#desperately need this to reach the right audience. I HAVE TO STOP WORD VOMITING IN TAGS

[tootalltech]

okay. i feel like theres still Some People who may check the land of stories tag on here the way i occasionally do i know theres some fans of the series here at least. since a while back i wrote out an entire paragraph to briefly explain why im insane about lloyd bailey to my friends who dont know tlos, i figure, WHY NOT POST IT ON HERE where people who also know the series (and therefore this character) might see it <3 its at least a little funny to see how i try to explain things in tlos like the hall of dreams briefly with little to no details. this is also kind of like a brief summation of everything we know about lloyd AND JOHNS childhood which is interesting. see below.

sits down. let me set the scene. lloyd bailey is the younger son in a set of two. his mother is a very powerful fairy (#fairygodmother) who’s kind of like the chancellor of an entire kingdom. lloyd and his older brother john both very much have magic in their blood because of this. lloyd’s father dies when he is very young. he is “not the same” afterwards. he thinks his older brother john, who handles his fathers passing arguably “better”, is the favorite child. john is happy and cheerful and everyone loves him. lloyd sits in his dark room and reads books like the iron mask all day. lloyd’s mother does not know how to get to him. she figures out how to make a potion that can bring books to life, since he likes to read so much. she offers it to him. he turns her down. she goes into this magic little hallway (infinite space) where she can see what people truly desire. lloyd the 11 year olds desire (i don’t know how old he is.) is to take over the world. hm. a bit concerning. his mother takes him out into the forest on a nice walk, chains him to a tree, and drains his magic from him. lloyd is not a fan of his mother for this. he tells her that she never would’ve done this to john. his mother considers her action stopping him before he wreaks havoc on everything. lloyd considers this having his “birthright” stripped from him for “a crime [he] never committed” (direct quote). lloyd despises his mother. he runs away from home not long after. he considers the potion his mother made his. he only comes back home to try and steal it. he fails. he is sentenced to life in prison. his mother gives him a mask to wear so no one knows he’s her son. john moves to the otherworld and starts a family. lloyd rots in prison. lloyd’s son who he doesn’t know about is born. lloyd rots in prison. john dies. lloyd rots in prison. his mother loves john’s children and starts to train one of them in being her successor. this could’ve been lloyd. lloyd rots in prison. he doesn’t escape until his niece and nephew are teenagers and his niece is about ten times more powerful than him. because she has the gift that was ripped out of his hands. lloyd hates the world he lives in and its people and seeks to destroy it as soon as he’s out. i wonder why. in conclusion. im normal about him.

[manonblaqkbeak]

Fire and Ice

hello, hope you’re all doing well. i’m doing a double feature today since its the 20th here in aus. so todays fic is for day 19 and 20 (like, if u squint lol).

its a lil bit more angsty then i planned for it to be in the beginning, but its got some fluff at the end. (also, again, i borrowed the 10 month pregnancy plot from acotar)

1.9k words

enjoy!

The bathroom tiles were cool against Aelin's clammy skin as she slowed her breathing. As she willed herself to stop feeling so dizzy.

Four months into her first pregnancy and Aelin soon came to realise what the worst part of pregnancy; the morning sickness.

Or, as Aelin liked to call it, 'whenever it rutting happened' sickness. Morning, midnight, dawn, she often found herself running towards a bathroom, emptying her stomach loudly for the whole damned kingdom to hear.

She was aware of the rumours flying around, that there were friendly bets going throughout the city as to whether or not Terrasen was going to have a prince or princess (apparently, the majority were betting for a boy, but Aelin didn't care what she had, as long as they were healthy), but neither her or Rowan confirmed the pregnancy, and so the rumours stayed as gossip, until she and Rowan were comfortable enough to officially announce it.

Aelin wanted to wait because of how hard it was to conceive—it had taken her and Rowan over three years to be successful, and while she knew that three years wasn't that long, it was still hard when nothing happened—and was scared that if she said it out loud, then something horrible would happen. She hadn't even told her friends, although she knew that they knew; the rumours would have reached them. She appreciated that they hadn't asked either of them. Other than Rowan, the only other person that knew of her pregnancy was her personal healer, Magnolia. Other than Yrene, the demi-Fae was a healer than Aelin felt comfortable around, because even after a decade later, she still had nightmares about her time in Maeve and Cairn's cruel hands, the never ending chain of healers coming to fix her so she could be tortured again and again.

Rowan wanted to wait because of everything that happened to Lyria and their child. There were many nights when Aelin would wake up and find Rowan just watching her, his hand against her slowly growing stomach, and not only could she see the pain in his eyes as he thought back on what happened all those centuries ago, she could also feel it, like a living thing. Aelin knew that Rowan did his best to stop her from sensing his dread, but she wasn't a fool, and she would have known how he was feeling even if they didn't have the bond between them, even if she was miles away, she would know.

The bathroom door opened and Rowan was helping her up, his hands warm and gentle against her clammy skin.

Aelin was far too tired to ask if one of her handmaids called for Rowan after Aelin ran from their shared closest and into the bathroom, or if he felt her distress through the bond.

It was probably both. She would ask once her head stopped spinning.

Resting her head against her mate's chest, Aelin breathed in his scent, letting the pine-and-snow of him calm her senses. His strong arms wrapped around her, his tattooed hand running up and down the length of her spine as his right hand was a steady presence against her lower back.

How long they stayed like that, Aelin wasn't sure, but once her head stopped spinning, she rinsed her mouth out to get rid of the pungent vomit taste that was lingering. Once satisfied that the taste was gone, Aelin let Rowan lead her to bed—not the closest.

“Rowan—” she started to say, but her husband cut her off.

“That was a strong one, and Magnolia said that it's best to rest afterwards.” So he felt it through the bond, then. “I'll take over, and you can stay in and read that book you've been eyeing all week.”

She should say no, that she was fine, but a day of rest did sound nice and probably something she desperately needed without knowing it—and she really had been wanting to read the book that Dorian had sent her the other week (which she had to write a detailed review of when she sent it back. It was one of her favourite past times, especially if it was a book that Dorian loved, but she didn't particularly like, because his response to her review was always the most dramatic thing that always made her laugh).

“Fine,” Aelin said, “I'll rest and you can go deal with Head Teacher of the Academy.”

Rowan groaned at the mention. The Fae male that ruled the magic school was nice, but just so damned pedantic that he had a say about everything. And everything was falling apart, according to him, despite the fact that the school was built only five years ago. “I swear,” Rowan grumbled, “that if he complains to me that the school halls aren't the right shade of brown, I'll throw him out the window.”

Aelin laughed, because she had said the same thing when the male had come around complaining that the roof tiles were crooked last month and she had sent Rowan to check on said tiles (and what a surprise to absolutely no one that the tiles weren't at all crooked), but that wasn't enough for the Head Teacher, when he came back the next week, he wanted the tiles replaced.

If he wasn't so damned talented and good with children and running the school, she would have had him fired for being a nuisance. But unfortunately, neither she or Rowan couldn't just get rid of him because he was annoying.

“Make sure that your shirt is tucked in neatly, or you'll get the same speech about cleanliness like last time.”

Rowan flared his nostrils at that, but said nothing as he got up and changed his crumpled tunic for a fresh one—not at all tucked in—and began his fussing.

Truthfully, she was surprised that he lasted that long.

He left her a glass of water, and a pitcher full of the liquid on her nightstand, and the bowl of seasonal fruit next to it. Next was opening the balcony doors to let in the fresh air, and then the fluffing of pillows and straightening of the quilt and bed sheets—Aelin may have teased him a little by saying that the sheets were too tight, and then too loose, having to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing as he huffed at her ever-changing mind, until she decided that the sheets were just right after five minutes of readjusting.

Aelin watched it all with a small smile on her face, even as she grumbled about his fussing tendencies—but she knew he did it from a place of love, and that he wanted her and the baby to be comfortable.

He even went as far as to check her forehead, and gave her a wash cloth to freshen her up from her earlier sweating. At least she was already in a cotton nightgown and didn't have to get changed—although she knew that if she had too, Rowan would have brought the clothes over himself.

Once he was satisfied that Aelin was comfortable, he left with a kiss on the lips and a promise that he would see her once he was free, Aelin cracked open the book, but fell asleep thirty minutes later with an unexpected headache, a hand on her stomach.

X X X X X X

It was a rare day when Rowan had an empty afternoon, there was always someone to see, something to do, someone to write back to, that when Rowan finished his meeting with the Lords and Ladies of Terrasen and there was no one waiting for him in the audience chamber, Rowan was the first to leave the meeting, needing to check on Aelin. He hated how pale she looked when he left, but when he spoke to Magnolia quickly, the skilled healer told him that it was perfectly normal, but she would check in on Aelin to make sure that everything was okay—and since he wasn't called for during any of his meetings, he took that as a sign that things were fine.

The fact that the bond was quiet also assured him. He had tugged on it during at some point when one of the Lords was rambling, and he got a tired tug back, effectively telling him that Aelin was sleeping. So he let her be, and he sat in his worried state alone.

Rowan was excited for the baby, to take this step with Aelin, but Gods, he'd also hadn't been this tense, this paranoid that something was going to happen in so long. Rowan didn't think he'd feel like himself until he held their child in his arms, but Aelin still had six months to go.

And sometimes...sometimes he found himself wondering about the child he lost with Lyria. What they would have looked liked, if they would have been tall and broad like him, or slim like her. He also wondered how long their child would have been safe before Maeve claimed the child, having them trained to be a warrior like Rowan, or if Maeve would have cast them aside like she had done to Lyria, who Maeve saw as nothing but a pawn to use and toss aside.

His thoughts kept spiralling, his mind going from one thing and another, but stopped when he heard the sloshing of water and a relived sigh once he got closer to his rooms. He made his way through the space and soon came to the bathroom where Aelin was resting against the porcelain tub. Her skin was a light pink from the hot water, but otherwise looked healthy.

Rowan just stood and watched her for a moment and let the contentment from the bond wash over him. The steam danced through the air, carrying Aelin's scent with it, and the indescribable scent of their child within her.

“Are you going to stand there all afternoon?” Aelin asked, her eyes still closed, “or are you going to join me?”

Rowan decided to join her, managing to hold back his wince as he made contact with the boiling water—how Aelin found the hot as hell water relaxing he would never know.

When he was comfortably behind her, Aelin leaned against his chest, and took his hands and placed them against her growing belly.

“Magnolia visited me a few hours ago,” she said. “She says that soon the nausea will pass.”

“Good,” he said, letting the words settle in him.

Rowan was about to lean back against the bath when Aelin's fire filled the air in thin ribbons, moving as smoothly as water as it flew past him. His own magic moved in response, and soon his ice and wind joined her fire, going around the room, filling it up with the differences in temperature. And from the tub, a water butterfly the size of Aelin's palm lifted into the air, its movements delicate but strong as it came towards him. Aelin turned to look at him, her brows furrowed lightly in concentration.

The butterfly came to rest on his nose, and then exploded in his face.

Aelin laughed at his incredulous expression. Rowan shot forward and flicked water in her face, and soon almost all of the bath water was on the floor as they splashed at each other back and forth.

Rowan's troubles melted away with his ice and Aelin forgot about all of her nausea and stress temporarily.

Aelin couldn't wait to meet her baby, and she knew that Rowan was the same.

Six months couldn't come soon enough.

[ateezinmymind]

Numb

Rocker! Hongjoong x reader

angst, fluff ending

tw: smoking, drugs, alcohol, foul language, vomit, depressive symptoms, sexual harassment and toxic behavior—please don’t read if sensitive!! I don’t condone these acts <3

~you wanted to be more like him and less like you

~“fuck off! I don’t want to see that shit-face of yours again!!” ~

Tears streaming down your face, staining the flesh with a trail of black from your running eyeliner. You can’t get those last words out of your head, taking in a breath of smoke, and exhaling through your nose. Trying to ease the pain of abandonment—you contemplate what you’re going to do now.

Standing up from the concrete staircase you’ve been sulking on for the past 15 minutes,, burning out your cigarette—you make your way down to the only place you can think of..

The blaring sounds of screams and cries piercing your ears—the smell of alcohol and smoke,, bodies together,, this...this was it. This was where you could let go...let loose..and live.

“I am a cancer. I am a creep. I am the black sheep”

Hearing those booming lyrics-you look up to the stage. Finding the lead singer screaming into the mic—and bouncing with his guitar. From the eyeliner to his ripped-chained pants..you were sucked into a void. Eyes burning from the atmosphere,, head pounding—now heart aching. You couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Hey baby..can I get you something?” —snapping out of your self destructing trance, you look up to the raspy voice speaking to you.

~“Let me buy you a drink...you here alone?” ~

The buzzing effect in your body-taking you away..you felt numb. You didn’t feel right,, blurred vision, limp body—you were useless. Feeling your head being shook and lightly slapped, trying to blink your way to clear sight—you started to fade..

hearing the lone sounds of laughter and booms—everything felt underwater. You couldn’t quite see, hear or breathe. Maybe this was what you needed..no one loved you anyway. For fucks sake-you got kicked to the curb tonight—by your shitty once called boyfriend. Who which you caught cheating—and to which led to you being pushed out the door-with nothing but a pack of cigarettes and a twenty dollar bill.

You were drowning,, choking, needing air. Desperate..everything turning black,, it was what you deserved... until—

“Hey bitch!!”

jerking conscious from the ice water—wet, cold and vulnerable..you’re surrounded by big figures. Your body finally awake, the smell of the place hits you like a truck. Only causing your body to respond naturally—meaning dry heaving. Choking—you weakly stand up to be towered by the looming men. Clutching your stomach—you needed the bathroom, slapping your hand over your mouth to control the potential mess. You wobble forward..clearing a path to your destination— All while the lead singer watches you from afar....

Barging into the bathroom you’re met with a couple making out by the sinks, and the stench of regurgitated essence. Only causing the feeling in your stomach and throat to worsen..abdomen convulsing you knock through the stall—and spill your guts. Face flushing from the lack of air—your nose and throat burn, and your stomach churns with sickness. Flushing your vomit down the toilet—your mind hazes once again...and soon enough you black out against the stall wall—helpless.

———

Hongjoong hasn’t seen you come out of the bathroom for the past 20 minutes..he was starting to get anxious himself. But he still had to finish his last song before ending tonight’s show-

“You crack the whip, shape-shift and trick”

The bright lights—beaming all different tones of red and blue. He lived for the stage, the rush of adrenaline when the whistles and screams came. Hongjoong was meant for the spotlight—his soul voice, talent for the guitar-and his aura in all. He was a performer,, meant to please his audience—and when he saw you come in tonight, all ragged, sad and helpless. He couldn’t stop watching you, you were everything he wasn’t. And when those men spiked your drink—he wanted to kill them so badly, but he didn’t want to risk his place.

Sweat pooling down his face, hongjoong finishes the last song—

“Everyone wants a ride. pulls away, ooh—from you”

The screams from people lungs, the jumping of bodies close together, and the sweet sweet feeling of glory—all lasts for a second....

Jogging down the hall towards the women’s bathroom, Hongjoong gets stopped in his tracks. A girl extremely tipsy, reeking of alcohol puts her hand on his chest. “Heyyy..youurrr, yyou’re that s..singer guy...” trying to push her away—she only falls to her knees. “Excuse me—move” not understanding his words she squeezes hongjoongs thighs, then wraps her dirty fingers around his pants chain and pulls him forward. “S..Stop being sooO difficult..lemmeee make youu feel g..GOood” rubbing him she fiddles with his zipper

“What the fuck! Get off me bitch!” Pushing her head back she lands on her ass, and hongjoong steps over her with disgust. “Go give some other fucker a blow” taking a deep breath, he tries calming his raging thoughts of the drunk woman. Speed walking to the bathroom, barging through the door he screams at the couple grinding on each other “GET THE FUCK OUT!!-“

sending them running away, he sees your bare legs from under the stall. Pushing it open-he wants to hurl, but seeing you unconscious he swallows the urge down. “Hey-babe?” Shaking your limp body, causing your head to slide off the wall and hang down. Quickly hongjoong holds your neck in place and examines your face and body.

Your damp hair and top-makes him curse under his breath...how dare someone put something so fragile through hell? Why did he feel the need to help you so bad? Was it because of your differences...that he felt the need to protect you. And harm all the people who decided to put you down, and treat you like shit..

Trailing his eyes down, hongjoong sees your legs-scraped, cut and bruised, then he can’t help but notice your attire. The big T-shirt dress wasn’t doing its job in covering your lower half well, when sprawled on the bathroom floor, so he decided to help,,picking you up and taking you to somewhere safe...

———

The shooting feeling of your head pulsing caused you to wake finally conscious.. not knowing where the hell you were. Under the sheets of an unknown bed, surrounded by band equipment-you started to panic. Breath staggering-heart racing, eyes tearing up you quietly sobbed.

What did you do?? You’re in a strangers bed, and who knows what they did to you. Wiping your eyes you look down—dressed in a loose navy shirt, and boxer shorts...definitely not what you wore yesterday. Sniffles fill the empty room, and the smell of your hair comes to realization. Shit..someone really cleaned you up..

Heaving in a sharp breath—you feel your heart speed up..shit~not now..you can’t lose your mind right now. Someone can come get you-and you’ll be defenseless and weak against them. Ripping at your legs—trying to feel your way back to yourself through pain..you just whimper. Taking your head between your hands, hanging low—tears fall on the bed covers. The sounds of your sniffling cancel out the foot steps advancing your way through the hall-

“Hey~you’re awake”—jerking your head up to the mans voice..you immediately regret it, because your skull jolts in a jabbing pain. Making you cry out and curl in a ball, holding your head. “Wo..woah,, you okay babe?!” Hongjoong speeds to your suffering self. He didn’t know what to do..looking at the sheets and seeing your tear droplets..he can’t help but scoff. You have problems, it’s unreal...how can someone be so destroyed—physically and mentally??

Unscrewing the lid to the cool water bottle he brought in, he sits himself next to your hunched self. Placing his hand on your soft hair, he gently brushes strands out of the way..so he can see your face. “I know you probably have a million things on your mind right now..but I need you to drink some water-please” the mans voice somehow soothing the tightness in your chest, you open your eyes

His damp hair covering his eyes, his gentle hands gripping the water—you weakly slowly started to make your body lift.. eyes continuously leaking tears, you gently reach for the bottle. Slightly grazing his hand, you quickly look into his brown orbs in apology. “Sorry—” Just from talking to him out loud you feel pressure coming up again. Heaving in a deep breath-trying not to crumble again already just in the span of minutes, “what am I doing here?”

As Hongjoong watched you take a swig of water he softly reached his hand with nails painted black to wipe your cheek of tears. “Well...you were unconscious—so I wasn’t just going to leave you there like a shithead..” gulping, and putting the cap back on the empty bottle you take in his words. Your body being overwhelmed with awkwardness, you cover your face and whine. “You b-bathed me..and put me into n-new clothes..”

hearing Hongjoong chuckle out, you quickly uncover your face with shock. Why was he laughing at you?!! What did he do?? “Don’t worry~ I didn’t do anything to you,, just cleaned you up...I wouldn’t make moves on a someone not aware of their own decisions..” looking back down to your legs your mind begins to turn against you once again...

~Of course he wouldn’t do anything to you..no one would want to anyways. You don’t deserve anything, because you’re no good for anything.~

“Are you okay??” Cupping your head, you slowly give him a nod..eyes pooling with warm fresh tears. You blink away the blurriness, trying to calm down and speak again. But all you do is choke out a broken cry, “I s-shouldn’t be here...I don’t even know you, I don’t know where I am...and I-“ looking away from him, staring at your bandaged legs. Droplets falling onto your skin, you sniffle and realize your once broken skin that was decorated with cuts and bruises were now covered and protected.

“I understand..please forgive me, I’m hongjoong..I’m the lead singer and guitarist from the band you heard playing last night-“ lifting your head by your chin, he gives you the softest look. “y-yes I recognize you..I’m y-y/n-“ finally giving you a bright smile, and taking the bottle from your grip Hongjoong slides off the bed. “So what’s your story?-“

———

Walls broken down—exposed to the male you only just met a week ago...you’re starting to feel not so drifted from the world. Slowly regaining and healing...all thanks to him, all thanks to the person who is the complete opposite of you. He’s given so much to your little self, and you took the time, to breathe....take in the good and actually find meaning to live. Overcoming cruelty that fed the blazing fire which spiraled your self valuing into the pits of hell..

he saw you when you were drowning, in need of help.. and made you feel worth living for. With Hongjoong, there would be no more doubt, he..the man in the spotlight, chose you....

Who would’ve thought you’d turn up here.

Where this new beginning started....

But only this time, you weren’t in it alone....

“Before we start up tonight, I want to introduce an important person.” adrenaline coursing, blinding lights, aggressive shouting and screaming filled the hall... “Everyone, this is Y/n...”

————————————————————————

tagging my wife @hongjoong-a-holic 🥺

~this is kinda a mess...don’t really know what I was doing....I’m sorry

lyrics from: black sheep by palaye royale + black sheep by kailee morgue!!⭐️

[cozy-the-overlord]

Dances and Daggers

Summary:   The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 2: The Piano

Previous Chapter  |  Next Chapter

Word Count: 3,715

Chapter Summary:  In the wake of the Summer Festival, Teki gets a summons to the Queen's chambers.

A/N:  Here it is! Like I said yesterday, I’m going to be posting a chapter a week every Tuesday. I’m really excited for this story and I hope you all enjoy it! 

Thanks for reading! :)

TW: mentions of child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02

Read it on Ao3!

The Great Hall was roaring.

