#dagger posse universe

[sailor-aviator]

SOOOOOO

Baby guuuuurl…

What happened in the barn

👀👀👀

My love, I'm so glad you asked 🥰🥰

Content Warning: Smut, Oral (m receiving), dirty talk, teasing, begging, roughness, degradation, praise kink, some fluff at the end with a horny Jake Seresin. Think that's it, but let me know.

Word Count: 2k

Minors Do Not Interact - 18+ ONLY below the cut

You had ventured outside in the middle of the day to feed the scraps from breakfast to the goats Benji had acquired recently, throwing the contents of the bucket into the pen when you heard the rattling and banging coming from the barn. Wiping the sweat from your brow, you ventured towards the structure, pulling the door open with a soft creak as you stepped inside.

The banging and rustling was louder now, and you ventured towards the back where the noise was the loudest, stopping dead in your tracks at the sight in front of you.

Jake was holding up a board to the enclosure gate, a few nails gritted between his teeth as he hammered away, sweat soaking his golden skin and causing his shirt to cling to him. His chest peeked out from where he had the top few buttons undone, giving you a delightful view of the chest hair that adorned him. His brow was creased in concentration, but as you shifted on your feet, he glanced up at you, surprised dancing in his green irises.

"Hey, honey girl," he greeted with a grin, taking the nails from his mouth and shoving them in his pocket as he stood from where he was kneeling. "What brings you by here?"

The muscles of his arms bulged from where he had rolled his sleeves up, and before you could stop yourself, you crossed the distance between the two of you, backing him up against the far wall as you pressed your lips against his. Jake made a startled noise before dropping the hammer and bring his hands up, one to cradle your jaw and the other settling on your waist.

You kissed him hungrily, licking into his mouth with a fervor that was so unlike you to initiate, not that Jake was complaining. You released his lips, trailing kisses along his jaw and licking at the shell of his ear, humming at the salty taste of sweat before nipping at his ear lobe.

Jake let out a shuddering breath, lost in the sensations of your lips on him, hand that was cradling your jaw coming down to rest on your hip. You left a trail of kisses down the column of his throat, sucking marks into the skin that you were sure to be embarrassed by later, but right now you couldn't find it in you to care.

"Scout," he groaned, eye closing and head falling back as you found a particularly sensitive spot, focusing your attention on the noises you were eliciting from him as you continued down to his collar bone, hand's sliding up to sneak under his shirt and attempting to push it off of him. He reached up to grab your hands, green eyes peering down at you with a mixture of desire and amusement.

"Pretty girl, what has gotten in to you?" He chuckled, taking in your hungry gaze as you tried to pull your hands free of his grasp. Whining when he held steady, you leaned forward and bit into his shoulder before trailing your lips up to whisper into his ear.

"Need you," you keened, nuzzling into his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath, pausing for a moment before letting go of your wrists.

"You have me," he said, watching as you practically ripped his shirt away from his shoulders, moving to unbutton the remainder of his buttons before you popped those off. He knew you'd complain about having to mend his shirt later if he didn't.

Your nails raked down his torso, and Jake let out a pleasured hiss at the feeling, allowing his head to fall back once more as his gaze followed your movements. Your hands came to stop at the button of his trousers, quickly undoing them. You gazed up at him through your lashes, a smirk slowly making its way onto your lips as you dropped down to your knees before him, and Jake swore he had died and gone to heaven. He was nearing painfully hard now, seeing you on your knees, nuzzling at the growing tent in his pants. A hand came down to rest on the back of your head as you stared up reverently at him.

"Can I taste you?" You whispered, and Jake nearly came right then and there. Swallowing thickly, he nodded, not trusting his voice. He helped you shove his pants off over his hips, his cock springing free, and your eyes twinkled in delight at the sight.

You laid a hand on his thigh, using your other to grip him, and Jake let out a staggering breath at the feel of your hand on him. You stroked experimentally, earning a pleasured moan. You leaned forward, darting your tongue out experimentally to lick at the head of his cock, humming at the salty taste.

"Shit," Jake grit out, the hand on the back of your head threading through your hair now while the other gripped the rail behind him. Encourage, you took the tip into your mouth, suckling lightly, running your tongue through the slit, and Jake swore he saw stars. You had just begun, and already he felt he was close, feeling like a teenager all over again at the feel of your warm mouth surrounding him.

You pulled off of him, a wicked gleam in your eye as you ran the tip of your tongue along the vein that ran along the length of the underside of him and back up.

"Scout, please," Jake whined, pulling lightly on your hair, chest heaving as he gave you an imploring look. You slipped the tip back into your mouth, resuming your teasing as you continued to only suckle the tip. Jake let out a desperate whimper, and it wasn't until you saw the tears shine in his eyes, breaths coming out in desperate pants as he tried to push his hips gently forward that you gave in, taking as much of him into your mouth as you could.

You gagged on the length of him as he screwed his eyes shut with a loud moan of your name, his member twitching in the back of your throat. You started a steady rhythm, bobbing your head back and forth to try and take more of him, but what you couldn't fit was stroked by your hand, your other still resting on his thigh for support.

Jake was lost in the sensation of your mouth, tight and warm around him, and he let out a particularly loud cry as you hollowed your cheeks around him, hand leaving his thigh to cup his balls. He pried his eyes open, staring down at you and finding you already looking at him, a wicked gleam in your eyes as you gagged around him.

"Look at you," he cooed, finally finding his voice. "You're choking on me, and still you can't get enough."

You hummed around him, sending pleasure shooting up his spine as he gasped, using the hand in your hair to guide you up and down his length.

"Love the feel of your lips on my cock," he continued. "Love knowing that this prim and proper lady needs my dick so bad that she's willing to get on her knees for it. To debauch herself for me. What would your high society friends think if they could see how much of a whore you become for me?"

You groaned around him, trying to concentrate on breathing through your nose as you took even more of him, the tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat as drool ran down your chin. You were soaked, you knew it. The combination of his words and the feeling of being used making your folds drip with slick.

"They won't ever know, though," Jake gasped, pleasure clear on his face his hands gripped the rail so hard that his knuckles turned white. "You like this? This is for my eyes only. Only I get to see how much of a slut you are. My own personal whore, isn't that right? Can have you anywhere I want you, jus' have to say the word."

His hips were meeting your face with shallow thrusts, still careful not to hurt you as he chased his pleasure. You could feel yourself dripping onto the ground, your undergarments surely ruined from how wet you were. As if reading your mind, Jake's lips curled up into a smirk as he continued, words slurring as he grew closer to reaching his orgasm.

"Bet your dripping right now. Only whores love to be used like this, and pretty girl, I love using you. Always so good for me. My good girl, taking all of me and letting me use her mouth like this. Fuck. Can't-can't get enough of how good you feel. Gonna come down your throat til you're full o' me. You like that? You want it? Shit, darlin'. I'm comin' - fuck. It's so much."

You felt the first spirts of his seed shoot down your throat as he held you to him, gasps and moans leaving him as his orgasm washed over him. You swallowed all of it, humming. His grip in your hair loosened as he came down from his high, your mouth working over him gently to make sure not a drop was missed.

"Feels so good," he whined, head lolling to the side as he twitched in your mouth, the aftershocks causing his thighs to twitch. You got lost in the feel of him, still running your tongue along him reverently before a hand came to rest at your jaw, slowly pulling you off with a hiss from the sensitivity. You released Jake with a quiet pop, looking up at him demurely as his chest heaved from exertion. He stared at you for a moment, thumb stroking along your jaw before helping you to stand, pulling you against him in a heated kiss. He moaned at the taste of him on your tongue, licking hungrily into your mouth before finally pulling away.

"What on earth was that for?" He asked, green eyes searching you with wonder laced through them. You smiled shyly, giving him a shrug.

"No reason," you offered. Jake laughed in disbelief, head falling before looking back at you.

"My turn," he purred, nuzzling his nose up against yours as his hands moved to draw up your skirts. You laughed, shaking your head and pulling away from him. Jake pouted, brows creasing in confusion as he tried to reach back out for you, but you swatted his hand away.

"We both have work to do still," you smiled, giggling when he pressed himself against you once more.

"You're not gonna let me taste you?" He asked, cocking his head to the side. "Doesn't seem fair."

"Jake," you scoffed, prying his hands from your waist as you once again attempted to back out of the stall, "It's getting late and the sun will set soon. There's still so much left to do."

"I don' care," he muttered, pulling you back into his arms and pressing his lips up and down the column of your throat. "Wanna taste you."

"Later," you gasped as he found the spot the made your toes curl. He hummed, seeming to mull it over.

"Fine," he conceded, pressing one more kiss to your collarbone before letting you go with a warning look. "But I'm holding you to that, honey girl."

You bit your bottom lip to try and hide your smile, swinging your arms before clasping your hands behind your back as you backed up towards the barn doors. Jake leaned against the stall door, watching you with a grin before giving you a scowl.

"You better get before I change my mind," he warned, pointing a finger your way. You giggled, turning around to get back to work.

[rosedurin]

Hey! I saw your post about needing more Bob fics. I was wondering if you could give any full multi chapter fic recommendations please? I’m desperate for one but I can’t seem to find any

Ok so I want other people to be able to help this person out because I cannot think of any (completed) works. There are several mini-series (like maybe 2-3ish chapters) but for full fics I need help with recommendations because my mind is blanking😂

I would check out “Outrun the Devil” @sailor-aviator its in the Dagger Posse Universe

I would also check out “Sweeter Than Sugar” @jupitercomet and that’s set in the Under the Hard Deck Universe

^ those are the two that popped in my mind first but if anyone has any other recommendations please comment!

[sailoraviator-library]

WELCOME TO THE LIBRARY

MASTERLIST INDEX

Main Masterlist

Dagger Posse Universe Masterlist

Jake "Hangman" Seresin Series

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw Series

Robert "Bob" Floyd Series

CURRENTLY WRITING FOR:

Top Gun: Maverick (2022)

FIC NAVIGATION

*Indicates Smut

JAKE "HANGMAN" SERESIN ONE-SHOTS:

Today and Every Day

BRADLEY "ROOSTER" BRADSHAW ONE-SHOTS:

Will You Be My Boo?

Amhrán na Farraige

ROBERT "BOB" FLOYD ONE-SHOTS:

The Apple of My Eye

DRABBLE NAVIGATION

*Indicates Smut

JAKE "HANGMAN" SERESIN DRABBLES:

Jake wants your name || Jake is overstimulated* || Jake comes home to find you pregnant || Bradley's son asks for permission to marry your daughter || Your daughter elopes with a Bradshaw || Doctor!Jake catches you in the ER || Your water breaks || Jake right after you give birth || Jake takes you in his plane || Jake on your wedding day/night* || “Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me."* || Jake argues with his toddler

BRADLEY "ROOSTER" BRADSHAW DRABBLES:

“God, you feel so fucking good…”*

ROBERT "BOB" FLOYD DRABBLES:

Bob accidentally gets drunk || You give Bob a blowjob*

MOODBOARD COLLECTIONS

Mythical Creatures The Three Musketeers Revolutionary War

[shukuchiisms]

As previously promised, here goes that poll context for yall nerdos! (Yeah it was meant to be ironic).

So, from Im bang & Yi Ryuk, passing by David kang all the way to Mayer, Frederick J,every decent mythological expert agrees in one very know fact, that the kumiho is an immortal entity that can't be permanently destroyed by absolutly nothing aside from 3 very especific things:

1- Being sealed into something [Most of times into jars or paintings];

2- Being bitten in the throat by the Samjokgu [shape-shifter demon that has it's true form resembling a giant black wolf/dog with three legs];

3- Bujeok [shamanistic paper talismans magic];

Those are the only ways to defeat a kumiho for sure, nothing else actually works [you can slow them down but not get rid of them].

Now that we already know about it, is time to consider the three items i showed in that poll:

Let’s start with the mugunghwa charm pouch. This one comes from a tale derived from china mythology, dating from the manchu invasion [ Qing invasion of Joseon (1636 – 1637) to be specific]. It was belived that carring an pouch with the scent of the mugunghwa [flower that has the ‘ eternal blossom that never FADES’ symbolism] would ward a person from being banished or selead away. Now you can guess what means Luna having it with her.

