#brain fog is strong so I hope what I write here will actually make sense

[down-with-the-mafia]

Heroes

@hatstacheweek day 2 🧡

fanart for The Way Time Twists by @robyn-goodfellowe

[ladykf-writes]

PROJECTS UPDATE

SO. As you guys know I was/am involved in several projects - notably I’ve advertised preorders for the Chaos Theory Zine I was invited to (again, if you haven’t checked it out and happen to have the funds to spend for it I would really check it out. This was a fantastic project to be involved in, crafted with great skill and love and centered around FFVII’s Vincent Valentine.)

I’ve also been involved with the FFXV Reverse Bang for the second year in a row, and while I can’t give too many details I do want to say that it’s a great story inspired by fantastic art and carries a lot of the canon divergent / happy ending themes you guys are used to from me. Lots of action, a lot of humor and a lot of high stakes for our favorite protags. Can’t wait to post it, sometime mid next month through early December. (I don’t have my date yet.)

Now, regarding projects that have been on the back burner that I know you guys have been looking forward to and thankfully waiting patiently on.

Forged in Fire has been written through CH47 thanks to last NaNo and is not in immediate need of writing since that’s another 34 weeks of weekly posting before I run out of buffer. Expect steady posting there unless I’m sick or otherwise unable to post on the given Saturday.

A Second Chance at Family still has a ways to go before we reach the ending, but it’s been on the back burner while I hurried to finish my Reverse Bang fic. Now that that’s done and with NaNoWriMo on the horizon, I have chosen to fixate on finishing ASCAF as my main project of the month. As such, I’m working out plot notes now so I will be able to kick off strong in a little over a week with the start of November. I will be resuming my weekly Thursday posting as I polish the pieces off enough to post.

A shoutout to @wandererriha, my fantastic beta for all this, and also @yuzukimist and @happy-orc for joining her in listening to me plot and helping bounce ideas until things mostly make sense.

To Save the Future, the FFXV/FFVII crossover I’m working on with Riha has largely suffered from brain fog, other projects demanding attention, and the fact that we realized we need to restructure things from our original plans for various reasons. This is not abandoned, but needs a little love and elbow grease before we start posting again. I’m hoping to tentatively get back to it during NaNo as a “still writing but relaxing my brain” exercise. We have a lot of great things in store here, it’s just a matter of polishing what we have and writing out the rest of what we’ve talked about. There will be a finished fic.

Dog Whistle remains on the back burner for a bit yet. I have wandered away from FF7 for so long that I’m going to have to reread, make a lore bible (note to self: quit waiting until the nth hour to make the damn lore bibles!) and only then will I be able to navigate the final who-knows-how-many chapters. That said, it is not forgotten, merely set aside while I chase other plunnies.

Honorable mentions and some future ideas under the cut:

I’m still looking at one day finishing my other fics. The first to come to mind are Party of FIve, the AGSZC MMO modern-day AU, and of course the FF7/MCU crossover It’s Not A Game also lingers in the back of my mind. Both fics were fun, but very much outside my usual and so have been left to gather dust. They are not, however, actually abandoned. I’ve actually got some unposted but finished chapters, just not enough to reconsider posting. The Welcome to FFVII series needs a complete rework because my headcanons have shifted, but I’d still like to do it.It’s way down the priority list, though. On a very different note, also wanting to work on my Threads of Fate (Dewprism) semi-novelization Journey to the [Relic] even though no one’s reading it just because I’ve fallen back in love with the game.

Future projects I’d like to embark in include a vastly canon divergent series that’s actually labelled in my folder as “A Softer FFXV” that places a huge emphasis on family bonds and you will pry the power of love trope from my cold dead hands. (Let’s be real here, if you’re here you eat up that trope.) There’s another that might be a polished up what-if basis one shot and not an actual story that has a very BAMF!Regis but we’ll see if that happens. I’d also like to explore writing in Legend of Zelda, probably Ocarina of Time or Twilight Princess and also Stardew Valley and maybe some of the Harvest Moon / Story of Seasons settings, but I know from experience that the latter two are have a very different vibe that doesn’t come as naturally to me.

On that note, debating a Friends of Mineral Town fangame / visual novel (in Ren’Py) but that’s a ways down the road with the rest of this on docket and also needing to code and have visual assets. Or is it?

Anyway! Thank you for your time and feel free to comment/reblog with thoughts!

[corpsekiller]

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 — 𝐭.𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲

𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦. thomas shelby x witch!reader

𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲. fluff, witchcraft, nightmares, mentions of war and violence

𝖲𝖸𝖭𝖮𝖯𝖲𝖨𝖲. after another sleepless night, tommy decides to seek you out for help and although he doesn't believe in witchcraft, he's willing to follow your advice.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖧𝖮𝖱'𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤. i accidentally deleted the request i got for writing tommy and a witch!reader and i couldn’t remember the name of the blog who sent me this ask, so i couldn’t tag this properly. i hope you see this drabble and enjoy it <3

𝖫𝖤𝖭𝖦𝖳𝖧. 1.499 words

MASTERLIST

The small bell above the door rings when Tommy enters the shop on a rainy evening. His coat is drenched and the everlasting cold of Small Heath has slipped under the wool to settle in his skin, causing him to shudder as he takes a moment to observe his surroundings. The air is thick, hot and heavy with the scent of lavender and myrrh. Each breath blurs his thoughts and he finds it hard to turn his head without feeling a wave of dizziness take over his senses.

“You must be Mr. Shelby. I was expecting you to pay me a visit sooner or later,” you muse lowly behind him. Despite his usually so perpetual attention, the unwavering tension in his sharp gaze, he hadn’t noticed your figure lingering around him in the darkness of your shop until you spoke and Tommy isn’t quite sure what to make of that. Delicate fingers graze his shoulder as you smooth over the damp fabric of his coat and he blinks a few times, too befuddled to reply in a manner that would be proper and acceptable for a man like him.

His tongue is too heavy to form coherent words, his fingers are numb and the room has started to spin around him — it feels like his head is filled with cotton, like he's floating under the ceiling and if it weren’t for the sudden realization that he’s dealing with an actual witch, someone who could unnoticedly put him under a spell he would think he’s been drugged.

There’s no use fighting against the tingling exhilaration that curls around his body and weaves through his hair. Even if he would try, Tommy’s senses already submit to your power before he can think of a clever plan to weasel himself out of yet another possibly life-threatening trap. So he stays silent and allows you to undo the buttons of his coat before you slip the heavy piece of clothing off his shoulders.

The hand that rests on the small of his back and guides him to a table in the farthest corner of your cozy store, hidden behind shelves filled with books, crystals, and different herbs is warm, steady and reassuring. When he sinks into a cushioned seat, your touch abandons his staggering frame and he can’t help but long for more.

This is witchcraft. It has to be.

“Not quite, my dear. I haven’t put a spell on you yet, but I might change that if you forget your manners and don’t watch your foul mouth. Here, have some tea.” A delicate cup is pushed into his hands, followed by a plate of pastries, still steaming hot. “The brain fog occurs to most of my customers who come to see me for the first time, but it gets easier after a while.”

In response, Tommy merely raises his eyebrow and attempts to regain his composure. His expression falls into one of stern discipline despite the lightheadedness, despite the strong smell of incense burning in his nose and the daze of witchery on his sanity, almost as if he’s expecting you to pull out a dagger and aim straight for his heart — there’s no sign of comfort in the endless blue of his eyes.

That’s the problem.

It’s going to take more than a few kind words until he lets down his guard until he lets you see the darkness around his soul and then, only then, you can truly help this troubled man.

For better or for worse.

“Now, how can I be of assistance to you?” You ask after he took a careful sip of his tea. There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips and mischief glints in your calculating eyes, a kind of playfulness that doesn’t show any malicious intent he expected to find in a witches’ gaze.

“I have trouble sleeping,” Tommy admits after a minute of pondering in silence. Of course, he doesn’t tell the whole truth - he avoids the part about the terrors that plague him at night, the images flickering behind his closed eyelids and the fear that sends tremors through his limbs when he fails to stifle the violent scream which jerks him awake each time. His eyes are locked on the inside of his cup, where the residue of tea leaves has left a small pattern on the white porcelain as his hand wanders to the inside of his jacket before he deliberates you with a questioning look. Only after you nod in approval does he light the cigarette hanging loosely between his pursed lips.

“I’m sure you already met my aunt, Polly,” he states nonchalantly. “She’s the one who convinced me to seek you out for help since she thinks the methods I use to get a few hours of sleep at night are rather... impractical and bad for business.”

“And by methods you mean morphine.”

“Right.” Tommy throws his arm over the back of his seat and exhales a cloud of smoke, watching patiently how you lean forward to take his cup. He has heard of it before, the art of reading tea leaves, called Tasseography if he remembers correctly, but he’s never believed in finding any special meaning in a spoonful of tea and some dried piece sticking to the inside of a cup nor was he ever able to witness a witch do it in his presence.

“Let’s see,” you mutter quietly, carefully tilting the cup by the handle and examining the strange shape the left behind on the inside. The tip of your finger glides over the rim and a strand of hair falls into your face as you swirl the residual liquid in the counterclockwise direction twice, connecting your mind to the leaves and the answers they hold. It’s surprisingly fascinating to witness and Tommy catches himself staring at your features, drawn softly in the flickering light of candles lit all around your shop, only averting his eyes once you have found what you needed to know.

“Ah, I see. Those nightmares must be terrifying if they keep you awake at night.” Your eyes flicker to him, once again falling into the familiar pattern of studying him — his posture is tense, poised, almost resembling a cat, to hide the vulnerability your words have exposed so easily. This man, who thought he could hide anything from anyone, has been stripped naked to the bone and no matter what he does, you can see right through him. “The horrors of war can bring the most powerful creature to its knees, but worry not, my dear. I already know what could ease your mind during those rough nights, though I believe there’s a much deeper, darker force that reveals itself to be the true root of your torture.”

With one last glance at him, you get up to rummage in your shelves, quickly gathering different items and dropping them in a satchel that you pulled from the leather belt around your waist. It doesn’t take long until you return to your seat and hand him the bag with an enigmatic smile, inexplicably daunting and strangely comforting at the same time, causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

“Lavender for good sleep and amethyst to ward off your gruesome night terrors,” you explain at the questioning arch of his brow. Nimble fingers untie the strings around the satchel to let him take a look at the innards. “Put them under your pillow and keep them there during the night. You will also find a vial of jasmine oil in there, interwoven with a tinge of magic. Dab a few drops of it on your temples to cleanse your thoughts before you go to sleep and cut the drugs — neither whiskey nor morphine will do you any good.”

“And what am I supposed to do if those things don’t help?” Tommy asks lowly, offering you a skeptical look, though he takes the satchel nonetheless and shoves it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I can’t imagine how a fuckin’ stone should ease my nights in any way.”

“You’ll see. If nothing works you can always return and I promise I will do my best to grant you a few hours of peaceful sleep." You offer him a mischievous glance, then you walk past him to gather his belongings and accompany him to the front door of your small shop. The cold breeze that slips into the room a second later forces him to stop under the small bell that rang upon his arrival earlier and Tommy has to force his feet to cooperate to leave the store entirely.

"Have a good night, Mr. Shelby. We will meet again."

Your voice follows his steps into the dark morning hours, past flickering streetlamps and through abandoned streets where he finds himself pulling the satchel you gave him out of his pocket, locking it tightly in the palm of his hands. He will see you again.

[gojology]

Intoxicated. (18+)

The Request: 

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆 | I’m so sorry anon, usually I finish the whole fic before adding the author’s note, and I’m now realizing that I read your request wrong. I think you meant to have Gojo and Reader as friends but uh... I kinda wrote this as the opposite? It’s more of a Popular Gojo x Loner Reader. I hope this still fits your tastes because otherwise I followed everything you asked for, you’re welcome to request more and I’ll write them PERFECTLY I swear. Also can ya’ll tell I’m bad at choosing titles LMFAO 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 | College Student! Dom! Gojo x Drunk! Sub! (as per usual..) Reader 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 3808 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 | Suggestions of Rape (Nothing Happens Though, Also I’m Not Sure If That’s The Correct Choice of Wording...), Fluff, Oral (Male Receiving), Somewhat Public, Hair Pulling,  𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | After attending a party due to some persistent begging from a friend, hopeful for Gojo Satoru, your long-time crush to come, you turn back empty-handed. That’s what you thought, though. Eventually he comes around and helps you in more ways then one.

           The thumping of bass was all you could hear.      Loud drunken cheering, chatter amidst the scene. Poorly discarded red solo cups littered the floor and the tables, and at the corner of your eye you could see a heap of college students piled up on top of each other, snoring.     You impatiently tap your foot against the sticky floor, most likely due to the uncleaned spilt drinks. You weren’t exactly fond of college parties. Most of the time nothing occurred, and besides, you had your eyes set on a certain man, so you weren’t quite looking for a quick night. But you had come regardless, since your friend had begged and eventually convinced you to.     Scanning the crowd once more, hopeful, you curse under your breath as you come out of your search unsuccessful once more. Not even a glimpse of Gojo Satoru, someone that always attended crazy parties, and this party was high on the scale of crazy. This had to be the most depressingly boring party you’ve ever attended.     But if you weren’t here to shamelessly stalk Satoru, or socialize, you had to do a bit of drinking, or else what would be the point?    Walking towards the alcohol was the last thing you wanted to do. Hordes of intoxicated students were blatantly making out with each other, drinks left untouched and probably forgotten, not to mention just the overall anxiety you would get to be so caught up in the life of the party.     “Yooo... ‘S that you, (Y/N)?” you heard a familiar drunken voice even through the loud music, and you whip around, glad to have some form of escape from the awkwardness.    You were hesitant to approach your friend, you knew they were the friendly type, and that was only exemplified during drinking.    “Yup, that’s me!” you smile awkwardly, setting your empty cup down on the table.     “Agh. Fuck.” your friend groaned, stumbling onto you, sloppily catching themselves using your shoulders. “Sorry... Long night. Holy shit (Y/N), didn’t think you’d actually fucking come out and party. Nice to see you... Fuck-” brushing off a pair girls dancing wildly from their shoulder, your friend cleared their throat.    You try not to make a face, and instead direct your attention to the crowd on the opposite end of the room, hoping this was enough to tell your friend that you weren’t exactly looking for a conversation.    “...Fuck... What was I saying..? Oh yeahhhh, glad to see ya out here hermit. I’ll pour your drink~! How’s class going?”     Clumsily fumbling with your cup, you had subconsciously picked it back up, your fingers itching to fidget with it and pretend your friend wasn’t there at all. Turning to face your friend again, a grin playing at your lips, hoping you looked friendly. “No that’s fine! I’ll do it myself, I’m way less drunk then you are. Why don’t you go sit down?” You mentally facepalm. Of course they wouldn’t get your body language, they were literally drunk.     Your friend grinned boldly, “Hey, you said it, not me~ You can leave anytime though... Guy named Gojo Satoru coming soon... Makes all the parties go wild. Ladies love him. Probably not your style though, eh?”     You don’t reply, instead watching your friend nod at you, perhaps as a way of saying goodbye when they couldn’t do it normally. Taking sluggish strides to mix back in with the crowd of people, unintelligibly rambling about something you presumed was about Gojo Satoru. You wave at them as they blended into the blur of faces.    It takes a moment to register everything that was just said. Your heart pounding, you turn to face the variety of alcohol instead, finally settling on some cheap beer, since you had no idea what the rest was, yet you weren’t quite thinking about the quality of the alcohol you were drinking.    You were looking down at the selection of drinks, but your mind wasn’t thinking about that at all.     You had thought your luck really was shit, but that didn’t appear to be the case any longer.     Your brain was thinking quicker then your hands could catch up, spilling the canned liquid onto the table instead of your cup, but that wasn’t what you were thinking about right now.      Setting the can down without another thought, you take a long sip, enjoying the ice cold beverage, your mouth going numb with every swig. Usually you’d throw up at the slightest thought of the after taste of beer, but that didn’t matter. Right now, all that was in your world was your red solo cup, the cheep booze inside of it, and whenever the hell Gojo Satoru would arrive.      The likelihood of him noticing you was probably in the negatives, you were a wall flower, an average college student, but him? He probably had a part-time job as a super model, or perhaps a fitness trainer. Strong toned arms, always a smug smirk on his face, strikingly white hair, and those damned circular shades.      Shaking your head, you pour another can of beer into your cup, feeling yourself go numb and ignoring the thoughts going rampant in your head. The only thing to distance yourself from these thoughts were to drink yourself to sleep, seeing as everyone else was doing the same thing, or call an Uber.      Unfortunately, that probably had a lower probability of Gojo taking an interest in you. You were, of course, a broke college student living off of pre-packaged noodles and relatively cheap dishes. It would be more likely to crash at your friends place.      You weren’t quite the drinker, much less experienced with the booze. You felt your knees wobble, and a strong urge to throw up at the back of your throat. You shouldn’t have overdrank.      Leaving your cup on the table, you shrugged your way towards the exit, murmuring (or rather slurring) polite excuse me’s and sorry’s, Stumbling your way towards the door, you were just now realizing that people were even now still coming into the party. You desperately needed fresh air, the atmosphere in the party was too hectic, too crazy, too stuffy.      As soon as you stepped an inch away from the interior, you drew in a long much needed sigh, every breath coming out as a cloud of fog.      The night was quiet and still, and you finally felt like you could vomit your guts away in peace.      Walking over to the nearest trashcan you can find, you vomited as much as you could, feeling lighter as soon as it all left your system.      Turning back towards the house, you still found yourself stumbling and struggling to walk normally. Wiping your mouth with your sleeve, you refused to look this stupid returning back to the house, figuring you could take a few more breathers.       Taking another deep breath in, without even beginning to mention your surroundings, confidently taking long strides. You knocked into someone, headfirst into their chest.    Cursing under your breath, you squint your eyes, this person was incredibly tall, you noted. Remnants of expensive smelling cologne clouded your sense of smell.    “...Sorry.” you mumbled, still struggling to see who this was due to the darkness.      “Hey. No problem girly, you seem drunk, you okay?” yet another familiar voice, yet you hadn’t heard it quite as often as your friend.      “Huh...? Uh, yeah... I think.” giving him a dopey smile, you couldn’t remember who this guy was for some reason.      “Yo Gojo! Who’s this chick?”      Immediately swiveling your head towards the direction of the voice, it came to your attention that you had seen the guy on campus hanging out with Gojo quite often. Turning back up to the guy towering over you, beads of sweat formulated on your forehead, you gulp, the confidence you got while drinking evaporated into thin air. A toothy sly grin on his handsome facial features,  you don’t even know if your heart rate is dropping to the negatives or skyrocketing.      This was the actual real Gojo Satoru. The egotistical bastard.     Stifiling an eep, you try to respond, attempting to say you were in-fact not his affirmative, “chick”.      “Chill, Geto, just some drunk girl. Hey, you go ahead with the party, I think I’ll help her.” he said, waving at whoever Geto was.      “Gojo, again? You’ve done this shit like 4 times, you want pussy that bad... Yo!” he raised his arms up as soon as Gojo shot daggers at him. “Dude, come enjoy yourself when you can, okay? Was just a joke.” Geto mumbled, you heard a few goodbye’s and words of agreement, and then the atmosphere was still once again.       “You seem really drunk. I don’t think being alone is good.” his eyebrows knitted together. Placing a firm hand on your forehead. “which fucking sucks honestly. Here, let’s go back inside sweets. You’re heating up.”      Seemingly forgetting every language you’ve ever learned, you instead look back at him in awe.      He laughed, putting his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. “Here, I’ll help you walk. If worse comes to worse, I’ll fucking carry you, yeah? Nothing to be worried about, who doesn’t wanna flex that they were carried by Gojo fucking Satoru? They don’t call me the greatest for nothing~!” he sang.      “You’re real?” you breathed, immediately covering your mouth following suit. Wishing you had the confidence like this sober.      He raised an eyebrow, looking down at you, taking long strides that you couldn’t quite catch up with. “Yeah, I’m real, don’t walk into that you’re gonna faceplant into a car.”

