#except it’s within the recesses of my brain

[pinkberrytea]

He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable.

Little death—a gift he bestowed upon her, and which she bestows upon him in turn. As her lifeblood touches his lips, Astarion reminisces about the fateful eve when he first sank his fangs into her pretty neck.

Come, gentle night; and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.

Astarion x Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 3.1k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: I can't be the only one who is convinced my man is down bad since the very first bite, right? he is so interesting to me! I wanted to explore this idea further, hopefully I did it justice. thank you for reading!

tags: blood drinking; fluff & smut; possessive behavior; masturbation; body worship; mildly dubious consent; dry humping; somnophilia

“Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”

Footsteps. You hear them approaching, although in your half-unconscious torpor, you can’t tell if they’re near or far. You’re likewise unsure of what has disturbed your sleep, even if as of late, nights have been restless and plagued by nightmares, the worm etched in the recesses of your brain a constant, unforgiving reminder of your plight. Your mind is still hazy, fragments of your dreams clouding your thoughts, so you rely on your primal instincts instead—you smell nothing but the crisp evening air, feel nothing but the cool breeze caressing your warm body, see nothing but endless darkness from behind your closed eyelids, but your ears don’t fail you. You instinctively hold your breath, muscles tensed, staying as still as possible as if playing dead; the footsteps are now almost upon you, the crunching of leaves growing louder and muffling the noise of the crickets singing, and your skin becomes covered in goosebumps in anticipation, the pit of your stomach twisting and turning. Whoever it is, you seem to be their intended target.

Suppressing the mounting panic rising within your chest, you try to gather your bearings and make sense of the situation. You know where you are—Elturgard, or more specifically, a camp in the wilderness, somewhere between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate. Finding a cure for the parasite wriggling in your head is the reason you’re here, and the companions with whom you’re sharing your camp are afflicted by the same condition. Ah, your companions—the footsteps must belong to one of them, surely. The soothing heat of the campfire has significantly dwindled compared to how it was when you turned in, its crackling so low you can barely hear it, and the night is sufficiently chilly that your bedroll fails to offer enough shelter, so you wonder if they are about to tend to the dying flames, or maybe ask you to help them do so. You wait expectantly, pricking up your ears, but suddenly, the crunching sounds come to a halt, and you sense a presence looming over you. A shiver runs down your spine, and your heart starts beating faster, thumping so loudly you’re afraid it may give away your awakened state. The presence silently kneels down beside you, crawling even closer, too close for comfort; and then, you feel it—cold digits ghosting over your cheek, their featherlight touch almost tentatively soft.

Astarion.

Now you remember. You offered to let him feed on you earlier, a habit which you’ve unexpectedly picked up in recent days, although the reason for such eludes you. Perhaps it was his pained expression when he asked you the first time, or maybe something else—you’re not entirely certain, but the fact of the matter is, he is here, except unlike other nights, you are fully aware of your surroundings. Not only that, it has been no more than a fortnight since your little tryst in that pretty clearing, which it seems both of you are intent on pretending never happened. You more so than him—it would be insincere of you to claim you haven’t noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes, how he leans closer when you talk, the cunning smirks and wistful glances. Truth be told, you’re still unsure what to make of it all; none of it is how you expected it would be, not your time together, and certainly not the aftermath. Him, too—though it may be bold of you to assume so, you can’t help but think that his show of vulnerability, however brief, had not been intentional. Ever so often you idly muse over the raw perplexity etched across his face when you invited him to drink from you then, how he looked at you in utter disbelief, letting the mask of a debonair lover slip for a split second; how his kisses became more fervent, his touches less calculated, the confusion never truly seeming to leave him until you were done. And then, the morning after—the hurt in his voice, the complex feelings he appeared to be trying to suppress seeping from every word, as if he had been prepared for anything and everything but genuine yearning, and you ruined it all for him.

“This isn’t about hunger. It’s about pleasure.”

The digits on your cheek slide downwards, gliding across the curve of your jaw and towards your slender neck, where they stop for a brief moment, only to then press down on it, feeling around as if searching for something—an artery, pulsing so very tantalizingly with your precious crimson, a feast set out entirely for him. With his other hand, he gently runs his fingers through your hair and brushes it behind your shoulder, exposing his prize, and repositioning himself to straddle you, he lowers his head until his mouth is hovering right above it. He stays like this for a while, and your blood runs cold as it dawns on you that he may have noticed you are not asleep, but before long, his skin finally comes into contact with yours—however, rather than the sharp pain you’d been expecting, you feel only the pillowy softness of his lips; a tender kiss, which is then followed by another, and then another. One of his hands stays tangled in your hair, cradling your head, and he splays the other on the ground beside you to support himself. His fangs lightly graze the throbbing vein with each peck, almost teasingly, until finally, he sinks them into the sensitive flesh, carefully and steadily so as not to wake you. The uncomfortable sensation is not foreign to you, although it is clear he has become more accustomed to this, even if you have not; his technique has significantly improved, and after the initial stab, it hardly hurts anymore, other than a dull ache every time he swallows, which he does quite enthusiastically.

“Just you and me and—well, maybe a little death?”

Letting out low grunts and guttural moans as he drinks, Astarion sucks ever so vigorously, seemingly more at ease due to your apparent lack of consciousness. Your face gradually grows warmer as you notice tension building up low in your stomach, the noises he makes and the feeling of his plush lips and wet tongue against your skin causing your body to react with pathetic wantonness. You try to stifle the impending arousal, doing your best to remind yourself that he is only feeding, nothing more, nothing less; until you notice the hand on which he had been leaning make its way from its place on the ground to rest on your waist, gingerly moving upwards until his long fingers brush against the plump of one of your breasts, almost as if by accident—it is, however, no accident when two of them then pinch a pebbling nipple through the thin fabric of your nightshirt, delicately massaging the pert nub while the others knead the squishy surrounding flesh. The ache between your legs swells with desire, and you flusteredly bite back the whimper threatening to escape the confines of your closed mouth; believing you to be deep in slumber, he has no reason for such restraint, and his vocalizations increase in frequency and volume alike. 

Having to now use his upper body strength to keep himself propped up, he decides to instead gently fall on top of you, momentarily unlatching from your neck to then slightly push you to the side and press his strong chest flush against your back, one hand woven in your hair and the other cupping your breast still. With almost desperate keenness, he hooks one of his legs over yours, shoving his crotch against your rear, and immediately you notice the rock hard bulge nudging the space between your buttocks. The tips of your ears burn bright red at this realization, making you wonder how common of an occurrence this must be; as your mind wanders to the night when he first bit you, he sinks his fangs back into the bruised vein, and your eyes water a little due to the sudden pain, which you quickly forget about once you feel his hips start almost imperceptibly grinding against your own. Wedging the bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, he moves it to and fro, almost in rhythm with his sucking of your blood, the digits on your bosom earnestly playing with your nipple and those in your hair tenderly caressing the tousled tresses. 

“Hm—hnng…” Astarion groans lewdly, lasciviously, making suggestive wet sounds while sensually lapping at your crimson. No longer satisfied to feel you up through your clothes, he sticks his hand under your shirt, and his cold fingers quickly resume fondling the soft skin of your breast, in response to which shock waves shoot up your legs and arms. Freeing the digits tangled in your hair, he brings them to your ribs, sliding their pads along your navel and down towards your groin, where he then firmly grabs one of your supple thighs. That’s when it occurs to you how unlike your night together he seems to be acting—eagerly exploring your body with almost adolescent clumsiness, his movements sloppy and impulsive, he appears to be entirely focused on taking rather than giving; having no reason to try to impress you, he acts greedily instead, intent on achieving his own personal ecstasy above all else, a fact that doesn’t bother so much as instill in you a puzzling sense of relief.

Increasing the pace of his thrusts, he tightens the grip of his leg around yours, and for a short while you all but forget that your crimson is running down his throat still, unable to focus on anything but the heat irradiating from his skin as it becomes ever warmer the more he feeds. When you notice you can no longer feel the tips of your toes, it is far too late—a tingling sensation spreads across your heavy limbs due to the loss of blood, and holding onto a single thought proves far too difficult, your mind now a messy whirlwind of memories and abstractions. Your arousal persists even as your conscience starts to wane; slick soaks through your underpants, the sweet scent of which causes Astarion to immediately stop moving, freezing as if caught with his fingers inside the cookie jar. After what seems like an eternity, both his hands and fangs leave your helpless form, and he shuffles behind you, presumably looking for something—before you can even begin to wonder what, you feel him press a soft piece of fabric against the fresh set of bite marks on your neck, which he uses to gently wipe the thick red blooming from the small wounds. 

Worried that any further stimulation might disturb your sleep, he decides to attempt a less bold approach instead, pulling away slightly, although your legs remain twisted together. Barely awake now, the echoes of the forest reach your ears in hushed, distant hums, but you can still hear him as he brings the bloodstained cloth to his nose, taking in your scent deeply, eyes closed and a libidinous moan falling from his pretty lips. One of his now freed hands hastily makes its way to the waistband of his pants, only to then slip under it, and as soon as his elegant digits brush against the velvety crown of his cock, he wraps them around its engorged girth, squeezing lightly and drawing pearly droplets of precome from the weeping slit. 

“Mngh…” he croaks, his voice raspy and hoarse, and you can’t tell for sure, but a whisper that vaguely sounds like your own name wafts through the air and vanishes into the evening sky as he starts sliding his hand up and down his length, smearing the clear liquid seeping from the leaking tip all over himself. Prior to your night of passion, this is how he would choose to relieve the painful erection inevitably provoked by his daily feedings, only he would retreat to his tent then; once you became more intimate, things changed, and raw eroticism would percolate into every session, images of your moments together sweeping through his mind and springing his aching sex to life with each gulpful of your lifeblood. The instant you offered him your neck, all he had ever known suddenly came into question—drinking from you while balls-deep into your tight cunt was an experience unlike any other, to the point of almost completely resignifying the concept of pleasure for him. By owning your body, he had made you his, even if only temporarily; your blind trust was something he had never before experienced, and not once had he felt so powerful as with you squirming under him, completely submitting to his whims. 

“Astarion, please…” he recalls you whimpering, the sound of his name on your pink tongue so enticingly sultry, stirring up in him all sorts of conflicting feelings; lust, infatuation, guilt, anger, all blended together and indistinguishable from one another. How beautiful a vision you had made then—such a pretty, luscious thing, flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes glinting with coquettish longing. The more he finds himself caring, the more he hates you for it; the more his hatred for you grows, the more he wants you by his side. Choosing to manipulate you into a tactical alliance was the culmination of careful and meticulous deliberation—at once deadly and most pleasing to the eye, yet seemingly unaware of either fact; a naive, kind fool, lost and alone, his perfect target from every angle, you were the obvious candidate. He had no way of knowing at the time—how you would unwittingly beat him at his own game and steal your way into his undead heart, without even really trying. 

While pumping his now glistening cock, your precious face is all Astarion can think of, every detail of it perpetually burned onto his retinas—long, thick lashes, curtaining doe-like eyes; sweet little freckles speckling the bridge of your nose; smooth waxen skin and plump rosy lips, so soft and kissable. And your scent, oh, your scent—delicious and intoxicating, such a lovely, delectable bouquet. Although now warm, his hand could never compare to the feeling of your slickened walls clenching and fluttering around him, and no amount of pressure would ever be able to replicate the sensation of stretching them open, coaxing yelps and cute whiny pants out of you with each nudge of your cervix. He wonders for a moment what other expressions he has yet to witness you make; in what other manners he has yet to take you, in what other positions he has yet to watch you come undone. Maybe on all fours, that round ass of yours sticking out so very invitingly, begging to be devoured; maybe on your knees, darkened lips wrapped tightly around his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down onto the swollen peaks of your perky breasts as you accommodate all of him like the good girl you are. Each idea is more enticing than the one before, and the very thought of acquainting himself with all the ins and outs of your body makes him feel alive, bulging veins and tumid cockhead pulsating madly against his sweaty palm as he goes over the endless possibilities. He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable. 

“Mine…” he growls possessively, picturing your tits bouncing and the rouged knot atop your dripping core throbbing for him as he feels his climax draw nearer, rubbing the cloth sullied with your crimson against his nose, your taste still fresh in his mouth and a trail of red running down his chin. You are not his, not yet, but although he curses himself for it, he would bring his simple plan to fruition, for all the wrong reasons; he wants you, he needs you—his own little bundle of joy, his light in the darkness, his glimmer of solace, his, his, his, and his alone. He won’t share your kindness, not with your companions, not with anyone, and he cares not if his greediness makes him unworthy, for he never deserved any of it in the first place; regardless, you’d still extend a hand to the wretch who put a knife to your throat, toyed with your emotions and sucked you dry, in more ways than one. You may not realize it, but in sharing your life essence with him, you breathed color into his world, roused within his soul a vital spark he’d long forgotten had once ever been there. He may not be entitled to it, but he’d still have it all—he’d still have you, to the bone and beyond.

“Oh, gods…” With one last stroke, Astarion empties himself on his hand and stomach, legs convulsing and hips stuttering, letting go of the cloth to then nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, lips pressed against the bloodied gashes maculating your otherwise flawless skin. The inside of his pants is now covered in come, yet even as the thick fluid runs uncomfortably down his thighs, he feels strangely at peace—happy, even. His softening cock twitches and jerks still, but fearing that his luck may soon run out, he lets go of it and wipes his fingers on the hem of his shirt, which he learns is also stained with his seed; once they’re sufficiently clean, he wraps both of his arms around your waist in a tight embrace, focusing on the gentle raising of your chest as you inhale ever so softly, finally at rest. 

“This is a gift, you know.”

He won’t forget it. Regardless of what may lie ahead, he won’t. Warm flesh, beating heart; as your crimson courses through his veins, the thread of life now connects you both, your fates forever intertwined. When morning comes, all will be back to normal, but for now, he shall hold you, cradle you, as he would a lover. A true lover—though what would that be, if not prey that wakes by his side once the dawn breaks? Disturbing as that thought may be, it is of little import for now; basking in the clarity of death, he allows himself a moment of reprieve, for your time together is far from over. What treasures will the future bestow? Why—finding out is but a matter of waiting.

[ionfusionpunk]

hello, what’s this about awake craniotomies and clone chip removal? (I don’t follow you, I just saw your note in the reblogs and went “oooo this seems interesting!”)

Heyo! Of all the things I've commented on a post, I think this is exactly the one I expected to hear about the least lolol. I'm warning you, this is... a long post. It got away from me, I'm so sorry T-T (It's heckin long. I'm really sorry. I'll summarize at the top and you can read more beneath the break if you want.)

Long story short, I hyper fixated on this tiny little detail that really doesn't actually affect anything within the SW universe lmao.

TL;DR: The clones should be awake for their chip removal procedures with the exception of extenuating circumstances. Also, disclaimer, I'm not in the medical field, I just love research. If I get anything wrong, anyone is free to correct me :)

If you have any questions, please ask, I'm not very good at explaining things in way others understand at first. So it all makes sense to me, but you might not follow my leaps in logic 😅

Longer story: I was reading a fic this morning, and the clones involved got their chip removed. The text said something about 'waiting for them to wake up from the surgery', and it just kinda... idk, hit me that I have never ever read any fic where the clone doesn't have to wake up from being completely sedated for brain surgery.

Now, look. Write what you wanna write, like I said, it's not a big thing. But one of my neurodivergent quirks is that inaccuracy/misinformation/ignorance (willful or innocent) kinda bugs me? I like knowing that other people know things - know correct things. It brings me satisfaction and helps me sleep at night. So I kinda notice trends in what people seem to not/know.

My first thought when I realized the trend of complete sedation for brain surgery/chip removal led to me to draw two conclusions: a) As happens in fandom, most everyone just writes clones completely sedated for this procedure bc everyone else does. No biggie. It's easier, and again, doesn't really matter. b) Most everyone is working off misinformation pulled from inaccurate medical dramas and the assumptions made by the average fic writer. Again, not an issue. It's fiction. I just like... accuracy. So my brain took this and went ham.

Kay. So, there's this really cool thing about the brain that I'm starting to think isn't common knowledge? I'm kinda a nerd for weird medical things, and it's been a long time since my high school biology class where I first learned about this, so maybe it's just me. The brain doesn't have any pain receptors. None. Like, if you had just a living brain in the palm of your hand and you stabbed it or punched it or whatever, it wouldn't feel pain. Pressure maybe, since it still has touch receptors, but no pain whatsoever. The only pain receptors present around the vicinity of the brain are the ones around the brain.

This little fact led to a really cool and helpful medical advancement several years ago: this thing called awake craniotomies, or brain surgery where the patient is still conscious. The benefit is that it allows the surgical team to engage the patient and actively monitor cognitive function; this is a far step from waiting for the patient to wake up in order to determine if the surgeon done effed up and turned the patient into a vegetable - if they woke up at all, that is.

Originally this was practiced on epileptic patients bc, yanno, epilepsy. It's a really finicky condition, after all. Since then however we've managed to find other treatment options for epilepsy and other related conditions, so awake craniotomies (or conscious craniotomies as I call them, since it alliterates lol), so we've moved away from brain surgery there. Instead, awake craniotomies are now most often performed when removing or recessing a brain tumor. Again, it's a really finicky process, and the surgeon and their team really like being able to check on the patient during the whole process.

Before anyone freaks out about the pain receptors around the brain, there's an answer for that, too. A local anesthetic is used to completely numb the skull and scalp. Think of an epidural; it's the same idea.

Now, you may ask, how this all relates back to SW? Well, that's a great question lmaoooo. Now, in all of canon SW, there are only... seven (maybe eight) instances of a clone getting their chip removed. Tup, Fives, Rex, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, and Omega (and Crosshair if his chip actually was removed like he said, I haven't watched TBBS2 yet). Actually, did Kix? I don't remember. Anyway.

I'm operating off the assumption that SW medical knowledge/tech is about equal to our own - i.e. that they still use many of the same procedures/practices/techniques for most things bar canonical exceptions. My friend in the server however pointed out that they weren't sure any clone medic could perform a complex brain surgery. Now, that's a fair point. The Kaminoans wouldn't care to teach the medics how to perform those surgeries on each other; they're products, they can be replaced, so what's the point?

But. Here are my counterpoints to that.

First. In the event of an emergency, it would only make sense that a clone medic be prepared to perform any sort of necessary procedure on a natborn officer or even their Jedi general/commander in the event they could not make it to a medical station or a proper surgeon in time. If there were natborn medics trained in complicated procedures and stationed on the ships, then there's always the chance there would be far more clone medics than them, and thus if they die, the clone medics would need to be able to step up in their place. So. Clone medics can probably perform brain surgery.

Second. With Fives, Rex, and CF99 (minus Crosshair), they remove their chips via surgical droid/machine. In fact, both Rex and CF99 do so on a GAR class ship. This shows that not only did the clones have access to the necessary technology, but it could also be easily operated. And not only that, but the only thing they needed was a program to locate and remove the chip. I think the importance of the program is that the machine itself can't perform a Level 5 Atomic Scan, so the program is needed to triangulate the position of the chip for the surgical machine itself.

Now. As to why an awake craniotomy is the way to go. Again, it allows the team to actively monitor cognitive function. Only in extenuating circumstances will the patient be completely sedated. This could be preference on the patient's part or due to certain circumstances.

Look at Tup, for example. His chip was rotting in his skull, and it's treated like a tumor (technically it is). Keeping him awake risked damage to himself and others. In light of this, it was safer for him to remain fully sedated. Additionally, he probably couldn't be revived completely either due to the already existent brain damage. This is an extenuating circumstance. Note however that there was still a qualified individual present for the surgery: the AZI droid maybe Nale Se, maybe Fives, I legit don't remember I'm so sorry). Now, there is another side to Tup's case: the Kaminoans. Nale Se wouldn't have cared for Tup's continued functionality; she only wanted his chip. She would have kept him sedated out of convenience, because the intent was always to have him decommissioned anyway.

Now for Fives. Fives learned about the chips. He had his removed. Who helped him? AZI. However, my theory here is that it isn't actually AZI performing the surgeries. I think he just... holds the programs for various surgeries and programs the surgical machine. We don't see anything of Fives' actual chip removal procedure, only the aftermath. I hypothesize that Fives was awake in the machine however, just properly anesthetized by AZI - who, as a medical assistant droid, would most likely be programmed as an anesthesiologist - and also observed by AZI. What I'm saying is that AZI probably was monitoring Fives' cognitive functions while he underwent an awake craniotomy to remove the chip in his head.

Rex. We know nothing about that procedure, just that it happened (unless we do, idk). Either another clone medic helped him and was there to monitor cognitive function, or Rex involved the help of another droid in order to be properly anesthetized for the process. Given the intense nature of the circumstances, he wouldn't have wanted to be fully sedated for the process in case he had to respond quickly to the chaos - which he did, leading ultimately to him and Ahsoka escaping with their lives. So, he wouldn't have been monitored (except maybe by a droid), but he definitely wouldn't have been fully sedated, either.

Then for CF99. For these procedures, we see Tech program the machine and then stand watch as they go in. They aren't sedated, with the technical exception of Wrecker (iirc, he was stunned unconscious). It's not just caution or paranoia that makes him observe, and not even just his knowledge of what's happening: it's procedure. He's there, as the only one who would know how to check, monitoring the cognitive function of his family.

Now, the conclusion, lol.

I mentioned my two hypotheses earlier about why fandom as a whole writes the clones being completely sedated. After going through all of this, I'm leaning more towards a simple abundance of misinformation. It's technically and tactically safer and more correct for the clones to be awake for their chip removals, and in fact seems to be subtly portrayed in canon (though it's really written in a way that can be interpreted either way).

The moral of this story is that TV medical dramas are shit and should never be taken at face value. Honestly. No one wakes up after CPR. They remain unconscious for a while. Defibrillation doesn't wake a person up, either. If you're hit hard enough to be knocked unconscious, you have a concussion. It takes seven minutes to kill a person by choking them, not seven seconds, but you can make them pass out in seven seconds if you apply pressure to the write spots on their neck in order to cut blood flow to the brain. Stuff like that. Oh, and yeah: awake craniotomies are a thing and are the safe way to remove a clone's chip.

[liongoatsnake]

You’re Never “Too Old” To Realize You’re Fictionkin

 By Sky Singer (he/him/his)

1 October 2022 – Word count: ~1660

  Talk about coming out is pretty common in the alterhuman community, even if it’s not always framed that way. Telling others about being alterhuman; being open about being alterhuman to others. It’s a common conversation: how to be open to others about being alterhuman, whether it be actively telling people directly or just passively let it be open in some way or another. Parents, siblings, close friends, partners… Less talked about is this being brought up in the context of the alterhuman community itself, though.

