#but if she were just a little more secretive i think its wholly possible for fuuta to be influenced by her appearance and miss the signals

[good-beanswrites]

Sorry to double up on your inbox, but I had this burning idea.

Suppose Fuuta's sister has had her hair styled like the Milgram girls at various points. What scenarios might come up when Fuuta mistakes the girls for his sister?

I know you were looking for ideas on all of the girls but I got really carried away with this one train of thought with Kotoko, so have some of that instead 😭 I'm such a sucker for 02-04-06 seeming the type to use beauty products and know their way around a lot of hair care, and triggering memories for Fuuta via scents/sounds of his sister's job. And as you've seen I'm so emotional over him seeing Amane as an equal as they both care for each other and she feels like family...

Fuuta was used to people disappointing him.

He’d been let down by his mother, then his father. He’d seen how all of society screws its people over. His own friends had turned their backs on him when things got rocky. Even here, he couldn’t count on any of these people to look out for him. Well, all except one. 

Kotoko. 

He’d actually done a double take when he first saw her. Her hair was styled much like his sister’s; from behind, it could have been her with a bit of dye. 

It wouldn’t have been so bizarre for her to color her head shining black. After all, that had always been his sister’s method of rebellion. His father was a traditional man, and hated to see her chop all her hair off, chop others’ hair off, add more piercings, or change it to any and every shade that wasn’t the family’s natural red. Fuuta had always thought they were all hollow exercises, more for attention than anything else. (It was nothing like the actual action he was taking to break away from his father’s strictness). Seeing Kotoko wear an eerily similar look, and hearing how closely her views aligned with his, he started to understand the appeal.

While the others were intimidated by her appearance, Fuuta found it familiar. Unlike the rest of the prison, he had no hesitation in approaching her. He was more willing to sit beside her at meals. He joined in her conversations in the common area. 

Mahiru kept going on about being everyone’s ‘big sis,’ but she never took a damned thing seriously. Yuno told Fuuta he reminded her of her little brother, but the last thing he needed was to be treated like some baby. Kotoko, on the other hand, knew exactly how to speak with him. 

She came to show him her solidarity before his interrogation. She gave him tips on working out, and joined in his conversations about the injustice of current prison systems. She even had his back when he was scolding Mikoto about taking fighting styles seriously. He jeered at the notion that Kotoko could overpower Kazui. Though, deep down, he’d seen how strong the woman was. For someone the same age as him, and busy with university like him, she had insanely impressive power.

He’d never dare admit it, but he looked on in awe whenever she worked out in the common areas. 

Fuuta found even more comfort in her strength as the trial came to a close. The two ended up with opposite verdicts, but that wasn’t anything new. Teachers, neighbors, relatives – everyone had reasons to praise his sister while dragging up grievances against him. Both women had a sort of brash charisma that people enjoyed. He usually only got the label of “brash.” Kotoko was saved his rant that it all came from their differences in gender and beauty. Fuuta was confident she’d come to the same conclusion already. 

After all, what else separated them? They were here for practically the same reason.

He didn’t let it get under his skin. While the prisoners shied away from him and the others named unforgiven, he could always count on Kotoko to speak with him as honestly and directly as usual. 

The warden and the prisoners weren’t the only ones to let him down: the voices in his head had gone from a fair debate to a loud, nasty mob with each passing day.

They seemed to be at their very worst, now. He was going on a few nights of little to no sleep thanks to their nonstop judgment. Fuuta tossed and turned in his sheets, cursing the new uniform that made it impossible to relax. It had been exhausting, consumed by fear and guilt and anger. Everything had him jumpy these days.

He flinched as his cell door creaked. 

His bleary eyes turned to the silhouette in the doorway. A name instinctively came to his lips. Thankfully, he corrected himself before making the embarrassing mistake. 

“It’s you, Kotoko.” It was strange for her to be here at this hour. And completely unannounced, at that. 

“Kajiyama Fuuta…”

He didn’t care. He smiled. After all, surrounded by so many betrayals, he always felt safer with her around.

[arachnixe]

What Gods Demand

(Part 6 of The New Goddess - Previous: How Could I Ever Forget You?)

Collared. Chained. Dressed in finery, given the finest meals, housed in opulence. Even these chains are gold. That girl keeps me like a pet. No, not even like a dog, which can be trained for some valued purpose, but something lower: a pitiful, pampered, useless bauble of a prisoner.

There is no way to fall any further, and I have had plenty of time to reflect on the fact that my predicament is wholly my own fault. The moment it all went wrong plays in my mind’s eye on constant loop, offering ample opportunity to remember each and every mistake that led me here.

First, the gloating. I was so eager to savor the moment of my victory, to draw it out as long as I could, blissfully unaware that the girl was forming and strengthening a bond with the Godsblood from across the cavern. Not even consciously, either! She was simply too naïve to have shielded her mind against intrusion as I did, and the will of that dead blasted god, unable to influence me, seduced her instead. Finding a willing host, it claimed her. If I had simply grasped the damned thing immediately, I would have had it.

Or the insult of calling me small-minded. I should have ignored and punished her insolence, but my pride demanded I hear her explanation. The worst thing? She was right. I was too blinded by my lust for revenge to see the bigger picture. I just had never given much thought to gods at all—their power has never meant more to me than the means to an end—and what I always sought was recognition.

Ha! “Recognition.” How did a girl so much younger than me manage to throw in my face the truth that my own ambitions were so utterly childish?

Then, to add insult to injury, she claimed I could have easily achieved my goals by allying with her from the beginning. “You could have courted me and poisoned my father!” Perhaps there is something to that. I didn’t put all the pieces together until it was too late, but her “bad luck” leading to four deaths in less than a year’s span?

The first was a healer preparing the body of that poor fool Lange who warmed the seat of my position before I insisted he take an early retirement. Nobody even bothered to connect this death to the other three, so that healer must have been much less important or her death otherwise unsurprising. I thought little of it myself until I received a tidy note slipped under my door, saying only “your secret is safe with me.”

Did you have any idea, Princess, how that note would drive me into a furious search for its writer? I never suspected you.

Then two of your suitors. Two! Each within weeks of meeting you! If anyone had thought to bring this to my attention at the time, I might have realized, but I spent as little of my time as possible thinking about the affairs of the girl who routinely contrived excuses to interrupt me with her presence, stealing too much of my attention already.

Then another healer met you, had some tragic accident the first time he took you out gathering herbs, and your father decided to ask me to cleanse you of curses. Of course the curse wasn’t a spell, it was the girl herself the whole time—a bloody-minded princess who imagined herself my secret ally.

I came to pity you. Your father never saw his daughter for who you were, did he? Even with all the evidence in front of him, His Indolent Majesty could not see past the role he expected you to fulfill. And if your little indiscretions weren’t so ham-fisted, immature, and sloppy, maybe I would never have had to intervene.

By then you were gone, of course, but how I wanted to shake some sense into you! “Look!” I’d say to myself as though you could hear me. “Murder is not always the answer! A duke starts sniffing around suspicious about the murder of his heir? Watch how I don’t get my hands dirty ending him. Better to disgrace the poor bastard, cast him as a part of the rebellion, discredit his claims as lies, have his family stripped of their lands and titles.”

Of course there were still the rumors. I could—and should—have let them fester in those years you were gone. How bad would it have gotten, I wonder? Your father might even have been forced to disown you and make a new heir for himself.

But then there was that blasted pity reminding me of my own ineptitude when I was young and had more ambition than sense. Much harder to evade notice when you’re offing young nobles or members of the royal court, though. That’s not a hobby for amateurs, Princess. I dealt with the rumors for you. You’re welcome for that, by the way. I’m sure with your pristine reputation intact, you were welcomed home with warm smiles and glad hearts.

Of course, I can’t know for sure. I had been replaced and ejected from my position within the court. Your father could never appreciate the long game, and he grew impatient that I didn’t supply magical solutions that were quick, easy, and wrong, like his buddy Lange preferred to.

Perhaps had things gone differently I could have forged an alliance with you. I could have taught you much about patience and subtlety. Yes, we could have poisoned your father, and I would have shown you how to evade suspicion, but courted you, child? You were an insipid girl of some seventeen years mooning over a sorceress of nearly thirty. I did eventually realize you harbored some fascination for me, but only because your repeated advances were distractingly clumsy and obnoxious. What on earth do you think a girl that age could have to interest a woman twelve years her senior?

“Oh, how my younger self would have wept in despair to see just how completely devoid of romantic interest she was from your perspective.”

Without transition, without warning, I am no longer alone in this room. How easy it is to forget that Natalia reads minds now, and my thoughts may never again be solely my own. Simply think about her enough, and that might as well be a summons.

“Or a prayer.”

I lift my head from its despondent slump and bare my teeth toward my jailer. “Enjoying the show? Does it amuse Her Highness to watch me relive the greatest mistakes of my life?”

“Yes.” The girl kneels, looking at me eye-to-eye as I slump against the wall. “Although there are a great many more amusing things I imagine doing with you once you’re properly trained.” She still wears a crown made of the same god-bone material as the seamless collar around my neck, flaunting her claim to me. But she does not claim my mind. I will defy her until the end. My pride demands it. My mind remains my own.

“It’s true that I will not take your mind by force,” the godlet replies infuriatingly to words I do not speak aloud. “Few things are more boring than a puppet show for which one must act as both performer and audience, after all.”

I offer her another psychic show, vividly imagining a scene of my magic tearing her to pieces. She can’t take this, at least, away from me.

“‘Can’t?’ No, kitten, there is a vast gulf between ‘will not’ and ‘cannot.’ I will demonstrate.”

I brace for whatever She plans to do to me. The Goddess says nothing, and I feel unchanged, but I hope Her plan works. I would hate to continue being so pointlessly petulant in resisting Her. Maybe that picklock is right, that I will be freed of my chains once I learn to love Her too.

And what’s stopping me? Must I cling foolishly to my first impression of Her as nothing more than a teenage girl? That She grew into a fine woman is the least among the traits I have refused to see. She mastered a magical discipline no less formidable than my own. She led Her friends in a quest to stop me and kept up with me no matter my attempts to stop or slow Her down. As a mortal woman She surpassed me. Now as Goddess She surpasses all.

It would be within Her right to destroy me for all I did to Her, and for rejecting Her divinity, but instead She shows me kindness. She sees my worth, even now. Oh, Goddess, I do love You. Please, give me the chance to show You how well my magic can serve You!

The chains dissolve and fall away, turned to ash by my internal admission of love toward the beautiful Goddess before me. Her face is so close. Would She permit me a blessing, now that I understand the inherent truth of worship? I lean forward, lips parted. Goddess, may I have a—?

What in all the hells am I doing?

I flinch back before making contact. The chains reappear.

“I trust this has been educational? I will not repeat the lesson.” The princess speaks with such an insufferably gentle voice. “‘Princess,’ ah, you should know that I have gifted that title to another. I shall introduce you to her very soon, but in the meantime do find a more accurate way of thinking of me.”

The monster in human skin—how’s that for accurate?—vanishes. Brief as that “demonstration” was, I’ve never felt more violated. It’s like I was someone else, but… it didn’t feel like someone else. I really loved her.

I now have this memory squatting in my mind, one of loving my own captor, one of hunger toward her. My stomach turns, sending me into a coughing, retching, dry-heaving mess on my hands and knees. I can’t scrub this memory away. I permanently know what it’s like to feel so disgustingly submissive. And to enjoy it! To know what it’s like to be satisfied—to have my lifelong ache for any damn recognition for my brilliance and talents satisfied—by the attention of a girl who lucked into winning power that should rightfully be mine.

Horror’s icy fingers tighten their grip the more I dwell on it. She could choose to inflict this on me with a snap of her fingers, and I am shielded only by the paper-thin protection that she would find it boring to simply write obedience directly into my mind. Boredom is the only reason I’m not already a docile sycophant crawling on her hands and knees, drooling for permission to kiss that girl’s feet, at peace only when fulfilling my role as her useless pet, begging to lay in her lap and feel her stroke my head, whimpering pathetically when another pet occupies her attention, barking on command, eating from her hand…

My heart pounds in fear. My dress clings to skin grown sticky with sweat. My imagination conjures scenario after scenario, each more demeaning than the last. If I ever start to bore her, will she force that fate on me anyway? After all, better boring and compliant than boring and willful, right?

I have to find a way out of this trap. I will not have my personality tampered with again.

---

The rules of my captivity are simple enough. The more I struggle to break free, the shorter my leash. When I spend the day sinking corrosive magic into my restraints, my only reward is getting pinned helplessly to the wall, unable to do so much as reach for the food or drink supplied to me. Yet even then, the girl insists on making a show of her “benevolence.” The moment I hunger or thirst, she appears in a flash of light. No admonishing word passes lips that offer me a sympathetic smile as though she were not the one responsible for my helplessness.

She limits herself instead to tiny cruelties: pouring wine down my throat too fast to swallow so that it spills from down my chin onto my clothes or pushing one dainty morsel of food at a time into my mouth, cooing praises each time I chew and swallow.

When her fingers slip too far into my mouth, I bite as hard as I can, to no effect. It isn’t as though I expect there to be, but the act of defiance still matters. I expect punishment—maybe temporary starvation—but her venomous mind is capable of worse cruelties than my own imagination can conjure. Natalia begins chewing my food for me, prying my mouth open to spit each pre-chewed bite onto my tongue, then holding my mouth and nose closed until I swallow.

The punishment achieves its intended outcome. I can’t bear a repeat of that indignity, and I stop trying to escape.

The less I struggle, the more freedom I am permitted. I earn a reprieve from the taunting visits of my captor. My chains slacken with each day, and I am granted my first visit from someone other than that girl. Fool that I am, I assume anyone else here must also be a prisoner, and I quickly learn that no, I am special. I alone am uniquely gifted with enough pride and self-worth to not immediately domesticate myself to the first person who offers me food and shelter.

Against my own will, however, I learn to behave enough for my world to expand. The chains gradually allow me enough length to sleep in the bed, then to explore more of the rooms that comprise my enclosure.

By the time Natalia visits me again, it’s been a long enough while that she catches me off guard.

“I hope you’re ready to be tamed,” she says, and her voice carries an unsettling quality that opens a pit in my stomach. Is it my imagination, or is something in her eyes sharper than before?

I hate you. I think the words as loudly as I can. Read my mind all you like.

“I know, kitten. For a feral thing like you, it’s a scary process, isn’t it? But you’re doing very well for me so far, and I think you’re ready for the next steps.”

An escalation, then. What new nightmare does she have in store for me?

“Yes, you can think of it as a dream, if you’d like. I told you before that I will not puppet you, nor even write your lines, but I do enjoy setting a stage.” The more she talks, the more off she seems. “Oh, and to help you get into character, I may fudge your memories just a bit, but I do want you in full possession of your own history at the moment you decide to accept me in your heart.”

I barely register the threats, too distracted am I by the changes I sense. There is something wrong with her, something at the edge of my perception, a sickness blooming in her soul that wasn’t there before. Natalia diminishes inside herself as something else—

---

“…new personal attendant and housemaid.”

Her Royal Highness, Princess Canina Rosadeus Lillian Ruten, offers me a polite nod of recognition. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Velle.” Unexpectedly, the princess seems to hesitate for a moment as if unsure how to proceed, but only for a moment, before extending her hand.

I know the Rutennian rituals of fealty, and I smoothly take her hand in mine to place the appropriate kiss on her fingers. “It will be my greatest pleasure to serve you, Princess.”

[princesscolumbia]

So a small sidebar to all the everything I'm doing, I'm kinda using "Code of Ethics" to function as a bit of a warm-up for producing original fiction that will sell under the 'self-publishing' model. I'd eventually like to be able to get a full publishing deal for something, but that won't happen until I can show off my writing chops in a non-fanfic level of writing.

(Just to reassure my fans of my Ranmafics and Horsefics, no, I have not abandoned writing any of those)

With that in mind, I've had a few projects that aren't fanfic based sitting in my "to write" pile that I haven't gotten to because I was operating under the notion that nobody would read my stuff if I wasn't writing fanfics. Well, CoE is damn near the closest to fully original fanfic I've ever written. Sure, I use QuietVallerie's framework and foundation for it, but I've got completely original characters (I've MENTIONED some names in the other Troubleverse books, but if I were to swap those out this would be a fully 'ties-cut' original fic from the character standpoint), a VRMMO setting that I'm stitching together from whole cloth and a lot of inspiration from a game QuietVallerie doesn't even play, and the ending isn't dependent on anything QuietValerie's doing whatsoever. She's even acknowledged that most of her work is blatantly 'inspired' by other sci-fi works, so even if all I did was change a few names it'd be a wholly original fic that simply drew from the same inspirational sources for Troubleverse.

That said, I want to keep CoE a firmly Troubleverse fic. Not only would I like to someday (hopefully, wishful thinking, please-please-please-please-please!!!) be granted 'canon' status by QV, I dislike the notion that I should divorce MY stuff from its origin just to make a little cash. The people that are reading CoE are doing so because I set it up as a Troubleverse fic, attempting to divorce my work from that franchise after I've gained a following would be disingenuous at best.

So all that brings me to my first (public) foray into original fiction. I've decided I'll be posting to the following with a 1-week gap when I publish a chapter, and I'll be aiming for 1 chapter per week:

Patreon

Scribblehub

Archive of Our Own

And what, you may ask, will be my first project? I put the choice to my most important audience in all the multiverse; my daughter. From the available options I gave her, she picked...

Goldrush, CO

Over a century after its establishment as a 'company town' for the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the town of Goldrush, Colorado was finally sold off "at cost" to the town citizens, fully separating them from the agency that jumped the shark during the union busting of the 1900s. The town has secrets, starting with the biggest one of all; Goldrush was founded as a 'dumping grounds' for the weird and unwelcome. From dumb artifacts that can control the weather (and corrupt the user) to steampunk androids to a pod of selkies, if the Pinkertons were hired to investigate and dispose of it and it was in some way 'supernatural,' then it went to Goldrush. Now that the town's independent, they still have an entire warehouse district of artifacts and paraphernalia that doesn't officially exist that needs to be stored and managed, so the town hires a logistics specialist. Lois is a woman who's just looking to start over after a nasty divorce that was followed by the tragic death of her ex-wife. So she packed her bags and moved to Goldrush from San Diego in hopes of immersing herself in the history of the unusual town to forget her own tragic history. If only she could do her job without bumping heads with the (unreasonably attractive, built like a Valkyrie from myth and legend, frustratingly stubborn) town sheriff the new job would be perfect.

If you're picking up shades of "Warehouse 13" and (more subtly) "Mystic Bayou," I've done my job in selling this right.

June will be all about finishing CoE as quickly as possible (while still maintaining the quality I demand of myself) so I can clear the decks and focus on doing as much with Goldrush, CO during July as I can before I start releasing on Patreon in August.

I'm excited about this, I hope you are, too!

[bitchfitch]

The cup of tea was warm in his hands. The few leaves that had escaped the strainer floating placidly on the surface. Esti focussed on their gentle paths, swirling the cup occasionally to keep them moving as for every second he was focused on them he could avoid looking at his mother across the table from him.

Corvus was the image of matronly patience as she waited for him to break the silence. Her own cup on the table in front of her, neatly sat on its little plate like it was to be the third participant in what Esti was predicting to be an absolutely miserable conversation.

"I love him," Esti started. It was a fact. It deserved to go first. He only said it because he knew it would be the absolute last thing she would want to hear.

"I'm aware."

Her plan wasn't difficult to parse out. She needed him on his back foot and knew nothing was harder for him than having to ask for what he wanted. Especially when it went so far against the will of who he was asking for it from. She would deny him either way, but making him ask meant he wouldn't ask so him failing this negotiation would be wholly his fault instead of her refusing to just let them be happy-

"I'll allow you to marry him so long as you give me a way to keep you safe."

"What?" Esti couldn't believe what his brain was telling him he'd heard her say.

"Did you already change your mind?" The teasing smile on her voice was full of the summer night warmth he'd almost forgotten she was capable of.

"No! No- Of course not. But, really? I- Thank you," he bumbled through a few words as every question and expression of gratitude tied themselves in knots in their race to his tongue.

"Yes, Esti. Pavo is... not my first choice for you, but he argued his case and made a few promises that, should he keep his end of the deal, were too good for our people for me to refuse," she sighed and rested her hands palm up on the table between them, a silent invitation that Esti gladly accepted. He set his cup aside and placed his in hers. His deep grey skin looking so much lighter than it was against the true light eating darkness of hers. "I hope he is good to you. I hope and wish and pray to every deity that might listen to my words as though they are coming just from a mother instead of one who is a demon as well, that he proves me wrong in every way," she squeezes his hands, "I worry I am sacrificing you to a monster for the sake of those who pretend you aren't my eldest son. I want to be wrong, but I still worry."

"You are, I- I promise it Mother. He's kind to me. He's never once been a monster to me and he never will be. I swear it."