The last night of the summer festival always called for feasting and revelries, singing and shouting, shattering glasses and toasting from tabletops, and the people of Odin’s palace were only too happy to comply. Frantic servants navigated through the chaos, pressing overflowing goblets into outstretched palms. The drunken celebration consumed the room, the one time a year every noble allowed themselves to act like peasants.

Well, almost everyone.

“What a filthy display,” grumbled Osvald, glaring at a couple kissing passionately, the woman sitting in the man’s lap. He chucked another goblet over his shoulder. “If I wanted to watch sluts tonight, I would’ve gone to the whorehouse.”

Teki didn’t say anything. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, balancing stiffly on the edge of the bench on the other side of the table. Any other year, her stepfather would be happily participating in the debauchery engulfing the room. She knew that he was only spitting poison tonight because of what happened two weeks ago, on the first night of the festival. On their way back to their rooms, Osvald had tripped at the top of the staircase and hurt his back, cursing and spitting and moaning about how he had been pushed. He had refused to go to the healers.

“What do want me to tell them?” he snapped at her mother when she broached the subject. “That I can’t walk down a flight of stairs?” With that, he hobbled off, insisting that he was fine.

Two weeks later, he still was hunched over in pain.

It gave the family an odd atmosphere. On one hand, Osvald’s frequent foul moods had turned into a perpetual foul mood, and Teki was frequently finding herself on the receiving end of his tongue-lashings for merely existing. On the other hand, they were only tongue-lashings. She had spent enough time with an injured back to understand that her stepfather was hurting too much to be bothered to hurt her, and that brought on a tentative sort of peace.

Brant tugged at her sleeve. “Teki,” he whispered. “Can you cut my food?”

She smiled. “Sure. But first—” she scanned the table for something with writing on it, settling on the nametags marking their seats, “Can you tell me what this says?”

Brant squinted at his name, mouthing out the sounds in silence. Teki waited patiently. She had made it her goal this summer to teach her little brother to read—honestly, he should have already been assigned a tutor a year ago, but since he was so shy around others, her mother had decided to wait. She had laughed when Teki had explained her intentions, but Brant was smarter than his parents often gave him credit for.

His eyes lit up. “That’s me!” he cried out. “Brant Osvaldson!”

“Right!” she grinned. “Good job!” Teki reached over with her knife and fork to chop his meat into smaller bites. Beaming, Brant turned towards the partiers. He turned back around rather quickly.

“Teki!” he hissed, pulling at her sleeve again. “Teki, he’s looking at you!”

“What?” Teki twisted around to see what her brother was talking about, following his gaze to the raised platform where the royal family and their close friends were eating. She locked eyes with the dark-haired prince for only a second before Loki whipped his head back towards his mother.

Teki turned back to her table quickly as well, cheeks burning. She hadn’t spoken with Loki since he gave her his dagger on the first night of the festival. That was likely due to action taken by both sets of parents, who sought to cover up the embarrassment of the Crown Prince giving his dagger to the wrong girl by making certain Thor danced with Teki multiple times every night since. It was … awkward. While Prince Thor was always perfectly polite, it was painfully obvious that there were other activities he’d rather be doing than dancing with a girl several years his junior, whose head barely came up to his shoulders.

She had wanted to spend more time with Loki, but that was awkward too. Teki was supposed to be marrying Thor, as her parents made a point of reminding her. She needed to be spending time with him, not his inconsequential little brother. So, Teki played the model daughter, model princess, model queen-in-training and danced only with those her mother told her to.

But she couldn’t forget how nice Loki had been. How he had sat with her when she cried, healed her rib, gave her his dagger—she still had his dagger, stuffed under her mattress. Usually, the whole “dagger-holding” ceremony was just that: a ceremony that ended with the night. But when Teki tried to return his blade, Loki wouldn’t have it.

“You should keep it,” he said. “To remember the night. If you want, that is. I have plenty.”

Teki’s instinct had been to refuse, to insist that it was his and that he needed to take it back, but something caused her to bite her tongue.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She was relatively certain he knew she wasn’t just talking about the dagger.

Osvald was sure to lose his temper at her if he caught her sneaking weapons into his rooms, so she was careful to keep it hidden. It was rather stupid, the more she thought about it (why would she ever need a dagger? What would she supposed to do with it?) but there was also a strange kind of thrill that would come over her when she took it out its sheath and admired her reflection in the pointed blade.

Brant was back to tugging at her sleeve. “He’s looking at you again,” he whispered. “Why does he keep looking at you?”

“He’s not looking at me,” she said, forcing a smile as she poked him in his tummy. “He’s looking at you, because you’re not eating your food, even after I cut it all nicely for you! You didn’t even say thank you!”

He giggled and pulled his plate closer to him. “Thank you, Teki.”

“You’re welcome.” Teki watched him shovel food into his mouth, trying to fight the urge to look over her shoulder again. The temptation soon became too much, and she allowed herself one quick peak.

Brant was right. Loki was looking at her again.

Teki turned back to the table, keeping her features completely neutral to hide the strange warmth that seemed to be glowing in her chest.

…

Teki stood stiffly in the middle of the Queen’s sitting room, picking at the sash on her dress with nervous fingers. The servant who had led her in had told her to make herself comfortable while she waited, but she was far too tense to even consider sitting down.

The Queen had sent word to her mother that morning that she wished to see Teki in her quarters, but she hadn’t given any explanation as to why. Of course, her mother wasn’t concerned with an explanation. She spent the morning fussing over what dress Teki was to wear, how she should fix her hair, whether or not she should put on jewelry (it was decided she shouldn’t, as her mother feared giving the appearance of putting on airs before the Queen). For most of the morning, Teki had been playing the role of a mannequin as her mother draped different fabric across her shoulders, hoping that her stillness could hide the churning in her stomach.

The Queen had never asked to see her before. They had spoken many times at balls and feasts, but Teki had never been singled out for a private audience. She told herself it made sense—after all, she was of age now, perhaps the Queen simply wanted to get to know her future daughter-in-law—but what if it was something else? What if she had done something wrong? What if the Queen was angry at her? What if (and this was the “what if” making her feel as if she was about to vomit) Loki had told her about Osvald?

Teki swallowed, pulling harder at her sash. She hadn’t outright told him about her stepfather, but she was clear after that night that he knew what was going on. He had offered to tell his mother for her, but she had refused. Doing such would only result in scandal for her family, and if Osvald thought she was spreading rumors about him … all the back pain in the world wouldn’t stop him.

She tried to push the thoughts away. Loki wouldn’t have told. He wouldn’t have! She had specifically asked him not to. What kind of prince would he be if he couldn’t keep his word?

But as time went on, with Queen Frigga still not entering the room, Teki’s anxiety began to be replaced with impatience. What was going on? How much longer would she have to wait? She found herself scanning the room for the first time since she walked in.

It was a lovely sitting room, although not quite as extravagant as she would have thought from a Queen’s quarters. The walls were of simple wooden paneling, the furniture matching with blue and golden accents. Sapphire curtains opened into a gold-plated balcony overlooking the palace courtyard. And in the corner of the room… Teki’s breath caught in her throat.

It was a piano. A beautiful, polished, mahogany piano. She found herself walking towards it without making the decision to move. It had been so long since Teki had last seen a piano. Music had been the first thing her mother purged from the household upon her father’s departure. She had taken all Teki’s sheet music away that first day and sold off the piano by the end of the week. While Teki was never directly banned from playing music, there was an unaddressed chill in the air whenever she brought the topic up. And so, after a while, she had stopped bringing it up.

Her fingertips grazed the keyboard cover, aching to lift it so they could stroke the ivory keys. She couldn’t, of course—what would the Queen say if she found her messing with her piano without permission?— but she longed to play. She missed the thrill of dancing across the keys, that feeling when you had the instrument singing for you perfectly in tune, so much going on at once but knowing that you were perfectly in control. Teki sighed, still unable to tear her eyes from the piano. Oh, it was so tempting…

She jumped out of her skin when the door opened.

“Mother?” Prince Loki called. “Father wishes to speak with you. He—” He stopped abruptly when his gaze landed on Teki.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, sinking into a curtsey out of habit. “Prince Loki,” she murmured. For some reason, her cheeks were burning.

Her curtsey seemed to spur Loki to action; he bowed politely. “Lady Teki,” he said. “Forgive me, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He remembered my nickname!

“No worries, my prince,” she replied, looking up again. He was smiling, albeit a bit awkwardly. “I was just waiting for Queen Frigga. She—she asked to see me this morning.”

Loki nodded. “Ah. I see.” They stood there for a few moments, glancing around the room as if searching for something to break the silence. Teki shifted uncomfortably. Say something! she screamed at herself, but it seemed her tongue had turned to lead.

Finally, his gaze landed at the instrument by her side. “Oh, do you play piano?” he asked.

“Oh-uh- I did. Or I used to,” she stuttered, shifting again. “I—haven’t, in a while.”

“My mother tried to teach my brother and me. Neither of us were very good,” he grinned. “I did better than Thor, at least, but that’s not saying much.”

Teki smiled. “I’m sure you don’t give yourself enough credit, my prince.”

“I’m sure you’re just trying to be nice. I was terrible,” Loki laughed, shaking his head. “The only piece I actually learned was this silly little duet I used to play with my mother, and even then I could only do the easy part.”

That sounded familiar. How many songs had she learned by playing alongside her father? Teki’s chest expanded with warmth.

“What duet?” she asked.

“Here, I’ll show you.” He sauntered over to the piano and rolled up the keyboard cover as if it was nothing, as if he was completely unaware of how Teki had been agonizing over that very thing minutes before he walked in. She eyed the Queen’s bedroom door. Would Frigga be upset if she found them disturbing her piano? But if Loki did it so easily, then surely it was allowed, right?

Her anxious line of thought was cut off abruptly as the prince began playing a simple melody with one hand, a string of eight repeated notes that she recognized immediately.

“Wait, I know that!” she cried. “That’s Elf Song!”

He nodded. “Yes, Elf Song. That’s what it was called. I’d play this, and my mother would do the hard part.”

Teki choked on her own laughter. Oh, this was ridiculous. “What do you mean, ‘hard part’?” she giggled. “The other part is just chords! It’s easy!”

Loki laughed too, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I told you, I’m bad!”

“But it’s so easy—here, I’ll show you.” She sat down next to him on the piano seat without thinking about it, the notes just flowing from her fingertips. Oh, she had missed this, feeling her hands on the keys. It was over far too soon.

“See, that’s hard!” Loki protested. “You’re using both hands! That makes it hard!”

“That’s how you play piano!” Teki cried in amused exasperation. “How can you play piano with only one hand?”

“Like this!” He returned to his chopstick melody. This time, Teki was certain he was making a point of being as stiff as possible. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to control her giggles.

“Here, you do that, I’ll do the chords.” She began playing alongside him. It was terribly disjointed—Loki was completely off tempo and finished way before he was supposed to, but by the time she caught up to him they were both laughing hysterically.

“You’re the worst duet partner I’ve ever had,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“But I’ll bet I’m the most entertaining,” he smirked.

“Sure, I’ll give you that.” Teki returned the smile. It was nice, just sitting here and laughing about something stupid. Relaxing, almost. For once, she realized suddenly, she didn’t feel nervous about anything.

“You should play a real song,” Loki said, motioning towards the keyboard. “If Elf Song is so beneath you, then let’s see what a true pianist can do.”

Teki hesitated. Fooling around with what was essentially a child’s exercise was one thing, playing an actual piece in front of someone was another. She wasn’t even certain she could remember any of the songs she once had memorized all the way through. She must have taken too long to respond, because Loki was quick to backtrack.

“Or not, if you don’t want to,” he said hurriedly. “I was only jesting, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, that’s fine.” There was something in the way he was looking at her, the pure apologetic sincerity, that made her determined to perform something. “It’s—it’s been a while, since I played, so I—I’m probably rusty, but, uh, here—”

It was funny, because she didn’t remember making the decision to play one of her father’s pieces. At first, she didn’t even realize that she was playing one of her father’s pieces. It just… happened. He had called it Aster Breeze—she remembered when he was writing it, ages ago when she still had to sit on his lap to see the keys.

“Do you hear that, Teki?” he’d ask as he played a new sequence of notes. “That’s the wind in the tree branches. Can you hear the wind?”

All Teki ever could hear was the piano, but if Daddy said there was wind, then there was wind. She nodded vigorously. He laughed as he continued playing.

Now, at the Queen’s piano, the notes flowed through her as if she had never stopped playing them. She still couldn’t hear the wind, but she felt it, tugging her soul forward and enveloping her in the music. It was an exhilaration she had forgotten she missed—by the time she reached the end of the piece, Teki was out of breath and grinning ear-to-ear.  

She turned to Loki, who was watching her with wide eyes. “That was rusty?” he cried incredulously.

Teki burned. “Well—I—”

“That was absolutely fantastic!” he insisted, breaking into applause. “How can you play all that from memory?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I-my father was a court musician, so maybe I got it from him?”

“Well, it was brilliant.” Loki’s tone had a definitive air to it as he nodded. “You should play more often.”

Teki’s heart, which had been soaring high above the trees, crashed back into reality. “Oh—” she mumbled. “I—I can’t—”

“I didn’t know you played, Tekla.” Teki jumped at the regal voice, spinning around so quickly that she nearly tumbled over. Frigga stood in the doorway, her golden curls pulled back behind her head, hands clasped and smile wide.

Heart pounding, Teki sank into a curtsey. “Your Majesty.”

Loki was significantly more amused. “Mother,” he grinned, merely standing in greeting.

“Rise, child, there’s no need for formalities here,” Frigga laughed, moving to sit on the couch and motioning for Teki to join her. “After all, we are to be family sooner than later.” Slowly, Teki followed her on shaking legs.

“Mother,” Loki interjected, voice authoritative and professional. “Father’s finalizing the plans for the Alfheim trip. He wanted to know if you wished to check the dates.”

“Yes, I will,” she affirmed. “I’ll look at those as soon as Lady Tekla and I have finished here.”

Loki nodded. “I’ll tell him to wait to send them in. Mother. Lady Tekla.” With an exaggerated bow and a slight smirk as her official name left his lips, he made to leave. Teki flushed, biting her lip to hold back the giggle. Loki seemed to have a knack for making her smile when she was stressed.

Frigga turned back to her. “Please forgive me for making you wait so long. I was working out the logistics of our upcoming trip and lost track of time.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” Teki said, far too quickly. “Your Majesty.”

Frigga laughed, a melodic tinkle. “Yes, I could tell. It sounded as if the two of you were enjoying yourself.”

Teki’s stomach turned to ice. “Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty,” she stumbled. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Relax, darling, I’m not angry,” Frigga soothed gently, rubbing her shoulder. “I’m glad that someone was appreciating the piano. I’m afraid I don’t give it as much attention as I’d like.” She smiled encouragingly. “And you played so beautifully—how could I be angry? I can’t say I recognize that piece, though.”

Teki forced herself to swallow. “My father wrote it, Your Majesty,” she whispered. “I don’t really think anyone else would recognize it.”

“Your father must be quite talented, then.”

It occurred to Teki that the Queen probably thought she was talking about Osvald, and her heart sank even deeper than it was before. Still, she didn’t bother to correct her.

“I’m surprised Áslaug never mentioned your gift for music,” Frigga continued on, unaware of Teki’s discomfort. “She’s always so eager to sing your praises.”

Teki cringed. The mental picture of her mother obnoxiously bragging about her to the Queen was horrifically easy to conjure.

“Mama—my mother doesn’t like music very much,” she said softly. “I doubt she’d talk about it.”

“Really?” Frigga frowned. “Well, I adore music. Perhaps you could come and play for me every so often?”

“I—” Teki stuttered. The Queen wanted her to play for her? There was something frightening about that thought, but at the same time, something deeply exciting. “If you’d like me to, Your Majesty. I’d be honored.”

“I’d be honored to listen to you,” she beamed. “But now to the matter at hand.” Teki tensed again. “The Summer Festival made me realize that we’ve done a horrible job of including you in our family.”

Norns, she had to have been talking about the dagger ceremony, wasn’t she? That’s what this had to be about. Her long-forgotten nausea from earlier came racing back all at once.

“I’m sorry about that, Your Majesty,” she whispered. “With Thor, and the dagger—”

“No.” Frigga cut her off sternly. “That was not your fault in the least bit, Tekla. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. It’s we who owe an apology to you.”

Teki frowned. “Thor already apologized, Your Majesty.” It had been an awkward, stilted apology, on the dance floor the night after the dagger ceremony, but it was an apology nonetheless, and more than Teki had expected.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “But I think it’s time we went beyond words. Asgard should learn to see you as its future Queen, just as it sees Thor as its future King.”

“But…” Teki was so confused. “What—how would that happen?”

Frigga smiled. “I think it’s time you began appearing as a part of the royal family. Taking your meals with us, traveling with us, sitting with us, and so forth. I think it would also help you and Thor become better acquainted with each other if you started spending more time together.” She studied her seriously. “Is this something you would be ready for, Tekla?”

Teki’s head was spinning. Becoming a part of the royal family—it was something she had always known to be prepared for, but that had still only lingered in the distance future. Everything was happening too fast. She wasn’t ready for it at all.

But her mother had trained her well. With what she hoped was a glowing smile, she looked straight into the Queen’s cobalt eyes. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Lover 3

Harry Potter AU Marauders Era 

Link to Chapter 2

Pairings: Sirius Black x Reader 

Rating: M- smut

_____

Breakfast the next morning was uncommonly quiet. No one seemed in much of a speaking mood. Sirius and yourself were completely ignoring each other’s existence. Sirius was busy scowling down at the breakfast in front of him. Remus, meanwhile, looked ready to hop across the table and beat the snot out of Sirius. You decided it was best to not talk to either party. Sirius was extra moody and your brother was pissed. Neither would make a good chat buddy at the moment. Had the situation not been so intense and your make-out with Regulus Black hadn’t happened the night before; you would have tried to ease the tense atmosphere.

You looked up when Regulus walked into the great hall. He gave you a nod before smirking at his older brother. Sirius only glared at Regulus until a glass of cold water poured all over his head. His head snapped up to see Marlene glaring down at him.

“What the bloody hell was that for?”

He snapped. Marlene resisted the urge to smack him.

“Do you really think that it's funny to mess with my emotions? You make out with my friend and think that it won’t bother me! I should have known. I have seen how you looked at her! It all makes sense now!”

You didn’t move from your place by Remus. Your older brother was being your safety net at the moment. Marlene glared in your direction.

“Y/n, you think you are so innocent hiding over there beside your brother like some two year old! The two of you sluts deserve each other!”

Sirius jumped up, not caring that he was soaking wet.

“Don’t you dare call her a slut. She didn’t do anything wrong and neither did I. Marlene, you and I have no ties anymore. I can kiss whoever the fuck I want. If I wanted to kiss Lily I could.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Lily muttered, fighting the urge to giggle at the expression on James’ face. Had it been anyone but Sirius, he would have been ready to jump in. Since it was Sirius, James wasn’t going to bother. He would rather back his best friend up.

“Yeah, he can kiss her if he wants to...I sure hope that you don’t mate but you can.”

“That was an example.”

Sirius muttered as Marlene continued.

“You knew that Y/n was my friend.”

“Yeah, again...WE. HAVE. NO. TIES. I have wanted Y/n for a long time.”

Marlene knew all about the results of the make-out party. Dorcas had told her how Sirius had done you. Marlene was still furious with you and decided not to say anything but here she was.

“Rumor on the street is you fucked things up with her. No wonder she went to Regulus. Apparently, he’s a wonderful kisser. I may have to try myself.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Regulus stood up and shook his head.

“Not a chance, Mckinnon.”

Sirius turned and walked out of the great hall without another word. He was mad (soaking wet and mad). The last thing that Sirius wanted to do was sit a moment longer with his friends!

“Sirius, wait!”

He turned to see you quickly following after him. Part of his mind told Sirius to keep walking. The other part, the part that won, told him to stop.

“What?”

He asked as you caught up. You took a deep breath before jumping in his arms. Sirius stumbled back a bit before catching himself on the wall. He wrapped an arm around your waist as your lips crashed into his. The kiss was soft...everything that he needed at the moment.

“Y/n, sugar, what are you doing?”

He asked when you pulled away. You quickly reached up and put your hand at his mouth.

“No, I need to say this. About last night, Regulus, it meant nothing. That….that wasn’t me. I’m not like that...I was just…”

“I hurt you, I know.”

Sirius said, sadly. His eyes dropped to yours finally.

“I should be apologizing. Y/n, that make out party wasn’t just a party. I have wanted you for so long. I never thought that I was good enough. That morning I had gotten a letter from my bitch of a mother and...my family makes me crazy. You didn’t deserve that though.”

You smiled.

“I know. They don’t deserve you. Can we try this again? Maybe a little more healthy like?”

Sirius pushed his soaking hair out of his eyes.

“I would like that. Y/n, would you be my girlfriend?”

“I would like nothing more than to be your girlfriend.”

You said going back for another kiss. Sirius didn’t fight back this time. Now he had the girl that he wanted. Sure he would have to face Remus sooner than later.

“We are both wet now.”

You whispered against his lips.

“I guess we can thank Marlene for that.”

Sirius replied as the thought of the two of you getting sick from the cold finally came back.

“We should probably get changed then we can continue this.”

Sirius followed you into your dormitory as he unbuttoned his shirt. He flopped down on your bed and gave you a suggestive smile as you pulled your own shirt off.

“You don’t have to put anything else on.”

Sirius commented. Did he expect you to sleep with him that night? No. Sirius knew that you were a virgin. He wanted things to be different with you. You deserved the wooing and Remus would really kill him if Sirius moved too quickly.

“Why don’t you come here and let me warm you up?”