    “I think I’ve seen you before in one of my classes, humanities maybe?” he added, turning you back into the party, you heard the loud thumping music once again.      It was in fact humanities, but you couldn’t quite tell him you always marveled at him every lecture, so instead you flutter your eyelashes. “...Uh yeah... I think I remember you too.”     Before he could say anything back, you hear the steadily increase of a deafening combination of party music and loud screams and chatter.      “Yo Gojo! Got a new girl? Thought you were dating some chick named Utahime?”      “Yo! Nah, just helpin’ this girl, and no I am not dating Utahime-”      “Is that fucking Gojo Satoru? Yo! Over here, shots? Geto’s here too!”      This guy was popular, obviously. These were also top-notch names within the small college’s community, yet here you were under his arm, and not one person knew your name. Everyone just referred to you as just a girl. This probably wasn’t new to Gojo then, so you weren’t special.     You felt your heart drop.      Once again, you were in your own world, and you never felt like a burden more then now.      “Hey, where are the rooms?”      You look up from furiously studying the floor, and you realize he’s talking to your friend, tapping at their shoulder.       “Huh? Oh my god... Gojo, I thought you didn’t make it~! Want a drink?” they lifted up their red solo cup to Gojo’s lips, an easygoing smile plastered onto their face.      “Nah. Where are the rooms?” Gojo asked with a slightly impatient tone, now rhythmically drumming his fingers against your shoulder with one hand, the other shoving the cup away from his face.       “Damn, my guy.” your friend wiped their lips before speaking, their arm slack. “You’re intent... Yeah down the hallway, left, there’s some spare condoms somewhere...”       “(Y/N)? I didn’t even realize... You’re gonna fuck my boy Satoru over here?” they slapped a hand on his shoulder.      “Wha? No of course not.. Uh... He’s...” everything came out as unintelligible babble, you felt your cheeks go warm.       “She’s probably not an experienced drinker, just looking out for her to be honest. No fucking, just want to make sure she’s safe for the time being. I’ll join you later, yeah?” Gojo chirped, reassuringly patting your friend’s shoulder back.     “Shit, say less Satoru. See ya~”  your friend waved before turning their back on the two of you, striking up a random conversation with the people who just so happened to be nearby.      As you both walked down the hallway in quiet, you look up at him, grateful for the not as noisy room.      “U-Uh.. Thank you..” you murmured, “I can speak though, you know..”      He chuckled, “As fucking if, I just have experience with drunk people, I can usually tell what they’re saying when others can’t. You sounded like a crackhead back there.” fidgeting with the bedroom’s doorknob, he finally unlocked it.      “You’re mean! How do I know you’re not gonna... You know!” you retorted, collapsing on the bed without another thought, relishing the plush mattress.       “Thanks babe, if it makes you feel any better I can pull any chick within a 500 mile radius. I don’t need to resort to such cowardly and criminal shit.” he yawned, grunting before placing his shades on the nightstand, laying down next to you. “I’ll even leave the door wide open if it makes you feel safe.”       Reassured, you relaxed your body, staring at the blank ceiling. Your body felt numb and you couldn’t quite think straight.      “How’d you know I was in humanities?” you slurred, still staring at the ceiling.      “I see you all the time, you sit near me and have some cute stationary.” putting both of his hands at the back of his head, his eyes turned to look at yours, his neck twisting as he did so.      Immediately, the first thought you think of even in your intoxicated state was how beautiful his eyes were. Like rare diamonds mined from the deepest caves, placed delicately into someone’s eyes by some divine being. A strikingly vivid bright blue. It was a little on the lighter shade, but so, so beautiful.      “Pretty..” you struggle to restrain yourself, but you can’t help it, instead staring at him, eye-to-eye.       “Yeah? Just like you, sweets. I thought we were talking about cute stationary?” you couldn’t quite tell if what he just said was a joke or not, but you really didn’t want to find out. You felt your heart burst.       “...Really?” you breathed, ignoring his previous statement, lifting your legs upwards to wrap your arm around them.       “You’re pretty. Why else do you think I’d notice you in lectures?” he paused, and even you can tell he seemed slightly nervous, a slight quiver to his lips. “honestly, whenever I’m bored I just kinda look at you. You’re cute, what can I say?” Gojo added.      Unable to respond, you instead looked up at him, you felt like a blood vessel was going to pop, or your heart, whichever one was first.      Scooching closer to you, he placed a hand on your neck, breathing heavily. “Hey, I’m not lying. You’re genuinely pretty, sugar, you know? Yeah we haven’t talked to each other often, but I’ve always thought you were cute and I’ve heard things about you.”     “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” that was all you could pathetically muster. “Is that the joke?”       “When a cute chick is on the line, I don’t lie.” he assured you, pursing his lips.      Seeing him so up close was nerve-wrecking, so perfect, he looked like was sculpted with marble. A part of you wished you weren’t drunk, so you wouldn’t look as stupid. “I think you’re cute too.” you whispered.      For a moment, it went quiet. So quiet that you could hear the loud music and the wild party once again, but you don’t dare interrupt. It takes everything inside of you to not break eye contact, your stomach a butterfly exhibit.      “I like you.” he finally said, you couldn’t sense a damn sarcastic tone. “Bet you’re gonna doubt that too.” snickering, he ran his hand through his hair, but you swear you see him bite his lip. Sexual or something he did subconsciously, you weren’t quite sure.     Time stopped. This was way too far to be a troll, but what if it still was? You didn’t know, the stupid small thought never went away, you looked at him dumbfounded instead. Snapping out of your daze, you ask, “...But we haven’t talked a whole bunch.”      “I know that. I don’t know, I guess I liked the idea of the competition. You don’t throw yourself at me, and sure other girls don’t do that as well-” he trailed off, before finishing his sentence, “but I think there’s a lot of positive traits that I like in you, and you’re just.. Really pretty. I guess I don’t want to throw you away like what I do with other girls?”      Before you could speak, he cuts you off again, this time a tad frantic. “But you know- Listen, I know it seems like I fuck around with girls a lot, but I’m looking to change that. I know I don’t seem very genuine now, but I think I’d like to try something with you specifically. You don’t even have to say anything back, just leave if you don’t want to, and if you do I’m sorry for disturbing your night-”      Maybe it was how intoxicated you are, or how you suddenly felt a burst of confidence, but you kiss him, and you kiss him hard. His breath hitched while you rolled on top of his chest. You’re desperate to have contact between your skin and his. He kissed you back, shyly at first, soft and delicate, but that didn’t last for long.      Heat rose to your cheeks, you were rusty with your kissing, but he wasn’t. The smell of his cologne was tantalizing, he kissed you like he wasn’t ever shy to begin with. One hand under your neck, propping you up towards him, the other groping your breast. Parting your lips, feeling him explore you just briefly before slipping back out as soon as it started.      You felt him unhook your bra with relative ease, and you can’t control the flutter within. Still kissing you sloppily, Gojo shuddered and you could tell there was a sound at the back of the throat. Moan, grunt, growl, you couldn’t tell. Slipping his hand away from your breast momentarily, he hastily yanked your top off your body.      Pulling away from the kiss not too long afterwards, he licked his lips, panting, you find yourself catching your breath too.       “Sit up.” he ordered, and you did as you were told, looking up at him with eyes that practically said, “What’s next?”      “Look at you. So cute.” cupping your breasts with his hands, you gasp at how hot they are, sweating just a bit, his thumbs brushed briefly against your nipples, giving them slight twirls before finally kissing both of your mounds.      “Let’s be nice and light today, okay pumpkin? Nothing too serious.” you gaze up at him, now standing and unbuckling his designer belt, unbuttoning his jeans which dropped to the floor afterwards, an obvious bulge in his boxers.      “...The door’s still open. Close it.” you suggest, your eyes still intent on his bulge, you don’t try to hide licking your lips.      “The world needs to know who’s mine tonight. Fuck that.” he smirked devilishly before also tugging his boxers down, exposing his dick.      Now, you weren’t quite expecting that he was packing this much, but he was. You easily estimated 7 inches, maybe more, you didn’t know. A pale flush pink at the very tip, veins adorned his length. Fairly girthy, and you loved it.      “Off the bed, on your knees.”      Scrambling off of the bed, you immediately look upwards and kiss the tip. He hummed, looking down at you with watchful eyes. You didn’t care if someone saw the two of you like this, in fact you’d love it.       You instantly put your hands to work, pumping his length, making sure that you were making eye-contact. Giving playful licks along the sides whilst doing so, you note his panting is getting heavier, so you must be doing something right. Your tongue quickly darted out of your mouth to lick your lips, before suckling the tip, just as a tease.      He growled, yanking at your hair so that you were looking directly up at him once again. “Don’t tease me, sweetheart. Or you’ll see what happens.”       Letting go of your locks, with one last look at his face you engulfed his rock hard cock, slightly drooling. Once in a while, you took a risky peek at Gojo’s face, predatory and lustful eyes staring back directly at you. Grunting, he twitched in your mouth, and you brace yourself.       “Fuck, (Y/N). You’re so good with your mouth.” he breathed. You groaned in an attempt to communicate, since your mouth was so stuffed full. Precum leaked from his dick, and you bobbed up and down once more. Taking another breath in, tears began to form at the corner of your eyes. You choked a little, but you were doing well for someone who didn’t suck dick very often.      Bracing yourself for a flashflood of cum from him, your mouth worked up and down on his length before you heard a loud groan, signaling that he had came, his eyes squeezed shut, the orgasm completely wracked his body. You found yourself with a mouthful of cum, and you struggle to swallow, before doing it successfully.      You look up to him, panting, some cum had escaped your mouth, splattering onto the floor. He looked you up and down, before opening his arms out for you, beckoning for you to come forth.      “Come here, you looked so pretty doing all that. Such a good girl.” pulling you in closer to his chest, he laid down with a huff, hugging you now. Gojo’s hand rubbed up and down your bare, sweaty back, in a state of euphoria, you don’t do much other then giggle.      “I’m so glad I can call you mine now, pumpkin.” he smiles, before giving you a quick kiss on the forehead.      “Wait... We’re dating now?’ your head shot up, in shock.      “Yes. Dummy. Fuck it, let’s just crash here tonight, your friend won’t mind.” he tousled your hair, taking another deep breath in. “Let’s sleep together.”       “Again?”       “I mean it in a literal sense.” he rolled his eyes.       “.....You guys can fuck here.” a familiar voice rang out from the hallway, you hear a murmur of thanks as the voice became closer and closer, but you’re too tired to move.      “We never closed the door.” you say hazily, digging your face closer into his chest.      He grumbles in response, and you can’t tell what he’s saying.      “..Ah nope- Looks like that room is occupied by Gojo and...” your friend’s eyes looked down, before looking back up in terror. “(Y/N)?”     They looked back down at the ground, their eyes lighting up as soon as they realized what was on it: cum splatters and clothes.     You’re too intoxicated to care, though.     

[super-predictable98]

Make You Feel my Love | BNHA AU (1 YR special)

Warning: Strong language, little itty bitty angst

Word Count: 1,3k

a/n: So @myherokatsuki is the best and everyone knows that, but today we're celebrating our first year of friendship. Thank you for always being here for me, for being the best writing partner ever, for being my best friend through thick and thin. I hope I can always do the same for you. Love you to the moon and back <3

Masterlist

"Okay... I sense that you're not really in a great mood?" Kirishima asked as he entered Alma's room and even the lights were flickering with the power of her frustration. "Do you want me to distract you, talk about it, or leave and give you some space?"

She looked up at him and the lights finally turned off as she collapsed on her bed. "I need a shark hug," she cried, holding her arms open for him.

With a little smile, he jumped into her arms like a dog, covering her in kisses. The reason why he decided to visit in the first place was that Ji-ae had warned him of the fog seeping out from under Alma's door, meaning something bad was brewing in her brain or her heart.

"I'm the worst friend ever," she murmured, her eyes filled with tears.

"Why? I think you're a great friend!"

"You have to say that, it's your job."

"Before we were dating, we were friends and I promise I'm not just saying that to make you happy. I actually believe you are. Why are you feeling this way?"

Iwazaki sighed in the most dramatic fashion, as she does, and a pained sob escaped her lips. Her already puffy red eyes were leaking her sadness and the darkness in the room seemed to get even darker, if that was even possible.

"In two weeks it's our friendship anniversary, we were supposed to make each other gifts to celebrate. The problem is that I'm untalented, useless, unoriginal, a total piece of shit and I don't even deserve her as my friend."

Kirishima rolled over with a grunt, trapping his girlfriend in a firm embrace. She didn't seem to have problems coming up with gifts for the people she loved. For Christmas, she got him limited edition Crimson Riot merch, made a sweater for All Might from scratch, got everyone their favorite candy, sent a scarf to her mom, and... Oh yeah, what did she give Ji-ae?

Oh, that's right! She bought vintage games for her and a special console with pink glittery controllers. That was an amazing gift, or so he thought, why was she having such a hard time with this one?

"Why don't you ask Bakubro? I bet he'll know what she wants."

"Are you kidding me? I've been her friend for way longer than they've been dating, I know what she wants," Alma scoffed. Despite the fact that she was the one who set the two of them up, sometimes she was a little bit jealous of her best friend being so close to someone else. "The problem is that... I wanted to give her something we could enjoy together, I wanna pour my heart into that gift and make her happy. I want her to know how special she is to me, but nothing I can think of is genuine enough to convey those feelings."

"Hey! What the fuck is going on in there? I can hear you crying from across the hall, it's fucking annoying, floaty!" Bakugou banged on the door.

"Katsuki! Be nice!" Ji-ae hissed, holding his hand to stop him from hitting the door again. "Are you okay, Alma? Can we come in?"

"Sure, whatever," she replied, defeated.

"Great, we can solve this! Ji-ae, Alma is having a little issue with yo-" before Kirishima could finish his sentence, his girlfriend covered his mouth and shook her head in panic.

She didn't want her friend to worry or think that she was a burden in any way. Not to mention, she didn't wanna admit her own flaws, it was a little humiliating that she couldn't create something nice like the bouquet of origami roses Kendo made for Jicchan's birthday.

She couldn't make origami, she couldn't draw, or write, or paint, it was too hot for a knitted sweater, and they didn't share her interest in vintage collectibles.

"What's going on?" Ji-ae asked, turning the lights on to which Bakugou laughed.

"Fuck, you look rough," he glanced at Alma and she flipped him off. "What? You've got black shit all over your face from crying, you look like a monster from a horror movie."

"You look like your parents' biggest disappointment," she countered, not seeing how Katsuki was, in fact, worried too. Of course he didn't show, he'd rather die, but he cared about her.

"Spit it out, what is going on? You're usually tough, so it must be serious," he grumbled, pulling a chair for himself while Ji-ae joined her friends in bed.

"None of your beeswax."

"Can you tell me then?" Ji-ae whispered, pointing at her ear as if asking her friend to do the same.

"It's silly, you don't need to worry, Jicchan," Alma wrapped her arms around the other girl and leaned against her shoulder. "You guys are all making a big deal out of it, it's not that serious. If you keep fussing, Yuga-chan will shove cheese down my throat again, Deku is gonna tell All Might-sensei, who's gonna worry for no reason, and Aizawa-sensei is gonna send me to see Hound Dog-sensei, he freaks me out really bad. Then Monoma-kun is gonna tell everyone that I'm unhinged and my mom will-"

"Boys, can you give us just a second?" Ji-ae asked.

Kirishima nodded, already thinking of all the ways he was gonna spoil Iwazaki with pizza and old movies for their date night. Bakugou tsked and left, trusting that his girlfriend would know exactly what to do to help.

Alma felt so embarrassed, she hated to create drama and make a storm in a glass of water (as her mom would always say), but her love for her best friend was serious business. She never had friends before, the nature of her quirk and her severe mood swings would always push people away.

"Is this about our Galentine anniversary celebration?" Ji-ae asked.