"Do you think the brides slaughtered by their beloveds thought they were beasts before they sent them weeping to their graves? You can not know he will remain kind... That's why my approval of your marriage to him is conditional."

He felt a twinge of something curl in the back of his gut. Suspicion or anxiety or some worry he may not be able to give her what he needs to to have the groom he desires more than a bat with shredded wings desired the open air of the night sky.

"All I ask is that you give me a way to bring you home should he prove unworthy of your love. Tell me how to see through the wards that keep his village hiddencfrom demon-kind so that I can come save my son should he ever need me to."

Esti swallowed hard, trying to drown out they growing growling feeling with the hope and joy earning her permission will bring him. If sharing one secret was all it took to have Pavo's hand he couldn't possibly deny her it right? It was just one secret.

"In the clearing before the gate, face away from it and walk forwards while making yourself believe that you will pass through it. When you should be stood below the archway make the sigil of his house in the air before you. You will be within the village when you take your next step," his dread built with every word.

She let go of his hands. Her next action was nearly lost to the thick shadows that clung to her fingers, but still, he saw her remove the wedding band his father had proposed to her with.

"Thank you, I know what sorts of suspicions he has probably filled you with, so I hope this will be a strong enough gesture to convince you I do truly intend to only use that information if he goes back on his promises of your safety in his care," she sets the ring on the table before him. "I would like it if you proposed to him here in your maiden home so that we may celebrate the engagement as a family. As you do not just have my permission, but my blessing as well."

The ring didn't feel real when he picked it up. It was heavy in his hand, and warm from her skin. The metal hard and smooth and the gems glittered in their settings, but it still didn't feel real.

He had spent weeks pacing and trying to think up back up plans for his back up plans. Never, in any of his anxious strategizing had he thought she would say yes without an argument about avoiding war and breaking his heart. Even then, her blessing was something he had written off completely. A quick disowning was what he presumed would be the best result not... this.

She came around the table and wrapped him in a hug as she shushed him. He hadn't even realized he had begun to cry.

"Thank you. Thank you. I- I I have nothing else, just thank you," he leaned against her, wiping at his eyes and trying valiantly to stop his tears. The relief and elation drowned out his worry. Of course he was just being paranoid. Of course she wanted nothing but what was best for their family. He tried to apologize for doubting her, but his blubbering mangled the words beyond what was recognizable.

Corvus chuckled and rubbed his shoulder when she let go. "Go now. Your groom is probably planning something stupid. Give him the news before he has time to act on those plans."

Esti nodded, and was on his feet in a stumbling trot to the door before he could think himself into a new anxiety spiral.

Beyond the door, Pavo leaned against the wall, his agrivated grimace turning to an expression of worry as he saw the tears. Esti was in his arms and burrying his face against Pavo's chest before he had time to demand to know what had happened.

Any thought of grand romantic gestures Esti might have had were eaten by his eagerness as he grabbed for Pavo's hand the instant he could bare to back away enough to do so. Wordlessly he put the ring on Pavo's little finger, the band being sized for someone with much finer hands barely fit but the implications of the action still rung loud and clear.

Pavo looked between the ring and Esti and Corvus. His worry turning to surprise then to the same elation Esti clearly felt as he wrapped him in his arms again. Heftig him up and spinning him with giddy love sick glee. Cackling his acceptance of the proposal and looking more like a person than Corvus had ever seen him as before.

Pavo barely set Esti back down on his feet, still not letting him go, before he was addressing her, "Thank you. You won't regret this. I swear it on my life that I will keep him safer and happier than anyone else could, and if I fail that it will be my own blade I fall too."

[steel--fairy]

OC Headcanons #2

them and their families : )

violet lives with her dad. her mom died when she was 7 or so. violet was greatly affected by this as she was super close with her mom. her and her dad just... don't know how to connect with each other. theres love, but its distant and awkward. she honestly gets along better with red's mom.

daphne has a large family. she lives with her mom and sister, kris. ethan and lyra stay over frequently enough to count as residents, with lyra genuinely living there fulltime. she's also related to wallace and lisia in hoenn, and i made wallace and lisia related to wally so it's a whole family tree. theres also [redacted]. her mom and dad divorced when she was still a baby. he's not in the picture at all anymore. daphne thinks he can go eat shit. besides that, she's very close to all of them, even the ones in hoenn. (minus wally. his poor health meant he was never able to visit sootopolis and trips to petalburg were rare) family means a lot to her.

ivy actually has 2 parents who are still together! everyone be shocked! norman and her mom, of course. she's very much a daddys girl and always jumped at the chance to help norman out. not as close to her mom, but it's still a good relationship.

chryssa has her mom and her twin brother lucas. it is not a well adjusted family. their dad died shortly before they were born and johanna did not take it well. johannas something of a contest stage mom to chryssa while pretending lucas doesn't exist since she only wanted one girl and not a pair of twins. chryssa hates her mom and has very complicated feelings about lucas.

ieva has her mom and 3 brothers. matas and marius (older twin brothers) and ramsey (younger). she gets along well with her brothers! she's especially close with matas, tho she spends more time with ramsey since they're closer in age and he still lives at home. she was very close to her dad who died when she was 12ish. he was her hero growing up and his death put her into something of a depression. close to her mother as well, though she was always a daddys girl.

bryony only has her mom, though hugh's basically a brother. it's a very chill relationship between them. has not an inkling who her father is and doesn't give a shit.

carmella also only has her mom. they're very close due to them being the only constant in each others life for so long. grace is honestly kind of overprotective at times and carmella pretends to hate it, but she secretly loves it. im going back and forth on her possible dad so.

kiana is also very close to her mom. similar to carmella, they moved around a lot so they were each others sole consant. her father was giovanni and considering how young she was when they left him, kiana actually looks back on him semi-fondly. when she meets him again, not so much and she realizes with hindsight how messed up her early childhood was. also lives with her grandmother but they aren't super close. kiana just hasnt spent much time around her. also has a half brother in silver. once they meet, she thinks he's the coolest ever and silver has no idea how to respond to the blatant hero worship.

lili is adopted by a single mother, but she also has a secret sibling who wasnt adopted alongside her (bede). gets along well enough with her mum, alongside her grandparents who she also lives with. does not get along as well with bede. that is a supremely rocky relationship for quite a while and even once they come to terms with things they're more likely to argue then get along.

jess lived with her mom. she didn't enjoy it. why do i keep giving the sinnoh oc's horrible mothers. rip. when she's yeeted to the past and experiences some memory troubles, one of the biggest holes is memories of her mother. this gives her a sense of relief and she's not wholly sure why. sometimes, she feels bad about that and wonders what it says about her. anyways, gets pseudo-adopted by laventon and in turn pseudo-adopts vessa as a little sister.

[revenant-dumpster-fire]

Hunter (Revenant x Reader)

Part 1 of 2 of the chapter “Hunter & Prey”. [Full chapter on AO3.]

Theme: The trios game is here, and Revenant's plan comes to fruition after days of planning.

Warnings: Male dominance, threats of violence, descriptions of violence, sharp objects, pain, bipolar, depression, mania, fluff.

Reader's Notes: Revenant (Apex Legends) x Reader, reader is female.

Writing Notes: Can I write non-fluff? Maybe? Or perhaps I need to maximize fluff to balance? I guess you'll find out.

Navigation:

First Chapter | Previous Part (Styptic & Canine)  | Next Part (Hunter & Prey)

Revenant manages to wake you up in the middle of the night with nothing but his incessant nuzzles and purring. His new chassis may be deluxe, but he can't seem to control how much he wants to show off all its features. He's holding you from behind, completely enveloping you in a warm hold, his nuzzles starting on the back of your neck and making their way around to the side of your neck. You've definitely slept some, but not quite enough to feel awake.

You reach up and begin lightly petting the top of his snout. His bovine skull emits a long, deep purr that can only be described as a very happy growl. He almost seems to be in a trance in his new body, as if something in the code is different, and he's acting out of something reminiscent of instinct. It's nice. He's almost like one of his prowlers. You extend your snout pets to reach from nose to the top of his head, and his purrs extend to last the length of each stroke. He leans into your pets, hoping for a firmer touch, which you try your best to comply with.

You roll over to face him, causing him to pull away a little. He looks at you with a little concern initially, like you might be upset, but you quickly quell him by holding his visage in both of your hands, pulling it close to yours. In truth, you're not sure what you're doing, but you can tell he likes it. His new silicone tongue licks your nose lightly, surprising you but not enough to make you pull away. He definitely has some software changes, whether he realizes it or not. He's definitely acting more like an animal. You slip your hands down to feel his giant mane, made of locks of fur. It feels both soft and fluffy; you can't help but run your fingers between each lock as you pet it. You work out any tangles you find, causing him to purr with delight over the free grooming. The tip of his nasal cavity presses into your nose, intentionally tickling you with his breaths.

"You should sleep," he manages to get out in his purrs.

"Nah, I'm just going to be watching the game tomorrow. You're the one who has to work." You whisper to him, massaging his neck through his fur.

He sighs a small moan at your massage, clearly giving up on his request in favor of getting more affection. He reaches out and holds your waist, softly brushing your sides in return. His head tilts up, revealing his throat. You carefully move your hand to touch it, moving all the way from the tip of his chin down to his clavicle with a soft touch. His breathing slows as you caress him, turning his purr into a low hum and vibrating in your hand. Eventually, his maw opens up, emitting a scary but relaxed hum and revealing his fangs. He's clearly enjoying every moment of it.

"Little skinsuit." You hear him mutter quietly. You pause for a moment, acknowledging him. He closes his mouth and locks eyes with you, pushing his nose into your face and huffing in it. He doesn't immediately speak, just nuzzles you on the side of your face, intentionally breathing into your ear to get you to wince from the tickling feeling. He shoves his tongue right on your face, licking you like a dog.

"Ack, what is it?" You lift your hands up to your face to defend your face from further onslaught. He pushes his snout into your hands and licks them instead. "Rev... Are you okay?"

He stops, pushing his snout through your hands and touching the tip of your nose.

"What are you supposed to taste like?" He finally utters. You're a bit taken aback by his question.

"I don't really know, why? Do I taste strange?"

"Honeysuckle. That's what I taste." He pulls you right into him, enveloping your whole body. "I haven't had a real tongue in so long. I don't remember what anything is supposed to taste like anymore." He sounds saddened by his conclusion, but you can't get your hands free to comfort him. You shove your face in his mane instead, snuggling up against him. You struggle to find any words to say, but try to come up with something.

"Hey, Revenant?" He doesn't respond, but it's safe to assume you have his attention. "I like you no matter what." You retreat into his mane as deep as your face can go, unsure of how he will react.

You feel his body heat up, and his claw cup the back of your head. His head tucks around your shoulder, and his legs surround you to pull you into his frame. His spare arm wraps around you, and his body starts to rattle in a purr. You carefully wrap your hands around his waist and softly caress it, unable to press into it like his other body with leather allows. You're stuck otherwise, so you make a small kissing gesture and noise into his mane, unsure if he hears you.

"Sleep, my little skinsuit. Before you convince me to forfeit this game." He purrs in your ear, brushing your hair with his fingers. You're not sure what he means; you've asked him to do no such thing, but you let yourself snuggle up against his heat, easily drifting to sleep as he coos at you.

• • • •

You wake up in a mess of damp fur, mouth open and now dry as a desert. You close your mouth and pull your face away from the sopping mats of fur, emitting a sound similar to a snore as you breathe through your nose again.

"Didn't realize you'd be the one to get me wet, skinsuit." Revenant teases, running his claws through his soaked mane. "Your dreams must be real fun for you to drool all over me like that." You snap to as you realize what you've done.

"Oh no, I'm sorry!" You pull away and try to dry him off with the sheets, to no avail.

"Don't be sorry, this is perfect." You ignore him, sitting up to dry him off at a better angle. He lets you, but you quickly abandon the sheet and go grab a towel from the bathroom. As you rub into his mane, he looks up with you with something that feels like a smile, but you can't be sure. Either way, he seems to be enjoying it. He lets you continue as he slowly sits up, leaning into your rubs and purring under his breath. You get as much of your drool out of his mane as possible, but eventually you finally have to give up and pull the towel away.

Revenant makes his way out of bed, satisfied by your work, although you don't feel the same. He stands tall over you, looking down at you with curiosity and adoration. He pushes his hand into your hair and rustles it.

"Don't look so dejected, you didn't ruin anything." He reads your mind; you feel like you've destroyed his favorite chassis with drool of all things. "Trust me, I was banking on you making a mess. It'll all work out in my favor. Shut off your little brain and let me do the thinking, just trust me." His voice growls seductively as he pokes the tip of your nose with his claw.

"Now, go eat before I force feed you. Your girlfriend should be here in an hour or so to watch the match with you." His voice is so smooth but growly. "I need to go prepare. Take care of yourself, skinsuit. I expect you here when I get back." And with that, he turns heels and confidently glides out the door, gone for the day.

You stare for a few moments, deeply hoping he will reappear so you can stare some more. Even his gait is so alluring, so confident, so strong. He is focused, powerful, and yet so secretive. You may not be sure how to respond to his flirtatious gestures, but knowing he is possessive of you is an honor he clearly doesn't give to many. What did you do? Does it matter? You want him to come back and make your face turn red again, tease you into forgetting about your depression, and treat you like his most prized possession. You want to make him melt with snout rubs, warm him, and delight him with your inherent shyness. You finally feel comfortable, but--more importantly--you feel attached.

You come back to reality, quickly scrambling to find the television remote, turning it on to the main event. They're still talking about Loba from the previous match, throwing up pictures all over the screen. How long can they talk about the same thing and still not run out of things to say? You sigh, knowing they will have to let up as the opening of the game starts.

You move over to the kitchenette and start warming up your leftovers. Chinese for breakfast is the sign of a good day, in your opinion. Some people say it's better the next day, but you can't wholly agree. It's different, not better or worse, but you love both. With your appetite finally back, you almost feel like waiting for it to finish, but you know showering while it heats up and cools off enough to eat is the wise choice.

• • • •

You answer the door, seeing Sherry bashfully waving to you with an unsure smile on her face.

"Hey Sherry, Rev told me he--"

"Put in a request for me to come and keep you company, right?"

"Yeah, I hope it's not too much trouble." You step aside so she can enter, which she does.

"So that's what he told you, but do you know what he really asked?" She reels around, fancying a tease as her finger twirled in the air.

"Oh no..." You trail off, already expecting something embarrassing. Sherry makes her way to the couch, throwing herself down and patting the seat next to her to invite you over.

"Oh, nothing that bad. He specifically asked me to make sure you were having a good time and safe. He requested that I not let you get sad, even if I had to--" she clears her throat, preparing to make a direct quote, "--encroach on my territory again." She giggles at the choice of words not even looking up to see your cheeks turn a light pink. He's definitely partially influenced by his software, that's the kind of thing a prowler would say if they could speak. Although, he is possessive on his own too.

"To be fair, you did shove my face in your tits right in front of him..." You sit down next to her, pulling your legs up to cross them.

"I dunno, the way his head tilted made me think he might have liked it." She throws her arms around you for a hug, relishing in pulling you in despite your pulling away.

"You're just as bad as he is." You sigh, accepting the hug that is forced on you.

"Oh? Maybe I can gang up on you with him sometime."

The innuendo isn't lost on you, making you grimace in further realization that you've surrounded yourself with people who tease you with questionable remarks. Sherry lets you go, turning her attention to the television.

"So, got any insider information on what we're about to see?" She lets you off the hook, for now.

"Well, sounds like our favorites are teamed up, for one." She beams, clearly excited at being able to root for the same team. "Second, Revenant has been teasing some grand plan for a while... apparently he's not fond of--" you nod towards Loba holding Revenant's scarf on the screen, "--that. He plans to erase it from everyone's minds."

"Not going to lie, that's the most exciting thing I've heard in ages leading up to a match." Sherry snuggles into the plush couch. It makes sense, she's been working here since before you started. Heck, she's the one who got you the job. She's probably heard everything when it comes to hype, and is likely unaffected by the commentator's excitement anymore. A Legend having some grand scheme for a match would be way more promising. "I'm just glad Revenant and Wattson are on the same team. It means I don't need to root against your shiny metal boyfriend." She smirks at you.

"You'd date Wattson if you could." You retort, trying to fend off her wit.

"Oh! So you are dating!" Ah, shit. You didn't mean to imply that. "So how is he? Is he everything you dreamed? Does he satisfy you?" She's so excitable, despite your answer being completely predictable.

"It's not like that." You turn away, hoping she won't push it.

"It's not like that--yet." She has to push the envelope, every time. She just can't let anything go. "I think he likes you. I bet he's thinking about you right now."

"When there's blood to be spilt? Fat chance." You finally see an opening for a comeback, and you take it. Sherry looks at you with shock, until it melts into a beaming smirk.

"It's cute how much you like him." She finally says.

"Oh, shut it." You leave it there, happy with the ceasefire, knowing you'll likely lose ground if you push it.

The television starts announcing the teams, showing Revenant with Wattson and Wraith. The camera holds on Revenant, standing in the middle and in front of his teammates in the drop ship, giving the commentators time to fawn over his unusual chassis. The floral language they use to describe the viciousness of his new body makes you chuckle as you think about how much he loves snout rubs. You feel a little badass for once; after all, you've tamed the unholy beast they seem so reverent of.

Revenant turns his head, locking optics with something off screen. The camera pans to see who, and a familiar masked face appears. If Bloodhound could have an intense look, this was it. It was a primal look, a pure determination that could only be described as a hunter locking eyes with a most dangerous prey. This is what Revenant meant. This was his plan. There was no chance this would end without a fight for the ages. His animalistic appearance only added to the allure of this soon-to-be battle.

"Hey, why don't we watch the team channel?" Sherry breaks your immersion in the game.

"The what?"

"Oh my--you've been here almost as long as me! How do you not know these things?!" You shrug, still not sure what she's talking about. "Every room gets a special team-specific feed with communications and everything. We should watch it if Wattsy and Revenant are together." She gets up and grabs the remote, clicking a button as she returns, causing the perspective to shift and the commentators to fall silent. You can hear the team instead, loud and clear. Why didn't you know about this?

Sherry bops you on the back of the head before returning her attention to the television.

The voices come through loud and clear on this channel.

"Are you sure about this?" Wattson asks, looking up at Revenant's massive frame.

"Yeah, this seems like a good way to get knocked out early." Wraith crosses her arms, sounding equally skeptical.

"I don't need you to trust me, but I'm going to be chased down. I need to drop separately and lose their trail. I need you to kit up without me, and I will meet you where you are." Revenant must be referring to Bloodhound.

"And what if we're targeted for landing as two instead of three? Not to insult your intelligence, but this seems particularly unwise." Wattson is always so sweet, even when she's not very fond of who she's speaking to.

"You'll need to drop cold. Drop within running distance to me and I will come to your aid if you're targeted." Revenant insists. Wattson sighs, clearly unsure of how to change his mind.

"Very well, please do not get us all killed, even if it is in your programming." Wattson relents.

They walk over and stand tall near the open hatch, barely keeping themselves up and not falling into World's Edge. The wind makes it impossible to hear the communications, but you see Revenant pointing to a few places and Wattson making hand motions as if to discuss options. Wraith just keeps her arms crossed, looking like a badass behind them.

Revenant steps away from the two to step further inside the ship, leaning against the ship wall and appearing to sigh. You hear a voice pick up on his communications.

"You are not as clever as you think, bráð." Revenant turns his gaze to meet Bloodhound, who is haughtily ignoring their teammates in favor of stoking these flames. "You may have disguised your scent with that of your apprentice, but all I must do is hunt your apprentice in order to find you." Revenant huffs, unfazed. "I will be disappointed if this hunt is unworthy of my skills."

With that, Bloodhound turns away to face their teammates, returning to planning. Fuse and Caustic seem completely okay with Bloodhound's previous absence from the conversation, willingly taking time to catch Bloodhound up on their plans. Revenant moves back to his team, Wattson clearly having noticed the exchange over her comms.

"Making friends, are we? I did not think you had it in you." She chuckles a little. She's a bit sassy herself, no wonder her and Sherry get along.

Revenant blows a puff of breath out his nostrils and into his mic, refusing to acknowledge her question.

"You'd be surprised, I think our local murder machine is going soft on us." Wraith pipes up in a taunting manner. Revenant looks very concerned that she might expand on her statement, but Wraith clearly is just enjoying his somewhat panicked reaction, smirking at him with delight.

"Perhaps this is a story for another day. Our drop is coming up!" Wattson chirps, clearly getting a bit excited.

The comms go quiet, spare for the blowing wind near the hatch, before they all jump into the white abyss, the drone camera attempting to follow. As the camera breaches the cloud line, you can see the trails of the team splitting, two in one direction and the other in the opposite. A message appears on the screen reading: 'calling additional drone' before it follows Wraith and Wattson down below.