Secondly we have the Samjokgu [Or three legged dog]. The Samjokgu posses many misthical powers, but in the end it can’t kill something if it can’t bite it’s throat. And how we humans are protecting our allied canines from wolve bites since like forever now? You guessed it! A wolf collar! A good leatter band and some steel spikes is all it takes for making sure a neck is safe from any amount of fangs trying to chomp at it. Even if the chomp is coming from a wolf thing that can kill any living being with a bite to the throat...

Congratulations, if you did read it until this point, you now know why she would need an spiked choker! And now if you keep reading you’re about to understand the reason of the jade dagger...

Know as mugu dagger, the jade dagger adorned with ten red knots is used in rituals of evil purification and has the power to ward of spells and incantations from it’s bearer. with said dagger a kumiho not only could resist the bujeok’s effect [otherwise lethal] but also destroy the paper talismans...

Of course i will implement all of it in the universe making it fit the new ‘moons of ionia’ lore and all that in the future, but with just this explanation you all could guess what that poll was trully about, right? 

[blackfox-thorn]

consideration on witchcraft supplies and ethics (expecially for newbies and broke witches).

caveat emptor: brace yourself, this is a LONG post, but please if you could find your time to read it, me and planet Earth will appreciate. x

we have all been there; we start our journey into witchcraft and all of a sudden we find ourselves with that compelling need to buy 15 billion candles, herbs, crystals and the more you name them, the more there are.

I usually find so many posts that state that you must go with what you have, and you shouldn't mortgage your home or sell a kidney to buy witchcraft supplies.

and by all means, I stand by this.

however, I always had my concerns when I see such advice.

it is that advisable to buy crystals on wish.com and use plastics container to pursuing cheapness?

I know this may upset some, but here's my view:

I usually can talk with 10 different witchcraft practitioners and have 15 different way to practice witchcraft as a result (the beauty of confronting ❤).

however, 98% of the time, there is one common ground where we all stand: a deep respect for the environment, nature, mother earth or whatever we are going to call it.

is hard to believe that such a variegated world can (basically always) come down to this simple, yet so important topic, in finding a common ground.

now more than ever, as witchcraft practitioner, our role in preserving the environment should be key to us, because you know, let's state the obvious: if the environment collapse so does we.

and it seems that the human race is doing its best to make it collapse.

but what does this has to do with witchcraft supplies?

well, let's go state the obvious again, shall we? every single object and material we use in our craft come from somewhere (you may call me 'captain obvious') and "somewhere" means from the planet earth in a more or less direct way.

when this is quite a straightforward observation when it comes to herbs for example, it may not come straight to our mind when we go on more "complex" items, such as candles, paper, strings, containers, crystals, etc. etc.

the truth is that every single object we use in our life (thus in our witchcraft practice) come from a more or less processed version of a material that is being harvested from the Earth.

it is exciting and frustrating at the same time to confront ourselves with the endless amount of tools we can take advantage of in our practices and, especially for early doors practitioner, it can be overwhelming to think to how much they "need" to buy.

the truth is another story.

starting from a very basic principle, which is "you are the tool" (aka the magick is firstly within you), the first thing we need to remember and eventually assimilate as deeply believe, is that we don't need any tools.

you can see tools like a bicycle; if you have to go from A to B, and you have a bicycle, you'll go there faster.

however, you can still go there by feet.

but, if you start to train, and you build up your muscles and resistance, you will eventually be able to run from A to B and by all means, you'll be exactly on the same speed of those who use a bicycle, and guess what? if you were to use a bicycle after you train that hard, you will be able to smash any other competitor.

but let's not forget one extremely important thing: either way, it is you, and you only, that finished the run.

it's not the bicycle alone that brought you to B, but your muscles that pedalled it.

the bicycle alone, without any input on your side, will stay there.

so here, tools simplify our practice, but ultimately, if we are not able to direct and use the energies we want to work with, not even the fanciest, most ancient, most expensive tool ever created will do the job for you.

but we still haven't talked about the "ethics" connected with our choices and the inevitable impact on the environment.

before I delve into it, let me tell you that I KNOW.

I know because I've been there. I've been in the craft for the last 11 years of my life and - no surprise - I've been so broke.

yes, now I can make better choices and afford higher quality, but that's only because I've worked fo f*cking hard for them, and usually adulthood comes with its perks (aka: a better job).

I've been an extremely underpaid waitress and a not·much·better·paid barista.

I had to live for months with a weekly food shop budget of £20/£25 for two people, and have the constant worry that I might not have been able to pay rent for that month.

so I hear you, I hear you when you're broke and you just don't have the money for it, I hear and I know how it feels. x

however, even when I was terribly broke, I never compromised on my witchcraft.

but yes, I did compromise in my everyday life on everything else, because you know: rent & bills > everything else.

when it comes down to witchcraft supplies, I always ask myself a few questions:

· do I really need that?

· does it have to be new?

· can I buy it ethically?

· what material is it made of? it is sustainable?

· can I make it / harvest it / grow it / find it / etc. myself?

· do I know where it comes from?

do I really need that?:

this should be literally the first question popping in your mind.

I will not go over the boringly long point I just made about tools, so I'll bring you a new one.

while there is no such BS as universal crystals/herbs that can substitute any others (although yes, certain herbs/crystal posses a broader spectrum of properties and you can indenfy them as 'master crystal/herb'), is true that many different herbs and crystals domain over similar aspects.

also, when it comes to witchcraft, the neighbour's grass is NOT greener (translation: look for local herbs rather than 'across·the·boarders' one).

let us take as example this bunch of herbs: thyme, basil, artemisia and elder.

those are all herbs that preside over the art of purification, yet each one has a very specific way of express itself upon it.

for example, thyme offers a specific aid against physical pain and thus is more adapt to purifications concerning the body.

basil is deeply connected with prosperity and love, and it's usually kept within the household to ensure its protection.

artemisia is the excellence when it comes to purification of objects and ambients and its infusion is usually the one of choice when it comes to purifying magickal objects.

elder is a particularly sacred plant, and thus is mainly used in the crafting of talismans for personal protection and purification (yes, usually the two goes hand in hands).

what I'm trying to convey in this example is that a deep knowledge of the ingredients/tools/supplies you're looking for is not only beneficial in choosing the most appropriate match (thus enhancing your magickal performance), but it can also help you understand better what do you exactly need (IF you need it) and whether you may be better of looking for something else.

does it have to be new?:

before giving out a kidney for something shiny new, have you considered whether you can find it second·hand?

remember my blathering 15h ago in this post? each and every single thing that passes upon our hands come in a way or another from resources that have been extracted from mother Earth. yes, even a dagger or a jar was once a piece of our planet.

essentially, you need to question yourself where what you are going to do is more a 'waste of money' or an 'investment well placed' (think of it as a house. if you live and work in London, is it really the best choice for you to buy a house in Edinburgh that may be the coolest house you ever stumble across but is clearly going to be unhelpful for your situation?)

and you may get a piece that might have not been taken with all due environment respect.

that super cheap object you found on wish.com has the same environmental impact of a similar one sold by an ethical company that may be 3 times as much? no. just simply no.

only that, you might not always be in a position to buy from that super ethical company for that price.

but, still, do you really have no other choice but to buy it new?

is it really more important for you to have a shiny new thing than pursue the key role you have in defending the environment? (for me, there is no other answer than "no").

likely, we live in a society where is not too difficult to find alternatives for pretty much everything we need.

charity shops and thrift shops are your new best friends.

everything is sold cheap in there, and let me tell you, you may find goods in there that are as much breathtaking as the most expensive fanciness.

plus, you have a wonderful bonus when you buy second·hand: you can practise your skills in the purification art (after all, second hands also means you have no idea to which energies that object is been exposed to).

but you don't even need to leave your home to buy second·hands, in fact from eBay to Etsy, you have a plethora of tools to go second·hands and save the environment.

can I buy it ethically?:

let's get this straight: ethical is NOT equal to expensive.

in fact (and I can tell you from experience as I'm slowly switching to zero·waste and plastic·free and generally sustainable lifestyle), in the long run, it becomes cheaper and cheaper.

yes, I get it, beeswax candles usually cost from 3 to 5 times more to a regular candle, but between plastic and beeswax, there is an ocean of alternatives.

first, let's address a point: do you really need 7 candles for that spell?

maybe, if you deeply study your spell, and selectively chose your ingredients, your £5 budget for those cheap 7 candles, can be redirected to a single, ethically produces beeswax candle - as a result, you will have not only saved a tiny bit the environment but you will also have a much better quality ingredient for your spell.

second, ethical doesn't mean fancy.

buy your eggs from the local farm, usually is cheap AND ethical.

take a long walk in your countryside and harvest a reasonable and respectful amount of herbs and other natural material is cheap AND ethical.

make your own tools from natural materials and or local supplies can be cheap (depending what you making and with what - it's obvious that if you planning on making a 3 meters silk cloak in just not gonna be cheap) AND ethical.

you're getting the idea.

what material is it made of? it is sustainable?:

you want to make a jar spell, you don't have any jars, you end up using a plastic container.

do you see what's missing there?

you don't need a new shiny, fancy, expensive glass jar.

as a matter of fact, you may not always need a glass jar at all.

oftentimes, I find myself planning a jar spell which will end up buried in the ground.

you don't need to be a scientist to know glass ain't gonna recycle for the next thousands year. so do you really wanna put that thing in the ground?

wouldn't it be better, for example, reuse the core of a toilet roll, which is perfectly biodegradable?

of course, there are certain spells in which you'll have to retrieve your jar at some point, well, in that case, go ahead and use a glass one, but the bottom line is "think before you do".

as I mention earlier, I am in my slowly·but·surely journey on zero·waste and plastic·free. this means I'm a jar horny.

every time I see a jar, an inevitable orgasm pervade my body. a shameful truth.

and I also need lots of jars to fill all my goods (I use a wide variety of herbs, seeds, flours, and other grains, just to mention a few needs for jars).

do you know how much I've paid for all my jars (MY jars.. MY precious..)? £0.00

ok, this is not entirely true. but let me explain.

once, I had to buy some tomato passata for a dish I wanted to make.

I used the passata, washed and kept the jar. now, that very same jar is the home for my quinoa.

and OH MY, jars come in such a weird a wide variety!

just have a scroll down the asile, point the fanciest looking jar and see what it holds: mango chutney? that stuff will not set foot in my home nor even after I die. pickles? my goddess they are distasteful at THE least, but hey! my partner has them in his every day work lunch and he's running low, I will need them, I can take them. nocera olives? DID YOU SAY I NEED TO BUY 7000 OF THEM?

liquor and alcohol bottles, usually come in the prettiest shape.

choose a nice personal use bottle of liquor or wine, and you'll get yourself a perfectly fancy jar for you spell, virtually for free.

BONUS: yeah, you know it. you contribute to save the environment.

The bottom line is: THINK. do you know what material are you using for which purpose? if you don't know, is best follow the wise adage "better safe than sorry" and simply skip it!

can I make it / harvest it / grow it / find it / etc. myself?:

do I need to explain?

you want a wand your first thought is..

1· let me check some expensive holy·moly on esty, on which I'll then cry over because I knew before I started looking I can't afford it! :D

2· let me see which kinds of trees I have around my home, and what can I do to safely harvest some wood for my wand.

the right answer is.. 2! (what a surprise..)

can you even imagine the added values (without even considering how much more powerful) this object will be if done with your own hands?

but wait, I can already hear it.. "but I don't know how to carve a wand!".

(prepare yourself for some bitter irony) I'll share with you a secret, you live in the XXI century and there's a fantastic tool out there you can use to help you.. it's called the internet!

you can find instruction on how to make a bomb worthy of a terrorist, I'm sure you can find instruction on how to make a wand to!

(you can't afford an internet connection? then how are you reading this post? - end line for the bitter irony).

you can make better choices for your and the environment simply by investing time in what your doing (a very hard and difficult to come·by skill in the "all and now" society we live in..).

do I know where it comes from?:

least but not last.

