#is that the right use of the word ‘annotating’?

[television-overload]

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Oh hey, look, it's that massive story I've been working on since January! I'm so thankful to everyone who has shown interest in the concept of this fic and the little snippets I've posted. You've been more help than you know. Without that support, I don't think this would have ever gotten finished.

A special thanks to @numinousmysteries who kindly beta read for me and did a fantastic job. I wanted to make sure I got this right, and she was a great help!

And now I can't wait to share this with you all! New chapters posted daily!

[Read on AO3]

Chapter 1/34 - ink and paper

How long has he been thinking about this, she wonders. What exactly is he thinking? Her mind races, trying to reconcile this Mulder whose deepest desires are spilled out here in ink on worn and crinkled brochures with the one she’s spent nearly every day with these past several months.

She'd never have guessed...

Find out if adoption is right for you! Visit us at 8080 Meadowlark Ln. Annapolis, MD “A Home for Every Child!”

Scully stares down at the brochure on the desk. One of many, which are half buried underneath a pile of paperwork from their current case. Certain words and phrases are circled in pen, underlined, annotated in the margins in the familiar scrawl she knows almost better than her own.

stability – less travel? change in division? discuss with Scully

loving home – ask Frohike for real estate agent #

The word “family” is circled three times.

She swallows with some difficulty, finding—to her dismay—that her hands are shaking. Mulder will be arriving any second, and here she is, frozen like a statue.

How long has he been thinking about this, she wonders. What exactly is he thinking? Her mind races, trying to reconcile this Mulder whose deepest desires are spilled out here in ink on worn and crinkled brochures with the one she’s spent nearly every day with these past several months.

She’d never have guessed…

“Morning, partner,” his voice calls out, and she jolts in surprise. She hears the door snick shut behind him, but she can’t bring herself to turn around. With deft fingers, she pushes the brochure back under the stack of papers where she found it, only the colorful corner of the page visible.

“Morning, Mulder,” she tries, clearing her throat. It comes out strained, but she hopes he doesn’t notice. She hides her trembling hands in her lap under the desk.

He looks down at her, half amused, half concerned. “You okay? You're not getting that stomach bug that's been going around, are you?”

“I'm fine,” she answers defensively, warning him to back off. She grabs a file off the desk in front of her with a little more force than necessary, plopping it open.

‘Okayyy,’ he mouths exaggeratedly, eyebrows raised. He sits down at his desk and leafs through some papers sitting on top, arranging them into neater stacks. When he uncovers the brochures, his eyes widen and he clears his throat, hurriedly covering them with other papers and trying to act natural.

Scully thinks about letting it go and pretending she doesn’t know what he’s hiding, but she knows she won’t be able to sleep until she finds out what’s been going on in that ridiculous head of his. 

She idly flips to the next page of the file in her hand, displaying a confidence she doesn’t feel in the firm set of her shoulders

“Doing some light reading, Mulder?” she asks, attempting to look disinterested.

His head shoots up, a look of alarm on his face. For a second he thinks she might be talking about something else, that she couldn’t possibly know, but one look at her throws that theory right out the window. He glances back and forth between her and the papers on the desk a few times before dropping his shoulders in defeat.

“I’m sorry, Scully, you weren’t supposed to see those,” he says, shuffling all the brochures into a pile while carefully avoiding eye contact. “I was working here late last night. I must have forgotten to put them away.” As he speaks, he opens the top drawer of his desk and shoves them inside, then takes a seat at his desk. His nose is buried in a file before she can even respond.

She watches him now. He is a curiosity, determinedly feigning concentration on a case she knows he finds disinteresting and a waste of time.

Typical.

“You're really not going to say anything?” she asks, arms crossed in front of her.

That rankles him. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, indignation boiling below the surface.

She looks at him incredulously, the file in front of her all but forgotten.

“You're thinking of adoption? When were you planning to share this with me?”

He sighs and shakes his head, pleading silently with her. “It's too soon, Scully. I didn't think you'd want to hear it yet.”

“But you're looking into it because…”

“It's just been on my mind, that's all.”

She stares at him, brows furrowed.

“Since when?”

Since when… Images flash of a life he didn’t recognize. His sister, alive and grown up. A quiet suburban neighborhood. Cancer Man living just down the street. A wife and kids, but not the right ones. It was wrong, all of it was wrong.

“A hallucinatory trip into an alternate universe tends to make you think,” he answers simply.

He’s looking at her now, deadly serious despite the joking tone. She doesn’t respond. Can’t respond.

“I'm sorry, I didn't want to bring all this up,” he continues. “I know it's a sore spot for you.”

It takes her a moment to conjure words from her mouth, her lips moving but no sound coming out. “I just wasn't expecting…”

“For all I know, this isn't even something you'd want.”

What does she say to that? Is she interested? 

“I– I'm not sure. I've never really considered it before.”

He waits, his eyes assessing her for some hidden meaning, some insight into her state of mind. He gets nothing. She’s totally blank.

“Well… what do you want?” He thought the question was innocuous enough, safer territory than straight up asking her if she wants to adopt, but apparently not.

She shuts her folder, abruptly standing and slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I'm going back to the crime scene,” she declares, changing the subject. “I want to see if there's anything we missed.”

“Scully…” he tries.

“Not now, Mulder.” Without even taking the time to put her coat on, she flees, leaving the door partially open in her rush to get away. Cursing under his breath, Mulder grabs his coat from its hook and hurries after her.

The elevator doors are almost all the way closed by the time he catches up, but in this case, he figures it’s worth the potential loss of a limb. He throws his hand between the closing gap in the metal doors, and it bounces back open to allow him entrance, to the extreme displeasure of one Dana Scully. He wisely stays silent in the elevator, stealing glances at her every few seconds out of the corner of his eye as they ascend. He can feel the frigid air coming off her in waves. It’s been a while since he’s seen her this annoyed with him, this eager to get away.

He won’t let her. Not this time. He’s learned from his mistakes.

In the parking garage, she's walking briskly, heels clicking on the concrete, and he has to pick up the pace to keep up with surprisingly agile little legs.

He didn’t want this confrontation. There was a reason he was keeping his research a secret. This is exactly what he was hoping to avoid, at least until the time was right to carefully drop some hints here and there. But now? There’s no carefully about it. No option to wait and let this blow over. There’s only one way out of this at this point, and unfortunately, that way is through.

He picks up the pace.

“You're the one who brought this up, Scully, I was perfectly happy throwing those brochures in my drawer and not saying a word.” 

His voice echoes in the concrete parking structure, sounding harsh even to his own ears. As frustrated as he is with her, that isn’t his intent. He only wants to know what he can do to help her, how he can help her fulfill her dreams. He lets out a breath, and with it, releases his selfish frustration. She’s still walking away at a breakneck pace, and he doesn’t know how he can get her to stop and face this. 

“If you want to talk about it, let's talk about it,” he says, pleading. “I can't help you if I don't know what you want. You want me to shut up, never mention the subject again?” he shouts, throwing his hands in the air, “Fine, just tell me. What do you want, Scully?”

“I just want to be a mom, okay?” she yells, whirling around to face him. Her words instantly silence him, and he watches stone-faced as tears spring in her eyes. “I see all these other moms out there and think… I could do that too. Why can’t I do that too?”

Well, mission accomplished. The truth is finally out there. Part of him feels bad for pushing her, but the other part knows that it was doing her no good to keep her feelings bottled up inside to deal with by herself. He reaches out a hand, intending to comfort her, his eyes softening in sympathy. 

“You could. Scully, you’d be the best mom.”

She flinches away, stepping out of his reach. “You don’t know that, Mulder. I can’t even—even my body is even telling me no. Over and over.” She resumes her brisk walk to her car, and he thinks he sees her brush angrily at her face, no doubt wiping away the evidence of the stubborn tears that have managed to escape.

He rushes to get in front of her, walking backwards so he can keep her in his sight. 

“When has that ever stopped you?” he asks. “You had cancer, and you kept fighting. You’re alive today because you refused to give up when your body quit on you. What about that?” He stops abruptly, forcing her to come to a halt before she crashes into him.

There’s no way out of this, is there? Her shoulders slump in defeat.

“You saved me, Mulder,” she admits quietly, shaking her head. “You’re the one who didn’t give up. Not me. It was only because you were with me that I survived.”

This time, when she goes to walk away, he stops her, placing a hand on her shoulder. The simple touch causes her to freeze, hardly breathing, and when he steps closer, she stays. His hands slide down her shoulders, holding her securely in place to ensure that his next words come through loud and clear.

“I’m gonna be with you here on this too, I promise.” His thumbs brush back and forth on the fabric of her sleeves, for his comfort or hers, she’s not sure. “You can still be a mother, Scully. I’ll help you.”

She shakes her head, her heart feeling like it has been ripped to shreds. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He gives her a little shake for emphasis. She still won’t look at him. “You’ve kept me alive all these years, how much harder could a baby be?”

That gets a breathy chuckle from her, and her head falls to her chest. Groaning with the agony of this burden on her heart, she stops fighting it and leans into him. Without hesitation, he wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his embrace.

Her hand comes up to find purchase on his suit jacket, relishing in the comfort only he can provide. She’s past caring if anyone sees them like this here. Let them talk. They already do, anyway.

“Well, at least when you wake me up in the middle of the night, you’re not crying,” she speaks into his chest.

She feels him shrug, and can almost see the goofy smile she knows she put on his lips.

“Usually.”

She looks up at him with her chin on his sternum before taking a deep breath and pulling away.

“It's raining,” he says softly, glancing down at her and brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “We can go back to the crime scene later.” She nods, unsure what else to say. She allows herself to be led, his ever-present hand brushing against her back as they start toward the basement.

“Adoption,” Scully mutters to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t know, Mulder. This—this is different than IVF. With that, all I was asking for was your…” her eyes dart around, looking anywhere but at him, “genetic material. This is something entirely different.”

He’s pleased she’s at least considering it, but she doesn’t get it at all, if that’s what she thinks.

“How? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, the process of getting a baby is a little different, but in the long run, the result is the same.”

She pauses, looking at him in confusion. “What– what are you saying?”

He runs a hand awkwardly through his hair, suddenly taking a unique interest in his shoes and the floor of the parking structure.

“Yeah, we probably should have talked about this before…”

“Talked about what?”

He sighs and guides her into a stairwell. It’s stuffy and poorly-lit with a flickering lightbulb, but here, there’s less of a chance they’ll be overheard.

“Look, Scully, I don’t know what you had in mind for my involvement beyond contributing to half the baby’s DNA when you first asked me to help you get pregnant,” he starts, fighting hard to meet her eyes instead of shying away. “But, I– I had hoped it would be a little more than ‘Say hi to Uncle Mulder,’ every couple of months.”