"Do you want to watch your big metal hunk?" Sherry teases you. "He went off by himself, so I don't mind watching him. I'm comfortable that Wattsy will just be picking up loot safely in that area. Nobody really drops over there."

"I'm being hunted as expected. Stay alive, you two. I'll be there soon." Revenant's voice can be heard over the television.

"Yes! How do we watch him?!" You pipe up, instantly concerned.

Sherry hits a button on the remote and a new visual appears. This new camera drone isn't at Revenant yet, but staring down Bloodhound instead. Bloodhound is looking back and fourth, clearly flustered. The drone hovers, refusing to move as it may give away positions of either Legend.

Bloodhound runs up to a bunker, opens the door, and immediately puts their gloved hands over their mask, as if they're smelling something pungent. They run over to the control panel, wiping the surface and sniffing their fingers. Suddenly, they look invigorated. Impressed, perhaps? It's hard to say. Bloodhound appears to speak into their communications mic and runs off in a full sprint, disappearing from the drone's view.

The drone watches longingly after Bloodhound's trail before it suddenly jostles, making the view blurred and incomprehensible. The camera slows, eventually able to capture an image. It's Revenant's visage, clearly holding the drone at arm's length while sprinting.

"I know you're watching, little skinsuit. Hug your girlfriend if you get too scared." The drone mic isn't as clear as his team comms device, but he's still understandable. "In fact--Sherry--keep her warm for me. You have my support, but I get her back as soon as this is done. Deal?" His voice is full of vitriolic flirting, if that description makes any sense. He crushes the drone and the screen becomes static. Sherry turns to you with a devious smirk.

"Oh, he's so kinky for you." She uses her deep voice and leans into you, wrapping an arm around your back. Your cheeks burn red. "You must have something special, huh? How else did you end up with a big dom daddy like--"

"Oh my fuck, please stop Sherry!" You burst from embarrassment, burying your face in your knees as you pull into your frame. "I can't handle you two teaming up."

She laughs, but not sadistically for once. She gives you a quick hug, a pat on the back, and changes the channel to the other, working camera drone.

"I'm fine, but I have another favor to ask." Revenant's voice brings you out of your human sphere. You don't recognize this area, it's not considered a hot spot.

"You're really pushing your luck today, rustbin." Wraith stays stoic about the whole thing, attaching a scope to a Havoc.

"Let's hear him out. What is it? I cannot promise I will agree to anything, though." Wattson is undeniably kind, but sounds like she's trying to be stern.

"If Bloodhound survives to the end with us, let me single them out and fight them alone. If I fail to finish them, you can kill them and take the match without me." Revenant plans to do what he originally teased you about: defeat your first favorite Legend. How did he find out it was Bloodhound? Or does he even know?

"The chances of that seem unreasonably low, and it seems quite risky, but if you really want to I will respect your wishes." Wattson says as she rummages through a supply bin, picking up some shield cells and batteries.

"The chances are actually strangely high..." Wraith almost mutters as she loads her Havoc. "Did you bribe some people to throw or something?"

"No, I gave the Hunter a challenge." Revenant says as he begins adding improvements to his RE-45, making a satisfying chunking sound as his mag extender slots in. "My mind is on making a spectacle of our battle, and the only thing on the Hunter's mind is surviving until they can kill me. Call it actualization."

"Yeah, you'd have no reason to pay your way to the top, you enjoy this too much." Wraith tests her scope by looking down the sights, apparently pleased with her meager kit for now. "Alright team, we need more equipment, let's move."

They all begin to move towards an area known as The Harvester. You had been dragged there and touched all the controls, doors, and climbed an excessive amount of the area. It makes you tired to even think about it.

"So, I have some actual questions though." Sherry brings your attention out of the television, so you turn towards her. There's not much point in watching until there are gunshots anyway. Otherwise they're just going to be finding more gear. "What happened to your leg?" She points to the puncture wounds on your calf.

"Oh, um--well..." You accidentally revealed it when you pulled your leg up on the couch. "He has a thing where he can't control himself for a few seconds after he reboots." She pauses, processing your response. It is a really odd string of words to put together.

"So... he's homicidal, and if you don't get away--"

"No, not homicidal. There is zero chance of that. More like possessive and overly passionate about it." You hope it makes sense. She pauses again, trying to process the meaning behind the words.

"So it's a sexual thing?" Of course she gets it all wrong.

"No, more like a 'nobody can have you' kind of thing, and then he got too worked up and clenched too hard."

"So... are you sure about this whole thing? What if this keeps happening? That's not okay." She seems genuinely concerned, and a bit unhappy.

"It was an accident, honestly. Sort of like tripping into someone and knocking them over." You try to make it as mild-seeming as possible, but you know she won't fully buy it. She sighs, crosses her arms, and shrugs a little. That's enough acceptance for now.

"So, follow-up question: are you sure you're safe?" It might as well be the same question, but you relent.

"I'm pretty certain."

"That's a horrible answer!" Obviously she'd be a bit upset that it's not complete certainty, but how can you lie to her? Nothing is completely certain.

"It's complicated, but this is a risk I'm absolutely willing to take." You surprise yourself with your own calmness. "I know this seems insane, but my life has only been better for every crazy decision I've made, and I need this to happen. Life is short these days, even if I die I want to do something better than nothing." Sherry stares at you with a dumbfounded look, apparently impressed by your short speech.

"I guess that makes sense, but if stuff gets too violent... please leave." She averts her gaze, looking down at her feet.

"I promise, but really, I'm quite happy." You hug her, and she hugs you back for a moment.

"So he must be really good in bed then, huh?" She ruins the moment, she absolutely has to. It's practically her purpose in life at this point.

"I don't know, to be honest." You try to sound as serious as possible to avoid further teasing.

"What? Are you kidding? He makes it sound like you guys are fu--"

"Don't say it please." You put your face in your hands, questioning why you're still so easily embarrassed by these things. You're always blushing, which seems to goad people like Revenant and Sherry into teasing you. It is a little fun, though. Their power trip of teasing seems to make them both so happy, and in a weird way you share in that happiness as a willing victim.

"Well, okay, but I hope you get some soon," she snickers, "Honestly I don't think it'll be much longer now, anyway."

Gunshots ring out on the television.

"I've taken hits! If you've got a sniper, try to cover me!" Wraith sounds hurt, despite phasing towards the opponents on a hill nearby. Revenant pulls a Longbow he must have found recently, doing his best to take shots at the opponents while Wraith closes the gap. The scope must not be the best, because you can clearly see his stature get frustrated as he whiffs his shots. The return fire seems just as poor, hitting at Revenant's feet and the wall behind him, leaving gaping bullet holes. Suddenly, you hear a crack as Revenant's shot lands, then another.

"One closest to you is weak," he quickly states.

"Got it, engaging." Wraith barely finishes her statement before she's downed her opponent. Without the fancy graphics of the public broadcast, you're not sure who is on the enemy team, especially with how far the drone is.

"Engaging on the opposite side! Someone is alone!" Wattson suddenly appears on the opposite side as Wraith, immediately engaging another body as Wraith moves in towards the final contender in the middle. The gunshots are really going now, but the camera drone has been staying near Revenant, who is hanging back taking sniper shots.

"I'm down, but he's hurting!" Wattson's voice comes over comms, prompting Revenant to switch to his RE-45 and sprint to close the distance. The drone lags behind slowly, not closing enough distance to make out the opponents.

Wraith curses over the audio as she and her opponent go down simultaneously, leaving one weakened contender to Revenant. He's closing the gap excessively fast; it looks like they're trying to use a med kit.

"I'm not wasting the bullet." You definitely watch Revenant's silhouette stab the other before the med kit is finished, prompting the whole team to be deathboxed. The drone suddenly kicks into high speed, catching up to Revenant. It makes sense that the drones shouldn't give away positions, but this was a little frustrating at times. They either have to stay side-by-side or it has to hang back.

Revenant goes to Wraith first, pulling a medical syringe in his fist. He pauses, looking down on her for a moment. He twirls the syringe in his fingers, stopping it so his thumb lands on the plunger and his pointer and middle finger brace the flange on the barrel. He kneels down to her, pinches the muscle near her shoulder, and injects it quickly. He tosses the empty needle in a different pocket on his belt and helps her to her feet. Wraith is staring at him with a strange but subtle smile. He huffs at her and turns to tend to Wattson.

"So you did pay attention." Wraith sounds soft for a moment, but it doesn't get a reaction out of Revenant, who is doing the same to Wattson.

"Have you ever thought of the long term effects of all these injections?" Wattson asks as Revenant helps her up.

Wraith clears her throat loudly, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, it can do crazy things for sure." Wraith says with a heavy layer of frustration.

"Oh, I am so sorry, I did not mean to dredge up old memories." Wattson shakes her hands in front of her as a motion of apology.

"Yeah, science these days tends to be used to ruin the lives of as many people as possible." Revenant adds.

They all stand there in a circle, silent. It's not an awkward silence, it's a mournful silence. Revenant's stare is deep in the distance. Wraith's body language exudes frustration over past traumas. Wattson looks at the ground, almost like in secondhand guilt for being a woman of science. The stillness hangs for an uncomfortable amount of time, before Wraith breaks it.

"Nothing we can do, we are who we are now." She sighs. "We're top seven now. We need to find some other deathboxes and pick up better gear. We're going to stay sneaky until we're down to the last two." She immediately begins running towards the center of the new circle, close to the giant ice-like structure known as the Epicenter. Revenant and Wattson immediately move to follow. More boring running for a while.

"Who do you think was on that team?" Sherry asks, understanding that there's not much point in watching these segments.

"I'm not sure either. Sneaky play is boring, but I can't argue with the results. I'm going to run and get snacks, do you want anything?" You stand up, wanting to move around after a long while of sitting. Sherry immediately lays down on the couch, taking up all the space you left.

"Sure, give me anything with that cheese powder crack on it." She shoots you finger guns.

• • • •

"Sherry, I'm not getting you more chips."

"Please?"

"No, you've literally had three and a half bags, you're covered in cheese dust, and I'm pretty sure you're an addict. How strong is your metabolism, anyway?" You're brushing dust off the couch, at this rate you might as well get a vacuum. You ate a half, and then Sherry destroyed the rest plus all the other bags you got. You wonder how on earth she keeps her thinner figure like this. She must be cut from a completely different cloth than you.

"I have the same metabolism as all of my tapeworms." She stretches, and attempts to wipe the dust off her pants. "Sadly this has been pretty uneventful so far. They're being so careful. Three teams left now, and it looks and sounds like the other two are fighting it out." The gunshots are weak and in the distance.

"We're kitted as best as we can be, we should approach this like we did last time." Wraith has a 30-30 Repeater now, extremely well-modded.

"Did you notice that we're in the circle and they are not? We should set up a bit of an obstacle course here!" Wattson chirps.

"We can actually use it to attract our opponents and engage them from afar too." Wraith is beginning to smile, seeing a good path to victory.

"Leave Bloodhound for me." Revenant mumbles, just as a reminder.

"You'll get your wish, we've got this." Wraith's smile is unusual for her, but it's hard not to be at least a little happy in the face of such a massive victory.

Wattson begins setting up electric gates in the area as the circle closes in from the distance, creating a strange set of gates around the Survey Camp, trying to get around and weave through cover. Wraith finds a spot away from the tangled mess, Revenant joining her.

"Do you think they'll win?" You hold your breath, not as sure as Wraith is.

"Of course, Wattson is with them!" Sherry pumps her fists together as if she didn't just eat an inhuman amount of crisps. How can she move so jovially with a stomach that must weigh as much as a brick?

Gunshots ring out, Revenant takes sniper shots at the last remaining team as they escape the incoming heat wall.

"Why did you give our position away!?" Wraith punches him in the shoulder, but he doesn't flinch.

"Use your portal to charge them, hit Bloodhound in the leg, and come back immediately through the portal. Let them follow." Revenant has no fluctuations in his voice. He's dead serious.

"This better work!" Wraith yells as she disappears, leaving a strange portal hole next to Revenant.

"Wattson, come throw down your Interceptor Pylon here, we need to make sure they come into the portal after Wraith." Revenant seems to have thought this through, but why does he want to fight up close?

Wattson throws it down and it immediately stops an incoming Knuckle Cluster, barely getting it up and running in time. Some incoming grenades meet the same fate.

"Excellent, thank you Wattson." Revenant sounds excited. Wattson pauses in minor confusion.

"You're... thanking me? You never do tha--"

Wraith appears in front of Fuse, Bloodhound, and Caustic. She pulls out her 30-30 Repeater and nails Bloodhound in the leg, taking many shots herself before retreating into the portal. Bloodhound takes a knee and begins using a med kit as Caustic and Fuse jump into the portal.

Revenant is unarmed on the other side, all his guns, grenades, recovery tools, and ammo on the ground around him. He's holding his sharpened arm right up against the portal's center, practically posing. Fuse first appears and is immediately skewered through the chest, exhaling in surprise. Revenant flicks his entire arm to the side, causing Fuse's corpse to fly off to the side, blood spewing everywhere out of the hole in his chest. He is deathboxed before he hits the ground. Revenant's other hand is already poised for an encore.

Caustic comes through second, taking the sharpened point in the neck. The blood is immediate and generous. Revenant lifts his body off his feet, letting the blood roll down his stabbing arm and drip everywhere. Caustic drops a live Gas Grenade as he dies, spitting blood. Revenant throws his body in much the same manner, and Caustic is deathboxed midair.

"Well, shit, that worked." Wraith has almost healed her injuries completely, Wattson watching over her and armed to the teeth. "I guess the rest is all yours, maniac."

"Do not make us wait too long, please! I am looking forward to this win!" Wattson helps Wraith up and begins to run in the other direction to escape the spreading gas.

Revenant immediately starts sprinting towards Bloodhound in a straight line with no gear of any kind. Not even a gun. He's thoroughly coated in fresh blood and looks like a monstrosity, surely he's going to be shot down.

"Is he trying to die?!" Sherry screams at the television. "They almost have it! What even is this?!" You wish you could defend Revenant, but in truth you have the same questions.

No gunshots come though. Bloodhound stands there, newly recovered thanks to their med kit. They're situated right near the tangle of electrical gates, arms crossed and waiting patiently. It doesn't take long for Revenant to meet them, standing tall and unarmed a few feet away, locking their gaze. Bloodhound begins throwing their guns, grenades, health items, and ammo to the side. They finish, staring down their opponent in a strange silence. You're glad you're on a private channel, this would be ruined by any crowd sounds or commentators talking over it.

Finally, Bloodhound reaches behind them and pulls out a beautiful axe. It looks ancient but well-maintained, certainly a relic from their sordid history as a hunter.

"Congratulations kill leader, how many did you kill to get to this moment?" Revenant asks.

"Fourteen bodies lay behind me." Bloodhound states very plainly. That's an insane number. Revenant growls happily at their answer. "I have fought hard to meet this moment. I will confess, you are more clever than I expected. I am sorry for underestimating you before. You brought your apprentice here and ensured she left her scent everywhere, then disguised yourself with the same scent."

You're stunned into silence. All that running around was to literally make it impossible for Bloodhound to hunt by scent alone. You almost felt happy to be a small part of this, in some way, but also a little frustrated at how hard that day was. It explains why Revenant took your shirt before, why it came back so grimy, why you had to touch everything, and why he wasn't upset that you drooled all over his mane. Is this simulacrum also a conniving genius?

"I noticed you didn't use your sonar to find me earlier." Revenant pries a little.

"It would be disrespectful to the honor of this hunt." Bloodhound is beginning to sound excited in a bloodthirsty manner. "You also have come unarmed, so I meet your challenge as my ancestors would."

Bloodhound shimmers the blade of the axe in the sunlight, proudly caressing its blade. They've got one knife, an axe, and their wits. Nothing more.

Revenant begins to sidestep, Bloodhound sidestepping to match, never leaving each other's gaze. They're circling each other, neither making the first move. Bloodhound breaks the silence with a thunderous declaration.

"May the Allfather bless this hunt!" They lunge forward, axe at the ready.

Revenant leaps to the side, avoiding them, immediately lunging to counter. His giant maw is wide open, going straight for Bloodhound's head. Bloodhound ducks, and plunges one of their smaller knives into Revenant's gut. They push the knife in hard enough that Revenant buckles at the torso and falls backwards, letting the knife slide out in Bloodhound's grasp.

Revenant's clawed foot hits Bloodhound right in the breathing mask, causing them to stumble backwards long enough for Revenant to get on his feet. Revenant lunges again, but uses his arm length to pick Bloodhound up and toss them through the electrified fence. Bloodhound lands on the other side, obviously hurting. A knife comes flying through the fence and chunks into Revenant's chest. Revenant grabs at it, clearly in pain from both his hits so far. He leaves it in despite his pain, knowing that Bloodhound can't have it back this way without getting close.

Revenant strafes to the side to see around the electric fence just to find nothing there. They've vanished in the web. Revenant begins to prowl around the inside of the fence with all its jagged nooks, looking for anything. Revenant keeps turning to look behind him, clearly expecting some kind of attack from behind. The heat wall closes in on the fenced in area, leaving only half of the area available. Revenant watches as the wall moves up close to his face, then begins to turn to leave.

Bloodhound leaps onto Revenant's back from behind the heat wall, their garb charred a bit from hiding beyond it. Bloodhound gets their axe around Revenant's throat and pulls so the handle begins to choke him, but Revenant throws himself backwards into the heat wall, burning Bloodhound. They shove the axe upwards in an uppercut-like fashion, stunning Revenant so they have time to dismount and leave the heat wall before swinging for another blow. The axe lands in Revenant's hip, but Revenant grabs it and holds it in place, lunging forward with his open jaw to bite. Bloodhound jumps back, avoiding the bite, but losing their axe in the process.

Bloodhound shows no fear, immediately lunging for Revenant's lower body, taking advantage of his shifted center of gravity and forcing him to fall forward, right on the knife in his chest. Revenant emits a horrid sound which is only compounded when Bloodhound pulls the axe from his hip. Bloodhound swings for the head, but Revenant shifts so his horn takes the brunt. Revenant grabs Bloodhound's leg and in one swift motion gets to his feet and throws Bloodhound like a ragdoll across the field, away from the fences. Revenant sprints towards them, leaning so far forward that he's nearly on all fours. It's bestial. Bloodhound is able to sit up just in time to save themself from a massive bite, but only by shoving their axe in Revenant's jaw to force it to stay open.

Revenant takes the opportunity to get his hands around Bloodhound's neck, claws fully out. Bloodhound retaliates by using their free arm to pull the knife from Revenant's chest, causing him to reel in pain. He still is unable to close his mouth, and Bloodhound isn't choking fast enough to save him from getting his throat slashed by the now freed knife. Revenant is forced to release Bloodhound completely and staggers backwards, holding his own throat now instead. You could be mistaken, but it looked like the inside of his mouth might have been injured from biting the axe too.

Bloodhound immediately throws the knife again, hitting Revenant in the thigh. He falls to a knee, giving Bloodhound enough time to get up and lunge, landing the axe right in Revenant's mask. With a twist of the wrist, their axe is free and Revenant's mask is cracked. Revenant's pain seems to convert to adrenaline, as he lets go of his throat and grabs Bloodhound's leg out from underneath them, causing them to land on the back of their head before Revenant goes in for a stab. Bloodhound deflects Revenant's arm stab with their axe. Revenant's arm chunks into the ground next to Bloodhound's head instead.

Revenant is making a disconcerting wheezing noise. There's tons of damage all over his body, and the pain must be unreal at this point. Bloodhound is banged up too, taking mostly concussive damage to the head. Their chest rises and falls rapidly, but you can't hear them pant through the breathing mask. Despite all the apparent hurt, you do not expect either of them are done.

Revenant lunges down for the bite and nails it this time, his maw right around Bloodhound's head. Bloodhound is bleeding immediately, but takes the opportunity to pull the knife again from his thigh. Revenant, now wise to the possibilities, uses his whole body to fling Bloodhound by their head to the side. Revenant is finally able to stand up completely, but he limps a little.

Bloodhound's head is bleeding pretty badly now, their blood splattered on the ground from being bit and thrown. They quickly get to their feet but quiver a bit while doing so. They seem confident now having their knife and axe at their side again.

"Allfather is pleased by this battle." Bloodhound states very factually. "Were it not for my weapons, I surely would have lost this fight long ago."

"Hate to break it to you, but you're still going to lose." Revenant's voice sounds wispy from exhaustion. He limps closer, and Bloodhound stands their ground.

Revenant ignores his limp just long enough to lunge, this time claws out and jaw open. Bloodhound sidesteps, but Revenant recovers quickly and turns to lunge again. Bloodhound is ready, and uses both the knife and the axe to stab and brutally chunk into his back as they take a massive bite to the waist, as well as an arm stab to the thigh. Bloodhound just begins wailing his blades into Revenant's back, who seems unwilling to release the hold he has. Bloodhound's waist is dripping blood and the cloth on their outfit is soaked crimson. Revenant's body seems to be giving out on him, but not before Revenant uses his spare arm for a stab towards the chest.