OH MY, how tempting are those quartz point sold at £0.03 on wish.com

yeah.

have you stopped to think where they come from?

crystals, more than anything else, is the clearest example that EVERYTHING comes from mommy Earth.

and it should come with no surprise that, unfortunately, not all crystals are harvested ethically.

so yes, when you pay for a crystal, you are also paying for the people who worked in the mines from which come from, for the machinery/electricity and so on that were needed to work on the mine and generally all the things that a business must cover.

and it should come with no surprise vol.2 that a company that harvest crystals in an ethical way, respecting the environment and paying a fair wage to their employees will be more pricey than a crystal that comes from a company that does not care about such thing.

you need to realise that crystals ARE luxury items and thus, they won't come for cheap.

so for that spell where you needed 7 different types of crystals, it may be worthed to:

· once again, carefully and in·depth study each ingredient to evaluate what do you actually need and thus restricting the choice to fewer ingredients with better quality.

· make wise investments. search for good companies. you'll find usually companies that adopt good ethics are pretty proud of it! and they will state loud and clear where they source their products and which other ethicalities they follow in offering your such products.

· compare the market. yes, of course, there will be companies that will be cheaper than other. your best shot is to research the market for the thing you need to establish which is the fair price you should look at.

· go to the source. you can do this two way, either by literally go to the source and do a nice trip to the location where you can find that crystal, or go to a wholesale where you'll find way cheaper items without compromising your quality.

don't gift money to those who overprices and check carefully before paying someone who underprices!

· WELL DONE YOU ❤️·

you did it! you almost reached the end of this kilometric post.

I'm really proud of you.

go get yourself a nice apple and a glass of water. ❤

if you feel tired just by reading all this, well.. you're getting it right!

because it is tiring and time·consuming take the responsibility for your purchasing (and in general your actions).

it is hard, it is challenging, my goddess if sometimes is boring, and more, in general, is just a lot of time and effort!

so yeah, actually go through all this for your next glamour spell will make the planning of it last probably 10 times longer.

but hey!

you are walking the path of the wise, you are a practitioner of witchcraft, you are handling a BIG power, and with a big power, come some BIG responsibilities.

you know though, what you're are going to gain?

1· patience:

yep. the more time you'll have to invest in something, the less you'll be tempted to the "all and now" of modern society. after all, who does to wast a month of her/his life to make more ethical choices to then just give up everything?

2· knowledge:

you may be a slow learner, but even there, it will be impossible for you to not retain at least some of the information you so carefully had to investigate! and hey, who knows, you may also have fun!

3· critical evaluation:

when you spend so much time in searching and evaluating, you will eventually build up the tool kit that will allow you to make the same choices, with the same depth in less and less time.

be able to to make constructive criticism upon something, is a skill that not only enhances your craft but is also priceless in real life.

4· result:

probably the most important thing of all, and ultimately my first reason why I never compromise on my witchcraft supplies.

in real life there's nothing more true than "we are what we eat", and I believe that in witchcraft a similar statement hold; "we produce the energies we invest in".

what I do, it need to be a perfectly smooth line from my intention to my end result.

how can I achieve so, when the tools/resources/materials/etc. that I use are not in line with what I do?

how can a man constructed*, polluting, paraffine candle convey the same energies as a naturally produced beeswax candle? what energies and added values has to offer the paraffine candle compared to the beeswax one?

*(I don't mean that making something by hand is worng, if that would be the case, I'm the first sinner. what I mean is something that wasn't harvest and create from nature (like a cotton or linen dress), but something artificially produced in a laboratory, mix and matching chemicals.

and NO. buy all means I'm not a nonsense, I do "revire" science and scientifical progress, but yet I'd rather living in a more natural and less artificial world).

how much better will respond in my hands the wand I made myself, compared to the fancy one I had me shipped form a stranger, maybe from the other side of the world?

this humongous post, it is, as the title says, just a consideration at the end of the day. a consideration I hope will spark some reflection in your next action. let me know what you think ❤.

so, my dear newbies and broke witches out there, I hear you, I really do.

but I also urge you..

THINK.

this is it, you've reached it, the end.

I'm so proud of you, go to watch some cute kittens pictures. ❤

~ mem the fox

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”  

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[what-even-is-thiss]

I kinda want to stick the boys in an urban fantasy setting like the one I’ve been developing for a few years.

Virgil wasn’t born with magic but made friends with a witch and is now a warlock that specializes in rune magic. He knows how to perform blood magic too but only uses it for larger spells. In this universe real, effective witchcraft done through rituals can only be performed by people with a shattered soul. It’s a sort of consolation prize the universe gives them for having to live with the emotional pain that comes with that. Virgil’s soul was broken in increments throughout his childhood through extreme bullying that he never reported to his parents. Like with many other witches and warlocks learning ritual magic and finding a community saved his life. He can see the state of other people’s souls and read what kind of inherent magic they have at a glance.

He’s a student getting a doctorate in the hopes of becoming a research professor at a prominent university. He’s that graduate student that’s also teaching an into to chemistry class to mostly freshmen and walks in to every class one minute late and with a bunch of disorganized papers in hand. A lot of people are surprised he’s trying to become a professor, especially when they see the weird runes tattooed on his arm. “what do they mean?” they always ask. “Some old poem thing.” he always replies, leaving it at that.

His introduction to the underground community was slow because registering witches and warlocks is complicated. Technically they’re not supposed to exist but the government learned long ago they’re not going anywhere so they just have to accept them in if they manage to master their craft.

Logan is an A-class weapons master. A-class is the highest level of natural power one can posses and a weapons master is someone that can summon weapons and learn to master them far faster than any other human would be able to. They also have the ability to enchant or curse weapons. Logan would randomly accidentally curse knives by accident when he was a little kid and the government was monitoring him from a young age because something was detected when he was a baby. When his “little problem” as his mother called it showed up they had people knocking on their door basically the next day.

He’s been taught how to fight and be a killing machine since he was a little kid for two reasons. 1. All magical persons are guaranteed through international law an opportunity to receive mentoring and instruction in their abilities and how to control them and Logan’s abilities are basically only useful if you’re fighting or cursing your uncle’s hunting rifle. 2. Magical persons are actually usually in danger of being attacked or turned into the authorities because most people in the world don’t know magic exists or understand it and A-class persons are especially vulnerable because they don’t always have control over their abilities so able bodied A-class magic users are strongly encouraged to learn how to fight and defend themselves. Logan’s parents took this advice and basically let his mentor shape him into a fighting machine.

He doesn’t like it but he was coerced into joining the marines as a teenager and he didn’t see until he was in the thick of things how much he actually hates the cards that he was dealt in life. It was at about his fifth confirmed kill on a special mission with two other weapons masters that he realized he didn’t want to be there. He tends to not answer questions about all the scars he has. If he does he just claims to be accident prone.

His day job now is working as an editor for a prominent literary magazine. Unfortunately for him he’s still really infamous and his uncle’s hunting rifle still teleports to another room whenever a person with A- blood touches it. His ex-boyfriend broke up with him because he one time conjured a dagger in his sleep and injured both of them in the process. Because of how infamous he is in certain parts of the magical community there’s always someone that wants to blackmail him into helping them somehow. Logan usually ends up snuffing the problem out relatively quickly though. He’s made it very clear that he wants to continue spending his days sorting through poetry submissions and he’s willing to get a little more blood on his hands to make sure that it stays that way. His current interaction with the underground doesn’t go much further than the occasional veterans support group meeting and maybe a visit to the magical clinic to have his energy levels checked.

Patton is a C-level spell caster. Different from a witch or warlock, often called a wizard or sorcerer instead. C-class is the lowest level of magic where inherent abilities are able to be used reliably (rather than just in moments of extreme panic like with most humans) and spell casters are persons with undifferentiated magic that can be directed with helpful objects. Wands, jewelry, magical knives, whatever. Hands only magic is also taught but is less exact unless you put a lot of effort into your training. Patton did not put a lot of effort into his training.

Basically think of spell casters as jack of all trades master of none type of magic. They can do anything, just not super powerfully. They can summon fire, sure, but someone with fire specific magic would be able to easily burn down an entire building while they can maybe light a candle. The most powerful of them might be able to do a flamethrower for a few seconds.

Patton uses his magic for fun, mostly. He works at the magical community center and teaches an intro to history of magic class and a basic magical law course for adults that discover their powers late and parents of magical children. If anyone without an “in pass” (permission to access the underground and granted immunity from memory wipes) asks what his day job is, he teaches adult school. He speaks Spanish and ASL as well as English and just generally shows a lot of love and patience to people being thrown into this world. He’s a supporter of the movement to integrate magic into everyday life and expose it to the world but knows that’s probably not going to happen in his lifetime.

Sometimes his classes will get bored and he’ll ask if they want to see something he’s been practicing and then he’ll try a new spell he’s been practicing with his expensive looking watch that he uses as his casting device and sometimes he causes a power outage. Only sometimes though, as he will quickly remind his boss.

Roman is a B-class charmer. That is, a person with moderately powerful charm magic. He can influence people easily and make them ignore some of the bad things about him and focus on the parts that they like instead. As a rule charmers aren’t usually introduced to the underground or made aware of their status as a magical person unless a friend or family member fills out the paperwork to let them in on their secret or someone int heir immediate family turns out to be magical. The reason is that charming is by far the most common magical ability (they almost outnumber the entire magical population on their own) and can only learn to control their powers to a certain degree. And of course of a B or A-class charmer learns how to control their abilities more the potential of them becoming more dangerous skyrockets. Charmers that powerful are quite rare, but they can’t make an exception for them.

Roman found out that he has this charming ability because as it turns out, his adopted daughter has the ability to control plants. When the scary people with clipboards and neckties and weird looking guns on their hips came to his door to explain to him and his husband that magic is real they also brought up Roman’s own magic. When they explained how it worked suddenly Roman got a horrible feeling in his stomach. Suddenly his whole life made a lot more sense, and suddenly he felt sort of bad for making a career as an influencer (he makes Instagram videos and YouTube commentary videos and confession type stuff, sort of akin to Dan Howell’s old stuff). And understandably this has but a lot of questions between him and his husband and if his husband was influenced by this ability Roman didn’t know he had. He is really conflicted. On one hand, he has something to talk to his daughter about and he’s learning to control himself better and find other people that relate to him. On the other hand, he feels a bit bad whenever one of his videos goes viral now, his husband doesn’t like appearing in videos anymore, and there’s a weird rift int heir relationship they have to get over now.

I’m sure you’re wondering now how they all meet. Well, Virgil and Patton are old college roommates and Virgil is staying with him while he goes to grad school because graduate students make not a lot of money and as great as witchcraft is, it unfortunately can’t make money out of thin air.

Roman is taking Patton’s class with his husband. The husband stops going in the middle of the class and Patton senses something’s up. He invites Roman to have a friendly coffee and Roman ends up spilling everything that’s been going on and probably his coffee too.

Logan shows up at the university from time to time to go to poetry readings or talk with people in the literary community or see a lecture and Virgil catches a glimpse of him on one of his visits and thinks “Oh. An A-class with a cracked soul. That’s some valuable blood for potions and such.” and he proceeds to worm his way into Logan’s life to try and convince him to let him bottle some of his blood. Unfortunately for Virgil he ends up liking Logan so much that this request becomes more and more awkward sounding as time goes on and eventually he gives up on the idea. Logan deduces what he wanted when Virgil reveals that he’s a warlock and then shrugs and goes “I have plenty of scars already. What’s one more?” and then there’s a weird visit to Patton’s house where Roman and his husband are having an informal bit of couple’s therapy and Virgil is thinking about taking Logan int he back room to do some bloodletting which is being delayed because guests are here and Roman and Virgil hate each other immediately of course.

I could take all of this two ways. Magical friends living a weird everyday magical life and doing weird everyday shenanigans, or some weird dangerous event happens like someone killing off witches or Roman’s daughter getting kidnapped, forcing Logan out of retirement and Virgil into using some of those weird bottles of blood he’s been holding onto. Big or small. Who knows? Not me. This is just an outline for the au who knows if I’ll actually do anything with it

[vieroeclipse]

Ludus Regnorum

Pairing: Ardynoct

Genre: Angst/tragedy

Tags: Alternate Universe

A/N: horrible grammar and strange words (since english isnt my native language and I dont have any beta reader to correct it) Inspired by game of thrones.

=======

"He isn't our king anymore, he is a monster."

Noctis tried to hold back his sobs. He knew how true that words was. His king is no longer here. His caring, loving man who always stand side by side with him is no longer the man he knew. Not anymore.

But his heart denied that truth.

“B-But he is our true king. I… vowed to protect him. Stand side by side with him. To always serve him…” he is my king.

“You’re the chosen one, Noctis. The true king of kings. Chosen by the crystal. Not him. Not anymore. And you know it.” Ignis glaring to him feels so painful.

“The moment Ardyn slaughtered those innocent people with the starscourge, he is no longer chosen by the crystal. Unworthy of the throne.”

“And… he will become the threat to the world.”

Noctis clenched his fist. His beloved king is already succumbed too far to the darkness. The moment he killed his own brother king Somnus and slaughtered so many innocent people for that goal alone, he is no longer the true king of kings. Those dark power making him blind. No longer the wise king he is.

“I tried to warn him before. To not slay those innocent people. But… he won’t listen...” Noctis gritted his teeth. Feeling pain in his heart when those amber eyes didn't look at him the same loving way anymore. There is insanity in those eyes. The madness that changed his king. His beloved lover and soon to be his husband.

Ardyn Lucis Caelum is no longer there.

And how shocked he was when Ardyn really kill all those people. The people who he vowed to save. To save from cruel way his brother Somnus had. Ardyn is too blinded with his revenge. He is no longer the healer of the people. The healer who save countless people from cruel kings and always protecting their lives.

He is a cruel tyrant now. No different from his brother Somnus.

“He will plague the world with eternal darkness. When the crystal throne finally rejected his ascension, he will succumb more to his darkness and all of hopes will lose, Noctis.”

Ignis grabs Noctis shoulder and staring hard with hint of sadness at the prince. “He will conjure the world and slaughtered those who opposed him. No matter how innocent that people is. No matter how desperate that people beg for his mercy. He will slaughter them all.”

“And… We can’t let that happen, Noct.”

Tears is forming from the prince’s blue eyes. He can’t let Ardyn become the monster. He still remember how kind hearted his lover was. His devotion to his people that make Noctis fall in love with him. Those kind smile that always warm his heart. And those amber eyes filled with so much love for Noctis.

He is no longer there.

When his brother Somnus killed so many of his people, Ardyn’s heart filled with rage and seek the power to destroy Somnus. He tried to gain that power from blessing by the Astral. Ifrit the Infernian blessed him with the starscourge. The most powerful dark power which can eliminate everything and turn human into daemon.

Those dark power that Ardyn posses begin to corrupt his mind as well and twisted his kind heart. He only want to get his revenge no matter how wrong his way is.

Noctis can no longer save his lover. Ardyn didn’t listen to him anymore and the prince can only watch in horror of those people who cried, scream in pain, beg for their life to be safe only unmercyful death that bestow upon them. With Ardyn twisted laughter at the sight of Somnus dead body.

After Ardyn’s victory of the war, he will become the true King of Kings who shall ascend to the crystal throne. Noctis must stop Ardyn before his lover get rejected by the crystal and becoming more insane than he is now.

The prince can only stare hard at the beautiful dagger in his side. A gift from Ardyn which always accompanied Noctis in all of his mission. He closes his eyes. Ignis watch in silence as the lucis prince cries with so much painful tears in both eyes.

“If you really love him, Free him. Don’t let him become the slave of darkness, Noctis.”

===========

The king of Lucis walk toward the crystal throne. The throne which he always dreamed that he will sit in there and rule the whole world one day as the chosen of the crystal. Ardyn’s finger caressing the light of its throne. Sighed from his long journey.

“It's finally here… the place I belong to. The crystal awaits me.”

Noctis watched his beloved from afar as he walked slowly behind him. Ardyn then turned toward the prince. Smiling at the sight of his beautiful fiance.

“The time is drawing near, my love. The whole world will be ruled by one king. The king of kings. Chosen by the crystal. To give hopes for the people.”

“Hope?” Noctis whispered, his blue eyes looks with sadness. “You killed all those innocent people, Ardyn…”

“Their sacrifice is needed for the better future, dear Noctis.” those amber eyes gleamed with a small smile. “A great sacrifice comes with greater hopes.”

“They screamed beg for your mercy! You burn them all alive in the darkness, they have right to live. They don’t deserve to be killed like that…” Noctis’s body is shaking. He tried to hold back his raging emotion and his tears.

“I tried to make peace with Somnus.” Ardyn sighed and then standing in front of Noctis. “But it didn’t work. He killed my people too. He got what he deserved.”

“B-But… you’re a healer of the people, Ardyn.” whispered Noctis. “A King with mercy and kindness…”

“We can’t rule with just kindness and mercy, Noctis.” Ardyn’s tone sharped “They are toying with my heart and stab me in the back. They made fun of my kindness. I already have enough with their game.”

“This isn’t you, Ardyn…” Noctis gritted his teeth. His body is shaking painfully, try to be reasonable with his king.

“That dark power of yours. It’s corrupting your mind. Filling your heart with pure hatred and rage. Please, Ardyn. Release that power, unbind from it. Free your soul. You can rule as a king without that cursed power!”

Tears escaping from his blue eyes. Noctis cupped the king face, begged him. Hope that he can light his beloved cold heart with kindness and forgiveness. Before it’s too late.

“Please… don’t be slave to the darkness…”

“I can’t.”

Noctis shut his eyes with those answer. His heart aches for his lover. Tears is flowing down from those sorrowful blue eyes.

“This power is a blessing for me, Noctis. I can’t rule the whole world without this power.” Ardyn then cupped Noctis’s chin and gently wipe the tears from his prince eyes. He hold his lover body close to him.

“Be with me, my love. Rule together with me. Be the light of my darkness. We shall conjure the whole world.”

“This whole world is for you…”

Noctis sobbing uncontrollably when Ardyn slipped a ring into his finger. A reminder of promise that Ardyn will marry him. A reminder of who Noctis belonged to. His heart is aching that those beautiful future will not gonna happen. Not with the current condition of his beloved.

“You are my King, Ardyn Lucis Caelum. Now… and always…”

Their lips meets in desperate kiss. A kiss like their life depended on it. Noctis slowly increase the pressure to deepen the kiss, want to feel his beloved king one last time. Want to feel his love once more. His warmth. His kindness.

And then Ardyn amber eyes widen in shock. Blood pouring from his lips as a dagger stabbed right in his heart. A beautiful dagger that he gave to Noctis as a gift. A tears escaping from his amber eyes. Feeling betrayed by his love ones.

“...Why?”

“I’m sorry… I… love you...” Noctis cries painfully as he embrace his lover body close to him. He buried his face in those red hair and sobbing violently. His heart crushed. He feel numb. He killed his love. He killed his purpose to life.

Those beautiful amber eyes is no more.

As the king of darkness lays dead, the daemons began rampaging the crystal throne. They burn the throne and those fire began to engulf Noctis and Ardyn.

The prince then lay his head on Ardyn chest and shut his eyes, still embraced his lover cold body. Small smile tugged on his lips before those fire burned them both.

‘I’m freeing you from the darkness, my love. Wait for me. I’ll join you… soon.’

[blobtheartist]

Seraph!Feral Snas

So in Feraltale there is a GOD who made the world (watch the comic for full detail) and ANGELs that serves as supervisor over his creation (aka Feraltale universe). There’re 4 SERAPHs which has the role of collecting info from the other angels and report them to their superior. But because of an event (not the same event occur in the Underground but at the same time.

One of them posses F!Sans. And this is their form. :V

They use double blade instead of daggers.

[renegade-is-in-my-blood]

It’s been a tought week for Starks. I’m sure we can all agree on that. We stand 2 Hero Starks. Two true legends from both Marvel and Game of Thrones universe.

Tony Stark and Arya Stark.

Just a couple of hours since I watched Avengers:Endgame and wrote my many thoughts about that in my Avengers: Endgame point by point article, I found myself setting my alarm clock to early morning time (thank you time zones) and watching very anticipated battle of Winterfell.

Again just like 2 times before already as in my Lets reflect on Game of thrones s08e01 and Lets reflect on Game of thrones s08e02, I have many thoughts about this one episode as well.

Clearly many spoilers ahead.

No leaked episode this week. I’m 99% sure it’s because everyone was so occupied with endgame and couldn’t handle any more emotional trauma. We all tried to save some time I guess.

I don’t know if it’s because I was expecting some true horrors but I was left kind disappointed. Sadly I was expected to bawl my eyes out and sure I did some embarrassing screaming but that’s pretty much it. I feel like all of the deaths from episode 3 were very well expected.

It was still great episode…

BUT. In my opinion it was over too quickly. We’ve been introduced to Nigh kings army in first episode of Game of thrones. Eight seasons ago. Eight years ago. Everything has been leading up to this major fight between the living and the death. And it’s been done in 82 minutes? Ehm.

I hoped we could see the fight for at least 2 episodes.

Well to be precise I hoped we could SEE at least something.

I get that it’s the Long nigh and the darkness adds to suspense and to drama of the death. But JFK I had no idea what was going on most of the time. My site is pretty bad as it is and I literally got headache from squirting my eyes so hard to make some poor shapes and find out who’s dead and who’s kicking ass.

We can all agree that the lightning was terrible.

I just love the tons of memes about Game of thrones poor lightning that are swamping the internet. My favourites:

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First of all, who thought it was a good idea to put Gendry on the front line?

He is a badass fighter yes, but still he’s no soldier, he’s the head smith and they have another war coming up literally right after this one is done. How could they make him so unguarded? They deal with ridiculous politics most of the time and yet they make this stupid strategic move?

Or maybe they know he’s Aryas boo now therefore his plot line is protected for future purposes.

Same goes for many other characters that you just knew wouldn’t die this episode.

Their stories are protected.

Like Jamie for example. I’m sure he’s gonna reunite with Cersei so no matter how dangerous situation he found himself in, he just walk right through. I couldn’t say the same about Brienne. She was knighted last episode and I believed that was the highlight her character could get. My heart stopped like 3 times when it almost looked like she was gone. Now we know for sure she’ll play important role in next 3 episodes otherwise the writers would get rid of her by now.

Podric is another one I was sure would die in this battle. Incorrectly. He’s the sweetest, incredible singer I love him and he has magic dick but can somebody please share with me what is his true purpose?

  Lyanna Mormonts fate was sealed the moment she refused to stay in the crypts and Jorahs when he picked up that sword from Sam. Still my baby girls Lyanna is the best and she went out in big big big style.

Theons death was sort of useless this way. What did he expected to happen when he ran to the Night king like that? You can argue he was just trying to buy Arya some time or that he was fulfilling his destiny. But he had no idea Arya was coming and therefore his suicide mission left Bran on the open.

Theon Greyjos character developement was piece of art and he will be missed.

You remember last episode right ? The “crypts are the safest” were mentioned at least three times. Of course the death from the crypts would rise. So obvious. Next.

Danny and John. You can feel the tension and I can’t wait till we explore that further in next episodes. I get their plan was to stand back with dragons and wait for Night king himself to show up but how well could that have worked out? There were parts of the fight where I was screaming dracarys myself. Like when the living army pull back from the field and you had the dead standing on the other side of the fire , just standing there waiting, that was the perfect moment for dragons fire to strike. Such a wasted opportunity. I was so mad.

Both Danny and John played very small role in this episodes. Sure they did some badass shits like Danny fighting in combat besides never training or John having a screaming match with a dragon. I was expecting much more from both of them.

My humble prediction was that John or Danny or preferably both would kill the Night king. You know to fulfill the Azor Ahai prophecy. I never imagined it would be Arya and I feel kind of ashamed for underestimating her this way.

Looking back it makes perfect sense.

Although it’s kinda funny that everything John was able to talk about for so so so long was Night king and how they all need to fight him. And yet he doesn’t get to be the one to kill him but his baby sister does? Poor guy.

Sadly I don’t even remember Johns personality before the dead army so I’m really curious about that one.

Arya Stark single handle saved the world with the dagger that started it all. I was mesmerized by that library scene. How she moved so quietly to be even able to sneak up on the freaking Nigh king and his sidekicks.

And with an apparat concussion?

She really is that bitch and finally everyone sees that.

I adore the fuzz Arya is causing these days. First of all having consensual sex on Game of thrones, what clearly upsets many people. Secondly having the authenticity to fulfill the prophecy of Azor Ahai that people argue was not hers to do so.

Arya know death. She fought her, cheated her and even became her. I can’t stress enough how poetic that is.

We have seen so many characters in this show whose main purpose was to form Arya or to keep her alive like Beric or the Hound. Hound loosing his shit with the sight of fire, his one true fear, made this harsh bastard personality so humanly. I even felt so sorry for him.

I felt so nostalgic with the mention of Syrio. I’m so glad they changed his catch like from the book one “fear cuts deeper than the sword” to “what do we say to god of death? Not today.” Fits better.

What scares me now thought, is what happens with Arya now that the deed is done. I can’t dare to hope for happy ending for her even though I wish for my girl to finally rest.

Game of thrones once again made me realize how focused it is on female characters.

The best characters ever written has to be females of GOT. The sophistication, the bravery and the brains they all posses is unbelievable.

What would the men of GOT do without them this episode?

Men of GOT stood their ground and did great job. But it was the women of GOT that made a change.

Melisandre setting Dothrakis weapons on fire or setting the barrier on fire. Late reminding Arya of her true purpose. Sansa might seem useless this episode but she was ready to fight her way through her dead relatives. Daenerys’s strength and courage is unquestionable not only in this episode. Lyanna taking down a giant while being crushed to death !? Excuse me? And finally Arya the saviour of the world.

I just can’t wait for next episode when everybody finds out it was 18 years old girl who saved their asses.

Episode 4 looks promising.

    Game of Thrones s08e03 reflection It's been a tought week for Starks. I'm sure we can all agree on that. We stand 2 Hero Starks.

[sailor-aviator]

Singing in the Sanctuary: Chapter Three

Singing in the Sanctuary: Chapter Three

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw is a simple man. Well, as simple as one can be while living a life of crime. The notorious outlaw of the western territories has never been interested in settling down and having a family, but will that all change when he meets a shy, new teacher who just moved into town?

Warnings: Mentions of dead parents, Bradley Bradshaw. Think that's it?

Word Count: 2.37k

A/N: Here's Chapter Three at long last! I know this one is a little shorter than what we're used to, but I don't want force the narrative, and this seemed like a good place to stop. We should see longer chapters on this one soon! As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are greatly appreciated! 18+ ONLY!! You can find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator where I will be posting these fics as well.

Series Masterlist || DPU Masterlist || Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw Tag List

“You know, I had the strangest conversation with Bradley yesterday afternoon,” Maverick said, stabbing at his eggs. Penny lifted an eyebrow at him in intrigue.

“Do tell.”

“He came by askin’ me about what my plans were for a schoolhouse. Can you believe that? Since when does he care about the education of the kids?”

Penny hummed, glancing at you slyly from the corner of her eye before taking a bit of her toast. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, and I told him that we were looking more into it now that we have Birdie here to teach’em, but he was pretty insistent that I make it a priority.”

“You don’t say?” Penny smiled, snorting a laugh that she quickly tried to pass off as a cough. Maverick looked at her with concern.

“You feelin’ okay, sweetheart?”

Penny waved him off, finishing her mouthful of eggs. “I’m just fine, honey. Tell me more about what Bradley said.”

“Well, it’s just like I said,” he continued. “I know he and the other boys help people out around town, but to volunteer the other boys the way he did? That’s unusual for him.”

“He volunteered the other Daggers?” you chirped, surprise clear on your face as you looked up at him. He nodded, laughing with a shake of his head.

“I know, I could hardly believe it myself!”

Penny shot you a coy smile. “I wonder what could have caused him to go and do something like that.”

You flushed at her words, ducking your head down to stare at your plate. Maverick let out another chuckle.

“I don’t know, Penny, but you should have heard Mickey hollerin’ up and down Main Street at him. Wouldn’t be surprised if you could’ve heard him all the way in Independence! with how loud he was yellin'.”

You and Penny laughed at that, and Maverick’s grin turned into a warm smile.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but I hope it sticks. I can’t tell you the last time I saw that boy so determined to work on a good cause.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Penny hummed, casting you another conspiratorial glance. “I think whatever it is that’s lit a fire under his butt is gonna be good for him. Might even stick around for a while.”

“From your mouth to the good Lord’s ears, darlin’,” Maverick chuckled, placing his napkin on his place as he stood. “It’s good to see him so passionate about something again. Haven’t seen him like this since before…”

He trailed off, and Penny leaned over to lay a sympathetic hand over his. “I know, sweetheart. You don’t need to say it.”

Maverick sniffed, running a finger under his eye before straightening. “Anyway, the only problem we have now is comin’ up with the money for supplies.”

“How do you mean?” you asked him, a furrow in your brow.

Maverick grimaced. “Town is runnin’ low on building materials. We’ve got enough to start the foundation for the schoolhouse, but we’ll have to scrounge up some money for everything else.”

“I see,” you frowned. Maverick gave you a reassuring look.

“It’ll be alright, Birdie. We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

You nodded, and with one last smile to his wife, Maverick was out the door. You helped Penny clear the table. The older woman began to wash the dishes as you took them from her to dry.

“So,” she drawled, looking over at you with a smile. “That was real nice of Bradley to volunteer to help out with the schoolhouse.”

“Wasn’t it just?” you gushed, a smile breaking out over your face. “I’m not surprised, though. The children seem to love him, and it looked like he felt the same way.”

“You still mad at him?” she asked you. You hummed before giving her a shrug.

“I wasn’t really mad at him to begin with, Penny,” you sighed, placing a plate in the cupboard. “I don’t know him well enough to be mad at him for his past. It’s not like he owes me an explanation or anything.”

“No,” Penny said carefully, “but despite his past as a philanderer, he’s a good man at heart, Birdie. He was a wild, young thing back in the day, but he’s older now.”

“Besides,” she smirked, looking directly at you now, “Doesn’t take a genius to see the way he looks at you.”

You flushed at her words. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you don’t,” she chuckled, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Just like you don’t know why he would volunteer him and his friends to build the schoolhouse.”

You stayed quiet for a moment.

“I want to thank him in some way,” you murmured, not meeting her gaze.

“I’m sure you’ll think of somethin’,” she mused. “Now, come on. Don’t want you to be late for class.”

A couple of hours later, you were perched on the steps of the altar, looking around at your class.

“What about a baseball game?” Ricky grinned. Lottie wrinkled her nose at him.

“No way!” she cried. “It needs to be something we can all do!”

“What about a bake sale?”

You had told the children the good news about finding volunteers to build the schoolhouse, and the sanctuary had exploded in a chorus of excitement.

“Hold on, hold on,” you had smiled, trying to calm the children down. “There’s just one more thing we have to figure out.”

“What’s that, miss?” Michael called out from his spot in the third row. You sighed with a slight frown.

“After talking with Mr. Maverick today, I’ve found out that we unfortunately don’t have all the funds we need to build it,” you said. The children exclaimed in disappointment, but little Billy looked at you with big, green eyes.

“Maybe we can help, teacher!” he grinned.

You smiled back at him as the other children voiced their support for the little boy.

“That’s a fine idea, Billy,” you said. “And it sounds like all of you agree.”

“We do!” smiled Michael.

“But how can we even help?” frowned Lydia, a plucky red-head from the second row. “What could we possibly do?”

Samantha raised her hand. “We could hold a fundraiser?”

The children murmured in agreement, and you nodded your head slowly.

“That could work,” you hummed. “What is it you all would like to do?”

Now you sat there as the children volleyed ideas back and forth at each other. None of them had been bad ideas, but it was hard for a group of thirty children to come to an agreement on what to do. You worried that they would grow too frustrated to settle on an idea, and then you would have to pick. You wanted the children to enjoy their time helping with preparations, so you knew that it would have to be their decision on what to do.

“My mother and father went and saw a play when they were visiting my grandmother in Kansas City,” Theresa said thoughtfully. “We could do that?”

The room was left in a hushed silence as the children mulled over her words.

“I like it,” Samantha nodded, and the other children were quick to agree.

“We should do Snow White!”

“No, Cinderella!”

“I wanna do Sleeping Beauty!”

You chuckled at their enthusiasm, moving to stand.

“Alright, class,” you smiled warmly, “we’ll have plenty of time to decide what our play is going to be. Now, let’s get back to your math lesson.”

You dismissed your class not too long after that, and now you were walking idly down the main street of Maverick. People greeted you as you past, and you returned the gestures. Your thoughts kept turning back to the play, however. It had been a miracle that they agreed on doing a play in the first place. Maybe you could convince the townsfolk to buy multiple tickets for different plays?

You stopped walking, sighing as you stared up at the sky. A chill was starting to stir in the air as Autumn began fast approaching. You wondered how your parents were faring back home in Missouri. Your eyebrows furrowed as you heard the quiet melody of a piano drift through the street. You realized it was coming from the saloon, and you moved quickly until you were standing in the entryway.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, casting a golden hue across the rooms as the sunbeams stretched across the wooden floors. The gentle lilt of the keys danced in your ears. You didn’t recognize the song, but you watched as the familiar brunette strummed his fingers along the ivory.

Bradley hadn’t seen you walk in, to lost in the way the music washed over him. You thought he looked sad as he played, which was strange because you were certain the song was supposed to sound happy even though he was playing slowly. You didn’t realize you were moving until you sat down gingerly next to him. He jumped, fingers flying off the keys as he turned to look at you. The two of you stared at each other.

“Please, don’t stop,” you whispered, pleading for him to continue. Bradley swallowed before turning back to the piano. His fingers pressed down lightly on the keys as he began to play the same tune as before.

“You’re very good,” you smiled as he continued to play. He huffed out a light laugh as he looked at you from the corner of his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t sound so surprised, Birdie,” he joked, causing your face to flush.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you rushed out, but he shook his head.

“I’m only teasin’ you, little bird. I know I don’t look like the type that knows how to play.”

“Well, I am a little shocked,” you admitted. He gave you a playful glare, and you giggled up at him.

You shifted closer to him on the bench. “How did you learn to play?”

“My dad taught me,” he hummed sadly.

You watched him for another minute before asking quietly, “did something happen?”

His fingers stilled over the keys for half a second before continuing. “He and my mom died when I was eight. It was scarlet fever, made its way through town pretty quick. Took Hangman’s folks too and Bob’s daddy.”

“Oh, Bradley,” you began, but he cut you off with a stern look.

“Don’t,” he snapped, fingers banging on the keys with a crash. His eyes softened when he saw your confused look. “Please, don’t. I get enough pity from the folks here in town. I don’t think I could handle it if you looked at me like that too.”

“Okay,” you said softly, nodding in understanding. Bradley let out a shaky breath, refusing to meet your gaze for a moment.

“My dad and Mav were best friends,” he said finally. You remained quiet, letting him speak at his own pace. He continued. “They did almost everything together. They drank, they sang, they even broke the law together.”

He looked at you then, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He always told me that my mama was the reason he gave up his wild life. Said he couldn’t bare the thought of her cryin’ if he never came home.”

You reached up to cup his cheek in your hand, and he immediately turned his face into your palm, nuzzling it.

“He sounds like he was a good man,” you offered, giving him a gentle smile. Bradley frowned at your words.

“No,” he said. “He was the best.”

The two of you didn’t say anything for a moment, just staring at each other. Finally, Bradley pulled away from you with a sniff before turning back to the piano. He began to play a different melody now, something quicker and more upbeat.

“So,” he chirped, offering you a bright smile, “what brings you into the saloon today?”

“Oh, I was actually looking for Penny,” you told him, glancing around the room but not seeing the older brunette.

“Think she’s still showin’ the new girl around,” Bradley muttered, earning a look from you.

“New girl?” you asked.

He hummed with a nod.

“Came rollin’ in with Joel yesterday mornin’. Walked right up to the bar and asked Penny for a job. She must have liked the look of her, ‘cause Penny accepted right then and there.”

“How interesting,” you trailed off. Bradley glanced at you before moving to stand. He held his hand out for you, and you took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

“C’mon,” he smirked, pulling you towards the doors, “I’ll walk you home.”

The two of you walked in a comfortable silence down the street. Bradley’s hand rested gently on your lower back, and you felt giddy at the contact. You thought back on what Ricky and Michael had said to Bradley in the churchyard the other day, but then you thought about Penny’s words from that morning. The two of you stopped in front of the door to the house.

“Bradley,” you said, earning a hum from him. “Are you seeing any other girls?”

He stopped, turning to face you with a look of bewilderment. “What?”