 Maybe that doesn’t automatically make sense: why would one alterhuman need to “come out” to another alterhuman? But coming out isn’t always about making non-ingroup people aware of something and expressing they are part of that group. Sometimes it’s just about opening up to others about something about yourself. And it’s not like this “opening up” is always a topic that goes smoothly, even if both the speaker and the listener are all from the same “group.” Opening up about being a certain kind of alterhuman, or having a certain kind of ‘type, or so on isn’t always easy peasy. The person wanting to open up about something can be worried how others will react.

We remember a time when grilling was still common. Where coming out about an aspect of your identity could lead to issues. People demanding to know the logistics: How long have you “properly” questioned this identity? Have you considered every alternative explanation? Can you write a small thesis detailing your reasonings to hold this identity? (We’re only slightly exaggerating on the latter question, though the old Awareness Forums certainly did have its moments of desiring thousand words long replies to questions…)

 We don’t expect that sort of mind-numbing, soul-crushing analysis from anyone… Except ourselves, unfortunately. We are our own worst critic. It’s not a conscious thing. It’s not even something we want to do. It’s just something that got drilled into us for years, and our issues with crippling anxiety keeps that methodology alive in the recesses of our brain. Our anxiety makes us uncontrollably nitpick and second guess ourselves. Imposter syndrome is strong in us.

 Not so fun fact, the origins of our personal essays on our experiences, both the ones we have actually finished and the dozens of WIPs languishing in folders, almost all got their start within a question that we were grilled about. We hate reinventing the wheel over and over again, so we just started writing out these monstrously long explanations just so we can copy/paste parts of them over and over again when the same questions would crop up again and again. We write and update our personal essays still today because we hope they might be of interest or use to someone else, but we would be lying if we said we didn’t go into painstaking detail about things because we fear someone might think we didn’t explain something in “good enough” detail.

 Some habits die hard. Some linger like scars.

 Not even a decade ago, if someone came out as fictionkin they were either doomed to be the community pariah or, if they were lucky, the community might have accepted them if they could play the grilling “game” well enough to placate any self-appointed gatekeepers. A “game” where they could never stop playing and if they fumbled the ball, they could possibly be ousted from the community for their loss. We remember that time in the community too well. It pained us to see fictionkin treated like that back then, and it hurt to see the people in our system who were open about being fictionkin have to be ready for scorn at the drop of a hat. Now, those old fears are weighing on not only my shoulders but also those of the other two hosts here at the House of Chimeras.

 It’s funny. Our system has members who are very open about being fictionkin. They’ve been open about it for years. Several were even open about it in the late 2000s and early 2010s when fictionkin were still treated with so much contempt and ridicule. (Ebony the thestral, Miushra the Named, Cavern-Risen the Black Spiral Dancer garou, and others.) So, one would think that other people in our system discovering they too were fictionkin wouldn’t be so destabilizing. Yet here we are. Maybe it’s because I and my siblings have grown comfortable in the way we are perceived in the community. Yeah, we’re part of a large multiple system but we were “just” polytherians with only two theriotypes. The most likely controversial thing people found with us was either the fact we are part of a system or that Ocean Watcher’s theriotypes are a shark and a sea slug. (In the past there was controversy in the therian community if it was possible for someone to have fish and mollusk theriotypes.) Outside of those possibly controversial things the three of us have long felt like just a face in the crowd. Maybe our anxiety of changing the status quo for us publicly has rattled some old fears about how fictionkin are perceived.  

 Maybe what also raises our anxiety is the fact that we actually were aware we were these characters before we knew we were these characters. That sounds so paradoxically absurd, but here we are. We’ve known since we first saw the movies, each just over a decade ago. We knew. We just never thought about it. We never questioned it.

 It’s particularly absurd for me, Sky Singer, because out of the three of us, everything was a lot more obvious in my case, looking back. I didn’t always go by the name I go by today. Growing up, as a kid, my name was Jim, and I went by that name until only a few years ago. Moreover, I didn’t discover my theriotypes, red-tailed hawk and Sinornithosaurus, until our early 20s. So before then I stuck exclusively to my human form. So as soon as we first saw the movie my fictiotype is in I knew right off the bat I shared the same name and appearance as one of the characters. (Since myself and the two other hosts of this system were aging roughly at the same rate as our body, I was even around the age as the character in question, so it was even easier to see the resemblance. However, it wasn’t just the name and appearance. Seeing the movie, it was almost like watching old home videos from your childhood: you just knew that was you from some time ago, you generally remembered stuff (give or take some hazy spots) but from a first-person perspective, and everything. But bizarrely enough, that being weird somehow didn’t click in our system’s brain. We knew I was Jim, but we didn’t recognize that as odd. We just went about our life like that knowledge wasn’t anything noteworthy. Even when our system discovered the term fictionkin because of the therian community, I didn’t connect the dots.

 It wasn’t until a month ago, while talking in-system about what movies we could watch that this anomaly was highlighted. It wasn’t even me who brought it to light. While glancing through DVDs I saw our old copy of Treasure Planet and dismissively said I didn’t want to watch it which led to Miushra asking questions as to why I didn’t, and it was her who pointed out how similar I looked to the character. It was only then everything fell into place. It wasn’t even a question of “do I actually identify as this character?” It was a realization of years of knowing I was that character meant I was fictionkin. I had made the discovery long ago. I just never connected it to fictionkin. Somehow. Cognitive dissonance can be one hell of a thing, I guess. I hadn’t “missed the signs;” I had hit all the signs and hadn’t bothered to read any of them or wonder why they were in my way.      

 And it didn’t end there.

 Long story short: the three hosts at House of Chimeras: myself, Earth Listener, and Ocean Watcher don’t just have names that really follow a similar pattern. Everything about us kind of does that. If one thing is the case for one of us, then something along the same lines (but not in the same way) will be the case for the other two. That is why we call ourselves siblings. So, when I realized I was not just a therian but also fictionkin that got Earth Listener and Ocean Watcher thinking if there was any character they knew they were but hadn’t ever made the connection either. And they did. Earth Listener realized her being San from Princess Mononoke was something unusual as did Ocean Watcher with the character, Tetsu from Blue Submarine No. 6. (And they also had to deal with the feeling of “how did I never question this?!” like I did.)

 Since discovering this we’ve been equal parts wanting to talk about this to others (because what the fuck, this is buck wild) but also highly anxious to talk about it as well (because of all our bad experiences with fictionkin being treated terribly in the not too distant past). But also, talking about it to others, or just writing about it, is useful for us to get a handle on our thoughts. Like, how we connect our fictiotypes into our existing personal mythology regarding our origins, and more.  

 This essay isn’t a grand splash but a timid dipping our toes into the water. A shy opening up about the three of us being not just therians, but fictionkin as well. It is so bizarre to have known something for a decade but were not aware of it until recently. We are anxious how people might react, either to just how ridiculously oblivious we were for a decade or to the news we are fictionkin in general, but we want to share this anyway.

[peachfruitcake]

[tumbleassbitch]

another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything. Chapter 4/? | Chapter 3

July 1st, 2022

“Are you fucking insane?” He meets her frantic gaze unaffected. “Shit. You are insane.”

Science. He wants to fix this with science.

“I’ve been out hunting for that goddamn white wolf every full moon for the last six years. If I hadn’t seen the evidence myself, I’d think he didn’t exist. If you were me, you'd be looking for other ways to end this, too."

“I can help you,” she emphasizes. “I want to stop Silas, too. I’m not some- some fragile fucking daisy that needs to stay locked up.”

“You don’t get it,” he says firmly, slowly approaching the cell bars. “I’m not doing this for another six years. I’m too damn old.”

“Yeah, and I’m twenty-four. Nice to meet you,” she says sarcastically. “You don’t have to do any of this. You could let me join you out there, get a fresh pair of eyes-”

He hooks his thumbs in his belt. “The worst thing for either of us would be if my family caught wind of this. We don’t need more guns. We need brains.”

“I’m not even a veterinarian yet!” she practically screams.

“Hey! You have almost four years of college under your belt,” he asserts with a pointed finger, “and you’ve already been accepted into that vet school on the West Coast.”

Am I really getting a pep talk right now? “That's so not the same,” she laments into her hands, collapsing on the bed. 

It’s true that she was accepted into vet school after applying to almost every one in the country, and yeah, she’s smart. She’d just been waiting to tell Max until he heard back from St. Lawrence… which, he did. And didn’t tell her.

Not that it matters, now.

But this backwater cop apparently took one look at her college resume and thought, Gee, she could probably cure lycanthropy! If this is their only solid plan, they were genuinely fucked.

“You’re the best we’ve got,” he confirms her worst fears with controlled, steady conviction. His eyes tell a different story, though; there’s something barely holding on within those dark pits. Pure desperation.

God, this was his big plan? After taking her back to her cell last night so that she could cramp in peace, for the first time since everything happened, Laura honestly felt that thing’s were finally starting to look up.

But… maybe they still are. Laura’s nothing if not an opportunist. 

“Fine,” she says briskly. Hope dawns on his face, and she shoves down the foreign tinge of guilt that intumesces. “But I’ll need research.”

-

July 2nd, 2022

A thick stack of werewolf legends and fairytales sits beside her bed, each book spine labeled “North Kill Library” on grimy stickers lined up like dominos. The amount of grubby twelve-year-old fingers that have thumbed through these books must be staggering. Because, honestly, who else would be reading about werewolf legends?

Laura wouldn’t. She never had the time for it.

The other paper he gave her, the only thing he initially handed over before she asked for additional reading, sits folded up on her pillow. 

Don’t get bit, cut off your limb if you do, or kill the werewolf that turned you when it’s a full moon in order to break the curse. Scary stories to tell around the campfire, except it’s daylight and painfully real.

Its weakness, however, froths in the recesses of her mind: silver. If she can get her hands on some, maybe bullets, or a knife…? Hell, she's even willing to try and make him eat it.

That is, if she can find Silas. 

Not 'if.' When.

And once she gets out, she will find him.

A phone ringing somewhere in the precinct snatches her attention. In all the time she’s been here, a phone hasn’t rang once. 

She holds her breath, straining to hear a voice, but no luck. He must've gone immediately to his office before answering it.

Time passes long enough until she hears the most faint sound of a door shutting, and then moments later, another.

Did he leave the building? It would make sense. She assumes he is an actual cop, having access to this strange, derelict building and the whole flashing lights and badge business on the night they met when he shouldn’t have needed to go the extra mile to masquerade.

He could be checking in on a disturbance of the peace, or maybe a drunk and disorderly. Something that isn’t hovering near his captor while also tracking down a mythical creature. 

It’s odd to think about. All of her experiences with him have been past the point of bizarre. The thought of him doing something as dull as normal, something expected of him , was just as weird.

The hours pass by slowly, and she keeps her mind occupied by studying, taking notes in the journal of whatever comes to mind as potentially important. It’s a lot like her high school world history class, except this has a lot more riding on it and the only way to double-check her answers is by solving a curse. 

No biggie, she can practically hear Max say. Her heart convulses painfully. She’d do anything to have him here. Hell, she’d do anything to have anybody else here.

Just as her stomach begins to rumble for dinner, the soft shut of a door rings out not once, but twice.

Travis comes a bit later, and before she even sees him, she can tell he’s upset. There’s a little bit of hate that accompanies the fact that she's spent enough time with him to see it.

Polished shoes slap harshly against tile, his gait brisk and heavy. The lines in his forehead are drawn, and sections of hair stick out of place as if too many fingers have passed through. 

He sets down the unappetizing tray of meatloaf and an apple with two pills without a word, turning to leave.

“Hey,” she says quickly. “Can I get a clock?”

He appraises her, impatience oozing out of his pores. “What do you need a clock for?”

“So that I can tell the time.”

“Again, why do you need a clock?” he asks smartly. 

You have such a terrible personality. “Please,” she says, voice straining to hold the soft tone. “I need something to anchor my days by. Something beyond the daylight.”

Some of the fight bleeds out of him, and he purses his lips. “I’ll see what I can do,” is the noncommittal answer she gets, but it’s enough.

Travis turns to leave, and she steps closer to the bars. “I also have some ideas.”

He exhales through his nose slowly, but despite the impatient exterior, he regards her with something close to hope.

“You said you’ve been tracking Silas for six years, right? Have you noticed any seasonal patterns?” At his confused look, she elaborates. “Is he migrating to the south in the winter?”

He nods slowly, considering her with an expression she has a hard time placing. “He does, but not in any single place for long.”

“We know he was in town just a few days ago,” she says. “He could still be here.”

“Could,” he replies evasively.

“And what about your niece?” she presses. 

He narrows his eyes. “What the hell do you mean?”

Laura shrugs. “She’s a werewolf. Are there any, I don’t know, characteristics that you’ve observed in her? Anything that might be helpful for predicting what another werewolf might do throughout the moon cycle?”

He gives off an air of silent bewilderment, and she swallows back her irritation. No use in pushing a man with a gun.

“Is that a … no?” she asks.

“No, it’s not. It’s,” he starts, then stops. “I’m just surprised you caught on to that.”

Her ego preens at the unintentional complement. “Imagine what I could catch onto if you trusted me more,” she says, and the way his face immediately closes off, it's obvious she pushed for too much, too soon.

“You told your mom that you’d let your niece come around more. How are you going to explain this,” she gestures widely, “to her?”

“Here’s an idea— you let me worry about that, and you can go ahead and forget it.”

“Even now, you’re still hiding things from me.” 

The look she gets is so full and dripping with condescension that she grits her teeth. “We could be a team .”

Travis curses under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Look, ma’am- Laura ,” he emphasizes her name, holding up a hand placatingly. “Just because you know, doesn’t mean you know.”

“What… the fuck does that even mean?” she mutters.

“It means I can’t trust you,” he says, “just like you don’t trust me.”

“Yeah, well. It sounds like you can’t trust your family, either,” she says, harkening back to his words from earlier today.

The worst thing for either of us would be if my family caught wind of this.

“That’s a whole world of difference.”

“Is it?” she presses. “How many people has your family killed?”

“How many has yours?” he tosses back flippantly. 

A strange heady current pulses between them. Overhead, the faint wash of summer rain patters on stone.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. Deadly.

His jaw twitches. The air feels thick and alive in her lungs, threatening to erupt in a swarm of locusts, and if she were to open her mouth again, something as deadly as a plague would slip through her chapped lips.

“My family never meant to hurt anybody,” Travis finally says, voice low and strained. The unsaid words are pointed enough that she turns her head to the stone wall.

It’s a clear dismissal. She’s done with him tonight.

He lingers, fidgeting in polyester and scuffed shoes. He’s working himself up to saying something, but whatever it is stays hidden away. A secret.

Just like her.

-

July 3rd, 2022

A girlishly pink, plastic watch is delivered with breakfast, along with a pair of small pills. It’s painfully out of place amongst the werewolf-and-prison theme she’s got going on, but it’ll do. 

He asks if she wants to take a shower, and after a few moments of resolutely staring at the faded cover of The Man-Wolf, he finally leaves with a huff.

She slips on the watch after the door shuts with an echoing creak. 

The early summer sunrises have been deceptive. It’s Sunday, a little after seven o'clock in the morning. As far as her biological clock can tell, Travis has been delivering meals at a consistent time every day for the past week or so.

Three meals a day, plus a shower. How often does he leave this place? If he actually does have a family of his own, which she doubts given the pure stalker vibe he effortlessly gives off, then how the hell is he explaining being at work so much?

Maybe it’s a cop thing, she ponders, digging into her oatmeal. Apple cinnamon today.

-

Travis lingers for lunch. 

Laura tears into a plain ham sandwich, eyes peeling back the absolutely, totally fascinating tome of The Biology, Ecology, and Behavior of Canis Lupus. Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.

“Have you found anything?” he says haltingly, breaking the silence.

She debates icing him out, but self-preservation kicks in. It’s so, so clear that she can’t. She can’t afford to lose whatever ground she’s gained with him.

“Depends on how you classify ‘anything,’” she drawls, not missing the way his shoulders ease ever so minutely. The observation bolsters her to continue. “Did you know that a wolf pack’s territory can be anywhere from thirty-one to over 1,200 square miles?”

“Nothing else?”

Laura sits up, book abandoned on the bed. “Look, I’m trying. It’s not like I have a lot to work with from the huge North Kill library. If I had other resources, then maybe it would be a different story.”

“Keep digging,” he says lamely. The disappointment settles in his voice with easy acceptance. 

She thinks that’s it, but he’s just… staring at her, and though she’s long-since gotten used to his natural creepiness, the weight of his scrutiny causes her to squirm.

“What?” she asks exasperatedly.

“My family is at the bottom of a well.” 

It’s said so quietly, she almost doesn’t understand what he’s saying. Travis exhales deeply, fixing her a solemn look as if she’s a priest that will exonerate him for his sins. “They’re… stuck. And I’m the only one at the top that’s holding the rope.”

“So?”

His baffled face turns towards her, and his stupid expression infuriates her for reasons she can’t begin to dive into. “What do you mean, ‘so?’”

“I mean, so what?”

He scoffs, shaking his head, but she’s already standing up and walking as much into his space as she can. Though the bars separate them, it’s the closest she’s gotten to him since the night she tried to escape.

The way Travis doesn’t move an inch at her approach speaks of a predator’s confidence. “Family,” he says slowly, “is the most important thing in the world.”

“Bull,” she matches his tone, “shit.”

Travis glares down at her, but there’s a tinge of curiosity in his narrowed eyes. It isn’t clear what he thinks she’s trying to do. She’s not really sure, either. The words just pour out.

“Family doesn’t mean shit if you’re living like shit,” she says harshly. “What kind of life is this?”

He grits his teeth. Already, he’s shutting her out.

“I’m serious, Travis,” something flickers on his face at the sound of his name. “Family is meant to, to build you up or whatever. Not threaten you.”

“That’s not what’s going on,” he denies with a scoff.

“No, you said we’re both in trouble, here. Right?”

"Yeah, spot on,” he says unimpressed. “But what I meant by that is that they’ll kill you, and hate me. Just because I can't tell them you exist doesn't mean I can't fucking trust them."

“That sounds toxic,” she replies.

His quirks a brow. “Really? Coming from your home life?”

“God, would you just stop already,” Laura snaps. “You don’t have to keep bringing it up. Fuck you, man.”

Travis actually has the decency to look somewhat chastised. “What I mean to say is- I’m only saying it because of… of the two of us. In comparison. I’d imagine you’d much rather have a family like mine.”

“Yeah, well. Not all of us got so lucky,” she bites out sarcastically. “Doesn’t mean that other families are perfect. It’s not a comparison.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, opting to study the space over her shoulder. The break in eye contact hits her like a bucket of cold water.

She swallows. “And yet your mom would put a bullet in my skull?”

Travis’ eyes flash, and he chuckles low, a grim, humorless breath that barely skims the surface. “You and me both."

"And what about Kaylee?” she brusquely asks, and his eyes snap back to hers. “The girl who turns into a fucking monster every month?" 

“Kaylee?” he repeats incredulously, then visually wrestles with his next words. “No, Kaylee is the sweetest, most, most kind-hearted soul on earth. This curse is what’s hurting people, not her. She’d never hurt a fly if she could help it.”

" If she could help it?" Laura repeats pointedly.

Travis' hackles rise, and he leans so close that if she wanted to, she could easily wrap her hands around his throat. "My niece would be heartbroken if she knew the kind of rot our family has brought on this town."

They're at a stalemate. 

“I know you’re tired of hunting Silas,” she says, softer this time. “And I won’t stop trying to find other ways to stop this curse. At least give me the locations you’ve managed to track him to, see if I can find more of a correlation. I work with animals, remember?”

It’s bullshit, frankly, but for him to think she can do any of this in the first place tells her that he really doesn’t know what veterinarians do.

She can’t deny that the idea of finding a cure for lycanthropy fascinates her. Being a research veterinarian one day has always been the plan— studying animals in a lab environment, looking for ways to prevent and cure diseases. But that’s something… way off in the future. Way above her current pay grade.

Laura’s only interned at a vet clinic, much less gone to actual vet school! The most she’s done is read books and prep surgical sites, sometimes having the exciting job of preparing intravenous lines for anesthetics. Nothing that’s prepared her for what he expects her to do.

But if he ever realizes that she can’t help him find a cure, what then? What happens to her?

“I really do need the information you have about him,” she pleads. “Not the fairy tales. At least, not at first.”

His eyes dart past hers, then back up. This close, she can see the amber curls in his irises, like sunlight shining through a bottle of whiskey.

"Finish your damn lunch,” he says.

And that’s that.

-

Somewhere in the precinct, a door shuts not once, but twice.

It’s three o’clock.

At six o’clock, it happens again.

-

July 4th, 2022

The map Travis gives her is comically large, and not for the first time, Laura is thankful for existing in a time where GPS and Google exist. 

She tapes the map of the East Coast's major roads and cities to one of the walls of her cell, and it easily swallows up the stone. Little red stickers march across Maine to Virginia, conglomerating within upstate New York and branching out as far down as Georgia.

And, that? That’s the problem.

For as much as Silas was confirmed to still be within the state, he was also apparently gallivanting amongst peach orchards and just barely skimming the top of Jacksonville. Talk about ‘Florida Man.’ 

How many deaths is he responsible for? How many others are out there looking for Silas, trying desperately to end their own curse?

The questions consume her from within.

The dark swatch of nothingness has always been there for as long as she can remember, threatening to burn up each carefully laid thought and good intention. But now, as she considers each pin on the map, each one the center of a bullseye, that same nothingness purrs in hunger. 

It electrifies her. It disturbs her.

Laura’s ears perk. The familiar chords of Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. are carried down the hallway, and her heart gives a little tug.

“Could you turn it up?” she calls down the hallway. Though it strains her neck, she’s able to just barely see him appear in the gloom cast down a ways. Late sunset paints the walls. He’s probably going to head home soon, if he ever leaves.

He fixes her with something akin to amusement. “I didn’t take you for a Springsteen fan.”

“My mom used to listen to him all the time,” she says, and instantly imagines swallowing her own tongue. The song, the burgeoning sense of hope today; all of it brings on a false sense of security.

Travis stills, and in the space of a breath, he moves. She watches him scoop up the radio, casually walking into her line of sight, and place it right next to the old chair that’s become a staple of the decor.

You end up like a dog that's been beat too much 

'Til you spend half your life just coverin' up

The words rush over her like a familiar friend, bringing with them memories of wide-mouth smiles, her mom’s blonde hair whipping freely in the wind, both of them singing with abandon. She leans her head back against the wall, shutting out the rest of the world for just a little while.

Aerosmith, Journey, Bon Jovi. Laura was raised on classic 80’s rock, but nothing reminded her of her mom more than the slightly cheesy, ‘total powerhouse of a man’ that was Bruce Springsteen. 

Whenever it was a particularly bad day, and they needed to get away from the house just long enough for the caustic bitterness to settle into a slow ache, her mom would take her to get ice cream.