Bloodhound clearly plans to take it. They're unable to dodge or move, but before Revenant can land the blow, Bloodhound plunges the knife into Revenant's throat. Revenant's stab finishes, but his chassis goes limp right as Bloodhound is deathboxed from the stab to the chest.

The final camera shot of the fight is of Revenant's bestial chassis limply hanging off the edge of Bloodhound's deathbox, his head resting on the top like a mourner on a coffin. Then Revenant is deathboxed, ending the match.

The camera shifts to Wraith and Wattson who were watching the fight from afar, now waving in victory to the camera and celebrating. Wattson holds a Nessie plush toy over her head in victory, but where did it come from? As the camera zooms in, you see she's surrounded by a few. What the heck?

Sherry and you sit, stunned in silence. Sherry changes the channel to the public broadcast, and you hear the crowds reeling in cheers at the primal violence they just got to enjoy. The commentators are losing their minds over the ending, calling it 'The Allfather's Hunt' and practically gushing at the seams over the imagery of the Hunter and the Prey dying together. Wraith and Wattson are showered in confetti and champagne, although Wraith doesn't seem as much into the celebrations as Wattson is. Revenant really did make a spectacle out of the whole thing. Nobody was going to care about 'Loba the Scalper' after this.

Sherry seems conflicted. Normally she would be on her feet, screaming loud enough to warrant a noise complaint whenever Wattson wins. However, now she seems worried over what she just saw. She turns to you.

"This guy can and might kill you." She speaks very quickly and quietly. "I just watched him kill with no weapons, just brute strength. He can throw people and crush them and stab them and bite them, and he can absolutely break every bone in your body if he wanted." She looks down at her hands, as if to soak in the frailty of humanity. "I don't want you to end up like that."

"Sherry, I know. Trust me, I do. He's the strongest, most terrifying person I've ever met, but I'm not and will never be his target." You speak confidently. "He finds some kind of comfort in me and has taken a liking to me. He will not intentionally hurt me. Unintentionally it may happen, but he seems to know how to handle that when it does happen."

Sherry sighs.

"Do you love this guy that much?" She asks.

You pause. It's not a word you've really used yet to describe how you feel. Like, sure, but not full-on love. You think about it. You don't like throwing that word around.

"I am that fond of him, yes." You finally say. "I just want to see where it goes."

"If you're sure, just please don't get gored." Sherry stands up, a concerned look still plastered on her face. "I'm going to go clean and decorate Wraith and Wattson's room for them. I would do this one too, but Revenant never seems to like it."

"Thanks for hanging out, Sherry. Don't worry, I'll be okay, I promise."

Sherry nods a little, then leaves the room, allowing you to stretch and relax until Revenant gets back. You wonder how long it will take this time.

• • • •

It's mid-afternoon, by now all the broadcasts should be finished up on all the different planets, where it should be later in the day. Morning matches are a theme here, but it lines up perfectly with the end-of-the-workweek evenings for other planets. It also means the lighting during the match is perfect. Sometimes the broadcast will be held off to make sure it shows at prime time on each planet, but that always means tourism to the planets where it's shown live is excessive.

Right about now, this planet should be clearing out from everyone who wanted to watch the Apex Game live today. Talos probably had it worse today, if you can call tons of tourism worse. After all, they must make bank in souvenirs, assuming the locals are one to sell souvenirs. You question if the people Bloodhound came from would be the type to do so. Probably not. Anyone who is willing to though: they must be rich.

It's been a few hours and despite last time, you cannot shake the anxiety that Revenant might never come back.

There's a knock at the door, to which you quickly go and open it.

"Oh, hello, just dropping this off, as requested!" This stout but strong mustached man with permanently squinted eyes rolls in a large deathbox on a caddy. He must work in a different section of the volunteers than you did, otherwise you would recognize him. He carefully lays the deathbox on the floor. You move to help, but remember when Revenant collapsed on you and realize you're not strong enough for this. This guy is impressively strong to be able to carry it. He wipes a bead of sweat from his head after finishing, and begins to roll his caddy out.

"Have a nice day ma'am!" He waves goodbye and shuts the door after himself. You turn to stare down at the deathbox.

Open it.

You want so badly to open it. You have to know. Yes, you need to know. Does his chassis really have all the parts a human does, or was his flirtatious teasing all a grand bluff?

Open it.

This box may not contain all the answers, but perhaps it can solve that one question. Does he really like you that way? Is it possible that he could like you that way? Or is it possible regardless of his body?

Open it.

Is this an invasion of privacy? Probably, but since when has he given you the same courtesy? If you're lucky enough, he won't be back in time to even notice.

Open it.

However, you don't think it's right. You meander to the bed and sit down, turning on the television to see more of the commotion. They're not going to stop talking about 'The Allfather's Hunt' anytime soon. This isn't a good distraction.

Open it.

Forget it, you start flipping through the channels. There's some sickeningly optimistic and colorful kid's show. Now it's news, listing off dozens of people murdered just in the city streets yesterday, per usual. Now it's a show about an unsolved murder from a few years ago. Now it's a documentary about the Frontier War. This isn't working.

Open it.

You grab your badge out of your pocket and leave the room, freezing outside of the door. Right, there's not a single soul back from the medical bay to talk to. You didn't know Wattson well enough to go knock on her door, and you're not sure where Wraith was moved to after Revenant busted her door. Even if you did, you don't know her that well either.

Open it.

You scan your card and reenter Revenant's room, stagger over to the box, and mess with the latch. Once unlocked, a button releases the door and it springs open.

Tears well up in your eyes. Why did you do this to yourself? He's lifeless, bent up into a tangle of limbs and parts to fit into the box. What did you expect? He looks like an old sarcophagus that was forcefully shoved into a box he could not fit in. His corpse is so beautiful, but so empty and void of life simultaneously, like an art piece left to rot in the elements. You can't help yourself. You have to get him out of there.

You move to one side of the box and leverage your legs to begin tipping the box. It's very heavy, but you have to do this. The box tips over its center of balance and rotates the rest of the way over, spilling Revenant's corpse onto the floor. You pull the box back upright so the opening faces the ceiling again, and get back up to run over to his body. His chassis is laid out now like a more normal corpse would be, although his limbs have fallen where they may.

You crouch down, letting your tears hit the chassis with a hollow thumping sound. You hold his hand, but there's nothing: no squeeze, no sharp points, not even a bashful resistance to such an act of affection. No amount of knowledge that he will come back can fix how you feel right now.

You struggle to pull his body into your lap. This may be lighter than his classic metal body, but it's still difficult to move it around. You silently weep, finally getting his crushing weight on your legs. You lean forward into his nuzzle and rub it, hoping for that awkwardly stifled joy he shows when he likes something. There's nothing, his eyes are void.

You begin to cry out loud.

You carefully cradle his head, ignoring the matted fur in the way. You rock back and fourth, crying into his cheek and begging him internally to wake up. The tears flow around and into the giant crack in his mask. He had wounds all over him, and you trace your fingers around each one. Hope is worthless; it can't fix him. You touch his horns he seemed so proud of. There's a massive break in one of them and the horn is almost loose off his skull. So much damage. So much pain. Your crying gets louder.

Why did you open it? Why did you have to be curious? At first you just wanted to look to see if he was bluffing about this body having sexual mods. You didn't bargain for the excessive and overwhelming grief of seeing him dead. You rock his body, mourning in utter despair, cradling his head so close to your chest that it hurts. You squeeze your eyes shut to try to hold back the tears, but it flows right through. Maybe not seeing the body will help.

You continue to sob and rock him for what feels like an hour. In truth, it's probably only ten or so minutes. It hurts so bad, even with your eyes closed the image might as well be etched on your eyelids. Your nose is stopped up from the crying, but you cannot find the energy to try to wipe it so it can breathe again. Your only air flows through your mouth in painfully hitched gasps between sobs of agony.

Suddenly, something cold and metal begins wiping away your tears.

You wince in surprise, but as you open your eyes you see nothing. You look side to side, panning the entire room, but there really is nothing. The door didn't open, you would have heard that. If Revenant was here, you would have seen him, right? You make sure to turn fully around and look behind you, maybe he's in your blind spot. No, nothing. What even was that? You turn back around.

You take a deep breath and sigh in disappointment, a few more tears escaping your eyes.

Hands cup around your cheeks, drying them again. You look up. He's on the ceiling, attached by his feet, but holding his hands downward to touch you. He's back in his normal, red body. He carefully releases himself from the ceiling one leg at a time, being careful to step behind you. He curls around you in a hug so your back is against him. He carefully pulls you backwards so the chassis in your lap rolls off of you, and he envelops you in his cool embrace. He uses a foot to push the corpse further away from you. He grabs your jaw to force you to face him as he leans his head forward to look at you.

"Why are you crying?" His voice is plain and without emotion, but his face--his eyes--have life. You begin to cry again in some kind of disbelief, forcing your body to turn towards him and hug him back. You grip the red straps on his chest and press your face against his metal torso, letting the tears roll down him. You won't let go. This one is alive.

He brushes your hair with his claws, lightly scratching your scalp as he does. His other hand rubs into your back, careful to press into your spine and knead it. His legs bunch up and cross around you.

"I was secretly hoping you would snoop around in my deathbox, looking for something you shouldn't." He sighs into your ear. "Instead you cry over me. What a disappointment when I was hoping to catch you being naughty. Do you really feel that attached to me already?" He squeezes you a little, but you can't stop crying to answer him. "You must, otherwise you wouldn't cry for me like this, despite knowing I will always come back."

He continues to try to soothe you as best as he can. He's warmed up and is now reflecting heat back at you. He nuzzles his mask into your shoulder. He takes breaks from brushing your hair to try to wipe away any tears that'd don't make it onto his chest.

"Idiot." He lets out a small chuckle. "You're making me soft." You can't respond, but your tears are finally beginning to run dry. "You know, they say the best way to know if you're loved is to attend your own funeral. Obviously, that's impossible for most. Thank you for attending mine, and showing me this." He unwraps his legs, scoops his arms under you, and stands as he lifts you up with him. You refuse to let go of his straps, although your arms have to extend to hold on as you lie back in his hold.

He brings you over to the bed and lays you down carefully. He touches his mask to your forehead, and begins to pull away. He catches on your grip on his straps. You're still trembling a bit and probably still have that ugly crying face you're self-conscious of, but you can't help it. He carefully starts to pry your fingers off of the straps, but you grip even harder. You're not letting go. You won't let go. What if he leaves?

He sighs, recognizing your distress. He lets go of your fingers and scoops you back up again, this time so you're sitting against his shoulder. He's so excessively strong, he barely even seems to be bothered by the weight of you. He walks you over to the computer desk and sits down with you, leaving you in his lap. His hands wrap around you and begin typing on a keyboard. You carefully touch his face, not paying attention to what he's doing.

He pauses, looks to you, and takes your hand for a moment. He pulls it to the ridge of his mask that has a lip-like tint and angle, pressing the back of your hand into it for a moment before releasing your hand and returning his attention to the computer.

For the first time since you opened that deathbox, you trust what you're seeing. He's back, he's alive, and he's okay. You let your body limply lean into his shoulder, release his straps, and let him handle your weight with his body. You close your eyes and remember how to breathe normally. There's no reason to have a panic attack anymore.

"Take a nap. You're more exhausted than I am somehow. I'll wake you up soon." You feel his hand forcefully guide your head over his shoulder where it can rest comfortably. "Don't argue with me, now. Just do as I say."

You really are exhausted from all the excitement and emotion. You snuggle up against him as he shifts his body to fit your comfort. He makes a slow, heavy breathing sound in rhythm with his typing, and occasionally lightly runs his fingers over your bare skin. You're gone soon after.

[neonthewrite]

Washed Up Winchesters 3

Everyone's awake, and there is No Need to panic! No need at all! Someone let the Winchesters know that before they give themselves heart attacks...

Cowritten with @nightmares06, the writer behind the @brothersapart multiverse!

( 1 ) ( 2 ) -3- ( 4 ) ( 5 ) ( 6 ) ( 7 ) ( 8 )

Story Tag

~~~~~

Sam blinked, several times in rapid succession. "Lilliput?" he repeated, the name slowly sinking in. "We're in Lilliput? That means the ship must be--"

They had been hoping to keep this situation contained, and hearing that they were not only in the wrong place at the wrong time now, far from their targets, but also they'd already reached Lilliput across the bay, sent Sam's slowly spinning plans crashing to the ground.

Pounding Dean's shoulder, Sam barked at him. "Dean, wake up! "

With a start, Dean jolted from his spot. The water spilled all over his face and the covers, leaving him sputtering and looking around for a threat. The fact that they were in a quiet, peaceful home did nothing to ease his confusion as he searched for the reason for Sam's panic.

"Th-the skinwalkers!" Sam exclaimed. "They've already reached Lilliput! We have to hurry!"

“Wait. The what?” Chase asked, before holding up his hands as if he might slow down the strange turns the whole conversation had taken. “Skin … what?”

He didn’t get a chance to elaborate on his confused question, as the rumbling grew closer and harder to ignore. Chase glanced towards the door, then back at the Blefuscan pair that he’d taken into his home. It seemed like a few kinds of trouble were on a collision course. “Jacob’s almost back, so maybe we should head out and like … figure out what the hell is going on with you two?”

“Skinwalkers,” Sam declared grandly, as though that might clear up the confusion.

Dean was still trying to fully wake up and figure out where the water attack had come from when a hand clamped around his collar and hauled him, the blankets, and the empty glass up off the couch with little warning.

“Ack!”

Sam dropped Dean in place, leaving him wobbling on unsteady legs. Wrinkling his nose, he gingerly moved one foot, discovering that his socks were completely soaked and his feet squished in place. Then, his attention was torn away yet again when Sam shoved a jacket into his arms.

“We need to go,” Sam said firmly as he collected the last of their remaining possessions.

Chase almost flinched back from the sudden energy Sam had on display. Only minutes ago, the guy had been barely awake, gingerly coming out of a near-coma from his trials out at sea. The way Jacob told it, they’d nearly drowned out there, and would have been lost beneath the waves if he didn’t get to them in time. Even he wouldn’t have been able to find them if they sank too far beyond his reach.

“Dude, wait,” he said, stepping closer and holding his hands up. He had to tilt his head back a little to meet their eyes. He was flustered that his words had largely been ignored, but he could try to bounce back from it. “You don’t even … I know Lilliput’s not like, the biggest place around, but you don’t even know your way around!”

The rumbling came closer. At the next step, the windows rattled faintly in their panes and a shadow crept over the outside of the house, stealing away much of the natural light in the room.

"We can't wait, there's no time," Sam protested, not pausing in his preparations.

Dean, finally shaking off the effects of his extended time at sea and the sudden wake up, felt his stomach drop as he spotted what was happening outside. "Sam..." he said warningly.

Sam ignored Dean as much as he'd ignored Chase. "The ship should be down at the pier, we can find where they docked..." he was mumbling as he tucked his jacket closed.

"Sam!" Grabbing Sam's arm, Dean jerked his attention to the windows. "They have a giant!"

In the following pause, Chase held up his hands and grinned as if presenting something exciting. “Surprise?”

Another rumble came, this one even more noticeable than the last, and then a final one as Jacob presumably stopped outside the house. He had learned well how to step into the Lisongs’ backyard without damaging anything, and more than once Chase had wandered outside to find him kneeling by the house. Even sitting down, Jacob was taller than the house.

“That’ll be Jacob,” Chase explained, gesturing towards a doorway out of the living room, through which a kitchen and a back door could be seen. “He’s just out back. Don’t panic though.”

"Jacob?" Sam blinked in surprise, momentarily derailed by such an ordinary comment.

"The giant," Dean corrected. "Why does Lilliput always get the giants?"

“Lucky, I guess?” Chase grinned and shrugged. “Maybe he can even help you with your … secret mission, or whatever. Do you want to--”

His voice cut off as the back door he’d indicated shuddered in its frame once, then twice. Something heavy had bumped against it, in what was Jacob’s gentlest attempt to knock on the door. Chase pursed his lips and then nodded absently as Jacob finally spoke outside, his voice an unmistakable rumble. “Hello?”

The sound of the voice made Dean jerk back from the direction it came from, a gun appearing in his hand as though by magic.

"No way, nuh uh, I am not dealing with a giant, they're never on our side!"

Chase’s eyes widened and he stepped back in alarm as the gun glinted in what warm light remained in the room. “Dude, what the hell!” he blurted, his hands lifting up to try to wave Dean away. “Put that away!”

Sam grabbed Dean's arm, jerking it so the gun was pointing at the ground. "No one's shooting anyone," he insisted, giving Dean a pointed look.

Dean ignored the meaning that Sam was trying to get across, jerking his arm free. "I am not letting a giant tell me what to do!" he snapped, stomping towards the front door. "We will figure this out ourselves and get back to Blefuscu!"

Throwing the door open, Dean looked left, then right, then dashed out, leaving Sam with the other two.

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes. "That went better than expected."

Chase threw him a bewildered look, but recovered as quickly as he could. “Really? Were you expecting him to shoot at me?”

The back door opened before he could list off any more irritated questions, and Minnie reappeared. She leaned around the doorway to announce her return, and stopped with her mouth open. One person was missing. “Chase, what happened?”

Chase rolled his eyes. “The other one took off. Be right back.” He hurried to the front of the house, hoping to intercept Dean before he made it too far away from the house; there was no telling what a jumpy guy like that might end up causing if he got lost in town.

“Chase!” Minnie’s call went ignored as he hurried out, and then she loosed a frustrated sigh before glancing back at Sam. “He didn’t want to warn you guys at all and I told him that wouldn’t go over well! Jacob’s really not a danger to anyone, if you’re worried about that.”

"Oh..." Sam looked over his shoulder, where the sounds of a giant were coming from. "Neither is Dean," he replied lamely, knowing that his older brother's actions weren't exactly in line with his assertion. "Not unless you're a monster of some kind."

~~~

Quick and furtive, Dean dashed from tree to tree, keeping a sharp eye on the sky to watch for the giant.

He did not want to get caught now.

"Goddamn giants," Dean muttered under his breath, pausing in the shade when the coast looked clear.

Admittedly, growing up he hadn't really believed the stories of the giant that came and helped Lilliput, back when they were at war. It sounded fantastical, like a fever dream. Some random giant just shows up? Decides to help the people that caught him?

Of course, learning about monsters and then dedicating most of his life to rooting them out made Dean reassess his belief on giants. Which left him at least semi-prepared to come face-to-face with the reality.

On Lilliput's side. Again.

Chase wasn’t that far behind him. There weren’t that many shade trees out in front of the house to offer cover, and the town itself wasn’t far ahead. The last thing he needed, however, was to let a Blefuscan loose in town going who knew where. They hadn’t made a lick of sense since they woke up and started talking about their “mission”, and he had already gotten some trouble for bringing a giant home.

His chest was tightening from all the excitement, but Chase ignored it to keep moving. Until he almost hurried right past a figure huddled behind the trunk of one of the trees.

“Dude!” he blurted, not bothering to keep his voice down. “What the hell! What’re you taking off for? You don’t even know where anything is!”

“What do you think?” Dean hissed in annoyance. His gun was lowered, the safety on so long as the giant wasn’t coming directly for him, but held at the ready just in case.

This case was turning into a giant pain in his ass. He certainly had no plans on sightseeing in Lilliput anytime soon, but there wasn’t much chance they’d get back home until they’d seen it through.

“The giant might be on your side, but he ain’t on mine,” Dean said, his voice heavy and full of emotions. “There is a ship out there, possibly already docked, full of shapeshifters that we’re trying to track down before they hurt innocent folk! We have a job to do, and all of this is just wasting time!”

Chase’s confusion didn’t wane, but that had never shut him up before. “What do you mean ‘this’? ‘This’ is you running off really soon after almost drowning. In the ocean. Jacob’s the one who saved your ass!” He waved a hand back at the house. Behind it, Chase barely noticed the giant figure leaning to the side to track the source of the noise they were making.

“Look, dude, no one cares where you’re from or anything, but really. Think about chilling, maybe?”

“Chill?!” Dean was wholly offended by even the concept. “Are you even listening?” He waved a hand in the general direction he had been making his way before Chase had caught up to him, though without any map or compass, he had no idea what was actually in that direction. “There’s an entire ship full of monsters making land somewhere in Lilliput, and you want me to chill?”

Chase shrugged one shoulder. “Okay, I get that that’s really, uh, freaky,” he admitted, though he wondered how much of what Sam and Dean said was true. He’d never heard of shapeshifters or skinwalkers or whatever, but then again he had a whole giant living on the family land. Things weren’t black and white.

“Dude, you almost drowned, though,” he pointed out. “You really should take it easy--”

“Chase? What happened?” Jacob’s concern rumbled overhead, and when Chase turned to look, the giant had sidled around the house at last and now crouched in front of it. He had to lean to the side to even see Chase at the base of the tree; it was part of why he didn’t go to the front of the house very often.