“Are you seeing any other girls?” you repeated.

He stared at you. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I was just thinking about what the boys and Penny said,” you shrugged.

“I see,” he said slowly, studying you. “No, Birdie. Haven’t seen anyone since I laid eyes on you singin’ all sweet in that church.”

You blushed at his words, biting at your bottom lip to suppress the smile that threatened to make a home on your face. A grin broke out onto his face at the sight of your bashfulness, and he leaned against the door to look down at you, hovering over your space. The two of you looked at each other for a moment before Bradley’s smirk dropped, replaced with a look of confusion.

“Wait, what did Penny say?”

You giggled up at him before turning the knob on the door and pushing it open. You slipped inside before moving to close it behind you with one last giggle.

“Goodnight, Bradley.”

[quagmireisadora]

Hi! For the prompt, fluffy highschool keynew please~ and congrats for you both xD

His eyes are dark but he is spun of light. When he moves, when he dances, the stage thrums with his every step. He breaks into a sweat of diamonds that slip along his limbs and shower his collar with damp. He is finite in the iron of his muscles, it is the mercury of his movements that defines infinity. In one moment he is untouchable steel, and in another he becomes molten lava. What little audience he may find is struck as if by the crackling of a star, its power and heat released in waves at their faces until they are red with surprise, with delight, with shock–that something could be so bright and yet not blind them. He spends days, weeks, months in the auditorium; alone and tireless. He builds his skill from blocks of courage and pebbles of aspiration. He dances mountains, creates buildings with a form so few in this school can appreciate or enjoy. He dances because it gives him peace, he dances to validate his existence in his own mind. He dances because his pulse burns and his heartbeat soars and his life ripples like an ocean of calm suddenly shaken awake into tide. Jinki knows as he watches from the sidelines; he will be a great artist one day, a great performer. He will become unforgettable when his feet touch veneer. He will rise above the rest and take the throne that awaits him.

But Kibum is more than all this. Much more. 

His body works like calligraphy, but when he opens his mouth to speak, when he forms words on his tongue, these words fall out like silver bullets. They hurt, they hiss, they cripple the strongest questions at their command. They cut down compliments, they shatter critique, they tear at throwaway comments, and they dismantle rumours. Kibum is spun from light but he is unkind like a shower of knives, he is impatient like an unsheathed sword, he is angry like a dagger. It takes very little to get a rise out of him, it takes too much to calm him down. Jinki does not try to help in the regard, he does not even try to befriend Kibum. For all the awe he holds for the other, for all the poetry it inspires in him, for every singe on his flesh he earns from watching in the shadows, there is an accompanying brusie from the thought of a confrontation between them. Jinki is not bulletproof. Kibum intimidates him. In fact from where Jinki can see, Kibum appears friendless. He has a posse following him along the length of every hallway, the breadth of every courtyard. He has his tiny crowd of followers, his clique of admirers on SNS. But he spares them no thought—to Kibum, only his skill is important. What comes with it is inconsequential.

Jinki studies it all, the highs and the lows. He writes it down in the notebook of his mind like a diligent student. The hand that travels to a frowning forehead, the tongue piercing that flashes in the middle of an annoyed yell, the hair that is sometimes navy blue at the roots, the tattoo that bares its face in the middle of a sprint, the fingers that fuss with loose threads on a scarf, the shoelaces that are colored in with marker pens, the bob of an Adam’s apple before a performance, the springing step right after one, the straight line of teeth pressing into the curved line of a bow-shaped lip, the gaze that plunges into the earth’s farthest depths, the dimple that appears so rarely it could be mistaken for imagination. Jinki spends his mornings collecting data, his evenings reflecting on it. And by the end of their three years in high school, he has an encyclopedia of Kibum engraved in bits and pieces of his consciousness. He staples it, files it away, stows it at the back of his mind in all its detailed entirety.

Their eyes don’t meet, their words don’t cross paths, their footsteps do not convene anywhere. They live in different dimensions of the same world. Jinki writes his final exams and sits in the dark of the school auditorium, watching. Kibum writes applications to Juilliard, to the Royal Ballet School and practices for an audition, hoping. And in their watching and their hoping they are isolated in their individual spheres of loneliness. There is nothing that resonates in the interstices of their lives, no culminating point of intersection, no revelation and no unfolding secrets to bridge the gap between one and the other. They are separate, they are different. They never collide. On the day of his last exams Jinki leans against a dark corner, unseen and silent. On the day Kibum posts his applications, the stage creaks and complains under his frustrated weight. On a day like this, on their last day together, a thread snakes out and catches Jinki by his neck.

His phone rings, loud and shrill in his pocket. He picks it up naturally until he realizes what he is doing, what has already been done. He panics, rushes for the nearest exit and is almost out of the threshold into the open when Kibum’s voice is upon him like a gunshot.

“Why do you always watch and say nothing?”

Jinki whips around, takes several frightened steps backwards. He shakes his head to deny it.

Kibum confronts him, finally and forcefully. He notes the annoyance in his voice where there was originally curiosity. But the words come out as they wished to come out, and now he cannot suck them back in. He jumps off the stage and stomps across the hall to where the other stands, looking a little shaken, a little fearful. Kibum takes the other by his collar, shakes him a little more, this boy genius who attends the same dead-end school as him; a school where dreams do not take flight unless they are equipped with wings of the right shape and size. Wings that cost a lot of money despite the scholarship. He takes Jinki in his hold and pushes him backwards into an orange-lit hallway. The evening is nearly upon them and a guard will come in soon, asking them to leave before he locks up for the day. Kibum remains in his place despite this thought, he wants answers. “Why do you always watch me like that?” he demands, but more for his own peace than for a fight. “What, you think it’s funny? You think what I do is a joke?!” he prods. “Talk!”

“No, I…” Jinki shakes his head, now seeming confused. “Why would it be a joke?”

Jinki is like a language. His name falls from every teacher’s mouth like it resides there, his mention is on every student’s lips like native pronunciations that stay with you for life. He is the talk of the town, with his science medals and his American university offers and his well-planned railway track of a life. He never deviates from his goals and his achievements are news before they are reality. He is the best student this school has seen in decades, he puts everyone around him on a map. When he walks into school a red carpet of secret admiring glances paves the way. When he sits in the exam hall the invigilator stares with bated breath, like looking for the secret behind a magic trick. When he accepts awards at assembly his gait seems feathery light, as if he is a floating dream. When he speaks in class, when he answers questions, when he solves a complicated problem, his words are always clear as a brook beginning its journey. He is front page talk, he is local news hype. He is the future, the symbol of success, the pride and joy of the community. He is perfection itself.

Kibum hates it. He craves to reach that perfection. He dies for it, with every sore on his feet, every sprain in his ankles, every inch of tendon and bone that he must push to attain it. He strives to excel at his own art but he comes nowhere near, his mind promising to stay focused but always traveling, always distant when its presence is important. He wishes to cut through people’s hearts and remain in them, make a home in the space not simply pass through like an arrow. He wishes to build a temple, an empire with the music streaming through his headphones; his feet as the mortar, his arms the trowel. He wishes he could be good and glorious like that, he wishes he could be the best. But every moment he spends stewing in this dead-end school, he gets farther and farther from his wish. No matter how hard he dances, how high the volume of the music, how heavy the beats, Kibum cannot beat his fate. Yet Jinki has quietly paved his own way out of here, unnoticed by the others. Jinki simply breathes a phrase, exhales a sentence, and it is always gold. And Kibum hates it dearly.

“Why do you do it, then?” he asks in a low voice. “What else am I to you, if not a joke?”

The other frowns. “You’re not a joke, stop saying that.” He stands up straighter now, no longer looking afraid. “I watch because…” he blinks, licks his lips, looks away. “Because I can’t stop.”

Their eyes don’t meet, but Kibum has seen the strings of grey lighting in Jinki’s glance. Their words don’t cross paths, but Kibum knows the softness  in Jinki’s tone. Their footsteps do not convene anywhere, but Kibum hears Jinki walk in and walk out during his rehearsals. They live in different dimensions of the same world, but Kibum chases Jinki in rings that do not intersect. Kibum keeps his ears open for the whisper of sunlight in his vicinity, only to find Jinki in its place. Jinki keeps his head bowed but his quietness speaks volumes to Kibum, pulsating with heat at their core. And in their listening and speaking they hold a thousand wordless conversations between them, never once bringing the words to their tongues, never holding them to each other’s ears, never producing sound but always heavy with meaning. There is nothing that resonates in the interstices of their lives, except these unspoken words. They are separate, but they are one. They are different, but they are the same. They never collide, but the crash is always deafening. On the day of his last exams Jinki stands before Kibum and tells him without telling him, how easy it is to admire him. And Kibum holds the surprising confession in the bowl of his hands, covering his chest with it so he can absorb it into his body.

[meridiangrimm]

Lost in a Good Book – Chapter 2

Series: Bungou Stray Dogs

Pairing: Edogawa Ranpo/Edgar Allen Poe

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Mystery, Adventure, Some Fluff, Partnership

Summary: When an Ability user duplicates Poe’s Ability and traps Poe and Ranpo inside a book, the two detectives must solve their way through the cases together if they want to escape.

Chapter: 2/5

Links: Start from the beginning || Chapter 2

The office interior matches the sign out front – once grand, but beginning the descent into disrepair.  Most of the furniture is covered in a layer of dust, the flag on the wall is faded, and the paneled wood doesn’t shine like it used to.  Poe and Ranpo venture further inside and find two women in the waiting area, one behind the assistant’s desk and the other seated on one of the guest sofas.

The secretary looks over at them in surprise.  “Mr. Poe, Mr. Edogawa.  I thought you were gone for the night, but it’s a good thing you came back when you did.  This woman here says she has a case for you and I was about to send her home.”

Poe turns to Ranpo and whispers, “I think we’re in a hard-boiled mystery.  All the styles here fit.”

“Hard-boiled?”

“Oh, we watched a couple of those  They’re dark and gritty and usually set during the American Prohibition.  You thought the detectives were overdramatic.”

“Ugh, that does sound familiar.  Let’s get this over with quickly then.”  He looks over at the client and raises his voice.  “What’s the case you have for us?”

“It’s something that’s been a problem for my company for a while now, and earlier tonight there was an incident that pushed it to our top priority.”

Ranpo slips on the glasses from his pocket – not his glasses, these are something from the character he’s taken over – and decides that the Ability-stealer may not have thought to build a “no Abilities” rule into the fictional universe.  With that settled, he considers the confidence in the potential client’s posture, her lack of fear at travelling alone late at night off the main roads, the way she’s controlling her facial expression to be disinterested even though the situation must be dire for her to come here.  Her attire suggests a job with high income and the knives concealed in her dress say that she’s far from defenseless.  “You’re in the local mafia,” Ranpo deduces with his Ability, tucking his glasses back where he’d found them when he's done.  “You have plenty of resources.  Why do you need us?”

“This issue isn’t something that can be covered by our ordinary forces.”

Ranpo crosses his arms.  “What is it?  A hitman gone rogue, a new drug network in town?  Get to the point.”

“Demons, Mr. Edogawa.”

Ranpo and Poe exchange a look.  “Overdramatic,” Poe repeats quietly, and Ranpo can’t say he disagrees, though the fact that Poe is the one calling someone else’s writing dramatic strikes him as a pot and kettle scenario.

He turns back to the potential client.  “Tell us more.”

“I think it would be more convincing to just show you.”

Despite what some members of the Agency would say, Fukuzawa had managed to teach Ranpo a couple things about personal safety and stranger danger.  However, fiction relies on keeping the reader guessing, so he and Poe will probably have to go along with the cloak-and-dagger elements to advance the story.  Cue eye roll.

“Fine.”  The client, who identifies herself as Ms. Nichols, takes them to a warehouse that stores some of the company’s illegal shipments.  The outside would look normal if not for the group of shady individuals camped outside who nod at Ms. Nichols.  The inside, though, looks like it’s been torn apart by wild animals.

“Three of our best were on duty when this went down.  According to the witness, who’d been on his way to perform a routine inventory check, all three were killed instantly by a posse of creatures that looked like they’d been summoned from hell.”

Poe murmurs a “yikes” under his breath and, when he notices that Ranpo is too busy looking around to respond to their client, decides that one of them has to ask questions.  “You said this has been a problem for a while?”