She blinks back at him, speechless.

“I’m sorry if that’s overstepping, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable with all this, I just—” He takes in a breath. “I guess I got to thinking of what it might be like to have a family again.” His bout of honesty is met with a blank stare, and his nervous smile drops. “I completely misread the situation, didn’t I?” he asks, self-loathing waiting on standby. “Got ahead of myself…”

She stops him by catching his coat sleeve. “No—uh. No, you didn’t.” She collects herself, willing herself to offer him some reassurance. Her fingers release the fabric of his coat, shifting her grasp instead to his hand. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

He glances down at where she holds tightly to him, and his lips curl into some semblance of a smile.

“I guess they might have had a point with all those communication seminars we’ve skipped, huh?”

She chuckles softly.

“I don’t think this is exactly what they had in mind…”

With a gentle tug, Mulder leads her down the stairs, committed to holding her hand as long as she’ll let him. The air is stagnant and silent, only the rhythmic echo of their shoes clicking on the concrete steps as they make their way to the bottom floor.

She’s thinking. What she knows now, it changes everything. 

She had asked him to leave. Hid her grief from him as much as possible after her initial lapse into weakness when she came home with the news. She had almost kissed him, then, unsure of what else she had to live for. She knew she was hurting him by folding inward on herself in the weeks that followed, but that didn’t stop her from doing it. She was in a dark place, hardly able to see what was right in front of her. What she couldn’t see was that his hurt wasn’t just for her, born of some misguided sense of guilt or pity. It was his own, too.

“Mulder, all those months, after it failed—” There’s something like fear in her voice as she utters these words, or maybe regret.

“I was just worried about you.”

She squeezes his hand, feeling tears well in her eyes once more. “No, you were grieving like I was, and I didn’t notice. I pushed you away…”

“Dana…” He turns, a couple steps ahead of her, so for once it’s him who has to look up to meet her eyes. Her lip wobbles as she looks down at him, and he brushes his thumb tenderly over her knuckles. “You had to deal with it on your own, I understood that. I don’t blame you for anything.”

Those eyes. So open and honest and sad. She wonders how anyone could hurt him, could bear to break this man’s heart. How could she? 

Choking back a sob, she falls into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding tight. His arms encircle her back, supporting her weight, and she feels herself being lifted as he goes up a step, closing the distance between them.

His hand climbs up to the back of her head, stroking her hair soothingly.

“I just wanted to be there for you,” he mumbles into her neck.

“You were, Mulder,” she gasps between bouts of tears, finding comfort in the feel of his soft hair between her fingers. “You’ve always been there.”

He pulls back, lifting his hands to cup her face and wiping away the tears he finds there with the pads of his thumbs. 

“You don’t have to give an answer now,” he says, reassuring, “This is… a big commitment, I know, and I don’t want you to say yes just because I suggested it. I just wanted you to know it’s an option, and if you want to have a baby, I’m in. However you want to go about it, I’ll be as involved as you want. Just– let me know, anytime. Okay?”

He’s looking at her now, head ducked so those sad, puppy-dog eyes can get his message across.

She nods, holding tight to the wrists that so tenderly cup her face.