Dean reacted immediately to the new implied threat in the area.

Despite Jacob’s rescue of the Winchesters earlier, Dean couldn’t find it in himself to trust a giant. All of the stories he’d heard circled around the fact that the only giant in recorded history had stood on Lilliput’s side, and, as a Blefuscan, that was hardly helping him feel secure.

The first thing he did was go for his gun.

[xbellerousseau]

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- self-para 001

desc: belle prepares to send a package to her father, and thinks about her life in elias. note: it’s an extended version of the para from my app, and changed so that it fits in with belle’s timeline now. she’s been at elias for months, the gala happened, she’s making friends, doing things ... is she happy? 

CONTENT WARNINGS: brief mention of blood, illness word count: 1426

Today had been a busy one. Belle wondered if she should start bringing around a little foldable shopping trolley, like her father used to whenever they went shopping around town. Three times she’d gone back and forth between the house at Elias and the secondhand shops and the printing shop — bringing home books, a teapot shaped like a blimp that she just had to get, a stack of booklets she’d taken from an Open Day at Walt University, and photos she’d printed out in glossy, perfect photo paper. 

This was her last trip, she hoped, for the day. There was much to do at home now, as she’d also bought a parcel box. She’d initially thought of sending only a small package, but as she thought of more things to add, she knew she had to get a bigger one. An all in one Belle-like package. And for the hundredth time today, she wondered how he was doing.

Why haven’t you come home yet? was Maurice’s pervasive question. Why can’t you escape? Why are you still with him? Questions dotted with harsh coughs. Coughs that Belle would ask about, and that Maurice would, ironically, give her same answer to: It’s fine.

She had explained. She had been wholly honest, brutally honest, even. There was little she wanted to hide from her father, after all, they were all each other had. But no matter how much she talked about how great life was in Elias, about how Adam was not the person they thought he was … all her father could see was the beast in the cold castle. Of the winter and the magic that created a chasm between them. And that image extended to the warmth and open doors of Elias.

Speaking of doors, she took out her keys for the house, the one Adam had found for them.

The heavy door swung open, and the afternoon sun shone like a searchlight on the foyer, looking for its inhabitants, wondering about the secrets of this place.

Passing by the kitchen first, she smiled at the stack of brownies baked fresh that day, making a mental note to thank Mrs Potts in person whenever she saw her. As far as she knew, the house was empty for now. Adam must be out and about, which she was secretly pleased with, knowing that the sun might warm him a little and ease the tension in his brow. 

Once leaving the kitchen, she stole a look at the west-side of the house — even back in France, the only times she had seen Adam’s quarters was when he was covered in blood and dirt, and she and the others had to help him to his room. Times when her heart was racing with worry too much for her to have a look around. To see if he kept any flowers in his room, or if there were any photographs in frames. The little things about Adam that she wished she knew.

Trudging up the stairs to her room, she fought against the part of her that wanted to take a look even if it was only through the keyhole. Maybe she would write about that in the letter to her father. Dear Papa, do you know of any contraption that could peek into a room without opening a door? Something that could possibly fit into a keyhole so I could see.

“No,” she murmured aloud, shaking her head at herself as she finally reached her room, bumping the door close with her hip. “No, no.” That wouldn’t do. She respected Adam too much to go behind his back like that.

Belle got to work. She set the booklets, photos, and the parcel box on the floor. She had sent only a letter to her father before, and watching it go through the postbox with a light thud had hurt her heart — she knew she had to send more than just her words. From under the bed, she took out a thin box of random items.

She lined the box with two sheets from last week’s newspaper, and squeezed in today’s Elias newspaper. The university booklets were next, filling the base of the box. Though only a light idea now … she was thinking of studying again. Two more sheets of newspaper were used to wrap the blimp teapot. Next, she put in some tourist flyers of Elias, showing in particular the large public library and the modern architecture of the buildings, and of course, the Dungeons and Dragons game tavern she’d found. After that, the photos:

A picture of her, Barley, and their party during a D&D session, after a particularly well-fought victory.

Images of the gala, the gardens at Mouse Estate, and a selfie of herself in her dress, with Adam’s tailcoats leaving at the edge of the photo. Belle smiled at this, remembering their walk that night.

Scenes at the library, and of her and her co-workers dressed up as book characters for a children’s event.

And more pictures of daily life in the city: the shelves at Howl’s shop, Lucky Cat Cafe, more selfies with friends.

“And is it just you and him?” her father once asked. 

“No, no,” she’d responded. “I have friends, Papa. I … I have a life here.”

“Oh, Belle, I just worry … I worry, what if he decides he doesn’t need you anymore?”

“He’s not like that, I promise.”

“But you’re only there to break the curse. What then? What will you do? Come back to Villeneuve?”

Belle’s hand shook as she placed the photos in, wrapped in a thin, blue ribbon. She hated that she was doubting herself more nowadays, wondering if she only spoke to her father so much to convince him, to convince herself, that she was doing all right here. That she wasn’t worried at all about the future.

She remembered the short conversation she had with Penelope, so out-of-the-blue, but so perfect. Like a gift from the city she was growing to love. A moment she really needed, to talk about her worries, without fearing she was being a burden.

Sniffling a little, she pulled her sleeve over her hand and wiped her nose, shaking herself out of her indecision.

After the photos, there was only enough for her letter and something else thin. Her letter took at least an hour to write, wanting to make sure that she was as honest as possible, but also provided detailed descriptions of positives of living in Elias. Of living with Adam. Of her ideas on what to do: how she was revamping the children’s section of the library, how she was making new friends each week, how she helped with so many events, how she was learning more about ‘the predicament’ and ‘magic’, and that she was even thinking of studying again. 

…perhaps I can be a librarian, Papa. It’s a higher level at work, and if I get a job then I no longer have to worry about taking care of myself and of you, once the predicament is lifted. 

She stopped. Taking out white-out ink, she deleted the last part and changed the words.

…perhaps I can be a librarian, Papa. It’s a higher level at work, and I get to do more things. I’ll learn more, and there is always a library somewhere. I’m so grateful to work where I am.

She wrote one last paragraph, one that beseeched her father to see a doctor about his coughs. One that told him she knew it wasn’t getting any better. Then with the letter done, she slipped it in. But there was still room enough for one more thing.

Belle took a look around. What else could she put in? A small book? Another gift she could find at the shops tomorrow? No, she wanted to sent it out tomorrow so her father could receive it as soon as possible.

As she turned around, something pink caught her eye.

Once she saw what it was, tears pricked her eyes, and Belle smiled with an ache in her heart.

Stepping to her bedroom window, it didn’t take long for her to pick out a suitable rose from the climbing vines outside. Finding one that was just beginning to bloom, she rushed downstairs to create a makeshift water packet that she could tie to the end of the stem. Before placing it in the parcel box, she kissed the bud, wishing that it would stay soft and fresh, until it reached her father across the sea.  

[happyandticklish]

The Problems with Legilimency

Notes: For the anon request. This is so fucking late because writer’s block is a bitch, but I hope you enjoy it regardless! ^^ I sort of took my own spin on the request, but I think it’s fairly similiar to the original. 

Summary: Two times in which Queenie’s Legilimency became a problem, and once when it kind of helped. 

1.        

“Newt!”

The sound of his name strung along by that familiar voice sent a peculiar thrill through Newt’s person. He never grew tired of hearing it. He spun carefully around, an Occamy curled in his grasp; its tiny head poked curiously out from under his arm. “Yes?”

Tina stood puzzled back in his lab, hands placed upon her hips as she examined one of the shelves. “It’s not here. That herb you were looking for. I swear I saw it when we first came in here…”

That was odd. Newt was usually very meticulous about his placement system. He deposited the Occamy gently back into their nest, though the task provided some difficulty as the creature attempted to weave through his arms to reach him once more. Eventually though, hands free, he made his way over to where Tina stood.

In the space where a small bottle of rare herbs should have been, there was nothing but empty space. “You didn’t move it somewhere?” Newt asked, his tone inquisitive rather than angry. He began rearranging bottles around it, wondering if it had simply gotten misplaced.

Tina shook her head. “I turned my back and it was gone. It’s not…” she hesitated. “…supposed to do that, is it? I mean, it doesn’t have some kind of magical property to it, does it?”

Newt laughed, the quiet chuckle of an inside joke. “No, no need to worry about that. It does contain magical properties, though they are rendered quite harmless in its current form. Aha!” He grinned, his voice filled with soft triumph. “I believe we have found our culprit.”

Pickett stood frozen where Newt had revealed him, a bottle clutched tightly in his arms. His eyes widened, and quickly he tried to scramble away from them. Unfortunately, his efforts to get away from Newt only brought him into Tina’s awaiting hands, who held him up carefully as she lifted him into the air.

“Nice work, Tina,” Newt said, a hint of pride entering his tone. Seeing two of his favorite creatures in the world interact always brought him a strange joy. “Be careful when extracting the bottle from him; he can be difficult when he wants to be.”

“Oh, um, yes, of course.” Tina seemed more doubtful of her abilities, holding the creature out carefully as though one of two of them was going to accidentally hurt each other. She attempted to gently wrestle the bottle out of his hands, but, seeing her intentions, Pickett was quick to intervene. He wrapped his arms tightly around it, and when she attempted to nudge him off with her finger, he only transferred his hold to her as devious inspiration struck him.

Tina yelped, her heart catching a little in her throat. Though she admired Newt for his love for these creatures, she still found herself a bit wary when it came to actually interacting with them. Newt himself seemed unworried by this development, a smile tugging reluctantly at his lips, like a parent attempting to be disappointed with their child but ultimately unable to help their amusement.

“P-Pickett,” she started, her voice wavering a little at the uncertainty of talking to the tiny being. “I’m going to need you to let go now, if that’s alright; we need those ingredients for medicine—your medicine, I might add.”

Pickett was unbothered, clambering onto her finger fully now and beginning to scramble up her arm rapidly. Tina jerked back in surprise, the sensation of his little arms and feet crawling on her skin igniting a long forgotten sensation.

“Newt!” she called anxiously, tossing him a quick glance.

“Don’t worry about him,” he assured her. “He’s completely harmless—it’s only him who likes to think he’s tougher than he is.”

“B-But he’s—ah!” Tina felt a fluttery laugh escape her as Pickett reached her shoulder, poking around and exploring the area curiously, brushing up against her neck. “E-Ehe, w-wait!”

“What’s all the noise down here?”

The two startled at the sudden appearance of Queenie, her curls framing her face in its innocent curiosity as she stepped off the stairs. Evidently, neither of them had noticed her descent in the confusion of the misplaced bottle.

“Tina was just helping me create a new batch of medicine for the Bowtruckles,” Newt explained quickly, an odd nervousness entering his voice at the two of them being caught alone. He felt the unnecessary need to clarify their presence there. “When a bottle, it—well it went missing, but it was fine as Pickett here—”

“Of course it tickles,” Queenie interrupted, her voice directed affectionately in the direction of Tina. Newt started, those words being one of the last things he expected to leave her mouth. “There’s no need to get all worked up about it.”

“What?” 

Tina stiffened and flushed as Newt’s gaze swiveled to her, focusing on Pickett who continued his exploration of her neck and shoulders with an unapologetic joy. He narrowed his eyes at the pesky creature, who startled at the sudden attention he was receiving and hid quickly under Tina’s collar.

Newt lurched forward, ready to remove him, but his hands paused inches away from Tina, where they hovered uncertainly over her neck. “Can I—that is, do you mind if I—”

“Yes!” Tina agreed, her voice a little too eager in her embarrassment. Quickly but carefully, Newt managed to remove the critter, allowing him to cling moodily to his finger as he pulled away.

Queenie smiled fondly at them, shaking her head a little at their antics. “Honestly,” she said as Newt tucked the errant Bowtruckle into his pocket. “There’s no need to get so worked up about it; it’s just tickling.”

“How did you—”

“Legilimens,” Queenie replied, arching a brow with a sly grin. “Or have you forgotten?”

“Oh. Right.” Newt fussed needlessly over Pickett, adjusting and re-adjusting him as he continued to avoid their gazes. Pickett himself bucked against the attention, batting in annoyance at his fingers. “Um, if you don’t mind, we were in the middle of something if we could return to that.”

“Oh.” Queenie shook her head at herself. “Of course.” There was something in her eyes that said she knew Newt’s true reason for wanting her gone, but for reasons unknown to Newt but that he was nonetheless grateful for, she declined revealing. “I’ll leave you two alone them.”

She whirled gracefully up the stairs, her silk robe fluttering lightly behind her along with her steps. It was only once she was gone that Newt allowed himself to exhale, turning to face Tina. “Are you alright?”

But Tina had already turned away from him, and was wholly engaged in the process of chopping up the retrieved ingredients as Newt had shown her earlier. The tips of her ears were tinged a dark pink, and her hair fell forward in her face, easily hiding her expression from the other.

Newt would have pursued the issue further, had he not been just as grateful to drop the subject at hand. For some reason, this new piece of knowledge about Tina stuck in his brain, a strange concoction of nerves and excitement lighting up his chest. The sudden feelings were too difficult to parse then and there, however, and Newt turned to the counter as well, making sure to stand a couple feet away as he directed her on the next steps.

“Now you want to grind it, into a fine powder.”

2.        

“Oh.”

The word was a startled little gasp, and it drew both Tina and Newt out of the world they had previously been lost in. Newt jerked away from her instantly, releasing her skin as though it were suddenly made of hot iron. Tina’s face was flushed, the remnants of laughter dancing in her smile. Less than a minute before, Newt’s fingers had been engaged in the process of reducing her into a state of flushed laughter. Now, however, he kept his hands firmly shoved in his pockets, far removed from where they could have any kind of effect on anyone.  

After Queenie had accidentally revealed Tina’s secret a couple weeks ago, Newt had found himself unable to stop finding ways to accidentally tickle her in the hopes to see that unexpected smile light up her face once more. After a while, it became less accidental, though if Tina noticed, she chose not to say anything. There was hardly any excuse for that evening, however. It was only that Tina had chosen to stretch her arms above her head moments before and Newt could hardly be blamed for what happened afterwards.

Both appeared heavily embarrassed to have been caught in such a state, and it wasn’t just Newt this time who was having trouble making eye contact.

Queenie smiled, a gentle, reassuring gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to inform you both that dinner was ready. Although it seems you two are rather… preoccupied, at the moment.”

Newt cleared his throat, coughed awkwardly, and cleared his throat once more, clearly having difficulty coming up with words. “Sorry, we were just—that is to say—I was—”

“Tickling my sister,” Queenie answered for him, appearing unbothered by both the word and the subject. “It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize. I didn’t mean to intrude; it’s just that you were being quite loud.”

Tina’s brow furrowed as she readjusted herself on the bed; she was putting forth a failing attempt to make herself appear anymore dignified than the state in which she’d been interrupted. “How could you possibly have? We were—that is, we were trying to be quiet.”

“Thoughts speak louder than words,” Queenie quoted, though there was a truthful undertone to it that spoke of the embarrassing reality of having a Legilimens as a sister.

“Ah,” Tina said, visibly flustered. “Well.”

“Right,” Newt agreed eagerly, though it was unclear what either of them was agreeing on.

Queenie offered them a knowing look, before finally turning around to head back downstairs. “Alright then, I’ll leave you two alone. But be sure to come down soon; you wouldn’t want dinner to get cold.”

She paused at the doorknob, however, and turned suddenly back around. “Oh, and Newt?”

“Yes?”

“Her worst spot is her knees. Just in case you were wondering. Anyways.” With that, Queenie flounced from the room, her innocent air a betrayal of the words she’d just spoken.

The two of them sat frozen on the bed, both of them waiting for the other to make the first move. There wasn’t exactly protocol for this kind of thing.

After a while Tina groaned, dropping her head into her heads. “Sometimes I truly abhor my sister.”

“She can be quite… blunt,” Newt agreed. He found his gaze drawn now to her legs, swung carelessly over the bed. Queenie’s words played over and over in his mind, and before he knew what he was doing he had reached out and experimentally squeezed her knee.

Tina yelped, her hands flying from her face to shove at his arms quickly. “Don’t,” she warned, but there was a lightness to the warning that implied maybe she didn’t mean it as much as she said. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Newt, please, this isn’t—”

“Fair?” he finished softly, squeezing again to hear that adorable squeal. Her hands flailed uselessly for a moment before fisting in the sheets, keeping herself from fully shoving him off.

“Newt,” she gasped, the words filled with anticipation and a giddy nervousness that prompted Newt to quickly enact a repeat of earlier, his hands flying as he wrecked her once more. Her laughter rung in his ears, wild and carefree, and he found he would do anything to hear that sound, even for a moment longer.

Eventually he relented, as dinner really was getting cold. However, he found an odd disappointment setting in when she merely stood up afterwards and headed over to the door, albeit more out of breath than before. Before he had time to dissect that feeling, the two were called once more for dinner in slightly harsher tones, and they quickly rushed down the stairs in an effort not to induce the other’s wrath at having to wait for them.

3.      

“Nehehehewt!” Tina gasped, batting uselessly at his hands as they scribbled mercilessly over her stomach. “Plehehehease!”

The two were curled up on the couch, having retreated there for the night while Queenie and Jacob were out on an evening for two. In the beginning the two had simply watched movies, Tina propped up against the other so that her head rested on his shoulder. Movies had been Newt’s idea, a Muggle concept that he had found fascinating. Moving pictures on a screen without the use of magic…. Tina had scoffed at the idea, but even she had to admit that it was pretty amazing seeing it in person. The TV had been a purchase made by Queenie, who had decided to invest after seeing how drawn in the two had been after returning from the theaters.

After a while, however, Newt had once again found his interests caught by a different form of entertainment, that of Tina’s startled shriek when he accidentally squeezed her side whilst adjusting himself. Moments later, Tina had her back pressed against his chest as she attempted to curl in on herself and evade the ticklish hug Newt was administering.

It was truly a wonder how they kept arriving here.

“Please what?” Newt asked, his lips quirking up into that rare teasing smile that Tina both hated and loved dearly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Plehehehease stahahahap!” she giggled, her legs drawing up to her chest as she attempted to protect herself. “Ihihihi—ahahah, ihihit tihihickles! Nehehewt!”

“Alright, alright.” Newt relented, merely resting his hands on her stomach now and rubbing calming circles. “You know, you’re quite cute laughing like that; you should do it more often.”

“I already do it enough, thanks to you,” she replied with a wry grin, her words coming out in an exhausted huff as she fought to regain her breath back. “I don’t understand why you insist on doing it so often.”

“I believe he wants you to return the favor.”

The two startled, Tina letting out a startled yelp as a dark crimson flooded Newt’s cheeks, and they both turned to see Queenie standing at the doorway. Evidently, the two had just returned.

“Q-Queenie,” Newt stammered, with the intent of replying some kind of denial, but Jacob popped his head around her shoulder before he could, viewing the scene curiously.

“What favor? Oh hey, is that Felix the Cat?” Jacob quickly made his way over to them, taking a seat on the couch besides them.

“He what?” Tina repeated, ignoring Jacob and focusing her attention back on Queenie.

Queenie set her purse down, delicately taking a seat besides them. The couch was growing crowded by this point, but none of them appeared to care in the moment. “He wants you to tickle him back.” She paused after a moment, her eyes widening a little. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

Newt’s face was permanently burned a color as red as his hair. His mouth was open on a theoretical protest, though it was clear it was too late for that. Eventually, he merely averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s, ah, it’s okay. You didn’t mean to, I know.”

Tina glanced between the two, trying to gather what had just happened. Jacob was the first to speak, raising one eyebrow. “You like being tickled, Newt?”

“I—” Newt started, his voice stuttering and stopping in his throat. He coughed, gripping the back of his neck tightly. Three pairs of eyes were suddenly focused on him, and while Newt didn’t prefer eye contact at the best of times, the awkwardness of the situation certainly did not help anything. Against his better judgement, his flicked his gaze up to meet Tina’s, anxiety getting the better of him. Her eyes were wide with surprise, which he had anticipated. What he had not expected was the tiny smile slowly tugging at her lips, a gentleness to the expression that made Newt’s heart clench in his chest. Ultimately, it was what prompted him to finally find the words to speak again.

“I—uh, yes. That is, I do. Like. To be tickled.” He cleared his throat again, staring at his lap. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, rhythmically pulling at a loose string to distract himself from the panic roiling in his brain. In the background, the TV hummed, though it was clear none of them were paying attention to it anymore.

After what felt like an eternity to him, but was in actuality only around thirty seconds, Jacob piped up, “Well why didn’t you just say so?”

Newt’s head snapped up, his heart slamming against his chest. “What?”

“Yeah,” Queenie agreed, a grin rushing quickly across her features. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just another part of you.”