“People like us always get some sabotage from other syndicates or vigilante types.  This level of damage is new, but the modus operandi is not: we’ve seen these apparent ‘animal attacks’ on several properties under our protection, which has made a mess of regular operations.  There’ve been urban legends about monsters in this town for decades, and what tonight’s witness said about them fits with the stories about demons.”

“What do you think we can do?”

“Find a way to stop it.”  Ms. Nichols checks her watch.  “I’ll be available by telephone for most of the night while my assistant continues to sort out the paperwork, and I expect you to report to my office when you’ve made progress.” She hands Ranpo a business card, which he immediately turns and passes to Poe.  Of the two of them, Poe’s more likely to keep track of it.

“It’s an inside job,” Poe says once Ms. Nichols closes the door behind her.

“That’s not fair!  I haven’t put on my glasses yet!”  Ranpo scowls.  “What makes you think so?”

“That’s what I would do if I were writing this.  Plus…” he gestures around them at the warehouse, “this attack was timed very carefully.  Until tonight, the mafia higher-ups were satisfied with the idea that trained animals did this.  Someone made sure that there was a witness to confirm the rumors, which is what brought Ms. Nichols to us.  They were trying to provoke fear.  The only way they could have such specific information about the inventory schedules is if there were a spy in the organization.  Computers haven’t been invented yet, so nobody hacked their information.”  Ranpo gives him a look that he can’t interpret.  “What?  Did I get something wrong?”

“No.  I just don’t think I’ve seen you on a case since that first time we met.”

Poe flushes at the mention of his loss.  “W-well, we have to move quickly now, since the Agency is in danger, so I’ll do my best.”

Ranpo smiles and Poe’s heart jumps.  “Let’s go, then.”

“Go?  Where?”

“To go check out suspects, obviously.  I can’t use Super Deduction without gathering any facts.  Otherwise I’d just solve everything from the Agency’s office.”  They walk to a main road and hail a cab to the office building listed on Ms. Nichols’ card.  The security guard is reluctant to let them in, but when Ranpo shows her the business card (and glares in a way that he clearly thinks is threatening and Poe immediately decides is adorable) she lets them pass.

Ms. Nichols’ assistant doesn’t look impressed with the detectives, but he gives them directions to the lounge where the witness is recovering.  Ranpo steps in, puts his glasses on, and immediately walks back out.  “He didn’t do it.  He hasn’t told his kids yet that he’s finally met someone again, but he’s not hiding anything related to work.”

“That was quick.”  Poe wonders how long it had taken the original detectives in this story to figure that out, and he can’t hide a smile.  Ranpo really is amazing.

When they walk back to the waiting area in front of Ms. Nichols’ office, it’s empty.  “Let’s see if her assistant has a planner somewhere with her activities.”  And with that, Ranpo starts opening the drawers in her assistant’s desk.

“You think Ms. Nichols did it?”

“You’re the mystery writer.  Aren’t there lots of cases where the person who hires the detective is the one who did it?”

Poe opens his mouth to reply and then does a double take.  “I thought you didn’t read mysteries.  You said that fictional stuff wasn’t good enough for detectives.”

Ranpo’s hand stutters in its movements.  “I didn’t say that I read them.  I only said that sometimes the culprit hires detectives.  It’s happened at the Armed Detective Agency before, so it makes sense if it showed up in novels too.”

“I don’t believe you.  I think you have read some.”

Ranpo is silent for a minute before saying, “Well, not for a challenge.  But when it’s between that and doing paperwork, I’ll settle for a mediocre case.”

Poe grins, pleased that he’s learned something new about Ranpo.  However, he doesn’t want to Ranpo to take his smile the wrong way, so he changes the subject.  “Have you found anything yet?”  Ranpo shrugs.  Poe takes that as his cue to plop into the desk chair to help out.  Unfortunately, all the books stacked under the desk make the space too cramped for his legs, so he abandons the chair in favor of collecting the miscellaneous documents that Ranpo is tossing aside.  A letter of promotion, a family photo, some bank statements… they don’t find a planner, but they do manage to reorganize the desk by the time Ms. Nichols’ assistant returns to his desk.  He looks at them suspiciously as they leave and Poe waves awkwardly.

They’re about two blocks away from the office, having decided to go look at the other attack sites, when they hear the howls.

“Maybe it’s a group of dogs?” Poe suggests.  “Happy dogs that are just very, very excited about something?”  When he looks back a moment later and spots a pack of creatures that could not be considered dogs by any stretch of the imagination, he grabs Ranpo’s hand and they run.  The moment they break from their slow pace the howls go up again, and without looking back it’s obvious that they’ve begun the chase.

Poe curses under his breath.  Neither of them are athletes and they don’t know the area at all, so Poe knows that they have a limited window to find a solution before the creatures catch up.  What places would even be open at this time of night to offer them sanctuary?  Most normal businesses had been closed by the time Poe and Ranpo entered the story, and since they’re on a less populated road, there are no cabs in sight.

Out of nowhere, Ranpo puts on a burst of speed and tugs Poe to the left into a cemetery.  When they’re about twenty steps down the path, the eager growls behind them turn into wails of frustration.  Peeking back, Poe sees them all gathered outside the gates to the cemetery, furious but no longer pursuing them.  Poe jerks to a halt and leans against the closest headstone to catch his breath.  Beside him, Ranpo is doing the same.

“That was a great idea, Ranpo-kun,” he says when he finally gets enough air to speak.  “They probably can’t come onto the church grounds, or something.”

“Ah, I just thought we’d have a lot of places to hide here.”

Poe laughs.  They’ve been saved through sheer luck, then; maybe being the protagonists puts coincidence on their side.  Poe definitely doesn’t mind taking advantage of fictional tropes if it keeps them from getting killed in here.

Ranpo still hasn’t let go of Poe’s hand, and now that they’re out of immediate danger, Poe has time to appreciate how delicate and warm Ranpo’s hand is.  This feels comfortable, feels right, like it always does when they hold hands, and Poe suddenly hopes that Ranpo will attribute his blush to their recent exertions.

The growling in the background stops abruptly and Poe’s head snaps up.  The creatures are gone from the gateway.  Not decided-to-walk-away, some-are-still-trailing-behind gone, just vanished.  The sudden lack of sound is just as eerie as its presence had been, and Poe shivers.

They wait about ten minutes, which is about all Ranpo’s patience can handle, before leaving the cemetery to trace their steps back to the office.  It takes ten more minutes before they admit that they’re completely lost, at which point Ranpo points to a phone booth.  “I have an idea.”  He takes the business card back from Poe and starts to dial up Ms. Nichols’ office.  Poe leans against the wall of the booth and closes his eyes, wishing he was at home under his covers.

“I need to speak with Ms. Nichols,” Ranpo says, speaking at a higher pitch than usual.  “She’s expecting my call.”  Poe can vaguely hear her assistant agree and put them through.

“Yes?”

Ranpo’s voice returns to normal.  “It’s Edogawa and Poe.  We’d normally report to you personally, but we’re too lazy and also lost.”

“If you give me a street address, I can send someone to collect you.”

“No need, Ms. Nichols.  I’ve already solved the case.”  Poe’s eyes shoot open and he sees Ranpo’s glasses perched on his nose.  “Your recently-promoted assistant, the man whose desk is outside your office and who answered the phone just now, is the culprit.  He sent his creatures after us when we left your office, having just overturned the contents of his desk.  He needed the salary increase to pay his sister’s medical bills, so he set up attacks which he then efficiently cleaned up, proving his skill to you and the other higher-ups.  He couldn’t keep his spell books at home because his niece is staying with him, so they’re still under his desk.”

With those words, a familiar cyclone of light surrounds them, washing away the phone booth and the street and the buildings around them.  Poe blinks a few times and finds himself with Ranpo in a room of doors, circling the otherwise empty space.  The walls stretch up into oblivion and everything is the same bland color.  There’s nothing in here to indicate the purpose of the room.

“We’re still inside the book,” Poe says.  “Ranpo-kun, what was the title of this?”

“It’s an anthology,” Ranpo remembers, his eyes widening in realization, and the series of doors suddenly take on more significance.

Poe continues their train of thought out loud.  “We finished one story, but we’re not done with the book.  We’re in the table of contents.”

“I understand now why our attacker brought this book.  It might take days to work our way out of here.”  It’s not a prison, then, but a labyrinth, designed to give the Agency’s new enemies more time to decide where to keep Ranpo and Poe.

“The Armed Detective Agency doesn’t have that long,” Poe points out.  “We can’t go through them systematically.”

Ranpo taps his chin thoughtfully.  “We should try one of the doors next to this one.  Like a real table of contents, there should be some kind of order about which stories are behind which door.  If the room is a circle, then logically, the door to either the left or right of the first story should be the last one, yes?”

“That’s a good thought.   I think we should go with the one on the –”

“Right.”

“– left.”  Poe blinks at him.  “It has to be the left.  The stranger was more comfortable speaking to me in English before you arrived, and English is read left to right, so the door to the right of this one should be the second story and loop around counterclockwise to the end.”

“But it’s written in the format of a Japanese novel, so it’s actually the reverse.”

Poe frowns.  “It could go either way, I suppose.”

“Two cases, three cases, it doesn’t matter as long as we escape before the Agency’s enemies are expecting us.”

“Let’s try the left then… if you’re okay with that.”

“Either way we have to solve a mystery,” Ranpo says, taking Poe’s hand and moving towards the next door.  He turns the doorknob and they step through, the doorframe vanishing behind them like smoke.  This time they emerge on a forest road dressed for hiking.  No – not hiking, they’re cycling, Poe realizes as he spots the pair of bikes leaning up against a tree closeby.  He’s wearing gloves with pads on the palms and both he and Ranpo have backpacks.  A cursory look at the packs’ contents shows their new IDs, maps of hiking trails in Japan, and plenty of emergency supplies.  Poe also finds a pair of bifocals in his backpack and wordlessly hands them to Ranpo, who smiles.

Poe looks at the road sloping up ahead of them.  “I guess we should see what’s ahead.”  Then, as an afterthought: “Do you know how to ride a bike, Ranpo-kun?”

“Ones with training wheels, yeah.”

“I don’t think we have any of those.  I could teach you sometime, if you wanted.”  Poe spends a moment dwelling on the fact that he’d need to hold on to Ranpo's waist for this exercise to work and he can’t keep the smile off of his face.

“Is it fun, with only two wheels?”

“Definitely,” Poe promises.  He grabs the closest bike by the handles and walks towards the hill, Ranpo following suit behind him with the second bike.  The ground quickly evens out and the forest stretches endlessly in front of them.  They spot a large structure a ways off, indistinct until they get closer.

When Poe figures out what the building is, he stops.  “A house out in the woods…”

“A perfect spot for a murder,” Ranpo finishes.  “An isolated place is pretty traditional, isn’t it?”

They continue their approach at a steady pace until there’s a rustle in one of the windows.  Poe gasps as a body is suddenly pushed out the second floor window and lands beside the bushes.  The culprit, who's obscured by the still-closed curtains, probably doesn't even know that they're out here.  Poe drops the bike and runs over to the motionless figure on the ground.  He crouches and checks the woman’s pulse, but the corpse is already cold.  “She’s dead.”

“Well, that was quick,” Ranpo says.

-----

Author’s notes

To paraphrase my good friend @promptoargentbutt, who was the main cheerleader for this fic:

Ranpo: this detective is overdramatic Poe: *looks directly into the camera*

Poe: this writing is overdramatic Ranpo: *looks directly into the camera*

And now that our boys are warmed up, we have a more complex case coming up next chapter. It's almost twice as long as this chapter and it should be pretty exciting.

[sailor-aviator]

Singing in the Sanctuary: Chapter Four

Singing in the Sanctuary: Chapter Four

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw is a simple man. Well, as simple as one can be while living a life of crime. The notorious outlaw of the western territories has never been interested in settling down and having a family, but will that all change when he meets a shy, new teacher who just moved into town?

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, Older sibling being harsh on the younger, Allusions to self-esteem problems, Mentions of drinking, Mentions of hangovers, Bradley flirting, One use of "y/n," Reader being a blushing mess. I think that's it, but please let me know if I've missed anything!