They’d get in the old Honda Civic and dash down to the local ice cream shop with the windows down, regardless of the time of year, and blast the radio. Her mom would ask her about school, talk about the latest crazy headline she’d seen- anything surface level.

It was never safe to go far from the neighborhood; most often, they’d circle the block several times over, always keeping an eye out in case another car returned to the driveway before them.

Most of the time, they made it back before. 

But not always.

And when they didn’t, Laura wished they never returned in the first place. That they’d have just kept driving, on and on, staying on the highway till the gas tank ran on fumes and hitchhike from there.

God, she had envisioned all of it so clearly: ditch the car, get out of the state. Laura had no aunts or uncles on her mom’s side, but there was a cousin in Oregon that would probably spot them the emergency funds for a flight.

Of course, her mom would never leave.

Travis’ phone vibrates.

She jolts back to awareness. He doesn’t so much as look at her before brusquely leaving, clutching his pocket as if he could smother the sound. The radio stays behind. 

“Damn,” she mutters to no one. Her wrist reads three o’clock.

Travis isn’t treating her like… before , and this observation sinks in more than it should. 

She thinks about the extra berth he gave her that morning when delivering her breakfast. The avoidance in his gaze, never straying too long in her direction. At first, she thought he was being more wary because of her escape attempt. But it feels like more than that.

Laura scowls at the thought. It shouldn’t bother her. 

It shouldn’t, but it does.

-

When he returns with a dinner tray, Laura is laying on her stomach in bed, nose buried in a book on German werewolf fairy tales.

“Who called?” she asks him.

No response.

“Was it your niece?”

The door at the end of the hallway closes with finality.

-

July 5th, 2022

"Hey! Travis!" she calls. 

A moment later, the devil himself appears. Privately, she relishes in the fact that even as a prisoner, she still holds some modicum of command.

“Let’s stick with Sheriff Hackett,” he says with a wilting glare over her shoulder.

Let’s not. She blinks when a hand is unceremoniously shoved in front of the cell bars. Long, faintly scarred fingers uncurl to reveal two little pills. 

“Take ‘em,” he says impatiently. 

“What?”

“I- Uh,” he falters. “They’re for your,” he waves his hand in the general direction of her pelvis, and her brow raises of its own accord.

Oh. Her period cramps. Because he knows she’s on her period. Because she totally bled all over the floor-

“That’s what you’ve been giving me this whole time?” she asks over the absolutely mortifying train of thought.

He blinks. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious.”

“Um, no. I had no idea what they were.”

“Huh,” he says. She gets the faintest impression that he’s embarrassed. “They’ve been missing from the trays.”

“I’ve been flushing them down the toilet,” Laura says bluntly. “But, uh. Thanks.” 

Her fingers brush the skin of his palm when she takes the pills, and his fingers twitch, then curl as if to hide the gesture. The residual tension in the room prompts her to clear her throat before the silence threatens to swallow them whole.

“That’s not what I called you here for.”

“I gathered that,” he says drily. 

She nods towards the map. “Have you actually left town for any of these sightings?” 

Travis clicks his tongue, effectively changing the conversation. “I’ve tracked him with my own connections, but I can’t exactly leave town. Anything outside of a few hours has been undoable.”

“For six years?” she asks incredulously. This guy hasn’t left the area for over half a decade, at least?

“You heard me.”

That’s… not exactly hopeful. “Is anyone else checking up on these sightings?”

He huffs. “At times. But the moment we’re able to follow up on one lead, he’s already long gone. It’s not like we can go through a formal process, here. The only description we have is a feral albino boy.”

“That sounds pretty specific to me,” she says.

He snorts, but it sounds hollow. “You’d think so.”

She grills him about the other leads he’s followed up on, and though he surprisingly answers at least half of them more or less directly, despondency steadily descends upon her shoulders like a familiar shawl.

For one man, he has looked everywhere. 

From keyword filters on local newspaper headlines to online hunting chat rooms, he’s set up enough of a system to generate an up-to-date database of where Silas might be. His entire family, apparently, also goes out every full moon to hunt for him and other werewolves that may have been bit. Well, aside from his niece, who they lock up in a fucking basement.

“What the fuck? You keep a werewolf under your living room?”

“It's once a month. And, it’s the family home, not mine, so no.”

The more she digs out of him, the more it sits in. If she has any hope of finding and stopping Silas, it lies with Travis Hackett. 

For now.

-

At three o’clock, she’s alone.

Two doors shut.

At six o’clock, two doors shut again.

He brings her dinner.

-

“You know,” she says around a mouth of meat-y pasta that was most definitely microwaved, “we could work together better if you let me out.”

He eyes her shrewdly. “I think this setup works great.”

“Of course you do,” she snaps, then reigns it back in. “But I could actually help you gather resources, rather than review everything you’ve already read a million times.”

“Gather?” he repeats. “Hell no, in your wildest dreams, not happening. Take your pick.”

"So, what? You're going to keep me locked up in here forever? That's the plan?" His silence makes her gut churn. Her voice is small when she says, "People are going to start looking for me."

'People' meaning Max's parents and sister. Maybe a college professor or two will wonder why she isn't coming back to finish her degree, but her social circle hasn't exactly been thriving since senior year of high school. 

But he doesn't need to know that.

"I can't trust you," he stresses. There's almost a hint of apologetic sympathy on his face. "Once Silas is out of the equation, I don't care what happens to me. Hell, you can lock me up yourself. But I can't risk this secret coming back on my family." 

“C’mon, Travis,” she says, leaning forward. “Of the two of us, which one of us has more experience with the internet?”

“Sheriff Hackett,” he repeats as if he’s helping a foreigner with the phonetics of his name, “and if you really think I’m going to give you access to the internet, you’re goddamn insane.”

“You think I'm insane?” she shoots back. He sneers at her attitude, and they fall into an uneasy stalemate.

She doesn’t get why he stuck around for dinner. Instead of his usual drop-off and leave, he went against every pattern she’s built up of him and took a seat in the old chair outside of her cell and produced a bottle of bourbon from his pocket, taking sips occasionally in the silence.

Despite being the only free one here, he must be desperate for the company, not that she’s complaining. It's a testament to how lonely she is that she’ll take even the ill-tempered, slightly manic cop over the darkness of her own thoughts.

“Happy fourth,” she says, apropos of nothing. She forgot to say it yesterday.

It’s already July. Her and Max would be toasting s’mores with kids right now, probably not lighting off any fireworks due to fire hazards in the middle of the woods.

Travis leans back with a soft exhale, jostling the bottle against his thigh.

“Happy fourth,” he replies. 

It sounds like an agreement, coming from him.

-

July 6th, 2022

The day starts like every other.

Breakfast, handcuffs, shower. Reading more tales, jotting down notes. 

Lunch. Notes. Doors.

The last one causes her heartbeat to pick up, but she tampers it down as best she can. Sweat gathers on her palms, and she keeps wiping her hands on the sweatpants he’s given her, biding her time with tidying up.

Maybe it’s a dumb idea. 

Actually, it’s most definitely a dumb idea. But Laura can’t spend another hour locked up knowing that this might be the answer. If she’s played her cards right, read the situation correctly, then everything should be fine. Right?

‘Don’t play stupid games,’ her mom’s voice, warm but raspy from years of smoking, chastises her. ‘You need to just be careful and wait. Who knows? It might work itself out.’

No, I can’t, she thinks morosely. We’ve seen how that worked out for you.

She’s not going to be like her mom. If Laura’s ever going to get out of here and fix this mess, it’s going to have to be by her own hands. 

One door shuts. She checks her wrist: six o’ clock. 

There’s no turning back now.

“Boss! Hey, Travis!” she calls out. 

She screams louder, cupping her hands. “Hey! The door shut behind me! Could you let me out?”

“...’s that?” a faint woman’s voice carries down the hall.

“...orry about her.”

“Hey!” Laura calls again louder, injecting some cheer into her voice that hopefully doesn’t come off as deranged. “This stupid thing shut on me again.”

“...Um, Uncle T? It sounds like she’s stuck.”

A woman about her age sporting cropped dark hair and a pink hoodie hesitantly walks through the door, and Laura grins widely, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“Hey! Kaylee, right?” she asks, casually leaning against the bars. 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she approaches with a tentative smile. “Yeah…?”

Travis watches from the doorway.

“Nice to meet you, my name’s Jess. I’m the new intern,” she lies earnestly. Kaylee glances past her, no doubt eyeing the perfectly straightened bed, map and books hidden from sight beneath the mattress and within the pillow.

To her, it would look like the cell hasn’t been in use for the past ten days. 

“Sorry, Sheriff Hackett,” she says, voice as sweet as syrup. “I was just finishing up in here when I thought I saw a brick loose, and the door shut on me. The stupid thing's stuck again.”

Travis’ teeth grind together, lips twitching like a live snake. If he doesn’t kill her right here, she imagines he’ll do it once his niece leaves.

"Travis has told me a lot about you!” she says brightly, turning her attention back on the totally oblivious girl. “He can't stop bragging. You’re thinking of applying for college, right?"

Kaylee beams, and if Laura weren’t so desperate in this moment, she’d almost feel guilty for laying the false foundation. 

“Yeah!” She tosses a curious look at her uncle, no doubt picking up on the murderous vibes coming off in waves. “I mean, I’ve totally been thinking about it. I’ve just had a hard time convincing my family,” she backtracks slowly.

“Well, if you’re able to convince them, I’ve been attending St. Lawrence and I love it. I’m studying to be a vet, and they’ve got great professors for the sciences.”

Kaylee gives her a smaller smile. “That’s great. I’m, uh, looking to study the arts.”

“Oh!” Laura leans in, effectively avoiding eye contact with the shadow behind her. “What arts?”

“Um, honestly?” Kaylee gives a little self-deprecating laugh, and something about it is so familiar, yet she can’t put a finger on why. “I really love to paint… and sculpt, but I’m not that great at that. Which is why I’d like to get a degree, maybe learn how to paint on something that isn’t a flat canvas.”

“That’d be cool! I’ve never taken a pottery class, but it looks like fun.” Small talk has never before held such a weight. There’s no sign that it isn’t working to endear her to his niece, but Travis is still eerily silent, and this whole situation is a tad too ridiculous to not be skeptical of.

A slight frown perches on Kaylee’s lips, and she casts a look to the man behind her. “Uncle T, why aren’t you letting her out already?”

Because I know you’re a werewolf, and if your family finds out, we're screwed. Kaylee’s eyes dart between the two of them.

Like a magnet, Laura locks onto Travis, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. She holds her breath.

He steps forward, slowly unclipping the ring from his belt. 

The key slips in with a soft click—

—and he lets her out.

[hxlyhead-harpies]

The Only Exception

Request:   @durmstrange​ hello!! can I request a song prompt for George with the only exception by paramore? 🧡 love your work so much! 

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Summary: (Y/n) swears that she will never fall in love. George is determined to change that

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: None that I can think of

(gif from google)

You watched as George’s chest rose and fell in the rhythm of his breathing. His eyes were closed and his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as he dreamt, the warm early morning sun gracing his features. You studied him from your side of the bed, one arm slipped under your pillow and one caressing George’s arm. You smiled as he slept, in awe of the fact that you were so lucky. And a warmth filled your body as you gazed at him, an indescribable feeling that filled your senses and made your brain and heart feel like they were on fire. It was a feeling that you had so long avoided and so long swore that you would never feel. But here you were, next to George, feeling overwhelmed by a feeling you had always said never existed. Love.

You were eight years old when your dad had left, leaving the broken shell of your mother behind him. He had cried as he walked out, regretting the action that put him in this position. A drunken night after work he had broken the vow that he had made to his wife all those years ago. Through broken sobs he swore that he still loved her and proclaimed it as she threw his belongings at him, screaming at him to get out of the house. You had watched from the top of the stairs, your head poking through the bars of the banister, tears sliding down your cheeks.

Your parents had always seemed so impossibly in love; the lingering touches and sweet kisses that they shared and the way they looked at each other led you to believe that they were the epitome of what love was. But you watched as they yelled and fought and decided right then and there that you were wrong. People who loved each other couldn’t cause this type of pain. And if what your parents had wasn’t love, you knew that the feeling didn’t really exist.

You stalked into your room and pulled out the storybook your father had gifted you for your seventh birthday. Your parents used to read it to you before bed, you snuggled between the two of them as they told the epic stories of romance and intrigue, always pointing to the princess and her savior and saying, “look! It’s just like Mommy and Daddy!” You threw the book in a box of your father’s belongings, waiting for it to disappear forever in the same way that your father had. Because that was all that love was, a fairytale.

Your father was gone from your life. You never saw him again. Your mother never remarried. She swore off romance and every night after her third glass of wine she’d stumble into your bedroom and reminded you that she would never ever fall in love again and that you should never let yourself try. You took her words to heart.

George had dropped, quite literally, into your life during your fifth year at Hogwarts. You were shelving books in the library when he turned the corner into the aisle you were standing in. He looked over his shoulder as he ran and turned just in time to see you pressed up against the shelf with your eyes wide. He tried to stop himself before he crashed into you but ended up slipping on the floor underneath him. He tumbled down, just barely missing you. You gasped and set the books down quickly. You reached down a hand and asked him if he was alright. He just looked up at you and beamed.

“I’m alright now that a pretty girl like you is offering to hold my hand,” he said with a smirk. You retracted your hand and furiously attempted to hide the heat that rose to your cheeks. George just smiled at you before hopping up and brushing off his robes. He sent you a cheeky grin before leaning against the shelf next to you.

“The name is George Weasley,” he said proudly, “what’s yours?” he asked. You ignored him, not trusting the fluttering feeling in your stomach.

“Oh come on now, what is it then?” he asked again. You rolled your eyes. Before he could push anymore, Professor McGonagall appeared behind him and pulled George out of the library by his ear. George laughed before sending you a pointed look.

“I’ll see you around!” he shouted at you with a wink. You froze, staring at the spot he once was for minutes after he was gone.

After that day, George seemed to become a constant in your life. He popped up everywhere; he waved hello to you from across the great hall and would flop down next to you when you studied in the courtyard. You acted annoyed when he would bother you, rolling your eyes at him when he tried to make you flustered and swatting his hand away when he tried to sling an arm around your shoulder. But secretly you enjoyed it and that scared you. You couldn’t let yourself get too close and you couldn’t let yourself feel too strongly for him. So you kept your distance. George swore that he would crack you one day. He longed for the moment you would truly laugh at his antics and not pretend that you hadn’t heard him.

Over the summer and winter holidays, he sent you letters. They were funny and full of jokes and stories of his family. You devoured them within seconds of them being delivered, soaking up every word that George intended for you. With the letters, you could be private about your affection towards him. When he spoke to you in person you hid your ever-growing crush, trying to protect your heart from inevitable heartbreak. But with the letters, you could hole yourself up in your room and be the true blushing mess that he made you. You never responded to his letters, afraid that you’d somehow admit that he was all that you thought about.

In your sixth year, George asked you to the Yule Ball. He had come up behind you in the library, not unlike the way he did the day that you met, holding a modest bouquet of daffodils. He stood in front of you, a stuttering mess, and practically begged you to accompany him to the dance. You said yes, but only under the condition that you’d be going as friends. George had frowned at that, it clearly not being the answer he had hoped for, but agreed.

You fretted for weeks about the ball. You were nervous, to say the least. You didn’t want your true feelings for George to be discovered. As much as you liked him, the memories of your parent’s final fight made you feel like you had to keep him at arms length.

When you had descended down the stairs in your golden dress, the look he gave you made all of that fly out the window. When you walked to meet him, he raised your hands to his lips and kissed it, murmuring that you looked beautiful. And as you spun around the Great Hall with George, you found yourself not thinking of the inevitability of heartbreak, but only of the feeling of his arms wrapped around your waist and the feeling of your head on his chest.

That night when he walked you back to the common room he told you that he wished that you could have come to the ball as more than friends. You shyly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before hesitantly agreeing. His face broke out into a gorgeous grin before he leaned down and ghosted his lips against yours.

One night towards the end of your sixth year you sat in the owlery with Geroge. His head was in your lap and he toyed with your fingers as you recounted your day to him. After four months of officially dating, you were still getting used to calling George your boyfriend and the little intimacies that came with giving him that title. The way he’s brushed your hair out of your face or put a hand on your knee when you sat near each other. You always felt startled by the way he looked at you, pure adoration shining in his eyes. You felt just as deeply for him as he felt for you, yet you couldn’t help but feel scared. Because deep in the recess of your mind you always reminded yourself that this type of feeling never lasted.

You continued to relay the story of how Snape had managed to make a cauldron explode during class when George sat up suddenly. You paused in the midst of your story, furrowing your eyebrows at his abrupt movement. George looked at you with a flushed face and nervous smile.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, the blush across his pale, freckled skin only deepening. You froze, your throat constricting with panic. He looked at you, waiting for you to reply, but you couldn’t. It felt like the walls were closing in and a hole began forming in your chest. The four-letter word brought back every painful memory of your past, reminding you of every moment that your parents had said it to each other before breaking their own hearts.

George’s face filled with concern as your breathing picked up. He cupped your face gently.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His voice was shaky with worry. He wiped away the tears that you weren’t aware had fallen.

“George I-” you said.

“Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything back,” he said quietly. You averted your gaze.

“Thank you. But I- I just can’t say that. And I don’t know if I ever will be able to,” you said tearfully, preparing for him to scoff and shatter your heart into a million pieces. Instead, he pulled you into a tight hug and stroked your hair.

“I’ll wait for the day that you’ll be able to. I’ll wait for forever if I have to,” he said softly.

George told you that he loved you often, never expecting a reply in return. He didn’t quite know why you couldn’t bring yourself to repeat the words back, but he loved you too much to worry about it. He knew that you felt deeply for him, and that was enough.

And with every day you felt yourself fall for him more and more. Somewhere deep inside of you, you knew that you loved him. But you didn’t know if you’d ever have the strength to admit it out loud.

The night before George left Hogwarts he had tearfully bid you goodbye, promising that he’d think of you every second that you were apart. He told you about the flat above the shop and how there was a space in his bed meant just for you. He’d slipped a key into your hand and told you that when you were ready, he was waiting for you. You had smiled at him and gave him a fervent kiss, hoping that it conveyed the words that you were too scared to say.

After you finished your final year you had shown up promptly at the front steps of your new home. After months of exchanging letters, you were finally going to see George again. You inserted your key into the lock and stepped into the shop.

“I’m sorry but we’re closed,” a familiar voiced called out. George sat behind the register, his back towards you.

“Oh, I guess I’ll have to come back later then,” you said with a smirk. George’s shoulder’s tensed at the sound of your voice and he promptly spun around to face you. A smile broke across his face and he hopped over the counter and ran to meet you. He scooped you up in a hug and spun you around. He peppered kisses across your face, murmuring that he loved you in between each one.

And now you laid beside him as he slept, his legs hooked with yours. You brushed your finger along the bridge of his nose, causing him to stir. His eyes slowly fluttered open and his gaze snapped to you.

“Good morning beautiful,” he said softly, rubbing his tired eyes with his hand. You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his nose. You took a shaky breath and looked him in the eyes, summoning all of the bravery that you could muster.

“I love you, Georgie,” you whispered. George’s eyes widened and tears began to form. He pulled you in, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck.

“I love you too, (Y/n),” he said softly, his voice airy. You had always guarded your heart and set rules to keep yourself safe. But every rule had an exception, and for George, you’d always make an exception.

[soulmate-game]

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

Day 1: Meeting for the first time

Not my best work, but decent. I hope you enjoy!

—*—*—*—*—*

Mari was intelligent. That much could not be disputed— and despite her dislike for the sciences in general, she was fully capable of comprehending them when she wanted to. She just usually didn’t care enough to try. But genetics? That was kinda cool. So, when she was ten years old and they began their short unit on it, she was obsessed. And by obsessed, she dove in head first. Like, the fact that her eye color didn’t match either of her parents or grandparents. How could she have blue eyes when none of them did? She delved in deeper and deeper until she uncovered a truth her parents hadn’t wanted her to figure out quite so soon.

She was adopted.

Mari never told her parents about her discovery, the epiphany only managing to sate her curiosity. Who needed blood relation when her parents loved her like real ones anyway? But as the years passed and certain life changes came up, she couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the mystery of where her DNA came from. The heroism thing had to have some root in genetics, right? Okay, so maybe she was just looking for someone to be mad at besides Master Fu. But still, could she be blamed?

So, when Marinette was thirteen years old, she traced her DNA back to her biological parents. And for a while, that was it. She had once again sated her curiosity. She didn’t need anything else. Her mother was dead, and she doubted her biological father knew a thing about her. So Marinette forgot about her discovery, or at least let it sink into the recesses of her brain. And there it stayed, until she was eighteen.

—* — * — * — * — *

It had to be one of the most accidentally dramatic days possible. Top floor of Wayne Enterprises, in one of Bruce’s massive conference rooms with every member of his large family in attendance. Even Kori and Mar’i were there, and Jason’s boyfriend Roy. Everyone was getting fairly restless, considering that Bruce had only informed a few of them (Read: just Dick, who was vibrating in his seat and not soothing anyone’s nerves) about what they were even all called in for. In their civilian identities, no less. It was very odd. Damian, not least of all, was sitting beside Bruce with his jaw clenched but eyes scanning the room in curiosity. He had come a long way from the surly ten year old, and he hadn’t even killed anyone in four years. He had well and truly become a Bat, and with that progress came the lessening of his old temper and brattiness.

Make note: lessening. Not erasure.

It wasn’t long, maybe ten or fifteen minutes of Bruce checking his phone and grinning secretively without answering anyone’s questions, before a businesslike tap-tap-tap sounded on the door to the conference room. Immediately, everything went silent. Kori, Tim, and Jason stopped trying to get Dick to say anything intelligible and went instead to just keeping the man in his seat at all. Bruce let out a rare, soft chuckle before raising his coffee mug to his lips. He called out:

“Come on in, miss MDC. We’re ready for our meeting,” before taking a long sip.

And as soon as the door opened all the way, admitting a short woman of asian descent with navy black hair brushing the bottom of her shoulder blades and piercing (familiar. Too familiar) deep blue eyes, he promptly choked. Trying his damndest not to get coffee everywhere, Bruce devolved into a coughing fit even as his eyes continued to flitter up to the figure just admitted into the room. The woman pretended not to notice his suffering, closing the door behind her and walking forward towards the side of the rectangular-set-up ring of tables that was closest to her and also unoccupied. She plopped a heavy bag down onto the table, reaching in and pulling out a large red and white polka-dotted journal from within, along with a black pen. But despite her businesslike movements and her silence, nobody missed the way that her far too familiar stunningly blue eyes twinkled in suppressed mirth. She didn’t seem surprised at all.