"How did you know?"

"I know everything about you, what's wrong?"

Shaking her head, Iwazaki, tried to stop crying (unsuccessfully). It would be unfair to mark such an important moment with her mental instability.

It all started when Kendo asked a few days back if they were doing anything for the "occasion", and as much as Alma loved her fellow class 1-B friend, she hated her for having such an easy time when it was her turn.

Why do my emotions always have to be such a hurricane inside my head? Why can't I be chill like everyone else?

"Maybe we shouldn't exchange gifts..." she muttered.

"What? No, I already have yours! You don't need to get me anything, but I still want you to have mine," Ji-ae insisted, only making Alma feel even worse.

"I suck! Why do you like me? You're my best friend and I can't even do something so simple for you."

"You're my best friend too, and you don't suck. I don't care about the gift, as long as you put all that passion into it, I'm sure I'll love whatever you come up with. You could draw me a stick figure portrait of us holding hands for all I care."

"I love you, Jicchan," Alma cried. "I promise I'll make the best gift you can possibly imagine even if I stay up all day and all night for the next two weeks."

"I love you so much. And that is the most valuable gift I could ask for," Ji-ae gently kissed the top of her friend's head. "You, Alma, having you is enough... But I wouldn't complain if you made one of those tres leches cakes your mom always brings when she visits."

"Okay, yeah, that can be arranged."

[alyxia91]

A little distance

I have never in my life attempted to write a fanfic, let alone post it. This is just a little feeler to see if this is something I can actually do. I guess a teaser? This is not proof read and Bakugo is (I think) a bit out of character. I apologize in advance if this is terrible. Also I’m bored at work.

In all the days that you’d known him, Bakugo had been an overly proud, egotistical hothead. You’d attempted to keep his head from flying too far above the clouds, but the consistent praise over how amazing his quirk was had blasted him above them too fast for you to react. You’d never admit it, but while his pride annoyed the ever living hell out of you, you were also proud that he had such a strong quirk - it kept those hero dreams of his very much a possibility.

When your own quirk had presented itself, you learned quickly that it likely wouldn’t be well received...your own mother being horrified to learn that you had a “void” quirk - allowing you to absorb negative feelings and change them into tangible objects of your choosing. It was an incredibly powerful quirk, and one that was difficult to control when it first manifested. You’d been taken out of classes until you learned to control it better, being able to pick and choose the negative emotions now rather than all of them coming to you at once. The drawback to this quirk, was that you retained the emotions rather tan expelling them when you created something. Your councilor had likened it to a “dark empathy”, the ability to feel others emotions, but unable to rid yourself of them.

Because of this, you pulled yourself away from Bakugo, the overwhelming anger that radiated off of him being too much for you to handle as a small child, and the fear of losing yourself in the emotion too strong. When the two of you had gotten accepted into the Hero Program at UA, you worried that you might be overwhelmed again - which you were, but not by Bakugo. Everyone in that class seemed to have trauma in their past, something that made them want to be a hero - something to fight for. While you couldn’t help but be inspired by your classmates, and proud to call them your friends, you also felt yourself becoming increasingly more mentally withdrawn as time passed, keeping yourself at arms length to keep your sanity, and keeping your quirk firmly hidden.

It wasn’t until your encounter with the Hero Killer, Stain, that everything became too much. The aura around him immediately smashing through every mental barrier you had, and the all consuming - and ever growing - rage swallowing you whole. You had been completely paralyzed without even doing anything, Stain not needing to use his quirk on you. As soon as you were close enough, his essence clung to you, scrambling your mind and numbing your senses. He felt it, his anger being pulled away - it had been the first time in years he’d felt some semblance of peace, his mind clear and thoughts almost rational. But he had a job to do, and he’d be damned if a child stopped him.

You remembered nothing leading to the end of the fight, but the moment you saw Ida, Midoriya and Todoroki get hurt, everything suddenly came into hyper-focus.  Pulling on ever dark thought you had, you felt the emotions pool into your fingertips, purple and black smoke falling from them as you thought only of the intense anger and fear you felt. Around you, a twisting storm of deep purple fog settled on the ground, skeletal hands and bodies being created and pulling themselves upward from seemingly nowhere. As many as you needed, you told yourself, to protect my friends. Standing behind you, an army of (really rather creepy) purple and black skeletal spirits stood, focus locked on Stain. A ripple of fear shot through his heart to the ends of every limb;  ‘What the hell...what is this?!’ His body screamed at him to run, to get the hell away. Each spirit seemed to carry with them the weight of his past, all the anger, hurt, fear and disappointment that had haunted him his entire life. Quite literally, it felt as though he was facing his demons.

“I will give you one chance” you said, voice eerily calm “ you let my friends go, to stop killing heroes. This isn’t the way to get what you want”

“What do you know about what I want” Stain raged, voice tight with either fear or anger, you couldn’t tell

“I know everything. I’ve felt everything. Your anger, your hatred. You want heroes to be what they used to be - good people with the ability to help. Right?” You’re met with silence, but you notice his muscles tensing, the grip on his swords firming. Instead of answering, he lunged at you, no longer aiming to simply paralyze you. This lunge was to kill.

Throwing your arms forward, your spirits flew past you, swarming him midair and stopping his attack. Black and purple clouded his vision, only the broken faces of the skulls surrounding him keeping him from falling. Screams invaded his ears, visions of his past flying passed him too fast to really grasp. Suddenly the wind was knocked out of him, your face mere inches from his own. When did you get here? When had he landed on the ground? Why were you looking at him like that? Why can’t he freaking MOVE. What the hell was happening. You stood in front of him, ignoring the screams and faces swirling around you two, your hair whipping around you, the feeling the only thing keeping you grounded. You watched as his eyes flew in every direction, desperately trying to find something to look at other than you. Reaching out, you placed your hands on either side of his head, pulling his face and eyes to look directly into yours. You saw the broken pieces of his life hidden behind years of building disappointment and anger in his. In yours, he saw the same thing reflected, but behind that still was undeniable hope. He couldn’t think, he could barely breathe. Suddenly, the cloud surrounding the two of you dissipated, and you threw yourself backwards. Suddenly pain shot through him, a punch landing on the left side of his face, and a strong kick landing directly at his ribcage on his right side; then nothing.

As soon as you got away, you fell to your knees. You’d never used your quirk in that way before; you didn’t even know it was possible. But God, you had been so angry...so scared. You felt your nose bleeding, your body not yet strong enough to handle a release that sudden or powerful. Todoroki was next to you in an instant, asking if you were okay. You couldn’t hear him, only make out the words leaving his lips. Shaking your head, you felt yourself draw in a shaky breath before collapsing.

A dull white ceiling came into view, soft beeping pulling you out of your comfortable nothingness. Blinking, you tried to bring the world into focus, brain still foggy from sleep. Pulling yourself up, you peered around the room. TO your surprise, Bakugo was sleeping in a chair to your left, head resting against the window. To your right, you saw Ida, Midoriya and Todoroki, all sitting up in their hospital beds. “You’re awake” Ida smiled, relief washing over his face “you scared us there” “How long was I out?” “Two days. It took a lot out of you, what you did” Todoroki answered, heterochromatic eyes looking you over “it was amazing to see” he added quietly. “I’ve known you for years, I never knew you could do that” Midoriya mumbled, the smallest hint of sadness in his eyes. “It wasn’t something I tried to hide Deku, I didn’t know my quirk could do that either...”  “What a time to learn something like that. I’m shocked. You seemed like you knew exactly what you were doing” Ida remarked, wonder dancing across his face “I assure you, I didn’t. I honestly don’t remember thinking at any point...it was all insticntual” Ida opened his mouth to respond, but a loud crack stopped him. Turning to your left, you saw Bakugo awake, glaring daggers at you. ‘Well, I’m in trouble’ you thought, eyes widening slightly at the anger, but also the fear rolling off of him. “Do you have ANY idea what could have happened to you?! You went head-to-head with the freaking HERO KILLER and used something you didn’t even know you HAD? Are you STUPID?!” he roared, face turning red and he glared at you “Why does it matter Bakugo? I’m fine, everyone else is fine, right?” “It matters because you could have DIED you idiot!” “You weren’t even there! How do you even know what happened?” “Deku told Kirishima, he told me. I came here.” Simple. “And you came here for me? Why?” he paused. “Can I talk to her alone” The other three nodded, Ida and Todoroki helping Midoriya out.

“Why did you stop talking to me” he asked the moment the door closed “What?” “We were always together. Partners in crime. Then you left, you came back, and avoided me. Why” “Bakugo...” “No. I deserve to know why. You were my best friend. Why” “Bak -” “Why” “I can’t -” “Why” “It’s not that sim-” “Make it simple” “I don’t -” “WHY” he exploded, sparks flying out of the palms of his hands. He trembled, the anger rolling off of him changing to such strong sadness you couldn’t help but feel guilty. “I couldn’t do it” you whispered “What?” “Do you know what why quirk does” you asked, eye raising to meet his. “Not exactly, but I know is affects emotions. I was able to pick up that much at least” “It feed off them. Negative ones specifically. I absorb them, take them as my own, and can manipulate them into tangible things -- I don’t know what limits there are in that though” you paused, waiting for a sign he was following. A simple nod was all you got. “When I do make something from them, the emotions don’t leave me. They stay, and I have to figure out how to deal with them. I was pulled because I couldn’t control WHEN I absorbed those emotions, so any negative emotion that was felt around me, I immediately took in...” You watched as a flicker of realization flashed in his eyes, His body slumped down into the chair, eyes never leaving yours. “You were always so angry... I didn’t know how to deal with it. I couldn’t. Not at that age -” “Why didn’t you tell me” “I didn’t know how to. How do you tell a child to stop being angry? You can’t. You can barely control your anger now Baku” “I could learn to if it meant -” he started to whisper, stopping himself before he revealed too much “If it meant...what?” you pried “Nothing” “No no, I answered your question, you answer mine” “Not a chance. I deserved to know” “And I don’t?” “No. Not after that stunt you pulled” “Bakugo” “Piss off. I’m not telling you shit” “Baku” “No” “Please” “No” he resigned himself, crossing his arms and straightening up in his chair. Signing, you smiled softly. “Stubborn as ever. I’m glad you’re still you” “Well who the hell else would I be?�� “People change as they get stronger, you know that. I’m glad that you haven’t changed too much” “Not like you would know...” he mumbled to himself, but you caught it “...it wasn’t easy, you know. Distancing myself from you. My instinct has always been to run to you when anything happens. It was hard to fight that...” “You shouldn’t have. I would have learned how to deal with the anger. I would have helped you” “At that age?” “You were my best friend. I would have tried” “...I’m sorry” “Yeah yeah, sort your shit out you dumbass. And stop running from me. You’re stuck with me now, I’m not letting you do something stupid like that again. You’re gonna learn to control that shit” “How, exactly?” “Dunno, but we’re gonna figure it out” “We?” “Yes ‘we’ you idiot. Like I said, you’re stuck with me. I’m not getting another call that you’ve landed yourself in the hospital. I’m not doing this shit again....it’s too much” he whispered the last part, so soft it barely made it to your ears. "I’ll let you rest, let me know when you’re out of here” Standing up, Bakugo stretched his back, arms raising above his head to extend towards the ceiling. Sighing as he brought them down, he walked towards the door, not sparing you a glance. Half way to the door he paused, turning around suddenly and marching up to you. Bending down, he placed a soft kiss on your forehead, a blush painting its way across his cheeks. “Don’t scare me like that again. I don’t know what I would do if you died” he whispered, standing upright to march out of the room. He didn’t bother to wait for your reaction, too embarrassed to turn back.

If he had, he would have seen the matching blush painted across your face, a beautiful and soft smile gracing your lips. “I care about you too...” you said to yourself. Maybe distancing yourself from him had not been the right call...

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVII (A Tale’s End)

I would have walked away from this story (forever) a very long time ago if it weren’t for the constant and unwavering support of @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed. They have held my hand through this – through my tantrums, through my protestations that I didn’t know what I was doing, and through the times I begrudgingly admitted that I actually like the end of product. This story is dedicated to them and to their friendship. This has been a ride, and writing it has been an endurance contest. My gratitude to everyone who has read this, liked it, reblogged it, favorited it, or sent me a message. This is the end. I hope you enjoy. xx.

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables | Part XVIII: Alarms | Part XIX: Visitor | Part XX: Cuffed | Part XXI: A Woman’s Speech | Part XXII: The Harlot Queen | Part XXIII: Rarer | Part XXIV: Balmoral & London | Part XXV: The Ring | Part XXVI: Baile na Coille

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVII: A Tale’s End

Claire’s limbs were leaden, and yet she rose from the bed.

Fraser’s sleepy noises (ones she teased sounded Scottish) were missing, and his long, even breaths had risen from bed with him.

In the absence of his noises, it was quiet, too quiet.

The scent of him (sage and clove) was like a mislaid memory (an empty space where it had been tucked against her nape), and the duvet was cool when she flopped one arm over into the bedding.

She already knew that Jamie was gone.

She rose and slipped into her dressing gown before making her way down the hall. Her feed had carried her down the halls on many nights, her arms clutching their colicky bairn and tracing a path that she had hoped (usually in vain) would soothe her.

She did not bother to flick on a single light switch.

In London, the underbelly of their home was always in motion. The clamor of it all made her mind whir, her eyes rebel in the night to focus on the ceiling, and her fingers clutch to insomnia.

At Balmoral, the quiet was like another layer of skin, and the stillness went to the center of her bones.

Scotland.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their one-week honeymoon before setting off on a tour of the Commonwealth’s various holdings.

It had been in Fraser’s cabin that they spent their one-week honeymoon, her body feeling like the crescendo of a symphony under his hands and lips. Idly tracing the conch-shaped curve of his bared hip bone, Claire wondered aloud whether the walls of the cabin would keep their secrets. Turning his new wife gently onto her back (“my Queen” – a breathless, almost-whimper on his lips) and rising over her, Fraser had touched her belly and kissed the space between the clotheslines of her clavicles. Breathlessly, he asked her to commit that when they spoke, it would only be truth.

There was room for secrets, but no lies.

She had agreed, just as breathlessly, and he held her hand as he kissed down her body, glancing up her sternum before closing his mouth over her.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their first months as a family of three.

On the same bed from which she had just risen, she had given birth to an heir.

It had been the last thing on her mind.

They had been married for six months.

With Jamie’s hand crushed in hers, and his sister mopping sweat from her forehead (a bond she quietly conceded once reminded her of her own sister), their baby came into the world.

With a final push, an immense feeling of relief flooded her. She felt light, like her body was no longer being twisted in opposite directions by a molten-hot vice, as though the weight of an entire kingdom was not bearing down on her pelvis.

The relief was short lived.

Claire’s arms quaked under the effort of pulling herself fully upright. She breathed for a moment, trying to keep her inhalations even.

The part of her that was relieved was rapidly giving way to a gnawing panic.

Brows furrowing as the umbilical cord was clipped, her eyes darted from Jamie to the doctor who had attended the birth and back again.

“One final push,” the midwife who had been there throughout her labor said, stepping in as the doctor turned away.

“Ye did it,” her husband breathed, only tearing his eyes from his wife’s face to look at the silent bundle in the midwife’s hands.

“No…” Claire breathed, the weight that had been bearing down on her lower half suddenly in her chest, expanding and contracting, wheedling its way into the space between her bones and her organs. “No.”

“A nighean–” Jamie started, but she shook her head.

“Tell me it’s okay. That the baby...”

He said nothing, his hand closing over the cap of her shoulder as he craned his neck.

His breaths were short, dry, shallow.

Her voice was imploring as she snapped, “Jamie. I can’t… if the baby is… tell me that-”

And then the wailing came.

A desperate, fevered, cold yowl that sounded almost inhuman. It would not stop, and she prayed that it never would as long as it meant that their baby (mysterious, puckered, purple, blood-covered) would suck in breath after life-sustaining breath.

“The bairn…” Jamie started, immediately fading away as his voice cut.

“She’s just fine, mam,” Jenny laughed, gently moving a soft cloth over the birth-slicked baby. Claire had nodded, still feeling the nagging tug of uncertainty in her belly until she saw the bundle move from Jenny’s arms to Jamie’s.

She lowered herself back to the pillows stacked behind her back, sighing and thanking God.

Julianna Alexandra Elizabeth Faith, the heir apparent and tiniest member of the royal House of Beauchamp, was perfect – ten fingers, ten toes, button nose, cap of jet-black hair, earlobes with skin as soft as velvet, and the smallest bow of a mouth.

She barely heard the words that followed.

Blood.

The commands.

Back up.

The pleas.

She has to be okay. Ye dinna ken, she’s everything.

Their perfect daughter had torn her spectacularly, and just twenty minutes after giving birth in their bedroom, Claire was transported to the hospital, where she went into surgery for hours and stayed for six nights.

It was behind her now, left in some small hospital retrofit to make way for a postpartum queen. What remained was Balmoral – the place where she could ensconce herself in the history of her lineage as she wrote the history of her own family.

She could live here in Scotland.

As a wife.

As a mother.

As a woman, above all else.

Try as she did, she never felt that way in London.

The easiness of this place. The way that it felt like home, even though her accent was a reminder that it had not always been her home.

On this night, a little over six months after the birth of Julianna, she heard Jamie before she saw him.

His voice was low, a mix of Gaelic and English. All of his words blurred together.

As carefully as possible, she toed the door open another inch and leaned against the doorframe.

“She’s a braw one, yer mam.” He was shirtless, but shrouded in a plaid on the chaise at the center of the sitting room just outside their suite. Flames popped and crackled in the hearth, small bursts of sparks spiraling up and up as the fattest log broke in two. “Ye should’ve seen her, laborin’ wi’ ye. She’s a fearsome thing, ye ken. Ye didna make it easy on her, refusin’ to come out… she was so set on meetin’ ye.”

Claire mopped away the stinging in her eyes with the hem of her robe.

“I didna ken if I could love something as much as I love ye, mo chridhe, but seein’ ye, it’s as if a piece of my own heart, my brain, and my wame lives outside me. I felt it the moment yer mam told me that ye were in her belly. Above all, I kent I must protect ye both, and I will. Until the day I no longer draw breath.”

Claire’s own breath was coming ragged now, listening to him. She had not expected to feel so different in the aftermath of the easy pregnancy and long labor.

To feel as though her emotions were like a balloon on the end of a long string, floating high above her head at all times. As though the slightest breeze could shift them, change her entire existence.

“And someday, when ye’re no’ a bairn, we’ll share wi’ ye how ye surprised us, a leannan.”

Julianna let out the quietest coo that made Claire’s thighs and fingertips tremble. She wanted to take her baby in her arms, to have her close, to take comfort from the fact that her soft limbs were still warm, that her heavy head was held firmly in place by an increasingly-strong neck.

Out of hand, the doctor had dismissed the ebbs and flows of these moods as baby blues. Jamie, in turn, dismissed the doctor with no slight amount of outrage, demanding that someone with “the sense the good lord gave a turnip” help his wife.

That the fog was not imagined. The sense of isolation she felt, even when surrounded by people, was not a matter of someone just being around for her more. The feeling of disconnection from their baby was not a function of being Queen.

Sticking a finger into the doctor’s paunch, Jamie had hissed that the Queen (“my fucking wife”) would not be so dismissed, that if he refused to help, they would find someone who could, who would.

Jamie was a hands-on father, and she was grateful for it. Even with all of the help her status (their shared status) could bring, he made himself present. He rose with her in the night, brought her warm compresses when she shed tears over engorged breasts and cracking nipples. He changed diapers with little more protest than a wrinkled nose at the spectacular streaks of shit that would somehow paint themselves up their daughter’s spine. And he did what he could in the darker days just to be near, even if it meant holding Claire’s hand in the dark and wiping away her seemingly sourceless tears.

But the fog had started to lift, the haze in Claire’s eyes becoming less impenetrable.

Just weeks earlier, she said she was ready to ride again.

And they did.

They picnicked at night, after dark when the baby nurse had assured them she was quite alright.

He plucked roses from the garden to tuck behind her ears.

They stole kisses with her back gently pressed against trees or with his on a picnic blanket, her rounded hips cupped by his hands as she tentatively reintroduced the friction of her body to his.

And one evening a few nights later, when he had looked away for only a minute before turning back, his wife was slipping free of her blouse, her curls wild and her smile wide as she unclasped her bra.

That night, with the sounds of summer as the backdrop and the late-night-Scottish-dusk just descending into dark, they made love in the stables, their bodies joining for the first time in months. He took his time, asked her again and again if she was sure, if she was ready. When she winced, he stopped. She shook her head, then nodded with a sigh as he began to move inside of her with an almost-exquisite tenderness. They were cautious with each other, circumspect, as though either might be broken by a hurried touch or indelicate mouths. Utterly besotted by one another’s bodies and the way intimacy felt familiar, comfortable, and lived in.

At the scene in front of her, just days after their reconnection, Claire swallowed hard, silently begging her eyes to dry out. She had shed enough tears in the last six months to last a lifetime.

“Ye wanted to be in our wedding, so ye nested yerself early in yer mam’s belly, ye fierce wee thing. We’ll show ye the pictures. The day I married yer mam is the happiest day of my life... second only to the day that I met her…” At that, Julianna let out the lowest little whimper of a cry, and Jamie tut-tutted for a moment, then continued, “Her fat arse was leanin’ over the gate in the stable, and I couldna stop smiling.”

“Hey,” Claire breathed in feigned exasperation, stepping fully into the room. “My arse was not that fat, and I quite enjoyed our wedding day. Also, I’ll thank you not to teach the heir to the throne such things.”

“I kent ye were there,” Jamie said as he looked over, humming. “I have a hunter’s senses for yer presence, a nighean.”

Claire pursed her lips, rolling her eyes as she strode the rest of the way across the sitting room. Carefully, she took the bundle from his arms. “I think this wee girl’s nighttime garbling, and our resultant insomnia, are enough to dull even the most astute tracker’s senses.”

Jamie lifted the edge of his plaid, allowing Claire to slip in beneath its warm folds. She centered herself between his legs, leaning against his bare chest as she carefully slipped one bare breast through the neckline of her robe. Jamie’s hand rested loosely on her waist, his fingers flexing for just a moment as Julianna’s lips parted then closed around Claire’s nipple. Claire stiffened for a moment, then relaxed backwards into his chest. Julianna left one soft palm to rest just above Claire’s heart.

Closing her eyes, one hand cupped behind Julianna’s head and one on the baby’s soft bum, Claire whispered, “Tell me about the wedding. What would you tell her?”

“Our wedding?”

Claire opened her eyes and craned her head back just enough that he could see her roll her eyes. “Whose wedding do you think I want to hear about?”

“Jenny’s maybe?” he posited, eyes crinkling at the corners as her shoulders bounced with hardly-contained laughter.

The baby’s mouth slipped free and an impressive stream of milk sprayed her cheeks. Jamie and Claire’s laughter was cut short by the soft, threatened grumble of their bairn. It was a precursor to a cry from the suddenly quite-crabby Julianna. With the baby gently mopped up, and returned to her middle-of-the-night suckling, Jamie began to recount the wedding day. By then, Julianna had one eye half-closed, the other lazily roving around in an utterly useless attempt to focus on something as she fed.

“I didna expect ye to look the way ye did. I kent ye’d be beautiful, of course, but I thought somehow ye’d be someone else’s bride, ye ken? That ye’d be dolled up for a ceremony. A queen prepared for a royal wedding – no’ for our wedding – but there ye were. Ye were as bonnie as I’d ever seen ye… as bonnie as I thought I’d ever see ye. At least until I saw ye like this… wi’ our bairn at yer breast, and Christ, I dinna ken what I did to have such a rare woman love me.”

She felt warmth flood her cheeks, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Bloody Scot. “You looked pretty handsome yourself in that uniform that I knew you did not want to wear.”

A long hum came from him, the vibration beginning low in his chest and making her own body vibrate.

The wedding was not the ordinary royal nuptials in ways that went even further than the fact that she was carrying the heir to the throne.

The dress she wore was light, modern, and cut just right to conceal their secret. Together, they had carefully wrapped it in tissue and tucked it away at his cabin. So it wouldn’t end up in some stuffy museum with a bland placard, she explained as she rose on tiptoes to push it to the back of a closet.

They married in candlelight, with a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the gardens at Balmoral in her hand.

She wore Jamie’s ring, and for some reason she was not at all surprised when her hand did not tremble as he slid it over her knuckle and let his fingers linger on the band for a moment. Her own voice was low as she slipped a band of gold down his finger, whispering the words back to him that he had said to her.

I give you this ring, James Fraser, as a sign of our marriage and mutual trust, our love and our promise to care for one another over all others.

The papers could scoff all they wanted, muse over what a slap in the face it was to the Commonwealth she headed. To give away power, a piece of her divine right.

Nevertheless, she gave herself to him, just as he gave himself to her. She had done it long before that moment, long before the promise concluded.

This day. All of the days we have remaining.

Julianna grunted, released, and whimpered the start of a gut-wrenching, milky cry before latching on again with only the slightest encouragement. This time, both of her eyes closed and her hand fell to a tiny, balled fist above her brows.

“She has a tooth coming in,” Jamie whispered, his hand slipping up Claire’s arm and coming to rest on her shoulder.

“Trust me,” Claire murmured. “I can feel the bloody thing.”

Claire allowed her eyes to close, her attention somehow equally split between her husband’s even breathing and the gentle suckling at her breast. She felt Jamie tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her temple.

“Ye’re a braw queen, mo nighean donn, but ye’re more than that. Sae much more.”

She wet her lips and turned her head, slowly shifting the now-sleeping bundle in her arms. “Is this what you thought it would be, Fraser?” There was no tentativeness in her voice – it was as though she already knew the answer, but just wanted to hear him say it. “Your life here... with me?”

Humming, his hand skimmed down her upper arm, cupped her elbow, and then found its way to her fingers. His palm covered her hand, and his fingers brushed the narrow expanse of their baby’s lower back.

“Ye helped me come back to life, Sassenach. All that time after the war, I was dead. I didn’t ken it then, but I loved ye then. Before I met ye.”

Running a finger along Julianna’s cheek and tucking her breast back into her robe, Claire whispered, “I loved you both before I met you. You brought me to life, Fraser. I always will love you.”

Fraser shifted, his stubbled cheek against hers as he wound an arm around his queen’s waist and drew her closer.

“So long as my body lives, and yours—we are one flesh,” he whispered. The magnolias at Balmoral smelled like zested citrus and honey. The scent was in the air along with the smoke from the fire Jamie started. Julianna cooed quietly and nestled her face against Claire’s breast, her lips having gone slack. “And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire—I swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you.”

Claire closed her eyes, the feeling of his rising and falling chest against her back and that of their baby on her own chest.

This was her beginning.

The End

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 36- Addows

(what’s this, a chapter on monday? Yes! Starting today and for the foreseeable future, LoL will now update mondays and fridays! Hopefuly it will gain more attention when it updates more often,,,)

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

If the hermits hope to enter the most dangerous place in Lairyon, they need to know about the Forest of Memories. Xisuma, Cub, and Joe venture to the haunted city of Addows in search of information.

____________________________________

Mist swirls around Xisuma, his vision obscured by the thick fog of the city. Old, ancient buildings are all around him, once a city of the ancient ones still alive with the people of Lairyon. Massive stone temples, graveyards for heroes and legends, buildings with no known purpose that now house creeds and clairvoyants. 

Addows is a home of ghosts. Ghosts of the past, present in both tomes that the temples and libraries hold, and actual spirits that wander the eternally misty street. No one is spooked by the spooks, just another face in the crowd. 

And it’s the perfect place for the hermits to dig up ancient knowledge. If anywhere would have information on the Forest of Memories, it would be the hallowed halls of Addows. Cub creeps closer to Xisuma, not quite sure if he likes not being able to see more than a few feet in front or behind him. He’s sure there’s some sort of proverb that Joe would spew at him about this and the past or whatever, but right now he doesn’t want to hear it. Joe, meanwhile, is loving this atmosphere. The spooky vibes, the aged buildings and haunting people. He could write entire novels about this place, how much it fits his aesthetic. He may just have to build a new library on Eremita to match this.  Plus, his fuzzy cloak is comfortable and fits in well with the shadowed passersby. 

The three hermits wander the streets, walking through the midday mist, watching as buildings appear from nothing and disappear once again. Joe gets distracted every once in awhile on a witch’s shop, books older than the kingdom, apothecaries with all kinds of rare materials, and about a dozen different colored candles. And lots of rocks. TFC would have a field day. 

But after what feels like both hours and seconds of walking down the twisting streets of the ancient city, they finally arrive where they need to be. A building so old that the rain and forest has weathered it down, and a whole new layer of detritus has turned to dirt, ferns, trees, and vines growing down the massive stone pillars. In the weathered carving, the purpose of the ancient building remains the same. It’s a library, the largest in all the kingdom and filled with the most extensive, the most knowledgeable, and the most ancient of works. In languages long dead and unrevivable, written by ghost writers that now haunt these halls, and recounted by the living and the dead that wander the stacks. 

“And a delightful young adult section with some of my favorite works for young readers.” Joe hums. “Anything, and I mean anything-” He pauses, letting Xisuma and Cub fill in what he means, “can be found in the national library of Addows.” 

“That means if there’s anywhere that will tell us how to handle the Forest of Memories, or what could be hiding in there, it’s here.” Xisuma wanders down the stacks. All three hermits itch to reach out and pull books of their favorite genres or authors. Cub wants to dive into the deep end of the ancient ones history. Xisuma wants to study the great works of the best astronomers. And Joe wants to read the most mind boggling pieces that make absolutely no sense. He loves that feeling of being left confused about what he just read. 

They search the tomes, from geography to history, history to science. They search every section- even the young adult section. Cub resorts to portaling around rather than running the worn stone stairs, but to no avail. In the end, all three of the hermits are sitting in an alcove of ferns and vines, staring out over the thick misted city. 

“It wasn’t in anything. Has no one ever written about the Forest of Memories?” Xisuma grumbles, pulling off his mask. It’s not like there’s any sun, he doesn’t need his brother’s creation. 

“Someone had to. It’s been around for eons and is nestled in the heart of Lairyon. I can think of so many epics that could rely solely upon those two aspects.” Joe speaks with his head on his hands, looking over the library. Where haven’t they checked? “I’m starting to think it’s not even real, just a bunch of folktales.” 

Silence, until Cub’s eyes light up. “Folktales! Where do you put everything that you don’t know or understand?” 

“In the trash bin?” Joe’s dry humor is not lost on Xisuma, but Cub is too excited. 

“The folklore!” Cub summons his magic, a portal opening between the hermits, taking them to the very entrance of the library. The beginning of it all. He jumps through, skidding into a cracked pillar, but the stone is held fast by roots of the forest. Joe and Xisuma follow after, the portal collapsing behind them. 

“Forest….forest...forest…” Cub whispers, running his fingers along books, scrolls, even just tablets of stone. “Forest, Evernight. Nope. Forest, Creation of. No…” 

He stops, fingers coming to rest on a manuscript. Two wood planks pressing fabric pages together. It has no written title, but the front of the book is a tree with it’s branches intertwined like that of a brain. Cub grabs the manuscript, opening it with fervor. “Godsdamnit.” 

“What’s wrong now?” Xisuma sighs, peering over the portal mage’s shoulder. But the symbols scrawled on the fabric are meaningless to them both. Not even Joe, who purveys in ancient and useless knowledge, has no ability to read the book. 

“Ahh, The Journey to the Center of Lairyon’s Mind. A very good work. Quite dense.” All three hermits shriek, echoing in the quiet library as a misty head appears through the bookshelves. They should have been prepared for a ghost, but in the heat of the moment, they forgot they were in the most haunted city in the kingdom.

“H-have you read this? Can you r-read this language?” Joe holds the book out. 

The ghost steps through the shelves, her hand becoming solid enough to hold up the piece. “It’s old kipling. Before they integrated into one oceanic script. Back in the early days, when Lairyon was just a bunch of warring nations. Ah, the oceans were so peaceful in comparison.” 

“What does the author say? What does this mean?” Joe points at the fine print of a page that the kipling opened. 

“It’s the dedication! It’s to me!” She laughs, ghostly fin ruffling with joy. “My wife was such a wonderful author, she is still curious to this day.” 

Xisuma surges up to the ghost, no longer afraid. “The author, she’s still here? Where is she?” 

“Why, I’m sure she’s moping around our gravestone, waiting for me to come back so she can tell me more stories that she picked up from the other ghosts.” The kipling ghost pauses. “Would you like to meet her, or rather just read through this dingy old book? Why not meet the real adventurer Cielle DuNord? Bravest woman ever, only person to enter the heart of the Forest of Memories and come back sane. At least...only recorded person.” 

From the oldest library, the hermits follow the bouncing kipling down the street to the oldest cemetery. Sometimes they lose sight of her in the fog, her ghostly figure becoming a part of the mist and disappearing. But it just takes a laugh and a call from Lady Nellaime, her dress swaying like kelp in the waves, and they’re back on track. The misty glen opens to reveal ancient tombs and stones, but Nellaime waltzes through the historic graveyard as she would saunter through a flower garden. 

Despite the spooky feeling, it’s not scary. The hermtis feel a sense of calm respect among the gates. Rare flowers bloom at the entrances of mausoleums, trees sprouting from burial mounds. Candles provide light along the well cared pathway, and a child runs by, smiling as he trips and hugs an ancestor’s gravestone. 

From the mist, a glowing form appears, hugging the boy back. The ghost settles down in the grass, chatting with the family. Nellie continues past, deeper into the heart of the graveyard, seemingly bigger on the inside. The tombs age the deeper they walk, until Nellie stops at a raised crypt. Carved in the ancient coral stone, two smiling faces rest on their backs, the women’s hands intertwined at the center. Nellie skips onto the tombstone, knocking on the nose of the other kipling. “My sweet Cielle, you have visitors! More fans of yours!”

The eyes blink open, misty blue lashes fluttering. A noncorporeal form drifts from the stone crypt, dress flowing from existing to not, strong arms reaching over and hugging her wife. “You always make friends so fast. Living or dead, you just make people smile. Just like lighting up my life, my little ghost light.” 

“Not in front of guests.” Nellie giggles, her fins fluttering from the sweet kiss. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of such…” Cielle looks the three up and down. “Unique visitors upon my grave?” 

“Are you really the only person who has made it out of the Forest of Memories alive?” Xisuma wastes no time, which causes both ladies to titter.

“No, though I know Nellie here likes to be hyperbolic. Quite a few people have gone into the Forest without going crazy. But you have to be prepared to enter in.” Cielle leans forward, tugging a ghostly finger through Xisuma’s hair like a mother combing a child’s hair. 

“Prepare? What kind of spells do we need? Weapons?” Cub flips through the pages of the book, but it’s in a completely unknown language to him. 

“You can prepare yourself physically as long as you like, but it won’t do much. You have to prepare yourself mentally.” Cielle taps her head, and giggles. “See, for me, all I had to do was think about my fiancee back in Corelpi. I dunno how, but it was like a walk through a garden.” 

“But there is one place that knows all about the Forest of Memories. Where the most people have entered and returned relatively sane.” Nellaime grins, a few locks of hair falling from her messy bun. Cielle reaches over and fixes the loose locks. “Fielville!” 

“Of course,” Xisuma slaps his hand on his head, leaving a bright red mark on his skin. “Druids, insectia, the oldest traditions from the ancient ones are still practiced there.” 

“The elder there has entered and exited the Forest of Memories more than even I have- but then again, she lives longer than me, which isn’t fair.” Cielle sits back. “But be warned- no matter how prepared you think you are for that wood, it will be nothing compared to the true might of the forest. You will return with whatever trove you are in search of-” She pauses. “Or you will not return at all.”

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space orcs, “Not the Hero

Alright guys, here is the ending to all the angst, everything after this is recovery, so you may rest easy. You should thank @heerojiro for the comment they posted earlier today b/c I was thinking about posting something else and making you guys wait for the end of this arc. In fact, I had most of that other idea written. 

However apparently  I have been causing a tiny bit of anxiety for some of you lol. So I have decided to end your pain today. hope you enjoy, and look forward to having a little more fun tomorrow. 

Also, sorry for the pacing. It was very hard to write this scene in two hours.

“Any movement?”

“No, except for those drones anyway, those suckers have been flying around for the last few days, almost nonstop.’

“Well that’s the first thing we’re going to have to deal with then.”

“Yeah, I was thinking we have our pilots feign an air strike, head in from the left and right and draw away their drones, then get in behind them with another group to cover our advance. I want to start up with trucks going straight down the middle, but send the real attack team in from the side. We have enough of those hand-held energy shields we could probably break through their line on the inside, toss a bunch of grenades to clear them out, and then use the light machine guns to mow down the rest. There are so many of them jammed in there that it shouldn’t be a problem, be like shooting at the broad side of a barn.”

“What did the commander say he wanted?”

“He wanted the Delta units light machine guns, or paired with someone with a light machine gun. The delta units will carry the gunner to the barrier and then set them up with a perimeter once inside.”

“How the hell do we plan on destroying their ship, a little C4 isn’t going to matter.”

“Yes, but a little C4 in their open engine compartment might.”

“That would kill everyone inside.”

“Which is why we will pull out before that happens. The explosion of their energy core will be contained inside their shields protecting the rest of us from what is going on inside.

“That…. Sounds good enough, I guess.”

Sunny listened only halfheartedly as the two officers planned their attack. Of course the Commander had given his orders, though at the moment he wasn’t capable of thinking past more than a few sentences. Though the nerve block was designed to stop pain, the Steel eye suit was apparently capable of partially overriding the block and sending nerve signals into the brain.

He couldn’t move, but was also in pain, though only marginally in comparison to what he could be under at that moment. She glanced over her shoulder towards the tent which had been erected for his privacy, and found that a lot of other people were staring too. Operation steel eye had been a largely publicized moved by the UNSC during the Drev war, a lot of people had heard about it though no one had actually seen one of the suits in combat, accept for a very special few, and even then they had only been witness to a few moments before the suits vanished into the ash.

The steel eye soldiers were to fast and too strong for your average soldier, and so generally tended to leave them in the dust.

Everyone was curious.

And now, it was almost time.

The delta units, other Drev, were gathering at the edge of the camp. They had come from all across the galaxy to participate in battle, and Sunny was glad to have them. They were a strange bunch in comparison to those in her childhood, carrying weapons and equipment that would have been considered heretical during the more traditional days.

It wasn’t every day you would have seen a Nine foot tall Drev carrying a belt fed light machine gun , but these were new times.

“We ready?”

She nodded her head, “Send of the pilots to draw away their fire….. I will get the commander.”

They nodded calling in on their radios for the jets to begin their flight, and Sunny turned walking towards the small tent her footsteps growing heavier with each moment she approached.”

She pushed aside the tent flap with one of her upper arms stepping into the dark interior of the tent. Light from above was filtered somewhat through the green canvas, and paired with the somewhat hot, humid nature of the little enclosure, it almost felt tropical.

Commander Vir lay on his back on a cot in the center of the room, his eyes closed, his face screwed up into an expression of immense pain and anguish. 

It made her sick to see.

His body trembled lightly against the pain despite the spinal block.

She walked over kneeling next to him, taking one of his cold clammy hands in hers.

His skin was cold, though the metal of the steel-eye exo suit was warm with humidity.

“Adam….. It’s almost time.”

His eyes opened after a moment. The mechanical eye adjusted almost immediately,followed more slowly by his real eye which glistened with an unshed layer of water.

His lips trembled.

She squeezed his hand tight.

The tent flap opened behind her, and she turned around to find the ex admiral standing over them. He paused hesitantly as if not entirely sure he should be here, though when no one said anything he stepped forward, “I understand that I can’t make you stop but….. At least save yourself some pain.”

He offered something out to them, and sunny looked down to find a small black box proffered in his palm. 

She recognized it almost immediately.

The box meant to be plugged into the drug port 

“No-”

“I know you said no drugs, but commander…. I at least take it with you. Just in case.” There was a long silence, but Adam didn’t protest and Sunny grudgingly let the man through to clip the box to the waist belt where it would easily be in reach.

The door opened again, and one of the officers stepped inside.

“It’s time, Commander.”

Adam didn’t acknowledge verbally,  but turned his eyes to look up at Sunny.

She hated this.

She hated this more than anything she had ever done, but she reached out and disengaged the nerve block.

The response was almost immediate. Adam gasped in pain curled over teeth gritted and groaned hissing and whimpering through his teeth in agony. The cries that broke through his lips were like that of a wounded animal. 

Sunny found herself panicking unsure of what to do.

Everyone around the tent was quiet, and even the voices outside the tent had gone still.

Eventually the cries died away, and he sat up body shaking.

They watched in silence as he threw one leg off the cot and then the other, standing slowly.

The machine hissed and chatted with his movements, ready for battle.

He took one step, and then another, and then another forcing his back straight forcing his body to relax as he threw open the tent flap and walked into daylight, his movements accompanied by the hydraulic hiss and click of a machine.

The entire camp turned to look eyes wide as it fell on him inside his armor, a dark god  preparing to lay waste on their enemy. Rays of light bounded across the metal skeleton rolling in waves up and down lengths of parasitic metal.

His mechanical green eye opened opened wide against the sun, black aperture clicking open.

Everyone stared silently.

He held out his hands to either side, and the ex admiral hurried forward, placing the rest of the attachments onto the limbs,, blades for close quarters combat, a helmet to protect his head, and a few more pieces to protect his torso leaving him mostly covered.

The longer he stood still, the more his legs shook.

“LET’S MOVE!” he barked, voice raspy and ragged from screaming.

Sunny took up her spear.

She turned to look at him, seeing as a memory coalesced from the back of her mind resolving itself into a dark shape of power and anger emerging from the ash painted orange with the blood of a dying Drev Clan.

***

He hurt so much.

The pain was debilitating, maddening. The kind of pain that is visceral within the stomach, where all you can do is lay down and rock back and forth because the more still you are the more the pain consumes you.

He had to move, had to keep going, or risk the pain catching up with him, and consuming him from the inside working out.

As his legs thundered over the ground he wished for nothing more than to lay down and die. To fall into the sweet grip of blackness and be silenced from the pain. As if that weren’t enough, memories filled his head coming unbidden to the front of his mind, memories of battles, memories of brutal executions by his own hand, memories of the rocks painted orange, memories of crawling through inches of ash face first as his body began to shut down. And when that wasn’t enough it came with mocking laughter, agner, hopelessness.

And a horrible sense of loneliness he once though he had forgotten, but now remembered.

Tears streamed openly and quietly down his face as he ran, there was no point in hiding them.

He wasn’t strong enough to keep them at bay either.

Overhead jets roared and drones hissed in that way they had.

He could hear the sound of missiles, gunshots.

His feet pounded against the dirt rattling him to his core as the Drev clans followed after him, their spears held at the ready, their weapons polished to a shine.

On their backs, the human gunners waited.

And next to him, she ran, the cool electric blue of her armor the only soothing thing in a landscape of pain and misery.

The only thing, accept for that box on his belt

NO! He couldn't think of that.

A set of armored trucks rolled past in the distance, drawing fire from the open amber dome as the burg swarmed outwards to respond.

Machine guns rattled, and burg bodies jerked falling to the ground. An energy weapons caught one of the trucks disrupting the engine and sending it into a jackknifing somersault through the air.

He was one fire.

They continued to run, and with the thumb of one hand he engaged the delicate purple energy shield just as they were approaching the outer rim.

He was running through a fog of horrendous pain, but the power through his limbs spurred him on.

He broke into the first line of burg warriors sweeping them into the air with a bat of his energy shield. Bones and carapace shattered and cracked with the power of the blow. The mechanical suit screeched in glee.

Guns rattled behind him.

He dropped the shield for a moment bringing up his own weapon to fire into the churning mass. There was really no point in aiming. It would be impossible not to hit something.

The shield went up again, absorbing and pulsing as an energy bolt surged through it.

He crashed through another line, mechanical assistance whirring, pushing his body past the limits of his humanity, turning him into something more, something greater.

Bodies flew.

He was a machine.

A god.

A burg roared up at him from nowhere its pincers out, ready to dig into his flesh.

But like a spitting cobra, he reacted on the instant sending the creature hissing back screaming and clutching at its face as the human saliva burned it horrifically.

More screaming.

At the head of a pack of Drev they sunk into the burg line annihilating everything that came into their path.

Blue blood coated the ground, mingling with red and orange.

He practically broke through the line himself slaying the Burg who was attempting to close the breach.

The gunners leaped form the back of their Drev companions, posting up on the doors and fiering inward the continued report of their weapons no more than continuous background thunder.

He fell back so as not to get in their way.

His vision was graying around the edges leaning toward black as the roaring pain ripped through his body.

His head was light and he felt as if he was about to tip over.

How long had he been fighting?

It felt like it had only been seconds, though his implant was telling hi they had been at it for almost an hour now.

His stomach churned, and he fell to his hands and knees vomiting violently, mouth filling with bile.

He continued to wretch, though there was nothing left in his stomach. 

Something grabbed him by the shoulder, and he was hauled to his feet, just as the inner line broke and the gunners were stepping inwards.

THe trucks had stopped behind them and jets roared overhead.

He turned to his companion only to find sunny standing with him, her spear coated in blue sludge, her already blue carapace tinted with the enemy’s blood.

She urged him onward and he followed, and together they broke through the forward line and out into the amber light of the Burg dome.

The interior of the space echoed with a deafening sound. Gunfire was absolutely deafening.

The burg shouted and cried out in panic as they were systematically gunned down. Their small group of Drev and Gunmen advanced into the space covered by other soldiers pouring into the gap.

A burg ran at hi, and for a moment they were overwhelmed with bodies.

Energy fire rattled against his shield which only glowed brighter. Sunny held at his back with another energy shield, and together they plowed through the line.

He watched her spear two burg with one thrust, one through the neck and the other through the mouth before withdrawing her weapon and brutally smashing another set to the ground.

He ground his heel into the head of another burg as another bout of gunfire tore up the crowd just to his right.

A human body lay on the ground just to the right.

A marine with their eyes glazed over in death.

He thought he was going to be sick.

The fire in his bones was building. His body was screaming with an absolute horrendous and madding pain, the blackness at the edge of his vision was encroaching inward. The roaring in his ears was absolutely deafening.

In his pain, one of the burg caught onto his upper arm, and bit down hard.

He screamed, grabbed the creature with both hands.

And ripped it apart.

The moment was so explosive that bits of the creature were hurled many feet to the side, all the soldiers that saw it backed away in fear and terror screaming. 

But for hi, it was the last straw, his vision went white, he felt himself drop to his knees as pain thundered through him. He was going to pass out.

He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t move.

All around him, the Drev soldiers were filling his place in the line swarming around to cover him as he trembled and moaned at the center of the battle.

He couldn’t move.

Tears rolled down his face and into the dust.

He didn’t even have the energy to heave….. He just, couldn't, move.

It was as if his body was filled with fire reaching upwards threatening to engulf him.

And then a cold hand one his face. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stave off the fire and bring his vision back from the brink of collapse, his heart hammered weakly in his chest as his eyes lifted upwards. 

Green met gold.

The world around him went dull and dim muffled accept for a bubble five feet by five feet.

Sunny knelt in front of him, her gold eyes calm and cool against the raging of battle, familiar and safe. Two of her hands rested on either of his arms, one hand rested on his shoulder and the other hand was cool on his cheek.

She forced him to keep eye contact with her as the blackness receded from his vision.

“I can’t do it sunny.” He whispered, “I ca-” His voice choked off

His body quaked with horrific pain.

She leaned forward a little until he felt like he would fall into deep pools of gold, soothing and warm.

“It will be over soon.” 

Her voice came to him, though very far away.

She leaned in resting her forehead against his four hands gripping him even as one of his hands held onto her arm.

“It will all be over soon, you just have to fight with me one, last time.” 

If it had been simply her words and his will, he would have been able to get up. He would have hauled himself to his feet, and he did, a little.

But his body failed him.

He sunk back to the ground in a well of mental misery as bad as the pain of his flesh.

He wanted to get up so bad.

But he wasn’t special, he wasn’t a hero, and simple words weren’t going to be enough to get him to his feet, no matter how badly he wanted it. This wasn’t a moment of cinema, but this was reality, a true story of the failing of the human body and the human mind. 

He couldn't not make himself get up. 

But he knew something that could.

The battle roared around him as he reached downwards and plucked the little black box from his belt. He saw sunny reaching out a hand to stop him, but she was too late as he slammed the little box home.

It clicked, and after only a few seconds of agony, his body was flooded with relief and a high so intense that the pain didn’t matter anyway.

He roared to his feet.

The world around him was a cloud of white and distant noise, but he was untouchable.

No pain could stop him now.

No exhaustion even hinted at bringing itself forward, and together he and Sunny broke a line through the burg ranks.

Their artillery was useless in this space for fear of killing their own. Their ships weapons were likewise but only worse, leaving the burg with their simple weapons packed together at close quarters with a raging machine and the drev, Ares and the Spartans, as they came to lay waste. They were destroying angels, and the burg were mandated by god to perish here.

Neither he nor sunny were the ones to finally place the charges in the burg engine.

They were too busy holding off wave after wave.

He had to be screamed at on multiple occasions to fall back. 

There were at times where he thought they were dead, though internally he didn’t really care, but somehow they always managed to break through partially because of their weapons and partially because the burg morale had been shattered. They were being physically ripped apart, pulled in half, and many of their comrades lay writhing on the ground hands clutching at their faces slowly being dissolved by human venom.

He tripped over a body and had to be dragged through the open port, the last one out as the shield was locked shut.

And one of the marines detonated the button.

The explosion on the interior of the shield would have leveled the city if not contained as the burg ship’s engine combusted with a wave powerful enough to atomize everything inside.. The first wave turned everything within the dome to dust and fused everything after that into glass. The shield itself was the most powerful piece of equipment the burg had ever made, and if they had just managed to close it off, the humans would never have gotten through.

And now it was their tomb.

Off to the side Adam was having trouble breathing. His chest hurt, and his body shivered with cold that shouldn’t have been there.

People were trying to talk to him, but the glorious high from earlier was gone leaving him with chest pain, difficulty breathing, and the slow creeping of agony back into his limbs. 

He was so cold.

The world around him grew white.

And he collapsed to the ground.

Finally allowed to sleep. 

[halo-jpeg]

If you write for the Huntress from DbD, may we have a bit of motherly fluff where she encounters a survivor reader having a complete mental breakdown. Like, crying, trembling, completely incapacitated, doesn’t care anymore, the works. It’s genuinely pathetic. She just wants a break, maybe a hug and the Huntress can’t find it in herself to deny the request.

Mother Figure

Ana / The Huntress x Reader Oneshot

Another failed trial, another brutal mori. You had endured three stab wounds and the blinding flash of a camera, courtesy of the Ghostface himself. Your teammates had sold you out in exchange for the chance to use their key on the hatch, and despite the Ebony mori the killer had burnt, he’d accepted. You stumble blindly away from the campfire, a sort of numbness devouring your insides. You hear the happy chatter of the other survivors, and note that it’s never like that when you’re there, it’s never upbeat. They don’t think of you as one of them, and you’ve never really known why, but you do know you’ve had more than enough of this… hell. The goddamn Entity that trapped you here can go fuck themselves for all you care. The voices fade behind you as you travel deeper into the woods, the ashes floating through the air flooding your lungs and bringing the urge to cry. Maybe crying would do you good; you have so many bottled up emotions you honestly don’t know how to deal with. No one ever asks how you are after trials, you’re left to tend to your own wound and injuries during these sick games you’re thrown into, and the moment you’re thrown onto those grimy meat hooks you know you’re as good as dead, because no one would ever risk their own safety for you. The moment you’re brought into a trial, your teammates are grumbling and groaning at the thought of having to work with you. 

Tears spring in the corners of your eyes, and you grit your teeth in an attempt to hold them back. Negative thoughts race through your head like anxious mice, berating you for every little thing you’ve ever done. 

You’re a waste of a teammate

The Entity should just kill you

Why do you still try during these trials anyways?

You find your knees trembling, and the tears spill over. You slip a hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. You can’t do this anymore. You can’t continue to struggle through this bullshit acting like everything is okay! You’ve hardly spoken a word to any of your teammates, meaning your only social interaction is with the damn crows! How can you live like this? The negative thoughts won’t stop coming, and suddenly your chest is tightening up, your throat closing in, choking you like The Shape does in every single trial you’re put in with him. Your knees are shaking, your entire body is shaking and memories flood through your brain, weighing you down so hard your knees give out underneath you. You remember your life before the trial, warm meals, sunny days, friends you loved and cared for, and now that’s all been ruthlessly torn away by that devil who is all around you, replaced by constant terror and remorse. You’re on your hands and knees, fighting for breath as sobs beg to escape you, but lacking the ability to suck in any air. You’re a mess in seconds, pain writhing in your chest as the oxygen continues to evade your starving lungs. The tears are coming in rivers like the ones you once loved to look at, though these rivers lack the crashing sounds and the spray of water, your tears are an infinite reminder that you aren’t even strong enough to handle your own mind. 

You force your legs back under you and stagger to your feet, taking in a wheezing breath at long last, though it’s quickly vanishing all the same. You find a tree, leaning against it for much needed support. Again, your legs are shaking too intensely to bear your wait, and you’re on the ground, pulling your knees up and into your chest, burying your face within them. Your arms cross, resting on your knees and shielding out the melancholic light the Entity ‘graced’ you with, the sad excuse for half-day half-night that you were so sick of. Your pain is more than physical, and your entire body and mind ached with the urge, the need to be free again, but Death is Not an Escape, and it never will be. In an instant, your lungs open up, your throat making way for oxygen- and then you start to sob. Loud, ugly sobs but you don’t care at this point. Let those other survivors hear you, maybe they’ll feel at least a prick of guilt for the broken soul they helped to create. Let them laugh at you more than they ever have before. Let them-

Crack. 

A twig snaps, and you do your very very best to go absolutely silent. They were watching you, weren’t they? You grimace, resolve hardening in your soul. Who cares. Who gives a flying fuck about what they see or hear? You let the sobs resume, the ugly crying into your arms continuing full force. Another twig snaps, closer this time, and despite the twinge of worry, you don’t look up. You suddenly wonder if you can’t look up. You’re… scared. Despite everything, despite you so desperately wanting to not care, you do. And then, everything gets worse. 

“What are you doing so far from home, child?” a vaguely familiar voice touches your ears, and somehow your brain makes the connection between a certain lullaby sung by a bunny-masked killer, and the timbre of the voice just now touching your ears. The fear in your chest solidifies, and triples tenfold as your head whips upwards. Your tear-streaked face goes completely pale, and your suspicions are confirmed. Here, before you is the Huntress in all of her horrifying glory, a hatchet in one hand, braced to strike if you got scared and fled- a killer's instincts, you presume. Or maybe she just wanted the satisfaction of killing you again. You try to speak, but your throat goes dry and you can’t seem to form the words. You still sob, more violently now if anything, and Ana tilts her head at you. Kill me. I dare you to kill me. “Run home, back to your fire.” Ana’s voice is smooth, but holds a hint of warning. “It isn’t safe here.” In an act of defiance, you furrow your brows, gritting your teeth and returning to your sitting position. You move your lips in a soundless ‘no’, and hide your face in your arms once more. 

The Huntress lets out a curious hum, and you sense her dangerous presence growing closer. The wind shifts at your side, and a quick peek shows that she’s seated beside you, her legs crossed and her night-black gaze fixed on your trembling form. 

“You poor child…” she hums, and you flinch at the feeling of her calloused hand resting on your arm. She doesn’t say anything else, but she does begin to hum that tune you’ve grown to fear. Now, rather than instilling terror to your very core, it soothes every nerve in your body. You feel the tears come on stronger, and an odd feeling of safety washes over you. You are reminded more of your life before the Fog, this time thinking of your mother. You don’t remember her face, but you remember her voice. It was achingly familiar to the one belonging to Ana.

“I can’t do it anymore.” you say in a shaky tone, an almost-wail that makes you feel so weak and vulnerable. Being weak and vulnerable seems… unimaginable in this realm, but right here, right now, with this woman beside you who radiates a motherly love, you let it happen. “Every trial I’m left to die. Every trial I’m sabotaged!” your sadness is pushed aside, replaced by a hopelessness and a rage you never knew to be possible. The hand shifts from your arm to wrap around you, pulling you close for the safest hug you’ve ever experienced. Ana is gentle as she pulls you closer, still humming her tune and rocking you gently back and forth. 

“Those Survivors can be so cruel… you poor thing.” she sighs, and then continues to hum once more. You aren’t sure how long she stays with you, hours, maybe, but she does just that, humming her tune until it’s not frightening in the slightest. You know that the next trial you’re thrown into will be horrible, like they always are. But you also know you can bear it- you have to bear it, there is no other choice. “I will do my very best to watch over you, my child.” The Huntress hugs you tighter for a moment, and you know her promise is solid. It’s the truth- it won’t change or fall through. 

For the first time in… too long, you finally, finally feel… hopeful. Maybe you can actually find a friend here, in the Fog. They may be a killer- but they just so happen to be… the kindest killer you’ve ever met. It’s shocking, really, but you can’t help the smile that crawls onto your face as you take shelter in the safety of her arms.

[darkestwolfx]

Recharge - Re-Review #18

Here was another episode I didn’t remember very well - clearly isn’t one I’ve ended up rewatching all that much, but I do love it for so so many reasons!

So firstly, where have Grandma and EOS gone lately?

*I’ll just tap my foot and patiently (not so) wait for their return.*

Secondly;

“Last one there has to do the dishes for a week.”

“Well you better put on your rubber glove now.”

“You guys go for it. I’m just glad to be home.”

This is so believable. They are in many ways still children, and yet at the same time, they are and have to be grown ups. Indulging moments like this is something I can completely see Scott doing - especially when IR are really busy. He’s kinda in charge now and he does sometimes have to think a little like his dad would, and find the ways to bring some light-hearted humour back. I can also see how Virgil would not dive into as much, because he is older and more able to appreciate the returning home part. For Alan and Gordon, I can imagine this is a necessity.

All Thunderbird being out was a nice touch too.

Getting Jeff’s desk in the shot was a nice touch too, especially as his absence is a real focus in this episode (I do remember liking that before - I remember writing a couple of episode tags about it, oh and I’ve just had the idea for one more)!

And then look at Alan - sleeping again! Even Gordon’s giving in. Scott too looks really tired - I can so see lines under his eyes.

“Scott and I will take care of it.”

“We will?”

“They stay here.”

You tell him Virgil! I don’t think Scott is used to that happening, but strap yourself in everyone - that is the whole point of this episode! I love Scott’s new catchphrase too.

“We will?” “You will?”

The way both of those were said just make me chuckle.

MAX got his own moment! I loved him coming up into Thunderbird Two, it was a lovely change to the launch sequence (which I will be honest, I don’t often watch as I use them as my catch up with ‘typing/correcting spelling errors’ on these things time)!

Ah, the view! Closest I’ve ever got to it was Lapland... still gorgeous from there though.

It’s rare that we get to see John but-in like this either, but even he is telling Scott what to do this episode.

“I can do this.”

Sometimes, Scott, you have to accept that you can’t, and that doesn’t make you any less. Trust me on that one, I know the feeling.

MAX getting lifted int the back of the pod!

Yeah, we so know where Alan gets his crazy from. 

“Scott, follow the route. It’s too dangerous!”

“We’ll be fine. Trust me!”

You were saying, Scott?

“This is actually quite fun!”

I’m glad Brains is at least enjoying a rescue for once. It’s like a man and his dog with MAX and Brains too. Really nice touches with the photo too.

“You can go faster than that. Step on it.”

No wonder he has a love for speed - so did Grandma in ‘Unplugged’, and his Father too apparently.

Mechanical Assistant eXperimental. I’m glad someone finally told us - Scott’s face though.

“That’s it. We are going to have to wait until the fog clears.”

Keep putting your foot down Virgil, because now we get the tent and one of my favourite scenes!

“What’s going on with you today?”

“Me? We’re on a mission. We need to do everything we can to get their ASAP, and you’re taking the scenic route.”

“It’s the safe route.”

“I didn’t come here to be safe.”

“You can’t keep pushing everyone and everything to the limit.”

“I don’t push anyone harder than they need to be pushed.”

“You’re so darn determined you don’t see the danger.”

“You don’t know what you’re capable of unless you keep pushing.”

“But we are not machines.”

“Someone has got to step up. I’m just doing what Dad did; he never gave up.”

“Dad worked hard, but even he knew there were limits. He couldn’t do it all.”

“But I have to do it all. I couldn’t save Dad... but maybe I can make up for it.”

“By saving everyone else?”

Look after yourselves everyone! But particularly the men out there! You can be strong and still have feelings. We all need to talk more and I have admired the writers of TAG for a long time for putting this scene into what is essentially a children’s tv show and writing it between two men. Often you might find something like this in content aimed at adult audiences - which is great because you’re targeting the generations who have been brought up on the nonsense of keeping some feelings closed off, but children are the future generations and often that is when we learn our responses to big things like grief - and we usually copy it from those we see around us (mainly adults) and how they deal with the situation. This is the way to change things, with positive media messages. Honestly, I could write on essay on the merits of scenes like this in the entertainment industry towards helping open up about mental health. I think I might have just written a good chunk of it above, but honestly, it is another reason why I praise this first series of Thunderbirds Are Go - even with injuries and talk of events, the writers really pushed the limits for what you can feature in a children’s program and it really shows.

“I miss him.”

I feel like that is something Scott hasn’t said aloud or in company for a long, long time.

“If I let myself think about... Keeping busy with International Rescue is the only thing that I have to stop me going crazy.”

I really do get it, Scott. I reckon a lot of us out there can relate. Or if you can’t yet, one day you’ll know the feeling. It’s nearly impossible to describe, but you’ll just know.

Way to go MAX in this episode! He was so amazing.

“Ok, Brains. Send MAX in.”

“MAX was a real hero.”

I love how they brought back everything that mattered, but thought it was the end of the world because there wasn’t anything much to bring back. Remember with computers to never just keep one copy of things! Another valuable lesson.

Rescue count: 25 (I am so including Virgil rescuing MAX).

They must really need the sleep too. I get jet lag flying every so often - the amount of times they cross the time lines... they must be exhausted.

Yeah... you’ll have to handle this one, John.

“We’ll take this one.”

Good call Gordon. I hope it’s something they can deal with - although this would suggest that the boys have made sure (to some extent) that they can cope with each others crafts... I mean, maybe this was something Three and/or Four could handle, but I do think that would be a real spot of luck. And we know Gordon can fly Two because he does in series 2 and he did via a pod in the 1st half of series one. That makes sense, because he could then get Four wherever it was needed, and he and Alan potentially would be able to go on a rescue without these Two because they would have all the equipment needed variable to them within Two.

What was that Virgil? I thought you mumbled something about cookies? And I think when Scott wakes up (and is less tired), he will have something to say about you putting your feet (and shoes) on his legs...

Phew, that was a long one.

And remember, there are charities out there such as Mind etc. Mental health matters and this episode is an ambassador for that!

Also, if you ever get the chance to go anywhere close enough to see the Northern Lights, I do highly recommend it.

[thedistantstorm]

Tribute: A Kalluzeb Story (pt 2)

Fandom: Star Wars Rebels

Pairings: Kallus/Zeb (kalluzeb)

Chapter: 2 of 3?? (still TBD, apparently I have a lot to say...)

AO3 Link Here

Summary: Zeb works on a gift for Kallus, to replace something he’s lost. It’s a gateway to a conversation Zeb wants to have in the future, but there’s something a bit more urgent they need to talk about first.

Notes: Thank y’all so so much for your lovely comments and likes and reblogs, they seriously make my day. All you kalluzebs out there are the nicest freakin’ people I’ve encountered in fandom and I’m having such a ball writing these two for us. Not to mention getting to explore Hera’s relationship with them is something I’ve wanted to do for a hot minute now, so please excuse my self-indulgent hurt/comfort.

<< Previously // Next >>

Kallus enters the grounded Ghost to a beeping, ornery droid and the sound of the exhaust fans roaring. It's just shy of daybreak, and Yavin 4 is alight with parchment colored skies and fog that creeps silently through the trees. The temperature is cool at this hour, good for working outdoors. The morning shifts here start early.

He catches the faintest hint of lacquer, some protective finish he doesn't entirely recognize. It's stronger outside than inside the Ghost, and it only takes a quick glance around to understand why. Something had been on the crates sprawled across the cargo bay, the ones that became tables for anyone who ate away from the mess hall or seating that they'd drag outside for an impromptu fireside debrief in the dark of the night, since the smoke keeps bugs away. Whatever it was, it's not there now, though he does see his suspected culprit.

"Garazeb," He says, careful not to speak too loud. It's still early, and his voice has a tendency to carry. Off to the side, he sees Hera curled up on an old weapons crate. He isn't sure how long she's been there, but she'll likely be sore. He rounds a makeshift worktable to see Zeb sitting on the floor beside her, slumped over on himself, chin lurching closer to his knees before he tries unconsciously to right himself.

Chopper quietly rearranges some of the crates to help Kallus, commenting that they're his problem now. Somehow, he doubts that very much, but he knows better than to argue with this particular droid, regardless of his opinion.

Judging by the way Zeb's sitting, angled with one shoulder against the crate Hera's using as a bed, there's a good chance he'd attempted to wake her, and in his attempts not to frighten her, fallen asleep himself. Orrelios was a good liar, and bags didn't show under his eyes. Still, Kallus knew Zeb wasn't sleeping well.

He crouches and places one hand on both their shoulders. Zeb only seems to relax further, clearly recognizing him by touch or maybe smell, his senses are far keener than a human's. Hera's chuckle is thick and sleep-laiden, but she blinks her eyes open at him.

"Looks like we've been caught," She grumbles without malice, nudging Zeb in the back with her boot. He jerks awake immediately, only for Kallus to change his hold on the Lasat's shoulder to a palm on his cheek, preventing him from bashing their heads together. "I thought you were going to carry me to bed," Hera accuses.

"Yer the one who said 'five more minutes, I'm finally comfy,'" He mouths back, tilting his head away from Kallus's hand to look at Hera, "If he's here to yell at us, it's on you."

Hera rolls her eyes. "I don't think he's here to yell. I think he's going to send us to bed."

"Bwah, buabahba bah!" Unconcerned about his volume, Chopper insists that somebody should. Whether he means that in regards to yelling or sending them to bed, it's anyone's guess.

"General," Kallus holds his arms out, indicative that he will be the one to lift her, seeing as Zeb's eyes are already drooping again.

"He-ra," She reminds him with a firm poke to the chest. He hums something agreeable, though he doesn't bother to oblige her by calling her only her given name. He's coming off a week-long mission. It's hard to switch off the work part of his brain, though it gets easier all the time.

"Draven pushed back our debrief to noon. Should give us all a decent lie in," He looks down to Zeb, already snoring.

"Great," She exhales, as Kallus scoops her up. He turns them sideways to navigate the doorway. Wryly, she asks, "You gonna carry him to bed too?"

This time, he does drop the formalities. "Hera," He warns, voice low. He's too in control to let a blush cross his face, but his lips quirk uncomfortably.

She looks up at him, as if transitioning from asleep to fully awake with a single blink. Realizing she's made him uncomfortable, she says, "You can put me down."

"Is that an order?"

She sighs. They treat her like glass, and it's annoying. "I can walk by myself."

"I suppose you can, but," He looks away. He's an eloquent man, but the lack of required restraint (no matter how many times they encourage him to say what's on his mind, to be human, imperfect), always makes him hesitate.

She smiles, just a little, and yields, "To be honest, my foot's asleep."

"Ah. Best if we proceed as is," He says aloud. It's a weak excuse and a blatant lie, but he doesn't question it.

"He didn't leave his work out, did he?"

"It did not appear so, no," Kallus whispers. To speak any louder in the silent ship would be like yelling. Chopper is already waiting for her, her cabin doors thrown open. "If you wouldn't mind, Chopper-" He begins.

The droid runs into his good leg, though not hard enough to hurt, and begins fussing over Hera as he lays her in her bunk. He catches a salute as he steps back. That means Chopper heard about the rescheduled debrief, and that he's grateful enough to come get him later, should he oversleep.

It hasn't happened yet, but one of these days, it might. Kallus is exhausted. He still has another sentient to drag off to bed, and despite Hera's quips, he very much doubts he could carry Zeb the same way. All things considered, it would be an uncomfortable, logistical nightmare, even though he'd likely be capable of the actual lifting.

He makes it back to the hold and pauses, taking the scene in for just a moment. If his heart clenches with something fond and he watches his fellow rebel breathe deep and slow for more time than necessary, no one will know. He steps over the threshold, footsteps light across the durasteel.

"Garazeb," He calls, reluctant to disturb him. Once he's close enough, he leans down to put a hand on his shoulder, shaking. "You shouldn't sleep here."

Whatever the reply is, it's muddled and incoherent. Kallus exhales. He knows if he sits down on this crate, he'll fall asleep on it like Hera, and it certainly won't reduce the kink Zeb's going to have in his neck from twisting himself to use the crate as a pillow.

"That cannot be comfortable," He comments with mirth.

"Wha?" Zeb's eyes are unfocused, and it takes him a second to focus on Kallus. "Hera?"

"Tucked in. Come along, Garazeb."

Zeb shuffles to his feet, Kallus close enough to steady him. "Mission go okay?"

"Yes," He breathes. He's alive, so he counts it as a victory. His identity as Fulcrum may have been compromised, but he still has a bit of a wide reach, and now, a potential successor, but Zeb won't retain any of it, so he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he asks, "Have you finished your project?"

"Mmm," Zeb agrees muzzily.

Their journey through the vessel takes longer than it had for him to whisk Hera back to her bunk, but Kallus is happy to help the larger man stumble along. In the weeks since returning from Lothal, he’s found Hera, but more frequently, Zeb, asleep in a myriad of strange places.

Grief is… tricky. Kallus cannot say he does not wade through his own on a near-daily basis, but he feels like this is something he can do, something valuable and worthwhile. He will see Zeb and Hera through this. He’ll check on Sabine through cryptic messages and make sure Chopper does not fry his circuits keeping tabs on their remaining crew. He’d have done it even if he didn’t know Kanan or Ezra personally, even if he hadn’t felt indebted to them. When he’d realized it, it felt like a weight he hadn’t registered shaking itself loose. It was something he wanted to do for those who remained, because he cares for them. Not that the dead or the lost do not matter; He thinks of them often. Jarrus’s steadfast calm, his otherworldly compassion and understanding. Ezra’s unyielding hope, his fierce resolve, and his courage. For someone so young to have made the decisions he had, to carry on despite everything pitted against him… well, Kallus can admit to himself that he could only aspire to be that strong.

The door to their shared room opens. That is a recent development, but Kallus is a nomad amid the Rebel base, with scarce few belongings, all of which (sans spare clothes, which are standard issue) are carried on his person. He holds a hand out to spot Zeb as he takes the boost of the small but sturdy ladder to the top bunk. The Lasat had been sleeping there ever since…

Well, Kallus had reasoned, at the time, Ezra did say it was his again…

“Got someth’n t’show ya, later,” Zeb murmurs, voice almost a rumble.