Word Count: 2.7k

Series Masterlist || DPU Masterlist || Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw Tag List

It had been exactly two weeks since your children had decided that they would be doing a play to help raise funds for the new schoolhouse, but still, they were no closer to figuring out what the play would actually be.

“It should be an adventure!” Grinned Billy Seresin.

“Nuh uh,” frowned Josie Carmichael, “it should be a romance.”

“What about a fairytale?”

“I want it to have a fight scene!”

And here you sat, slumped against the wooden counter of the bar, at your wit’s end and lamenting to your friends on what to do. Penny and Bunny kept their hands busy by cleaning the glasses behind the bar and Natasha sat to your left, patting your back sympathetically. You wished the ever practical Scout was around to assist you in your plight, but she and Jake Seresin had left for Baltimore the week prior and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year. Scout had worried what people might think about the two traveling on their own, and you had had to bite your tongue to keep from pointing out that the two of them were practically engaged as it was, but your words would have been met with a scowl and rant about the perils of gossip. Scout was known to have a bit of a temper, and you weren’t keen on being on the receiving end of it. So, you had smiled placatingly and reminded her that her brother had given his seal of approval, and that had been enough to ease her worries.

“What’s eatin’ at you?” Penny asked you, brow raised curiously. You sighed in defeat, tears springing to your eyes as you thought about your current predicament.

“The children are going to do a play to help raise money for the schoolhouse.”

“And that’s an issue because?” Bunny asked, eyes darting to Penny to see if she could shed some light on the situation. The older woman shrugged, frowning as she turned her attention back to you.

“Because,” you grumbled, “It took us an entire week to settle on doing a play. Now they can’t decide what play to do.”

“Ah,” Penny said, leaning against the bar top, “what are the suggestions?”

“Some want to do Cinderella, some want to do Snow White, and others want to do Sleeping Beauty,” you groaned, feeling your bottom lip tremble as you felt all the frustration from the past week rise up from deep inside of you and to the surface. You were good at shoving the negative feelings down inside of you. Your childhood had given you plenty of practice when it came to that, but now the emotions tended to come out all at once and at inopportune times, something your mother had often lamented about.

“Why don’t you just let them make their own play up?” Bunny asked thoughtfully. Your gaze darted to the girl in front of you, intrigue replacing the sorrow that was once there.

“Let them do their own play?” You asked her. Bunny seemed to hesitate for a moment before nodding, a tight smile on her face that came off more as a grimace on her pretty features.

“That way everyone can do something they like?” She said as more of a question than an answer. You felt the stirrings of excitement in your tummy as you mulled over her suggestion. It could work. If the children come up with their own play, then they can work together to make sure everyone has a say and no one would feel left out. It was perfect! Or, at least, that’s what you thought.

Your elder sister often admonished you growing up for being, what she believed, was too naïve.

“Get your head out of the clouds,” she’d snap, a scowl on her face as she looked you over. “The world isn’t all rainbows and butterflies, y/n. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

She was right, but her words had stung nonetheless. You wanted to see the good in everybody and every situation. If that made you naïve or immature, then so be it.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Bunny!” Penny grinned, turning her gaze to you. You nodded enthusiastically, a grin splitting across your face as you looked back at the bar girl.

“It really is!” You exclaimed, leaning back and away from the bar. A smirk made its way onto your lips. “Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?”

“Me?” Bunny scoffed, shaking her head. “No, I wouldn’t know what to do. Besides, I can’t even read.”

Your eyes widened. “You don’t?”

“No,” she said softly, looking down and away from you. She shifted on her feet, looking as if she was willing the ground to open up and swallow her whole. You supposed it wasn’t that uncommon for people to not know how to read, but Bunny always looked so put together, that it never occurred to you that the other girl wouldn’t have the skill set. You pursed your lips, wondering if your new thought would be too impertinent to suggest to the other girl. Bunny was someone who was quiet, yes, but she had an air of pride and confidence about her that you often found yourself admiring and wishing you had.

You knew you were a timid, little thing. You were the youngest of two girls, and your sister was the crown jewel of your family. She was beautiful, confident, and had a mind that could accomplish most anything. You wanted to be that way, but you knew deep down that you weren’t. A fact your parents often pointed out to you. Now, seeing the capable woman in front of you looking small at such a minor detail made you want to help.

“I can teach you,” you said finally.

“What?” She chuckled, sounding almost startled. Her gaze flickered back to you as her brow pinched in confusion. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well,” you smiled, “it’s a good thing you won’t have to then. I’m volunteering!”

Bunny’s frown deepened, and you suddenly found yourself second guessing your decision.

“Unless you don’t want to learn?” You murmured, now feeling awkward as you sat at the bar.

“No, I,” she trailed off. She chewed on her bottom lip as she regarded you for a moment. With a heavy sigh, she continued, “I would actually really love that, Birdie. As long as it doesn’t take up too much of your time.”

“It won’t,” you chirped, hopping off the bar stool and making your way towards the exit. The evening crowd was slowly filing in after a long day’s work, and you weren’t keen on being around once the drinking started.

“Let’s start tomorrow, okay?” You called over your shoulder with a wave at the two women behind the counter. You didn’t wait for a response as you pushed through the growing crowd and out the door.

The next morning brought you some much needed free time. Saturday mornings were usually when the town market was in full swing, and you were determined to get there early enough to snag the best tomatoes for dinner that night. Penny insisted that you didn’t have to do much around the house, but you couldn’t imagine not doing anything. You refused to be a burden, no matter how much she assured you that you weren’t.

Of course, you weren’t planning on living in Penny and Maverick’s home for forever. No, once the school was built, you’d move into the new building until your own home was built. However, that was a ways off, and as far as you knew, construction hadn’t even started on the schoolhouse yet.

Lost in thought, you passed the old church, stopping when something caught your attention from the corner of your eye. Underneath the large tree, a figure lay slumped against the roots, a hat covering the face of whoever it was. Cautiously, you approached the figure, different scenarios racing through your mind. Did the heat get to him? Did he need a doctor? Perhaps some water? Or maybe he was hurt? Penny and Bunny told you about the bar fights that sometimes broke out at the saloon where the loser would slink off with a wound or two.

“Excuse me, sir?” You called out. The man didn’t move, and you looked around to see if anyone else was present. The street was deserted, most of the folks either getting ready for another cold snap or down at the market trying to secure the best produce before anyone else. You knew the dangers of approaching men while alone, but you didn’t think you could live with yourself if something awful happened and you had done nothing to help. You approached him quietly, setting your basket down by the entrance as you did so. As you got closer, you let out a relieved sigh once you saw his chest slowly rising and falling. He wasn’t dead, just asleep.

“Sir?” You called out again, this time a little louder. The man stirred, muttering something in his sleep. You were practically standing next to him now, worrying on your bottom lip as you debated how best to handle the situation.

“Sir?”

“What?” The man snapped, snatching his hat off of his face and fixing you with a glare. You blinked a couple of times at the man in front of you as your brain played catch up with what you were seeing. The man also seemed a little taken aback as he took you in, realization dawning in his brown eyes. “Birdie?”

“Bradley?”

Bradley blinked up at you before shuffling to a stand, and you backed up a few steps to allow him room. He smacked at his trousers, attempting to get as much dirt off of him as he could while giving you a sheepish smile.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, eyeing him wearily as he took a couple of short steps towards you. The stench of alcohol hit you almost instantly, and you wrinkled your nose at him as your gaze turned from confusion to mild disgust. “You smell like a distillery.”

“Yeah,” he winced, rubbing the back of his neck as he gave you an apologetic look. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Are you drunk?” You asked him, narrowing your eyes as you scanned him up and down. His clothes were wrinkled and smeared with dried dirt. The top couple of buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, and you cursed yourself for the heat that instantly rose to your cheeks as you took in the hard muscle that lay underneath. Bradley’s eyes followed your gaze, looking down at the state of himself, and then back at you with a smirk that suggested he knew where your thoughts were heading.

“‘M not drunk, little bird,” he drawled, leaning towards you. He winced when the sunlight his his face, scowling slightly as he leaned back into the shade. “Hungover as hell, maybe. But I’m not drunk anymore.”

“Why is it that you almost sound disappointed by that fact?” You grumbled, scowling at him. Bradley shifted on his feet before giving you a shrug.

“Beats being hungover, I guess.”

“You could just not drink so much,” you suggested, earning a bright grin from the man in front of you.

“Now where’s the fun in that, Birdie?” He chuckled. You pursed your lips, studying him once again. It wasn’t often that Bradley Bradshaw grinned. He smirked, yes, but his grins were few and far in between. They gave him a boyish quality that you found strangely endearing, and you found that you wanted to see him do it more. More so, you wanted to be the reason he smiled like that.

The grin faded from his face as you studied him, and a thoughtful look of his own crossed his features. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he pursed his lips and looked over towards the old church before glancing back at you.

“Do you want me to stop drinking?” He asked. You balked at his question. Why was he asking you that? What did your opinion matter? Bradley seemed like the type that didn’t much care for what anyone thought of him or what he did, that much was clear from his illegal activities.

“What I want shouldn’t matter,” you said carefully, clasping your hands in front of you and looking away. You felt his gaze linger on your face as you looked anywhere but at him. You weren’t used to being assertive. No, you were the type to make yourself smaller to please others, and you were fine with that. You didn’t need the attention on you, and you had always been fine with that. But standing there in front of Bradley, for the first time in your life, you found that you wanted the attention on you. More specifically, you wanted to hold Bradley’s attention. That thought scared you.

“It matters to me,” Bradley murmured, leaning towards you again. His eyes were intense as they took you in, sliding down the length of you, and you squirmed under his gaze. An unfamiliar heat pooled in your belly as you met his eyes, the heat becoming stronger as they bore into you, his look almost hungry.

“You should stop drinking because you want to,” you countered, cursing how breathless you sounded, “not because someone told you.”

Bradley regarded you for another moment, a twinkle in his eyes as he looked you over once more. Finally, he leaned back, smirking as he dug around in his pocket. You sighed, thanking whoever might be listening for the slight reprieve.

“I have something for you,” he said, and your eyes widened at the declaration.

“A gift?” You asked him. “Whatever for?”

“Just because I saw it and thought of you,” he replied, pulling out a light blue ribbon with white lace trim from out of his pocket. You gasped, excitement filling you at the small trinket.

“Oh Bradley,” you breathed, reaching your fingers out to touch the shiny fabric. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s not much,” he said, suddenly looking shy. You noted how odd the expression looked on him, but your attention was pulled back to the ribbon as Bradley held it up.

“I thought you might like it.”

“I love it,” you smiled, looking up at him. A small smile crept onto his face at the sight of you, and he gestured for you to turn around.

“May I?” he asked.

“Oh, of course,” you giggled, turning so that he could replace the lilac bow in your hair with the new one. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they ran through your hair, and you found yourself wondering what it would be like to have his fingers somewhere else on your person. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you willed the salacious thoughts away. A good girl should not being having the thoughts you’re having.

Once the ribbon was secured in your hair, Bradley leaned forward.

“There,” he whispered, his breath fanning over your ear and across your cheek. You stiffened in front of him, shuddering as his fingertips danced over your neck. “All done.”

Slowly, you turned back to face him. You looked up at him through your lashes, a soft smile playing on your lips. Bradley returned it with one of his own, fingertips skimming over the soft skin of your cheek.

“Where are you headed?” He asked you, breaking the charged silence between the two of you.

“Oh,” you blinked, moving towards the gate where you had left your basket. “I was headed for the market to get things for dinner.”

Picking up the basket, you turned to find Bradley had followed you, already leaning against the gate as he smirked down at you. Plucking the basket from your hands, he placed his unoccupied hand at the small of your back, guiding you back onto the street.

“Let’s get going then,” he winked. You tried not to think about how warm his hand felt against you, and you tried not to think about the stares people gave you as the two of you walked onto the main street. You certainly tried not to think about the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach every time you caught him looking at you.

A/N: Haven't updated this one in a little bit! Friendly reminder that I have started redoing my tag lists, so if you weren't tagged in this and you would like to be, please make sure you have submitted a request in the form at the top of the post! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! I also post these updates on my AO3 account under sailor_aviator. If you enjoy my work, please consider leaving me a tip!

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How are we feeling about this one DPU girlies?

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After I write the one-shot for Valentine’s Day and finish some other stuff up…