That was the last time Bruce was ever gonna let Tim do someone’s background check on his own. He should have at least looked at the file Tim had made, but of course not. Tim was capable, he trusted the boy with half of their entire family’s company. One background check on one highly reputable designer? Of course he could trust Tim.

Except apparently not. This is what Bruce got for keeping secrets.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Bruce spoke once he got a handle of himself, pushing back his chair almost hurriedly and standing. Damian followed suit, laser focused on his father along with everyone else who knew just how out of character the older man was being just then. It was hard to fluster Bruce at all those days, let alone make him choke and hurry to stand. “I— Welcome to WE. I’m—“ Bruce was cut off by a soft chuckle.

“Bruce Wayne, my biological father and employer for the next few weeks. I know,” Marinette interrupted, sending a sly smile his way. “I had a feeling somebody didn’t actually tell you my name. I was planning on coming to Gotham later this year after I graduated Lycee and demanding to get to know you, but it looks like you did the hard work for me without even knowing. But,” her smile widened in good humor as she walked up closer to Bruce, holding her hand out for a shake. “I do have to say, now that I’ve seen you in person I feel a bit cheated. With how tall you are, you’d think I would have inherited at least a couple more inches.”

“Excuse me? Who do you think you are, claiming to be a Wayne?” Damian asked, tone sharp and his emerald eyes glaring straight towards her. Bruce just took Marinette’s hand, shaking it gently from surprise, but his foot gently kicked his son in the ankle.

“Damian,” Bruce said simply, the single name laced with warning as it came out of his mouth. He turned his attention back to the girl in front of him. “It is nice to finally meet you in person, Marinette. I admit, I did not know of our relation until a few years ago, and I wasn’t in the right mindset back then to welcome another child. Besides, I had it on good authority that your adoptive parents are more than wonderful to you.”

Marinette shrugged. “I don’t mind. I didn’t look into who my biological father was until I was thirteen, anyway. I don’t think things would have ended well if you had just shown up in Paris one day asking to be involved in my life. Enough of that though,” Marinette turned to the sixteen year old by Bruce’s side now stiffened and wide-mouthed. His entire expression, subdued as it was, still managed to clearly telegraph betrayal. And then those eyes locked on Marinettes, and the emerald simmered into something much more vile and acidic. Marinette was not perturbed, merely giving the younger boy a smile and holding out her hand for a shake.

“You must be my half-brother, Damian. I expected someone carved out of stone, with how the tabloids paint you as unfeeling and cold,” she joked. Damian glared harder. She raised an eyebrow. “You seem pretty heated and angry, like a hissing cat, to me. And by the way, I never claimed to be a Wayne. My last name is Dupain-Cheng, and I don’t plan on changing it anytime soon. Having the same blood relation as you does not mean I plan to throw away the name given to me by the ones who actually raised me. But, it does mean that I will get to know you one way or another. I’m not easy to get rid of, and I’ve always wanted a sibling or two.”

That was when the room couldn’t hold it any more; everyone bar the three in the center of the room burst out laughing. It wasn’t too raucous, confusion dampening the hysteria that usually would have taken over, but there was a good round of chuckles and laughter. When it settled down, Damian’s shoulders had slightly relaxed but he still hadn’t taken Marinette’s hand. Instead, he turned to his father again.

“Explain.” He demanded. Bruce sighed, his gaze connecting with Marinette’s own identical one. He searched her for any hesitation, but only got a flash of a bright smile in return. Bruce straightened his shoulders, clasping his hands behind his back and turning to face Damian and the rest of the room.

“I found out about Marinette shortly after Damian was… introduced to the family,” Bruce admitted, resisting the urge to glance at Marinette after the hedged mention of how he met Damian. “I decided to scour every resource I had to make sure I couldn’t be surprised by another biological child. And, lo and behold, I found out that I was right to do so. Her biological mother passed away in childbirth however, so she was adopted by a couple in Paris. I did not see any need to contact her at the time. A friend of mine did happen to be in Paris back then though, and hung around to make sure Marinette was being treated well before leaving again.”

“You sent a friend of yours to spy on me?” Marinette asked, but she just sounded thoroughly amused. “Geez. Now I know where I get it from. When I was thirteen, I had a bit of a bad habit of spying on my friends when I was worried instead of confronting them head on. It took a while to grow out of, and even now I can easily slip back into the habit if I’m not careful. But, as great as this reunion is, it isn’t what I’m being paid to be here for,” Her grin turned downright wicked as she snapped open her sketchbook and clicked her pen.

“I am MDC, the owner and CEO of the up and rising fashion label Spotted Designs, where every look will turn heads and ensure confidence. Monsieur Wayne,” her grin turned into a sly smirk when she said his name, which visibly made Bruce twitch. “Has hired me today to design all of you a new outfit for his gala in four months time, as well as a casual outfit of your own choosing should you want one. Before I get started, I would like to ask you to please sign your NDAs, which my assistant and best friend will bring in for you in a few minutes, before we conclude this meeting. I go by an alias for a reason, I value my privacy, and I would prefer it if word did not get out about my being MDC just yet. Being CEO of a business I started from scratch when I’m only eighteen right now will garner attention that I am not patient enough to deal with right now.”

The silence was near palpable until Jason huffed in amusement and remarked: “Yup. I can see the resemblance.”

“Resemblance?” Duke asked, leaning forward with an incredulous look on his face. “It’s like seeing a tiny, genderswapped, innocent copy of Damian. Is anyone else terrified right now?”

“Tt,” Damian tutted, letting a heavy breath out through his nose before shoving his hand forward. He didn’t look pleased, but neither did he look venomous or betrayed anymore. “Miss Dupain-Cheng. I am Damian Wayne, and I look forward to working with you.” He greeted as if the past few minutes hadn’t happened at all. Marinette beamed, letting out a short belt of delighted laughter before clasping his hand firmly with hers.

“My competence always wins people over,” she teased.

“Only if they don’t see you trip over empty air first,” a new voice joined in, lightly joining the teasing. It belonged to a tall, blond haired green eyed man that looked about the same age as Marinette herself. He came carrying a large two-foot stack of papers as easily as if he was only carrying one sheet. Closing the door behind him with his foot, he went around the large square of tables distributing NDAs to everyone who hadn’t already signed one. “Mari’s the clumsiest person I’ve ever seen, but I’ve also seen her hand sew a double sided ball gown with a layer of knife-resistant fabric in less than thirty hours and still threaten anyone to come near with a needle to the eye, so I’ve learned to just not take anything about her at face value anymore.”

“Oh shut up,” Marinette snapped back cheerfully, rolling her eyes. “This is my best friend, assistant, and business partner Adrien Agreste.”

“I deal with all the paperwork and spotlight that she doesn’t want to handle,” he agreed, nearly blinding everyone with his beaming smile. “Now. Please sign these NDAs, and you can experience Marinette’s skill firsthand.”

After papers were signed and Adrien left, Bruce tried to start another conversation with Marinette.

“So, when did you find out—“

“I’m going to start with taking all of your measurements, if you don’t mind. You first, Monsieur Wayne.”

Bruce blinked, not used to being interrupted. “Ah. We can do this tomorrow, I wasn’t expecting—“

“That’s not my fault, Monsieur Wayne. I came here knowing exactly who I was going to deal with, and you want me to make a quite frankly horrifying amount of clothing in a very short amount of time. Any designer lesser than me would be completely incapable of meeting your deadline. I plan on sticking to my schedule, which means that we are going to get everyone’s measurements and a baseline of the kind of designs you all want done today before the end of our scheduled appointment.”

“Marinette, I would really like to talk about—“

“Arms out. And take your suit jacket off, I can’t get an accurate measurement with it,” she once again interrupted, businesslike and efficient as she took her measuring tape and lined it up against various parts of his body, jotting down the results. She didn’t entertain any of his attempts at conversation in the meantime, instead using the dead time to grill Damian on what he wanted for his suit design.

And, like a partnership that never should have existed, Damian merely smirked and played along with her game. He answered her questions thoroughly but precisely, never allowing their father a chance to make actual conversation. Next thing the poor eldest Wayne knew, Marinette had already taken everyone’s measurements and almost an hour had passed. No less than ten pages of her notebook were already filled with neat lines of notes and numbers.

“You really take this whole thing seriously, don’t you?” Tim asked, in the middle of describing his ideal suit to Marinette. She hummed, grinning up at him mysteriously. As if she was in on a joke he hadn’t heard.

“Designing is my life, Monsieur Drake. This company is something I’ve been building from the ground up since I was thirteen, I’ve made my own clothes since I was ten. Of course I take it seriously. Now. I believe that is everything I need,” she stood up, asking a few last second questions as she gathered up her things. Seeing his chance, Brucie walked her to the door.

“Really, Marinette, I would like to talk to you more. Would you like to come to the Manor tonight, for dinner maybe?”

Marinette smirked, opening the door before Bruce could and turning her head to say over her shoulder: “Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow. Do me a favor though, and try not to get too injured on patrol. I need you all in good enough shape to stand while I do your initial fittings later this week. Gotham might need it’s vigilantes, but you will all regret it if you break a bone before I can fit my prototypes to you.”

Nobody was able to say a word before she closed the door behind her and continued briskly to the elevator. Bruce stood, dumbfounded. Tim, Jason, and Dick, after a moment, started cackling.

“Oh yeah. That’s Damian’s sister.”

“Tt. At least this proves it.”

Bruce, suddenly very exhausted, turned to his son while rubbing his forehead. “Proves what, Damian?”

His trademark razor sharp smirk overtook his face as Damian replied: “Your blood children really are much more competent and effective than the strays you took in.”

“Hey!”

—*—*—*—*—*

“You didn’t have a full conversation?” Adrien guessed, looking exactly like the cat who caught the canary. Marinette had her head in her hands, her entire face red.

“I didn't know how to have an actual conversation with them, Adrien! You should have seen it, Monsieur Wayne—“

“You can just say your father, you know.”

“—Wanted to talk about feelings. Emotions! Gooey, family stuff and probably sentimental things. In front of so many people, too. I panicked!”

“You panicked and went full Business Empress mode,” Adrien agreed, patting her back in both comfort and condescension. “It’s okay. You at least agreed to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuck, I diiiiiid. Quick, let’s come up with a way to fake my kidnapping.”

“No.”

“Damn.”

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

i'm so TIRED of people with vivid imaginations trying to convince every1 the things their brains came up with happened in MDZS, just saw some1 say about lan mom "SOMETHING went down between a creepy teacher and their mother. She gets forced into marriage with a man she doesn’t love and IMPRISONED before eventually committing suicide/ falling sick and dying" like WHERE? the only piece of information was LXC saying "i have no idea WTF happened" so he doesn't know, MXTX doesn't know but you do???

Some of this is a shock for my system so early in the morning... alright... I guess we're gonna go step by step with this just cause people are awful at reading, along with my stance on this particular bit of prevalent discourse.

Since this is greatly misinterpreted for whatever reasons, here is the relevant passage and only one in the text we get concerning the Lan parents. I'm going to add that this is alllll relaid by Lan Xichen and to keep that in mind with what is highlighted.

He spoke slowly, “The reason that my father often practiced secluded meditation was my mother. This place, compared to a place of living… was more like a place of detention.”

Wei WuXian was surprised.

The father of ZeWu-Jun and HanGuang-Jun, QingHeng-Jun, used to be a famous cultivator. He made his name at a young age and had many things waiting for him in the future. However, at the age of twenty, he suddenly backed away and announced his marriage. He had also ceased to care for much of the world. Although it was called secluded meditation, it was much more like retirement. People had come up with many possible reasons, but none of them had been verified.

Lan XiChen bent down amid the clusters of gentians. He gently stroked those thin, tender petals, “When my father was young, when he returned from a night-hunt once, he saw my mother outside of Gusu city.” He smiled, “I heard that it was love at first sight.”

Wei WuXian grinned as well, “The young are often sentimental.”

Lan XiChen continued, “But, the woman did not care for him the same way. In addition, she killed one of my father’s teachers.”

This was beyond imagination. Although Wei WuXian knew that asking too many questions would be very rude, however when he remembered that they had been Lan WangJi’s parents, he felt that he just had to ask. “Why?!”

Lan XiChen, “I do not know. But, I assume that it was something along the lines of ‘grievances’.”

Wei WuXian didn’t ask anymore into this and forced down his curiosity, “And… what happened later?”

“And then,” Lan XiChen explained, “When my father heard of this, of course he was in much pain. But, no matter how he struggled, he still took the woman to his sect in secrecy. Ignoring the objections from his clan, he knelt with her for the Heavens and the Earth without making a sound and told everyone in the clan that she would be his wife for the rest of his life, that whoever wanted to harm her would have to pass through him first.”

Wei WuXian widened his eyes.

Lan XiChen continued, “After the ceremony was completed, my father found a house and locked my mother inside. He found another house and locked himself inside. It was called secluded meditation, but it was in truth to repent.”

He paused before speaking again, “Young Master Wei, can you understand why he did such a thing?”

Wei WuXian answered after a moment of silence, “He could neither forgive the one who killed his teacher nor watch the death of the woman who he loved. He could only marry her to protect her life and force himself not to see her.”

Lan XiChen, “Do you think that this was right?”

Wei WuXian, “I don’t know.”

Lan XiChen looked somewhat lost, “Then, what do you think would be right?”

Wei WuXian, “I don’t know.”

A while later, Lan XiChen whispered, “It could be said that my father did this without a care for anything else. All of the seniors of the clan were enraged, but they had all watched him grow up. They could not do anything except guard this secret, hint to the outside world that the wife of the GusuLan Sect’s sect leader had an unspeakable disease and could not see others. After WangJi and I were born, we were immediately taken away to be cared for by other people. When we grew older, we were brought to Uncle to be taught."

“My shufu… has always had a frank personality to begin with. Because of how my mother caused my father to destroy his own life, he began to hate those who behaved improperly even more. Thus, he poured his heart into teaching WangJi and me. He was especially harsh as well. Every month, we could only see Mother once, inside of this cottage.”

They were two young children, who faced everyday only their harsh uncle, strict teachings, and mountains of books. No matter how tired, they had to straighten their soft backs to be the most outstanding disciples of the clan, the model students in others’ eyes. They could rarely see their closest relatives. They couldn’t fool around in their father’s arms, they couldn’t act spoiled in front of their mother.

But they had clearly done nothing wrong.

Lan XiChen, “Everytime WangJi and I went to see her, she would never complain about how tedious it was being locked inside of here, unable to step out once. She had never asked about our studies, either. She especially liked to tease WangJi, but WangJi, the more you tease him the less willing he is to talk, and the worse of an expression he puts on. He has been like this ever since he was young. However,” he chuckled, “even though WangJi never said it, I knew that every month he was looking forward to the day he could see Mother. He was like this, and I was the same.”

Wei WuXian imagined a young Lan WangJi hugged inside of his mother’s arms, his snowy little cheeks flushed pink. He laughed as well. But before his smile had even melted, Lan XiChen continued, “But one day, Uncle suddenly told us that we would have no need to go any longer."

“Mother was gone.”

Wei WuXian’s voice was soft, “How old was Lan Zhan back then?”

Lan XiChen, “Six.”

He continued, “He was still too young to understand what ‘gone’ means. No matter how much others comforted him, or how much Uncle scolded him, he would continue to come back here every single month, sit down in the hallway, and wait for someone to open the door for him. When he grew older, he understood that Mother would not be coming back, that no one would open the door for him, but he kept on coming here.”

Lan XiChen stood up. His dark eyes looked into Wei WuXian’s, “WangJi has been so stubborn ever since he was young.”

The leaves rustled and the gentian flowers swished alongside the wind, their scent lingering. Wei WuXian’s eyes landed on the wooden hallway of the cottage. He could almost see a small child wearing a forehead ribbon sitting with proper posture in front of the house, waiting quietly for the door to open.

He spoke, “Madam Lan must’ve been a very gentle woman.”

Lan XiChen, “In my memories, Mother had indeed been so. I do not know why she did such a thing back then. And, in truth, I…”

He took a deep breath before confessing, “I do not want to know either.”

After a few moments of silence, Lan XiChen closed his eyes. He took out Liebing. A gust of night wind suddenly sent forth a sobbing note of the xiao. The sound was deep, like a sigh.

Wei WuXian had heard Lan XiChen play Liebing before. Its timbre was just like Lan XiChen himself, as warm and graceful as a breeze and the rain of spring. Yet, now, although his technique was as excellent as ever, the tone evoked a strange mixture of feelings.

The night wind swept by. Lan XiChen’s hair and forehead ribbon were already somewhat disheveled. However, the GusuLan Sect’s sect leader, who had always regarded appearance highly, didn’t pay any attention to them. He only put down Liebing after the song had finished, “Music is forbidden at night in the Cloud Recesses. Today I have overstepped far too many times. Excuse me, Wei gongzi.”

Wei WuXian, “How so? ZeWu-Jun, have you forgotten that the person standing in front of you is the person who has broken the most rules…”

Lan XiChen smiled, “The GusuLan Sect has never revealed these facts about Lan Wangji and myself outside of itself. I should not have told you. Tonight was my sudden urge to unburden myself, a spur of the moment.”

Wei WuXian, “I’m not the kind of person who talks too much. Don’t worry, ZeWu-Jun.”

Lan XiChen, “Regardless, I would assume that WangJi would not hide anything from you anyways.”

Wei WuXian, “If he doesn’t wish to talk about something then I won’t ask.”

Lan XiChen, “But, with WangJi’s personality, how could he say anything if you do not ask? There are some things that even if you ask him he would not say.”

Now that we have the context of the Lan parents laid out the only definitive answer for anything concerning their personal motivations for anything is "I DON'T KNOW". Their secrets and thoughts literally died with them.

And this entire story Lan Xichen told in the end, had nothing to do with his parents. He did not tell Wei Wuxian about them, he was speaking everything unsaid about Lan Wangji's motivations and his love of Wei Wuxian. He does not care why his parents did what they did, but he does for the one that is alive. His brother who he had just had a bit of a veiled conversation about Lan Wangji's pure trust in Wei Wuxian. Who, in Lan Xichen's eyes, had already rejected his brother's love and did not feel the same, mirroring the past of their father's apparent unrequited love. He is saying Lan Wangji is sacrificing his all, unvoiced.

His pressing of if his parent "are right" is him asking Wei Wuxian what he feels about those sacrifices, if he can see the sacrifices Lan Wangji had gone through. At this point he along with Lan Wangji have assumed Wei Wuxian knows and remembers what he had said within the cave. He is telling Wei Wuxian his brother has alway been this way for those he loves regardless of what they may be perceived as by outsiders.

"Today I have overstepped far too many times. Excuse me, Wei gongzi.”"

"I should not have told you. Tonight was my sudden urge to unburden myself, a spur of the moment.”

Meaning, it was not his place to tell this about his brother, but there is no one else that would, and Lan Wangji would never say anything about his feelings again. Lan Xichen is first and foremost worried about where his brother has placed his love, as he knows, regardless of what rumors surround those he loves, his brother will still be forever loyal to them without question if he believes them to be in the right.

Lan Xichen is warning Wei Wuxian he needs to take care in his actions as he approaches Lan Wangji as Xichen is well aware already of how Lan Wangji will go through hell for others he adores. From the start it was never about his parents, as Lan Xichen says, "I do not want to know either,". But what he does want to know is where Wei Wuxian stands with his own feelings towards Lan Wangji or if he is still using his brother as he has thought for years. Leaving Lan Xichen to protect him as best as he can while Lan Wangji stays hurt for others with no happiness for himself.

[inessencedevided]

A very overdue cql/mdzs fic rec list

for @accidental-child ​

I am so sorry this took me so long Axel! The pandemic has really done a number on my time-management skills and things like this often fall behind :/

The fics complied here are the ones i have not recced in the list for @helianthus21 before. You can find that one here, so you can check it out as well :)

The Wei Wuxian makes a wish series by natcat5

My attempt at a summary: this is a madoka magica AU (which i had not watched prior to reading this fic). Cultivators, in this universe, are created when a teenager makes a wish to the creature named Kyubey, which than grants them their wish and the power to fight witches, strange and destructive creatures of despair that lure people into their labyrinths. Wei Wuxian, at the beginning of the story is not a cultivator, but his friends are and so is the mysterious new student at his school, lan wangji, who follows him everywhere and seems to be obsessed with preventing him from making a contract.

My comment: my attempt at a summary does not do this story justice and is really just a setup. Honestly i cannot put into words how much I loved this story. It kept me on the edge of my seat the entire time. It made me laugh, it made me cry for entire chapters, it drew me into it's world so much that I freaking dreamed about it! (I'm not kidding, I really did) Honestly, this fic deserves so much more attention than it is currently getting. Not only is the plot expertly crafted, with reveals that shock you and leave you reading, but the author also just gets the characters. The best thing an AU can do, in my opinion, is take familiar characters, put them in unfamiliar situations and then manage to make the way they react believable. And this AU nails that! The conclusion and the choices that Wei wuxian and lan Wangji make in the end felt exactly right. Not to mention, it has a stellar ensemble cast! Everyone is here (except Xichen sadly and I kind of think it is deliberate because without him, Lan Wangji lacks a support system). Again, I cannot recommend this story enough. It is, without doubt, my favourite fic series in this entire fandom. (Caution however: Do read the warnings in the tags and notes and take them seriously. They are there for a very good reason.)

Agapé (home is in your arms) by estel_willow

Author’s summary: Lan Xichen is in isolation. Wei Wuxian visits him. Together they find their way back to happiness, to clarity and to home. 

My comment: This one focuses on both Lan Xichen’s and Wei Wuxian’s issues and lets them resolve them together. I am such a fan of their characterisations in this fic, as well as Lan Wangji’s even though he is not the focus. I love it when non-romantic relationships are the focus of fics and especially when they are central to the character’s resolving their own issues and moving forward in life and that is exactly what happens here.

until you're big enough by lostin_space      

Author’s summary: Lan Zhan is sad and not hungry; Lan Xichen asks Nie Mingjue to help him. 

My comment: This one is a really short and sweet read about how Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue parent the their younger brothers. I just really liked how the author portrayed todler Lan Zhan, as well as these two teenagers doing their best to be the parents that both he and Nie huaisang lack. 

Night Music by Manogahela                

Author’s summary: There is a music that plays in the night at Cloud Recess....but there isn't suppose to be. Lan Xichen investigates the mysterious dizi music that can be heard from the Jingshi at night following the Siege of the Burial mounds.

My comment: I absolutely adored this one, mainly for two reasons: 1. I love an outsider perspective and Lan Xichen’s, at this point and with his limited knowledge is absolutely wonderful. First, he isn’t even sure is what he thinks is happening really is happening and when he is sure, his feelings are, understandably very conflicted. 2. The author’s style compliments this fic so well. Since most of it happens at night and Xichen isn’t entirely sure that he can trust his senses, there is a certain dreamlike quality to it that the author writes beautifully. This fic is part one in a series. Part two is a WIP, but also very much worth the read!

Company by WithBroomBefore                

My summary: In which Wei Wuxian is whipped within an inch of his life by Madam Yu when he is fourteen and comes to stay at the cloud recesses. He and Lan Zhan become friends.

My comment: My summary once again does not do this fic justice. Because it is so much more than just that. It’s such a beautful exploration of friendship and love and bodily autonomy. Wei Wuxian has a lot to work through in this fic, but really, so has Lan Zhan who has the opportunity to make friends at a much more mellow pace than in the novel/show and panics a little less because of it. The war still happens but has much less dire consequences. All in all, this fic left me with a wonderful warm feeling in my chest.

you are safe / loved / worthy / enough by everythingispoetry                

Author’s summary: One of the more timid-looking posts, in pale greens and creams and yellows, says Hello, I'm managing to be fairly high functioning right now but I'm really not doing as well as it may appear, and Lan Zhan feels as if someone sneaked into his mind and read his most secret thoughts, the ones he's never even dared to admit to himself.

(In which Lan Zhan, to his own dismay, finds himself with the help of the most obnoxious, cheerful, cheesy self-care instagram account known to men.)

(And Wei Ying.)

My comment: Listen, I have a complicated relationship with fics that depict mental health struggles in characters. They are all so incredibly valid and I’m glad they exist (every single one of them, no matter if i like them or not) but due to the fact that they tend to come from the author projecting their own issues onto characters (which is NOT a bad thing! that is what fanfic is for!) they are often hit-and-miss when it comes to characterisation. But this story ... it just GETS Lan Wangji. If someone told me a scenario in a modern AU that leads to him developing an anxiety disorder and depression, this is what I would have come up with. Because let’s be real, Lan Wangji is a perfectionist to boot, insanely competitive and needs to live up to his family’s expectations, while also not having much of an emotional support system outside of his brother and uncle. That’s a dangerous cocktail in the modern world and just screams of a burnout waiting to happen. So Lan Wangji, off to university, living alone in a strange city for the frst time, spends all his time in a carefully calculated study routine but slowly realises that the path he set out on was not one he chose because he liked it but simply the one that was laid out for him by his background and family, which then leads to him questioning the reason behind what he does. That reads as incredibly real to me. A good AU, in my opinion, takes the characters and their inherent characteristics and lets them meet new and unique challenges that they never would have encountered in canon, which then leads to new and interesting character developement. And this AU manages that perfectly! (Plus, if you are a university student like me who sometimes suffers from crushing anxiety about the path they chose in life, this is insanely relatable. What? I never said I wasn’t biased :P)

porn (but not actually) and waiting (a lot of it) by hyacinth4maria    

Author’s summary: Lan Xichen sighs as he settles into the couch next to Lan Wangji.

"What are you looking at?"

Lan Wangji, without pausing from typing the names Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian in the Love Calculator 3000, says, "Porn."

Lan Xichen chokes.

- Lan Wangji has a crush. Lan Xichen hadn't realized his little brother was growing up.    

My comment: this one was hilarious! Just Lan Xichen being both absolutely exasperated and amused by wangxian’s pre-teen drama. I almost choked laughing at the line that coined the title. The author has these characters down to a T and they used their powers to attack my laugh-musccles :D

the field meets the wood by astronicht     

Author’s summary: Wei Wuxian is a dark shadow in the barley. Wei Wuxian is sorry for the kind of compassion that he is about to hand out.

(in which Lan Wangji is stolen for salt, and Wei Wuxian unravels the world, a little)

My Comment: HOLY FUCKING SHIT THIS IS SO GOOD. Do you ever read a story and just marvel at the author’s mind? This is one of those. The sheer genius of giving Wei Wuxian the ability to pull entire beings into non-being! The absolute galaxy-brain idea to link the canon mythology to modern astrophysics!!! Wei Wuxian creates a motherfucking black hole in this one!!! And it’s SO well written, too! The author does not shy away from Wei Wuxian’s sharp edges and his darker side but goddamn if he is not still loveable anyway. Just GO READ THIS FIC!

Abandon your post by StarsAlignNomore        

Author’s summary: After months as Chief Cultivator and separated from his soulmate, Lan Wangji follows Wei Wuxian out into the world. He searches for him. He finds him. He kisses him. They reunite, they talk, they resolve. Sometimes Bichen lends emotional support. Chenqing bites. Little Apple is there too.

Your typical Post-Canon-Reunion-Fic with much more emphasis on their spiritual weapons than expected.

My comments: This one just left me with a lot of mushy feelings. Also I adore the way the author emphasised the relationship between Lan Wangji and Bichen. And by the end, Wangxian finally figure shit out through actual open communication. Absolutely beautiful!

[zid1an]

a while ago I asked if anyone would want to see a preview first chapter of thirteen years. this is not that. what you do get however is jiang wanyin’s drunk adventure, revised and written with love

Jiang Wanyin is drunk, Lan Zhan eventually comes to realize. He watches him from across the table in an attempt to reconcile with this truth. They aren’t within the confines of the Cloud Recesses and Jiang Wanyin is dressed mostly inconspicuously. Consequences for the circumstances are therefore unlikely.

So Jiang Wanyin is... drunk. Sitting lopsidedly, his head swaying side to side to a beat that Lan Zhan cannot hear, and smiling. A content smile that fits disarmingly well with his sharp features. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright. There are a few strands of hair framing his face. Lan Zhan starts, realizing he may be staring a bit too intently.

I will get both myself and Jiang Wanyin through this evening with subtlety and patience. Great patience. And subtlety. We will be very subtle.

Jiang Wanyin is drunk, and Lan Zhan is fine.

Except Jiang Wanyin is now also much, much too close to Lan Zhan’s face.

“I feel like I can see you better like this,” Jiang Wanyin announces, grinning lopsidedly with a look in his eyes that indicates that his behavior is an intentional decision made to bother him.

Lan Zhan stares at him, unimpressed. He has to fight to keep his eyes from crossing.

Jiang Wanyin sighs exaggeratedly, the scent of alcohol drifting into Lan Zhan’s face, and drawls, dialect heavy, “I mean, your expressions are clearer, this way. It’s nice.” He sits back and stretches. “It’s fun to figure out what you’re thinking, you know. Right now, for example,” he lifts his cup to cover his mouth, sharp eyes belying his demeanor, “I think you kind of want me dead.”

Jiang Wanyin is an uninhibited drunk, Lan Zhan observes flatly. Their waiter returns, refilling their pot to Lan Zhan’s chagrin. “So how do these two esteemed patrons know each other?”

Jiang Wanyin points at himself with an affronted frown, as if he is shocked to find that he wasn’t recognized on sight. He opens his mouth to speak, eyebrows furrowed, and Lan Zhan senses that whatever is going to come out of Jiang Wanyin’s mouth will become a hindrance on the subtlety that he has somehow managed to maintain so far.

“San-“ was all he was able to voice before Lan Zhan places the silencing spell on him. Jiang Wanyin mppf’s with a roll of his eyes.

Lan Zhan suppresses a long-suffering sigh before speaking, “Third meeting.”

The waiter blinks vacantly, “Meeting?”

Lan Zhan sits, comprehending his own graceless lie.

Mn. I have made a terrible mistake.

His ears have begun prickling as his words finish sinking in. Lan Zhan imagines this is the feeling a man possessed would experience after being gifted a small shovel and with it dedicating himself to digging an unending pit. Or perhaps a grave. He looks over Jiang Wanyin’s shoulder, unable to make eye contact. “Courtship,” he finally adds, having resigned to lowering himself further into the dirt.

Their waiter smiles indulgently at his answer and retreats, surely taking with him whatever remained of Lan Zhan’s pride.

The silencing spell must have worn off, for Jiang Wanyin yawns and points at him, accusatory. “Lan Wangji, you haven’t been sneaking drinks when I wasn’t looking, have you?” he asks suspiciously.

Lan Zhan, still avoiding eye contact but at least confident in this, replies, “I have not.”

Jiang Wanyin squints at him, “Are you sure?” Lan Zhan knows he would have fallen asleep by now if he had, and so he nods, absently taking note of the cracks in the ceiling.

“Then why are your ears so red?” Jiang Wanyin asks, voice earnestly curious. In the corner of Lan Zhan’s eye he can see that Jiang Wanyin is leaning forward again. He avoids eye contact with him more insistently.

A moment passes. “Lan Wangji, are you listening to me?”

Another moment. “Hanguang-Jun, it’s rude to ignore someone who’s talking to you. Surely that’s one of your rules?”

It is. One copy of Virtue as punishment. The silence stretches, taut. Lan Zhan should have been expecting recoil.

“Gege.” Lan Zhan freezes. He finally turns his head to see Jiang Wanyin grinning triumphantly. He feels his previous embarrassment grow twice its size, creeping down into his shoulders from his ears. “So you heard me that time, huh?”

“I was not ignoring Jiang Wanyin.”

“You were.”

I was. Lan Zhan, in lieu of responding, covers his face with his hands.

“Why are your ears turning even more red, gege?”

“Jiang Wanyin, we are in public,” Lan Zhan says, muffled.

Lan Zhan is suddenly blessed with silence. He can almost see Jiang Wanyin thinking; he imagines it’s another scowl, though with a scholarly dignity and focus.

Xiongzhang would never allow me to forget the amount of time I must have spent with Jiang Wanyin to picture that so vividly.

The energy in the air shifts, faintly colder. “Gege, look at me, please.”

Jiang Wanyin is shaving years off my life. Lan Zhan does not look.

“Please, look at me.”

Lan Zhan’s hands twitch, but he does not look.

“Lan Wangji, please,” and Lan Zhan is only so strong willed, so he moves his hands and he sees...

Jiang Wanyin frowning, though it’s different than before. “Am I that embarrassing to be seen with?” he asks, voice bitter and expression unreadable.

It is very sudden, the way Lan Zhan feels profoundly lost. “Jiang Wanyin is not embarassing.”

Jiang Wanyin takes another pause. He looks up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, and Lan Zhan can see now that he was right about Jiang Wanyin’s thinking scowl.

A hiccup punctures the silence, and Lan Zhan is reminded with a sharp jolt that Jiang Wanyin is drunk. He would not be so forthcoming otherwise. He feels as if his head has just surfaced above water.

Jiang Wanyin huffs, face turned down now, his face relaxing but eyes remaining sharp. Lan Zhan almost doesn’t hear him when he says, startlingly quiet, “Lan Wangji, I don’t think I really hate you.”

Lan Zhan tenses, panicked. “Jiang Wanyin.”

Jiang Wanyin continues unhindered, a warped smile taking the place of his previous frowns, “I don’t think I want you to hate me, either. I’m scared that,” he laughs scornfully, “I’m scared that I’ll become so cruel and unpleasant that no one will care enough to uncover the parts of me that are worth knowing anymore.”

The words remain simmering in the humid evening air, and Lan Zhan is horrified to see tears rolling down Jiang Wanyin’s cheeks. Lan Zhan carefully eases his cup, now empty, away from the teardrops on the table.

“I don’t hate Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Zhan states, as gently as he can. “Not going anywhere.”

Jiang Wanyin looks up, although Lan Zhan can’t be sure that Jiang Wanyin really sees him through the tears that are still spilling down his cheeks.

Jiang Wanyin is very beautiful, says his useless brain, even through the pang of sympathy that lances through his chest. Two copies of Virtue.

Jiang Wanyin whispers mournfully, “I don’t want A-Ling to grow to resent me.”

A lump forms in Lan Zhan’s throat, suffocating. “He will not. Jiang Wanyin is doing a good job. He will know that Jiang Wanyin is doing a good job.”

And though it may speak more to Jiang Wanyin’s lack of sobriety than Lan Zhan’s choice of words, Jiang Wanyin smiles. An open expression that Lan Zhan shouldn’t get used to seeing. An open expression that Lan Zhan wants to get used to seeing.

Jiang Wanyin is truly very beautiful. Three copies.

And then Jiang Wanyin slams a hand on the table, startling Lan Zhan out of his (foolish) stupor, and stands on shaking legs. “Well, I’m exhausted and never want to think about any of this ever again! Good night, Lan Wangji,” he announces, too loud for the establishment, and for a moment Lan Zhan is convinced that he’ll make it to his room in one piece.

It is a brief moment, however, because after one strong first step Jiang Wanyin begins to list to his right and Lan Zhan moves quickly to steady him.

Jiang Wanyin frowns up at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Bright eyes. There’s more hair framing his face than before, curling slightly. “Lan Wangji, if you don’t stand me up I’m going to fall asleep here.”

Lan Zhan blinks. His face must be turning red as well, with how warm he feels. “Mn.”

Jiang Wanyin is back on his feet for what must be no less than a few heartbeats before he attempts another unsupported step forward.

...

Ask for help, Jiang Wanyin.

The man in question sways a little on his feet before turning around, huffing out a sigh, and asking, with great difficulty, “...Gege, can you help me get to bed?”

Lan Zhan glances outside, sees the moon rising over the hills. It would be best if I buried myself now.

He then looks back at Jiang Wanyin, who is watching him with bright eyes and half curled hair and flushed cheeks, and wonders with great solemnity how and when it was that he began to compromise his pride.

However long ago the waiter last left our table, perhaps.

This is to say that Lan Zhan is holding Jiang Wanyin up by his arms and walking them towards the stairs before he can even ask the innkeeper if they have a shovel.

He gets them up half a flight of stairs before Jiang Wanyin, apparently having processed Lan Zhan’s embarrassment from before, looks up at him and, no longer keeping up a sober appearance in the privacy of the stairwell, mumbles, “So you intend to court me, Lan Wangji? I hope you know,” he stops and heaves a long sigh, “that I won’t make it easy for you.”

Lan Zhan continues walking them both upwards, too focused on their upward momentum to allow himself the shame. Just make fun of me directly, Jiang Wanyin.

They stand together now, more or less, in front of the door to Jiang Wanyin’s room.

Lan Zhan is not going to answer Jiang Wanyin.

He opens the door and gracelessly maneuvers them in. Jiang Wanyin does him the favor of sitting of his own volition, the bed holding his weight silently. As gently as he can without being indecent, Lan Zhan pulls off his boots. Removes his hair pin, taking the time to untangle some of the knots that had formed over the day of travel. Carefully lays him on his side.

Jiang Wanyin will forget.

And yet, “I do know,” Lan Zhan says, wearily accepting that Jiang Wanyin turns him into a fool that simply can’t not say the most embarrassing things that come to mind.

Jiang Wanyin is fighting to keep his eyes open now that he’s in bed, but he looks up at Lan Zhan and hums inquisitively, “Mm?”

“I do know,” Lan Zhan has to manually turn his body towards the door, “that you won’t make it easy.”

[hottestthingalive]

I figured out how the punnet squares could work.

First of all we have to assume the Fox Gene is recessive, and both Human and Smart Fridge are dominant over Fox. So then Wilbur gets a dominant Human (ish) gene from Philza who is pure HH human. And a Fox gene from the smart fridge (the smart fridges genes being Ff (F=fridge) (f=fox) making Wilburs genetics Hf (H=human) (f=fox).

Then we also have to assume the Salmon Gene is dominant over Fox as well, and Sally had a fox somewhere in her family tree and she is Sf (S=salmon) (f=fox)

This allows a 1/4 chance of the recessive fox genes for Wilbur and Sally combining to make Fundy (ff)

ok see that’s what i was thinking originally too EXCEPT punnett squares are for trait inheritance, not for species.

with crossbreeding species, it produces stuff like ligers or mules or camas. usually, these animals are often sterile, so it’s difficult to know how the species traits exactly translate, but we know from domestic dog and cat breeding that things can start to get a bit strange. punnett squares are especially difficult for species because sometimes mixing of traits will form a new trait: white and red flowers, for example, represented in this example by RR and ww alleles respectively, could create, instead of a red flower, a mixed gene that makes them pink in something called incomplete dominance. that’s why you’ll get mules and whatnot: the traits of the species mix or combine instead of the species itself being dominant or recessive. dsmp biology is pretty janky, but we have to assume some commonalities, and so that’s where things get tricky.

the difficulty here is that phil, and therefore wilbur’s, biology is questionable. that was why i could make my fridge headcanon in the first place: we could reasonably assume that, through whatever quirk of genetics causes phil’s strange semi-god traits and lack of aging, both of them ended up with a wonky circulation system or some magic bullshittery to make their body temperatures wonky. even without headcanons in play, just based on canon:

-phil had wings before he joined the server

-phil does not age or die of old age but naturally has only one life, which wilbur did not inherit

-phil’s definitely been affected by magic. even if we consider magic unknown science that hasn’t been cracked yet, that messes with things too

-wilbur has been confirmed multiple times to be phil’s biological son.

-wilbur has also said that the fridge parentage was canon, and although i don’t doubt he did that just to fuck with people, we have to take that into account.

-fundy’s age is dubious, and it’s hard to know how he ages or if he does so according to canon time because of mixed reports, but wilbur says he is wilbur’s biological son. this strange aging could be because of fundy being affected by phil’s wonky genetics, but we don’t know.

-sally the salmon is also dubious, as she is/was kept in a bucket and is called a salmon often, but also was apparently cross-eyed and an accountant, with her favorite color being brown (according to the wiki). she also divorced wilbur for unknown reasons, which means she was probably smarter than the average fish (i’m joking about the divorce bit, but the rest of it still applies). we can guess that sally is in some way like michael, steve, endermen, or yogurt; mobs that seem to have gained and/or been assigned by the ccs some higher level of sentience, although that’s a factor we have to consider with a grain of salt. we have to assume from canon alone that sally was a literal salmon and not some form of shapeshifter, like she is often headcanoned as, but is also a salmon that somehow attained higher brain functions than average.

-the fridge is also confusing, as fundy has claimed to have met them (i’m aware the fridge has been referred to as grandma and mother by ccs but i will use gender neutral pronouns for them until further notice) and we have to think that said fridge has some form of sentience to hook up with phil. or, well, hope they did, at least.

so with all that in account, here’s where things go downhill:

i said earlier that species cannot be graphed on a punnett square. we can use the hybrid animals as an example again to explain why.

when hybrid animals are bred, it is from two different species that have compatible enough genetics to still create offspring. however, when they are bred, it is rare that their traits act within the bounds of the regular punnett square; usually, hybrids will have incomplete dominance. and though hybrid animals are only rarely able to have offspring (as their mixed cells usually render them infertile) the few fertile mules we’ve seen have children tend to have strange genetic mixes of traits from mules, donkeys, or horses. from my understanding of hybridization (which could be wrong, as this is from a biology class i took years ago and brief research done just now, so science tumblr feel free to correct me) hybrid traits are not nearly as simple as R or w or Rw, like we saw in the flower example. hybrid animals’ genetics can not only demonstrate incomplete dominance-created trait mixes, but can display entirely new traits caused by the blend in species, which makes things very, very complicated.

which means that fundy’s (and wilbur’s, for that matter) genetics can’t easily graphed on a punnett square. the fact that wilbur, a hybrid, even managed to have fundy is shocking, as we know wilbur is also a hybrid. we know this because wilbur is phil’s son but does not have wings or only one canon life, and (according to the wiki) may not have entirely human traits either (the wiki talks about it being implied that his blood was blue even before ghostbur, although we once again have to take that with a grain of salt). wilbur also had three lives instead of one, something we have to assume is inherited from the fridge. we can’t explain any of that away by assuming that phil’s genetics are non-inheritable either, or that they’re caused by magic and not biology, because the cc has confirmed that c!phil does not know why he has not died or aged, which makes him being cursed or blessed or anything like that unlikely.

the fridge and sally both appear to be members of their individual species with merely a higher level of intelligence than normal: therefore, we cannot assume that either are hybrids. fundy, meanwhile, is an anthropomorphic fox, and clearly is hybridized. although he has fox features, fundy can walk like humans, must logically have some sort of opposable thumb feature since he can make potions, wield weapons, and create machinery, and has different internal systems to foxes. although minecraft foxes can actually consume any food besides cake, (which fundy can consume, so their digestive systems are also evidently somewhat different) foxes (in minecraft or otherwise) do not have the capacity for human speech, because even if they could learn the language, because of differences in body structure it is difficult for most animals to create human sounds. fundy is not fully a fox; he is a mix of fox traits, human traits, and possibly traits relating to sally, although we do not know if that is true.

basically what i’m saying, anon, (and again anyone with a better grasp of biology should feel free to correct me) is that wilbur and fundy are essentially genetic nightmares. even if wilbur or sally was part fox, the odds of fundy displaying only those traits is infinitesimal, AND it raises questions about wilbur and sally’s own biology. the biology of the minecraft/soot/dy family is preternatural and keeps me up at night tying string to pins and sticking them in a conspiracist’s corkboard.

[mymelodyheart]

Miles Between Us Chapter 6 ~A Wrinkle in Time~

Previously in The Tethered Ties ...

And when he finally glanced back down at the laptop, he nearly choked. Right there on the screen, peering up at him, was a cantankerous-looking, crocodile Dundee version of Harry. Same eyes, the same face, and though a handsome fellow, this man's skin looked weather-beaten, and he had a scary scowl on his face.

"Jamie," Claire giggled. "I'd like you to meet my uncle ...Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, also known as uncle Lamb."

Ah, holy fuck!  Though uncle Lamb looked like Harry, Jamie knew this man was nothing like Harry. Harry was ...or had been a polite, refined and jolly ol' chap with a very posh accent. This man was far from the polished look Harry presented. This man looked like he'd seen the world and confronted danger and probably wrestled crocodiles as a hobby. Convincing uncle Lamb that he's good enough for Claire was not going to be a walk in a park. Jamie knew he had a long evening ahead as he gingerly sat down in front of Claire's laptop and braced himself.

Jamie cleared his throat and sat up straight. "Good evening, sir ..."

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

If you wish to read this from the beginning:

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  Jamie had a dream. It was unlike any other dreams he had before.

He was cycling down a road, the cold wind stinging his cheeks, a plastic container of pastries in one hand. Excitement rose within as he followed the familiar route to Murtagh's house, huffing and puffing when he picked up speed. He was dropping off his ma's freshly baked treats to his godfather, hoping Murtagh would have time to go fishing.

An ear-splitting screech of brakes echoed in the air, along with mangling metal crashing and twisting. 

He stopped. The plastic container dropped from his hand, and his bike collapsed to the ground. He began walking towards the crash site, sensing with every step, he was nearing a metamorphic truth that would change him forever.

Despite the trepidation mounting in his chest, he couldn't stop moving towards the wreck. He quickened his pace and then began to jog, and then he ran. Faster and faster. 