He felt someone grab his hand and he looked over to see Tina, her face filled with such overwhelming tenderness that he couldn’t help but smile slightly in return. “I love you, Newt. Which means I love making you happy. And if this is what makes you happy, than I’m happy to do so.”

Newt glanced around at the three of them, people who he had grown to love and care about more than he had allowed himself to with others in quite a long time. A tiny bubble of happiness rose in his chest, trapping his throat and making words impossible.

“Do you…” Tina started, before trying again, this time with more confidence. “Do you want us to tickle you? Now, that is.”

Newt flushed, the color spreading to the tips of his ears. He stammered, sentences tripping over themselves in his mouth, before he finally managed a quiet, “Yes. Only if you want to, of course.”

Jacob poked him lightly in the ribs and he jumped, a startled yelp escaping him. “Of course, buddy. After all, what kind of friends would we be if we didn’t help you smile every once in a while?”

Newt opened his mouth to respond, but his words were quickly lost to a flood of giggles as all three of them pounced at once, reducing him into a mess of squirming limbs.

Maybe Legilimency wasn’t so bad, after all. 

[onthecrosslook]

Three Acts

Note: @call-me-moo I guess it’s not three acts anymore?

Act Four

“It’s not like it is in the movies. There’s not a great big spurt of blood and you go flying backwards.”

Mary, cold, lifeless, her eyes empty, her smile taunting. She’s taunting me, laughing, she won’t stop laughing oh god-

STOP LAUGHING AT ME

Blood, blood, BLOOD-

Scared little boy, that’s what you are…it’s what you’ve always been…

DID YOU MISS ME DID YOU MISS ME DID YOU MISS ME

No, no, no, no…Oh, Sherlock, you know nothing…

Where did the blood go? Where did it go where did it go where did it-

Did John check? Did he check her? He’s a doctor, but DID HE CHECK?

My eyes fly open, and I can’t remember where I am. I feel…frozen in place. I can’t move, I can’t breathe, and my throat is so dry I can hardly croak out the word “John”, yet still I manage.

John, wake up, please.

He doesn’t stir.

“John,” I whisper, louder this time. My chest is heaving, and my fingers have drifted to the barely-healed scar on my ribs.

He makes a small noise and turns to me, half-asleep. “Yeah, Sh’rlock…?” he mumbles. “Wha’s wrong…?”

Everything everything is wrong I can’t breathe-

I’m shaking, and I can’t force myself to stop. “John, she…she was…she…” I can’t get out the words. My eyes are burning.

“Oh, Sherlock…” Suddenly, John is wide awake and running his fingers through my hair. “She’s not here, Sherlock. She’s…” He swallows. “She’s dead. She can’t hurt you. Not anymore.”

My eyes flicker over to him frantically, searching for any trace of- God, I don’t know what.

Heart rate quickened left hand shaking hasn’t shaved half asleep worried scared afraid-

“Sherlock,” he says sternly, his voice cracking the smallest bit. “Come back to me, please.”

I’m panicking, and he knows it, and I know it, but I can’t stop myself. “John, she’s here. Something’s wrong, John, I can feel it!”

“She’s not here,” John murmurs softly. “Sherlock, please…go back to sleep. I’m here. Whatever you dreamt, it wasn’t real. I promise.” He pulls me against his chest, and suddenly my thoughts are flooded with John.

“Okay,” I say, hushed. “Okay, I’ll…But…what if I see her again?” The thought frightens me. My chest hurts.

Her betrayal scarred and marked me. Forever. Every day, I will see this ugly scar and be reminded of what she did to me.

“I’ll be here every time,” John reassures me, his hand still absentmindedly stroking my hair. “Go back to sleep, yeah?”

I nod and move to lie down. John’s arms don’t pull away from my body.

Wholly, unequivocally John…

It’s a comforting weight. One that helps me fall into a more relaxed sleep, one unperturbed by nightmares and glimpses of something that couldn’t possibly be real.

~

I’m awoken by a sliver of light peeking through the curtains and falling on my eyes. All and all, it’s still far better than being woken up by some sort of awful nightmare.

John is clinging to me tightly. It makes it rather challenging to get out of bed, but I manage after a slight bit of difficulty.

I should thank him. Would it be odd if I thanked him?

I look at his softly sleeping form.

Is this what…couples do? Are we a couple? Was he simply being a good friend? Do friends kiss one another? Have I misread this whole thing-?

“Sherlock…” John grumbles from his pillow, “I can hear you having a bloody breakdown from here.” He groans and sits up, rubbing his hair back into its proper shape. “C’mere, you big idiot.”

I chuckle and slide back into my- our?- bed. He wraps his arms around me and smiles into my back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say back.

I twist around and look at him.

He should shave.

I push the thought away and sigh, before touching my lips. “John, I’m quite sure you’re aware of the awful after-effects of stubble burn…”

John pulls away, a flat expression on his face. I’m almost worried for a moment, but I see a spark in his eyes. “Sherlock,” he asks, “do you want me to shave?”

I glance away. “Perhaps.”

“Self-advocacy, love,” he sighs, a smile playing on his lips as he moves off the bed and heads for the loo. He might have said something after that, but I believe my brain temporarily stopped working, a rarity for me.

‘Love’…?

Love, as in…denoting a romantic partner?

Love meaning he doesn’t mind my celibacy, that he still wants to be with me, that he…cares about me?

“Sherlock!” John shouts from the sink. “Stop overthinking!”

I shake my head, still smiling like a fool, and pull on my favourite blue dressing gown so I can attempt to make breakfast. ‘Attempt’ being the operative word. The last time I cooked, I nearly burned down the kitchen, so I’m not really holding out on the idea.

I estimate I have seventeen minutes, based on his prior established grooming habits- but, then again, they may have changed while living with…her. I have noticed he uses considerably more product in his hair now.

It’s like déjà vu. My mind is swiftly and suddenly pulled back to one of our first cases together.

“With that level of personal grooming?”

“What, because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!”

“You wash your hair, there’s a difference.”

The memory is fond. I wonder if he was trying to tell me something, or if that was a Freudian slip of some sort. I open the bedroom door, smoothing some of my unruly curls out of my face. “Of course, then there was the whole matter with Carl Pow…”

I’m stopped cold in my tracks.

No. No, I’m seeing things, I’m high, I’m sleeping.

He can’t be…

“Oh- um, hey!” Jim Moriarty lounges in my chair with not a care in the world, his feet resting on my coffee table as he slowly eats a biscuit. He swallows down his bite. “Sorry, were you expecting more? A big show of some sort?” He grins and puckers his lips. “Oh, Sherlock…did you miss me?”

He’s not here. He’s dead.

“You…shot yourself,” I mumble, almost drunkenly in shock. “You’re dead…”

“Well, you hurled yourself off a roof, honey.” Jim shrugs as though his mere presence isn’t an act defiant of nature. “It’s safe to say more than one miracle happened that day.”

“How did you do it? How?” I demand, my vision dizzy with horror.

I didn’t check no-one checked Mycroft didn’t check

“Ah-ah-ah…!” Jim tut-tuts and slowly drags his tongue along his finger to catch a bit of jam. “A magician never reveals his secrets…”

I shake my head viciously, praying that I can get rid of the manifestation of evil in front of me. “I’m dreaming,” I say weakly.

“You’re dreaming? You’re the one standing in front of me in pants and a dressing gown, I think I’m the one who’s dreaming, Sherlock.” His smile is cruel, vindictive. “Oh, how vulnerable you are right now…! I could stab you and lick the blood off the blade, and the Good Doctor wouldn’t know until he had a sniper’s sight on him.” Jim lowers his voice to a growl. “Bang.”

Not again, please, not again…

“You wouldn’t.”

He makes an exaggerated frown with his fingers. “No more Joooohn…” he whispers.

“Leave him out of this,” I snap, regaining some of my confidence. “This is between you and I.”

Jim giggles. “You know, I heard the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. What if I chopped up John Watson and fed him to you, piece by piece?” He slides his tongue over his lips and smiles blissfully. “Heaven.”

I want to throw up. I want to strangle him. I. Want. Him. Gone.

I take a deep breath, even though I can tell I have already paled at his suggestion. “Get out of my flat,” I say calmly, unable- or unwilling- to force myself to move.

Jim looks more amused than disappointed. “I thought you’d at least let me stay for dessert. I suppose I’ll have to settle for takeaway, instead.” He strolls over to me, maddeningly slow, and presses his lips to my neck, just barely nicking my skin with his teeth. “It’s so good to be back. I can’t wait for all the fun I’m going to have with you.”

I don’t say a word, my eyes fixed on watching him leave. When the front door closes, I finally shudder, still frozen in place, before collapsing on the sofa.

He’s back.

~

(Well, that was a ride. Act Five coming soon.)

Epilogue linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/657054522939686912/three-acts

[jamestrmtx]

Fairytale Complex - [Undertale | Sans x Reader]

[Gender Neutral, Frisk's Parent Reader | Slow Burn]

Chapter Fourteen | Run!

[First] | [Previous] | [Next]

Alternate Chapter Title: Darmstadtium, Protactinium, Chlorine, Thorium, Oxygen

• • •

Sun pours through windows with half-open curtains, waking you up.

The emptiness of a bed too large for one person hits you and prompts you to feel around with half-lidded eyes, still too groggy to assess the state of your surroundings. You search for your glasses by the nightstand, pick them up, and slip them on, clearer vision helping you with your tired gaze. Then, you stand up and stretch, allowing yourself some time before you adjust to the changes. Faint snores from a corner of the room make your head snap towards the noise. There, you see Sans draped over a couch, with a beach towel taken as a makeshift blanket. Even with the uncomfortable posture he seems to hold and the general hardness of the couch, he's out like a light, chest rising and falling in a consistent, slow motion.

If you remembered correctly, you'd made space for him in bed, too used to sharing your bed with Frisk, Aunt Brenda, other family members, and close friends for you to feel even remotely awkward about sleeping with someone in the same space. Sharing it with family was a common thing whenever large, holiday gatherings took place, whereas Frisk climbed in whenever they had a bad dream, and friends stayed when they had nowhere else to go. Having someone beside you wasn't uncommon; if they needed somewhere to stay, you would provide them with it, yet you'd forgotten to ask Sans last night if he felt the same way about that. Him sleeping on the couch reveals he doesn't.

You approach his side as quietly as you can manage and bring your arms around his waist, lifting him up. He proves to be lighter than expected as you carry him off to bed, set him there, and drag the sheets over him. As inopportune as it is, you're soon reminded of yesterday and the whole dating situation you'd both discussed when you stare at his face for a little too long.

'What happened to you yesterday?', 'Were you drunk?', and 'Why did you kiss him more than once?' are just a few of the many questions you could (judgingly) ask yourself in front of the bathroom mirror.

Sure, you'd only ever dated one other person before you settled down with Jerry, only to end up as a single parent and then have little to no interaction with him or anybody else for the next seven years, but that couldn't've been enough to have brought the impulse for you to date a stranger… Right?

You weren't desperate!

As you continue chastising your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you hear a knock on the door, halting your judgement. 

"You there?"

You want to disappear, and maybe time travel to change things up a bit.

"Uhhh," you say, words about as flowing as a carefully recited poem. "...Yeah."

"...You doing okay?"

"I think so."

Such a blissful moment had to have its consequences. Maybe then you were too happy to care, but now that you consider the fact you'd kissed him more than once -- even if it wasn't on the lips -- and stayed a night all alone with him at a shady hotel makes this an experience you would rather forget. "Did you think I left without you?" you ask, stepping into the shower. You don't undress yet, anticipating an answer.

"I might've," he replies, chuckling. "Yesterday was really somethin' else."

"That's an understatement."

You take off your clothes, turn on the shower, and stand under it for a while. Your attention goes to the lowermost part of your abdomen, where you can see a bit of pudginess at the sides -- or 'love handles', as the skeleton called it. The steam makes your glasses fog up before you can stare and think about that for much longer. "...Did I really wear a swimsuit yesterday?" you ask, in denial. You slip them off and place them nearby.

Sans's voice turns faint with the sound of the water running, yet you can still hear when he replies with, "A one-piece, yeah. It, uh, looked good on you, though."

The conversation ends as you huff and continue showering. While you do, distant sounds of someone else present in the room bring back memories from when you used to live with more than one other person aside from Frisk. It's strange to hear noises outside your own and theirs.

You finish up with that thought still on your mind, lingering until you turn the water off; you then proceed by taking a towel and covering yourself with it. Approaching a basket with yesterday's clothes now clean and dry is the next thing to play with your memories and customs, again used to being a family of two after seven whole years carrying on with the same routine. Still, you dismiss those thoughts and remind yourself it's no time to be daydreaming.

You barely knew the person you're sharing a room with, and the history behind him and all the other monsters you knew was still something you couldn't let go. Even if you'd been the one to end up Underground, you couldn't imagine yourself sacrificing your own life -- not because you didn't want to save them, but mainly for those you had to look after. If you'd chosen to give up your soul for the sake of an entire race, then what would've become of Frisk's future? And if you'd fallen in place of Frisk, who was to say you would've been capable of finding an alternative like they had? The reminder they managed to come out alive while also fulfilling that goal makes you wonder if life's even possible to do without hurting others in the process. Then again, emotions can be messy; the mind itself is a whole complicated thing on its own.

If one gains, someone else loses. You can't live life without affecting someone else's, and aiming to please everyone is like trying to make water less wet. To be happy and choose a better path, sacrifices have to be made, and being wholly good and giving isn't as easy as it seems when you have difficulties to face day after day.

"Did you enjoy your stay?"

Your existential crisis ends at the sound of Mettaton's voice coming from outside the bathroom. You grab your clothes, slip them on, and take a step away from the door, still able to listen in on the conversation with how thin the walls are. You wear everything except your old shirt, this one still stained even after having thrown it to wash in the hotel's laundromat. To replace it, there's a plain and baggy, white t-shirt at your disposal -- not quite matching with the rest of your outfit, but sufficient to make do while you made it back home.

"It was nice," Sans replies, words cut short. His tone reveals he's far from wanting to have a talk with the robot, but the latter persists. 

""I'm surprised you hit it off so quick," Mettaton says, chuckling. "It hasn't been a year since we left the Underground, and yet you already have a date! You're honestly the person I least expected this from." 

The conversation's muffled out as Sans talks quieter. Mettaton, on the other hand, doesn't catch on. "What do you mean you two aren't dating? I saw you kiss!"

The skeleton continues to keep his tone at a low level, yet -- once more -- the robot fails to follow up with him. "But that's boring!" You can almost hear him pout. His voice sounds more annoyed than you could possibly imagine anyone to feel about a topic like this one. "And here I thought I'd caught something worth teasing you for! Talk about disappointing."

You wait until the two stop talking to exit the bathroom, Mettaton already gone by the time you step out. Sans sits by the edge of the bed and stands up when he sees you arrive. Awkward silence stays as you both look at each other for a moment, broken when you ask, "So, you told him?"

Sans nods and picks up his towel when you signal for him to use the bathroom. "I did," he says, walking off. He then waits beside the door, continuing with, "He's not too good at keeping stuff secret, but he promised not to talk about it in front of Frisk." The door opens and the leftover steam contrasts with the cold of the bedroom. The latter wins instantly, air conditioner on. You observe him as he steps in, looking about as tense as you feel right now. "Your phone was ringin' while you were showerin', by the way." With that, he closes the door, leaving you to check in on what he'd said. 

With steam no longer an obstacle, you slip your glasses back on, approach the dresser, and pick up your phone; your house number is the only missed call.

The person on the other line responds lightning fast, hardly giving it a chance to ring more than once.

"Are you okay, (mom/dad)?" Frisk's voice asks, words rushed. The phone wavers in your hold. They sound too frightened for someone who'd adventured alone at the Underground, yet what they say next brings you back into calm, "There was a bad storm yesterday, so I got worried." They stop and sniffle before they continue on. "Undyne said you were okay, a- and that you stayed at Sans's place, but… But I still missed you." You can hear them breathe in and then out, huffing after. "And then Jerry came around as soon as the storm calmed down, but when we said you weren't home, he talked about how you were being irresponsible again. But then he left a gift for you, and now I'm confused. Does that mean he still likes you?"

"One thing at a time, honey," you intervene, laughing when you notice Frisk plans to keep on rambling. "I'm fine, and I'm still at his place." You let out a sigh and bring a hand to your forehead, rubbing your temples before keeping up with their rant. "And I'm not sure what Jerry's thinking, but this isn't really the time for us to be talking about that right now." Your eyes wander over to the alarm clock set by the nightstand, eight thirty in the morning flashing on the screen. "More importantly, did you have breakfast? I should be back home in an hour."

"I did! Undyne watched over me while I made something."

"That scared of her cooking?"

"She burned her house last time!"

You sit down on the couch once setting the pillows aside. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and the awkwardness of your situation feels less daunting the more you talk with Frisk. "What did you make?" you ask, propping a leg over the other. You lay back and close your eyes, achieving comfort.

"I made pancakes! I'll cook some for you when you get here."

At the sound of the bathroom door opening, you open your eyes, look there, and carry on with your conversation when you see the monster hasn't made it out yet. "Thank you, dear. Did you teach her while she looked over you, by any chance?" Your posture on the couch straightens as soon as Sans step out, tension returning.

"I did," they reply, giggling. "She said she's gonna make some for Alphys next time they have a sleepover together."

With a few more questions and answers, the conversation reaches an end.

You say your farewells and hang the call, standing up when you realize Sans has disappeared. You then look around from corner to corner and reach the bathroom when you notice he's nowhere to be seen. The door's left open, though right as you're about to delve any further inside, you see someone emerge from behind the shower curtains. Your eyes close on instinct, and you turn around -- ready to apologize -- up until you hear him chuckle. "You can look. I'm just washing somethin'," he says. When you look at him, he hands you your shirt, now a bit dampened. The stain's fainter than when you took it to the wash, revealing the monster's whereabouts. "I tried cleanin' it off with some soap n' shampoo, but it didn't really work."

When you take it back, only one question rests in your mind, and that's, "Was this unintentional, or are you trying to gain another date?" You bite back a smile, in wait for his reaction.

You fail in an instant, allowing him to grin and reply with, "Whatever you want it to be." He winks. "Either way, I think I still owe ya dinner at my place."  

You walk with him out of the bathroom and step into the cold. The reminder you have to be back in an hour falls on you, urging you to check the time and search through your pockets for your wallet. From there, you pull out an envelope and hand it to him. "I have to go now, but here's this." Again, you shuffle through your wallet's contents, retrieving a note with your home's phone number scribbled on it. "And here's my house number." Quickly, you lean down and kiss his cheekbone. "Thank you for the date, Sans. I had fun." When you move back, he's a little less tense, though you can still catch onto a subtle mark of embarrassment on his face. "I'll take the bus. But call me if anything happens, alright? Cars can get damaged with the weather."

Slowly, he nods, saying, "Alright. See you later, (Y/N)."

"See you later, Serif."

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[talkfantasytome]

In Defense of Misogyny?

NOPE!

Before I start, I will not be defending misogyny. There is no defense for misogyny. I'm just a bit of a bitch who couldn't resist a controversial title. *shrug*

I saw a conversation recently about how horrible it is that the fandom loves Eris and is quick to hate Mor. I was going to post my response in a reblog, but I realized that, on top of the post ending up very long, I wasn't fully responding to the conversation at hand. I was sharing my own thoughts that only semi-relate.

If you're interested in that convo, you can find it here.

However, I am not going to directly respond to this, because the conversation made good points. And I very much agree, in theory, that we should not be more forgiving of males than females in general.

Instead, I just want to share my own feelings on why it may not be misogyny to like Eris and dislike Mor, and the main questions to ask to understand that.

First and foremost - I would like to state that we can not and should not hold women to a higher standard than men. In this, I hands down agree.

I will also agree that it absolutely can be sexist/misogynistic to love Eris and hate Mor. However, as someone who, while in the throes of ACOSF, was upset with Mor and still liked Eris (or, enjoyed him? I love Eris, but I'm not always 100% sure I truly love him, or the character and the mystery behind him and my own hopes of who he might actually be), I don't consider myself or my reasons to have been sexist.

Also, I would like to point out that I did not end ACOSF still very upset with Mor. My current feelings are that I hope to see more of her to fall back in love with the character, as I did love her, for the most part, especially in ACOMAF. And I totes ship Mor/Emerie.

That being said, I think we have to take a moment to consider a multitude of factors around why one might currently be more forgiving of Eris than Mor, as well as other pieces, that may or may not show this as true misogyny.

1. Why are we mad at Mor?

Personally, for me, yes, I don't love that Mor hasn't said anything to Az, even in the vein of just telling him it's not going to happen. It's not that she must do this, or that Az deserves that, specifically. It's more that it would be the right thing to do. But, I'm not mad at Mor for this, because I understand why she doesn't. Similarly, there is no male character who I'm solely mad at because they kept a secret.