“Okay.”

~~~

Lovely tag list ♡: [if you would like to be added or removed, let me know!]

@today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr @agent-troi @angegova @baronessblixen @bby-got-books @calimanc @captainsolocide @cutemothman @danasculls @deathsbestgirl @edierone @enigmaticxbee @figureofdismay @frogsmulder @hippocampouts @invidiosa @monaiargancoconutsoy @mulderscully @oofubad @p34chi @primrose19 @randomfoggytiger @skelavender @skylarksong @slippinmickeys @stephy-gold @teenie-xf @the-redhead-in-a-dress @vincentsleftear @whovianderson

[basiatlu]

I need to go to sleep - I know I’m tired when I start over-annotating my sketches.

[lavenderteacat]

Me like two months ago: yeah I can really only concentrate at one WIP at a time

Me now with WIPs for three different fandoms open at once:

[tomriddleslove]

Pt 4 - Drunk words are sober thoughts.

✩ Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: The one where Pansy organises a dinner party, you’re on the run from Theo, and bad decisions are made. Alternatively: Uncomfortable awkward tension, then smut.

A/N: We aren’t out of the trenches yet. We’ve only dug ourselves deeper with this one.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

Please let me know in the comments if you want to be added to the tag list!

MDNI!

Tags: Smut (duh),Drunk sex, PIV, Hair pulling, praise.

Songs: Love survive - Michael Nau

Star Treatment - Arctic Monkeys

The sun filters through the cracks in the blinds, casting an almost heavenly glow on your bed. The warmth was soothing, and you’d almost call it a very peaceful morning.

That is, of course, if you weren’t woken by Pansy yanking the covers off you, tossing them to the side.

You groan sleepily, rolling over as you try to shield your eyes.

“Oh come on! Merlin, you've been asleep for so long! Everyone else is up! I refuse to let you spend all holiday rotting in bed.” She nags, grabbing your arm as she tries to pull you up. You let your body go limp, the dead weight pulling you back onto the bed as you use your free hand to pull a pillow over your head.

“You know Pansy, have you ever considered my idea of a holiday is sleeping in all day?” You mumble and she tuts, grabbing the pillow from you.

“Nonsense. I’ll kill you if we don't make the most of this.”She admonishes, faffing around you like a mother hen as she walks around your shared room with Theodore (who notably wasn't there, his bed made.) She opens your closet and takes the liberty of choosing you an outfit as she flicks through your clothing, speaking again.

“We're going to celebrate the start of this beautiful Holiday I have so kindly provided us with. We’re making dinner and having a small dinner party. Nice clothes, naturally. Mattheo, Lorenzo and Theodore will be making the starters, and Draco, Blaise and I will be making the main, which means you’re in charge of dessert. Consider it a penalty for waking so late.” Pansy explained as she crouched down to sort through your other clothes.

You grumble, muttering childishly under your breath as you sit up, on the edge of your bed as you come to your senses.

“I'm putting poison in yours.” You half-joke, and she isn't phased as she tosses you a floral white sundress and a handful of jewellery. You dodge the assortment of gold sent towards you and you glare at her.

“There. You’ll have to change for dinner but this is good for now. We’re all downstairs, but I sent some of the boys to fetch the ingredients. Chop chop!” She calls out, as she descends down the stairs.

Pansy. She truly tested your patience.

You manage to drag yourself up from the warm confines of your bed as you head over to the bathroom, going to take a shower. You walk past Theodore's bed as you do so, and you see his copy of Little Women lying on his bedside table. Curiosity tugs at you.

It would be bad to take a peek, right? I mean, he did hand it to you that day in the library. Granted, he took it back right after, but surely that implied you could take a look.

You (rather weakly) justify your decision and pick up the book, thumbing through the pages as your eyes scan over the various annotations and underlined passages Theodore had analysed.

One in certain catches your attention. There, messily underlined, is the quote:

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault.”

Followed by “No. 4” scrawled in Theodore's handwriting. You frown, confusion etched on your face as you try to decipher what the four could possibly mean. You flick through the rest of the book, trying to spot any other instances.

“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.”

No. 7

I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, - couldn't help it, you've been so good to me, - I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer.

No. 5

You couldn't seem to find any rhyme or reason for this labelling. It was simply random parts of the text underlined every now and then with a number next to them, as though some sort of list. Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you're itching to look for more when the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs snaps you out of it. You quickly shut the book, placing it back down as you grab your dress and towel, dashing into the bathroom. You just manage to lock the bathroom door when you hear the door to your room click open, and you let out a small breath of relief. Your mind is working tirelessly, trying to decipher the cryptic annotations as you take a shower.

You finish off and get dressed in the bathroom, taking your time to avoid Theodore. By your luck, when you unlock the bathroom door and peer out the small gap, Theodore is not there, and you let out a small sigh as you step out.

You put on the jewellery Pansy set out for you and slip on some socks, combing through your wet hair as you dry it lightly. Satisfied with how you looked (you did feel rather pretty, in all honesty), you make your way downstairs.

The kitchen is empty, save for Blaise putting the groceries away into the fridge. You grin as you walk over to join him, his eyes flickering over to you as you walk in.

“Morning. You got your rest, didn't you?” He teases and you shoot him a mocking smile, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah yeah, make fun of me all you want.” You sigh as you reach for the second bag, helping him put everything away.

“Where is everyone else?” You ask.

“Pansy and Lorenzo went out to get drinks, and I'm pretty sure the rest found some sort of creek or something so I think they went out for a swim,” Blaise says and you hum, nodding.

Come to think of it, you had completely forgotten about the rather surprising development between Blaise and Pansy. You and Lorenzo had bet on it as well. Deciding to pay Pansy back the favour, you begin probing into their little dilemma.

“So Blaise, tell me. What's going on between you and Pansy?” You ask, and he chokes on the coffee he was sipping as he sets the cup down. You open one of the cupboards, storing away a packet of pasta as he looks at you.

“What do you mean?” He responded, and a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Oh come on, don't act all shy now. This whole flirting thing you have going on.” You say, vaguely motioning in his direction as you put some fruits in the fruit bowl resting on the kitchen island.

“There's nothing. Just friend.” He denies, and you turn to him, resting against the island.

“Sure. Just one thing? You're both stubborn fools. Don't let that prevent anything.” You advise, looking at him. You grab an apple, tossing it into the air before catching it as you walk past Blaise, patting him on the back.

“Right now, out. I need to start prepping the dessert.” You say, and for the first time in your life, you see Blaise ever so slightly red.

He playfully grins as he walks out, and you tie your damp hair up as you look through what the boys bought.

You settle on a classic after taking note of the copious amounts of cream cheese the boys had bought (You were reminded to never ever ask them to go shopping, and you'd be sure to remind Pansy the same.)

A salted caramel cheesecake. You decided to make the biscuit base yourself - it would serve as a good way to pass the time seeing as you had the whole day to yourself.

Before you begin cooking, you wander over to the living room. Your eyes settle on a collection of vinyl records in the corner, and you sift through the sleeves, settling on one that doesn't look immediately terrible.

You carefully place the vinyl onto the turntable, the soft crackle of the needle hitting the record filling the room. The sound of a smooth jazz melody starts playing, creating a cosy atmosphere in the kitchen. As the music envelops the space, you begin gathering the ingredients for the biscuit base.

You preheat the oven and begin making the biscuits, sifting flour into the bowl as you work. It's surprisingly relaxing, the villa is empty and you're left to your own devices, humming along to the music as you bake. Sure, you definitely weren't the cleanest baker. A simple biscuit recipe had left you with a white powder coating over the kitchen, stacks of bowls in the sink and somehow, flour on your clothes as well. You huff, dusting down your dress as you place the haphazardly shapen uncooked biscuits into the oven. It didn't matter whether they looked good or not - you'd be crushing them anyway.

It only takes about 15 minutes before the delicious aroma of vanilla fills the kitchen, You're admittedly pleased at just how good they smell, and you can only hope they taste as good as they smell.

Whilst those finish off, you begin making the actual filling of the cake. You reach for one of the bowls when a certain song begins playing, your ears perking up at the sound.

“This is my conquering song

played on a wave so strong

pulled the broke-down ride for far too long”

You lightly sing along to the lyrics, a small smile tugging on your lips as you do so. You had always imagined this song to be blissfully domestic, something you'd willingly play if you were to cook or bake, so the fact you selected it by chance made you oddly happy.

Sometimes it was the little things that count.

With a little pep in your step, you walk around the kitchen as you gather the ingredients. Liberated by the villa having no other occupants, your movements are freer, a small little (unnecessary) spin or a little break to sing along as you cook.

Now, it had been long established that you really did not have the best awareness of your surroundings. This continued to be the case now because you were sure you would have stopped immediately if you had seen Theodore leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, looking over at you.

Unfortunately for you, you did not notice him.

Theodore leans against the doorway, his eyes fixated on you. They always would be, he couldn't not look at you even if he tried to.

A fond smile is tugging at his lips, watching as you lightly sing along to the song. It's offkey, and your impromptu dance moves incorporated with your haphazard baking skills is laughable, but Theodore can only look at you and feel simultaneously so happy yet also so terrified. Terrified because he acknowledges how such a simple sight can't get that smile off his face, and the fact someone has the capability of doing that to him seems daunting. He was scared because, for a brief second, he imagined walking over and helping you. You'd look up at him with that smile of yours.

God, that smile.

You have that little impish look in your eyes, ready to poke fun at him. He does the same with you. The worst thing is if he hadn't fucked up so royally, you could have been doing that.

Instead, he pushes off the doorway to go and help you. The first part goes as expected, you see him and you yelp, spinning around. He knew your ears would turn red, as they usually did when you got embarrassed. Theodore knew you like that.

He knew you'd look at him akin to a deer caught in headlights because your mind would go blank for a second. Theodore knew you like that.

He also knew you well enough to know that, despite his own hopes of your once confused and mortified face breaking into a wide grin, it would instead fall and you would avert your eyes.

Theodore knew you like that.

He hated it.

“Oh. Hey.” You utter, clearing your throat. You berated yourself for always acting so obviously on edge when Theodore was near. He looks down at you with an indescribable look in his eyes before he speaks.

“Hey. Need help?” He asks, and you look around at the messy kitchen, before shaking your head.

You actually did, but you'd be damned if you had to spend more time with Theodore, alone. You'd either end up dead silent or stammering some embarrassing declaration. You couldn't tell which one would be worse.

“Alright.” He mused, looking down at you. He doesn't make any move to leave though, and you're hyper-aware of the fact that he is very close to you.

His hand comes up, cupping the side of your face gently as his thumb brushes against your cheekbone. His hand is there for a second too long, crossing the boundary of what it should have been. Again, it seemed as though everything you and Theodore did crossed that boundary.

“You had flour on your cheek,” he says, and you nod, drawing away your face. You turn around, praying to the gods above that they'd stop torturing you and make Theodore leave. You keep your back to him as you continue cooking, and he seems to finally leave, making you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You hasten your cooking after that and you're out of the kitchen in no less than 20 minutes with the cheesecake stored in the fridge as you make your way to Pansy’s room. You absolutely would not go back up to yours, as you were sure Theodore was there.

Exactly how long did you plan on running from him?

Hours have passed lazing away on Pansy’s bed, bored out of your mind when she finally returns.

“Finally.” You sassed, sitting up as she raised a brow at you.

“Why are you waiting here?” She asks, and you shrug.

“Can I not miss my friend?” You quip and she eyes you, knowing there must be another reason. She chooses not to probe further, however, joining you on her bed.

“We ought to get ready. I did tell the boys to dress nicely, we’re dignified people.”She chided as she got up, walking over to her closet.

You giggle at her swift change of actions and lean back on her bed, looking over at Pansy.

Her love for micromanaging you often was a negative, but now it could very much be a huge positive.

“Pans… You always know just how to style me right. Can you run up to my room and choose a look for me? I'm hopeless.” You groan, putting your hand on your chin in an exaggerated display of hopelessness. Her eyes light up, as though she was a little kid playing dress up, and she nods.

“Finally, you've come to your senses! I know exactly what I'm getting, wait here.” She gasps, scampering upstairs. You grin, having successfully avoided Theodore once again.

(The answer to the previous question? You'd run from him for a very long time, seemingly.)

Despite her reassurances, Panys arrives a solid half an hour later, a scarlet lace dress clutched in her hands. An impulse buy, the dress was shorter than what you usually wore. It had a fitted bodice but a flowy skirt, though it only reached your upper thigh. The long sleeves that extended down into flowy bell sleeves had to be your favourite feature of it, alongside the bustier style bodice at the front. She grins as she passes over the dress, alongside a pair of black boots.

“Dressed nicely but not too fancy. Plus I've been dying to see you wear this, so up and change.” She demands, pushing you up. You grin lightly at her antics as you take the dress, disappearing into the bathroom to change. You run your hands down your body as you admire yourself in the mirror. A hell of a good impulse buy, the dress looked incredible. The low cut was far out of your comfort zone but boundaries were meant to be pushed, right?

(No, they were not.)

Pansy gasps as you step out, pulling you over as she admires the dress, words of praise leaving her lips.

“You look so good! Oh my god, wear this everywhere.” She gushes, and you smile shyly.

“Thanks, Pans. Really. And you look incredible too, like positively mouthwatering,” You say and she grins, doing a small twirl in her satin black dress. After styling your hair and doing some light makeup, you make your way over to the dining room, which had already been set up beautifully.

The table, adorned with a crisp white tablecloth, is set meticulously with polished silverware, crystal glasses, and porcelain plates. A centrepiece of fresh flowers in varying shades of red and white adds a touch of elegance, their fragrance mingling with the soft glow of candles placed strategically around the room.

Pansy's attention to detail is evident in every aspect of the setup. Delicate linen napkins, folded artfully, rest atop each plate. You begin to feel excited for the evening, walking over to the kitchen as you look for everyone else. Theodore, Lorenzo and Mattheo are all in the kitchen, sorting panicking over the starters as they rush around like headless chickens. You step in and Lorenzo spots you, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“Wow wow wow. Look at who we have here.” Lorenzo says admiringly, calling over the attention of the other two boys. You grin, ironically doing a small little pose to shake away the awkwardness of their gazes on you.

“Stunning!” Mattheo announces, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he ruffles your hair. You groan with disdain as you jab him in the side.

“Ow!” Mattheo complains, letting go as he frowns, rubbing his side.

“The bloody devil, you are.” He mumbles, glaring at you, A small laugh escapes your lips.

You affectionately pat him on the cheek, before turning to Lorenzo.

“What do you need help with?” You ask them, and Lorenzo shakes his head.

“Nothing. You go and rest, we’ll come serve them soon.” He says, and you nod.

You've been avoiding Theodore's gaze the whole time you've been in here, but you stupidly can't resist looking up at him and instantly regret it when he staring at you so intently. His eyes meet yours and he seemingly snaps out of it, swallowing harshly.

You quickly walk back to the dining room.

A solid 4 hours or so later, you're all lounging in the living room, stomachs full with what was a surprisingly good meal. Whilst the starters were good, Blaise, Pansy and Draco had really knocked it out of the park with the main, a mouthwateringly good risotto that you helped yourself twice to. The cheesecake seemed to be a crowd-pleaser though, with Draco having three slices.

With a glass of whiskey loosely held in your hand, you take a sip, leaning back into the couch. Whilst you tried to fit the aesthetic and sip some wine, you couldn't bear the taste and (truthfully) wanted to get drunk tonight.

It was a lazy and subdued atmosphere, and you didn't even notice Pansy, Blaise, Draco and Mattheo all retiring back to their rooms. You yawn as you get up, stumbling slightly (you had drunk quite a bit actually). You sleepily bid goodnight to the remaining two ( as vaguely as possible because god forbid you say Theodore's name) and make your way upstairs (in one piece.)

You walk into your room and kick off your boots, wandering over to your bed as you begin taking off your jewellery. You look up a mere few seconds later when Theodore walks in, seemingly equally as drunk as he looks at you. He shuts the door, yawning as he pulls off his knitted jumper, leaving him with his white t-shirt on. He throws his sweater somewhere to the side as he flops down onto his bed with a sigh, rummaging through his pockets as he produces a lighter. You can't help but openly stare at him as he does so, alcohol freeing you of what little inhibitions you had.

Something about the sight of Theodore laying on his bed, lazily smoking a cigarette with his slightly messy hair and those damn eyes….

You could see his muscles shift every time he brought the cigarette up to his lips, and you didn't realise smoking could be so erotic.

For some awfully stupid reason, really I mean, you had to question your own sanity, you get up, walking over to Theodore. You're alarmingly quiet as you approach him, and don't say a word as you stand there. His eyes flicker up to you, and suddenly you realise:

Alcohol + tension + two rash people

Is not a very good mix.

You reach down, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. Theodore observes you with a small smile, those sinful eyes of his boring into you as you take a drag, before passing the cigarette back to him.

“He was right,” Theodore says after a second, looking up at you, You tilt your head. If you were already slow at making these connections, the alcohol only made it worse.

“Hmm?” You hum.

“Mattheo. You did look stunning today.” Theodore says, voice low.

Instead of doing what you usually did (some awful combination of looking away, panicking or just remaining quiet), a lazy smirk tugs at your lips as you look down at Theodore.

“Yeah?” You question, and you're 100% sure you watch his eyes flicker down to your lips.

Theodore's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and excitement flickering across his face as he absorbs your murmured words.

Tentatively, as though testing the waters, he sits up, back propped up against the headboard as he looks up at you. His hand tugs at the sleeve of your dress, pulling you down, His hand rests on the curve of your hip, massaging light circles, and you go dizzy at the feeling.

You make no effort to move.

Rather, in a bold surge of confidence that quite literally materialised from nowhere, you swing your leg over Theodore's lap, straddling him. His hands immediately find their place on your hips, as though they're meant to be there, and he's looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

You knew this was a bad idea, but the alcohol spoke prettier words than your rationale did.

“You certainly know how to make an impression.” He murmurs his fingers trailing lightly along your thigh. You resist the urge to shudder at his touch, goosebumps erupting on your skin as he touches you. You lean closer, admiring the features of his face as you speak, mere inches away from one another.

“Well, I had someone to impress.” You say. He lets out a small, wry laugh, though he's far too consumed with looking at you.

Close the gap. Do it.

You do.

With a surge of hunger, your hands fist his shirt, pulling him in. His hand cups the back of your head as he meets your lips in a passionate kiss, mouths melding together. He holds you tightly, his grip both possessive and comforting at the same time.

The bulge of his clothed cock presses against your wetness, grinding against you with a desperate need. A small meek escapes your lips and it’s as though Theodore immediately swallows the sound, tongue slipping into your mouth as you continue to make out. It’s simultaneously lazy yet desperate - hungry.

"Fuck," Theodore murmurs against your lips, his voice laced with desire. "You're driving me insane." He mutters, trailing open-mouth kisses down your jaw and neck. You moan, arching your back as you tilt your head back, giving him easier access. He wastes no time in sucking and kissing the delicate skin of your neck, tongue soothing the places he nips at you, your skin blossoming red and purple.

His hand trails down your body, his fingertips tracing along the swell of your breasts. A low groan escapes your lips, hands coming up to thread through his hair. You tug lightly and feel him smile against your neck. With deliberate slowness, he undoes the lace on the back of your dress as he continues to press sloppy kisses to your skin, undoing the top as he tugs it down. He pulls back, eyes hungrily taking in the sight.

He flips you over with alarming ease, pinning you down onto the mattress as he hovers above you, holding your hands down by the side of your head as he begins kissing down your neck to your breasts.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, large hands coming up to cup one of them, the other holding your hands in place. He squeezes one of your nipples, pinching the bud lightly between his fingers as you gasp, arching off the bed. The sound is music to his ears, and he grins, his eyes remaining on you as he leans down and takes the other one into his mouth, tongue running over the sensitive bud as he pulls away, blowing lightly.

The contrast sends you into a haze, and a whimper escapes your lips. Theodore wants to devour the sound, he simply can’t get enough.

“Do you know how fucking long you’ve been on my mind?” He mutters, voice laced with desperation as he leans back down to kiss you, bulge grinding against your clothed cunt in a way that had you desperate for more. You can’t even formulate a response, because you’re all too consumed by Theodore. Everything about him.

He sits up slightly, hands resting on your thigh as he runs his hands up and down, his fingers disappearing under the hem of your dress.

You feel his fingers brush against the damp spot on your panties and swear that Theodore Nott will be the death of you.

Seemingly satisfied, a small smirk tugs at his lips, observing your reactions as he slowly pulls them down. He throws them to the side, and words cannot describe the look on his face as his eyes hungrily rake over you.

You needed him, every bone in your body ached with a visceral need for Theodore. Your hands come down to his belt, tugging at the buckle as you look over at Theodore, eyes glazed over as you were driven mad with your need for him.

He undoes his belt, the sound of the metal buckle clinking as he throws it onto your bed, unzipping his slacks. You can make out the bulge of his erection against his boxers and your heart skips a beat. You’re filled with this primal need to just have Theodore, you need as much of him as physically possible.

You tug his boxers down, freeing his strained erection from its confines. You swallow harshly at the sight of his cock, the tip glistening. You lean up to meet his lips in a kiss, your hands wrapping around his length as you give him a single jerk. You suddenly realise why Theodore was kissing you the way he was because the low groan that escaped Theodore's lips had you mad for more.

“Look at what you’ve done to me.” He murmurs, pushing you back onto the bed. He hiked the skirt of your dress up over your hips, eyes straying down as he spoke.

“You’ve unravelled every thread of control I have.” He says against your lips, teasingly running the head of his cock between your folds. A low moan escapes you, desperately seeking more friction.

“I’m going fucking crazy for you. I ache for you every second of the fucking day.” He mutters, and you pull back from the kiss, looking up at him.

“You have me now.” You respond.

His lips surge forward and meet yours in a kiss with renewed intensity, slowly thrusting into you.

You both let out a collective low groan as he slowly thrusts into you, and you can feel every inch of Theodore within, stretching you out so good you feel as though the simplest movement would split you open. A plethora of gasped curses escape your lips, but Theodore silences them instantly, coming down to kiss you deeply. He buried himself inside you fully, savouring the way you stretched to accommodate him, clenching tightly. He gives you a second to adjust before slowly pulling out. He rocks back in again, his moments slow and measured, but strained as though it’s taking every inch of self-restraint to not ravage you there and then.

“More. Don’t be nice.” You moan, and Theodores swears he won’t ever be the same again. One look at you, hair splayed out against the mattress, your back arched off the bed. It’s a sight he’d never forget.

“Don’t say shit like that. I’m already close to losing it.” He utters, voice strained as his hand grip your hips harshly, surely leaving imprints.

“Good. Ruin me.” You whisper, a fucked-out grin on your face.

Theodore groans, pulling out slightly before slamming back into you. You gasp, cursing as your hands grip Theodore's sheets. He sets a ruthless pace, fucking into you hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, though you’re sure it had to be muffled by the moans leaving your lips. It was only then that you were thankful for having a room all the way on the top floor. You both were too drunk to realise Muffliato did exist.

“God, you’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well. It’s like you were fucking made for my cock” Theodore groans, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. Your hands come up, running along his back as you lean up (to the best of your ability) to meet him in a kiss.

Theodore's forehead presses against yours, breaths mingling as he shifts slightly, before thrusting back into you. You can feel every inch of his cock brush against your walls, and you can’t help the pathetic plethora of moans and whimpers escaping your lips when he brushes against that spot, stoking a fire in your stomach.

“Theodore- Fuck! ‘m gonna…” You babble, and he lazily smirks, slowing down slightly as one hand tangles in your hair, tugging at it lightly. He experimentally plays with it for a second before harshly tugging your hair, eliciting another moan that felt like it came from the depths of your body, the line of pain and pleasure blurred.

“Hmm? You’ll have to speak up.” He hums, teasing you with shallow, slow thrusts.

You let out a whimper at the loss of contact, frustration gnawing at you as you look up at Theodore.

“Fuck, stop being such a tease. Please just..” You whimper, trailing off and he tuts, his grip on your hair tightening slightly as he forces you to look up at him.

“You have to tell me what you want. I don’t speak in half sentences, sweetheart.” He says, voice laced with an almost animalistic pleasure.

You groan, nails digging into Theodore's back as some slight form of retaliation.

“I’m gonna cum- please.” You say, breathlessly, and a small smirk tugs at his lips, his hand loosening its vice-like grip from your hair as it trails down the side of your face, his thumb running along your bottom lip.

“Good girl. Since you asked so nicely,” He muses, no longer teasing you with shallow thrusts as he wastes no time slamming back into you, cock brushing against your cervix. You moan, eyes rolling back as the heat in your stomach rises rapidly; the sensation of Theodore fucking into you was pure perfection.

“Theo…” You moan, breathlessly. He responds to you moaning his name with a harsh snap of his hips, nails digging into your hips as he grabs them tightly.

“Say it again.” He grunts, his thumb coming down to rub harsh circles against your neglected clit, sending a surge of electricity through you.

“Mmm- Ah, Fuck- Theo-“ You moan, and you’re sure you would have done it without him even asking.

“You close? Gonna cum on my cock?” He groans, and you’re sure you’ve become mush because you can’t respond, can’t think, your mind and body reduced down to one simple thing.

Theodore. Theodore, Theodore, Theodore.

You teeter impossibly close to your climax, nails scratching down his back. The sheer ecstasy was too much, and you felt like you couldn’t handle it but also like you needed more and more.

His eyes take over you, as if even though you're both inebriated, he tried to commit every little detail to memory, the way you moaned, mascara streaked around those eyes of yours.

His thrusts grow more intense, fingers working their magic against your clit as he brings you to your release. His relentless thrusts push you close to the edge over and over again,, eliciting a strangled moan from your lips as you feel his thrusts become sloppier, indicating that he was close. With what little strength you have left you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as his lips descend down onto you, ravishing you with messy kisses. It takes one last thrust for you to be sent hurtling over the edge, a cry of pleasure escaping your lips as your orgasm crashes through your body with frightening force. Your walls clench around Theodore's cock, eliciting a low groan from him as he chases his own release, eyes never leaving yours.

It’s positively sinful, but he’s sure he’s never seen a prettier sight.

“Fuck-“ He grunts, his movements becoming erratic as you feel him twitch inside you. your legs don’t give in, though you’re surprised you have the strength as the rest of your body convulses with the sheer intensity of your orgasm.

“So fucking perfect.” He gasps, and with one final thrust, he stalls, burying himself deep inside you as he groans, hands momentarily tightening their grip on your hips before relaxing slightly. He utters your name with reverence like a sinful prayer, coming down to press lazy kisses to your lips as he releases deep inside you.

You reciprocate the kisses, and embarrassingly whimper at the loss of contact as Theodore pulls out of you, collapsing down next to you. You’re both breathless, panting as you come down from a high you've never experienced before. The post-orgasmic haze lingers over you, making you feel impossibly sleepy. Your eyes flicker over to Theodore and it’s evident that he feels the same. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the red spattering along his neck, not realising when you had done that.

In any other situation, you both wouldn’t have done this in the first place. But the effects of the alcohol had you both giving into temptation, and you didn’t fully comprehend just how badly you both had fucked up.

You roll over, pressing a teasing kiss to the hollow of his throat as he tugs the blankets over the two of you, an arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into him. He rests his face in the crook between your neck and your shoulder, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder with an arm wrapped around your waist. You let out a small sigh of contentment, wrapping an arm around him as his hand massages your back and side lightly, the tender feeling sending you further into that sleepy state. The sheets smell of Theodore, and you find yourself (as you often did) consumed by him.

You and Theodore both fall asleep in each other's arms, holding onto one another as the night passes by.

You had fucked up, truly.

If only you knew the consequences your actions would bring in the morning.

You couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, for it was a known saying that drunk words are sober thoughts.

The same undeniably applied to actions too.

@llpovi @camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8

[spiriteddreams]

thinking about sassy and teasing boxer!wrio... f!reader, slightly cheesy flirting (as you can imagine)

thinking about boxer!wrio, a frequent at the gym that your father, former lawyer neuvillette, owns. you decide to spend some more time with your father to help run the gym when you meet wriothesely, the sassy, uncrowned champion of the boxing ring.

initially he takes no care that you’re around, he figures you’re just someone neuvillette ended up hiring to help out around the place part time. you’re interesting, he’ll give you that, with the way you walk around far too comfortably as if you know the place like the back of your hand. and you talk to neuvillette with such familiarity, dare he say informality, that he can’t help but wonder who you are. and the moment he discovers that you’re his neuvillette’s daughter, suddenly he’s even more intrigued. and he can’t help but start talking to you more, about school and work and everything in between. he tries to get you to call him “your grace,” the nickname he’s garnered after climbing up the ranks but each time, you roll your eyes and tell him off. it only spurs him further.

but conversation continues with each time you meet and he tells you about what he’s what to outside of the ring, while slowly taking note of all the little things you say and your mannerisms when you’re grinning up at him from behind the front desk or when you’re watching him and some of the others train in the ring. and after awhile, he can’t help but start to like you, not just because you’re pretty, but also because you don’t take his shit. and even when you do, you throw it back right in his face. 

“take your words to the ring, i have no intention of humoring you, wriothesley,” you sigh behind the front desk computer, which hides an open notebook full of notes and annotations. he loves the way his name sounds from your lips, drawing out each syllable as if trying to taste it. you say his name with exasperation and slight annoyance, but he can still catch that hint of amusement in your tone.

his flirty approaches might have initially been met with a flustered look on your face, but not you don’t even bat an eye at his sly comments. neuvillette however, shoots wrio a glare everytime he starts to say something he thinks could be flirtatious.

boxer!wrio, who comes in one early morning to help bring in some new equipment for the gym. and you’re sitting with your father at the front, drinking water and chatting when wrio walks in, shirtless, muscles on full display, sweaty and oh so gorgeous and you can’t help but choke on your drink, so clearly staring at the view.

“put on a shirt young man!” neuvilette’s thundering voice echoes throughout the room.

and much to his dismay, wrio is feeling particularly dangerous that day and says, “but i think she’s quite enjoying the view.” you feel your face warm as your father glares at you before turning back to give wrio a piece of his mind, already telling him off as he follows the boxer towards the back room where he can place down the boxes and then be chewed out by your father. but wrio thinks it’ll all be worth it because your expression was priceless. 

he's used to people ogling him when he's training or fighting in the ring, whether or not he has a shirt on. but he can't help but sneak a look whenever you're around, trying to catch your wandering eyes to see if you're eyeing him too. and when he does catch you, he straightens up, tilts his head and throws you an arrogant smile.

"see something you like, princess?" he calls out boldly. other customers either look away or chuckle at the now familiar sight and sound of wrio's teasing. the times when neuvillette is there, he snaps at the boxer sharply then turns to you, eyes twitching with annoyance as he tells you to get back to work. you know he means well, and you know wrio only does it to rile up your father. and to flirt, you suppose.

boxer!wrio, who, one afternoon on his way out, makes sure to stop by the front desk to linger around you. it just so happens that you’re getting ready to leave for the day. fresh from a rinse with hair dripping wet and wolfish grin plastered across his face, wrio leans over the front desk, cocky as ever and asks if you’d like to grab a bite with him. he catches sight of the way your eyes narrow and quickly flicker over to where your father stands on the other side of the gym, working with another customer. for a second he thinks you might bail, but much to his delight your shoulders loosen and you smile at him and say, “where are we off to, your grace?”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 a/n: i have SO many more boxer!wrio thoughts to share hehe

[honestlyvan]

ALAN WAKE 2 ANNOTATED: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT WEIRD FINNISH GUY SAYING

(This post is also available on Dreamwidth)

Preamble: What is this?

There’s a lot of Finnish shit in Alan Wake 2. I speak Finnish. I’m really annoyed about how wrong about some of the things that are in Finnish in the game people actually are. @drdarling is an Ahti fan. We’re mutually annoyed about how wrong about Ahti people are, because in general the trend is people thinking Ahti is spooky and mysterious because they don’t know what he’s saying, rather than thinking he’s spooky and mysterious because of the things he’s saying.

So Autumn went through the entire game, transcribing Ahti’s dialogue, and I went through the transcript, translating everything untranslated in the game, and providing cultural context for the rest of it (with some saves from @saikkunen, @rhpurasu-blog, and my mum), because truly this dude is not nearly as cryptic as people make him out to be, and is actually twice as weird as people think he is as a result.

Disclaimer: Finnish is very regional, and even with people from all over pitching in, some of the shit Ahti says might still be idioms we’re not familiar with. If you’re a Finnish person reading this going “HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS”, trust me that I had many moments like that while putting this together, and please leave a comment so I can add your insight :D

This post is going to go through all of Initiation, followed by all of Return. There's unmarked spoilers past the cut -- enter at your own risk.

INITIATION 1: LATE NIGHT

First meeting with Ahti as Alan:

Ah, (no niin) there you are, Tom. Not so much evil that not a bit of good as well. Not one without the other. Good to see you.

“No niin” -- utterance, roughly the same as “alright” or “now then”. “No” is a common filler word like “well.”

“Not so much evil that not a bit of good as well.” – “ei niin paljon pahaa ettei jotain hyvääkin”, a common Finnish turn of phrase. Broadly has the same meaning as “silver linings.”

Alan asks Ahti to point him towards the exit:

(No totta helvetissä.) Of course, Tom. The work will instruct its maker. I was gonna get something from the basement for you, but you can get it yourself now. The more cooks the worse the soup.

“No totta helvetissä” – “(in Hell), of course”, a variation on the phrase “totta kai”, meaning “certainly” or “of course”

“The work will instructs its maker” – “työ tekijäänsä opettaa”, common proverb. “You learn things by doing them.”

“The more cooks the worse the soup” – “mitä useampi kokki, sitä huonompi soppa”, common proverb, same as “too many cooks spoils the broth”

Alan asks Ahti what Ahti wants him to get from the basement and clarifies that his name is Alan, not Tom:

(No joo, mutta katopa kun) a man’s a man but a man with a tool makes two, Tom. (Eikö niin?) And a man with a tool can build his own exit. It’s in a shoebox in the basement where you left it. Safe as in the Lord’s purse. Here’s the key.

“No joo, mutta katopa kun” – “see, here’s the thing (with that) is”

“a man’s a man but a man with a tool makes two” – this may be an obscure saying, my whole gaggle of Finnish friends were equally stumped by it. Entirely possible it’s just those little shits from Espoo fucking with us, entirely possible that it’s a variation on a saying that we’re just not picking up on.

“Eikö niin?” – “isn’t it so?”/”Right?” a filler phrase. (It is very common for people to say this right after saying something that makes no fucking sense.)

“Safe as in the Lord’s purse.” – idiomatic, comes from the Bible (1 Samuel 25:29)

Alan asks Ahti if they have met before:

You remember Ahti. The janitor. You can’t be lost if you don’t worry about where you are headed. So don’t worry Tom, the sun will shine even into a heap of twigs. Just remember to turn on the lights. It won’t take long when you get to work.

“You remember Ahti. The janitor.” – the intonation of this line implies to me that in Finnish he’d be using emphatic -han/-hän for it

“You can’t be lost if you don’t worry about where you are headed.” – may be an obscure saying, none of us recognised it.

“the sun will shine even into a heap of twigs” – “paistaa se päivä risukasaankin”, everyone has their little successes, “every dog has its day”

“It won’t take long when you get to work” – “ei mene kauaa kunhan pääsee alkuun”, “as long as you get started it won’t take long (for the matter to resolve)”

Alan asks Ahti if he knows a way to escape The Dark Place:

He who moans about his troubles, is the prisoner of his troubles. It’s not easy to get out. But don’t you worry, Tom, the home is still there, where the heart is. I often think about it when I mop the floor and look into the puddle. Water is the memory of the world. Water finds its way.

“He who moans about his troubles, is the prisoner of his troubles.“ – “Joka murheistaan valittaa, on murheidensa vanki”, common proverb. Finnish people love telling other people to stop complaining.

INITIATION 4: WE SING

After the musical sequence, when you walk past Ahti in the studio:

My Swedish brothers, (perkele). (Ai että nyt on kyllä joo). (Lattoi pojat jenkkakoneet soimaan, saatana).

“Perkele” – “(by) the Devil”, one of the most common Finnish swear words.

“Ai että nyt on kyllä joo” – Untranslatable, can be approximated as “now we’re talking”, “that’s more like it”, or “a hell of a thing”. I love this phrase because it means fuck-all even in Finnish, and conveys a sense of deep appreciation regardless.