He ran until the breath whooshed out from his lungs in burning gasps, and he slowed to a standstill in front of the harrowing scene that was before him.

The wind picked up, and the clouds dimmed the sun. The acrid stench of burnt rubber and engine oil filled his nostrils. A familiar face appeared through the cracked windshield, calling out his name in desperation. For a second, his heart ceased to beat, and his breath caught in his throat.

Harry?

"Save her ...please ..." 

The plea struck his ears, and he tried to move, but he was stuck on the spot. He twisted his body and stretched out his arms, willing his feet to budge, straining and grunting and chanting a soundless prayer for strength. A piercing scream jolted him out from his struggle, unfettering him from the invisible force holding him in place, almost tumbling over from the abrupt release. He realised they were cries from a child.

He moved towards the car and wrenched the back door open, seemingly the only side still intact from the collision. A child, no more than the age of five with angry red blotches on her cheeks and wild curls, was restrained by the seatbelts. Her pudgy wee arms were outstretched as she screamed on top of her lungs, crying out for her mummy.

He stared in disbelief, immobilised by the uncertainty of his next course of action. 

"Save her, Jamie ..." He glanced up to see Harry's face contorted in pain, eyes imploring. "There's not enough time."

"But ..."

"Go! Take her with you ...Now!"

Spurred by adrenaline and fear, heart pounding against his chest, he began to move. He unfastened the strap across the wean's body and grabbed her from the seat. Wee arms and legs wrapped around him as he spun around and headed for the moor. Holding tight to his bundle, one hand bracing the tiny head pressed against his neck, he ran as fast as he could. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Harry watching him through the window and then the car exploded.

Jamie woke up lurching upright to a sitting position, his top clinging to his clammy skin and his heart racing like a freight train. Swallowing air in big gulps, he yanked off the duvet and swung his legs out of bed, trying to even his breathing. Then he began to shake as he heard the distant roar from the deep recesses of his brain, and the floodgates of memories swung open in vivid hues. It came in massive waves, raising recollections and visions to the surface that had been submerged under the basement of time. A deluge of dispersed images merged into one, and a stream of realisation emerged. Suddenly everything was as clear as day. Everything that Murtagh had told him of Claire's parents earlier was now clicking into place. The child they'd rescued that fateful day was Claire! Except, in his dream, he'd been the only one to save her.

A cold shiver passed through him when a suppressed but very visual memory of Harry sprung into his head just before the car had exploded. Harry had just regained consciousness and had looked straight at Jamie with a sobbing wee Claire tight in his arms, the look on his face branding his consciousness forever. Though it had been relief carved out on the doomed man's face in knowing Claire would live, it had done nought to appease his soul. He glanced over at the woman beside him. She slept peacefully, her soft snores confirming she hadn't been affected by his fitful sleep.

Reliving the sequence of that event, he remembered now how the horror of that day had haunted him. It had been so bad, he'd been coerced to attend counselling by his mother. Too young to process Harry's demise, he'd literally felt on the edge of a nervous breakdown. After a year of refusing to talk about the ordeal, he'd shifted his focus elsewhere to stop the nightmares. There had been this unabating need to atone for Claire's parents' death, the urge to help and protect growing like a snowball, morphing into an avalanche to flatten and destroy any unpleasant memories and replace them with something good. He'd rescued animals and sheltered them in his father's barn. He'd defended kids against bullies at school. He'd volunteered for causes that involved helping the vulnerable. He'd enlisted to be part of the British Armed Forces, hoping to make a difference to the plights of those afflicted. He'd even gone as far as making a promise to his dying friend, killed in action during his SAS days. Jamie had felt so guilty for his inability to protect his best mate, Simon, he'd asked his friend's widow to marry him. Though thankful now the marriage had never taken place after having met Claire, his efforts to appease his guilt had been a struggle. All these years, he'd buried the horrors of war, the memory of losing Simon and images of Harry going up in flames with layers of what he'd thought were reparations. But what he hadn't known, his failings continued to fester below the surface. It was like a wound that refused to heal.

Had Murtagh's revelation triggered the suppressed memories to resurface? Or did it have something to do with his conversation with Claire's uncle Lamb? His mind wandered to their discussion earlier.

"Jamie," Claire giggled. "I'd like you to meet my uncle ...Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, also known as uncle Lamb. Uncle Lamb, this is Jamie, James Fraser ...my boyfriend. I'm staying with him for at least a week."

"Is that right?" the man on the screen harumphed with a growl as he stuck a thick cigar between his teeth. "Not what I was expecting."

Jamie disregarded the not so subtle dig. "Good evening, sir ..." he began.

Claire laughed. "Don't call him that, Jamie. It's too weird!" She glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. "If he's giving you "the look," don't worry. Uncle Lamb is all bluster."

"I heard that," uncle Lamb grumbled.

"Play nice, then!" she shouted from the kitchen.

Jamie eyed the man on the screen and squared his shoulders. He wished he'd been more prepared for this or at least looked presentable. Instead, he resembled a drowned cat after just having arrived home from work. Claire hadn't told him much about uncle Lamb and wondered if she'd said anything about him to the older man. 

He stared at Harry's look alike. Does uncle Lamb ever smile? Or is that scowl permanently etched on his face? He wasn't sure. Maybe it had something to do with that cigar hanging loosely in his mouth.

Sizing him up, Jamie presumed they're roughly the same breadth, and if uncle Lamb was anything like Harry in stature, they should be the same height too. It's a good thing they were meeting via video conference. If they had been facing each other in person, he might be less inclined to shake hands, seeing how the older man looked like he was capable of committing murder.

An amused Claire came gliding out of the kitchen with a bottle of beer, seemingly unfazed by tension emanating from her laptop screen. "Don't mind his mood, Jamie," she chirped. "He's just grouchy because five of his men came down with food poisoning. And work is being delayed again." 

Uncle Lamb growled. "Don't remind me."

Claire wagged a finger at her uncle before kissing Jamie on the forehead and handing him the bottle. "I'll go prepare dinner."

He took a deep breath as he watched her head back to the kitchen. Uncle Lamb could frown all he wanted. Ultimately, if need be, he would go through twenty uncle Lambs to show the world how serious he was about his relationship with Claire. 

Jamie noticed the older man watching him very closely. 

"So how are ye?"

"I don't like surprises," Quentin announced, obviously wanting to get straight to the point.

"Neither do I," he returned. Facing off each other for a few silent seconds, Jamie deliberately took a slow slug of his beer. He placed the bottle back down on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "But surprises are nothing new to me. I was trained to be prepared against any surprises," he added, referring to his SAS past. 

Quentin ignored the remark. "Claire told me ..." He leaned forward and rolled his khaki sleeves up, exposing tanned sinewy, muscular arms. "...you met just before Christmas."

"That's right, sir ...I mean unc ...I mean Quentin." The older man raised an eyebrow at him, and Jamie raised one back. 

"Things seem to be moving along. Fast!"

"Claire and I have acknowledged that."

"She was there with you only a few weeks ago for her holidays. She's just got back to work. Did you persuade her to come back?"

"She's got a mind of her own."

"Are you serious about her?"

Jamie tried not to look rattled as the older man bombarded him with questions. It was only natural to be concerned about his niece. "Aye, I built her a shed." Ach shite, wrong answer ...what the fuck was that, ye clot-heid? He felt like kicking himself.

Quentin watched him in stony silence. "A shed?"

He inhaled deeply, careful not to show any signs of frustration. "Actually, it's a writing studio," he explained, feeling the heat crawling up his neck. "For when Claire comes over for a visit. She can work undisturbed there. I've even soundproofed the walls, and it's been comfortably furnished ." 

Quentin said nothing. Instead, he slowly placed the cigar on the ashtray, raised his brandy snifter to his lips and drank.

Determined, Jamie pushed on. "Claire has handed her notice to her boss, and once her commitments in London are done, she'll be moving here ...to Broch Mordha." He tamped down the rising emotion from his throat as he thought of Claire preparing dinner for him in the kitchen. "Look, I may not look like the man ye hoped for, for yer niece, but ye dinnae ken me. I admit I come with a lot of baggage, but I'm working hard on it, and she's helped me tremendously in dealing with ..." He trailed off. He didn't want to pull the PTSD card out. This was about Claire, he reminded himself. "I ken her history. I ken she's moved a lot, lived in boarding schools, nae home to go to during the holidays, following ye half-way around the world when school's out. She told me she's never felt any sense of belonging anywhere ..." Quentin glanced away. "I want ye to know, I willnae be just another stopover for Claire. And even if she has to travel long distances to visit ye, she'll always have a place to return to. I have roots here, and I can give her..."

Quentin crossed his arms. "Give her what?"

Jamie cleared his throat. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm serious about taking our relationship further. As ye can see, she's staying here in my home until she goes back to London. Though there is this unspoken understanding between Claire and me, I dinnae want to be presumptuous ..." Jamie rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck. "...in thinking, she will move in with me when she relocates here to Broch Mordha. But I plan on asking her. And it would be verrae nice if ye could give yer blessing and ..."

He shook his head. "No!" His grin was more like a baring of his cigar-stained teeth. "Ask me again in a year."

Jamie ran a hand through his hair. "All due respect, I ken she will say yes when I ask. And I ken she's stubborn enough to make up her own decisions with or without yer blessing. But I'd rather I have it ...for all our sakes. I'm no' sure if ye are aware, but I have my own business that I share with my brother, I own a house, I have no mortgage, and I make enough to provide for both of us with enough left for savings. She can pursue her dream of writing to her heart's content without worrying about finances."

"You overlook the fact that she's a city girl. What if her writing career never takes off? What are her possibilities in the Highlands?"

"Oh, but it will take off. I have faith it will. She's very passionate about pursuing her dream, and rightly so, because she's a talented writer. I can attest to that because I've read one of her finished works."

Quentin's face softened just a tiny bit. "You have?"

"Aye, I have," he hedged. "Claire should have published her work ages ago, and I plan to encourage her to do just that. Her writing would be a wonderful gift to the world."

"You're doing a lot for someone you barely know."

"Quentin," Jamie sighed, swallowing his exasperation. "I'm in love with yer niece. I'm aware everything between us is happening fast, and I dinnae suppose there is a timeframe or formula to follow when it comes to relationships. I'm just winging this and going along with my guts. And my guts are telling me Claire is the one. I still cannae believe someone like her is even real and that she loves me back. I sometimes wonder if I'm dreaming. She brings the best out of me, and I want to do the same for her. So if helping her realise her dreams is all I have to do to keep her, that's what I'll do." 

A few heartbeats of silence and watching each other closely passed before Quentin spoke again. "What did you say your last name was? I didn't quite catch it."

Ach, Christ, he's gonnae do a background check on me! "Fraser," Jamie replied. 

The older man let out an impatient grunt. "Yes, yes, but which Fraser do you belong to? There are a lot of Frasers in the Highlands." 

"My parents are Brian and Ellen Fraser," he replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Quentin's brows knitted together, and his stubbled jaw flexed twice. "You mean Brian and Ellen from Lallybroch?"

Jamie shifted in his seat. "Ye know them?"

"And you're Jamie?" Quentin asked, ignoring his question.

Confusion descended over Jamie as he saw the transformation in Quentin's face. "Aaaye," he said slowly and deliberately. Where in the bloody hell is this going to, now?

"And Claire wants to move in with you?"

"As I've said, I havenae asked her, but I think she would like the idea of us living together. It would make perfect sense since we do love each other."

He grabbed the cigar and pointed the tip in his direction. "You have my blessings." Ignoring Jamie's sharp intake of breath, he tipped back the rest of his brandy. "Conditions are, there should be once a week phone-calls. Video or facetime ones or whatever you call it. And when I'm on British soil ..."

Jamie suddenly straightened up on his seat. "We'll visit, or ye can come and stay with us." 

Quentin shot up on his feet. "Very well then, welcome to the family, Fraser. Go and get your dinner ...you wouldn't want your wife ..." he coughed, his face turning red. "...I mean your girlfriend reheating what she's just lovingly made."

Jamie got up as well, ready to shut the laptop, relief and confusion at the sudden turn around washing over him in waves. What the fuck just happened? Too bewildered for words, "Of course," was all he could muster. 

Quentin hesitated, as if in search of the right words, his throat working overtime. When he finally spoke, Jamie couldn't help but hear the emotion in the older man's voice. "If Claire's father was alive today, he would think his daughter has made a fine choice."

His jaw dropped involuntarily. "He would?" 

There was no reply. Too shell shocked, Jamie stood there staring at the screen for a full minute, long after Quentin had signed off.

When Claire reappeared from the kitchen, she launched herself into his arms and whispered, "Hungry?" 

His bewilderment evaporated, happiness shrouding around him in such a way he knew everything was going to be alright.

Puffing out a breath, Jamie shoved a hand through his hair and made his way to the bathroom. He knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep for a while, so he might as well washed off those vivid dreams of Harry and clear his thoughts of that conversation with uncle Lamb. He felt like he was living in the Twilight Zone and badly needed to get his equilibrium back.

The silence of the night closed in around him until the soothing spray of the shower hit his skin. He wondered if Claire would remember anything from her parents' accident. She'd mentioned a couple of times, she had been five when they passed away. Considering that Claire was now in a happy place, content and well-adjusted, it was probably not the brightest of ideas to conjure up her past. But then, on the other hand, he suspected she might want to know what had happened that day. After all, she did have the right to know her history, no matter how painful. 

The image of Claire's bright amber eyes and husky laughter flashed in his mind. 

Jamie sighed, turned off the shower, and quickly dried himself off. When he realised Claire wasn't in bed, he made his way to the kitchen. He quietened his pace when he found her dropping teabags into two mugs, wearing only his t-shirt and a pair of woollen socks. She didn't hear him approach at first, looking deep in thought as she waited for the kettle to boil.

Moonlight streamed in through the kitchen window, creating a halo out of the wisps of curls framing her face, the whole scene reminding him she was everything he wasn't, a shining light where he watched her in the shadows. Sorcha! A force within spurred him towards her, needing to touch that light, hoping it wouldn't fade with his damaged soul.

"It's late, Sassenach. What are ye doing up?" he asked, walking towards the fridge.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" she jumped, hands flying to her chest. She tucked a loose curl behind her ears and faced him with a sigh, a small smile slowly forming her lips. "You weren't in bed, so I thought you probably had one of your nightmares. I'm making us some chamomile tea. It helps with sleep and relaxation."

He wasn't sure if this was the time to tell Claire about his dreams, so he dismissed it with a wave of a hand and smiled. "Just a strange dream. Is that one of yer herbal remedies?" he asked, stirring the subject to something neutral.

She lifted a shoulder. "Something like that."

He opened the fridge and found a rainbow of colours of fruits, vegetables, yoghurts and juices. Claire hadn't been kidding when she'd said she went food shopping today. Obviously, root vegetables, eggs, cheese and a container of hummus he'd bought wasn't enough. Smiling, he grabbed a pear and shut the fridge door. "Do pears go with chamomile tea?" 

Her face lit up, making his heart expand. "I suppose so." She poured hot water into the mugs and brought their teas to the dining table, Jamie following close behind her. "And it's good for you. You ought to eat more fruits."

"But you bought enough pears to feed an entire village, Sassenach," he pointed out, biting into the succulent fruit.

Claire giggled as she sat down. "The other bag of pears are for the sticky toffee pear pudding I'm going to make. Uncle Lamb loves making it for me whenever he comes over for a visit. So I thought I'd make some for us. He told me the recipe he uses was from my mum."

The way she smiled fondly at the memory made him want to draw her into his arms, but he took a seat instead. "With pears? I've only ever had normal sticky toffee pudding," he said, sipping some tea. "My ma makes it sometimes."

Her eyes twinkled. "I was told my mum loved to bake. And apparently, according to uncle Lamb, my favourite was cream buns."

Curiosity started to niggle in his belly at the mention of Claire's mother, even though he rebelled against it. Is this the time to talk about the death of her parents? Before he could change his mind, he came straight out with it. "Sorry to change the subject, Sassenach, but I have something to ask. What made ye come to the Highlands every Christmas?" he asked. "Ye mentioned once, ye like coming here during the Holidays. I mean, it's a great place to spend Christmas and all, but is there a particular reason?"

For a long moment, she stared at him with a faraway look. He realised he was holding his breath, half of him already regretting asking the question. There was a possibility her answer could lead to resurrecting a tragic event and snuffing the light out of her. And he needed to bask in her light some more. What was he thinking? Leave the past in the past, Murtagh had told him. He didn't know what lay on the other side of bringing up her parents' death. Either way, Claire didn't need to be dragged down with a sad memory. 

Feeling suddenly foolish, he put down the pear he was eating and reached out to touch her hand. "Ye know what. Dinnae answer that. It's getting late. The tea is working its magic already, and I think I'm ready to go to bed."

A delicate frown marred her brows. "Are you sure you don't want to know?"

Am I sure? No, not really. "Go on, tell me then."

She suddenly beamed like the light that she was. "The reason why I love coming back to the Highlands every year is, this is the place where my parents met and fell in love. I'm not quite sure where exactly, but it was somewhere around here. As far as I know, the Highlands was their happy place where they made loads of happy memories and great friends, and every time I come here, it makes me feel closer to them. You might find it odd, but I do feel most at peace here. There's something that draws me to come every year. Call it gravitational pull or whatever. But it feels like it's my parents' way of sharing their happiness with me. Am I making any sense?"

His breath of relief released in a slow rush, lightness invading his chest, as he realised she didn't remember anything of her parents' death. Or at least he presumed so. But, if it's his burden to carry the truth of Claire's parents' death alone, so be it. Why bring up something dark that has no place in their lives anymore? Maybe one day ...in the far future. Her hand still in his, he stood up, pulling her to her feet before lifting her into his arms. She squealed in surprise. "It doesnae matter if it makes sense or no', Sassenach. If it feels right to ye, then it must mean something. Who knows, maybe the reason ye're probably drawn to the Highlands is that ye were conceived here. Have ye ever thought of that?" 

Claire slipped her arms around his neck and smiled. "Or maybe ..." she leaned in to nibble at his earlobe. "...because I was drawn to ye. Have you ever thought of that?"

Jamie laughed as he started to walk them towards the bedroom. "C'mon off to bed with ye ...I have an early start tomorrow."

Claire eyed him mischievously as she snuggled closer. "To bed or to sleep?"

With a guttural groan, he lowered his head, brushing their lips together as he gave his answer in kisses.

Dear Readers,

I hope this chapter made sense to you. As you might have noticed, I didn't write the events in this chapter in chronological order, and I hope you can understand why I wrote it the way I did. If it didn't make any sense, please, I'm all ears ...ask away, and I'll answer. 

It was a challenge writing the dream part, so I hope I've done it justice. And mostly, I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed seeing the feedbacks in the previous chapter. So a big thank you for that! 

Let me know what you thought about the latest instalment and until the next update, take care of your health and keep up the positive vibes. X  😀❤️

ADDED UPDATE - An explanation to this chapter

I was trying to be clever and do the first two part of this chapter in the reverse order that I may have left you confused than enlightened. I have copied and pasted an explanation to the question posted by one reader in AO3. I hope this will help clarify things. So here goes:  

The dream was brought about by two triggers. First, was Jamie's conversation with Murtagh in Chapter five. Although in Jamie's dream he'd been the one to save Claire, in reality, it had been Murtagh. But it was Jamie who carried Claire to safety after Murtagh instructed him to.  This was the conversation:

Murtagh puffed out a breath. "The last time ye saw Henry, he was in a car accident ...with his family."

"What?" he choked.

Murtagh turned tired-looking eyes on him, and there was a deep sadness in them that startled him. "It was the day they were coming back to Broch Mordha for the first time in years. I heard talks around the village that they've rented a wee cottage from Mrs Baird. And also heard words about a wean. I didnae want to stick around to find out. I thought I'd take a wee trip to Skye and stay there until Henry and his family were gone. I was just packing when ye came barging into my hoose tellin me that a car had smashed to a tree. I came running oot like a gudgeon with ye right behind me. Ye must have been nine or ten. It wasnae far from where I lived then. By the time I got there, Henry was still alive, and Jules was unconscious. He ordered me to get the bairn first and then Jules. My first thoughts were to save Jules, but the wee child was screaming, and Henry was begging me to save her. Between the two of us, we managed to get wee Claire oot, and I ordered ye to take her as far as possible from the site. And that ye did. But I couldnae save Harry and Jules because the car caught fire and Henry lost consciousness. When I smelt gasoline, I had to run, and that's when the car exploded."

The second trigger was brought about by seeing Uncle Lamb's similarity to Harry and also by their conversation via video conference. Towards the end of their conversation uncle Lamb realised Jamie was the young boy who'd carried Claire to safety before the car exploded. Uncle Lamb would have remembered this because he was the only living guardian of Claire and the story of his brothers' demise would have been passed on to him when he came to collect Claire. You will also notice that Jamie found it strange the sudden turn around in uncle Lamb's demeanour at the end of their talk. But Jamie hadn't known the reason for this until after the dream. The dream in a way brought back all the suppressed memories and everything clicked in place together.

Now Jamie is unsure of asking Claire what she knew about the crash and telling her his dreams. Seeing her happy and contented, he didn't want her to relive that past in case more grief than good comes out of it.

I hope I made more sense here. X

[luxekook]

bangtan host club ❯ part i

❯ pairing: ot7 x reader

❯ genre: ouran au, college au, crack, smut

❯ summary: when you had decided to take summer lessons at your college, you hadn’t factored in the impending presence of seven insufferably attractive and arrogant boys… the bangtan host club. 

❯ word count: 2.1k

❯ warnings: 18+, cursing, suggestive language, terrible pet names, excessive dramatics

❯ banner by: maggie @kimtaehyunq​

a/n: while this fic is loosely based off of the anime version of ouran highschool host club, it is set in university - meaning that all of the boys are of age (at least 21 years old)

host club members

❯ Kim Namjoon as “Kyoya Ootori” ❯ Kim Seokjin as “Tamaki Suoh” ❯ Min Yoongi as “Takashi ‘Mori’ Morinozuka” ❯ Jung Hoseok as “Mitsukuni ‘Honey’ Haninozuka” ❯ Park Jimin as “Hikaru Hitachiin” ❯ Kim Taehyung as “Kaoru Hitachiin” ❯ Jung Jungkook as “Haruhi Fujioka”

Taking summer classes had never been on my agenda, my studies having been mapped out in detail since the day I arrived on campus three years ago. And then the university’s president suddenly has this utterly groundbreaking epiphany and adjusts the curriculum to “ensure that all students will leave Bangtan University well-rounded”. 

Screw that. My ass is already well-rounded enough, thank you very much.