No, what hurt me the most about Mor - and yes, hurt me is the best way to describe it - was her complete disdain and hatred for Nesta. I am, generally speaking, biased toward Nesta, and I do recognize this. But it doesn't change where I came from. She was horrible to Nesta almost from the get go. Sure, she brought Nesta to the Night Court and then, the next time we see them together, Mor is snapping at Nesta. She basically ignores Nesta when Nesta decides to join them for the High Lord's meeting. She causes Cassian to pull his hand away from Nesta during the war - which, admittedly, was a Cass action I'm still waiting for an explanation on, but it still had to do with her. Cassian was doing that for her, which means that he believed him holding Nesta's hand might hurt Mor or something - why? What is it that makes Mor soooo against this compared to everyone else? It's either a selfish reason - i.e. the buffer thing - or it goes back to her just hating Nesta the most. She then basically yells at Nesta for waiting at Cassian's tent when he's injured - for caring for Cassian. And then, in SF, when we first see her she is insulting Nesta to Cassian, and then straight to Nesta's face.

Perhaps it is all about feeling like Nesta brings her friends pain. Perhaps it is a fear of how Nesta could change the inner circle. But, we are never given Mor's full reasons, and even other POVs don't really give us anything to go off of. So all we see is Mor hating Nesta.

We see Mor hating a woman who has just gone through some serious trauma. Multiple traumas, really. And she probably disliked Nesta even as a human, though again we didn't really see them interact, only Mor being shocked at Cassian's declaration to Nesta. Which can't help but make you wonder if that played any part, too.

So, in the end, what made me the most hurt by Mor's actions toward Nesta, and words about Nesta, was the fact that Mor seemed to not care at all about what Nesta was actually dealing with, she only cared that Nesta was being a bitch.

Mor - who has faced her own horrific traumas, yet can't see it in herself to give someone else who has faced trauma the benefit of the doubt. Mor - who was so kind to Feyre, and very forgiving of Feyre basically ignoring her that first time she was in the Night Court, understanding Feyre's trauma. Mor was holding Nesta to a double standard. Basically, my hurt and anger toward Mor stemmed from the same anger that went into that original post - anger at a double standard toward a female who is suffering from trauma. Because Mor, one who often seemed posed as a defender of woman, a representation of how one can heal and grow from trauma, but how that trauma will still always affect them, couldn't find it in herself to even understand that Nesta was dealing with her own trauma, and what she needed was healing and help. Not insults and being thrown into the Hewn City.

Is it not maybe understandable how it would actually be harder to forgive Mor for showing such a double standard? For showing such little care or sympathy toward someone who has faced her own trauma? How saying that Mor should be loved because she has gone through so much might be almost hypocritical, considering who Mor is showing hatred toward?

I do understand how Nesta could hit closer to home. She sees Nesta to be as bad as the people she was raised with. But, honestly, that doesn't make it better. It just reminds me that Mor is actually often blind to the truth when she doesn't want to believe it or face it. She runs from it, she fights it, and while she is in her right to do so, it is not okay to do so by hurting another person, another woman who has also been through more trauma than Mor even realizes.

I don't find that anger, or upset (which is really more how I felt about Mor) to be a form of misogyny, at least not on its own. Because my feelings for other characters, my interpretations of their actions, may be wholly different, and it's not that I'm holding Mor to a higher standard. It's that I hold certain issues above others, and to me, holding people to a double standard is at the top of the list on what will annoy me about someone else the most.

2. Who else are we mad at? Is it only Mor? Or are there others we are also mad at, and for what reasons?

We should also consider who else a person is mad at, if not Eris, to see are they really holding Mor/women to a higher standard.

Using myself, again - the person I came out of ACOSF the most mad with/upset about was, hands down, Rhys. Not Mor. In fact, by the end of the book, I'd lightened a lot toward Mor, because I did see how Mor was changing and adjusting. She saw Nesta healing, and her attitude toward Nesta shifted. And, to be perfectly honest, I am SERIOUSLY HOPING we will see them have a heart-to-heart, get to know each other, get to understand each other, apologize to each other (especially Mor for how she's treated Nesta, and the things she said to her when Nesta was literally depressed and dealing with PTSD - cause those things weren't okay) and come out the other side, if not as friends, than at least as two females who respect each other. Because I think we all, including Mor and Nesta, need that. But, despite that, we did at least see Mor be better with Nesta. It showed Mor's openness to possibly accepting a new truth about Nesta, which I was happy to see.

Now, back to who are we mad at. Like I said, even if we're considering the middle of ACOSF, when I was fully upset with Mor, my feelings toward her never got to where they still are with Rhys - I don't care about his gifts, until he proves to me he actually cares even a little bit about Nesta as her own person and not as Feyre's sister, I will struggle with him. So, again, can we argue that my feelings were misogynistic if, in the end, my greatest anger was actually toward a man?

On top of that, my anger toward Rhys is far more aligned to what I was feeling about Mor. Because, again, it was about his treatment of a character dealing with trauma. If anything, my double standard is toward Rhys. I don't think it's a double standard, because my expectations of Rhys were higher considering his previous actions, and how he supposedly cared about all of his people. Not because he was a man, but because of what we see from him vs. Mor, particularly in ACOWAR. And, also, you know - Rhys did other things that made me super mad. Mor never threatened Nesta's life, for example.

Conversely, any anger I've have toward Eris (and, I'll admit, there's still a bit), entirely surrounds what he did/didn't do 500 years ago. I'll go into more detail on why I may offer my forgiveness in the next section, but in regards to the anger - I don't see these aligned. My anger toward Rhys and Mor revolve mostly around double standards they seem to have and a lack of understanding or caring for someone who is clearly struggling with trauma. Something that, personally, I think they should both be on the side of truly understanding, considering their own experiences. Eris, on the other hand, it's an anger for leaving Mor to die. I'm not saying that this is a "better" thing to do, it's just that the two angers don't align. I'm not holding Mor to a higher standard, because I do not see the two as the same. Thus, their paths toward forgiveness may look very different, because I will be looking for different things in each of them.

3. What is the person now doing? Have they earned forgiveness?

I'm not saying Eris has earned forgiveness. I'm not saying Mor hasn't. That is up for all of us to interpret.

That being said, what we've seen from Mor does not include any signs of regret for her actions. We do not see her actively trying to make things better between her and Nesta, to understand Nesta, or that she has any sorrow for what she said to her. At best, we see Mor polite to Nesta, and maybe willing to get to know her better. The absolute best interaction was at Solstice, when Mor asked if she might be able to join. As I mentioned, I am hopeful for these two - in part cause my head canon is that they could actually be amazing friends, but that's for another day - and I really loved seeing Mor willing and interested to join in, despite it being with Nesta (and kinda Nesta's thing), as well as seeing Nesta being willing and interested to have Mor join, even if it's just solely for the priestesses. But, that is one interaction and, again, doesn't actually show any repentance from Mor for her own actions against Nesta.

I know some people will say "you mean just that one 'mean' thing Mor said?" - yes. Though it wasn't just that one time, was it? Because there have been multiple times Mor has shown a true disdain for Nesta, while also showing a true indifference to the fact that Nesta was struggling. The other best example of this was when Cassian was hurt in the war, and Nesta was waiting outside his tent, clearly terrified. Mor, also upset, by many things, took it almost entirely out on Nesta. She was either blind to Nesta's feelings for Cassian (doubtful), or she simply didn't care, and instead snapped at her, all while Nesta was probably terrified and fearing the worst in her mind.

The two never talked about this either. And we don't know if Mor regrets those things she's done and said, or even just feels bad, and we also don't have a full understanding of her reasons, or even if there are valid reasons. Because she doesn't talk about it - or, at least, we haven't see her talk about it. I truly hope we will get some answers to all of this. But, right now, we don't even really get hints - we simply assume she must have a reason, because she's Mor and she's great and so she must have a reason we can understand and accept. Still, we don't know, and we don't see her even be held accountable for those actions - admittedly, an issue with most of the Inner Circle and the lack of them being held accountable for how they've treated certain people.

Eris, on the other hand, while what he did was truly horrific, has admitted that he really regrets his actions - or inactions. And he has stated that he had his reasons - reasons that cost him. So we know that he has, in fact, paid for what he's done, at least to some extent. And, more so than that, his current actions seem, to me, to prove this. His constant attempts to ally with the Night Court, to try and do the right thing. Yes, when we saw him at the High Lord's meeting, he was wrong to say what he did to Mor. But we also cannot hold that at full face value and be mad at him for that one thing without remaining mad at Rhys for all he's done while wearing his High Lord of the Night Court mask. Again, that would be a double standard. We can be annoyed by it, but if we forgive Rhys for playing a part, we must also forgive Eris. (This statement, of course, is based on my interpretation that Eris is good at heart, but has made a number of mistakes and is essentially forced to be awful due to his place in life.)

However, despite that one thing, everything else we see from Eris, seems repentant. It is, of course, my interpretation of Eris. But considering all the things he's done, the little threads we get that show us he's not the awful monster we were told he is. He has been working to earn forgiveness, and is doing the right things now - just still often wearing that Autumn Court mask. And, if we're going to forgive Rhys for all the monstrous things he's done, because he has shown himself to be better than that, then it's okay to at least consider forgiving Eris.

So, why is it wrong to be willing to forgive someone for something that he has shown he is seeking forgiveness for? But to maybe not be forgiving another for something that she has not sought forgiveness for? Can we forgive someone for something if they don't realize what they did was wrong? In my opinion, no. Yes, people say that the only person you ever really need forgiveness from is yourself. And I don't fully disagree - I think we do need to forgive ourselves. But, again, only once we understand what we did, how and why it was wrong, and when we want forgiveness. Then we forgive ourselves, and at the least can hope that our actions show that we understand this truth, and others may forgive us even if we don't ask blatantly. In the end, though, we do need to ask for forgiveness. It's just a matter of whether we are vocalizing that request, or showing it in our actions.

Summary

Again, I'm not saying that there aren't times where this is a true double standard. Where people just love Eris and hate Mor, and maybe even blame Mor for what went down with Eris (and, if they do, I will fight them on that because Mor is blameless in that situation - idgaf if she slept with Cassian, I will not blame her for wanting out of that marriage).

I am also not trying to convince anyone that they should love Eris, or that they should dislike Mor - especially seeing as I don't fully dislike Mor, I'm just waiting for the best Mor to come back.

I'm only saying that we really can't make assumptions and say that loving Eris and hating Mor automatically means misogyny. Some things hit closer to home than others - as I mentioned as a possible reason why Nesta is such a struggle for Mor. It could very well be solely about what it is they do and don't forgive each person for. And, personally, I think finding out if a person who is angry with Mor was also angry with Rhys during ACOSF is a much better gauge than comparing Mor and Eris.

I don't believe that Mor owes anyone any explanations. Clearly, my own feelings around Mor have really not revolved around what she may or may not be hiding about Eris. Of course I want to know, I'm a nosy reader. But, if she's hiding something for her friends about that, she has her reasons and I'll accept them so long as they don't end up being, like "well, I just wanted you all to hate Eris forever". But, typically, Mor's reasons have to do with her own trauma and fears, and I accept that. It may, at times, be self-centered - but sometimes don't we all need to be a bit self-centered?

However, I think that we need to truly compare the anger, compare the reasons, to understand why some might like one character and dislike another. It is not feminist to automatically support a woman if she is in the wrong. It is not misogynistic to forgive a man and not a woman for two entirely different situations and reasons. We have to remember that feminism is supporting gender equality in every way - workplace, personal lives, laws, etc. Feminism is not supporting female superiority, which is exactly what happens when you compare two people for things that are not comparable, and then state that you must be more forgiving of the female.

After Thoughts on Mor

I am truly hopeful that we will see Mor and Nesta's relationship grow. And I would like to see more of the Mor we met in ACOMAF, tbh. I have felt, as has been observed by others, that Mor's character and journey has been incredibly chaotic and inconsistent. She was the bomb.com in ACOMAF with how she was with Feyre. Then, in ACOWAR, she was a bit moody, she was mean and harsh toward Nesta (and still has explaining to do on some of this and the Cassian stuff), and she just wasn't really who we met in ACOMAF. I don't really remember much about ACOFAS. But, in ACOSF, again, Mor was different. Except, instead of being just moody and harsh toward Nesta when pushed, now she's completely unforgiving and dismissive of Nesta. And, honestly, that wasn't the Mor I was expecting. I would have expected Mor to be one of the first to maybe realize that Nesta was dealing with trauma. I guess that expectation shouldn't have been held considering ACOWAR, but it was different. I still thought Mor might understand, to an extent - might be at least willing to help Nesta heal, or want to see her healed. Instead, we got someone who said Nesta should just be thrown into the Hewn City - to Cassian's face. So, on top of not giving a damn about Nesta at all (the female that saved Cassian's life, full stop), she also didn't show much caring or understanding of Cassian, one of her best friends. Not until after she saw what a comment like that did to him. And yes, Mor may be just dealing with her own trauma, I understand that. It's why I still have a hard time saying I was truly angry with Mor, but more hurt by/upset with her in ACOSF. Because it may be something deeper that caused her to be this way. Or just her own preoccupation with what's going on in her life. But, in the end, it was still targeted at one person, the one person who probably could handle it the least.

That's my long winded way of saying that I have a lot of hope for Mor's character in the future, and that I don't actually hate her. I just hope that we get to understand her better, understand the reasons she's had for what she's done, but I also hope we see her held accountable (and the rest of the IC).

As always, this is just my own personal opinion, and I accept that others' opinions may be different. I promise to respect yours, all I ask is that you respect mine. I'm not opposed to dissenting arguments, just asking for no attacks. :)

[bigskydreaming]

Interesting. Another week where I liked all the X-books that came out. Must’ve been cuz there was no Duggan in the mix.

New Mutants was one of the better issues since Ayala took over. I haven’t loved all of their issues, though enjoyed them for the most part, but this one I could really see everything start to come together that they’ve been seeding from their start. I wanna reread once next issue comes out and see whether it works better overall to read the full arc in one sitting. Also it might be that the Otherworld stuff was a forced detour they had to make and that threw off the pacing. We’ll see. 

But the kids with Gabby was such a sweet moment, and its so nice to see them all on the same side when it comes to Farouk......but Farouk’s motivations and the little interlude about the boy call back to Ayala’s first issue and it looks like the suspicions laid back then were true. Its almost certain that the Shadow King is actually an amalgamation or even just a full on puppet of an Amenthi demon who merged with or possessed Amahl Farouk as a child and using him as a host, has been all about trying to make this world match the one it came from, based on the same ideals Annihilation espoused. 

Basically, Amahl is not the same as the Shadow, the Shadow is trying to turn Krakoa into a new version of Arakko, and if I’m interpreting one panel of the art right, I think Xi’an (who seemed to have her suspicions back at the start of this arc too) just sensed another presence for the first time - and she’s the one who knows the Shadow King’s psyche best after all - and she’s figured out that there’s a separate Amahl Farouk consciousness hidden somewhere inside him. And given that second ‘demonstration’ interlude and the fact that the New Mutants are now nowhere to be found in the Shadow King’s mindscape, I’m guessing she managed to shunt them from the part the Shadow King controlled, into whatever part the original boy Amahl is hiding in.

Excalibur was one of its better issues. I’m far more interested in the politics of Otherworld than the political shit in X-Force, Mordred being a mutant is an actually interesting twist, and the idea that Arthur is making his son’s betrayal a self-fulfilling prophecy by attacking mutantkind because he believes Mordred will inevitably side with them as a mutant has some interesting possibilities. It was also unexpectedly....nice, to see like, the whole family Braddock fighting on the same side for probably the first time ever, lol, from Betsy to Brian to Meggan to Jamie.....Jim Jaspers remains a wildcard I’m wary of because like, lol I’ve read the original stories of him and it seems this writer has too, and I want someone to bring up that he’s keeping Redroot captive and make some kind of issue about that, especially now that Death has been brought back into the mix and Betsy’s offered to help him escape Sevalith. 

(Only to have him say no, he’s working - lol anyone else think Death’s trying to pull off a one-man coup and take over Sevalith for mutantkind and do his Daddy Dearest proud? Or given that he’s obviously still crushing on Ororo, even after - well I mean, probably BECAUSE she kicked his ass and left him for dead.....I could TOTALLY see them playing this as like, part of some weird courtship attempt of his. The only way he feels he can woo her as an equal is to come to her with a kingdom of his own or some shit like that. Idk, we’ll see. He’s definitely up to something though, but I do believe him when he says that ultimately he’s on the same side as the rest of them).

I liked that they haven’t forgotten about the other Rogue, Gambit and Rictor Captains, I liked Roma’s conversation with Jubilee about Shogo and the foreshadowing there, as well as Jubilee’s response and her clear conflict.....Merlyn can fucking die in a fire already, please and thank you, ugh, enough with this old shithead.....oh I LOVED that someone is FINALLY doing something with Bei, and it does make sense for it to be Excalibur though I figured it would’ve happened in New Mutants by now. But she and Shatterstar make a fun odd duo, and actually Star’s comment to Brian about being a new friend too like, lol, okay, I’m kinda here for a trio of Brian, Star and Bei to be like a Krakoan Warrior Three who are all united by their perspective as like, lifelong combatants and being outsiders among the rest of Krakoa even if Shatterstar and Bei are technically still mutants too. It makes sense.

Hmm, what else. Would love to see Bei’s thoughts on Death and Redroot, all things considered, and have something to do with those plotlines in the future. And really in general I’m here for this big all-kingdom smackdown with Sevalith, Hothive, Mercador, the Furies and Merlyn’s kingdom all arrayed against Krakoa and Avalon. Of course, these are still only the Foul Kingdoms. Roma and the rest of the Fair Kingdoms so far don’t seem to have any real problem with witchbreed....but this arc is still only getting started. Still waiting for Mordred’s inevitable entrance....curious to see what his power is, and especially if HE even knew he was a mutant before now.

Also: JULIO AND SHATTERSTAR CUDDLES. WE HAVE WAITED 84 YEARS FOR THIS.

And as for Hellions....

Okay, I didn’t actually love Hellions, its kinda on...layaway. I liked a lot of the fallout of last issue, I liked that the stakes are so apparent here, but I’m gonna be bothered by a lot of stuff unless there’s some kind of plot twist that reveals that Kwannon’s daughter is still alive somehow. Like maybe Sinister lied about not having another back-up JUST to ensure he still had one last card to bargain with up his sleeve since he lost the ‘in’ he had with the Hellions now, and with the Council now aware of his secret experiments with Arraki DNA (and bringing Tarn down on their heads in a way that COULD have started a full on war with them if Ororo hadn’t handled it for them)....like point is, all eyes are going to be on him for awhile now and he has very few cards left to play or people in his corner, so I’m HOPING that there’s another plot twist coming in the last couple issues there. 

Because if Kwannon’s daughter is ACTUALLY dead....it really doesn’t sit well with me that the first real mutant death in an age of literal immortality for the rest of them (since even Gorgon and Rockslide technically are still alive in SOME sense)....like for that to be Kwannon’s daughter, the only real innocent in all of this, and having been held hostage to this storyline the whole time, and only existing to force Kwannon’s hand in all of this....yeah. No. Thank you, do not like, that better not be all there is to this. I never trust anything Sinister says as a general rule, so I’m not gonna believe him about that having been the only back-up of her daughter until its wholly proven otherwise.

Other thoughts.....I like that Emma knows that she fucked up, I like that Emma DID have her own kinda failsafe in place because she didn’t trust Sinister for shit, I like that she was RIGHT not to trust Sinister for shit and that her fail-safe stopped even worse shit from happening....I DON’T like that her fail-safe literally just made Alex a weapon of mass destruction with no awareness he even was one and someone else’s hand (let alone fucking MANUEL’S on the trigger)....I DON’T like Emma looking all pained at how devastated Alex is when that was the inevitably outcome of this particular failsafe, like sorry Emma but if what it did to Alex was really that big a problem for you, you should have found a different failsafe.....and I REALLY REALLY don’t like Emma effectively just offering up Maddy’s resurrection as essentially a bribe to ‘fix’ what had happened to HIM, like....if you guys could have made the case for Maddy’s resurrection before now, it should have been for Maddy’s sake, not as like....a cheer-up tactic for fucking Alex, and DEFINITELY not to ‘fix’ a mess that still resulted in Kwannon’s daughter’s death (unless of course there’s a twist there).

Oh and I also meant to say there BETTER be fallout once Scott discovers Emma and Manuel’s role in all of this. I could definitely see Scott like, interceding on John’s behalf if he manages to pull of killing Empath, because like....he’d kinda want to do it himself. This is one of those times where I REALLY wish they’d spend more time developing where Gabe fits in with the Summers brothers now, relationship wise, because like, just show him giving any kind of shits for Alex as his older brother like, at all, and you can EASILY justify Gabe going full wrath-of-omega-mutant on Empath, and what’s the Council gonna do to one of their prized omega mutants, especially one who’s already been imprisoned on Krakoa for Xavier’s mistakes in decades past? 