“Lattoi pojat jenkkakoneet soimaan, saatana” – literally “Those boys really made the jenkka machine ring, (by) Satan.” “Jenkkakone” refers to the band, playing a song for people to dance “jenkka”, a fast-paced folk dance to. (Addition from @sluiba: jenkkakone is a colloquial term for a jukebox, nowadays more commonly used to refer to audio equipment more broadly e.g. speakers; so he's basically saying, "those boys really turned it up to eleven".)

INITIATION 7: MASKS

When Alan runs into the janitor’s closet:

Hurry, Tom! Here is the light at the end of the tunnel. (Jumalauta), that held you close, Tom. (Ei muuta kun) onwards, said the granny in the snow. When the panic is biggest, the help is also near.

“Jumalauta” – “god help us/you”, a common swear word

“that held you close” – “otti läheltä”, meaning about the same as “a close call”. A more literal translation would be “that took close”.

“Ei muuta kun” – “nothing else to do about it, but”

“onwards, said the granny in the snow.” – “eteenpäin, sanoi mummo lumessa”, a common turn of phrase, an motivational expression of perseverance and sisu

“When the panic is biggest, the help is also near” – “kun hätä on suurin, on apukin lähellä”, a common turn of phrase, broadly means the same thing as “there is light at the end of the tunnel”, can be thought of as a more optimistic companion to “things will get worse before they get better”

(I like this block of dialogue a lot because it demonstrates that a lot of Ahti’s Finnish is just filler words and a tonal component to what he is actually saying.)

Alan mentions that Door didn’t seem happy to see him this time:

Fearing the master is the root of wisdom. But don’t let the game get you down. He is playing his role. Maybe put him in your films, Tom, like you have put me. (Perkele! Sehän olisikin).

“Fearing the master is the root of wisdom.” – “herran pelko on viisauden alku”, the fear of the lord (or rather, The Lord) is the beginning of wisdom. It’s an interesting choice to omit the reference to the Christian god, because it’s preserved in other phrases.

“Perkele! Sehän olisikin” – “(by) the Devil! Wouldn’t that be something.”

Alan asks what films Ahti is talking about:

I’m a fan of your masterworks. There is “Tom the Poet”, my favorite. And “Yötön Yö” is the most famous one, of course. And is it true what I hear, that it’s coming back to cinemas soon? Is there a bottom to this rumor?

“Is there a bottom to this rumor?” – “olla pohjaa”, to have a bottom, means “to have a factual basis”.

Alan says he needs to get back to his apartment, asks if Ahti can help:

Well-planned is half-done. You asked me to make sure you won’t forget the… (mikä se valokuva oli) light pictures, the photos that your artist wife took. They are waiting in the shoebox in the basement. What you leave behind, you find in front of you.

“Well-planned is half-done” – “hyvin suunniteltu on puoliksi tehty”, a common turn of phrase. What it says on the tin.

“mikä se valokuva oli” – “what was the word for ‘valokuva’ again”, a relatable bilingual moment. The Finnish word for photograph is literally just a compound word that directly translates to “light picture”.

“What you leave behind, you find in front of you.” – “minkä taakseen jättää, sen edestään löytää”, what goes around comes around.

He also has incidental dialogue, if you hang around after the conversation

I am looking forward to seeing “Yötön Yö” in the cinema, but first I work. And the work won’t end even when you do it (perkele). (No ei siinä), one potato at a time. Just remember, Tom - the brave will eat the pea soup.

“No ei siinä” – “well, nothing else to it”

“the work won’t end even when you do it” – “ei työ tekemällä lopu”, common proverb, warning against rushing and working too hard (because you won’t run out of work through hard work)

“one potato at a time” – “yksi peruna kerrallaan”. This one is so funny to me because he could have just said “one thing at a time”, since that phrase translates literally, and instead he says this just so sound slightly more Finnish.

“the brave will eat the pea soup” – “rohkea rokan syö”, a common proverb, used the same way as “fortune favours the bold”

RETURN 5: OLD GODS

At Valhalla Nursing Home, after Rose tells Ahti that he doesn’t need to clean, this is his home, and threatens to take his mop away even though she knows he would just find it again:

(Kyllä, kyllä mutta) once after being told no. Why rest, when you are born to work. (Eikö niin?)

“Kyllä, kyllä mutta” – “yeah, yeah, but”, exactly as “yeah yeah whatever” as you’d think it is.

“once after being told no.” – “kerta kiellon päälle”, a common idiom, to do something one last time before stopping for good. “One for the road”

“Why rest, when you are born to work” – possibly an obscure saying, the version I grew up with is “why rest when you are born to work hard (like a farmhand)”.

Rose tells Ahti to go pick a song from the jukebox, as a treat:

Yes box, holiday. Just thinking about it makes my dance foot waggle. (Kyllä näin on).

“Yes box, holiday” – This is a reference to Pirkka-Pekka Petelius, a Finnish sketch comedian from the Eighties. “Jees” is a loanword from the English “yes”, meaning “good, decent, alright”. The original append was far more vulgar, translating more properly to “yes box, dick face”

“makes my dance foot waggle” – “tanssijalka vipattamaan”, a common turn of phrase, means “makes you want to dance/makes you start dancing” depending on the context.

“Kyllä näin on.” – “That’s the way it is”, common filler phrase.

Saga introduces herself:

(No eipä siinä). Name won’t make the man worse, even a Swedish name. I’m Ahti.

“No eipä siinä” – filler phrase, same as “No ei siinä”

“Name won’t make the man worse” – “ei nimi miestä pahenna”, a common proverb, similar in meaning as “don’t judge a book by its cover”

Saga asks if there’s anything good on the jukebox:

We try to do good, but only prime comes out. Music from my Swedish brothers, Old Gods of Asgard. My pals, the (perkeleen) vikings, (perkele).

“We try to do good, but only prime comes out.” – “Hyvää koitetaan tehä mut priimaa tuloo”. This is a very specifically Bothnian turn of phrase, he’s just bragging about the Old Gods making good music.

“(perkeleen) vikings” – “Perkele” being used as an adjective for emphasis.

Saga asks where to find the Andersons:

You can never know where. Only a seaman can know that, but even the seaman can’t know everything.

“Only a seaman can know that” – this is also an honest to god pop culture reference, to a song called “Vain merimies voi tietää” (“Only the sailor knows”) by Tapio Rautavaara.

Saga asks if Ahti was in the band:

(Minäkö?) No no. (Perkele, saatana, en ollu en). Not so much sweet that it fills the whole stomach. But we have shared a stage or two.

“Minäkö? Perkele, saatana, en ollu en.” – “Me? (Perkele, saatana), absolutely not.” “Me” in the interrogative has a slightly dismissive/diminutive vibe in Finnish.

“Not so much sweet that it fills the whole stomach.” – “ei makiaa mahan täydeltä”, a classic turn of phrase about not overindulging.

Ahti’s incidental dialogue, hanging out by the jukebox as Saga:

Rain is coming down like from the ass of Esteri. (Vaikka vettähän ne kyllä lupasikin, että…)

“Rain is coming down like from the ass of Esteri” – “vettä tulee kuin Esterin perseestä”, same as “raining cats and dogs”

“Vaikka vettähän ne kyllä lupasikin, että…” – “Although (they, the weather forecast) did promise it would rain, so…”

Rushing is not good for you and hurry is not an honor. (Lietkö olet tämmöistä kuullut.)

“Rushing is not good for you and hurry is not an honor” – “ei ole hoppu hyväksi eikä kiire kunniaksi”, a very common idiom. What it says on the tin.

“Lietkö olet tämmöistä kuullut” – “I wonder if you’ve heard (of) such a thing”, he’s just making fun of Saga for being “hasty.”

(Joo näinhän se menee, että…) the lazy man gets sweaty when he eats and gets chilly when he works. (Se oli kyllä hyvin sanottu.) The song revives the soul.

“Joo näinhän se menee, että” – a filler phrase, similar meaning as saying “as they say”.

“the lazy man gets sweaty when he eats and gets chilly when he works” – “hiki laiskan syödessä, vilu työtä tehdessä”, a common proverb excoriating people for laziness.

“Se oli kyllä hyvin sanottu” – “That was well said”. This whole exchange comes across as Ahti trying to impart some words of wisdom to Saga.

After the power goes out, Ahti has dialogue upstairs:

No use crying in the dark place. What has been, has gone. But trouble doesn’t look like this! You can go to the basement and check the generator. But look out - you can never know in which tree the devil sits.

“No use crying in the dark place.” – This is most likely a deliberate play on words from Ahti. The relevant Finnish proverb is “ei auta itku markkinoilla” (there’s no use crying at the marketplace) which means it’s pointless to waste time feeling sorry for yourself.

“What has been, has gone.” – “ollutta ja mennyttä”, usually this phrase is used the same way as “water under the bridge”

“But trouble doesn’t look like this!” – “ei hätä ole tämän näköinen”, common turn of phrase communicating that the situation is not as bad as it seems.

“you can never know in which tree the devil sits.” – “ei sitä koskaan tiedä missä puussa piru istuu”, common proverb. The word used for devil, “piru”, refers to a folk devil or an evil spirit rather than a capital-letter Devil the way “Saatana” and “Perkele” do.

Ahti jumpscare at the Spiral door:

Getting in is forbidden, for your own safety. Time is long for those who wait. But in the end, stand the thanks.

“Time is long for those who wait” – “odottavan aika on pitkä”, common turn of phrase. Same meaning as “time is slow for those who wait”.

“in the end, stand the thanks.” – “lopussa kiitos seisoo”, common turn of phrase. Similar meaning as “good things come to those who wait.” The word for “thanks” can also be used to mean “reward”.

Saga asks Ahti is he knows anything about the Cult of the Tree:

Yes, yes! He who reaches for a spruce tree will stumble into a juniper. Blum was one of them. He has kicked empty. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. But I like his shoes.

“He who reaches for a spruce tree will stumble into a juniper.” – “joka kuuseen kurkottaa se katajaan kapsahtaa”, a common proverb about (edited by suggestion from Sluiba again) the dangers of excessive ambition and greed.

“He has kicked empty.” – “potkaissut tyhjää”, common idiom, "kicked the bucket"

Saga asks Ahti how he knows Blum was in the Cult:

A fox never runs out of tricks. Tease a crazy man and he will show his ways. Blum liked to talk.

“A fox never runs out of tricks “ – “ei ketulta keinot lopu”, proverb. Foxes are traditionally tricksters in Finnish folklore.

“Tease a crazy man and he will show his ways “ – “härnää hullua, saat tapansa tietää”, proverb. In essence, “fuck around and find out.”

Saga asks Ahti if he knows where Anger’s Remorse is, after finding the empty record sleeve:

The matter is not my business, (mutta niin, sanotaanko vaikka, että) but she who steals a needle, steals a nail. Wonders of the modern world - music captured on vinyl, on tape. What will they come up with next? (Mitähän ne vielä keksii) I’m a man of the old union.

“mutta niin, sanotaanko vaikka, että” – “but, yeah, let’s just say”

“but she who steals a needle, steals a nail.” – “Joka varastaa neulan, varastaa naulan”, an old proverb. I’d like to note that Finnish does not have gendered pronouns, so Ahti is deliberately giving a hint here. (Addition from @sluiba: "[the proverb] suggests that someone unscrupulous enough to steal small things will likely also steal something bigger.")

“Mitähän ne vielä keksii” – “what (else) are they going to come up with”

“I’m a man of the old union.” – “Vanhan liiton mies”, a biblical reference to the covenant in the Old Testament. He’s basically calling himself older than Christ. The phrase itself is used to mean "old-fashioned" in a positive sense.

Weird idle dialogue in Ahti’s room after this:

There are pieces of george on the floor everywhere. The black stuff. Shitty thing. Very bad. I need to clean it all away. (Perkele, kun sotketaan joka paikka)!

“pieces of george” – very sneaky, he’s saying it look like someone threw up (yrjötä, the name “Yrjö” being a Finnish form of George) on the floor.

“Perkele, kun sotketaan joka paikka” – “(Perkele), what a mess they’ve made of everything!”

(Kulkaapa nyt, mikä…) (Mitäs, mikä paikka tämä on?) (Voi helvetti soikoon). Where am I? (Tämä ei ole minun koti). This is not my home. (Minä haluan…) I want to go home now. What is this place? (Ei saatana. Ei saatana!) How did I get here? I’m lost… lost at sea. No lighthouse anywhere, and a storm is coming. (Voi jumalauta).

“Kulkaapa nyt, mikä… Mitäs, mikä paikka tämä on?” – “listen here, what… Where, what is this place?”

“Voi helvetti soikoon” – cursing, literally translates to “oh, how Hell rings (like a bell)”

“Tämä ei ole minun koti. Minä haluan…” – “This is not my home. I want…”

RETURN 8: DEERFEST

Alan goes to the Spiral Door in the Dark Place and sees Ahti there:

We loop around, and come together, Tom. I have put everything ready for the visitors. I’ll come to wash the floor of your room next. All you need is water and Vileda. Water is the oldest balm. Water finds its way. What water brings, it takes away. It can be clean or dirty, it can give life or drown it.

“We loop around, and come together” – “ympäri käydään, yhteen tullaan”, a common turn of phrase. “What goes around comes around.”

“All you need is water and Vileda.” – Vileda is a popular cleaning supplies brand. He’s quoting an advertisement.

“Water is the oldest balm.” – “vesi vanhin voitehista”, from Kalevala. What it says on the tin.

Alan asks if Ahti can help him find his way one last time:

Now there’s a devil in the fish trap. Don’t be spooked by it so that shit won’t start beating your underpants. Okay, I’ll get the door open for you, Tom. There you go. The matter is a steak. Now comes the end of the rhyme.”

“there’s a devil in the fish trap” – “olla piru merrassa”, an idiom. It means that there’s unfortunate consequences for something you did, similar to “a devil to pay”

“Don’t be spooked by it so that shit won’t start beating your underpants” – “älä säiky ettei lyö paskat housuihin”, would be more properly translated as “so that shit doesn’t drop hard into your pants”. Means the same thing as it does in English.

“The matter is a steak.” – “asia on pihvi”, idiom meaning that something has been exhaustively dealt with, the way you make steak out of a cow.

“Now comes the end of the rhyme” – “tuli lorun loppu”, idiom with a similar meaning and implication as “end of the line”, the expected end of the current circumstances.

And that’s a wrap! If there’s interest, and if I can get an assist from Autumn again, I might go back to Control and do the same thing for Ahti there. The point is to do justice to our collective weird uncle from the Remedy Connected Universe. Hope you had fun and learned something new :D

[kiaxet]

So it turns out the latest update in @somerandomdudelmao‘s apocalypse comic has been living in my head, and when that happens I need to get it out, so ~900 words of sad it is!

~~~~~~~~

Donnie is good at birthdays. He has been once he was old enough to understand the concept. It's a point of pride.

Specifically, he's good at presents. According to his data, most people who fail at presents do so because of the guesswork they seem to think needs to be involved. He's never understood the point of that. Data and hypotheses, certainly, but why guess when a definitive answer is available after a simple direct inquiry?

"What do you want for your birthday?"

Early on, the presents are easy. Art supplies. Comics. Stuffed animals. Things he could hand to Papa in an easily followed list format, or obtain for himself once they all got old enough to start safely leaving the lair and venturing into the city above. It's simple and straightforward and so, so easy to get right.

(Of course, he always has an annotated list of his own desired gifts to provide to his brothers; if he's solved the guesswork issue, he may as well make things easy for them too. Plus, that method ensures he gets what he wants.)

Things start getting a little more complicated as he and his brothers get older. Art supplies and comics and stuffed animals are still very much appreciated, and he's documented his brothers' tastes well enough to know exactly what they like, but the answers to his simple direct inquiry are different.

"Dee, can you help me plan this mural out? I think I have enough space, but I could use a hand with the measurements."

"Donton, my half of the day is gonna be a Jupiter Jim marathon, and I need you there. Without your laptop." A beat. "But you can pick one of the movies if you want."

"Hey Donnie, you think you can help me out fixing up the gym? Things just stay put longer if you weld 'em."