Sirius said as he moved enough to let you slide in beside him. You swallowed as he turned your face for another soft kiss.

“You can touch me, you know.”

You whispered against his lips. Sirius raised an eyebrow before letting his hand slide between your breasts. The pink bra was driving him nuts but Sirius was going to be good (or attempt to).

“Lay back.”

You said before pushing your now-boyfriend backward and climbed on top of him.

“You made me come at the party. That was the most erotic thing that I have ever done.”

Sirius’ hands were around your hips pulling your closer to him.

“I didn’t know that was your first time. I figured that you had been with someone already...now that I know you are a virgin I wish I made it a bit more special.”

You leaned down for another kiss.

“I never said that wasn’t special. I actually enjoyed it. Sirius, I’m not afraid to have sex with you if that's what you are worried about. If it's my brother, Remus will get over it. Couples have sex. He knows this.”

Sirius laughed.

“Yeah, but it will be his best friend who has a bit of a reputation deflowering his innocent little sister.”

“It isn’t Remus’ decision on who I have sex with or when. That’s my decision. If I wanted it tonight, would you?”

You gently rocked yourself against the erection that Sirius had been discreetly trying to press against you. Sirius sat up enough to pull you back onto his lap.

“No. We aren’t having sex tonight. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to but you deserve some wooing. Me shoving myself into you the same day that we become a couple isn’t exactly my definition of proper romance.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Please don’t tell me that you read romance novels in the dead of night.”

It took all that you had not to giggle at the expression of disgust on Sirius’ face.

“No, I haven’t hit menopause but that you for caring. Just let me make this special.”

(6 weeks later…)

“They are kissing again.”

Remus muttered to James as the toy boys walked into the common room. James looked up to see Sirius and yourself locked in a heated snogfest on the couch. He shook his head with a smile.

“What do you expect, Remus? They aren’t sleeping together yet. At the rate, they are going, however, I don’t think that will last very long.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Remus muttered, resisting the urge to take his Herbology book and smacking Sirius in the back of the head with it. James gave him a silent smile.

“Come on Remus, you have to admit that Sirius is really trying with Y/n. If she was some other girl, Sirius would have charmed the pants off of her by now.”

Remus sighed. James was right. Sirius was really trying with you. Remus had to give him that. There had been plenty of nights when the snogging went too far; Sirius would be the first to pull away. He was taking you on special little dates that he had never bothered with when it came to other girls.

“I guess you’re right. He is being obnoxiously romantic with her. If I see another bouquet of roses in his hand I may vomit. Dorcas said their dormitory is looking like a mortuary.”

James chuckled. He couldn’t help but think that for Marlene, it probably was like a mortuary.

“Dorcas is such a romantic.”

Remus glanced up at you again. You were happy...the happiest he had ever seen. The brother in him couldn’t help but be excited about that.

Meanwhile, Sirius was the first to pull away from what had to be the 100th kiss of the day.

“Love, let's go somewhere. I can feel your brother’s eyes in the back of my head.”

You glanced over Sirius’ shoulder to see James and Remus watching the two of you curiously. It also didn’t help that Marlene was glaring from her place at a table with Dorcas.

“That sounds nice.”

You stood up as Sirius wrapped his hand around yours.

“We’ll be back.”

He muttered in James’ direction before tugging you with him. You knew exactly where the two of you were headed...the room of requirement. That was the one place that the two of you could make out in peace, without an audience . Your snogging sessions were beginning to get more heated with each day. How the two of you hadn’t slept together was still beyond you. There had been many nights that you lay beneath Sirius as he rubbed desperately against you. Any kind of friction was heavenly!

The night before last was one of the most heated. Your legs trembled at the memory…

“Touch me, please.”

You whimpered as Sirius kissed a path down your neck. His left hand was laying idly on your thigh. You were desperate to get back on top of him. If you could just rub yourself on his thigh or better yet on the erection that you were dying to have inside of you, you would have been happy.

“You’re so impatient.”

Sirius chided you. His tone was almost teasing as Sirius moved back up to nibble on your ear.

“It's been six weeks.”

Sirius nodded.

“I know. You’re going to make me come in my pants again.”

You shook your head before pulling away.

“If you don’t touch me I am not touching you.”

Sirius clearly looked surprised before recovering to his smooth calm self.

“Take your knickers off and get on my lap then.”

You didn’t wait to be told twice before quickly wiggling out of your clothing. Sirius gave you all of five seconds before pulling you back onto him.

You gasped the moment his index and middle finger drifted over your clit. Sirius pushed your hair away from your neck and returned to his kissing.

“Your soaking.”

He commented idly before slowly inserting a finger inside until you cried out. The stinging sensation made you attempt to push Sirius’ hand away.

“If you want me inside of you, love, then you will have to get used to more than just my fingers.”

“Here we are.”

Sirius’ voice pulled you from your daydream. It didn’t seem like it took long at all for the room of requirement to show up. Maybe the room knew how desperate the two of you were taking that next step in your relationship.

“In you go, love.”

Sirius said with a smirk before gently shoving you in. What the two of you didn’t realize, however, was Marlene was watching every move from behind a column….

______

@brokencasbutt67-writer

@authoressskr

@fandom-trash-worth-it

@hankypranky

@summer-novak

@shaylybaby2032

@shitfaceddaniel

@li0nh34rt

@tas898

@knight-of-gleefulness

@sprnaturallover

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts

@emiwrites3reads

@stuckinsaudi1

@marichromatic

@maggioli-m

@deanwherescas

@untoldshortsofthefandoms

@wontlookaway

@mycuddlycorner

[crow-writes-stuff]

Liability

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom:  Bungou Stray Dogs

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya

Characters: Nakahara Chuuya,  Dazai Osamu

Additional Tags: Whumptober 2020, i hope this counts as whump, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Self-Doubt, Fever, Prompts:, Waking up Restrained, Shackled, Soukoku | Double Black (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dark Era (Bungou Stray Dogs), Swearing

Summary: Chuuya wakes up shackled in a cell. He only knows that he passed out after using Corruption. Where is Dazai? Something is wrong.

Word Count: 3576

Ao3

Something is wrong. It takes Chuuya a while to clear his head from the heavy fog of unconsciousness and comprehend what exactly. He can't move his arms. No, actually he can't move at all. His arms are just the first thing he notices because they are shackled above his head, his hands hanging limply in their restraints. The rest of his body isn't fairing any better. His ankles are bound with heavy chains, digging into his pale skin. He wants to move them, but nothing happens. His head is too heavy to move around, but he appears to be in some sort of cell. It's dimly lit from somewhere behind him.

He groans as more sensation returns to his body, and he is hit with a wave of pain and nausea. What happened?

Corruption. Right. He and Dazai had been on a mission, and Chuuya had to use Corruption to take out their enemies. That at least explains why he feels like shit. What it doesn't explain is how he ended up here, shackled in a cell. Dazai usually makes sure they're both safe after a fight. Where is Dazai? A bolt of panic shoots through Chuuya, and he manages to look around the cell. He's definitely alone. Fuck. He has to get out of here somehow. He tries again to move his arms but except them starting to shake with exhaustion nothing happens. He soon gives up, head still heavy. This sucks. At least he's still wearing his clothes and the room isn't that cold. His situation could be worse.

His thoughts become more sluggish by the minute, and he gives up trying to hold his head up in any way. Dazai is probably fine. The bastard doesn't die even when he actively tries. Chuuya stops struggling to remain conscious. He'll deal with everything when he can actually stay awake for more than a few minutes.

When he wakes again, his cell is entirely dark. Chuuya can't even make out his legs against the concrete floor. At least he can feel them. Even though that feeling is mostly pain. The chains are still heavy around his ankles, and he's glad their not tight enough to cut off circulation. He has enough other problems already. For one, his throat feels like sandpaper every time he tries to swallow. Chuuya has no idea how long it's been since he had something to drink. But while it hurts, he's not too worried about dehydration. Surely, his captors wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of chaining him up just to let him die of thirst. If they wanted him dead, he would already be. Food currently isn't much of a concern as well. This shortly after using Corruption, he wouldn't be able to keep anything solid down anyway. He's honestly glad that he hasn't vomited all over himself. Not yet, at least. The nausea is still very much present. He tries to breathe through it and concentrate on other things. For example, figuring out where he is, who chained him up here, and how to get out. For once, Chuuya really wishes Dazai was here. He probably would already have picked the locks on their chains, all the way making fun of Chuuya for not being able to do it himself.

Chuuya groans both in frustration and pain. Fuck everything about this. He tries again to move his arms and actually manages to wiggle them a little. It makes the chains holding them up clink quietly, but nothing helpful comes from it. Next, he wants to move his legs but only manages his toes for now. He's still too fucking weak.

Chuuya sighs and resigns himself to his fate for now. There is no harm in trying to get a bit more sleep. It'll help him recover faster, and once there is some light again, he might actually be able to come up with a plan. Or maybe by the time he wakes up, the Port Mafia will already be here to get him out. One can dream, right?

A smarting kick in the ribs rips his dreams straight out of him. Chuuya wakes with a swear, needing a moment to orient himself before he looks up at the person responsible for the newly blooming pain in his side. "What the fuck." His voice is barely more than a rasp, and it hurts to speak at all. The guy towering over him is wearing all black, including a ski mask that obscures his face. Well, that immediately gives Chuuya a bit of hope. They don't want him to know who they are in case he gets out. The man is carrying a bottle in his left hand. Chuuya really hopes that it contains some water and is meant for him. Thankfully the man crouches down next to him and holds the bottle to his lips, tilting it upwards. The moment the liquid hits his chapped lips, Chuuya forgets how pathetic he must look, greedily drinking the cold water. Swallowing still hurts, but he's more than willing to put up with it. Much too fast, the bottle is empty and taken away from him. Without a word, the man stands and turns to leave. "Wait!" Chuuya rasps out. He needs information, damn it. "Who the fuck are you? What do you want with me?" The man only glances back at him and then leaves anyway, locking the cell door behind him. Chuuya swears after him.

When he can no longer hear anything outside his cell, Chuuya sighs. At least he's not as thirsty anymore. And the sleep did help a bit in regaining his strength, even if he still feels too weak. He looks around his cell again. Not only the floor is made of the concrete, so are the walls. His cell door is made out of grey metal. The room is lit by a small window above his head, and Chuuya has to strain himself to see it at all. By the looks of it, it's too small for him to get through even if managed to reach it. Except himself and the chains binding him in place, the cell is empty. Speaking of chains, Chuuya finally looks up at the shackles around his wrists. His skin has already turned red underneath them, standing out against the paleness of his arms. He tries to make his hand as small as possible to slip them off, but it soon proves impossible. He would need to break his thumps, and he's not about to do that right now. Maybe once he's really desperate.

Chuuya takes a deep breath and tries to activate his ability. Searing hot pain shoots through him. His vision goes from white to black in an instant, and an oppressive silence fills his ears.

When his senses return, he can hear someone's heavy, shuddering breaths. It takes him a moment to realise that they're his own. He's shivering despite the room not being that cold. He can also taste metal, and judging by the pain he bit his tongue just now. He desperately wants to spit, but he's afraid his aim won't be good enough. He'd only get blood all over his shirt, and he's already covered in sweat, no need to make it worse. He swallows instead, making his stomach squirm uneasily.

All in all that could have turned out better. Chuuya sighs. Everything hurts, he's shaking, and he still has no idea what to do about this situation. He leans his head back against the wall and winces when the change in position aggravates his smarting muscles even more. He feels so fucking weak. He hates it.

He's weak and useless, and the fact that he had hoped someone would save him is proof of that. Stupid Dazai wouldn't need someone else to get him out of a situation like this. Chuuya probably isn't even worth the effort of being saved. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he's been abandoned. Just shows how worthless he really is to the people around him. He probably deserves it. It's the punishment for what he is; Not human enough for people to care, not monster enough to be useful.

Chuuya closes his stinging eyes; he's not gonna cry. He isn't that pathetic. It's too much of an effort to open his eyes again, so he leaves them closed. If he dies here, it won't make much of a difference anyway.

This time he thankfully isn't woken by a kick in the ribs. Instead, he hears muffled noise outside his cell. He can't make out anything concrete, his ears feeling like their stuffed with cotton. He wants to shake his head to clear them up, but the roaring pain behind his temples stops him short. With unfocused eyes, he watches as the door is opened and a black-clad figure steps inside. They seem to be smaller than the man from before, but Chuuya isn't sure. Has the cell always been this foggy? The person kneels down in front of him, and Chuuya really hopes they brought him some water again. They're not wearing a mask this time. Huh. He's pretty sure that's a bad sign, but he isn't sure why anymore. Instead of giving him something to drink, cold fingers touch the side of his face. They gently force him to look up, and he winces. The person frowns, and for the first time, they seem familiar somehow. They appear to only have one eye, now that he's looking. Why is he thinking of fish suddenly? The person let's go of his face and stands back up. No water for him then. Chuuya sighs and closes his eyes. It's exhausting trying to stay awake right now.

Suddenly, he can feel his left arm slowly being lowered to his side. Where did the shackles go? His right arm is already following suit when he manages to open his eyes again. The person is still here, unshackling him. Chuuya doesn't understand the purpose of this but he sure as hell isn't complaining. The chain around his right ankle is removed, and he catches a glimpse of bandaged wrists under the black coat.

Chuuya groans and Dazai looks at him again. "So you're not dead", he teases, unlocking the last of Chuuya's bonds. Instead of waiting for an answer, Dazai moves to his side. "You've got quite the fever going," he informs with a cheerful voice, "Do you think you can walk?" "Sure," Chuuya mumbles. He isn't sure at all, but he already feels the other sling an arm around his waist. Dazai puts Chuuya's right arm around his shoulders and is surprisingly careful while pulling them both to their feet. Chuuya immediately loses his balance and would have fallen, hadn't Dazai been prepared for it. After a moment, Chuuya manages to stand at least somewhat steadily, while heavily leaning on Dazai for support. He's already shaking with the effort, and Dazai does not make it easier by commenting: "How is Chibi so heavy when he's so small?" Chuuya doesn't even have the strength to get mad at him. All his efforts are focused on not falling over. Pathetic. Dazai doesn't tease him further. Instead, he takes one step forward, gently pulling Chuuya with him. Much slower than either of them would have prefered they make it to the door.

Once they're finally there, Dazai opens it, careful to continuously support Chuuya's weight. They're greeted by an impassive looking Hirotsu, obviously standing guard. A new wave of shame rolls over Chuuya. They really had to rescue him. Hirotsu nods at Dazai and then looks at Chuuya, who in turn is staring at the floor. It's too much effort to lift his head anyway.

"Is he injured?" Hirotsu asks, and Chuuya can feel Dazai shift beside him. "I didn't see anything serious. I'm more concerned about the fever." They do realise Chuuya can hear them, right? Not that he feels like talking right now, but still. Everything hurts, and he would prefer just lying down. Of course, he knows that they need to get out of here first, wherever here is. His ears still feel like they're stuffed with cotton and it's easy to drown out the others' talking. He only starts actively listening again when Hirotsu says: "I can carry him." Wait, what? Chuuya can walk! Sure, he would have already fallen over if it wasn't for Dazai, but that doesn't mean he needs to be carried. He's not a child anymore. Perhaps the others might have actually believed him, had he been able to say any of that aloud. Instead, he only manages a low groan of protest as he's shifted on Hirotsu's back. When he stands back up, Chuuya sighs. Whatever. This takes a lot less effort.

They start walking, and Chuuya notices that Dazai doesn't leave his side. He's still obviously on the lookout for potential enemies but never gets more than two steps distance between them. Chuuya doubts anything is going to catch Dazai by surprise around here. He leans his head against Hirotsu's shoulder and closes his eyes. The others don't need him at the moment anyway. And he's so tired.

This time when Chuuya wakes up, he's not sitting in his cell. The room is brightly lit, and he has to squint to make out anything. He's lying in a bed with a thick white blanket covering his body, and his head is slightly propped up with a pillow. Chuuya flinches at the IV drip connected to his left arm. Before he can do anything about it though, someone takes hold of his other arm. He jerks his head around to see the offender and immediately regrets the action. Blinding white pain shoots through him as he screws his eyes shut. Fuck.

Chuuya only opens them again when the pain begins to recede. He finally manages to look to his right. Dazai is sitting next to the bed in a chair, a book propped open in his lap. He is still holding onto Chuuya's arm. Judging by the dark bags under his eyes, he didn't get much sleep. Chuuya wonders why.

"So the Chibi is finally awake," Dazai grins mockingly, but it looks weird. Chuuya can't quite pinpoint why. He just glares at Dazai, not entirely trusting his own voice. The IV may supply him with fluids, but his throat still hurts. "Don't pull that out," Dazai points to said IV and finally removes his hand from Chuuya's arm. The spot suddenly feels colder than before and Chuuya shivers. He's cold in general, he notices, despite the thick blanket covering him. Dazai leans back in his chair with a sigh. He doesn't just seem tired, he looks exhausted. Chuuya looks at him questioningly, and he thankfully takes the hint. "You only recently came down from a 42-degree fever." Oh. That's probably not great. "Since we didn't know how long it had already been that high when we found you," Dazai continues, "the doctors were worried about brain damage." Yeah, definitely not great. "I told them there wasn't much brain to be damaged, but no one listened to me," Dazai shrugs, earning himself another glare. "Even the boss himself came down to take a look at you." Chuuya makes a face that causes Dazai to let out a soft snort. "Don't worry, he only made sure you'd survive without lasting damage and left again." Well, that only makes it marginally better.

Chuuya rests his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. He's still so tired. Weird, considering that he already slept so much these past days. "Sleep," he hears Dazai say as he drifts off, "I'll stay."

Dazai is asleep in his chair when Chuuya wakes up again. His head feels clearer this time. He's still in pain, and the IV makes him feel queasy, but he at least manages to look around properly. The room is small and definitely belongs to the larger medical unit the Port Mafia runs. It's sparsely furnished with a hospital bed, a chair and a small table next to it. Chuuya eyes the glass of water on it, but it's out of his reach, and he doesn't want to wake up Dazai. He looks like he needs the sleep. Chuuya would feel selfish if he's the only one that gets to rest at least a little.

With a quiet sigh, he settles back down for the wait. To his surprise, it doesn't take long for Dazai to open his eyes again, immediately landing on him. A short-lived smile sneaks across his face when he notices Chuuya awake. Chuuya looks at the glass of water again and motions with his hand as much as he can. Thankfully, Dazai gets the hint and actually props his head up so Chuuya can drink. Once he has drained the glass, his throat feels a little less like sandpaper and more like something you'd find on an actual human being.

Dazai sits back down, and Chuuya clears his throat carefully before attempting to speak: "So what happened?" Dazai's expression darkens. "What do you remember?" Chuuya shrugs, causing a new flare of pain. He winces and waits for it to calm down before answering: "We were on a mission, I used Corruption, and then I woke up in that cell." He gets interrupted by a short coughing fit, causing Dazai to frown. "Dunno how long I was there but eventually you turned up, and now I'm here." "You were gone for three days," Dazai starts. Chuuya stares at him in surprise. That's somehow both longer than he thought and shorter than it felt. "We would have found you sooner if I-" Dazai stops and shakes his head, still frowning. "It's my fault they got you in the first place," he finally says, clearly angry with himself. This is unusual. Chuuya's not sure he ever heard Dazai admit fault this openly. "When I stopped you, I thought all enemies were dead," he breathes in, "but I was wrong." That explains it. Dazai's angry because they didn't complete the mission. Chuuya almost laughs at himself for thinking for even a moment that it could have been because he got hurt. "They ambushed us after you passed out. I think they wanted to take us both but prioritised you after I caused them too much trouble." Chuuya almost wishes he could have seen that. Dazai's not precisely the hands-on type when it comes to fighting, but he's still a cunning bastard. "They threw me out of their truck-" "You're okay?" Chuuya can't help but interrupt. It's not like he cares, though. Dazai, of course, laughs at him: "Aw, is Chuuya worried for me?" "Fuck off," he answers and looks away. Stupid Dazai. He just wanted to know the reason for his rescue taking so long. That's all.

"Yeah, I'm alright," Dazai continues, softer somehow, "I hit my head a bit, and I had no way of contacting anyone in the beginning. When I finally managed to reach Hirotsu, we had lost your trace. Took me almost two days to find their hideout and come up with a plan." That explains it. Chuuya's still glad Dazai was actually looking for him. It probably would have taken even longer otherwise. "We took out the last of the enemies, and I found you in your cosy little cell." Chuuya snorts. Incredibly cosy, yes. "I don't know what I expected, but you really looked like shit." "Thanks," Chuuya rasps, already thirsty again. Dazai moves almost immediately to refill the glass and help him drink. It's a bit weird, but Chuuya won't complain.

Once they're both settled again, Dazai continues: "I mean, you always look like shit after using Corruption, but you usually recover from that pretty quickly." Yeah, when he's at home and can properly rest. "Your wrists were infected, but that wasn't that serious. You also have two broken ribs. The most concerning was the fever, though. It caused you to dehydrate as well." Oh, so he should have been worried about that. "I don't think you even recognised me when I came in. I was talking to you, but you only reacted when I had already taken off the cuffs. Hirotsu and I got you out and back here as quickly as possible." Right. He remembers getting out of the cell with Dazai.