Actually damn, now THERE’S a consequence-arc I’d love to see, because imagine Gabe helping John go after Empath, and then the Council really trying to throw HIM in the Hole for that, and then Scott being like uh no, remember the events of Deadly Genesis? The fuck I’m gonna stand by and allow that, Xavier you still owe him for that shit, especially since this resurrected version of him never did all the shit Emperor Vulcan did, at least as far as he knows. Or THEN ALSO I could see him getting Storm to back him up on this and she gets the Arraki to be like, well we owe this mutant a debt of gratitude for his role in making our new home, and actually his actions sound totally acceptable, we’re honestly not sure what the problem is, actually he sounds more like us than you so we’re happy to offer him sanctuary, and then the Council would shit their pants because they don’t want to lose an omega mutant to their war-like cousins since you KNOW more than a few of them are making contingencies in case they ever have to fight them again, and like, it’d split the loyalties of the entire Summers Clan in doubt and just...tons of story possibilities there. Lots to consider.

Eh, that’s not where they’re going with this at all though, so whatever. I’ll actually be really surprised if they do end up writing John as managing to successfully kill Empath.

Last thoughts.....this was weirdly the first time they EVER made me give a crap about Nanny? They managed to make me more interested in her in one issue than they have in her previous thirty-five years of existence, gave her more DEVELOPMENT in one issue than in all of that time, and when she was willing to sacrifice her just to save the orphanage from being destroyed I was like, holy shit. I....like...her?

And then they fucking ruined it all the very next page with how they had her react to Peter, and their ominous as fuck final epitaph. I’ll wait on deciding my full thoughts and feelings about that, and see just WHAT Peter ends up doing as a result....I have a feeling things are not going to end well for him and we might be close to seeing the last of him, especially with the inferences they’ve made about how destructive Peter’s true power is - whatever the hell it actually is. Like, Peter, at least, I can see the Council being more than willing to leave in the Hole, or just....put at the back of the resurrection queue for the rest of eternity. Which is shitty but would be perfectly in keeping with them and also I don’t actually know what he’s going to do yet.....like, is it going to be some bullshit like HE tries to destroy the Nursery or some shit because Nanny wanted to save it, or more likely is it gonna be something like he goes to the Right and betrays Krakoa or whatever and gives them valuable intel or something like that? Idk. 

Finally - YES MADDY’S COMING BACK. And she’s gonna be pisssssssed. Like, I don’t see how they’re planning to approach that, like....I’m expecting Xavier to try some serious editing on her back-up to maneuver WHICH point in time Maddy will come back remembering up to, because uh....that’s gonna matter a lot. But since this is all happening against his objections in the first place, and this seems more like Emma’s personal crusade to try and make up for her part in all this, I wouldn’t be surprised if Maddy comes back with full memories up to her most recent back-up.....which means she’s going to still be full on hating all of them, being like FUCK Krakoa AND your amnesty for all mutants I just want you all to burn, and oh yeah, on TOP of all that its inevitable she’s going to find out how much some of them FOUGHT to keep her from being resurrected, like....? Oh there is like only a 1 or 2% chance this ends any way other than TERRIBLY for everyone concerned.

(And yet I still hope they pull it off, because I don’t want her back just for one or two more issues, I want her back longterm. Ideally, I’d love her to take Jean’s place on the Council and pull it off with the support of like Mystique and Emma and Destiny and others as a giant fuck you to Xavier, but I’d also settle for her ditching Krakoa for Arakko and being like these are more my kinda people and also you can’t do shit to me here).

Oh and PS - lolololololol forever at Hank fucking McCoy trying to give Emma shit for her actions here. Like I mean, at least he’s AWARE he has literally no leg to stand on, whatsoever? I mean, I guess there’s that? But still. LMFAO OMG SHUT UP HANK YOU LITERALLY DON’T GET TO SAY SHIT ABOUT ANYONE ELSE BEING SHADY EVER.

Edit: Oh and also I forgot - I need to know how MUCH the Council found out about Sinister’s experiments, in particular if they found out he was ALREADY experimenting with making chimera mutants, like way ahead of schedule according to Moira’s LAST life in Powers of X, when like, the chimera mutants were a recent development as of a full hundred years in the future from now. Like, that changes a LOT and I would love to know what Xavier, Moira and Magneto think of that accelerated timetable and how it might change things.

[nealiios]

The Supernatural 70s: Part I - Corruption of An Innocent

"We're mutants. There's something wrong with us, something very, very wrong with us. Something seriously wrong with us - we're soldiers writers."

-- with apologies to the screenwriter of "Stripes"

Dear reader, I have the darkest of revelations to make to you, a truth when fully and wholly disclosed shall most assuredly chill you to the bone, a tale that shall make you question all that you hold to be true and good and holy about my personal history. While you may have come in search of that narrative designer best known for his works of interactive high fantasy, you should know that he is also a crafter of a darker art, a scribbler of twisted tales filled with ghosts, and ghouls, and gargoyles. I am, dear innocent, a devotee of horrors! Mwahahahaha!

[cue thunderclap, lightning, pipe organ music]

Given the genre of writing for which most of you know me, I forgive you if you think of me principally as a fantasy writer. I don't object to that classification because I do enjoy mucking about with magic and dark woods and mysterious ancient civilizations. But if you are to truly know who I am as a writer, you must realize that the image I hold of myself is principally as a creator of weird tales.

To understand how and why I came to be drawn to this sub-genre of fantastic fiction, you first must understand that I come from peculiar folks. Maybe I don't have the Ipswich look, or I didn't grow up in a castle, but my pedigree for oddity has been there from the start. My mother was declared dead at birth by her doctor, and often heard voices calling to her in the dead of night that no one else could hear. Her mother would periodically ring us up to discuss events in our lives about which she couldn't possibly have known. My father's people still share ghost stories about a family homestead that burned down mysteriously in the 1960s. Even my older brother has outré memories about events he says cannot possibly be true, and as a kid was kicked off the Tulsa city bookmobile for attempting to check out books about UFOs, bigfoot, and ESP. It's fair to say I was doomed - or destined - for weirdness from the start.

If the above listed circumstances had not been enough, I grew up in an area where neighbors whispered stories about a horrifically deformed Bulldog Man who stalked kids who "parked" on the Old North Road near my house. The state in which I was raised was rife with legends of bigfoots, deer women, and devil men. Even in my childhood household there existed a pantheon of mythological entities invented explicitly to keep me in line. If I was a good boy, The Repairman would leave me little gifts of Hot Wheels cars or candy. If I was being terrible, however, my father would dress in a skeleton costume, rise from the basement and threaten to drag me down into everlasting hellfire (evidently there was a secret portal in our basement.) There were monsters, monsters EVERYWHERE I looked in my childhood world. Given that I was told as a fledgling writer to write what I knew, how could anyone have been surprised that the first stories I wrote were filled with the supernatural?

"The Nightmare" by John Henry Fuseli (1781)

My formative years during the late sixties and early seventies took place at a strange juncture in our American cultural history. At the same time that we were loudly proclaiming the supremacy of scientific thought because we'd landed men on the moon, we were also in the midst of a counter cultural explosion of interest in astrology, witchcraft, ghosts, extra sensory perception, and flying saucers. Occult-related books were flying off the shelves as sales surged by more than 100% between 1966 and 1969. Cultural historians would come to refer to this is as the "occult boom," and its aftershocks would impact popular cultural for decades to come.

My first contact with tales of the supernatural were innocuous, largely sanitized for consumption by children. I vividly remember watching Casper the Friendly Ghost and the Disney version of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I read to shreds numerous copies of both Where the Wild Things Are and Gus the Ghost. Likely the most important exposure for me was to the original Scooby Doo, Where Are You? cartoon which attempted to inoculate us from our fears of ghosts and aliens by convincing us that ultimately the monster was always just a bad man in a mask. (It's fascinating to me that modern incarnations of Scooby Doo seem to have completely lost this point and instead make all the monsters real.)

ABOVE: Although the original cartoon Scooby Doo, Where Are You? ran only for one season from 1969 to 1970, it remained in heavy reruns and syndication for decades. It is notable for having been a program that perfectly embodied the conflict between reason and superstition in popular culture, and was originally intended to provide children with critical thinking skills so they would reject the idea of monsters, ghosts, and the like. Ironically, modern takes on Scooby Doo have almost entirely subverted this idea and usually present the culprits of their mysteries as real monsters.

During that same time, television also introduced me to my first onscreen crush in the form of the beautiful and charming Samantha Stevens, a witch who struggles to not to use her powers while married to a frequently intolerant mortal advertising executive in Bewitched. The Munsters and The Addams Family gave me my first taste for "goth" living even before it would become all the rage in the dance clubs of the 1980s. Late night movies on TV would bring all the important horror classics of the past in my living room as Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, the Invisible Man, the Phantom of the Opera, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Godzilla all became childhood friends. Over time the darkened castles, creaking doors, foggy graveyards, howling wolves, and ever present witches and vampires became so engrained in my psyche that today they remain the "comfort viewing" to which I retreat when I'm sick or in need of other distractions from modern life.

ABOVE: Elizabeth Montgomery starred in Bewitched (1964 - 1972) as Samantha Stephens, a witch who married "mortal" advertising executive Darren Stephens (played for the first five seasons by actor Dick York). Inspired by movies like I Married a Witch (1942) and Bell, Book and Candle (1958), it was a long running series that explored the complex relationship dynamics between those who possess magic and those who don't. Social commentators have referred to it as an allegory both for mixed marriages and also about the challenges faced by minorities, homosexuals, cultural deviants, or generally creative folks in a non heterogeneous community. It was also one of the first American television programs to portray witches not as worshippers of Satan, but simply as a group of people ostracized for their culture and their supernatural skills.

Even before I began elementary school, there was one piece of must-see gothic horror programming that I went out of my way to catch every day. Dark Shadows aired at 3:30 p.m. on our local ABC affiliate in Tulsa, Oklahoma which usually allowed me to catch most of it if I ran home from school (or even more if my mom or brother picked me up.) In theory it was a soap opera, but the show featured a regular parade of supernatural characters and themes. The lead was a 175 year old vampire named Barnabas Collins (played by Johnathan Frid), and the show revolved around his timeless pursuit of his lost love, Josette. It was also a program that regularly dealt with reincarnation, precognition, werewolves, time travel, witchcraft, and other occult themes. Though it regularly provoked criticism from religious groups about its content, it ran from June of 1966 until it's final cancellation in April of 1971. (I would discover it in the early 1970s as it ran in syndication.) Dark Shadows would spin off two feature-length movies based on the original, a series of tie-in novels, an excellent reboot series in 1991 (starring Ben Cross as Barnabas), and a positively embarrassingly awful movie directed by Tim Burton in 1991.

ABOVE: Johnathan Frid starred as Barnabas Collins, one of the leading characters of the original Dark Shadows television series. The influence of the series cannot be understated. In many ways Dark Shadows paved the way for the inclusion of supernatural elements in other soap operas of the 1970s and the 1980s, and was largely responsible for the explosion of romance novels featuring supernatural themes over the same time period.

While Dark Shadows was a favorite early television program for me, another show would prove not only to be a borderline obsession, but also a major influence on my career as a storyteller. Night Gallery (1969-1973) was a weekly anthology television show from Rod Serling, better known as the creator and host of the original Twilight Zone. Like Twilight Zone before it, Night Gallery was a deep and complex commentary on the human condition, but unlike its predecessor the outcomes for the characters almost always skewed towards the horrific and the truly outré. In "The Painted Mirror," an antiques dealer uses a magic painting to trap an enemy in the prehistoric past. Jack Cassidy plots to use astral projection to kill his romantic rival in "The Last Laurel" but accidentally ends up killing himself. In "Eyes" a young Stephen Spielberg directs Joan Crawford in a story about an entitled rich woman who plots to take the sight of a poor man. Week after week it delivered some of the best-written horror television of the early 1970s.

In retrospect I find it surprising that I was allowed to watch Night Gallery at all. I was very young while it was airing, and some of the content was dark and often quite shocking for its time. Nevertheless, I was so attached to the show that I'd throw a literal temper tantrum if I missed a single, solitary episode. If our family needed to go somewhere on an evening that Night Gallery was scheduled, either my parents would either have to wait until after it had aired before we left, or they'd make arrangements in advance with whomever we were visiting to make sure it was okay that I could watch Night Gallery there. I was, in a word, a fanatic.

ABOVE: Every segment of Night Gallery was introduced by series creator Rod Serling standing before a painting created explicitly for the series. Director Guillermo del Toro credits Serling's series as being the most important and influential show on his own work, even more so than the more famous Twilight Zone.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Hello! If you don't mind me asking, are you planning on watching House of the Dragon? I'm personally unsure about it. I was cautiously optimistic about it since D&D are not involved, but the recent casting news have been ugh disappointing imo. What do you think?

Hey anon! Sorry to say I kind of mind you asking because my inbox is still closed (to everyone except my secret Santas, which is why the ask page is accessible at all), but then I realized it’s possible if you’re on the mobile app only, you haven’t seen said note in my askbox, or my FAQ, or anything of the sort. And with older metas of mine being reblogged recently, it’s possible you may be confused. (I hope you’re on mobile only and not just ignoring my requests.) So I wanted to inform you of that... but also, y’know, I kind of wanted to make a post about the HotD cast anyway? And this ask is as good a prompt as any... so, you’re lucky, but please don’t push your luck. ;)

So, straight up: I currently have no plans to watch House of the Dragon. HBO is not getting any of my goddamn money, I don’t trust like that. And hunting down illegal livestreaming sites is a pain in the ass and I regret ever doing it for GoT, as well as regretting getting drunk every weekend enough to dampen my senses to ever tolerate that show. Yeah it’s different showrunners and writers, I know. It’s still (mostly) the same executives at HBO and even if the pervert producer is gone (or is he?), you know they still just want to sell sex and violence and dragons to an audience that thinks fantasy is for geeks.

Also, considering that Fire & Blood’s story of Dance of the Dragons has very little actual narrative or dialogue, and the historical record is deliberately untrustworthy, that gives them pretty much full rein to do whatever they like with the story and characterization and words without even being slightly obliged to GRRM at all. Furthermore, since the story is wholly political with virtually none of the magical side of ASOIAF (excepting dragons), and honestly does not have much in the way of themes or depth that main ASOIAF or even D&E has, I think it will be very hard for an adaptation to show even those brief sparks of quality that used to make me wistful GoT couldn’t be that good all the time and eventually just made me frustrated and depressed. Note I do like the history and characters of the Dance despite myself, despite its many many many textual issues, but I don’t need to see an adaptation, I have a very visual imagination. I don’t watch a lot of television to begin with, I don’t see why I should start again with this.

However, I’m not going to avoid spoilers or discussion, and I’ll probably follow the show the tumblr way, through gifsets and video clips and people bitching on their blogs etc. If, somehow, by some miracle of good screenwriting and acting, the show manages to transcend its source material, I’m sure I will be informed. And then, if and only if then, I may try watching. (Without, of course, giving HBO any of my goddamn money.) We shall see.

(Though I certainly don’t know why anyone in Targ standom would ever watch a Dance adaptation considering almost every Targaryen and everyone else in the story is terrible except Helaena and the kids, and considering how the story ends, unless y’all are gluttons for punishment? (I do not comprehend hatewatching, sorry.) It’ll probably be fun at first to see the adventures of those “precious silver douchebags” (to borrow a friend’s tag), but eventually rocks fall, everyone dies, including the girlboss you know you’ll hope the story will be changed enough that she succeeds. Just letting you know now, she won’t.)

That said. I’ve been following the casting news and I think the hate/fear/wild screaming is entirely overblown. Yeah, I know, but wait, just listen. On Friday I officially welcomed @naomimakesart to the “favorite character is now played by an actor who looks nothing like most fanart and is mostly known for wildly different roles” club. I still remember that day in September 2009 when my brother texted me “yarp”... and that right there is the thing. Yeah. Rory McCann looks very little like most pre-GoT Sandor fanart... but many fans grew to love him anyway. (There are some who never did, of course. And yeah the character went off the rails by the end, but truly, who didn’t. Having seen his audition, having spoken to him and heard him wistfully talk about book scenes he loved, I’m convinced if Rory had only been given Sandor’s actual scenes and such, he would’ve killed it. Sigh. Deep, deep sigh.)

And Rory isn’t the only one. Neither of the actors for Jaime and Cersei were considered “beautiful” enough at first. I recall very clearly people bitching about Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (about his nose particularly?) because they had wanted Tarzan-era Travis Fimmel to be Jaime. (Seeing people bitch because current-Fimmel isn’t playing Daemon made me laugh out loud for both BEYONCE?! meme -type “why would you ever cast him omg he doesn’t fit my headcanon Daemon at all”, and amazing amounts of fandom flashbacks.) Lena Headey was “too square-jawed”, “too mean-looking” (since at the beginning you should never be able to guess she’s evil), “too dark-complected”, “too mannish”, not at all attractive enough. (Tricia Helfer was the most common “but I wanted” for Cersei, btw.) And of course “they don’t remotely look like twins, ugh!” Note, there’s receipts for all of this, none of it is made up. (Unfortunately.) Those two actors are just the ones whose casting wank I recall most clearly, particularly because oh how the turn tables.

Also. You know, there’s a post with Matt Smith and Mark Simonetti’s TWOIAF Daemon going around with shrieks of horror... and I’m finding it maddening in a “am I crazy? am I  the crazy one???” way, because Matt looks like the painting. Their features are not that dissimilar.

Same deepset eyes. Same cheekbones of doom. Same thin lips. Same protruding chin. Same high forehead. Same invsible eyebrows ffs. Matt has a squarer jaw, and a longer more rectangular face, and a wider nose, but considering that Daemon’s features are not described in the text, and this is the only official ASOIAF artwork that shows Daemon’s face straight on, I can for sure see why he was probably shortlisted to begin with. And that’s not even getting into to his role in The Crown, which I’ve heard is very well played with politics and palace intrigue... and if you doubt Smith can play seductive/roguish and/or evil (depending on how you LARP as a Westeros historian), or look good with long hair... well. I do not want to watch the movie, but this trailer is disturbingly enlightening.

And as for Rhaenyra... y’all know this show is starting at the beginning of the story, right? When she’s a teenager? Not a voluptuous MILF? Yeah, Emma D’Arcy doesn’t look like a Magali Villeneueve painting (though who does, good lord), but you know who she does look remarkably like? Harry Lloyd.

Same jawline. Same nose. Same thin lips. Same sharp cheekbones. Notably, same kind of sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes as Matt Smith. HBO evidently has a concept of a “Targaryen look” that’s a little bit quirkier than supermodel-Greek statue-gods on earth, yeah, fine. But it’s consistent, and they look like family, and that-- that is good casting.

And yeah, in a few months to a year or so, you’ll see them in costume and wigs and makeup, you’ll see them in motion and speaking lines, and go Oh. That’s different. Never mind. And while people will make fanart of the show depictions of the characters and those will probalby get popular, they’ll also keep doing fanart of their pre-show headcanons, and those too will be popular. (God knows when I draw or visualize book!Sandor, Rory does not come to mind, lol.) Either way, there’s no reason to panic. We’ll live.

(Though will we live well? Got to wait on the writing and showrunning for that, alas.)

[welllpthisishappening]

The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least. 

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least. 

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really. 

----

Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt​​ sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam. 

----

“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. 

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. 

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. 

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. 

The crux of their problem, really. 

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. 

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. 

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. 

She’s totally going to say it again. 

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. 

And they’re trying to avoid that. 

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. 

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. 

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. 

Showing with other people, though. That made sense. 

It made—sense adjacent. 

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. 

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. 

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. 

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. 

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. 

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. 

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. 

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. 

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out. 

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. 

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. 

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. 

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. 

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table. 

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. 

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. 

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. 

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. 

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems. 

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. 

Will looks far too entertained. 

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. 

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. 

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. 

That’s fair. 

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. 

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. 

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. 

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. 

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. 

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. 

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. 

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. 

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. 

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge. 

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. 

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. 

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. 

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. 

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. 

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. 

Emma smiles. 

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. 

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. 

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. 

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. 

Probably because she’s wearing it. 

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. 

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. 

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. 

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. 

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. 

Sooner rather than later. 

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. 

Emma rolls her eyes. 

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. 

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. 

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. 

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. 

Or quest. Whatever, honestly. 

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. 

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. 

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. 

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. 

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. 

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. 

Until he had to pretend he didn’t. 

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. 

He flips his wrist. 

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. 

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. 

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. 

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. 

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. 

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. 

That sucks, admittedly. 

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. 

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. 

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. 

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. 

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. 

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?” 

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. 

He opts for honesty. 

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. 

Sort of. 

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. 

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. 

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. 

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. 

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. 

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. 

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. 

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. 

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. 

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. 

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. 

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. 

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas.