how they differ from what we have in reality; that means I’m often paying the most attention to what other authors do when it comes to building out other realities, on everything from physical laws of the universe to linguistic drift. The details I particularly like or that stick out to me as the most convincing or interesting is what I tend to incorporate.

This is also true of real life - i love cities and gardens and food, so the things i notice about cities and gardens and food are what I write about: details that add texture and individuality to where I am, what I’m doing and how. What country am I in? How is it different from my own? Do I have to wear special clothing? How are the maps different? The street paving? Are people rude here? What is rude here? What the hell is that thing being fried on a stick and what does it taste like? 

 Making these details feel realistic in fiction, however, often involves building logic chains more than just copying things from real life or native creativity. which brings us to: 

Step Two: scream WHY? 

WHY are things the way they are? Why is the teapot full of so much goddamn limescale in Paris? Why are portrayals of ghosts illegal in Chinese fiction & media? Why does Russian food suck so so bad? All of these questions have answers. (Built on limestone. Implication of afterlife undermines state doctrine. Not a lot of fresh produce grows locally and what does tends to be tubers.) So building out these If X - Then Y chains give you depth and context to the world, and in fiction make it feel realistic. 

For example: Why do most countries in the world teach children English? Because an English speaking empire conquered a lot of them, leading it to become a lingua franca and the de facto language of higher education and commerce now. So if you want to have Fictional Country X, Y and Z all share a language - what’s the reason? Shared national origin, split apart later along ethnic lines? Shared colonial history? Shared trading ties so longstanding that a basic business esperanto developed? 

Step Three: integrate it... NATURALLY. Act NATURAL

To people living within a world, their everyday reality is not going to be news to them. They are also very likely going to have Opinions about how the world is set up around them. Having Character A monologue about How The World Works for twenty pages at Born Yesterday Character B is... look, that shit’s not even that fun even when it IS justified in-universe, like for example this being Harry Potter’s first day at magic school learning about magic world for the first time ever, from people whose job it is to literally give lectures on the stuff. 

So you want to get this stuff in there more organically. One of the best ways to integrate believable worldbuilding is to have your characters complain. Everybody gets around on flying dragons? Twenty minute rant on how the giant dragon manure cleanup crews are NEVER on top of it, and god fucking help you if you jaywalk under a major flight path and an incontinent Bluescale happens to trundle past. What’s pissing your character off at their job? What made them mad in the news this morning? What are they craving that’s out of season or too expensive or doesn’t come in the color they want? 

All of these things make your characters feel like more complete people, because in real life we’ve all got big, overarching goals (become a doctor, start a family, restore our bodies from a cruel and arbitrary god) but we also have medium goals (get that promotion at work, buy a house, stop the apocalypse) and of course small goals (change your bedsheets, buy that snack you’re craving, get your busted automail fixed & not die in the process). 

All of these goals arise from our surroundings and the world we live in, and are often quite interconnected (I need to go pick up my prescription -> the country in which my drugs are manufactured is currently at war with my country and under shipping embargo from three others -> i become a supervillain). If Amestris’ capital city is designed to be a circle, for example, then maybe kindergartners in Central learn basic neighborhood geography with maps that look like pies, and this makes people jokingly refer to various districts as Strawberry Rhubarb or whatever. 

So yes, a lot of it is just asking yourself “okay, what then” and extrapolating logically: you introduce X phenomenon, what effect will that have on everything else? If your story is on an island, you’re likely to have a lot of fishing industry, cuisine, culture. If your story is in a space station, people are going to move in ways that account for zero G. If your story is in a dictatorship, people are going to be less trusting, less socially mobile, less informed. (This is actually one of my main cinamasins ding sounds for FMA - where is the culture of repression and cultural control and fear endemic to authoritarian regimes!!!) 

So overall, my advice here boils down to get outside, read a lot (fiction and nonfiction) and just notice stuff, including all the ways how you receive new information - gossip? Memes? Church? News headline? History textbook? Racist joke? - which then gives you a big grab-bag of things to pull on and put together. Have fun!