Chuuya contemplates if he should thank Dazai for the rescue when the other suddenly grabs hold of his arm again. Intense dark eyes stare directly at him. "I will not let something like this happen ever again," Dazai says with such dark determination, Chuuya believes him in an instant. He nods, taken aback by the sudden declaration. Dazai lets go of his arm and stands up. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake." "Wait," Chuuya says before he can stop himself. Dazai turns back to him, and Chuuya does his best to avoid his eyes. "I, uh... I don't blame you for what happened. And thanks. For getting me out of there." Dazai actually smiles at him and reaches for his hand. He gives it a quick squeeze before letting go again. "Of course, partner. After all," he grins, "I'd rather you die due to your own stupidity." Chuuya groans and lets his head fall into the pillow. "Fuck off, stupid mackerel." Dazai keeps grinning as he makes his way towards the door. "Anytime, slug."

[chelsfic]

Wish You Weren’t Here (part 1) - Diego Jiménez x Reader - Power fanfic

Read Part Two

A/N: Whatttt am I doing? Can anyone tell me? Thanks to @1zashreena1​ and @symbiont13​ @sparrows-books​ for being so enthusiastic about this. Oh, and (not that anyone cares lol) but I make a casual reference to Cesar Millan in this fic (wtf is this?) and I am actually firmly opposed to his dog training philosophy. SO. Just to go on record.

Warnings: Smut!!, Threatening, Exhibitionism, Forced Audience to Exhibitionism, Crack!Fic

You stare at the spray of white powder smeared over the top of the glass coffee table. How…how does one clean up cocaine? You nervously twist your cleaning rag into a tightly wound rope as you ponder the options. It’s expensive, right? Would Mr. Jiménez be angry if you cleaned it up? Should you–what?–sweep it into a dustpan and set it aside for later? There’s not a huge amount but if you swept it all into a little pile there would probably be enough to…use? What the fuck do you know about cocaine? What if you use your spray bottle on the coffee table and it goes into the air and you breath it in? Would you get high? This is ridiculous.

It’s your first day working for Diego Jiménez and you’re nervous. Actually that’s an understatement. You have a pretty good idea of how powerful he is and you desperately want to make a good impression and keep this job. The pay is more than you’d make cleaning ten houses. The downside being that the facts of household cleanliness with regards to Class A drugs are now–apparently–required reading.

You’re still hovering indecisively when Diego strolls into the living room. He walks with a confident swagger that you can’t help admiring. Your new boss might be intimidating, but a tiny part of you finds that intensely attractive. Maybe a not-so-tiny part. A part that really needs to pipe down because, at this rate, you’ll be fired before the end of the day anyway.

You don’t want to seem like you’re just standing around idle so you start to carefully scoop the powder using the cloth, plowing it into a neat pile that you intend to–you guess–set aside for now and see what happens. You think he has any tupperware?

Diego’s stride stutters to a stop as he catches sight of what you’re doing. He snaps his fingers at you like Cesar frickin Millan scolding a Pomeranian. You definitely feel like a Pomeranian right now. And he’s a…he’s a Doberman currently staring at you with murder eyes. Fuck.

Your typical response to fear and stress is word vomit.

You freeze in mid-swipe and look up at Diego with eyes wide as saucers, “Uh…sorry. Is this not–okay? I wasn’t sure if I should just leave it how it was. But it looked so dirty and I want to do a good job so I thought I’d just–”

Diego cuts you off with a hand on the back of your neck. His fingers dig into your skin, firm but not enough to hurt…yet. You squeak in alarm as he drags you away from the table and toward the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one whole wall of the living room.

“Uhh…Mr. Jiménez–sir! This didn’t come up in the interview, but I actually am not the biggest fan of–”

He marches you up to the window, steering you with his hand on the back of your neck until you’re pressed up against it, cheek mashed into the cool glass. And–as if your stupid body is in cahoots with your psychotic boss–you look down. You look down at the busy street which seems like it’s about five miles beneath you. Your head spins and your breathing picks up at a rapid pace. You can’t shut your eyes. Why can’t you shut your eyes? If you shut them you can pretend that you’re someplace safe…on solid ground…and not on the top floor of a high-rise with only a few inches of glass standing between you and death.

“Um!” you squeak, ripping your eyes from the view below and trying to crane your neck enough to see Diego looming behind you. You can just see him from the corner of your eyes, grinning maniacally.

“You. Don’t. Touch. The Product. Understand?” he hisses the words into your ears in that growling, tenor voice of his that is already imprinting itself in some of your shameful fantasies. What is *wrong* with you?

Your words come out in a rushed whisper, “Yes! I understand, Mr. Jiménez. Completely. I-I-I apologize. I wasn’t–you see, I’ve never actually seen cocaine before, you know? And I didn’t know if you’d want me to clean it up or save it for–for later. Or–another worry I had was what if I touched it or, or it went into the air and I breathed it in. Would I get high? And that would be very bad because, um, I don’t like being high. And also it’s my first day of work and I just–” your stutter over your words, gaze drifting back down to focus on the murderous drop to the street below, your eyes are welling with tears now, “–I just wanted to do a good job, sir. I’m sorry.”

He finally lets go of you, his hand dropping away and leaving behind the ghost of his fiery touch on your skin. He steps back to let you turn around and he’s laughing at you, “You thought you’d get high if you touched it?”

You’re too preoccupied with getting away from the window to reply at first. You take a few giant steps away from the glass and then you’re crouching down and planting your palms on the marble floor to remind yourself you’re on solid ground. Fucking phobia.

Diego’s looking at you like you’ve grown another head and you feel the need to explain, breathlessly, “I…don’t…like…heights.”

He steps towards you and you have a great view of his shiny, leather shoes as he crouches down to your level. He catches your eyes with a look that’s warmer than anything you’ve seen from him in your short acquaintance. He smiles apologetically and reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Seems like more than a dislike,” he muses watching you as you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

“Okay…” you answer, “I’m fucking afraid of heights! Uh…sir. Sorry! Sir. Mr. Jiménez.”

How can he have such a megawatt smile after manhandling you into a plate glass window and threatening you? And those dimples? Are you kidding me?

“Call me Diego,” he says. 

You look up at him, falling into his dark, fathomless gaze and thinking to yourself, Son of a bitch.

“Diego,” you breathe. 

“If you find a mess like that again just leave it, okay? I’ll have one of my guys clean it up. There are going to be some things about this job that you’ll just have to get used to. The most important thing,” here his eyes harden, “is that you don’t tell anyone–ever–about anything you see or hear while you work for me. Do you understand?”

You are seriously over your head, aren’t you? When you just stare dumbly back at him, Diego takes your face in his hands and bores his eyes into yours, “Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes…Diego,” you finally answer. Because what else can you say? You suppose at this point you’ve already seen enough that you aren’t free to just…walk away.

“And Y/N?” Diego says, standing up to his full height, towering over you, still crouched on the floor at his feet. “You think you can manage cleaning these windows?”

The look on your face as you glance over at the intimidating wall of glass is comically horrific, but you try to sound casual in your response, “I’ll…manage.”

He laughs and starts to walk away, “Good, because you left a smudge mark with your face just over there.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he leaves. What a little…but even as you’re thinking up a proper insult your eyes lock onto his butt in those tight jeans and notice the way his shirt strains to cover his broad shoulders and…yeah, what were you saying?

***

Later that night you’re finally finished with your work for the day just as guests start to trickle into the penthouse. You wonder if Diego spends every night this way–is his life one big party? You’re sweaty and your back aches and you’re still feeling wobbly from forcing yourself to get right up to those windows and give them a thorough cleaning. You just need to check in with Diego before you leave for the night but he’s still cooped in his bedroom upstairs and you don’t really want to interrupt him. So you’re just trying to blend in with a potted plant against the wall as supermodel attractive women mill about, outnumbering the male guests by about 3 to 1, you’d judge. You feel beyond shabby in your jeans and t-shirt. But at least you’re not wearing one of those housemaid dresses you had to wear for your last employer.

Diego still hasn’t made an appearance, and a younger guy in the crowd has apparently taken notice of you. You can feel every muscle in your body tense up as he starts prowling over to you. You just want to go home and take a bath and maybe think about the way Diego’s butt sways a little when he walks. Ugh, stop that!

“Hey, girl. You not having a good time?” he purrs in a manner he surely thinks is seductive but you’re very tired and very ready to leave.

“I’m not–”

Diego interrupts you, putting a proprietary hand on your shoulder and squeezing a little, “She’s not for you, Ángel. Leave.”

The guy’s whole demeanor changes when he sets eyes on your boss and he backs away with a little bow of respect that has you really, strongly questioning your sanity in A. Taking this job and B. Insisting on being attracted to your potentially psycho-killer employer.

You turn around and Diego is giving you that megawatt smile again. For a minute you just stand there like a deer in the headlights until your brain kicks back in.

“Um…I’m leaving for the night, Mr. Jiménez. I mean–Diego. If you don’t need me for anything else?”

He arches a wicked brow at you and his lips hint at a playful grin. “Anything else?” he laughs. Is he making fun of you? Toying with you? You watch as his eyes focus on a woman strutting by who’s probably half a foot taller than you and 60 pounds lighter. She’s wearing…not much. He licks his lips like a lion about to dig into a zebra. 

“Okay, then…” you murmur, backing away a little. 

Diego turns back at your words looking a little chagrined but still playful, “See you tomorrow, little girl.”

You make a beeline for the elevator, finally letting out a shaky sigh as the doors close behind you. There’s something about Diego that is irresistibly attractive to you. Despite his threatening aura or maybe–maybe because of it? He’s dangerous and powerful and a very bad decision waiting to happen. But–you think about the woman he eyed before you left for the night–who are you kidding? The decision isn’t yours and there is no way Diego Jiménez is interested in the likes of you.

And that’s a good thing.

Probably.

Definitely.

Hmmm…

***

You begin to form an understanding of why this job is so well compensated when you arrive to work the next morning. The whole main level of the penthouse is…a mess. And there are random people passed out asleep on the floor and couches. Glasses and bottles cover every surface, the floor is stained from spills. Napkins, plates, random articles of clothing. Quelle frickin nightmare. 

You take a deep breath and drop your purse into the closet by the elevator entrance. This is…fine. This will be fine. You just need to compartmentalize your priorities. You’ll start with the trash and move your way forward. You have to step over the sleeping form of one of the many female guests from the night before and an unkind thought pops into your head in relation to starting with the trash.

Not nice, you admonish yourself. But then you wonder if the girl had her hands on Diego last night and you find that you don’t really care. Why are you getting so territorial over this man already? Some of the only contact you’ve had with him has been him slamming you against a window to punish you for “touching the product.” That shouldn’t…that should certainly not be a turn on. 

No.

The place starts looking a little better as the morning wears on. By the time Diego emerges from his bedroom, bleary-eyed and dressed only in an expensive, black robe, you’ve nearly finished cleaning up and are just starting to wonder what to do with all of the people still draped all over the place. Your thoughts are abruptly torpedoed when Diego staggers by and the robe partially opens to reveal how naked he is underneath. 

You freeze in place, eyes fixed to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen and–possibly–straining to see if the robe will part even further to reveal a bit further south.

Diego catches you looking and offers you a seductive grin, “I knew you weren’t as innocent as you seemed.”

“I–what!? Yes, I am! I mean…no. I don’t know?” Stop. Talking.

Diego looks around at all of the passed out bodies and you jump when he suddenly lets out a vicious bark, “Out! Everybody out! This isn’t a fucking sleepover!”

You marvel at the immediate response as people start stirring and lurching upright, walking zombie-like to the elevator. Diego is walking towards you by the couch when he grabs a girl’s wrist as she skirts around him. 

“Not you,” he growls, collapsing onto the couch and letting his robe fall open entirely, revealing the large, proudly straining erection between his legs. Your mouth drops open and you feel your cheeks blush like the heat of a thousand suns. The girl goes to her knees in front of Diego and he lets his head loll over the back of the couch, just casually gesturing with a hand at his cock. “You know what to do.”

Before anything gets…started…you’re talking again, “Oh. My god. Okay, I’ll just go somewhere else while you…uh…do that–”

“No!” Diego barks, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly so you can’t move away. “I like an audience.”

You let out a little whimper of protest, but he just tightens his grip on your hands. You try to cover your eyes with your other hand but he grunts, “Look, look, look, Y/N!”

You let your hand drop away and are forced to watch as the girl takes his massive cock into her mouth. Diego’s head drops back and his shoulders heave as he groans with pleasure. He looks over at you, capturing you in his dark gaze as the girl starts bobbing up and down. He loosens his grip on your hand a little, squeezing gently and stroking your fingers almost…almost lovingly. God, this is–you don’t know what this is.

His face is open and vulnerable, completely destroyed with lust. His mouth hangs open as he emits broken grunts and moans. You can’t look away. The sounds he makes as he unravels, the way his facial expression twitches and crumples as his orgasm nears, his other hand grabbing the girl’s hair and forcing her to take him deeper as he roars with his finish. It’s all beautiful and sick and overwhelming and hot. So hot. His dick falls from the girl’s mouth with an obscene pop and he growls without ever looking away from you, “Get the fuck outta here.”

The girl scurries away and he’s still staring into your eyes, his erection rapidly softening between his spread legs. You must look like a beet, you’re blushing so red. And you’re so worked up with a mixture of embarrassment, arousal, jealousy and shame that there are tears in your eyes. This man has brought you to tears twice in your two-day acquaintance. That can’t be a good omen. 

“You’re jealous,” he whispers, reading your thoughts. “You want my cock in your mouth, don’t you?”

You finally shut your eyes against his relentless stare and a single tear falls over your cheek. 

“Please, Diego. Let me…let me go,” you need to be released from the intensity of this moment before you do something stupid. For a second you fear that he won’t listen, but his fingers loosen and he lets your hand drop away from his. 

You flee. Rushing to the bathroom and shutting yourself inside. Rather than burst into tears–which is what you’d been expecting–you stagger against the wall and greedily rip at the button of your jeans, diving your hand inside your panties and stroking yourself with abandon until you come with a silent sob.

Yup, trouble. You’re in it.

A/N: There’s going to be more of this!

IDK, @flower-petal-blooming​ @glowingpena​ this is bonkers, sorry.

[ilguna]

Ethereal - Chapter Eight (f.o)

Summary: Five years of watching your trainees die, you’re sick of it. She will prevail, she will win.

Word Count; 2.9k

Warnings; swearing, DEATH MENTION, DEATH, GORE. hints at PTSD

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

A thunderous crack fills the air of the arena. And for a moment after, there’s a peaceful silence, before more cracking echoes. The cameras snap to the dam immediately, and this is when you’re able to see that it’s breaking. Water is already spurting through the cracks.

Today is the day.

The cameras pan around to the remaining tributes, Annie, the careers and the girl from ten. All minding their own business. It’s early in the morning, nothing later than nine.

Annie woke up somewhere around seven, and she’s been busying herself since. She ate already, but then went out hunting to eat some more and save food. Presumably for the days to follow after today, which aren’t going to happen. She then went ahead and finished off the last of her water and refilled that with some iodine added.

She uses stripped, thin branches from trees and braids them in the pattern of a crown. It’s not very interesting, but she has nothing else to do. The pills that you have been sending her for the last couple of days have definitely stabilized her mood. But she’s still out of it.

The girl from ten was sleeping, curled up behind a tree and a rock so that no one would be able to find her. The second that the crack echoed, she jumped up like it was a cannon. The difference between a cannon and concrete breaking, is that the cannon has a particular way it echoes, and it doesn’t happen multiple times, overlapping each other.

The careers have been up since the sun peeked at around five. The gamemakers obviously wanted to speed it up and get the games over with. It’s been a month for the tributes already, and just about three weeks for you guys.

When the cameras are done with the poor, unsuspecting tributes, it goes back to the dam, which is when you see that the measly dribbles of water has turned worse. All the water is desperate to get out.

Another crack, the dam shudders in response.

The middle concrete is out almost immediately, the water rushing out. You’re thinking that there’s going to be a skeleton of the dam left–you mean that the middle would be the only part that breaks, and the rim around it would stay–but it crumbles.

The screen splits into five. One portion for each of the tributes, and one for the water.

Annie was just putting the finished, braided crown on her head, when it cracked. She jumps up, leaving her belongings and takes off running instead. Running parallel to the forcefield but also downhill. She slyly steals glances behind her, checking up on the water, watching to make sure that she still has time. All while dodging the trees that seem to appear out of nowhere.

The girl from ten is now on her feet, and she goes to scramble up the tree that’s next to her. She uses the most of her upper body strength as she tries to pull herself up. However, she’s not getting far, and this is when she must realize that she needs her knives for this. Stab into the tree and pull yourself up, instead of relying on branches that are out of her reach.

She gets down, grabs her knives and tries again but she’s much too slow. The water is hurling towards her at high speeds, taking down trees in the process. The cracking and snapping of the trees gets louder the closer it gets to her. She’s only up three branches when the water hits her tree, breaking it instantly.

The careers in the middle don’t know what to think of it at first. The boy had been scouting behind the cornucopia, so when he walks back around to the front, where it’s facing the dam, he sees the water. The girl comes around too, and the both of them are screwed instantly.

The concrete is mixed into the water. And from where they’re standing, it’s like a tsunami. The girl turns and runs faster than the boy realizes, but it’s too late. They’re in the mouth of the cornucopia, so all it takes is the water slamming into the boy to trap him. It carries him all the way to the back, and the cannon sounds immediately.

The girl isn’t so lucky. It sweeps her up, and the current throws her around, directing her right back into the cornucopia too. She struggles.

Another cannon sounds, it cuts to the girl from ten, suspended in the water. Face swollen from choking it down. A tree branch through the middle of her chest. The water around her runs red.

Then there’s Annie, who’s still running, and checking behind her. With the crown still on her brow. The water is basically at her heels, and she knows this. The checking gets faster until she does it one last time. The water touches her foot, and she jumps as high as she can.

It’s smart, because she gets halfway up into the wave, and it carries her like she’s nothing. She swims to the top of the wave, which is now carrying her towards the cornucopia. Her head will rise above the water, she’ll take a deep breath, and then she’ll go back under.

The girl from one is still being thrown around by the water, and just when she manages to get a rhythm down on how to get up and out, she hits something solid.

The cornucopia.

You and Finnick watch as she squirms in the water, the bubbles leaving her mouth as she drowns. Reaching for something, grabbing her throat, she kicks a few times, and then she’s still, and sinks.

It cuts to Annie, who’s on top of the cornucopia, knee deep in water, wood crown around her head. With the final cannon sounding, her face twists and she counts her fingers. Then, the water begins to drain, she catches her footing before she’s swept off the top of the building.

And it hits her.

“I win,” she whispers, looking up, a smile spreading over her face, “I win!”

You look to Finnick, “We have a winner.”

–

Without waiting for the doctor, you swing the door open. This is where you see that Annie is sitting at the edge of the bed, swinging her legs. She’s dressed in the outfit she was given, the one that matches what she was wearing inside of the arena. Her hair is pulled out of her face, and the second you enter the room, she looks to you.

She pushes herself off of the bed and heads over, hugging you tightly. You hug her back, and when you move back, she runs her fingers along her arms, “The scars?”

“All gone.” you tell her, “Nothing to remind you of the games.”

She nods thoughtfully, “Thank you.”

You had the option of saying no, but the games had done something to her. The last thing she needs is a reminder of what has happened. Even though everything after today will just be a huge reminder of what had happened. The tour, the house, the reapings.

You and Finnick had already agreed that she wouldn’t be a mentor. The both of you are perfectly capable in taking care of the tributes.

Annie and you aren’t the same person. You having that bear scratch on your back is a thing of pride. You didn’t just survive the hunger games, you obliterated them. You have the battle scars–quite literally–to prove it. You made friends, and had a lover, and you betrayed alliances. You were sick and you still managed to make a show out of the games.

As for Annie, she just survived. You knew that there was something special about her, but it wasn’t her chance of survivability.

You remember having this conversation with yourself just before the recap of your own games. There’s two factors that play into winning the games. Skill, and luck. Yours was made up of mostly skill with a touch of luck added in. And for Annie, it was mostly luck with only a hint of skill. She got lucky time and time again, and that’s the only reason why she won the games a couple of days ago.

“Are we doing the recap tonight?” Annie asks innocently when you begin to guide her down the hallway.

“Caesar will be doing the recap, yes,” You watch as she tenses up slightly, a frown coming over her face, and you continue, “but you won’t be on stage to watch it, Snow has made an exception.”

Correction, you saw Snow in person, which is when he had congratulated you on your excellent mentoring. Then you cut straight to the chase and told him that Annie would be in no shape to be on stage and watch everything that had happened replay back to her. He agreed with this and said that he didn’t want any ‘disturbances’–but he looked pleased with the fact that Annie has PTSD.

Before he could leave, you stopped him for a second time and asked him the important question. If you were to take Finnick off of the market, would he make a grab for you instead. You were relieved to hear him say no, and that Annie wouldn’t be a bother either. They’ve still got the winner from last year being passed around.

You held back the piping hot vomit that wanted to come up at that statement, because the girl was fifteen, your age when you had won the games. And instead you went off to go talk to Laurel about the dresses Annie would be wearing for the next couple of months.

“Really?” Annie asks, “How will that work?”

“You’ll be escorted off. The audience already knows.” you tell her.

You meet Laurel in the hallway, Annie breaks off to go into the room, and you look to Laurel, “She knows she won’t be watching the recap. Keep the topics light.”

“I know how to do this,” she rolls her eyes at you a little, “I had taken care of you, after all.”

You shake your head, “I’ll see you soon, got to get ready.”

She goes to do her own thing, since she doesn’t stick around for the lunch-dinner’s. She’ll probably be in the styling room fixing some things, switching bracelets out and all of that.

You head off to the private changing room that you and Finnick get. There’s no point in making it private if you two have seen each other naked more than once. When you get into the room, Finnick is already in his slacks, but shirtless as he digs through the shirt options that Pleurisy had laid out for him.

“Are they insane? This material is itchy.” he mutters to himself, back to you.

“You’re high maintenance,” you tell him, shutting the door behind you.

You wander over to the wardrobe, opening up the doors and looking over the options for a moment, then back to what Finnick is currently holding. Your hand runs along the matching shirts until you find the one that’s made of silk.

Finnick doesn’t appreciate you flinging it at him, but he won’t say anything because you had found a better material for him to wear. When you get a hold of what he was supposed to wear, you deadpan because it’s not even that rough of a material. What a baby.

“You are not going to survive more than a day in district four.”

He knows that he’ll be going back with you to the district, and you can see the excitement in his eyes when you mention it again. He stops mid-way up his shirt before he throws his arms around you and twirls you around. You laugh, telling him to stop but you secretly love it when he places his head in your neck, laughing.

“Home! Like four more days and then we’re home!” he tells you, stopping before he gets too dizzy.

When you’re back on your feet, he goes to button up his shirt again, “I think you should leave it like that.”

His eyes dart to your face to see if you’re serious, and you shrug at him in response.

“I’ll be stealing the show.”

“Everyone has seen it before.” you smile, “What’s there to look at?”

He puckers his lips for a moment, and then he continues with buttoning, what a buzz kill.

There’s silence as you take off your clothes and then trade it for the dress that you’ll be wearing tonight. Finnick zips up the back of it, watching as you put on all the jewelry except the rings, because they’ll get in the way while you’re doing your makeup. And then the heels follow.

For a second you wobble, because they’re taller than any heels you’ve ever worn, but then you stabilize and you’re walking around the room like a pro. You’re turning, and waving and doing a series of walks like Laurel normally has you do.

When you turn around on one of the turns, you see Finnick down on one knee like he’s proposing to you.

“You’re getting your slacks dirty,” you say, tilting your head.

And then he pulls out your mother’s ring, which was just on the vanity a second ago.

“Five years ago–” he starts, but you’re shaking your head slightly.

“Finnick–”

“–we won the games together. Just a couple of teenagers who had no clue what would happen after. And since then everything I’ve done has been for you.” he tells you, “Now that I don’t have to do that anymore, I can safely ask you this–”

There’s tears gathering in your eyes, and you try to blink them away because they’ll be ruining the makeup that took you an hour to do. And you’ll be going up on stage in front of the Capitol in less than ten minutes. If this happens, then you’ll have to smile through three hours of the games all while letting this boil inside of you.

You’re not mad at him for proposing. In fact, everything inside of you is swelling up. You feel like you’re going to hyperventilate because in your mind this can’t be happening. That Finnick would still want you after four years of distance, and you being mean and cold to him.

All it took was a month of being around each other, and it rekindled it all. You guys had brought it back to life and it took little to nothing. You promised yourself that this would all be a manipulation tactic but it never had to be. No matter what it took, Finnick would have come back.

Like that night in the corridor when you had said that shit to him, yet the next day he had still set aside that list for you with the sponsors. And he took care of it anyway, knowing that you were supposed to do it. And he protected you against those sponsors when they were getting too handsy.

“Will you marry me?” the four words come out of his mouth softly.

The fact that he’s using your mother’s engagement ring is the part that ruins you the most. Because you know for a fact that your parents would have absolutely loved the idea of Finnick. Your mom would have given away the ring in a heartbeat if Finnick had told her about his plans.

“Don’t tell me to wait until we’re older,” Finnick says when you open your mouth.

You laugh, and the tears slide down your cheeks, “You remember that, huh?”

“It was my first rejection. It’s hard to forget.”

You take a deep breath, “I will.”

Finnick grins, “I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer anyway.”

He slides the ring back into the place it normally is. But it so obviously holds a different meaning now.

Finnick stands again, pulling you flush against his body as he kisses you. Somewhere at the end of it, there’s a series of knocks, you and Finnick move away from each other, and the door swings open to reveal your prep team and Laurel. Dressed in what they’ll be wearing tonight, here to guide you down to the stage.

“What the hell did you do to your face?” Leo bursts, and then he hurries over to the vanity, “If you couldn’t do your makeup, then you should have just said so! We’re going to be late now!”

He forces you to sit in the chair, wiping your face clean of what you had done as he starts all the way over. Cleo and Beth mess around with your hair in the meantime, and Laurel laughs at the tornado that’s sweeping through you right now. Finnick is pulling on his blazer, making a face at you.

“Oops.” he laughs, and you flip him off slightly.

Leo does your makeup with the help of the other two in record time. When they’re done, you look better than you had before, and you’re all shuffling out of the room. Laurel leads the way, then there’s Leo, Beth and Cleo. You and Finnick hang around in the back.

“We’re engaged.” Finnick whispers to himself giddily.

“Be quiet, you’ll give it away,” you hold your hand out for him and he takes it immediately.

“Maybe the whole world should know.”

[thearvariblues]

The Bard And The Wolf - Chapter Six

(AKA Geraskier in the Metal Band AU you didn’t know you needed)

AKA me desperately trying to catch up my Tumblr with what’s already been posted to AO3. ;)

The masterpost for this fic can be found HERE.

6 – To Pull On My Horn

“And it’s… a one again, Geralt, really. Oh, dear. Right. That means… you get swallowed by the selkiemore.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and growled.

“Seriously, Vesemir?”

“Seriously.”

“So he’s dead?” a blonde girl (whose character was a princess, unsurprisingly) asked.

“Eh, he’s fine,” Jaskier said.

“Geralt?” Vesemir grinned.

“I cut the selkiemore open from the inside.”

“Of course you do,” Vesemir nodded.

“I offer to give him a bath!” Jaskier exclaimed.

“Of course you do.”

“Excuse me,” the girl said. “Is it going to be my turn soon?”

Vesemir sighed. He was getting too old for this shit…

*

“Roll for persuasion, Geralt.”

“What? You’re really gonna let him try and convince the guy that I’ve been kicked–”

“Congrats, Geralt, it’s not a one this time,” Vesemir smirked. “The courtier believes you, offers Jaskier a few of his coins so he could drown his sorrows and leaves you both alone.”

“I protest!” Jaskier said, pointing a finger at Geralt. “How dare you ruin my courtly reputation like that?!”

“I saved your life, Jaskier,” Geralt smiles.

“He did,” Vesemir confirms. “That guy would have cracked your skull open like a fucking coconut.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Yes, he would. Because your charisma is ridiculously high, while your strength and constitution are ridiculously low.”

“I’m a bard!”

“Yes, and if Geralt didn’t save you, which, may I remind you, is the reason why you decided to bring him to the party, you would have been a very dead bard.”

“I hate both of you,” Jaskier grunted. “I want to sing a song!”

“And what would the song be?”

“The Fishmonger’s daughter.”

“You want to sing that song on a royal banquet?” Geralt laughed. “This is gonna be good.”

“Excuse me, what is… Fishmonger’s daughter?” the blonde girl frowned.

“Oh,” Jaskier beamed. “I’m so glad you asked!”

“God,” Geralt chuckled. “Here we go again.”

*

“Well, since you have, by a fucking miracle, I’d like to add, managed to sort everything out and save his life,” Vesemir said with a pointed look at Geralt, “Duny offers you a reward.”

“I’m good. Don’t want anything.”

“I’m afraid he insists.”

“Right. Fine,” Geralt muttered. “I want that which he already has but does not know.”

“Seriously?!” Jaskier whined. “You’ve just seen the havoc it causes, but you decide to invoke the fucking Law of Surprise?!”

“Relax, Jask. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“You barely manage to get the words out when Pavetta clutches her stomach and vomits on the floor,” Vesemir smiled.

“What?!” the blonde girl blinked.

“Fuck,” Geralt said.

“Well, congrats, Geralt,” Jaskier quipped. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a child.”

*

Jaskier took a sip of his wine and looked at Geralt, who was just finishing his third bottle of beer that evening.

“So… That was a good game, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Would be better if you stopped commenting on my every decision,” Geralt smirked.

“Wouldn’t that be boring?”

“Oh, no. Some blessed silence would be nice.”

“Yeah, I don’t really go in for that.”

“Vesemir?” Geralt said, cocking his eyebrow at the man who was sitting with them at the table. “Opinions?”

“It would be very hard to find a player who loves his character as much as Jaskier does,” Vesemir grinned. “And I enjoy it when you bring him with you.”

“Ha! See?” Jaskier said.

“But it would be nice if you two stopped scaring off the new players. Three evenings, and every time there’s someone who I know won’t be coming back. All thanks to you.”

“Well, you were the one who got the new girl’s character pregnant, Ves,” Geralt shrugged. “You could have literally given me anything else. A puppy or something.”

“I didn’t like her. She obviously only came here to ogle Geralt.”

“Yes. Very obviously,” Jaskier nodded.

“She what?” Geralt blinked.

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Jaskier sighed. “She was blatantly eyefucking you the whole time!”

“Was she?”

Vesemir and Jaskier both nodded solemnly.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered. “Well, it’s obviously your fault. You and your stupid video! Did you really need to mention we play D&D together?!”

“Well… No, but…”

“Your fault, Jask.”

“Oh, come on, you two, don’t be like that,” Vesemir said as he filled Jaskier’s glass with wine. “It’s a big day tomorrow.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jaskier whined, taking the glass and drinking half of its contents in one large gulp. “I came here to forget about it. And now I feel like I’m about to throw up. Again.”

“A bit of a stage fright,” Geralt explained. “Come on, Jask. I keep telling you. You’ve played live before, haven’t you?”

“Yes. But this is my only chance to make a good first impression. The first time I play before your fans. And they will… God, they will all compare me to Yennefer. And I will lose because I don’t have tits and I’m not a woman and I will fuck up the lyrics and… and…”

“Come on, Jaskier,” Vesemir said and clasped Jaskier’s shoulder. “Breathe. Everything’s gonna be fine. You’ll be great.”

“How can you be so sure? You haven’t heard me sing yet!”

“I’ve heard you plenty of times during those three evenings,” Vesemir laughed. “Yennefer can’t hold a candle to you.”

“She’s got tits,” Jaskier murmured.

“Even as her ex-husband I have to admit,” Geralt chuckled, “that you’re a better singer than her.”

“Oh. Thank you, dear heart, that means the world to me.”

“But yeah, she’s got tits.”

“Geralt!” Vesemir said as Jaskier whined and downed the contents of his glass.

“I’m gonna die,” Jaskier babbled. “They’re gonna kill me. Or I’m gonna die of embarrassment. Maybe I should call Lambert. He offered to put me out of my misery.”

“Oh, come on, you drama queen,” Geralt sighed. “You know I was joking.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him and growled.

“What did you just call me?!”

“A drama queen, dear heart.”

Geralt ducked just in time to avoid the D20 flying in his direction.

*

The next day, roughly fifteen minutes before the gig, Jaskier was sitting in front of a mirror and staring at his reflection. He barely slept at night, and it was showing in his face. He managed to hide the dark circles underneath his eyes and his pale skin with a bit of make-up, but he still looked so… dull?

“You’re not wearing eyeshadow,” Geralt said from behind him.

“I… thought it would be a bit too much. With the… coat… Besides, it’s a bit… Yennefer-y, isn’t it? I mean, she always wore those dark, bold colors...”

“It would be nice if you could stop comparing yourself to our ex singer,” Geralt said. “And I think the coat actually screams for an eyeshadow. Preferably in the same shade. Something like… this.”

He placed a little jar on the table in front of Jaskier. The contents were truly the exact color as Jaskier’s brand new coat – a beautiful steel blue. And sparkling.

“Well, technically, that’s a pigment,” Jaskier said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m sure you’re right,” Geralt smiled. “Ciri asked me to give it to you, and to make sure you would wear it.”

“Oh, my sweet darling,” Jaskier sighed.

“I hope you realize that you have to wear it now.”

“Of course, of course,” Jaskier nodded, taking the jar in his fingers. “Where is Ciri, anyway?”

“She’s going to watch the show from the bar. With Vesemir.”

“Yeah. Right. He’s here, too.”

“Obviously. As our manager.”

Jaskier’s hand was shaking a little when he started to apply the pigment, but they got steadier quickly.

“Geralt, tell me I’m not gonna fuck up,” Jaskier muttered.

“You’re not gonna fuck up, Jask. You’re gonna be great.”

“God. I hope you’re right. Fuck, I’m so nervous, dear heart. I feel like I’m about to throw up.”

“Don’t you dare. That would fuck up your vocal chords.”

“Thanks for the support,” Jaskier smirked. He scrutinized his reflection again and pursed his lips. “What do you think? Mascara?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not too gay?”

“Gloriously bisexual,” Geralt chuckled. “You’re gonna confuse the hell out of quite a few guys.”

“Oh. Thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier beamed, reaching for the mascara. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

“You’re welcome, bard,” Geralt said with a smile and turned to leave. “Oh, and by the way, Jask – you look amazing in that coat.”

Jaskier was glad he was wearing make-up, because it at least slightly covered the blush that spread through his cheeks.

*

Jaskier was watching from the side of the stage as the members of the band took their places. They’d agreed on this, yes. They won’t start the gig as they normally would, by simply taking the stage. No. Instead, Geralt will first take time to introduce Jaskier to the fans.

Jaskier, who was, honestly, about to turn on his heel and run for the hills.

Except that it was too late now. Geralt was already taking his microphone.

“Good evening,” he said, and the audience cheered.

Jaskier gulped. Too many people, too many…

“We are Kaer Morhen,” Geralt continued, and the cheers grew stronger. “And before we start, we want to introduce you to our new singer. Ladies, gentlemen, and everybody else we might have here… Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, put a cocky smile on his lips and stepped on the stage with the first tones of Song of the White Wolf.

*

Everything was going great. The audience clearly liked him. He was laughing, winking and singing like his life depended on it. Inside, he was trembling like a leaf. On the outside, he was a perfect showman, simply enjoying the show.

And he was enjoying it. He loved the cheers and the screams and the energy of the crowd.

He was still glad, though, when they finally got to the one song that was exclusively Geralt’s.

“Now,” Geralt said to the audience. “You all know how much I hate when somebody steals my attention. And this little shit here does it even better than Yennefer.”

“Is that a compliment, Geralt?” Jaskier asked into his microphone and he heard the audience laugh.

“Absolutely not,” Geralt replied. “I think we’re all gonna agree it’s time for me to steal some of that attention back.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Jaskier smirked.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Why don’t you go backstage for a while? Have a drink or something.”

He was pushing his luck, he knew. Geralt was only supposed to announce the song and Jaskier was supposed to leave, without all this mouthing off. But he just couldn’t help himself.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, waving his hand.

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed.

“Well, it’s not my fault you cannot compete with awesomeness,” Jaskier shrugged.

Geralt took a deep breath, turned and took two steps towards Jaskier. Oh, shit. Even though they were basically the same height, Geralt somehow managed to tower over the bard.

The bard, who was kind of convinced that he was going to die now, but then he saw the tiny smile tugging at Geralt’s lips.

So he did the only logical thing.

He raised his hand and booped Geralt’s nose.

The White Wolf hung his head and his long hair fell over his face. His shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter.

Well, could be laughter. But…

“All right, all right, no need to cry,” Jaskier said, much to the audience’s amusement. “I’m going. You can enjoy your five minutes of glory. Since that’s all I’m gonna give you.”

With that, he bowed to the fans and left the stage.

“All right,” he heard Geralt saying. “You know what’s coming. This is The Last Rose of Cintra.”

Jaskier leaned against the nearest wall. His legs were shaking like mad. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how he was going to make it back.

*

The five minutes of glory weren’t even five minutes. All too soon, Jaskier had to rejoin the band on stage. And to make matters even worse, he was taking his lute with him.

Lute. A fucking lute. Why the hell did you insist on that, you idiot?!

He walked back on stage confidently, wearing his most charming smile as an armor to hide his nervousness.

The audience was incredible. Seriously, he never heard that kind of applause as a singer of Dandelions.

“So, did you enjoy your one song?” he asked Geralt.

“Immensely,” Geralt replied, and the audience laughed once again. “But I’m glad you’re back. You know, I thought we might try to play something new.”

“Oh. Really?” Jaskier said, cocking his eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “I was thinking something… A little medieval-inspired. And–”

“I think I know the perfect song,” Jaskier laughed.” It goes like this. Oh, fishmonger, oh, fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger… To pull on my horn–”

“That’s not the song I meant, and you know it,” Geralt growled. “But I get where you’re going with this. Just for your information, ladies–”

“And gentlemen, and variations thereupon.”

“If anyone’s interested in pulling on Jaskier’s horn–”

“And not just in the morn’.”

“He’ll be with us at the bar after the show,” Geralt finished. “Now, bard, there must be another song that matches my description.”

“Well, now you mention it, there is,” Jaskier grinned and his fingers ran across the strings. “When a humble bard...”

The cheers were almost deafening.

*

Jaskier was the first one to walk into the dressing room. The next second, he fell onto the couch when his legs finally gave out.

“Oh my god,” he said, his voice trembling. “Oh my god, I’ve never… I’ve never...”

“You were awesome,” Renfri laughed and grasped his shoulder. “They loved you. You’re the best, buttercup!”

“Don’t know about others, but I loved how you kept mouthing off to Geralt,” Lambert said. “Finally someone gives him what he deserves.”

“Excuse me?!” Geralt growled.

“Oh, come on. Don’t pretend it wasn’t fun,” Eskel smirked. “Especially when Jaskier refused to leave the stage. I was kind of expecting you to throw him over your shoulder and carry him backstage.”

“Fuck. I’ll have to remember that for the next time.”

“Excuse me?!” Jaskier said, snapping his head up. “If I am to be carried, I expect to be carried bridal style!”

“Of course you do, Jask. Of course you do.”

Jaskier laughed and closed his eyes.

“Come on, Geralt. Tell me. Was it good enough?”

“It was more than just good enough,” Geralt smiled. “Renfri’s right. You were great.”

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier whispered. “This was so, so much better than any of the gigs with Dandelions. You guys… My god, you’re giving it all you have. And Geralt… Oh, Geralt. How is it even possible to be this perfect? Your growl… The way you move…”

“You,” Renfri chuckled, “need a drink.”

“Yeah. I do,” Jaskier nodded. “I’m gonna take a shower and I’ll head to the bar.”

“I meant right now,” Renfri said, pulling a bottle of clear liquid out of her bag. “So, who wants some vodka?”

*

“How does he do that?” Lambert asked, watching Jaskier smile at a young woman who seemed to be completely awestruck by him.

“Oh, you know,” Renfri shrugged. “Pays attention to her. Doesn’t treat her as a thing that only exists for his pleasure. Looks good as hell.”

“Well, two of those seem like way too much work and one is something I can’t even do anything about!”

“Yeah. Not even holy water could help you with your looks.”

“Have I ever told you you’re a terrible bitch, Renfri?”

“And you’re a dick, Lambert.”

“Oh, thank you!”

“Seriously, though. How?” Eskel frowned when Jaskier winked at the girl and she looked like she was about to faint.

“He’s a bard,” Geralt smirked.

“Never thought I’d see one in real life,” Vesemir said, lifting his glass of beer. “And it’s your fault, Geralt, anyway. You’re the one who said that if anyone’s interested in pulling on Jaskier’s horn...”

“I want somebody to pull on my horn,” Lambert grunted.

“Ask Jaskier?” Eskel suggested.

“Nah. He’s not into bassists,” Renfri laughed.

They watched as Jaskier put his hand on the girl’s waist and they both headed towards the exit. A few steps later, though, a tall, lean guy stepped into their way.

“Oooh,” Ciri said. “Is that her boyfriend?”

“Cirilla, I told you not to listen and not to look!” Geralt grunted. “You’re way too young for–”

“I’m fourteen, dad.”

“That’s my point.”

“Oh, yeah. By all means, I shouldn’t even be here, in this club, right?”

Geralt turned his head and glowered at her.

“You are an insolent child.”

“Yeah, I know,” she grinned.

“Oh, come on!” Lambert moaned and Geralt snapped his head back in Jaskier’s direction, afraid that the guy might be trying to kill the bard.

But no. Absolutely not. Because Jaskier was just leaving, with one hand still on the girl’s waist and the other on the guy’s ass.

“Yup,” Ciri nodded. “He’s a bard.”

Lambert sighed and turned to the bartender.

“Vodka, please. And make it double.”

Continue witch Chapter Seven

[maluminspace]

I've never felt worse and morning sickness isn't always in the morning with Michael, at some fancy music business party.

C22 “I’ve never felt worse”

C12 “morning sickness isn't always in the morning”

‘Not now’ you thought desperately. The nausea suddenly hitting you like a tidal wave. You’re trying to listen to what the important music executive is saying to your boyfriend but it’s hard to concentrate when you’re sure you’re about to throw up.

The silver haired man is gesturing with his champagne glass, laughing at his own jokes and generally acting like the major boss that he is.

Despite trying to act like the captivated audience he’s meant to be, Michael glances over at you and immediately notices how the colour has drained from your face and politely excuses you both from the conversation before steering you towards the nearest bathroom.

“You didn’t have to do that...” you insist, using every ounce of will power you have to keep your last meal down.

Michael hushes you gently, quickening his pace a bit. “You and the little bean are more important than anything else in the world to me.” He reassures you, a tiny smile curling his full pink lips. “Ashton’s better at dealing with the guys in suits anyway.” The little giggle He tacks on to the end of the sentence fills your heart with fondness.

Despite his words you know that tonight is really important to Michael and his band. This party is meant to be a stepping stone leading to the next stage of their career. You want to tell him to go back to the conversation but you can’t really deny how much his presence comforts you.

Michael walks you right into the ladies bathroom. He doesn’t seem to care at all about the disgruntled glares he receives from the women gathered near the mirror on the other side of the room.

Not wanting your boyfriend to unintentionally cause a scandal, you’re about to tell him to wait outside for you when your body decides that it definitely needs to reject the contents of your stomach right now.

You stumble into the nearest available cubicle and crouch down next to the toilet. Michael stands behind you, holding back your hair and rubbing your back softly as you bring up the remains of your last meal.

It seems to take a long time for the retching to stop but Michael stays with you the entire time.

When you’re finally finished vomiting, you flush the toilet and sit back against the wall of the cubicle. Michael strokes your hair and smiles down at you fondly. He’s about to speak when a snippet of the conversation taking place over by the mirrors reaches your ears.

“He shouldn’t be in here just because his girlfriend got that drunk!” One of the women huff, her annoyance clear in her voice.

Before you can say anything Michael steps out of the cubicle and fixes the group with a stern glare. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business...” He begins angrily, “but my girlfriend isn’t drunk, she’s pregnant. She’s growing an actual human being for me, so the very least I can do is hold back her hair when the morning sickness comes on! Do you really think I’m gonna let a little picture of a stick figure in a skirt on a door stop me from doing that?”

Despite your discomfort, a tiny giggle escapes you. Michael doesn’t really have a way with words but his sentiment is so pure that it makes your heart swell with love.

The group of women seem taken aback by Michael’s bluntness and one of them blurts out. “It’s not even the morning, though.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Morning sickness isn’t always in the morning, genius!” He huffs irritably. “If you have a problem with me supporting my pregnant girlfriend, then you can just go and cry to the organisers...”

The women click their tongues and mutter unfriendly things under their breath as they make their way out of the bathroom.

Only when the door clicks shut behind the last woman, does the tension in Michael’s shoulders ease. He takes a deep calming breath before turning back to you. “I’m sorry about that, beautiful.” He smiles gently. “How’re you feeling now?”

You reach up to take your boyfriend’s hand. “I’ve never felt worse, actually.” You reply honestly, hating the way the the nausea is still plaguing you, even though you have nothing left to puke. “But you’re incredible and I’m the luckiest preggo in the world to have you in my corner. I don’t know how anyone could do this on their own.”

Michael’s cheeks heat up in a little blush as he picks up your handbag and opens the clasp. He pulls out a packet of gum and hands it to you. “I’m the lucky one, beautiful.” He smiles, “you’re growing our little baby and it’s not easy! I know you hate puking and I’m sorry, if I could do it instead of you, I would.”

You take the packet of gum and unwrap one of the sticks before popping it into your mouth. “You’re worse than me when it comes to puking!” You giggle, “you’d be crying the whole time you were pregnant.”

Michael makes a faux offended noise. “I’d be dope at being pregnant.” He insists, “the baby would love having exclusive access to my jamming sessions with the boys! Ohhhh the baby would be practically be part of the band!” He grins, clearly enjoying his little daydream.

You chuckle fondly as he offers his hand out to help you up. “The bump would get in the way of your guitar.” You point out, grappling your handbag with your free hand as you allow Michael to pull you up. “You’d go crazy if you couldn’t play that thing for the last trimester.”

Michael scoffs as he opens the door for you. “I’ve made one guitar already, I’ll invent one that fits perfectly around my baby bump!”

Rolling your eyes, you step out into the main room of the party, only to be greeted by a member of the security team. The typically tall, bald and muscular man wearing an earpiece and a black suit fixes Michael with a disapproving glare. “Excuse me sir...” he says seriously, “you’re not permitted to use the ladies room.”

You can tell by the way that your boyfriend narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw that he’s about to repeat his little outburst. It’d be terrible for him to create a scene at such an important party, though. If one of the many executives in the room thinks Michael’s a trouble maker, it could effect the whole future of his band and you can’t allow that.

“I’m sorry, it was my fault.” You smile sweetly. “I’m pregnant you see, he was just comforting me. Morning sickness really sucks.”

The security man looks slightly uncomfortable, which actually makes you quite pleased. That sort of fragile masculinity that cracks every time a woman mentions anything like pregnancy or periods, is something that you have no problem at all exploiting. “He was just trying to be a good boyfriend, I’m sure you’d do the same for your wife or girlfriend, wouldn’t you?”

Before the security guard can reply the record label boss that’d been talking to Michael earlier claps the muscular man on the shoulder. “Ah no harm was done!” The older man laughs, “It would have been much worse if she’d puked in one of the expensive plant pots or something.”

The security guard seems satisfied the exec isn’t angry about the incident and stalks off back into the crowd without a backward glance.

“You okay now, Miss?” The older man asks you politely. “My wife had the worst sickness with our third baby. I really don’t know how you girls do it!”

You smile gratefully, offering a tiny shrug. “It helps when the daddy-to-be is there to hold back my hair.”

The label boss nods and raises his glass in Michael’s direction. “It’s nice to know there’s still some men out there who know how to support their pregnant partners.” He smiles kindly. “You’ll make a good dad, kid. I’ll do everything I can to make sure we can fit your schedules around your family life.”

Michael seems to beam at the compliment and the insulation that the executive was was going help the band to the next level of success. He nods graciously and mutters a bewildered thank you, wrapping an arm around you as the executive heads off towards the bar.

You’re prouder of Michael in that moment than you think you’ve ever been. It’s only when a startled voice whispers, “did he just say what I think he did?” That you realise Ashton had been lingering nearby the whole time.

Michael still looks kind of dumbstruck as he replies, “I think so...”

Ashton pulls the two of you into an excited hug, planting happy kisses into you your hair and then Michael’s. “I think that was kind of a confirmation that we’re in!” He grins. “C’mon Mike, lets go tell Luke and Cal!”

Your boyfriend hesitates, obviously not wanting to leave your side. “It’s fine, babe.” You smile easily. “I’m gonna order myself a glass of the fanciest soft drink they have here and be on the look out for pretty girls I can hook Cal up with.”

Michael and Ashton both yell a variation of “That’s usually my job!” at the same time, before bursting into laughter.

“Well you’re both obviously shit at it.” You smirk playfully. “It looks like I’ve already secured you guys a big contract tonight. If I can find Calum’s future wife as well, I’ll definitely have earned my bragging rights!”

Michael kisses you briefly, smiling into it like a lovestruck teenager. “You already have, beautiful.”

Masterlist

[magaprima]

A Midwinter’s Tale Episode Thoughts

Lilith’s first scene is her actually praying, in full on Christian parallel, though of course she’s praying to Satan. I find it interesting and very revealing that someone so close to Lucifer, his foot soldier, his concubine, someone who has been at his right hand side since the beginning, has to go through regular old prayer to reach out to him. Now, we know from a later episode, that because Lucifer was not born a God, he’s not omniscient or omnipotent, so he can’t be just listening into the prayer by chance, so despite it looking like a regular prayer, I suspect it’s actually a form of spell, and the clasped hands are a nice visual for Lilith’s devotion (and desperation), but it is distancing. It shows us that even though she does everything for him, she is at the back of the queue so-to-speak, just like everyone else. She doesn’t get the special treatment and attention she has rightfully earned. 

“Answer me, I did what you asked, Sabrina signed her name in your Book of the Beast. Why have you forsaken me? Why have you not called me home to the Pit?”

This is all very revealing of what Lilith’s true relationship is, that she is more servant than foot soldier, that she has become what she initially refused to be for the False God. She has become, to use an ASOIAF term, a Kneeler (which as a choice of phrase, has it’s own related connotations). Also the pronoun useage and phrasing here shows how much she isn’t simply working with Satan, she is being ordered by him, it’s here that we see how little of what she did in Part 1 was not her own choice (we know she really doesn’t care about Sabrina signing a Book, or having an apocalypse etc) and is not even under instuction or guidance, but under order. 

You know ‘I did what you asked’ is very abuse victim reasoning. Look I did this thing you asked me to do, and now you approve of me, right? And now I won’t be punished and maybe you’ll like me and I won’t have to be punished again and everything will be better. A lot of victim of domestic abuse constantly reason that if they do this one thing, fulfil this one request, then things will go back to how they were in the beginning and the abuser will stop being so cruel and treat them like an equal again, lovingly (and, in Lilith’s case, give her a crown). 

This whole sentence is all about possessives and shows how much Lucifer owns. I did what you asked. Signed her name in your Book of the Beast. Why have you not called me home. All possessive and ownership. Even returning home has to be at his instruction, not her own free will. 

“Has my mission changed? Say the word. Give my life meaning. Give me a sign”

God this sentence makes me thing, the whole ‘Give my life meaning’ is just vomit-inducing, the idea that Lilith’s life has no meaning beyond what the Dark Lord allows her. But that is exactly what her life has been since he changed and become the ‘twisted thing of darkness’. She has no existence beyond him, he is everything to her, because he has ensured that he is all she has. We can presume the whole killing Adam and making her eat him is not the first time that sort of thing has happened in order to stop her making emotional connections outside of Lucifer. 

After she says ‘give me a sign’ Sabrina walks in and we presume, from the way she smiles at the girl and says her name, that Lilith thinks this 'sign’ of Sabrina entering is from the Dark Lord and that she’s needed to do some more Sabrina-related shit, but it could be theorised, from an audience standpoint, that actually the sign is Sabrina herself, trying to tell Lilith there are other people out there to attach herself to, that there are other viewpoints and attitudes and experiences out in the world other than the singular one she has known. But, Lilith seems, currently, oblivious to that concept and seems instead to be genuinely pleased that, apparently, the Dark Lord has another task for her, that her ‘life has meaning’, so when she smiles at Sabrina it’s genuine and eager. 

“Remember when I went to Limbo?” “Vividly”

Lilith’s expression here is all prepared, it’s her whole act of the tired yet affectionate mentor who remembers the insanity her student drags her on, but when Sabrina adds she saw her Mother there, Lilith’s whole face falls like ‘well that’s brand new information I didn’t want to hear’, she just has a full wide-eyed oh shit expression, but thankfully, Sabrina is too busy personal monologuing to notice, because Lilith looks nervous as hell a she continues to effect being all ‘really? how interesting and shocking. hmmm’ And then Sabrina makes it even worse by adding she wants to do a seance to reach her. Lilith’s breathing is shallow and mildly panicked, like she thought she was done with all this, but Sabrina just throws more issues. Lilith is trying to think as quickly as possible here. 

“And there’s no way I’m going to dissuade you, is there?”

I think this question is totally genuine, like there’s not a hope in heaven I’m going to stop you doing this and make my life easier? She knows Sabrina at this point and she knows that means she’ll go through with it. 

“And if I deny you, you’ll just ask your chums at the Academy for a Book of the Dead, won’t you?”

Yeah, Lilith knows Sabrina extremely well.

“Well then, who am I to keep a daughter from her mother?”

Translation: well, what other choice do I have but to let you fucking do it and just try and sabotage it instead. 

“But, Sabrina, be careful. Mind nothing unspeakable breaks through with your Mumsy”

She’s already sewing the seeds of the idea that things can wrong, that bad things can get in, so that when Lilith does sabotage it, Sabrina won’t be suspicious, she’ll think it’s just a downside of the seance. Also...’mumsy’??

“Thanks for the book, Ms Wardwell. You’re the best”

Another genuine thanks from Sabrina and Lilith dismisses it and can’t look at her directly as she does so. She’s playing a part, it’s true, but after the exorcism incident I think genuine thanks make Lilith so uncomfortable, because no one else has given them, that she can’t look at Sabrina when they happen, because it’s too unsettling for one, but it makes lying to her more complicated.

“Oh Stolas, a demoness’ work is never done, is it?”

No doubt she now thinks this is why the Dark Lord hasn’t called her home yet. She’s now able to reason that she hasn’t been forgotten or dismissed, but that she has more important work to do. Also, the fact she has stuffed Stolas and still speaks to him is her yet again, holding onto connections that have long since died (metaphorically in the case of the Dark Lord, literally in the case of Stolas). We get the vibe in Part 1 that Stolas (who might be more demon than familiar, if we consider his name origins) perhaps often belittles Lilith, reminding her that the Dark Lord doesn’t think her worthy etc, it might even be possible he was a spy before he was resurrected, we don’t know, but either way, she was driven to snap his neck in a fit of rage...and yet still she keeps him. Stuffs him and still speaks to him. This shows she’s someone who doesn’t shake connections off easily, but also that she is lonely, that she has no true companion of any variety, no one to talk to, and that is a very, very lonely existence. 

“Who knows what disturbing things Mommy Dearest might say to her daughter fair?”

What things is Lilith thinking of? That Diana would reveal who Lilith really is? Or is it something darker? Perhaps the circumstances behind her death? Something even Lilith hasn’t thought of herself?

“And after we’ve just got her to sign on the dotted line”

Lilith shows real panic after saying this, hand to mouth, eyes wide. Lilith really, genuinely fears the idea that Sabrina will suddenly retract her signature, or something else will go wrong due to Diana, because if anything does change and/or go wrong, Lilith is the one who will be blamed and the Dark Lord would be angry and unmerciful. So Lilith determinedly sets into action; ‘No, best to interrupt the proceedings, I think’ she declares, and we can already see her mind whirring with ideas. She’s a quick plotter. 

And then we come to the Gingerbread House and it’s inhabitants. Unless Lilith’s magical prowess involves being able to summon gingerbread creations out of thin air, for the purpose of this yuletide spell, Lilith freaking baked a bunch of gingerbread in Mary Wardwell’s kitchen, and then put it together and decorated it. Like, that is a hysterical image, so I don’t care if there’s a less crazy alternative theory, this is the one I accept; that Lilith spent hours baking sweet treats and decorating them. A process in which she decided Hilda should have green hair. 

“Warden of the longest night, fey things fear the Yule fire’s light. But Yule flame dead and portals laid bare, now darkness comes to trick and to tear”

This spell is oddly haunting and festive, like it’s an enjoyable spell. But I also always enjoy when Lilith uses her witchy side rather than her demonic side, because that’s who she is originally, and her spells are always more old-school reflecting how long she’s been a witch, and I just enjoy it. Although, when my Mum and I first watched this episode on Winter Solstice, my Mum went ‘Oh well that’s not fair. You light a Yule Log, it stays lit. Putting it out with brandy down a gingerbread chimney isn’t fair’ so she was very annoyed by the invasive nature of that spell, haha. 

The final Lilith scene where she eats the gingerbread I think proves that she baked it all and the reason why; to eat it. Also, I love that Lilith is a Dunker. Pops that Sabrina gingebread girl right in her tea. 

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 30

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: life, guys; sorry this took longer than expected.

Warnings: Swearing? Bad driving?

Abstract: The Apartment, Some Like It Hot, The Seven Year Itch, Sabrina...

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

Jim Hutton had always wanted to drive Roger’s Alfa Romeo. But, when the cards were down on the table, who didn’t? Jim wouldn’t have described himself as a gear-head. He might have said he was a good Catholic boy from Ireland who had a perchance for good bar-tending skills, barber-y, and cater-waitering. He wasn’t into cars as a hobby, and for Jim there was a clear class divide between people who drove cars for necessity and people who collected cars. Collecting cars was something people with money did. For fun. Purely for fun; this wasn’t always a concept Jim easily wrapped his head around: spending money for fun. And, until Freddie, Jim had never been in possession of having enough money to really peruse the finer things in life. A car for Jim had always been a means to get to and from work and never as an instrument of enjoyment. And Freddie, generous to a fault, never ceased to shower Jim with everything he had been denied or had denied himself through strict duty of survival. Roger, who maybe had seven cars all told (that Jim knew about), had names for each of them, claimed they all had personalities, different capabilities, and loyalties, saw cars companions.

“Roger?” Jim said, living his best life, top down, having really opened up the goddess in red. They were doing about 80 mph.

Roger moaned. His blond hair was whipping in the breeze, his head hung over the side of his door; he had already vomited once. His blazer had been abandoned. Come to think of it, he was feeling abandoned himself. Abandoned by his own abilities of perception and common sense. He kept thinking about Deacy. What he had said. And why. And that he’d give anything to fix it; he’d give anything to fix Deacy, and had. He had been the one to see her body, after all. And he’d do it again, if the choice came his way again. He was always willing to torture himself at the expense of others. And boy, he had really outdone himself this time. He knew exactly the right words to say to destroy his best friend, and he had said them, without a second thought, without caring, with the desire to harm. It hadn’t been his finest moment. I mean, he had dazzled; the audience had been captivated, and he had always loved that unique feeling, the feeling of holding a group of people in the palm of his hand. It was a rush like no other. It was one thing to do it how Freddie did it, with his vocals and his acrobatics, but it was an entirely different enterprise to do it with the tone of your voice, the flick of a wrist, and a well placed designer suit. So, in a very real sense, it had been one of his finer moments, but in an entirely different sense, it had been his worst. What have I done? He couldn’t dance around it any longer.

“Hey, Roger?!” Jim repeated, ready to perform, trying his hardest to reach Roger.

“Not again...” Roger sighed.

Doing his best John Travolta, Jim said,  “Why it could be Greased Lightnin’!”

“Jim, no; not again, mate; I’m begging you.” Roger said, swallowing hard. “If you sing that song again, I’ll throw up on you--I swear. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Rog—it’s my prime jive.”

“Never. Ever. Say that again.” He wasn’t finding the humor in any of it.

This was their fifth or sixth time around the roundabout. And there was no end in sight. Jim could keep this carousel going all night. He had nowhere else he’d rather be, and nothing else better to do in this moment than to bring Roger back from whatever precipice he was currently gazing into. The void was calling Roger’s name, and it would be quite simply over Jim’s dead body for Roger to reach it.

“Can we please get off this thing?” Roger shouted over the sounds of skidding rubber. “I think you’ve made your point.”

“You know very well I’m not taking us off until you laugh--a real, honest to God laugh. Those were the rules. I can play games, too.” Jim, grinning, kept driving. He hoped he was also driving his point home. He wasn’t so sure, though. And he was terrible at playing games, but that’s what Freddie loved most about him. He was pure, well-lived, hard-worked, and entirely devoted to people.

“I don’t think you’re understanding my predicament here.” Roger moved with gravity and speed, leaning into Jim, leaning out of his mind.

“Oh, I understand it perfectly; you’re the one that isn’t understanding it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Roger hated it when someone presumed to know him better than he knew himself.

“You’re being a child for starters.” Jim said, checking for cops.

“A child?!” His voice was higher than usual; this was a good sign; it meant Roger knew he was being a child, but was trying to hide it from everyone--including, and most importantly, from himself.

“Yes.” Jim confirmed. “Causing all this drama because you fell in love and couldn’t handle it.”

“But Jim--!”

“But Jim nothing. Childish! That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard; causing a scene worthy of Billy Wilder in the restaurant back there; breaking my heart and breaking poor Johnny’s, too. Not to mention the meat grinder you’ve put your own through. And for what?” Jim was shaking his head, irritated beyond belief; he took the goddess in red up to 85 mph. “Love is a gift, you fucking idiot.”

“Jim, listen--!” Roger was holding on for dear life in more ways than one.

“No, you listen here Roger Meddows Taylor; grow the fuck up. And stop telling me what to do or say; if I want to sing every God-blessed song from Grease, I bloody well will.”

“But--!”

“I solve my problems and the see the light!”

Roger groaned loudly and melodramatically; this was, perhaps, for a singer himself, the most perfect torture to endure. Jim’s voice wasn’t perhaps the best suited to belt the Frankie Valli hit, but he was enthusiastic and determined, which was really half the battle when singing any song. A talented singer, though, Jim was not. Not that it would ever stop him. Nor should it. Freddie always told him it didn’t matter how he sounded, but what he felt. Jim always held that in his heart, and applied it confidently throughout his life.

“We’ve got a lovin’ thing, we gotta feed it right.”

“Jim, you’re killing me.” Roger didn’t want to see the light; color was light after all, only reflected light; he didn’t want to see the truth, he didn’t want to feed his love, he didn’t want Lydia. Not really. Maybe. Fine, he wanted her. He loved her. But. Well. The unavoidable fact here. The one undisputed fact traipsing through his mind was this: What if Lydia ended up like Veronica? What if she died? Terribly? Suddenly? And Without rhyme or reason? It could happen to anyone. It had to Deacy, and it had completely ruined him. For years. What if Lydia died like Veronica had?

This fear was keen, deep-set, and so ingrained at this point it had driven him to a life of perpetual bachelorhood and luxurious cad-ing around. It was perhaps so hidden in his heart and mind he didn’t even know it was there until now.

“No--you’re killing yourself; love is a gift, and it won’t be wasted on you if you accept it.” Jim took a deep breath and continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “There ain’t no danger we can go too far; we start believing now that we can be what we are. Grease is the word!”

Laughing, Roger said, “I will give you this car if you stop singing.” He had laughed. It was the sound of thin ice breaking in early March. It was the sound of coffee. The sound of velvet.

Jim immediately switched gears and slowed the goddess in red. The laugh had been genuine and light; accidentally won when Roger had least expected it. Roger hated losing. Usually to a fault. Something about this didn’t entirely feel like losing, though. He still wasn’t sure he liked it. Jim did seem rather proud of himself, very smiling, very pleased, maybe a little too pleased.

“I’ve always wanted this car; thank you, Roger.”

“I was joking.” Roger smiled at Jim. “I was joking! There’s no way I’m giving you her.”

“Oh, I think this will be fine payment for saving your life, reuniting you with Lydia, and helping you fix this mess with the band.” Jim wasn’t giving an inch.

“I don’t deserve your help.”

“Not more of that; I can open her up again if you’re going to just slip back into that bollocks.” His eyebrows danced, hand on the gear shaft, ready to pounce.

“No, no!” Roger yelled. “I just mean...I don’t know what I mean.”