Kallus can’t help himself, reaching a hand out to cup one side of Zeb’s face. The two of them are quite the pair. War-torn and jagged, sometimes barely holding themselves together. They’ve lived through enough to know that there’s only so much they can hold back. To the rest of the galaxy, of course, there isn’t much that would make them seem less rigid or frightening, certainly nothing that could make either of them less dangerous adversaries. But to each other, to a comrade who understands, to a friend who walks a similar path…

Zeb presses his face into Kallus’s palm, the fine fur there soft and velveteen against calloused skin. “I’ll come for you after my debrief,” Kallus promises, endeavoring not to wake him later when he rises to meet Draven with Hera. “Get some sleep.”

Yellow-green eyes open for just a moment, something warm and unspoken in their depths. A large, four-digit hand covers Kallus’s, squeezes his fingers tightly when he begins to pull away. “You too.”

Once their hands separate, Kallus discards his jacket and belt, toes off his boots. He hears Chopper heading down the hall towards their room, sees the door crack a few centimeters in the center as the droid checks on them. He dips his head in a nod and Chopper retreats. He turns off the lights and takes the three short steps across the room to his bunk. Zeb is already snoring softly, the sound infinitely soothing to the ex-ISB agent. By the time his head touches Zeb’s old pillow, Kallus is already asleep.

[persephonescat]

Birds and Other Supernatural Phenomenons

New chapter??? Already??? Yeah, don't get used to it, I have so many exams this week (and the next one too), that I think I'm gonna just straight up die. So naturally, I'm procrastinating. Yey.

(This wasn't edited nearly as much as any of the other chapters, even though I wrote at least ten different opening scenes for it. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.) And apparently, my aesthetic is writing Gotham's weather. I have no idea how that happened.

Warning for violence!

Ch. 1    Previous    Next    Masterpost    AO3 

________________

Ch. 7: Light and Darkness

Life sucks.

Sometimes, she stared into the darkest abyss and even the mere existence of it terrified her. Other times, she looked back at her life and thought, "the abyss would be pretty comfortable, after all".

She didn't know when her life turned into a cheap video-tape. The sounds were distorted, and the protagonist was horrible, but she kept watching it anyway.

***

The rain was flooding the gray streets of Gotham. The streetlights were dimmed by the thick curtain of dust and fog. Neon billboards flickered over shops, the cars sprinkled dirty water on the few pedestrians who didn't run from the weather as if it was the plague.

The rain disturbed Marinette's senses. Dick's quiet swearing was oppressed by the deafening sound of dropping water and shrieking vehicles. There were too many smells. Her vision was blurry, her red raincoat didn't protect her from getting soaking wet. She put her insensate hands in her pockets to keep them from shaking violently, but it still took all her self-control to keep herself together.

"'You okay?" Dick shouted on her right side, giving up the fight with the umbrella she gave him and settling for a small coverage over his face.

"Yes," shouted back Marinette, but her voice was lost in the downpour. 

"We're almost there!" He tucked the girl a little closer and tried to get the umbrella to protect her.

"I know," she muttered even though there was no way he could've heard her.

The buildings were closing over their heads, merging with the dark clouds. A car passed beside them, and Marinette screwed her eyes shut. It was too loud.

"Marinette?" she heard a familiar voice say. Suddenly, it was easier to breathe.

"Adrien?"

"God, are you okay? I've been looking for you." She could finally see him in his large, black raincoat, rushing towards her with an umbrella.

"Sure," she muttered, hoping her voice didn't tremble from the cold. She was grateful that he spoke in English instead of French, it would've been considerably harder for her to keep her cover otherwise.

Adrien stood next to her, holding the umbrella over her head. He only then seemed to notice the man on her side, and she wondered if he was just pretending to be normal or if he really didn't pay attention.

"Hi! Who are you?" he asked Dick kindly, but Marinette could hear the wariness in it.

"Umm..." Dick seemed to be lost in thought for a second before he answered. "Hi. My name is Dick. You are Marinette's classmate, right?"

"Yes, I am." He paused and smiled politely. "I think we should go, it's very cold out here." He was waiting for Marinette to agree, but she didn't say anything.

"Of course. I've to go too, I'm really late for work," Dick said, glancing at the Wayne Tower. "Thanks for the umbrella," he smirked one last time before shoving the dripping object into Adrien's hand and making a run for the tower. They both stared at him as he cut his way through the rain.

"Come on, let's get you to somewhere warm," said Adrien, finally turning to her. "Can I touch you?"

A few years ago, Marinette told him how uncomfortable she felt sometimes when people touched her. Since then, he always asked for her permission, especially when she was in a bad mood. She had a strong urge to roll her eyes dramatically every time he did it. It was so... Adrien of him. He always respected people's boundaries. Maybe that's why he didn't fight his father. 

The guilt was climbing up inside Marinette's throat as she remembered her investigation on Hawkmoth. Half a year ago, she started suspecting it was Gabriel Agreste, but she said nothing. Now she was almost sure and still didn't tell anyone. Not even Master Fu. She knew that if something happened to her, Tikki would tell him what he needed to know. If for some reason - Marinette didn't even want to think about that, - she couldn't, she had at least four different ways to make the guardian know.

She looked at Adrien. He seemed to be happy. His years as Chat Noir made him more confident. He was a lot like Chat now, just like how she was more and more like Ladybug. Psychologically, it was fascinating. In practice, it terrified her sometimes.

Instead of answering, she hugged Adrien's waist with one arm as they walked to the nearest diner.

***

After some getting some hot cocoa and warm food, - they both knew Marinette was not the best at eating healthily and regularly, he sat down beside her and put her freezing hands between his, warming them up. She gave him a grateful half-smile.

"Next time you decide to disappear, you could really send me a text or something. I tend to check the weather forecast, unlike some people," he said. "Why did you have a raincoat and an umbrella on you anyway?"

Marinette was starting to feel her hands again, and her mind was no longer screaming from confusion.

"I tend to come prepared, unlike some people, who constantly forget to bring a toothbrush to trips," she said mockingly.

"I mean, I don't do that constantly," he protested.

"Every. Single. Time," she told him. "I think I actually brought two spares, just in case."

"Nah, I'm good, Nino brought one for me too," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. Marinette snorted.

***

The teachers gave them the afternoon off again. The rain stopped around noon and Gotham was swimming in sunlight. The wet streets were glimmering as the light touched the asphalt, people slowly poked their heads out of their homes, a few annoyed cats were roaming around, showing off their wonderfully dry pelage.

Marinette walked slowly, admiring the sky-high buildings and silently memorizing all the shops and alleys she went by. There was a chance she was going to forget most of it by tomorrow, and once again, she cursed her brain for needing so much sleep.

St. Anthony Street was not a pretty view. Thanks to the rain, Joanne's blood was painting small, brownish-red veins on the concrete. The original red puddle was still visible, and even though it faded a lot, it was big.

Near the large, rust-colored spot, there was a smaller one. 'Must be where her hand fell next to her side,' Marinette realized. That would mean the girl entered the street from where Marinette stood, the attacker jumped at her almost immediately, and she fell backwards. The paper said the wounds were on her chest and torso, so she must've landed on her back, then the attacker stabbed her twelve times and took the murder weapon with them. Marinette could replay the scene in her mind.

Joanne must've been in a hurry because she doesn't notice someone already waiting for her. The attacker grabs her hands to keep her from escaping and knocks her back. Then they get their knife out and Joanne screams, but nobody bothers to check what's wrong. The attacker stabs her again and again. At some point, the girl is conscious enough to touch her bloody T-shirt and try applying pressure on a wound. It doesn't matter. Then her hands fall to her sides, her bloody palm leaving a mark on the asphalt, and the murderer finally stands up, looking at the body in front of their eyes. They're panting heavily. They leave with the knife, their clothes sprayed with blood.

Twelve stab-wounds would clearly state it was personal, but when it comes to hate crimes like this, it's usually pretty obvious who did it. Not many people have enemies capable of something like this.

There were multiple faults in her version of the events. 

She walked around the dark spot slowly, hundreds of ideas crossing her mind, most of them faulty and unusable. 

She rubbed her face frustratedly. If she wanted to make something out of this, she needed to sleep first.

She took off her red backpack with the black-and-white apple blossoms she made a few years prior - when she realized that the lock pick set, the handbooks, the Swiss Army Knife, the skein, scissors and needles, her not-so-secret green tea stash, the matches, her phone and the small army of power banks she always carried with her didn't fit her old purse anymore, not to mention Tikki and her cookies. 

She took out the thermostat of coffee she got on the way back with Dick and drank half of it in one gulp. Now that she was thinking about it, she might've liked coffee after all. Tikki and Kaalki both frowned at her in perfect sync inside the bag but given they were in the middle of the street, they didn't say anything.

Marinette checked the time and decided to stick around for a little more. She was wandering the block slowly, noting all the broken doors and windows on the way.

She was examining St. Anthony Street for the fourth time when she noticed something in the few threads of grass sticking out where the road and the pavement met. She went closer.

For a moment, she thought it was a wrapper or a piece of plastic, but as she took it between her gloved fingers, she realized it was a small, round wooden-bead painted ultramarine blue. 

Three days passed since the incident. Anyone could've lost a single bead since then. Actually, it might've been there for weeks, but she still slipped it into her pocket before going back to the Wayne Tower.

________________

Comments are like macarons: fun. They're fun. That's it. I'm tired. Please share your thoughts!

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[kagehinataboke]

this is not an exactly prompt from your list, but if you do a 7 minutes in heaven with todobaku (in high school au, college au, canon world, I DON'T CARE) i will propose to you right on the spot. like. marry me. i fucking love your writing so much, is not even funny! thank you sm if you write it, but i understand if you don't so dw your pretty head about it

IT’S FINALLY HERE!!! oml, i’ve been working tirelessly on this for you anon! huhu, i really hope you like it uwu

***

Todoroki doesn’t like house parties. He’d much rather stay at home doing literally anything other than being surrounded by strangers in a dark house. The air smells like smoke, elbows keep hitting him from every angle, and he’s fairly certain 90% of these people are much older—and drunker—than he is. He came as a favor to Midoriya, but he’s already dissolved into the crowd. What a great friend, huh?

Where are you? Todoroki texts, pressing himself against a wall to keep from being crushed by the typhoon of people. Midoriya doesn’t even read it: his phone must be off. What is Todoroki supposed to do now? Wander aimlessly and hope someone eventually takes pity on him and tells him what he should be doing? Parties are the worst.

“Why the fuck are you dragging me to this shitty party? It’s fucking jenga night at the dorm, Kirishima,” someone grumbles loudly from nearby. At least someone else is having as bad a time as Todoroki is. “Seven minutes in heaven?” is the next irate exclamation. “I’m not ten. Can’t we just leave?”

Todoroki finds himself following the loud voice. Its owner seems to have confidence, which is more than he can say about himself. Unfortunately, that confidence leads to the middle of a crowded bedroom full of drunk college students sitting in a big circle around an empty beer bottle. Across the circle from Todoroki is the annoyed boy who doesn’t want to be here. He’s good-looking. White-blond hair, intense eyes, and a sharp face. His scowl kind of ruins it, though. 

“Why do we have to do this?” he mutters quietly to his friend, eyes sweeping around the circle. Todoroki quickly looks away, but he can feel the handsome stranger’s eyes linger on him for a moment before moving on.  

Why do we have to do this? As the bottle spins, Todoroki is asking himself the same question. How does this game even work? he wonders with a frown. Two people go into a closet for seven minutes and… Wait, can you even have sex in a closet? Is that the object of the game? God, I hope not.

“Next pair, next pair!”

What, it’s been seven minutes already? Todoroki studies the returning couple nervously. They look normal, apart from a few shy glances. Surely they didn’t actually do it in a stranger’s closet? There’s no way—

Oh. Todoroki stiffens. Oh no… The bottle is pointing at him. He barely has time to absorb the idea that he’ll be going in a closet with a stranger when the demonic selector rotates again. Please don’t be a weirdo, please don’t be a weirdo, he begs inwardly. Oh. Oh, God. I take it back: this is so much worse. 

The hot, angry blond stranger is staring at him, the bottle forming a direct line between them. A weirdo would be better than this confident, gorgeous boy—but Todoroki numbly gets up anyway, panicking the whole time. He’s never kissed anyone, let alone fogged up a closet… If you can even do that. 

“Remember, no lights or anything,” the game host reminds in a giggling chirp while shoving them into the coat closet. 

The door closes before Todoroki can plead escape, and his seven minutes in hell begin.

***

“Where are you?” a voice says into the pitch blackness. 

“Nowhere.” Todoroki swears inwardly. He can feel sweat creeping across his forehead. “I mean, obviously I’m here, but…” God, this is a disaster. He wants to die. When a warm hand brushes against his wrist, the feeling significantly dissipates. 

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” the stranger whispers, even though he really doesn’t have to. “I’m not a creep or anything.”

“I hope I wasn’t insinuating that I thought you were,” Todoroki whispers back, willing his pores to cool down. “I’m just a bit nervous. This is my first time in a closet. With another person, I mean.” Smooth, Shouto. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand this game.”

“And you played it anyway?” There’s a soft scoff. “You’re an interesting guy.” A slight pause. “I’m Bakugou, by the way. Bakugou Katsuki. You’re Todoroki, right?”

“You know me?”

“I’ve seen you around before. We go to the same university. Different departments.” Another pause. “Fuck, this went way smoother in my head. Nice to meet you, I guess.” 

Todoroki laughs despite his best efforts not to. “Nice to meet you, too. I think… we’ve used up most of our seven minutes.” 

“Okay, so yeah… I might’ve rigged this to give us more time? Which sounds—“

“Creepy?” 

“Yes, but I have a reason. Reasons.” Bakugou pauses again. His hand has gone clammy around Todoroki’s wrist. “This really went better in my head.”

“Why did you want to be alone with me?” Todoroki sighs, throwing him a bone. “We don’t even know each other. Or, at least, I don’t know you.”

“I’ve just… Well, fuck, you could say I have a crush on you? As middle-schooler as it sounds. But that’s how every relationship starts, right? Two people as strangers?” The hand slides further up Todoroki’s arm, fingertips slipping under the hem of his sleeve. “I realize now that doing this in a dark closet isn’t the best idea. Sorry. I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“It’s a bit charming, actually.”

“Really?”

“No, not in the least.”

There’s a long moment of silence before they both laugh. It’s strange, but Todoroki feels as if his nerves are dissolving. Being stuck in a closet with a hot, weird stranger should have the opposite effect. Then again, he seems nice enough, if not a little awkward. Things could be worse…

“Hey…” Todoroki hesitates for a moment before feeling for Bakugou’s shoulder in the dark. This is as daring as he’s ever been, and it’s scary—but not entirely bad. “How exactly do you play this game?”

“…Want me to show you?”

The rational side of Todoroki’s brain says that he should obviously say no, but the more fun part is screaming SAY YES OR YOU’LL EXPLODE!!!

The middle-ground is a quiet, “Sure.”

***

Only when there’s teeth against his neck does the full gravity of the situation hit. Todoroki has never had sexual contact (beyond kissing) in his entire life. Now he’s suddenly got lips on places he’s never even thought about before. It’s intense, but in a way that’s terrifyingly good. 

“Are you okay?” Bakugou whispers, breath hot and hands heavy against Todoroki’s hips. 

“Yes,” he manages through gritted teeth. 

There’s no more talking after that. Todoroki’s mind is a useless puddle of ‘Yes’es, especially when Bakugou’s hands slip under the hem of his shirt. He almost forgets where he is. He’s not thinking about the fact that he’s never done anything like this in his life, and he really shouldn’t be doing it. All he can think about it the warmth spreading up his spine and tingling in the pit of his stomach. 

Todoroki sees stars, tilting his head back to let out a gasping moan that makes his ears go red. His common sense comes flooding back. He must be crazy. He’s never done anything like this in his life. God, is he insane?

“I— W-wait.” Todoroki inhales sharply, and Bakugou lifts his head. 

“What’s wrong?”

Todoroki blurts out the first thing on his mind. “I just don’t think having sex in a closet is the best start to a meaningful relationship!”

There’s silence for one, two, three long seconds. Then Bakugou bursts into laughter, leaning against Todoroki’s chest to stifle the noise. “I can’t exactly blame you,” he says after collecting himself again. “I really should’ve just talked to you like a normal person, anyway. Should we get out of here?”

“…”

“Of the closet, I mean.”

“Oh. Yes, please.”

Bakugou gets up and they both struggle to straighten their clothes in the dark. Todoroki’s eyes have adjusted just enough to see the hand Bakugou stretches out towards him. “Be careful. There’s an umbrella right in front of you.”

“Thanks.” Todoroki takes his hand and feels his way around the obstacle until he finds the closet door. He pulls it open to find the hallway empty, the sounds of bass music pumping up through the thin floorboards. “I guess they forgot about us.”

“That’s okay. I think I might head out, anyway. There’s a late-night sushi bar near here.” Bakugou releases his hand, but pauses a few steps down the hallway. “You… wanna come?”

Todoroki doesn’t even try to tell himself no. “Sure. Let me get my coat.”

“Awesome.” Bakugou doesn’t say anything else until they reach the stairs. “I’m… not coming on too strong, am I?”

“Um… yes, I’d say so.”

“Fuck, I knew it. Sorry. Just punch me if you ever want to.”

“I can’t just punch a stranger.”

“But you can kiss one?”

“I can still say no to going with you, you know.”

“Okay, fuck. I’ll shut up now.”

Todoroki hides a smile against his shoulder. Despite the awkwardness between them, this is the most fun he’s had in… Well, probably in forever.

[an-aura-about-you]

Drinking Acquaintances

I’ve been listening to a Lunar 1 let’s play during work and I decided to write in that universe again.