But despite my best efforts (i.e. begging President Kim to make an exception followed by crafting a petition that gained over ten thousand signatures), I have found that there is no avoiding the dastardly new physical education requirement. And since my schedule for my upcoming senior year has been planned and set for literal years, I’ve been forced to enroll in the sole summer physical education class offered at Bangtan University - Introduction to Weight Lifting.

I wish I was kidding.

To say that I am dreading the start of class tomorrow would be an extreme understatement. I’ll be lucky to escape this summer without physical injury or the loss of my dignity. Athletics have never been my strong suit, and I’ve only entered our campus gym to go to the smoothie bar.

Groaning at just the mere thought of working out and being graded for it, I trek down the streets of outer campus towards the library, swearing under my breath and sweating profusely.

It’s a blazing hot, blue-skied Sunday in July. Typically, I would be lying on a beach somewhere with a drink in my hand, soaking in the warmth of the sun with joy. But instead, here I am, sweltering and desperate for air conditioning after my ancient window unit wheezed its final breath last night. The comfortable chill of the library is my only hope aside from my landlord who promised to fix my air conditioning by tomorrow.

My frustration builds as I turn onto the block lined with imposing and picturesque estates in which the upper echelon of Bangtan University resides. I’d bet the very last ice-pack in my freezer that these houses have unfailing central air.

I pick up my pace, worn Doc Marten platform sandals slapping against the hot pavement. The pristine mansions seem to mock my distress as they exude the coolness of unbothered wealth. Despite there being no Greek life here at Bangtan University, the lack of letters emblazoned on the numerous estates I pass does not symbolize a lack of status. 

This block is home to the athletic teams who throw massive parties whenever they happen to be in the off-season. It’s also home to the legacy clubs - the exclusive groups of current students who are relatives of past alumni.

And last but not least, this block is home to the infamous Bangtan Host Club, a small group of idle rich boys with exceptionally good looks and a penchant for entertaining. 

The aforementioned group’s house comes into view as I draw nearer to campus. The host club’s mansion sits on the corner lot right across the street from campus. Typically, students are wary of such proximity - but not those boys. No, they’re un-phased, throwing massive parties every weekend without fail and without repercussion.

During my first semester, I had been confused as to why their parties had never been shut down; but now I know better. The host club’s president Kim Seokjin is the son of none other than the fucking president of the university - the very same man who damned me to my weight lifting fate.

In fact, almost the entire host club is related to someone with influence - either at the university or within the surrounding community. The only exception to the wealth factor is Jeon Jungkook, who attends Bangtan University on a scholarship not unlike myself.

About 99% of the university are host club stans. As for me? I don’t subscribe to that bullshit. And I do mean literally ‘subscribe’. They have newsletters, merch and everything. I would say I don’t understand it at all, but a small part of me does.

They’re fucking gorgeous. Like I’m talking Tom Ford at New York Fashion Week gorgeous. Armani catalogue centerfold gorgeous. Goddamn Sports Illustrated Men’s Swimsuit Edition gorgeous. 

In fact, I’m pretty sure Kim Seokjin actually does model in his spare time. With his long limbs, broad shoulders and pillowy lips, Seokjin certainly has the features for it. My freshman year roommate bought so many posters of Seokjin from the host club’s merch website I think I could identify him from a hundred yards away in the dark. 

“Hey!” The bellow emanates from the porch of the host club’s house and jolts me from my memories, “Hey, princess!”

I let out a snort. Whoever that pet name is directed at needs to shut that down immediately. I mean, ‘princess’? In this economy? Please. I need off this block ASAP.

“Hello? I’m talking to you, angel!” 

The voice sounds closer now, and my eyes squeeze shut. Oh god, this person cannot be talking to me, can they?

Princess? Angel?

The sheer absurdity pushes me onward, and I do not spare a single glance in the direction where the inane greetings originated. Alas, I barely make it two feet before a tall figure screeches to a halt in front of me, panting like he had just run a marathon. 

I blink as I take in the very boy who just crossed my mind a minute earlier. Kim Seokjin looms over me, chest heaving and smile gleaming.

“Cupcake, hello!” his smile grows wider, “Why didn’t you answer me? I was talking to you.”

My brain is trying to wrap itself around the unfathomable phenomenon I’m currently witnessing. The host club president is beaming down at me like I’m the last custom Rolex ever made. His white t-shirt that probably costs more than my rent stretches across his shoulders in a way that has to be illegal. 

A bead of sweat drips down my back between my shoulder blades. I don’t have time for this attractive detour; I only have time for a long sip of iced water and a seat under an air conditioning vent somewhere deep within the recesses of the quiet library.

“Were you?” I shrug, looking over his illegally broad shoulder and plotting my escape, “I didn’t realize, considering my name isn’t princess, angel or cupcake.”

I inwardly cringe at my tone. I have a tendency to be irritable when the weather is hot, and it seems like today is no exception.

Seokjin stares down at me, his cocky expression wavering for a split second before snapping back into place. “Well, tell me your name then, sunshine, so that I may cordially invite you to the host club’s latest summer extravaganza!” His dark brown eyes sparkle as he remains seemingly impervious to my building ire, beaming down at me.

“No, thank you,” I shake my head decisively and attempt to sidestep around him. 

None of my friends are on campus for the summer, and there is no way I'm going alone to a party full of strangers. That just screams bad decisions, just like the time I willingly ate the dining hall’s “Mystery Meat Special” during my second semester.

Seokjin cuts off my path yet again, and my scowl intensifies as I glare up at him, “Could you move, please?”

Seokjin gapes back at me, “D-don’t you want to come to our party?” I stare at him with eyebrows raised. He continues at a higher decibel, “Don’t you know who I am?”

The nerve of this boy. My eyes scrunch shut as I send a quick plea to anyone out there in the universe to send me patience and then internally count backwards from ten. 

“Yes, I know who you are, Kim,” I finally say, completely exasperated, “And no, I still don’t want to go to your party.”

Seokjin is gobsmacked, looking like he’s seen a ghost as he stands before me open-mouthed. For a second, I allow myself to indulge one more time in his attractiveness, my eyes wandering along his toned torso, his muscular arms, his high cheekbones, his messy brown hair. 

And then he bounces back, snapping his fingers, “Aha! I know what this is. You’re playing hard to get! Okay, I can play along with you, sunshine.”

It’s my turn to gape at him this time, watching as he mumbles to himself about how I must want him to beg for me and how he would just love to do so. I’m about to put a stop to this madness when he spreads his arms wide and announces loud enough for the entire block to hear, “Sunshine, please, attend our party! My heart longs for your presence, and I will only be happy if I can have your arm in mine next Friday night...”

I’m honestly beginning to worry about the boy in front of me. Is he completely unhinged? Am I being Punk’d right now? 

Seokjin prattles on, “So, my sun, my moon, my stars, will you please do me the honor of joining me for a night of fun courtesy of the host club? No guest has yet to be disappointed and—!”

I finally just reach up and cover his mouth with my palm, steadfastly ignoring how plush his lips feel against my skin. “Kim Seokjin!” I hiss, “I promise I am not playing hard to get. I simply do not want to go to your party. Now, please, for the love of god, let me walk by you in peace.”

Loud bursts of laughter sound immediately after I finish speaking, and I whip around to locate the source. Two boys jog over to where Seokjin and I are standing on the pavement. Their laughter doesn’t subside with their approach. If anything, it grows louder.

“Oh, come on, pres,” the pink-haired boy who I know to be Park Jimin jeers, his melodic giggles punctuating each word. “Is this how you plan on handling your first rejection?”

My eyebrows pull together in confusion as I turn to face Seokjin, only to find him lying dramatically on the lawn in front of his house with one arm throw over his face.

“Go away, Jimin,” Seokjin groans, ripping out a handful of grass and throwing it at the other boy. Obviously, he doesn't calculate for the wind and sputters when the grass blows back in his face.

“Boss, you’ve really hit a new low,” the blue-haired boy - Kim Taehyung - grins as he looks back and forth between me and the over-the-top performance happening on the lawn. All Seokjin does in return is flip Taehyung off, seeming to have learned from his grass-throwing lesson.

Well, there’s no need for me to stay a second longer within this realm of crazy.

I turn on my heel and head off towards the library, renewed in my desperation for the relief of blissfully cold air.

Alas, I don’t get too far before the two boys with colorful hair are in front of me - each with an arm thrown over the other’s shoulders. 

“Well, well, well… I must say,” Taehyung drawls.

“You’re quite an intriguing little thing,” Jimin cocks his head, looking me up and down. I try in vain to steel myself against the heated assessments both boys are giving me.

I’d heard a lot about these two - most of it being completely outlandish and borderline unbelievable. Do they really do everything together?

It’s as if that thought is written all over my face as the smirks grow on the faces of Jimin and Taehyung. “If you don’t want to come to our party for Jin-hyung…”

“Will you come for us?” Taehyung finishes Jimin’s thought, and I am almost certain that he intended for that question to be as suggestive as it sounded.

Before I can even attempt to answer, Seokjin launches up from the ground and barges in between the two boys. “Yah! That is no way to speak to a lady! Have I taught you nothing? Don’t you fools remember lesson number fifty-two on being a good host?”

“We didn’t say anything inappropriate, pres,” Taehyung shrugs, looking pleased with how riled up the older boy is growing. His pink-haired counterpart grins, “If anything, you’re the one with the dirty mind, twisting our innocent words into such filth.”

It’s as if Seokjin is struck by lightning - his shock turning him pale as a ghost before the redness overtakes him. I cannot tell if it’s due to embarrassment or anger. All I know is that I need to bounce.

When Mt. Seokjin finally erupts, I slink away and practically jog across the street to campus. Ah, free at last...

a/n: this is part one in my host club series! originally i was going to make this a giant one-shot but i figured i would just break it up into smaller pieces so that i could get some content out uwu

© luxekook do not repost, edit or translate

[basicjetsetter]

Part II

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Language, Mentions of Death, Depression, Triggering Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt

▹ Words: 3k

▹ A/N: ATTENTION! This is an emotionally heavy part. Please DO NOT READ if you know you will be affected. For those struggling with depression, I see you, I care for you, and I love you. You’re not alone and you are undeniably worthy of love.

-Five Years and Twenty Nine Days Later-

You don’t want to get up.

Your phone’s alarm clock is rounding on its tenth circuit, if your counting is correct… and there’s a good chance you blanked out for fifteen minutes while watching a strip of sunlight lethargically inch down your blanket to the foot of the bed, so your number may be off by six or seven.

It’s not that you’re tired or anything, or maybe you are and that’s beside the point. It’s just that your bed is far too comfortable for your own good and you know today is Saturday, the busiest day at Hal’s Diner, and it just so happens you’re scheduled for an 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. brunch rush. If you had a choice, you’d stay in bed.

But you don’t. And you’re running twenty minutes late… for the fourth time in two weeks.

I’ve got you.

Shut the fuck up.

You wearily snarl, snatching your pillow out from under your head and slamming it against your face, uselessly stuffing it over your ears as if that would somehow miraculously block out the words. 

Usually, the voice stayed quiet. After three years of the repeated promise drifting around your brain like a lost ship at sea, you had finally figured out how to anchor it to the deepest, darkest, most unchartered recess of your mind. Every now and then, though, they’d find a way to rattle the chains, just to remind you of their eternal presence, but it never lasted long. You didn’t acknowledge them anymore. They no longer fooled you.

But, twenty-nine days ago, something reinvigorated the voice, giving them a renewed sense of purpose and a reason to break free.

Twenty-nine days ago, on the exact anniversary of their disappearance, everyone came back. 

Out of the blue, in the middle of the day, all of the people Earth mourned for five years reappeared to a very, very stunned world. Celebration rocked the streets of New York and all over the globe. Lovers lost returned. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Babies. Friends. They all came back. And the voice in your head broke free of its chains, rampantly bouncing around your mind as if they were on pure steroids, ready to charge forward and find the one your Destined Words belonged to. 

Everything reverted back to normal.

Except, besides your newly released Destined Words, nothing changed for you.

You weren’t there when… when your best friend rematerialized in your previous apartment. You moved to a smaller, modestly priced place six blocks away. It was great for what little money you had, and your landlords, a lovely couple that always leaves you a present outside your door for Christmas and birthdays, were generous enough to accommodate for your lack of funds.

You just couldn’t keep your parents’ apartment. Not when you knew they weren’t coming back. 

No one ever speaks about the casualties of the ones lost that day, the ones who perished from the effects of the blip. For a long time, you just couldn’t cope with the fact that a swerving hit from a rogue truck whose driver turned to dust was all it took to take your parents away. But you had to move on.

Ever since that day five years ago, you’ve been on your own.

You’re sure your friend tried looking for you by now, continually calling up a retired cellphone number, searching through deleted social media accounts, maybe even asking your old high school for your whereabouts to no avail. Even though you’re not far from home, she’d never find you. 

You don’t want to be found. You like being alone.

With a great, gusty sigh, you roll out of bed, grab some clothes and undergarments, then pad to the bathroom, ignoring the chiming circuit of your alarm clock. It can wait. You go through the motions: washing up, putting your hair in its regular bun, brushing your teeth, and staring at your unaged face in the spotted mirror.

It’s not vanity, though it’s common knowledge that your features will be impervious to aging for a long while. You literally haven’t aged a single day since the blip.

It was an intriguing phenomenon after the first two years. Everyone your age who had heard their Destined Words but had yet to meet their Soulmate just stopped aging, and when the younger generation hit the age of eighteen, they stopped aging as well. For some, like you, the effect was felt rather than seen. Ever since the string inside you snapped, you knew that cosmic time would stand still until you connected with your other soul. You’re not holding your breath for that anytime soon.

As you step out of the steam-filled bathroom, your alarm blares out its last chime before switching to the Vmm Vmm Vmm of an incoming call.

You pick up on the sixth ring. “Good morning, Hal.”

“This is the fourth—”

“The fourth time. I know, I know. I’m on my way.”

Hal grunts into the receiver, “Don’t get smart with me, little lady. Just because you’re my best server doesn’t mean I won’t fire you.”

That’s precisely what that means, and he knows you know it. You blow out a sigh, “I’m seriously almost out the door. Like two steps.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, a hint of a grin in his quizzical noise. “Well, hightail it, would’ya? The joint’s packed already and I need all hands on deck, so scoot.”

“Scooting,” you confirm, snagging your bag off of your sofa and grabbing your keys. “Who’s with me today?” Please don’t say Wendy. Please don’t say Wendy.

“Chris and Wendy.”

You groan as you shut the door behind you. “Come on, Hal. She’s dead weight in the morning. I might as well be working with a zombie in an apron.”

Hal grumps, “At least the zombie gets here on time.”

“Have you had coffee yet? You’re not you when you’re decaffeinated.” It’s true. Even with your truancy, Hal wouldn’t hold it over your head more than twice. He’s usually as chipper as a dog in a dog park at this time, bustling and joking up a storm.

He takes a loud sip, then says, “We’re slammed, is all, and I’m missing my best hand.” Two disgruntled heys ring in the background and Hal immediately issues apologies. “Just get here, will ya?”

Before you can remind him again that you are on your way, he disconnects the call.

You’re wondering if it’s too late to go back to bed.

The little, infamous family diner is only seven blocks south of your apartment building, a nice walk when the weather’s good and a pain in the ass when it’s not. You used to enjoy the quiet mornings and the stillness that came with it, but ever since things went back to normal, you can’t survive the walk without a pair of headphones jammed in your ears and your music’s volume turned all the way up. Everyone’s just so… loud.

Thankfully, today, the walk is a straight shot and you’re in the doors within fifteen minutes.

It’s like stepping into a den full of ravenous animals. Worse, it’s like stepping into a den full of ravenous animals and being stuck with the task of serving them.

“Look who’s finally decided to show up,” Wendy chides, stifling a yawn as she shuffles to a table and places down three menus. She’s twenty-two years old and likes setting your teeth on edge.

You deadpan, “Did the cat drag you in from the front door or the back?”

“Knock it off, you two,” warns Chris, walking by with two arms balancing four plates of the Sunrise Breakfast Special. He looks at you, then jerks his chin back to the kitchen. “Boss is about to blow his top.”

Nodding, you make your way to the back, giving a small wave to some regulars. Out of breath and sweat running down his reddened neck, Hal is moving like a man caught in a whirlwind, flipping eggs and pancakes and sausages and hash browns and bacon while checking orders and filling plates. As soon as he hears the kitchen door close and sees you, he visibly sags in relief.

“Don’t bother clocking in. Just put your apron on and get out there.”

You nod. Set down your things. Put on your apron. Arrange a plastic smile.

Go through the motions.

It’s all the same thing every single day. Wake up, work, school, sleep. Repeat. Unlike the other constants, school is something you’re temporarily trying out. It wasn’t your original plan, the whole four years to a bachelor’s degree, then some more years for a master’s. You gave that up long ago. Right now, you’re just taking a free weekend art class at a community college. Oddly enough, it’s something you’re beginning to look forward to on Saturdays and Sundays.

Work, while you’re great at what you do, is never a highlight. 

Hal was right. The diner is slammed, and you’re swept up in the current of rude, demanding customers, snide remarks from Wendy, cheerful shrugs from Chris, and barking orders from Hal for six whole hours. You work through your two fifteen-minute breaks. No one reminds you. You slip on spilled hash browns. No one helps you. You bring back a plate three times to satisfy a customer who kept finding fault with their eggs. No one thanks you.

Everything is back to normal.

I’ve got you.

“Fuck off,” you snap, slapping a hand to your mouth when you see the elderly woman you’re serving knit her brows in revulsion. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m-I’m sorry, I was—”

She stands and marches out of the diner before you could explain, snatching her ten-dollar tip off the table.

“… talking to myself,” you finish under your breath.

She’s the last of the brunch rush, leaving only the regular afternoon crowd and a few stragglers. The clock near the cash register reads 2:13 p.m.

You brush off the disappointment of a lost tip and head to the kitchen to grab your things and leave, Chris and Wendy following you. Hal’s two other workers, the ones here till closing, cover the floor well. Not like they had much to do.

Hal is whistling a jaunty tune when you walk in, stopping to salute you, Chris, and Wendy with an exhausted grin. “Nice work out there, you guys. See you tomorrow.”

Wendy is out the door the instant she clocks out.

Chris catches your arm as you grab your bag from your small locker. “Hey, um, I sort of heard your little outburst, and I was wondering if you were okay.”

You nod, gently shrugging his hand off. “Yeah, it’s just a tip. I made enough.”

“No, not that,” he shakes his head, clearing his throat and pushing a hand through his choppy beach-blond hair. He ineptly bends his head down a little, getting close enough for a private conversation you do not want to have. “It’s just… you’ve done that before and I just want to make sure everything’s alright with you.”

You can’t put the plastic smile back on, he’s seen it too many times to know it’s not real, so you half-heartedly grin. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, anytime. Hey, so, me and a couple friends are hanging out tonight. There’s gonna be a music festival in Cunningham Park. Wanna hang?”

Chris tries this every week. At first, you thought it was his bashful attempt at asking you out, but he’s a happily taken man with a big heart and a lot of friends. Every customer he meets, boom, they’re friends and soon loyal customers of Hal’s. It’s a gift. You just wish he caught your not-so-subtle hints of evasion.

Tonight, though, you had the perfect excuse. “Can’t. I got class.”

He tilts his head in confusion. “On a Saturday night?”

“Yeah. It’s a free course. Get it where I can take it, you know,” you awkwardly laugh, hoping Chris wasn’t offended as you take a couple of steps back towards the exit.

His smile doesn’t falter. “Maybe next time, then.”

Not likely. “Sure, yeah. See you later.”

You duck out before he says goodbye, dashing out the front door and speed-walking home.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

You stop dead in the middle of a sidewalk.

Where did that come from? It’s never said it three times in a row before. Does… does that mean something?

Your breath quickens at the thought, and you spin around, scanning the vacant street. You’re the only one occupying the sidewalk, you and a curious squirrel sniffing at the crisp air. There’s not a person in sight. When you’re certain you’re in the clear, pivoting a glance around one more time for good measure, you pick up the pace, practically running the rest of the way home.

Once you’re in your apartment and the door shuts, you desperately whisper to your mind, “Don’t say it anymore. I don’t want them, okay? I don’t want a Soulmate.”

Nothing.

“I know you hear me,” you bite out aloud, forcefully shoving back the urge to yell. “Stop saying the words.”

Still nothing.

Silence rings hollow in your mind like the voice is waiting for your temper to cool down. Like it knew it upset you and felt chastened enough to back off and take a time out in a corner.

You stand immobile in the middle of your cramped sitting area. Tense. Waiting. Waiting longer than you care to admit. The urge to fight deserts you as quick as it comes, but you’re still standing there with your fists balled up, feeling more and more defeated as the minutes drain away.

The voice isn’t going to leave you alone. You know that. It’s here to serve one purpose, and the only thing holding it up is you. You’re meant to meet whoever those words belong to… but then what? They magically fix you? They love you back to normal? Five years ago, you may have believed they can do that. But, the problem is, you’ve gone through enough life-altering events in the last five years to last you a lifetime, and this one person, this person destined to pair with your soul, won’t be your wave-of-a-wand solution.

You just want it to stop.

I’ve got you.

A lone tear slides down your cheek as you trek to your bed and climb in fully clothed.

For a long time, you simply stare up at the ceiling as the tears leak out the corners of your eyes. You make no noise, and your chest doesn’t jerk up and down with sobs. The tears gather, and then they fall. Gather and fall. Gather and fall until there are no tears left. You continue staring at the ceiling.

You think back to the days when those godforsaken words and the future they foretold brought you happiness. What a wonderful promise, pairing with someone who will always be there for you in some capacity and will instantly love you. You can’t recall any Soulmate story not working out. Maybe they just never speak about it. Why mar the fantasy?

The sun dipped below the horizon a while ago, and now the moon shines bright in the night sky. You missed your art class.

Your body is as stiff as a board when you sit up. There’s a tight pounding in your forehead, either from crying or lack of food, but you aren’t bothered enough to deal with it. Instead, you move to the only window in your room and pull back the curtains to gaze at the stars. Not many are out yet, but they glitter like gems around the moon, and the night sky nears a lovely shade of midnight blue.

The sight is so pretty; you find yourself grabbing a couple of paint bottles, brushes, and a small canvass, then heading out of your apartment, walking up six flights of stairs to reach the roof.

It’s quiet when you get up there, save for the noise of zooming cars below. The first time you came up on the roof, just out of curiosity, you loved how solitary it felt, loved the view overlooking the building-strewn skyline and the overall height of the complex. It became a nice place to visit when you wanted to be by yourself.

You walk over to the edge of the building, sitting your supplies down on the ledge, then look up at the sky for the best angle to capture the moon and the stars.

The sky is vast. So endless. So open. So free. You stop scoping out for the perfect angle and just admire the shining moon when your eyes land on it. It’s waning, only a sliver of its surface visible as it prepares to transition into a New Moon. Then you gaze at the stars as they dimly twinkle back at you… like they can see right through you.