Roger was a loquacious kind of fellow. He wasn’t often in the position of not knowing how to express himself or what to say. Words were failing him, like the colors had. Like he had failed himself. What if he said it out loud? What would happen? If he gave song to his fear? What would go down? Would Jim understand? Probably. Would the world end? Probably not? Roger wasn’t sure he could trust logic anymore; he wasn’t seeing colors, and logic couldn’t explain that. Maybe there were some things that logic couldn’t explain. The heart has reasons the mind knows not. Some French dude said that once, and Roger really felt those words. He hoped he lived by them. He wanted to live by them. He used to think if he could trust anything, it would be his heart, and recently, he had really failed himself on this account. He had been doing anything and everything to not listen to it. And now, he had to find his way back to it, if he could.

“Let me do for you what you did for Johnny once.” Jim said. He let the words hang in the air for a bit, because they were important; Roger needed to remember he was oddly noble and desperately loyal. Or that he had been. And that he could be again. Jim hadn’t been lying before: when he had first been introduced to the band and met Roger, he had been somewhat disappointed by this seemingly vacuous and vainglorious blond trash. Over time, Jim saw how much of it was an act of sorts; yes, Roger was emotional, yes he was volatile, yes he said what was on his mind no matter what it was; but, Roger was also the most caring person he had ever met, the most perceptive, and the most unwilling to admit he was a good person.

“Y/N tried to save you, too. In her own way, I’m guessing. But she tried. She stood up for Deacy and for you.”

“About that--How did she know?” Roger asked. His heart rate had increased just thinking about what you had said. “She scared the shit out of me; I’m not ashamed to admit it. She was the last person I was expecting to punch me out. But she did, and with more than her fists. There’s no way Deacy told her about Veronica already. Just no fucking way, mate.”

Taking the deep breath of truth-telling, Jim admitted, “I told her.”

He finally turned off the roundabout and headed towards Garden Lodge. He slowed drastically so he could safely look at Roger’s reaction. Trying to gauge anything flashing on Roger’s face wasn’t the easiest task while driving, or while he was in his current condition. His blue eyes were streaming with tears, whether from wind, his excess of emotions, or from being sick--it was hard to tell. Jim didn’t like to speculate, but he had a feeling it was all three. “Someone had to tell her. And I don’t regret doing it, just as I don’t regret wanting to punch you out earlier, just as I don’t regret coming after you, and saving you now. Though the hell I’m going to take for all it isn’t something I’m looking forward to reckoning with.”

Roger nodded, taking it all in. “I would have told her myself if…” he couldn’t find the words any more than he could find the colors. All he could see was Veronica’s blue Mercedes-Benz. That one had come back; maybe the others could too?

“You would have yourself if you hadn’t been burying your head up your arse?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So...the colors?” Jim asked, trying to peel the onion that was Roger’s psyche.

“I don’t know, Jim.”

Jim loudly rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy that. The conditions were clear: you need to level with me, Roger.”

Roger knew Jim was right.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself, and he started leveling.

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

Tag List:  @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love@partydulce @richiethotzierz @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid@teathymewithben@smittyjaws@just-ladyme@botinstqueen @mydogisthebest@little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty@deakysdiscos@yourealegendroger@marvellouspengwing@molethemollie@deakysgirl@arrowswithwifi@tardisgrump

[thatmademadej]

Um okay, here’s a prompt!!: the boys sneak out of work early to go around and do some stuff, romantic pining (:D) and maybe a confession or two is made.

Hi nonny! Sorry this took a lil while but I am in Dundee and I was very drunk last night soooo

(forgive me mistakes in geography, if any, i do not knowabout the states. Theme for this one is Barcelona, by Ed Sheeran (a tune and ahalf.))

It was summer in the City of Angels, and Shane was dreamingof the beach. 

There were very few things he missed about Illinois, buteven in the air-conditioned office his shirt was sticking to his back, and hefound himself longing for the cooling blast of a chill wind. His co-workerswere lounging around in various states of lethargy - Steven had his faceplastered against a window, searching for any cold coming in from the outside,Jen had one of those mini fans close enough to her face to be concerning, andRyan was slumped back in his chair with his shirt rucked up around his midriff,appropriate work attire be damned. Any excuse to be shirtless. 

But yeah, the beach. Shane was dreaming of the beach, andnot Ryan shirtless, yikes. The beach, and the sea, the lovely, cold sea…andice cream. Holy shit, Shane would genuinely have killed a manif it meant getting ice cream at that point. 

Also, flipflops. Flipflops were optimal footwear. The slap,it was good. His head was starting to feel fuzzy-

“You okay, big guy?” Ryan lifted his head and squinted athim, forehead glistening in a way that very much appealed to Shane.

“What? Yeah, no, yeah, I’m just…dying…” Shane mumbled,unsticking his bare calves from the edge of his seat. He’d worn shorts, a rareoccurrence, but it wasn’t enough.

“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” Ryan said, lowering hisvoice and leaning closer. “We could escape this hellhole.”

“You mean…ditch?” Shane said, tilting his head in confusion.

“Yeah, ditch. I’ll tell them you’re not well; you alreadylook like you’re suffering.”

“Could we get icecream?” Shane asked.

“We could do anything.” Ryan assured him, jumping to hisfeet and hauling Shane up with him. The feeling of Ryan’s hand around his wokehim up.

They managed to convince the higher-ups that Shane wassuffering heatstroke – he swayed pretty convincingly – and it was mild enoughthat he desperately needed Ryan to make sure he got home alright, but not sobad that he needed hospital. Then they were out onto the street, Ryan punchingthe air in victory and laughing uproariously, the burning sun highlighting thebronze undertones in his skin.

“We should go to the beach,” Shane said, feeling thatimplacable teenage feeling that this day was one that would stamp itself ontohis brain indelibly; a feeling of being too big for his skin, for this life.

“Hell yeah,” Ryan said. “Right, we can swing by mine and getsupplies. God, that means we’ll have to get in a car. That’s going to be hell.”

It wasn’t too bad, not with Ryan. Nothing ever was.

The beach was teeming with people. Shane felt a sinkingfeeling in his gut, before Ryan whooped and ran straight for the edge of thewater, ditching his bag somewhere along the way and kicking his shoes off.Shane stared, then ran after him, almost tripping over his long legs, followinghim into the water with a yell.

“Fucking - amazing!” Ryan cried, reaching down and splashinghis face with the salt water. Shane laughed, apprehension at the crowdforgotten. Ryan had never cared about having an audience, and it made Shane feelless…awkward.

“Heads up, big guy.” Ryan splashed him full in the face. Hespluttered, snapped out of his reverie, and lunged for him.

“You’re in for it, Bergara.” Ryan cackled and danced out ofreach, splashing Shane again. Shane splashed him back, feinting before divingafter him and tackling Ryan straight into the water.

“Oh my god you dick! I’m soaked!” Ryan yelled, his peals oflaughter belying the harshness of his words. Shane laughed too, before realisinghe was basically lying on top of him and scrambling to the side, lying on hisback next to Ryan in the shallows.

“I’m cold.” Shane muttered dreamily, feeling the water lapat the backs of his ears. “So cold.”

“Watch out,” Ryan said, sitting up, and a wave crashed overShane. “Oh, it’s Cthulu, come from the depths to ravage mankind.”

“Ravage?” Shane said, wiping salt water out of his eyes toreveal Ryan with his wet shirt plastered to his back. Jesus.

“I dunno, dude, you’re an eldritch horror. Just laugh.” And Shanelaughed, obediently.

They changed out of their wet clothes, Ryan stripping offhis wet shirt and lying back in just his trunks. Shane sighed. This was goingto be a trying day.

“I’m gonna need about a litre of sunscreen,” He muttered,slapping the stuff on his arms and down his legs.

“The curse of the white guy,” Ryan said, shoving hissunglasses on – aviators, because he really though he was that cool. “Here, letme get your back.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Shane stuttered. If Ryan touched him,bare skin to bare skin, he would probably implode. “That’s cool I got it.”

“Are you no-homoing me, dude? Can’t a bro just want to stopa bro getting burnt?” Ryan grinned, just a hint of mocking and maybe somethingelse.

“Whatever,” Shane threw him the bottle, and Ryan slapped thestuff on his weird, long back unceremoniously. Shane managed not to whimper ordo anything else equally embarrassing at the feeling of Ryan’s hands againsthis bare skin. “Thanks.”

“Just bros being bros,” Ryan winked, and Shane’s brainshort-circuited. Was this flirting? Was this what flirting looked like?

Surely not. Ryan was just his…bro. Ugh, that word made himwant to vomit. Just bros being bros.

“You okay?” Ryan was staring at him. “You look like you’regonna be sick.”

“I’m good, I’m fine.” Shane muttered, and flopped down onhis towel, closing his eyes against the glare and examining the way his eyelidsturned all pink and veiny.

Fine, maybe his feelings for his best friend weren’tstrictly…friendly. It wasn’t that big a deal. He couldn’t tell him, so he justhad to keep the feelings inside until one of them died. No big deal.

The two dozed in the sun, Shane periodically getting up toreapply sunscreen. Eventually, as work days ended and schools let out, thebeach started to grow impossibly more packed. The sun dried them off, leaving acrust of salt in Shane’s hair and on his skin. Ryan rolled over to face him,sunglasses slipping down his face to reveal dark eyes.

“Didn’t you say something about ice cream?”

“Oh shit, yeah,” Shane said, struggling to his feet andthrowing his shirt back on. His skin felt rough and new, and he realised that hehadn’t quite been zealous enough with the sunscreen.

They walked along the boardwalk, icecreams in hand. Shanekept getting distracted by Ryan licking at his, and not noticing when his ownstarted to dribble down his wrist (pullyourself together, Madej.) They came to a little café piping salsa onto thestreet, and Ryan grabbed him by the elbow.

“Do you know how to dance?” He asked, forgetting the icecream.

“Ryan,” Shane gestured to his weird, long body, and flaileda little to emphasise the point.

“Come on, it’s easy,” Ryan scoffed, putting a hand on Shane’sshoulder and stepping back and forth, rolling his hips in a way that made Shane’smouth go dry.

“Isn’t that a little…stereotypical of you? Latino guyknowing how to dance?” Shane teased, and Ryan poked him in the shoulder.

“Fuck you, salsa is great fun. I used to do it with Helen.”

At the mention of Ryan’s ex, Shane realised how close theywere standing, and leapt back like he’d been burned.

“What’s your deal today, dude?” Ryan complained. “You’vebeen acting weird. Have you got heatstroke for real?”

“I’m fine,” Shane muttered. “Let’s head back to the beach.”

The sun was finally starting to dip in the sky, castingshadows across Shane’s face and picking out the flecks of brown in Ryan’s darkeyes. He was suddenly, inexplicably angry with himself for feeling this way,for not having the courage to just fucking tell him.

“Come on, dude, what’s wrong?” Ryan hurried after him,catching him by the wrist.

“It’s nothing,” Shane practically choked on the words, and Ryan’sbrow furrowed.

“Was it the dancing? I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,dude, I’ll keep my hands to myself-”

“No! No, don’t do that,” Shane said, too quickly, and thencursed himself. Ryan finally caught up, swinging around to block Shane’s pathon the edge of the sand.

“What the fuck, Shane?” He had to tilt his head backwards tolook him right in the eye, and it was too much for Shane.

“I’m like, stupidly into you,” He blurted, and then coveredhis face with his hands.

“Thank fuck,” He heard Ryan say, and when he dropped hishands to ask him what the hell Ryan reached up and kissed him, fingersthreading into salty hair. Shane groaned and kissed him back immediately, handsdropping to his waist and pulling him closer. He heard people muttering, a fewwolf-whistles, but he didn’t give a fuck.

Ryan’s hand slid out of his hair and down the back of hisneck, and Shane flinched away.

“What?” Ryan asked, breathlessly. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Shane mumbled, pressing his foreheadagainst Ryan’s. “I got burnt, I didn’t put enough sunscreen on.”

Ryan started to giggle, and Shane giggled too, the sundancing over where Ryan’s hands rested on his shoulders. Bronzed hands ruckedhis shirt up, hot against his stomach, and a white smile that warmed him morethan any ball of gas in the sky could. His back pressed into the sand as Ryanleaned over him, trailing kisses down his neck and grinning against hiscollarbone when he gasped.

It was summer in the City of Angels, and Shane was dreamingof the beach.

—-

Thanks for reading! Send me the fic you wish I would write, and maybe I’ll write it ;)

[frozenfallenuniverse]

Cracks in the Wall

Its ya boy, tired child looking for job. Its been a while since I posted a story but Lavi won the last poll (landslide even). Next story will be about the first time samger and Meiyo meet but I hope you enjoy this one!

Most planeswalkers would have servants, assistants or little creatures to help them with work. Not me, the most overworked walker that I know off. Now, I could spawn a large amount of spotters to try to help but without any form of appendages to write with or mouths to speak with, they wouldn’t get far. You would think I’d have some sort of plan for this but it seems as though my forward thinking is complete and utter-

“Lavi? I can never tell if you can hear me on this. The job is done. What’s next?” The voice came through one of the many spotters that floated about my room like palm-sized dust mites. Based on both the feminine, almost siren like, voice and the spotter’s form being extremely similar to a goldfish, it seemed to be Nozari. Thank god. I sat at my desk and the fish spotter floated atop the desk to eye level. It bounded in front of my face as I rested it inside of my hands.

“Well, step one is getting off the plane but if you’ve already done that, I’ll send you a bit of money within a few days. Your next job is finding a certain planeswalker. His title is the Immortal and he was last spotted on Tarkir. Quite tall, probably missing some skin at this point, hard to miss.”

“Tarkir? Can’t say I’ve heard of that…”

“Wonderful. It's a terrible plane. Tons of dragons, lots of fire, lightning, poison and many things that don’t like merfolk or would assume you are an overgrown bass that has learned to walk on two feet.”

“Why am I being sent there exactly?”A sigh followed her question and her voice was full of disdainful annoyance. Not that out of the ordinary for her to be entirely honest.

“I can send Alexander if you prefer.” She made a gagging sound, presumably nodded and signed off. Not a second too soon, if you ask me. Her and Alexander were some of my assistants. Well, I say assistants but they are more like mercenaries. I pay them coin, they find concerning planeswalkers and deal with them. Nozari is non-lethal and Alexander is… Alexander. Now I can hopefully make some headway on these papers-

“Lavi~ Guess who’s here to do some fun stuff today!” A masculine yet flamboyant voice that sounded like wet paint being thrown across a canvas came from the main hall. Another spotter, this one with the same colors as bird who live in paradise, came close and it seemed to be one of my least favorite generals. I tossed on robes that seemed ill-suited to the current heat and stepped out of my mess of a study.

The window blinds were half-closed, letting fragments of the sunrise come through. Songbird calls mixed with footsteps filled the wide hallway as I trotted to the main hall. The man, who has already decided to redecorate one of the walls of the room, was wearing fluorescent clothing, that had the closest description as a rainbow that vomited on a tailor’s workshop, and hair the color of dying fall leaves. The painting, if you could really call his art style ‘painting’, was a horrendous rendition of two merfolk and a high-class woman messing about in his latest experiment. The closest thing to a greeting that we exchanged was a half-nod and a sigh from myself.

“To what do I owe the pleasure today, Rotek?” I only just realized that I sounded like a sick frog that cannibalized a smaller one. Hopefully, he doesn’t mind if a spotter ran about to fetch a glass of water for me. Without even turning to face me, he spoke like I was an audience of twenty.

“The experiment went wonderfully! There were no major deaths. Three walkers came in and they all left. Two seemed quite normal and the third seemed a bit…” He dabbed his brush on the regal looking doodle, that was partially on my artwork. My new artwork. It cost close to three weeks of work. Wonderful. The sound of shattering glass from the direction of where I sent the spotter made this conversation all the better. My hand was reaching for the bridge of my nose as I spoke.

“Did you get names or are you here to showboat?” I could feel my eyes rolling into the back of my skull as I spoke. Rotek might be useful for his knowledge and magic but his… artistic freedoms made things like diplomacy, discussions and basic talking like pulling teeth. He spun on his heels, tossing a letter from his breast pocket at my flailing arms. Barely caught it as well. Why do people throw so many things at me. They know I can’t catch.

“I know your whole deal is peace and the prevention of disasters so think of this as an invitation to my next art piece.” His voice was much more somber now, almost sad to speak of the thing that gave him the most passion. I tore open the note and flipped it out, skimming across it. In large bolded letters, it said ‘The Destruction of Ravnica. Performed by an elder dragon. Watch as I paint the final moments of the most populated plane of the multiverse.’ Several of the spotters floated around the note, desperate to get so much as a glance at it. With a soft breath, the note became blank and wasted away in my grasp.

“You’re helping someone destroy a plane!” I spoke with the anger of a dragon that was woken by a farmer after sleeping for millennia. The heat on my face most likely made me look like a tomato, or a pyromancer. Same thing really.

“Capitalising on what will happen, really. I can’t stop it nor can any of the others. I’d suggest you get your friends to help evacuate or, more likely, work with some of the walkers there. No reason for that many sparks to be extinguished.” He had no enjoyment in his voice. His brush was thrown to the floor, spilling paint across the tiles. His artwork was melting off as well. I need to control my temper better.

“Fine. Keep this a secret from the other generals then. No reason to get Ice or Shadow excited about a plane dying.” My hand was glued to my nose bridge and a thumping sensation was deepening in my temples. Rotek patted me on the shoulder and disappeared with a rainbow light following his exit. My disappointment is immeasurable and my day is now ruined, suffice to say.

The normal rhythm I kept with my steps become erratic and the space around me shifted, warped and fragments came out of focus. I heard stories that something like this would happen but I was hoping, no, praying they were just rumors. What used to be a wall became a time-worn veranda with ivy growths burgeoning beneath the posts. Several spotters floated towards me with concerned visages. The goldfish led the pack and I dragged it by the tail to my desk. A haze came over the eye that took up most of its body and I decided to speak first.

“Nozari, forget the other mission. Find Alexander. I need to talk to you both.” My words were rushed. Something was welling up in my throat and a sickness flooded my stomach. The floater I sent, what felt like years ago, returned with a bottle of sparkling cherry juice. It took hardly any seconds to drink several fingers worth.

“What? What about the immortal? I’m not gonna abandon this mission!”

“The Immortal can wait. It's not like he’ll die anytime soon!” Some papers became dotted with droplets from the neck of the bottle. I cursed under my breath. That’s even more things to fix.

“Shouldn’t I just come there? Why can’t you say it now? I have plans later you know! I finally found a cute dress that fit!” She did mention something about a cute girl earlier. Explains why she’s been more relaxed recently. Or anxious. I think both is the answer. She’s a bit more of a mess than me.

“You bring yourself and Alexander here after your plans then. I won’t force you to do your job but keep in mind: you swore to help me protect planes and right now, I think your possible lover would understand a canceling.” The strangest thing about Nozari’s knowledge of languages was that she could be annoyed in all of them and curse like a sailor in most of them. They all sound beautiful as well. Perhaps merfolk have- Introspection into the different races of the multiverse can wait after the problem is fixed.

“Fine! I’ll be there tomorrow with the problem child! You owe me something other than money for canceling this date though!”

“Would a pearl necklace suffice? An associate got fresh batch of chocolate ones during a trip to Ixalan.”

“Oh dear Kosi. Its that bad?”

“Horrendous is a better term in my opinion.” The faked joyfulness I spoke with seemed like a different flavor of sarcasm and she noticed.

“Any idea where he is?” My silence was more than enough of an answer. With a groan, she hung up. Well, hung up is the wrong word. She smacked the spotter on her end which ended its transmission. They are small but quite durable. I think that’s her favorite way to end our little talks.  Fifty times ended in that way now. Anyway.

My hands were already massaging my skull. The droning in the back of my mind was a voracious woodpecker that just ended a fast. A growling came from the sick that slept in my stomach. This is the worst day of my life. And I almost died! To be fair, who hasn’t really. Planeswalkers are strange. The drink helped to an extent so, I couldn’t blame the situation on a lack of caffeine or sugar. Sleep was always an excuse but I don’t wish to sound like a broken record. I need food. A distraction. Something.

Knocking came from the door. A rarity would be an understatement. Something that no one has ever done before would be more fitting. I creaked open the door, whose rusted screeching made the throbbing of my skull even worse, and saw the chubby, blonde hair-framed face of Lisbeth greeting me.

“You alright, hun? Rotek said to leave you alone but you’re a bit looking pale.” Her smile was the only warm part about her. Her clothing and personality were normally cold but around me and some of the other generals, she acted like a concerned mother. Why did Rotek even talk to her? I thought fire and ice don’t mix. I fake coughed a bit to make it seem I was stable.

“Everything is fine. If you bought anything, leave it at the door. I’m busy.” I said with clear irritation in my voice. It seems the frog in my throat became an annoyed toad at this point. She chuckled a bit and dropped a basket of what smelled like mouth watering baked bread. She said something along the lines of ‘call me when you’re better’ but the migraine become worse from the scent of the bread. Why does she always bring me food?

It did not take long for me to drag the basket into my room and for me to greedily devour every baked snack she provided. My stomach seemed to be resting but the migraine and anxiety continued to fester. The walls around me slowly began to dissipate, turning into white gold light before me. I finally got off my floor, tightened some heavy duty boots on and began walking to the door. If a plane was to be destroyed, I wanted to learn all I could about it before then. Perhaps. I’ll even find a distraction while I’m there.

[patron-saints]

golden

“it’s not jealousy. it’s not. i’ve never been jealous a day in my gods damned life. bitter, yes. absolutely. oh, i’ve regretted the decisions that i’ve made and the—fuck.” hera stops, looks at her reflection. it’s not worth it to defend herself. the audience will already have an image of her in their minds, anything she says is only going to reinforce that picture.