Nash holds his drink up, the light from the Blue Star tinted green from the amber in his glass. The ale (he THINKS it’s ale) in Lann isn’t bad in theory, though that’s an assumption since he hasn’t tried it yet. But he knows what drinks he likes and this generally isn’t what he looks for. He can already tell from the aroma that whatever this is is sweeter than his tastes, which means either it’s been sweetened or it’s not going to be very strong. Taste might not be why he wants to drink it, but it’s going to be more of a chore if he has to drink a lot of it.

He decides to stop stalling and drink the damn draught.

Nash gets about half the glass down, pulling a face when he stops. It’s growing on him, but wow, it’s so sweet and full-bodied he might as well be drinking straight honey. He wonders if Kyle would bother drinking this or if it’s more suitable to Jessica or Mia’s tastes. Either way, sober beggars can’t be choosers.

Down the hatch.

“Hey Nash!”

Nash nearly chokes on his drink but fortunately manages to get it down the right pipe.

Kyle leans over to check on him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Just surprised to see you drinking. It really must be the end of the world.”

Nash wipes his mouth with his wrist and goes, “Some of us have discerning tastes. All that’s happened is you’ve caught me making an exception. Speaking of, it’s rare to see you intelligible.”

“The night is young and I’ve only just started,” Kyle says before taking a swig from his own glass. “But I kinda wanna take this to Tamur so that maybe it’ll be a good glass of beer when it grows up.”

Nash stifles a laugh. “Imagine that, we agree on something.”

“Not to mention the both of us being smart enough to not turn down free booze.”

Kyle has a point on that. One glass down, no idea how many more to go, but at least they’re not the ones paying for them thanks to Lann naming Alex an honorary citizen and letting the alcohol flow like water. It won’t be enough for alcohol poisoning at this rate, but Nash can still work himself into a good, proper stupor and maybe not think about how screwed he is.

He already needs another drink.

“Are we the only ones drinking?” Nash asks, waving over someone with a bottle for a refill.

“I think we’re the only ones not done,” Kyle answers. “Jess already had her fill, and Alex and Mia turned it down.” He grins and says, “One of these days, Jess is gonna talk Mia into a drink, and then it’ll be all over for the two of us.”

“Mia doesn’t-,” Nash begins, but he backpedals to say, “I’ve never seen Mia drink.”

Kyle shrugs his arms wide. “So? Doesn’t mean she can’t if she wants to. ‘Snot like you’re the boss of her.”

Nash looks down at his glass at that. Every choice in front of him is the wrong one. Might as well keep it up. He takes another drink.

“Hey Nash.”

Nash turns to Kyle, the brigand wearing an oddly serious frown. It’s not that he’s never seen it before. It’s just usually not directed to him.

“I wanted to apologize,” Kyle says. “For teasing you about Mia back in Damon’s Spire.”

Nash scowls and furrows his brow. “No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do!” Kyle insists. “Look, Nash, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, that’s probably never gonna happen.”

“Then why are you bothering, especially when you know I don’t believe you?” Nash asks before taking another sip.

“Because the way you looked when you saw Mia fall over sick in Pao was the way I felt when I saw the same thing happen to Jess.”

It’s Kyle’s turn to take a drink after that, and Nash contemplates his words in the brief silence.

Kyle continues with, “I see that look in a man’s eyes, I know he’s gonna do for his girl what I’d do for Jess. It doesn’t feel right calling that a crush.”

“To be fair, Jessica was the one who called it a crush,” Nash points out.

“Yeah, but I was thinking it pretty loud.”

Nash considers this as he works on what’s in his glass. Once he’s made a bit more headway, he says, “Well, thank you, Kyle. I actually do appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to make a habit of it,” Kyle replies.

“Perish the thought. I likewise hope you don’t take me for a drunkard.”

Kyle makes a scoffing laugh and goes, “You? You can’t be a drunk until you actually try drinking with me.”

Nash gestures with his glass and says, “I should stand a little ways away, then. I wouldn’t want to think of us developing any sort of camaraderie.”

“Woah, let’s not go crazy. I don’t hate you, but we’re not going that far.”

Nash laughs in spite of himself.

“Hey, look at that: you actually do have a sense of humor!” Kyle says.

“It’s the drink,” Nash protests.

“C’mon, even you aren’t that much of a lightweight.”

Rather than answer that, Nash gets another glass of ale and works to find the least risky discussion he can now so he can hopefully stay on it when he’s really gone.

Just tell him, his brain whispers. Tell him the truth and get your head lobbed off. It’ll be quicker and less painful than anything else that could happen. You wouldn’t even have to make any other choices.

He keeps drinking.

“So, what’re you gonna do when all this is over?” Kyle asks. “See if Mia will wanna settle down with you? You’d probably make a good trophy husband for her.”

Well, so much for that. Nash looks at what’s left in his glass, focusing on that and not what could happen. “The only future I’m looking at right now is another glass of ale.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Kyle agrees, being tactful for once and not pushing Nash about his obvious sidestep.

It’s the last moment Nash remembers from the night, the last thing besides sickly sweet oblivion.

-

Nash steps into the Seagull Tavern, both grateful and a little pissed off that he can. It’s one thing to survive during a war. It’s another to survive during a war you’re going to lose. It’s yet another to survive during a war when you should be dead already and wonder why anyone bothered to bring you back when you’re just going to die again.

“You bastard.”

He isn’t surprised to hear that, but he still looks up to see who said it this time. It’s even less surprising to find it came from Kyle, who’s sitting at a table and on what looks to be at least his fifth drink judging from the glasses on the table.

“You bastard, Nash, you were right,” Kyle tells him with a brief, violent gesture of his glass. “Fuck you.”

“I deserve that,” Nash responds, approaching the table. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want to be right about this.”

“Shuddup,” he slurs. “If you’re not drinking, get outta here.”

“What else would I be doing in a tavern?” he asks in response. “I’ll even buy your next drink.”

Kyle scowls at him before relenting, a mirror to Nash’s own despair.

It shakes him a moment. He certainly doesn’t know the brigand well, but this is the first time he’s seen such sheer hopelessness cross his face. He never thought he’d have anything in common with the muscle-bound imbecile, especially this.

As if to hammer it home, Kyle says, “Why the hell not? What does it matter? We’re all gonna die anyway.”

“No, all of you are going to die,” Nash responds, taking a seat while thinking through their mutual resignation. “I’m going to get horribly tortured, and if I’m lucky I’ll die.”

“We were gonna do the same thing to you.”

“It’s not the same at all. Ripping me apart would still be more merciful than whatever Ghaleon has planned for me.” He waves over a waitress to order a drink. “Rewarded as a traitor deserves.”

Kyle looks over his glass in a slight fog of inebriated confusion. “I’d offer to help, but I don’t think I could take yer head off clean until I’m sober.”

“I can wait.”

He puts his glass down and says, “I’m never gettin’ sober again.”

“Well, thanks anyway. It’s the thought that counts, after all.”

Nash gets his drink, idly surprised that the Seagull Tavern actually does have cocktails as well as glasses to serve them in. But then, if there’s any cocktail that should be expected in any bar, it should be a nice, dry martini. He takes a sip and gets one more surprise, learning that it’s not as awful as he expected. In fact, it’s actually kind of good. Now this is the proper way, or at least the most proper way available to him, to get drunk.

“Shoulda known you drink cocktails,” Kyle says. “Wha’s next, a fuzzy navel?”

“I’m never going to drink anything sweet again,” Nash answers. “Not after that ale in Lann. That felt like it took forever.”

“Oh yeah,” Kyle responds. And then he adds with just enough anger riled up in his voice, “Can’t believe we were actin’ like friends. I shoulda killed you then.”

“If you had, it would have been the friendliest thing you ever did for me.”

“Yeah, well... I can’t now.”

Nash finishes his martini and moves to order another. “The only problem with this is it takes a while for the liquor to get to your head.”

“Somethin’ that never happens with beer,” Kyle points out.

“Oh let me have this; if everything’s going to hell, I might as well have a martini or two.”

“It does feel pointless,” Kyle agrees. “You know what? Fuck it. Y’did what y’did, but can’t stop it now. Why be pissed at you for th’ rest of our lives when we can drink?”

“Another rare agreement,” Nash says, holding his glass up in toast.

-

Nash looks out to the Meribian Sea, enjoying the salt of the night breeze and the martini in his hand. It’s the first moment he’s had alone since everything ended, time to contemplate his strange new situation.

For one thing, he’s alive. For another, so is everyone else he wanted to survive out of this. And not only are his companions not going to torture him, they’re actually all on about the best terms he can expect, some better than he hoped.

“Hey Nash!”

Well, so much for solitary thought, but Kyle showing up is not unwelcome this time around.

“Hey Kyle,” he greets back, not bothering to turn and face him. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“One day you’ll make a good joke, but that day’s not today,” Kyle responds, heading over with his glass of beer. “So, living in Meribia, huh? How you likin’ it?”

Nash shrugs. He didn’t get to that part yet, didn’t want to rush into it since it’s one of the bigger changes. But that’s Kyle, subtle as a sledgehammer.

“It’s weird,” Nash answers, pausing to sip his martini. “But anywhere that’s not Vane was going to feel weird to me. It seems like if I just look up in the right spot, I’ll see it. Even now, it feels like I’m spending too much time here and should go find Mia so we can go home.”

Kyle lets that sit a moment before saying, “Yeah. Is it too optimistic to think of it like being on vacation? I mean, you’ll get to go home eventually, right?”

Nash chuckles ruefully and goes, “Rebuilding Vane is going to take a lot of work.”

“It is,” Kyle agrees. “How’s Mia? Is she just as miserable about what happened as you are?”

“At this point, she’s more concerned about Majesty Lemia,” Nash answers. “And who can blame her? But even now, when she’s working, she’s already looking straight ahead at what Vane can become.”

“Man, you better not need me to tell you not to mess it up with Mia again.”

“I don’t plan on it, but if I do I’m acknowledging right here and now I deserve whatever I get. Fair?”

“Fair.”

“So, do you want to hear the other weird part?”

“Depends on how weird it is,” Kyle says before taking a drink himself.

“Not as weird as everything else but still odd: at this rate, you’re the person I’ve had the most drinks with.”

“That’s not so weird. I’m usually that person for everybody. No surprise Jess calls me an enabler.”

Nash shakes his head a little and says, “I wonder how bad it would get if all of us went out for a drink together.”

“Pretty sure that’s the definition of shitshow, Nash.”

“You’re probably right. Is it bad that I kind of want to see it anyway?”

“Nah,” Kyle says with a grin. “It’d probably be a funny shitshow.”

Nash shrugs. “Maybe it’ll happen one day. Who knows? Maybe one of these days we’ll go out to get a drink and actually plan to do it instead of one of us just butting in when the other one tries to drink.”

Kyle snorts into his glass. “Like drinking buddies? I dunno about that.”

“When you put it like that, you have a point. Us drinking buddies? The Blue Star might fall out of the sky before that happens.”

Nash immediately regrets his wording as soon as it leaves his mouth, shutting up to take another sip.

“Eh, we can still drink now,” Kyle says to gloss over it. “In any case, I’m not about to waste this brew.”

“Tell you what, we ever agree to go drinking anywhere, we’ll go to Tamur,” Nash suggests. “I never did get to try the beer last time, but anything’s bound to be better than Lann.”

“I can agree to that.” Kyle takes his turn to life his glass. “To not drinking in Lann ever again!”

“Cheers!” Nash toasts before the two of them get back to their drinks.

[colitisandme]

The last week has been awful. The arsenal I have gathered to tackle this bloody disease, head on has failed me. The meditation, the mindfulness, the mantras, the stroking puppies, picking four leaf clovers, drinking potions, rubbing poultices and ointments on myself, lighting candles or anything else I could possibly have snaffled, eaten, drank or rubbed on myself to encourage this disease to give me a sodding break, has not worked. Instead my immune system has put a colander on its head, rolled up its sleeves and charged full pelt into each of my arsenal, knocking them over like bowling pins, then continued to sit on them, shout ‘who’s your daddy?!?’ whilst squishing its massive arse cheeks into each of their faces. As they try to run away, screaming and covered in arse cheek indentations, my beefed up, (probably green) eyes wide and terrifying immune system grabs each of the squealing group, sending them on their way with a final present of a massive wedgie. So in the end I am left with my immune system performing a victory dance, waving his hands above his head whooping in delight, and a group of wailing, whining group of treatments, all waving a white flag and all trying to gingerly coax their pants off their ears, snivelling in a corner vowing never to go back into the fray. How bloody useful is that?

As a result, I hold my hands up and say, it has been a struggle to maintain my sunny disposition. At times, I admit I have felt like hiding in the fridge. The only place I can lessen the pain of these bloody bites. I have felt like putting a ‘gone to lunch sign’ on my head, sitting with a blanket over myself, hoping all the world will just bugger off and let me be. I have dragged myself out of the house kicking and screaming, and through gritted teeth stepped out into the world attended meetings and appointments whilst avoiding eye contact and looking almost certainly like a bum with eyes. My nerves have been frayed. My eyes are bloodshot, I feel like my hair is on end. I am most certainly irritable and cranky, sleepy, hacked off, dopey and several other Dwarves in the process.

It hasn’t helped that I have had to fill in my PIP at the very moment I can’t remember the word for umbrella. Sometimes I get such bad brain fog, the conversation becomes like a game of Articulate and I start to scrabble around like a frightened raccoon climbing a curtain, desperately trying to wrack my brain and search for and assemble the correct words, nouns and adjectives I need, and enter into a maddening description game, so I can form sentences that actually make sense. “You know,it goes up, big, rain... oh YOU KNOW” clearly my husband doesn’t have a bloody clue and looks at me with a look that can only be described as a cross between, pity, alarm and probably wondering if he can nudge me into the shed without me realising, so he can go back to having normal conversations with people without turning it into a game of charades. My brain would not work this week. And I have no idea how I managed to fill that thing in.

The PIP is the most demoralising piece of paperwork I have ever had to fill in. I spend my time trying not to give IBD energy or power. I am mindful not to start sentances with ‘my IBD’ in order to prevent it from giving it an identity or a personality. I try not to go over my symptoms or dwell on what I can’t do, or go to, or participate in because I refuse to give the IBD control over me. The PIP is designed so you have to go over, in great detail, why you can’t do things. Why your disease/disability deserves financial help? What can’t you do? Where can’t you go? Name all the horrible ways it effects you? How does it make your life a misery? Can you bathe? Can you eat? Can you walk? If so how far? Is it unaided? Tell me, tell me TELL ME NOW, TELL ME HOW RUBBISH IT IS!!!! It’s like there are a group of people all sitting in the dark listening to you tell your story, all cackling and rubbing their knees in delight as you become more and more miserable, smaller, insignificant and finally succumb to the very meaning and nature of the disease. This form is made to reduce you to jelly. And that’s exactly what it did. I felt so awful after completing it. So angry, so stressed and so tiny. Here it was in black and white, in front of my eyes, all the ways in which my disease hurts or hampers me on a daily basis. I hated writing it. I hated admitting that sometimes I eat only one meal a day because it hurts too much to eat more. I hated stating that sometimes I can be in pain for hours. I loathed writing down that I sometimes only sleep 2 hours a night because I am so uncomfortable. Here it all was. My life with IBD and I really struggled reading it. This form gave the IBD so much power it was able to light up a neighbourhood. So much strength, it could pick up a bus, so much presence that if it was leading a motivational seminar, it would have every person screaming its name, leaping out of their seat with joy, suddenly seeping inspiration and motivation from all of their pores. It would have so much gravitas, that every woman and man in the room would want to either be with them or be like them. But I had no choice, I had to fill it out. I even asked my lovely husband to tell the arse hats judging this, what it was like for a loved one to watch someone precious to them, to live and function with this disease and I knew it made him uncomfortable because he didn’t want to give it any power or presence either.

After we both finished it. I admit I was upset. It had to be done. I know it did, but once I completed it and the words stared back at me, it forced me to admit that IBD is rubbish. It’s bloody rubbish. It’s a scary, non sensical disease. It robs you of sleep, looks, vocabulary, bowel function, loo roll, company, finances, control and equilibrium. It makes my immune system go completely crazy, which is why I am still battling hives, and a prickly rash snaking up my arm and the worst itching imaginable, 4 WEEKS later! It stops me from eating yummy things or from eating at all. It prevents me from doing kick boxing (a sport I used to love) or hiking, or enjoying long walks because of the pain and severe chronic fatigue I get. And it means I have to fill in bloody forms like that one, just to get a bit of financial support because all the symptoms have been so bad I haven’t been able to work. It’s hard. IBD is hard. And this week has been really hard. Battling just a couple more symptoms than the regular IBD symptom symphony, has sent my fatigue, my immune system, my sleeping pattern, my pain threshold and my patience into overdrive. It’s meant that moving my bunnies house into our dining room to give our fur babies some more socialisation, drove me to tears. It’s meant that I can not control my bowel movements. It’s led to me cancelling meetings and not going to Choir. It’s made my hair frayed and my nails brittle. It’s given me horrible nausea, sore throat, cough and headaches coz my immune system acts like it drinks red bull 24 hours a day. But what I have realised is. Sometimes it’s okay that it’s all rubbish. Sometimes you have to give in and agree. By doing that you actually give yourself back the power and control. By accepting the way it is at that moment it means that you rest. It doesn’t mean you give up, but it’s okay to feel sad and frustrated having this disease, to look like a bum with eyes, to accidentally put keys in the fridge, and not be able to think of the word for ‘pyjamas.’ And then, when we are ready we need to go back to whatever we need to do to deal with it again. So at the moment I am ‘out of order’ because I need to be, in order to make it better but before long, I will be ready to tackle it again. Ready to get back to the meditation and mindfulness, and remedies and slathering anti itch creams on myself. But just for a little while it’s okay to close the door, cuddle up on the sofa and hide away from the world in order to miss parts of your life before IBD. It doesn’t make us weak. It makes us strong and it’s necessary to heal. And if any of you have ‘gone to lunch’ for the past few hours or days, come on over. We can all wear our matching jackets and go on strike together.