Like they can see your sadness.

You step closer to the ledge, each step laden with the weight of smothered grief. You lost everyone. Your parents. Manda. She’d never recognize the person you’ve become.

You step onto the ledge, not looking down but up, trying to memorize the image.

You lost your Soulmate. That broken string in your chest never felt the same, even after everyone came back. Maybe you were too far gone for any connection.

You turn around. You’d thought you’d feel numb, but acceptance fills you. It’s okay to let go.

You lower your eyes, slowly lean back, and let gravity take over.

Air sails past your ears in a rush as you fall, and you can’t really focus on anything except your erratic heartbeat. You don’t struggle as your body wants. You just fall and wait.

And then, in a sudden flash of red and blue, you’re propelling sideways and swinging upwards, a strong arm pressing you against a hard chest.

“I’ve got you.”

As soon as he said the words, you knew who they belonged to, as if you knew this entire time. Even with the mask covering his face, you knew. But it still doesn’t stop you from incredulously saying, “Peter?”

His masked face snaps to yours. A small part of you tries to pin his surprise on you correctly guessing his identity, but something bigger assures you the reason for his alarm is a match to your own.

He knows you’re his Soulmate.

...

Part III

[dboliklover]

Thanks for answering my question ^^. How would the S bros react to finding out that they have a daughter with a former bride that the bride abandoned? The daughter is around 14 to 15 years old, she works her butt off at an auto repair shop and a factory to survive by herself. Her hands are quite strong, her hair is always messy and her clothes are almost always dirty from all the working, she really doesn't have the time to take care of herself, but nonetheless she is determined to survive.

I hope you don’t mind, but I made the scenario a little vaguer than you wanted - still on the same tracks, though!

Please;  - REBLOG. - Comment and like! Feedback is crucial as well as reblogging! I love hearing your thoughts  - Here is a link to my Ko-fi, for £3 I will write 500 words for you + give you a shoutout (if you’d like one!)  - here is a link to my commission rates - You can email me at “nadziejaewelinabusiness@gmail.com” to discuss potential commissions. 

Money from commissions/Ko-fi is especially appreciated now, as the UK is entering a recession and I am going to university and will need all I can get - having said that, I do not want my followers to feel like they have to commission me - you already support me by reblogging and commenting, but if you like my work and want to help out, then it is welcomed. Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 SAKAMAKI BROTHERS FIND OUT THEY HAVE A DAUGHTER. 8 PAGES LONG

Shuu: 

He never really thought of himself as someone who would have a family of his own.

Growing up in the world’s most dysfunctional household does that to a person - or vampire.

His father was an abusive asshole, so the idea that he would be a father himself....disturbed him, if he’s being honest - children always seemed so troublesome to him.

Generally, until he found out about your existence...he really never viewed himself as ‘fatherly’.

He never viewed himself as the type to fall in love, either - and he didn’t, not really. Perhaps, over time, he’d grown to be somewhat fond of his old bride but there was little real attachment there - it’s not even as if she ever tried to break through his walls, which he had more of than people assumed.

So when she managed to escape the manor and run away into the unknown, never to be seen again, he couldn’t say he was surprised or heartbroken. Wounded pride at most.

She’d done her duty - even if in the end she escaped, rather foolish of her to do but she was smart enough in the execution not to get caught, which he had to commend. But he had gotten what he wanted out of her, as had his brothers. Even if he’d been the one closest to her, it was far from being enough to cause any real feelings of love between him and the lost-bride.

So, finding out about the existence of a secret daughter he’d never before known about...was more than a little shocking, even if he was the master of concealing his emotions, inside he was caught in the midst of a storm.

He had a daughter.

A daughter.

All this time, there had been a little child out in the world that was allegedly his. And he was only finding this out now, in a letter from *her* - it was unaddressed, of course, she was too wary to write down a return address. Rightly so - the wrath seeping through his veins was usually reserved only for Karlheinz in this extent, but at the moment the rage was equally shared between his father and former bride.

The letter stated all it had to. That fourteen years ago, she had given birth to a baby girl after running away and left her at the steps of an adoption clinic. It was a guilt-ridden confession, but she added she knew not what became of their shared secret child.

He thought back to the time he’d been sent all alone to the South Pole. Destitute, hopeless, alone...and then he thought about how a child he never even knew existed but was his had to go through something like that - their whole lives, probably.

There was a hope that they would’ve been adopted - for the best, really, until he remembered the child was surely a halfling and with every passing year may start growing into their abilities and carnal desires of bloodthirst.

So, begrudgingly, he hired someone to search for you in his stead. There was little to go off of, but eventually, some Private Investigators managed to uncover your whereabouts, based off nothing but the records from the adoption clinic.

“I’m your father.”

It was a painfully awkward statement.

Shuu had no idea how he would fare as a father. He had doubts and knew he would be far from what you surely needed - and just from the sight of you he felt guilty to see how you’d been forced to take care of yourself your whole life - it was obvious from the hardworking and toughened gleam in your eye.

But, if he couldn’t be an effective father - especially given that you were already a teenager - he hoped to at least be somewhat of a mentor. You were half-vampire and would need his help with training to control your abilities and thirst.

Reiji:

If there was one thing Reiji did want, it was a family.

Except that, in his mind, it would perfect.

The perfect, pristine family unit - he would marry someone his father found acceptable - a noble Vampire lady from another pureblood house, perhaps - and they would wed, he would surely inherit Karlheinz’s role as Vampire King - after proving himself superior to Shuu - and then they would create the perfect, most behaved and refined offspring the world had ever seen.

Indeed, he had his entire life planned out within his mind. So it was just too bad when his plans came crashing down in the form of his discovery of his illegitimate child.

When he first met you, he’d no idea who you were - to him, you were a stupid street rat who tried to steal from him, and he was about to show you that you’d made a grave mistake when he paused, seeing your face.

You looked a little too familiar - it was making him uneasy. You looked like she did - the former bride, before Yui. And yet there was something morbid in your eyes, reminding him of himself. It was a terribly strange experience for him.

And so he just scolded you, telling you stealing was bad and let you go on your way instead of releasing his full rage on you.

After the fated meeting he could not stop considering a possibility that you had been…- but that wasn’t possible. You could not be his child, it was just a coincidence. He fathered no children.

Except the thought haunted him each night.

What if he’d accidentally and unknowingly fathered a child - fathered you?

Was pregnancy the reason the bride had decided the foolish choice of escape?

She had been a sacrifice - nothing more - and he could not claim to have loved her. He didn’t love her but she had been a beautiful woman whom he used for his experiments and pleasure often. And though he loved her not, Reiji could not lie that he’d gotten...attached, to the woman, and felt betrayal’s bitter sting when she ran.

So he’d done the only logical thing, really, and disposed of her as he did his mother - he refused to allow people to manipulate him and hurt him, hiring a mercenary to find her and kill her - which was allegedly accomplished after about a year of his mercenary’s search for her.

Had she given birth to a child, just before he had been the one to order her death? If so - how tragic fate was.

The possibility kept him awake but he felt little guilt about being the reason for the woman’s death - if...if that girl he ran into was his offspring, and if his theory was correct, then the bride had ran with HIS child in her womb and deserved it regardless.

So then, he knew there was but one solution to the problem.

He set a search to find you, and for a DNA test to be conducted. After finding you, he ordered the PIs to take hair from you and send it to a lab and give the results to him.

You were of his blood.

So he went to you, introducing himself as “Reiji Sakamaki” and explaining that he was your father, and showed you the lab results.

You can say goodbye to any individuality and freedom you obtained before his discovery because from now on he is determined to make up for lost time...and transform you from an ugly duckling into a swan.

Like you always should have been, had he known about your existence.

Even if you enjoy your messy appearance and being hardworking and labouring - well, he just won’t have it.

And since you’re only fourteen - and he is your found father - you’re forced under his wing whether you like it or not.

Best to accept your new life, at least it’ll be a lavish one - even with impossible to fulfil expectations and lessons on etiquette your found father has planned for you.

Just don’t misbehave too much, whatever you do.

Ayato:

A daughter. A strange - tremendously strange - concept for Ayato to wrap his brain around.

He never considered children - wasn’t against having them, but never gave it much thought.

As for the mother of his child...he could not deny he loved her. He wasn’t good at love, and he knew that, but still - the way she’d abandoned her life - their life - and fled wounded his heart and his pride immensely.

It hurt to be discarded so easily - as if she’d never loved him, at all!

He was the best of the best, so why did she slip away so easily. Surely...surely he’d been good enough, hadn’t he?

He had to have been. She was just ungrateful.

And it showed, now more than ever, that she had been.

Because Ayato now knew of the existence of a child - a teenage girl - out there, belonging to him whom he had unknowingly fathered and who’d been hidden from his knowledge for so long.

He’d admittedly found it out from Laito - he was reluctant to give his brother any real credit but had to where it was due; he owed Laito this.

Allegedly, the red-head triplet had gone to the poor side of town to gamble and ran into a young teenage girl who looked like a spinning image of Ayato - not to mention she did not seem fully human.

And so, Laito started his own personal investigation into the matter, discovering the secret and revealing it, shedding light onto the shadows.

And so now Ayato had to face the music and acknowledge the fact he had a child.

He was a father.

And it terrified him to know that, because he’d allowed this poor girl - his daughter - to be forsaken and alone her entire life. When he found out that his bride had left the baby by herself bundled in thin blankets on the street he was furious.

Ayato hated his parents - both of them - with a heavy-set passion. And he’d promised himself, in the rare times he had considered children, that he would do everything to make the lives of his children as good as possible.

And he already somehow managed to fail that vow to himself.

So now...now, he was determined. Determined to be the best father you could ever want - to give you everything you should have had growing up.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy - and that he wasn’t...wasn’t exactly the best paternal figure, even if he hated to admit he wasn’t ‘the best’ at something - but he was going to try and try again until he could attain a proper, good relationship with you.

Besides, you already had some common interests in sports and “boyish” hobbies, such as cars and motors.

Probably the best father to have out of them all, simply because apart from overwhelming overprotectiveness, later on, he would allow you to be yourself - messy hair and muddy clothes and all.

He just wants to be a good father and make up for the lost time.

Laito:

Let’s be honest, he’s already fathered like twenty kids at this point

Laito doesn’t exactly know what ‘love’ is - romantic, platonic or familial.

His view of it is warped and fucked up, and he actually is perfectly aware of this fact, or at least; he sure as hell is not blind to it.

He’s motivated by lust and a desire to be wanted, appreciated and adored; but he also does not want to love in return.

So, to him, the former bride was an excellent play-toy. She was attractive and flirty and his type - then again, who wasn’t his type?

When she escaped in the night, he expected it to occur eventually. Especially after she realised his lack of true romantic intentions towards her and that he only wanted her around because she gave in to his lust oh-so-easily.

But the concept of her having been with a child was...relatively surprising. Enough to make him feel uneasy and somewhat blameworthy.

Like Shu, he never really expected to have a family, but worse still; he did not want one.

The idea of being a father sickened him.  He knew he was fucked up, even if he tended to look the other way at his own mess - he knew that a child being around him wasn’t going to end well.

He was terrified of becoming what he hated the most.

So much so that he initially tried to ignore the idea that you were his daughter.

He didn’t want it to be true.

Especially when he remembered the fucked up, awful shit Cordelia did to him - it terrified him to think he might do something just as scarring to his own child. He knew, within himself, that he never would - he was too disgusted by the idea of it, even if he acted carefree and without a moral compass.

But as time went on, he started to see you more often - you were scraping to get by, he could tell. And still, he told you nothing. You’d be cursed with him as a father.

At least, until one fateful Blood Moon night, when he was walking down the alley and found you, feral and beastly, as you drained the blood of a poor human soul who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

And he knew that you did need him, even if he didn’t want you to need him.

Because without a mentor you’d be horrified and lost and he’d already allowed far too much harm to befall you as a result of his own selfishness.

And so he took you home - where you should have grown up regardless, and he tried his best.

He was...uncertain, how to be a parent. Not as if he ever had good parents of his own to be a pristine example.

So, instead, he tried to be the opposite of his own parents - to not hurt you as Cordelia did him  - he was overly cautious, in an ironic twist, to never make any overly sexualised comments with you in the room. He wanted to, in a futile manner, keep your innocence as long as possible despite the fact you’d lost your childhood bliss long ago if you ever truly had it in the first place. Growing up in foster homes and on the streets since you were a child had been rough.

Karlheinz had neglected him severely, and so he tried to be the anti-example for that, as well.

It was a huge change and blow to his life, and the way he’d lived until now - but he knew that maybe...just maybe, you were what he needed too.

Perhaps you could help him become a better person by making him a proper, real father.

Just maybe.

Kanato:

Chaos.

That is what ensued when the bride had up and left that one dark moon night, fifteen years ago.

Kanato’s rage was heard all through the manor and the surrounding woods, his piercing screeches enough to render a Banshee deaf.

Kanato always struggled with love. As the youngest triplet, he had spent is life forlorn and placed on the side burner as he longed for his mother or father’s attention, never fully receiving it.

So when he had her - the bride - all to himself...he was satisfied for the most part with the constant, endless attention he demanded from her.

And then she, just like everyone else in his life - left him. Abandoned him, stopped loving him.

He knew he should’ve turned her into one of his bride-dolls instead. She could never leave him if he had. But he had been stupid and allowed her freedom.

Fifteen years later it was actually Shu who found out about Kanato’s daughter - about you - and the news was certainly amusing in the most morbid of ways.

For a while, Shu kept this a secret from Kanato, knowing his reaction likely would be far from positive. Even if, by chance, it was - well, Kanato could hardly be anyone’s father, being so very childish himself.

Especially since they already had one brat in the manor, did they need another?

But eventually, the secret came out - as all secrets, inevitably, do.

Kanato locked himself in his room for a week, refusing to believe the facts. He couldn’t possibly be a father!

There was no way it was real.

For Kanato, the denial is strong and there is a chance he would stew in his denial forever, never doing anything about the situation, disgusted by the idea of having bred someone.

If, by some divine miracle, Kanato could get over his denial, next he’d throw a tantrum. He would be furious at everyone - at the former bride, at Shu, at Karlheinz and...at you, for merely being born.

Because this knowledge made him miserable - and so, by association, so did you.

He wouldn’t want to meet you - even see you - at first. It would take a lot of persuading from his brothers to even consider it.

He didn’t want to be a father.

He didn’t want children.

You would only steal the attention HE deserved.

Kanato does not take kindly to the competition - and that would be what he’d see you as. Competition.

There’s a high chance you would go on with your life never knowing your parentage at all - but there is always the slither of chance that he would accept you. But even then...well, perhaps that’s more a curse than it is a blessing.

To be the daughter of Kanato Sakamaki would be a hellish thing.

Because he would be an abusive mess. Even if he grew to love you as his child, he knows not how to be a good person, much less a good father. His mother made him sing until his vocal cords bled. That was the only time she paid attention to him - and it taught him that he must always fight to get praise and recognition and you were an obstacle.

His words of hate aimed toward you would pierce through you, even after all those years alone - having been found by your birth father only for him to treat you worse than an insect - it would destroy you, even if you tried not to let it get to you.

But there’d be times he’d be so, so weak. So childish. So needy - you would probably have to turn into the adult in this familial relation, in the long run - taking care of him, having tea parties and dressing up like a doll.

If you’re lucky and behave and do as he says and never argue, he might just be a tolerable father.

But would that be a tolerable life?

Perhaps it would be better to be abused and hurt by him - on his bad side and be broken, rather than be a little-too-liked by your father and have him turn you into his pretty little daughter-doll, the first of your kind; the offspring of his seed, ever-so-lovely in your pretty pink gown, forever beautiful and never-ending. He’d even get to showcase you to everyone!

“This is my daughter, isn’t she pretty?”.

Subaru:

Horror. That emotion was pumping frantically through Subaru’s veins.

 He was a father. 

He’d been a father for fourteen years but had been none-the-wiser of it - he had to know exactly what events had occurred for them to get here, to this point. 

What had happened to his former lover? 

When she left, he couldn’t blame her. 

He wished she would’ve remained by his side but he knew he was unlovable and a monster and filthy - so how could he ever expect her to stay? 

Still...she’d promised she would, and that she didn’t mind his abrasive behaviour, that she loved him - but he knew, now, that she only did all those things because she knew that he would protect her from his brothers if she was to manipulate him.  

When he first found out she kept such a deep secret from him, he punched a hole in the wall from instant rage, and then was overcome by sorrow. 

There was a child out there. A child, who was his by blood and kin, and who had grown up fatherless and - allegedly - motherless, since the former bride just...abandoned their child. 

And then she disappeared. 

t was shocking and made Subaru sick to the stomach - even...even Christa, as scarring as his relationship with her was, probably wouldn’t have just left him by the road somewhere! 

He had found you by chance - an accident, really. He was taking a walk in the city and overheard someone getting mugged - he told himself he didn’t care but it but then noticed the person being attacked was a young teenage girl with (H/C) tresses. 

He tried to walk away but couldn’t, turning around to help, when, much to his astonishment, he witnessed the girl - you - beating the shit out of your attackers and taking their wallets instead. It was...impressive, but it had to be supernatural. 

You were a strong, scrawny girl and such immaculate strength was abnormal - inhuman. It...reminded him of his own strength. 

He realised, afterwards, that you resembled her - his past lover - to a disturbing degree. 

The next time he saw you it was when you were on the run from some thugs. This time, he did intervene and saved your ass from being injured. 

You were cautious but thanked him - he noted that you were a street-smart kind of kid, and he could always appreciate someone who knew how to fight- but you were rightly guarded around strangers. 

That was when he saw your eyes and it took him aback. You had his mother’s eyes - they were exact replicas of Christa’s shining orbs, and he lost his breath at that moment. 

Weirded out, you said your farewells and rushed away. 

The idea that you were somehow related to him felt unreal. So he did what anyone would do - tried to deny it to himself, to tell himself it wasn’t possible. He did not have a daughter, and the former bride had taken with her all his happiness. Besides...even if you were his daughter, then he was just as unworthy of getting to be a father as his own was. 

He was violent and aggressive - what sort of father would he make? A bad one, surely. It wasn’t something Subaru was about to risk - at least, he didn’t want to. 

The thought refused to set him free from torment, however, and so he begrudgingly started observing you from the shadows. 

Suddenly your lot in life seemed to improve for no reason whatsoever. 

It was as though you had your personal guardian angel to protect you,

There’s a large chance he’d never reveal the truth, but an equal chance he would. Especially once he noticed your vampirism kicking in - you’d need...someone, even if it was him. 

Even if he was terrified of fatherhood and failing you - it had to be done. Subaru would be a cool dad to have, but unbearably protective to a point of insanity.

- Mod Rozalia 

[shibiichi]

Could you talk Abt amphitions trolls? And or how you design characters, because your art, concepts and desgins make you by far one of my favorite creators ^^ (Sorry dlfpr the misspelling my hand brain correlation (?) Is not doing so well rn so srry :( )

HI IM INCREDIBLY HONORED OHMYHOD!! And of course! I’d love to talk a bit about some Amphitian troll info and the general lore of Amphitrite! (The home planet)

Amphitian trolls have a few distinct characteristics that differ in comparison to their Alternia counterparts! All Amp trolls have either a red orange, orange, or orange yellow skeleton with matching teeth! (The shades of the horns.) they all also have patterning within their horns, some actually having a raised texture! Sclera colors also follow this trend though they can differ from the orange tones if psionics, chucklevoodoos, or other abilities are present!

Their innards are colored to match their blood ofc and their gums, tongues, etc are more commonly some variation of their blood color. Blackened tongues, tears, gums, and innards are recessive but not mutations!

Skeletal colors differing from the orange tones are considered mutations, as well as colors outside the hemospectrum. Albinism is not considered a mutation though! Albinism does affect the horn, skeleton, eye, and hair colors of trolls, though blood color stays the same.

Pastel bloods, white bloods, black bloods, and highly saturated blood colors are considered mutations. Sea dweller characteristics on land dwelling trolls and vice versa are mutations, as well as mammalian characteristics. (Ie furry tails, cat like ears, etc.) Trolls with mammalian lusii may have features that resemble that of their guardians but will be distinctly bug like. (Ex: whiskers that are actually antennae, fluffier tails that are more so like that of bumble bees rather than animals.)

Amp trolls are more likely to have markings as well!! Purple bloods, in particular, will use their markings as a base to paint on their face paint if they do choose. Seadwellers have dominant bioluminescent genes that will appear within their markings. Land dwellers with bioluminescence are mutants, with the exception of Jade bloods and gold bloods. (Gold bloods due to their psionics)

There are also 13 castes! A set of violet bloods called R. Violets. They rank as fuchsias and all have some kind of noticeable mutation. There are a set number of Royal Violet bloods as they act as kings/queens for the empire. Fuchsia bloods are widely considered to be nonexistent due to their extreme rarity. Fuchsias who do hatch will likely be hemoanon or act as violet bloods.

There is one fuchsia emperor, Vinzen Xhoulh, who stands at a giant height of 20’3”. Due to his reclusive nature, many believe his existence is simply a hoax made to control the lower castes. (Similar to Gl'bgolyb.) no one challenges the empire though, as the possibility of this emperor being real is too great a risk to take. His status is used as a sort of boogie man figure, a story told to grubs to make them behave.

Clown aesthetics within the purple blood caste are derived not from juggalo culture, but rather from the R. Violet king— Khinjh. A purple blood wearing clown makeup means that purple blood is dedicated to Khinjh and, by extension, the empire.

Also!!! Lime bloods aren’t extinct, though the main hemospectrum believes this to be so. Rather, lime grubs are separated from the main population upon hatching and are segregated on their own planet. They are then made to reach maturity, contribute to the lime slurry, then be taken to the Empire to be drained completely of their blood. Gruesome.

That’s a good amount of info on Amphitian trolls for now! For designing characters:

For trolls: I’ll think up a theme I want to follow or an aesthetic I wish to pursue. That’s when I’ll just doodle a bunch of ideas or write down different traits that I’d like to see in the design, refining it until I’m happy! I usually feel satisfied with a design once I reach the point where I can say ‘yeah, I could picture myself buying that design’!

Like the troll info, for other character designs I’ll think of specific themes or aesthetics I want to include. I also take into consideration the look and general vibe I want to give off! Ofc I also want to try and widen the variety of characters I create and experiment with new aesthetics or ideas! I also find going through old art to be inspirational, especially when you find a character from back then that would be fun to redesign! (That’s actually what’s going on with the recent adopts I put out! They are all slight redesigns of heavy redesigns PFFTT. They all stem from random anthro character I drew in my 2017-18 sketchbook!

Hope this answered some of your questions!!