“we’re going to be late,” zeus says.

she storms down the hall, looks at her husband. he’s sitting on the chair closest to the door, wearing his best suit with his beard trimmed, almost like he gives a shit.

“i’m ready.”

he stands, offers her his arm, and she takes it, sighing. in a flash of light and smoke, they appear on a stage in new york city. the crowd goes wild. hera holds back her vomit.

“it is such an honor to be here, presenting the first ever production of…”

she can’t listen to this garbage. she’s going to have to sit through a whole performance of that heracles story again, watching her own actions portrayed through some ugly bitch of an actress, that zeus had handpicked and… oh. he’d fucked her as well. she’d bet her immortality on it.

“and thank you especially to my wonderful wife, without whom this story would be boring as hades! darling, do you have any words?”

hera smiles at the crowd. “enjoy the show! i love you all!”

light and smoke again and they’re in the vip box.

it’s tense as the lights go down. hera is starting to feel claustrophobic, and she still hasn’t quite gotten over her nausea from earlier.

“dearest, you’ve given speeches far better than that. on the battlefields at troy, you once said—”

“i don’t… actually care? isn’t that fascinating?” her hands are shaking. she stands, and finds her legs are shaking too. “i’m. done.”

he reaches for her, half-heartedly. “you’ll be back. you always come back.”

“oh, fuck you.” hera could take the gods’ way out, but that wouldn’t be as fun, would it? she walks out all on her own, down the steps, out through the middle of the audience, each whisper and cell phone fueling her steps.

she can picture the headline: has she left him for good?

she certainly hopes so.

her feet take her to a small cafe. she winces at the recognition in the barista’s eyes and sits in the corner.

they take her order right away, of course they do. the waiter looks scared.

“i don’t bite, love.”

“uh. your chocolate croissant and americano will be right out. uh. sorry.”

it’s pointless. she takes out her phone and as she types demeter’s name into the address line, she can feel herself beginning to tear up.

At a cafe. Not at the show. Check the news tomorrow I guess. <3 Do u need anything No. Yes. I don’t know. Send me where ur at You have shared your location with Demeter On my way

hera tosses her phone on the table and closes her eyes. she’s not going to cry. she’s done this too many times for tears.

“you’ll marry me.” he flips a golden ring to her as though he’s flipping a coin and she surprises herself by catching it.

she burns. her whole body is on fire with… she doesn’t know. with embarrassment, with horror, with some twisted form of passion she wants to scrape from her skin until she bleeds golden ichor all over her invaded bedroom.

she sits up, rearranging the sheets so they lie flat across her legs once more. she is his now.

hera twists the ring onto her finger with a soft sigh, and grants zeus a nod of agreement. there’s nothing left to say.

demeter appears in the other chair, and the air smells like autumn and cinnamon toast crunch. “sorry that took so long, my friend. i had to make a stop.” she reaches into her purse, and pulls out a beautiful shawl. “i saw this on the way here, i thought you’d like it.”

now hera really is crying. she takes the shawl and buries her face in it. “thank you,” she mumbles.

“you’re welcome. now you’re telling me, this is going to be on the news?”

“yes.” she unfurls the sash and wraps it around her shoulders like armor. “i… walked out in the middle of the theatre… i wanted it to be dramatic, i don’t know.”

“you’re such an attention whore.”

hera laughs. “comes with the job. you can’t tell me you’re not.”

her friend nods. “no, it’s true. no attention, no worship, then what’s the point?”

the waiter comes, sets the dish and the cup down. he looks back and forth between the two goddesses, and nearly runs away.

hera rips the croissant in half and slides the other half across the table.

demeter picks it up and gestures at her with it. “i’m really proud of you.”

“i’ve done this three times now. and you’ve said the same thing every time.”

“it’s true every time! doesn’t get any easier, does it?”

“no. and hey?”

“yes.”

“thank you, you know, for coming.” hera isn’t looking forward to testing the rule she’s already proven, but there’s no one she’d rather be with than demeter.

she nods. “you’re so welcome. and who knows, maybe it’ll be different... ”

“fat chance.”

“mm.” demeter takes a bite of the pastry and grins. “gods, i love the french.”

“i know.”

“they took what i gave them, and they—”

“made something so beautiful you want to cry whenever you take a bite, i know,” hera shakes her head. “i know you love croissants. but you also make that speech about the italians when you eat pasta, and the indians when you eat naan, and the mexicans when you have a really good burrito—”

“okay okay!” demeter holds up her hands. “i know. i’m just proud, alright?”

hera nods, her heart warming. “and i’m proud of you.”

“did he hurt you?” demeter’s voice is gentle as she pulls hera away from the crowd at her engagement party.

hera fidgets with the shining ring on her finger. “no, i simply changed my mind regarding his proposal.”

demeter takes her hands. “i will kill him.”

“there’s no need, i promise you.” she can feel shame coloring her cheeks, and she tries to push it down as far as she can, but demeter has already seen through her. she always does.

hera dips her croissant in her coffee and takes a bite. while she chews, she decides she might as well do what she came to. and so, she slides her wedding ring off her finger, and in that instant, her power is gone.

she flicks her fingers experimentally, checking with the faint hope that there might be some godly spark between them. there’s nothing.

“it’s gone.”

demeter reaches for her hand and takes it, her soft fingers running lines on the tops of hera’s knuckles. “i still refuse to believe that your marriage is the source of your power. i won’t fucking accept it.”

“i’m the goddess of marriage, dem.” it had been foolish to pretend that it would work. with the loss of her powers, all of her reasons for leaving feel paper thin. “i have to go back.”

“no, c’mon, you can’t.”

“how long will it take to start hurting? how long will i take to fade this time?”

demeter lets go of hera’s hand and hera feels a chill with her absence. “please don’t go.”

she stands up and pushes her chair in slowly. her gaze lingers on her friend. demeter, her heart shattering for hera once more, has never looked more beautiful. her eyes shimmer with tears, her lips tremble, and hera, despite wanting to tear her eyes away, finds she cannot.

demeter looks right back at hera. “i can’t stand that he hurts you, and… and though i have my own reasons for not wanting to see you with him, your safety is the most important thing.”

despite not looking away, hera barely processes what demeter’s said. her senses start to blur as as she tosses a few drachma on the table and heads for the door. every second she lingers, she can feel her life-force getting weaker. she’s already lost her magic, soon she’ll lose her existence.

“hera, if you could keep your divinity and truly leave him, would you do it?”

she turns to look, and shakes her head. “i don’t know.”

“alright.” demeter sighs. “i love you. go well.”

“love you, too.”

it’s been nine months since she’s spoken to demeter. if she’d been any other woman, hera’d have killed her for this. she simply couldn’t bring herself to hurt the only person who she’d truly cared about, and so she’d ignored her instead.

but now that persephone is nearly ready to come into the world, hera can’t stay away. “why?” she asks finally. “why… just, why?”

demeter bites her lip. “it was foolish,” she whispers. “i thought i could… entice him away from you. i thought i could protect you. but i was just another way for him to hurt you.”

“you’re a fool.” hera is not jealous. she only burns with anger at her husband, and hurts for demeter.

hera couldn’t have used the gods’ way home even if she wanted to, so she takes a lyft back to the house she shares with the king of the gods.

celebrity is inescapable. they’re followed by cars of paparazzi, and while her driver attempts to joke with her for a bit, it’s clear he’s uncomfortable. she apologizes to him as she gets out of the car, and pulls the shawl demeter gave her tighter as she walks up the steps.

when she walks in the door, zeus grins a shark’s grin, tells her that he knew she’d be back, and wraps his arms around her.

they’ve done this before. she knows when to smile, when to sigh, when to let a single tear streak down her chin. it’s different, though, this time.

the first time hera left her husband, she didn’t understand the rules. she stayed on demeter’s couch for three days, aphrodite’s for two, and hephaestus’s for four before she decided it was permanent and took off the ring. her powers disappeared right away, and then she got ill, and then her entire body began to shake with a fiery pain. putting the ring back on had no effect until she came home to her husband and gave herself to him once more.

the second time she was scared it would happen again but not too scared to try, and she decided after two days with artemis’s hunters that it was permanent and took off the ring. she returned after the illness but before the pain.

her return home, always so soaked with desperation, had both times been an occasion of unadulterated passion. she’d had conviction and fear and love and pure desire to see it work, to renew her marriage, to see her powers and health return.

this time it doesn’t feel as much like defeat.

zeus kisses her neck and she’s really only half there, enjoying the sensation but mentally elsewhere, planning out a fashion gala for next week, posing for a photoshoot, eating croissants at a cafe. it’s not as though it’s a horrid experience. it never has been, with him.

but it’s still hard to forget this is why she married him. thousands of years have gone by and hera still carries the memories and the shame from that night in a pocket of sorrow right by her heart.

after, without a word, zeus turns his back to her and falls asleep instantly.

his snores reverberate across the walls, around the room, shaking the frames and passing through hera’s chest. she’s still staring up at the ceiling.

hera picks up her wedding ring from where she’d left it on the bedside table. she slides the golden bands into place and flicks her fingers, waiting for that heavenly light to appear between them. she’s done her duty, she’s been a good wife, and so her divinity should be cascading back.

there’s still nothing. and the lack of it is starting to ache.

you’ve lost yourself. you were whole, once. do you not recall? your power was greater than that of your parents, and greater still than their parents.

i was young…

power only grows with age. and you have lived a very long time.

i think mine is diminishing.

it has not left you, daughter of rhea.

“last night i had a dream about a peacock,” hera says, and then realizes she’s addressing empty air. zeus is gone, though the impression of him is still clear in the wrinkles of the sheets.

it’s painfully clear what the peacock in the dream represents. it’s the only sacred animal she’s had since she was a girl, and has always been her avatar. she rolls her eyes and flops onto her back.

hera’s whole presence feels insubstantial, and now she’s slightly nauseous, too. it’s happening much faster, she’s worried she’ll be convulsing in a matter of hours.

she can’t get comfortable in any position so she sits up and swings her legs off the edge of the bed. she grits her teeth, drags her fingers along her scalp. there is nothing left for her to do except yell. the roar starts in her feet, building as it flies through her body, and by the time it reaches her throat it is loud enough to shake the very foundation of the house.

she’s tired of the pain that zeus has bestowed upon her. she’s tired of seeking refuge only to drown in another kind of torture, and she’s tired of coming home. all of this rockets out of her and it hurts. the longer she yells, the louder it gets, and the more her throat resists. but she is incapable of stopping.

it’s really burning her now, the same way the loss of power always does. she begins to shake. still, she yells louder. her hands glow hot, then her arms, and then all of her is illuminated and hurting and beautiful and angry and pulsating and golden and her blood is pounding in her ears and then suddenly, it stops. hera stops, the world stops, everything stops.

for an instant that feels like a century, reality is reduced to a blank square with the idea of a goddess held within it.

but the instant passes, and hera is sitting silent on the edge of her bed. she doesn’t need to flick her fingers to discern that her powers are back, because she is more powerful than she ever has been before.

with the tilt of her head, she summons her husband directly in front of her. collection spells only work on inanimate objects, sometimes humans with an extraordinary effort. but gods? never.

there’s fear in his eyes and he asks, “how are you capable of such an act?”

she smiles.

“my darling, your eyes have turned into gold.”

hera waves her fingers, as inconsequential a motion as brushing away dust, and reduces her husband to a pile of ash on their plush carpet. her grin widens.

her first act as a free goddess really could be anything. she could go to a museum, write a novel, or even redeem her reputation in the public eye and take her story to the press. all of those are tempting options, but there’s only one thing she wants to do. only one thing she’s choosing to do.

Hey Dem! Whats up Three things: Husband dead(?), powers back, and… And what What!! Just… come visit, okay?

demeter is there in no time at all. “hi.”

“hello.”

she glances at the ashes on the carpet, and looks back up at hera. “you are radiant.”

hera tentatively reaches out her hands and cups demeter’s face between them. her fingers are trembling.

demeter’s eyes close and she seems to melt, just a little, sinking down into hera’s palms.

“come here,” hera whispers, and draws her friend closer to her. she can still feel the fire rushing through her, fizzling and burning… but it doesn’t hurt, it just makes her want to start a row of kisses along demeter’s collar bone, travel up her neck, linger there just long enough to leave a mark and then—

“i’m here,” demeter answers, opening her eyes and looking into hera’s. what goes unsaid, what both of them know, is that she’s always been there.

thank you to @tanosoka for proof reading and @neutrinotempest for suggesting i post! <3 

[likepuppetsonastring]

Visitor. (A WKM Drabble)

 A/N: So someone came up with the idea of Will and Celine having a kid, and my heart got really sad. So have some word vomit. (Credit to @turquoisemagpie for the neato drawing that gave Winnie her look and gave me the idea.)

Dark was mid-meeting when he felt it.

Someone was in the house. After all this time...he was here now, it'd been so long since he'd been back...but the feeling was familiar. He frowned, standing suddenly, earning a curious look from Google, who’d been trying to explain analytics to his uninterested audience. "Where's Wilford?" "He's in his studio, as always," Google replied, narrowing his eyes, "Why the sudden interest? We were discussing the primary-" "Excuse me." Dark moved quickly out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His aura was agitated, greying out the walls of the hallway, making Bim duck into a doorway to avoid it (it was unpleasant to pass through, to say the least) as he strode toward Wil's sound stage. He didn't bother to knock as he shoved the door open roughly. "Warfstache!" Wilford sighed heavily from his position in front of the green screen. "Dammit, man, can't you learn to knock? Jesus." He rolled his eyes and waved his gun at Jim, behind the camera, who quickly cut the take and scurried out of the room. Everyone in Ego Inc. knew what Dark slamming into a room would lead to. "Have you been back to the house?" "Are you out of your mind? Why would I go to Mark's house at this hour? I've been here, recording my new show all day. It's a real winner this time, Dark-" "You know damn well I don't mean Mark's house, idiot, have you been back to that house?" "What are you talking about?" Dark scowled at Wilford for a long moment. The fool couldn't remember, of course he couldn't. But that meant it hadn't been him. Of course it wasn't him, mumbled an annoyed voice in the back of his mind, how would he have gotten there and back so quickly? Besides, I still feel it so it can't be him. This bothered Dark even further. He hadn't heard that voice in years. Shut up. Dark turned on his heel and walked out, much to Wilford's confusion. He walked quickly, until he found an empty hall, and reached for one of the doors, concentrating. When he opened it, he found himself on the second floor landing. He stared at the railing for half a second, before huffing and walking down the stairs, looking around him for the intruder.

He found her in the foyer, looking...looking in the mirror.

The shattered reflection showed a pair of large, round lenses in bent black frames over two wide brown eyes, the arms curled under bobbed black hair. Her face was angular, but not particularly sharp, and she was smiling curiously. A small slip of a thing, really, her red collared shirt and high waisted black slacks clearly a few sizes too big for her, and the fact that she was lugging a massive leather carrier bag with the strap slung across her body didn't help with the delicate image. Definitely not your typical looter. She looked so much like him, the same silly smile and bearing, hands clasped behind her back as she inspected the antique before her, that Dark stumbled back a step as the old voice in his head yelled out in surprise. The noise alerted her to his presence and she whipped around, slapping a hand to the cover flap of the bag as if to grab something from it. "Oh my-! Oh, jesus, I-I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone still...but I mean the-the woman in the library said no one had lived here for...no, but that's no excuse, I'm sorry, I-I'll just go-" "Shut up," Dark said calmly, having collected himself a bit, but still reeling from the shock. She nearly bit her lip to stop herself, looking down at the ground and clasping her hands behind her back again. God, the resemblance...how...? "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" "I-I'm Winnie Ford, sir, a-and I'm researching for a school project, about abandoned buildings-" "Don't lie to me." The stairs below him went grey, and Winnie's face paled, but he was too distracted to notice. Ford? Her name was Ford? "Why are you here?" He repeated, more quietly. The air seemed to buzz between them. "I...I..." She seemed to be looking for an escape, but sighed as she found none, standing up a little straighter, as if to accept her fate. The confidence is impressive. No. Stop that. "I'm looking for information about my parents." She said it with false calm, the illusion of which was shattered as she retreated a few steps into the room as Dark descended the stairs and approached her. She bumped into the wall behind her, still trying to appear casual. "And why would you come here for that?" "Because this was the last place they were seen alive." He froze. Something must have registered in his face, becaues the girl frowned at him. "You...you live here, don't you? Do you...do you know what happened?" "What happened in 2017. The poker party." "Yes," she said, nodding slowly, taking a step closer. He flinched and she reflexively stepped back. "Yes, so you do know about that." He couldn't seem to move. "Your parents were...there, that night?" "So the newspapers say. So the orphanage said." "My god..." The voice coming out of his mouth was one he hadn't used in a very long time. He hadn't known he could use it anymore, hadn't known that the feelings now exploding in his chest, could still exist within this corpse of his. "Did...did you know them?" "I...no." He glanced over at the mirror, then back up at the stairs, then looked back at her, barely able to hold himself together. Being here, seeing her, it was too much, he wasn't going to be able to sustain himself, he should leave, shut down these feelings, eliminate the cause of them...no, that thought made a spike of pain shoot through his chest, and he gripped the table suddenly. Winnie took a few steps toward him, moving as if to put her hand on his arm. "Are you-?" "Don't," he said harshly, and she stopped, still looking concerned. She was stood right on the edge of his aura, couldn't she see it? If she touched it...but why did he care? "Don't...don't touch me. Don't come any closer. Please." The word sounded awkward, unfamiliar on this tongue. "Okay...Alright, I won't." Her tone was one you would use with a wounded animal. She's not afraid of me. Yes, she is. Shut up. "What do you know?" She leaned against the wall again, still trying to look casual. Why was he relieved when she stepped away? "Well...I know my mother's name was Celine Noir. But I don't know who my father was. That's the only name the orphanage had on file, and," she quirked a small smile, "that was hard enough to find. I was some kind of cover up, apparently." His eyes were blown wide, he could see them in the mirror, he could feel it. One hand twitched toward her, and he could see himself touching her face, cradling it, hugging her tightly and not having to lose them all over again. He could see himself taking her back with him away from this house, he could see Wil seeing her, coming back to him, he could see himself and this young girl and his best friend, a family once more, remembering, moving on, forgetting this place, forgetting what...what he'd... What he was. It came rushing back to him, but...but for this brief moment, he was still himself. He was here, and he was looking at her, and she looked so much like her mother, stood like her father, and god he missed them so much. Suddenly, he was talking, before he could stop himself. Stupid, stupid boy, what are you doing? "Your father's name was William Ford. You're a bastard, that's why she gave you up. She hated herself for it, wanted desperately to keep you, but..." But Mark, when he found out he wasn't the father, went berserk, nearly killed Will right then and there, if he hadn't stopped him... He took an unnecessary, deep breath. She was staring at him, the bluntness of his answer apparently surprising her. "William Ford...that's where the last name comes from, I guess. I wondered about that, why it wasn't Fischbach..." "No...no, she'd never let you take his name." Why were his eyes stinging? They shouldn't be able to do that anymore. "What...happened to him? To both of them?" Her voice was very quiet, but god she sounded just like Celine. "Who are you?" "I'm...not important." He took a few steps back. He couldn't be here anymore. "You should go. Get away from here." Get away from me. "But-" "Get. Out." He spoke quietly but the glass divider nearby cracked loudly. It didn't seem to phase the girl. "You haven't told me who you-" "You don't need to know that." She frowned, giving him a determined look. "Yes. I do. I want to know what the hell is going on. I want to know who I am. I want to know who you are." She put her hand on the table, it was too close to his, the grey was touching her fingertips. "At least tell me your name." He stared at the hand, trying desperately to pull his aura back into himself, but it wasn't easy to control when his emotions flared up, and it hadn't happened in so long he had nearly forgotten how. His eyes slowly moved to meet hers properly for the first time, and... He was face to face with a teenage boy with a goofy grin and a gun license and a draft haircut, asking this stupid kid with a sweater vest and too many political science books on the table in front of him in the lunchroom why he was sat on his own. He was looking at his sister as she asked him for help, tears in her eyes, she was begging him not to let Mark find out, one hand on her stomach, where a bulge would soon grow. He was looking at this girl, maybe twenty years old, who'd grown up in an orphanage, never knowing anything but her own name and her mother’s, and never even knowing her father’s name, who had his confidence and her smile and god, she even looked a bit like him, and his mouth was opening without his consent. "Damien." She smiled, a little confused. "Damien." Why did that name sound so natural in her voice? "Well, it's...it's nice to meet you." She offered him her hand again. Why was his hand moving toward hers? He stopped it, pulling it back sharply as he retreated. "You should go." "But..." "Winnie...I...you need to leave this place, it's..." Not safe. He was here. "It's not where you need to be. You need to go. I've told you all I can." His voice dropped in volume, but not the same way it usually does. This time, there was only one layer, and he sounded so much like...himself. "Please go." He wasn't sure what she heard in his voice, but it seemed to convince her. Maybe she was finally noticing his aura, maybe she was too afraid to stay with him any longer. She stepped toward the door. Pulled the handle. Took a step. Looked back over her shoulder. "It really was good to meet you, Damien." She had more questions than answers, he knew. She'd probably be back to this place. Her little frown, and the look in her eyes...he remembered seeing that look on another young girl's face. "You know, there's something terribly familiar about you." He didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the stairs, and climbed back up them, and it was as if he were stepping back in time. He heard the door slam behind him, and paused. He was alone again. "It was nice to meet you, Winnie." But there was no one to hear the darkness return to his voice. No one to witness as he left this place, empty again.