After a few years of documentation, Donnie spots the pattern. His brothers appreciate physical gifts from him, certainly, but that's not what they want anymore. What Donnie's family wants from him is time - time outside the lab where he spends a good amount of his days, time spent in conversation or shared activity or simply in the same room. It's not as easy as finding the right physical gift, but if that's what they want, then he's more than happy to provide. Now that he's discerned the pattern, it's just as easy to give his brothers what they want, and Donnie can continue to maintain that he is Good At Birthdays as a point of pride.

~~~~~~~~

The Hamatos don't do birthdays anymore. There's no time in the apocalypse, no supplies, and Donnie is one of the few who actually keeps track of the calendar date. The apocalypse certainly has its share of anniversaries, a list that only grows the more people they lose, but birthdays are no longer celebrated.

With one exception.

Casey Jones Junior, their collective adopted kid, is young enough that birthdays still matter - should still matter. They do their best to keep him safe and keep those days calm and happy for him, despite everything happening around them, and while they don't always succeed, they at least try.

And damn it all, Donatello is still good at birthdays.

"Casey Junior!" He greets the kid with a grin, leaning on his bo like it's not both an inconvenience and a humiliation to need to rely on it in order to stay upright.

"Uncle Tello?"

"Since I'm not very good at guessing, I'll ask straight out." This is not entirely true - he has a list of potential gifts for Casey drafted, with 98% certainty that whatever Casey asks for will align with one of them - but he requires that confirmation to move forward. A certainty in a world where certainty is in short supply. "What do you want for your birthday?"

"My...ah." Casey's expression falls and he looks away, gaze fixed on the paperwork in his hands. Donatello says nothing, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room in order to give Casey space. "You...can do anything," Casey starts.

"Pretty much, yes." Material issues aside - spirits know he'd have a cure for whatever the Krang had infected him with if those weren't a concern.

"I want you to stay alive," Casey says, and Donnie's smile freezes in place as Casey looks back up at him. "Can you do that?"

Damn that two percent uncertainty.

"Ah. Of course." He shrugs, as though he doesn't know exactly what Casey is asking for, and pulls up a holographic display of a calendar. "According to my calculations, I will be alive next month, which means I'll be here for your birthday." Not talking about it won't solve the problem, but it may salvage this conversation. "So! What's an actual gift you want?"

"I want you to be here." Casey's gaze finds a point on the floor, and Donnie falls silent. "Not just for a month."

No. No, he needs something concrete - something he can act on - he knows how long his list of responsibilities is, but he still feels stymied, rushing up on the end, and he needs something he can do- "But it's not a gift," he replies, a last-ditch effort he's fairly certain is bound for failure-

"No. No, it is."

As always, all Donnie's family wants from him is time.

And now, at the end of his rapidly-shortening life, it's the one thing he can no longer give them.

[kenyukisser]

so right, what's wrong?

Being NAGI SEISHIRO’s best friend wasn’t easy, he’s not the best with his emotions, and an absolute asshole to be paired with in group projects, but if you asked him, he’d try to find the right words to tell you all the stars in the universe were smiling in his direction when he’s with you.

You know Nagi like how you know the back of your hand, you don’t. tracing the veins in your hands, sometimes, it’s there. Sometimes, it’s not. Nagi who wasn’t made for loving, or the warmth of having a real friend to lean on. He’s not used to it, not used to you.

Yet, the way the dark shade of blue reflected on your skin, the way your skin brushes through his, as you try to make him look at the water-dwelling plants, and the various kinds of fishes on the aquarium. He thinks it’s boring, and a hassle to even spare the fishes some sort of glance, but seeing you with the biggest smile plastered on your face? It made his dull world brighten.

No. He doesn’t want to let go of you now. Not now, not ever.

“Sei? Are you okay? You’re spacing out.” You snap your fingers, causing him to retort back to reality.

“Huh?” his half-lidded eyes widened slightly at the distortion, before he spoke again. “yeah ‘m fine, was just thinking.”

“About?” You ask, voice laced with curiosity as you looked at him as his mind wanders off, thinking of what to say next.

“nun” he shrugs, placing his hands on the pockets of his hoodie, it’s as white as snow, just like his hair. For someone like him, it’s impressive how clean it is.

“Nun?”

“Nun of your business.”

“Sei!” The way the crinkles underneath your eyes disappeared, as your smile turns into a small pout. He saw it all. The pang of guilt in his chest that he covered up, he was feeling it. and if he had it in him. He’d stay with you till the end of time.

And can you remember when?

When the hot air of summer breezes through your hair, the hot sun shining down on your pretty face as Reo splashes you with the salty water of the beach. While he stayed underneath the shade of the parasol, his usual excuse was ‘it’s such a pain’ but maybe, just maybe... He loved seeing you smile, even if it wasn’t him who made you smile. He watched you keenly, the way the tips of your hair got wet. You’ve always wanted to see the sun shining so brightly, but to him, you were his sun, shining so brightly.

And he didn’t understand it, why he felt like this, and why it had to be you. But he knew it had to be you. Reo has had his fair share of dating women, which affected his perspective of love too, the type of love he’d think would be a hassle, a responsibility, and newsflash: That’s a really big word for him.

Likewise, he was amazing, but there were times where…

Where the rain would be pouring, and he’d come over with nothing but his phone in hand, while you’d open the door, greeted by his 6-foot figure, too frustrated about your shared project that was due tomorrow, the way you’d ramble about how the two of you forgot to do it, sharing small laughs as you wrote down ideas for the project.

You ended up falling asleep on his shoulder, while he annotated and worked on your shared project.

Love did many things to a person, Seishiro knew this. He loved the way your face lit up when you saw the perfect score your teacher gave the two of you.

A rose only blooms in the right soil, and seeing you smile like that? He’d like to think you’re a rose. So delicate, the sweetest flower nature could yield, just like your unfolding heart. You set his world on fire, burning red like a rose that’s freshly bloomed. the thoughts that ran through his own head made him sicken, because he wanted to be your soil.

He’s only 19, with a pocket that’s filled with tragedy. You are his biggest tragedy.

And the world is cruel, so there he was, at the airport. And much to his dismay, a strifeful of words to say to you. The words you’ll never hear, because he can’t see you again, he’s accepting it. He’s going to be Manshine’s genius, after all.

does this need a part 2??!?!?!? | yes it did. give it a read!!

[love-lilly02]

The Challenge Pt. 3

He had never been so fucking aggrivated in his whole goddamn life.

Countless times, he was able to track down anyone based on the smallest piece of information. You give him a first name, he has their social security number. You give him a face, he has their entire family lineage lined up and ready to go.

With birth certificates to confirm.

And now he had your personal records - your full legal name, birthdate, parents name and occupation , plus whatever else was required to enlist in the military. It was all right at his fingertips, readily available, prime for the taking.

And he had found absolutely. Fucking. Nothing.

Price exhaled heavily, running his hand over his face. The computer glared at him angrily, blinding him against the dark of his office. Your records sat in front of him, multiple copies spread out and annotated to point out different information. Your full name, family names, birthdays. Anything that he could use to help find information on you.

All of it was worthless.

"Still up?" Gaz walked into the office, flicking on the light. "You won't find anything if you overwork yourself, you know." Price groaned internally, glancing at the younger man in front of him.

"Better than having to wait for a lead." Price said. Gaz hummed, moving to stand behind the captain's chair. " 'Fuckin hopeless. This girl's got nothing on her. I've been looking for a week nonstop and the best I could figure out is that she's got siblings. Not even who they are, just that she has them."

Gaz massaged his captain's shoulders, reveling in the relived groan he let out. " Jus' ask her, cap. I'm sure she would be willing to-"

"Gaz I can't just ask. That defeats the purpose of the challenge." That wasn't exactly true, but he didn't care. He was determined to win this challenge on his own.

"Soap tried and he got a few good answers. You said it yourself, we work as a team, well get her as a team." He could do nothing but nod along to the man's words.

"Just wish it could be faster."

It had been a week. 

One entire week of absolutely nothing, no questions, no pestering. 

Nothing. 

Part of you was relived. Maybe they forgot, or just gave up. Another knew that this has to be some kind of ruse, these men were entirely too stubborn to give up on something like this. 

Every second of silence had you questioning your skills. You could go back in and double check, do a run over of your parents accounts to be sure they hadn’t posted anything. But going in on the base’s wifi guaranteed getting caught so that was out. 

Your phone was essentially useless, just another way to track down your movements, and it wasn’t like you could call someone and ask them to do it for you. 

So you waited. and waited. and waited. And nothing happened. Save for a few curious glances from Price, all seemed to be well. 

The next lead actually came from Gaz, of all people. 

You were all sitting in the rec room, watching Soap yell at some rookies over a soccer game. Every so often he would look back at the team for assistance, but it was very seldom that one of you would nod or side with him. Otherwise you stayed quiet and watched the entertainment. 

“You ever play sports?” Gaz asked, sipping his drink carefully. The question sounded casual but you knew the weight behind it, and as if a switch flipped off both Price and Ghost leaned in closer to hear your response. 

“Tried a few different ones.” You passed it off with a shrug. “None ever really stuck.”

“How come?” It was prices turn then, and at some point Soap had been flagged back over to the couch to listen. All four of your teammates were now sitting attentively around you, looking like children during story time. 

“ ‘Dunno. I’d do a sport for a while, get good and then loose interest.” You take a sip of your drink. “I’m sure if I tried any of them now I’d be shit.”

A loose chuckle flew through the room, and you saw Price roll his eyes. The four of them shared a look, though you couldn’t quite pin down what it was. 

“What was your favorite?” Soap prompted, shuffling closer. “I’m a soccer guy myself - obviously - but I can see you doing volleyball.”

“Or track,” Ghost spoke up this time, lifting his glass in a salute almost. “ ‘Runs so fast you’d swear she’s on fire.” 

That made you roll your eyes. “I got recommended for track but turned it down. The coach said-“ They all waited for you to finish, but you shook your head. “No, no I’m not talking about this.”

Soap groaned. “Awh, come off it lass. Just a bit of small talk, eh?” 

“Yeah, so you can get more information outa me.” You responded, setting your glass on the table. “That night was the last time i get drunk and blabber off to you lot. You want those photos, you’ll have to find them yourselves.”

Instead of a laugh there was a groan, even Ghost looked disheartened at your words. 

“Come on, luv. you gotta give us something.” Soap pleaded, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes ever. 

“We have something. She’s got siblings, a brother and a sister by the sounds of it.” You whipped around at Prices words, staring at him with a mix of shock and horror. 

“How did you-“

“Your files. Did some deeper digging a few nights ago. The problem is, I can’t find anything related to you or them. Got your parents stuff just fine, nothing on your siblings.” He pauses, eying you up and down. “Like they don’t exist at all.”

There’s a tense silence in the room, and you stare at your captain with a blank expression. “Dunno what to tell you. Look harder, maybe?”

The tone of your voice is flat, and the team sees an emotion they haven’t seen on you in a while. 

Fear.

“Maybe." Is all Price says, reaching in his pocket to grab a cigar.

Things from there go somewhat back to normal, although you’re significantly more quiet than usual. Finally after what you deem is an acceptable time you turn in for bed, Making a B-line for your rooms. 

“That’s not normal.” Is all Ghost says. “People aren’t scared of their families.”

“Hypocrite,” Soap calls back. A pillow is flung at his head shortly after. 

“Simon’s right. She seems to come from good sort, why doesn’t she want anyone finding out about her history?” Gaz ponders quietly, tapping his hands against the arm of the couch. 

“That’s for us to find out, apparently.” Price places his hand on top of Gaz’s, silencing the rythmic taps. 

The soldiers sit there for what feels like an eternity, pondering over the mystery that is their teammate. 

You don’t sleep at all that night. Tracking be dammed, you have to make sure that everything is clean. You knew that your files could be a huge risk, as you were required to list all family members, but you didn’t think Price would lay that much attention. You didn’t think anyone would pay that much attention.  

Just shows how inconsiderate you are. 

All of your socials and your parents socials are clear. Your siblings are something you don’t have to worry about, as they aren’t allowed phones till they’re older, much less social media. you check over all of your old friends stuff too, ensure that all pictures with you in them were taken down, anything with your name was removed entirely. 

You avoid the main problem. In the event that they’re somehow smart enough to figure out they can track your search history through the wifi. 

The less they could find the better. 

Here she is!! Thank you so much to all the people who left a note (even if it's just a like) your interactions helped so much with getting motivation! I hope to have the next chapter out sometime this week, but there wont be any promises <333

My Masterlist

[boundinparchment]

Undertow

He stopped officiating weddings a long time ago. There was no time for such things as the Chief Justice of Fontaine. But your family insisted. As nobles are wont to do. Only the finest for their eldest daughter. Besides, you two were friends, after all. Neuvillette/Female Reader; in which the Chief Justice can no longer deny his heart on the day of your wedding. AO3 Story Link

A joyous day.

It should have been, at any rate.

At least for you.

As long as you were happy.

Or so Neuvillette told himself. Duty came first, after all. He had a whole nation to keep from setting itself aflame, be it from Focalors’ whims or the people’s fury. In serving everyone, he was, in fact, serving you.

And in turn, you, too, served the people. Few were so generous with their time and their skills, especially those in your social standing. Fewer still went on to study law, as you had; as heir, you needed to understand property laws and taxes and the words that bound your family to its estate and your place in parliament. Neuvillette would never let it be said that you did not know the meaning of long hours and hard work. Amid the vain and the greedy, you were pragmatic, and not without the wit to prove it.

That was what drew him to you. So many in your position used their wit as sharp daggers to stab others during conversation in a clever, charming way. You flipped the conversation back on perpetrators so often that he wondered why you never pursued certification exams.

“For one, it benefits my station far too much,” you said. “My ambitions are to be able to make life sustainable for all I’m meant to govern. Naive, perhaps. But I think those in my rank need to earn their keep, prove they’re worthy of their legacy. We owe it to the people of Fontaine.”

You were certainly not without a vision, even if you were Unblessed. It was better that way. You didn’t deserve the eyes of the island above on you anymore than they already were.

Neuvillete adjusted his cuffs as he glanced down at the book in his hands. A book you’d given him, annotated with your favorite passages and thoughts. He’d stayed up far too late trying to conceptualize anything other than his legal obligations for the ceremony.

The courtroom buzzed with anticipation. Focalors had rolled her eyes when she caught him getting ready but even she had made herself scarce for once after mumbling to just get it over with. Funny. And here he thought she might be present to laugh in his face and call him a fool.

A fool who took an hour to painstakingly braid his hair in a fashion that mimicked an Oceanid’s tail, as you had once shown him.

He stopped officiating weddings a long time ago. There was no time for such things as the Chief Justice of Fontaine.

But your family insisted. As nobles are wont to do.

Only the finest for their eldest daughter.

Besides, you two were friends, after all.

You would have settled for far less; or rather, you would have been happier with his presence in another capacity. He knew as much. His estate for the ceremony and party. A speech at dinner. A dance. Your smile had been so forced throughout the entire exchange about an officiant that Neuvillette was certain you might snap right then and there.

And yet you remained rooted. Dedicated.

If only the finest would do, why did they even consider the dolt standing before him to be eligible?

Hardly remarkable in accomplishments. The family coasted on interest earned through their holdings but were not without the occasional cousin who ended up with a debt record as long as one’s forearm. Neuvillette couldn’t even justify an excuse for a pedigree; bloodlines couldn’t, shouldn’t, be about trying to maintain whatever purity they claimed to hold.

No one could make that judgment.

Celestia might try, at any rate.

And the Chief Justice could hardly see your future husband comforting you should such a thing happen, let alone caring for the people. Neuvillette could only stare when the nobleman’s eyes caught his; your fiance looked away first and Neuvillette smiled briefly to himself. No. There would be no comfort in this relationship, no challenge, no ambition.

This man would snuff your flames with his own self-importance.

Neuvillette should have offered his hand instead when you’d told him. You seemed so resolute, so determined, to carry out your duty. And he was so patient that he might as well be a coward. Time would wait for him, not you. Instead, he’d pulled every string he could to find every shred of information for you, for your parents, approved the match with as much grace as a ruling.

Mulled over every file with a glass of brandy, trying to convince himself things would be fine.

Wouldn’t they?

Nearby, a musician began the song you had chosen to walk in with and the gallery rose in unison, like the sea, to watch.

The only thing you’d had control over was the dress, you’d admitted one night after dinner. Repurposed, you’d mentioned; all lace and fashionable lines, practical but elegant in its shape. He couldn’t pull his eyes away and he tried to remember to breathe as you made your way down the aisle. In all his years, he had seen many things, including the stunning shimmers of the previous Hydro Archon, but all of them paled to you.

Likewise, it seemed you couldn’t look anywhere else but straight ahead, Neuvillette realized: most looked towards their future spouse but your gaze was fixed on Neuvillette himself. His grip on the book tightened and he was thankful for the swell of the music to hide the squeak of leather.

You weren’t making the stabbing knife in his chest any easier.

The words came quicker than he liked as he began the usual spiel. Welcoming guests, reciting the names of the parties involved, and starting off with a brief speech on the strength of a union. He could read the passage from the book backwards if you asked him.

As a judge, he was meant to be the impartial interpreter of the law. There was no place for bias, for emotion.

His eyes would give him away to any discerning onlookers. Neuvillette was no stranger to rumors and gossip columns and no doubt someone could already see the questions he couldn’t keep from surfacing. It would be obvious, he realized. He kept looking at you and not the crowd, not the man with eager eyes who held your hand the same way one held a horse bridle: too tight.

Neuvillette cleared his throat and pushed away the anguish. It had no place here.

As the Chief Justice asked you to repeat after him, to recite the vows all Fontaine citizens gave on their wedding day, something inside him cracked. Couldn’t you see this would lead to nothing but misery? Weren’t you worthy of more? If you must marry for duty, then at least commit yourself to someone equally committed…

Your lips, painted to perfection (unnecessarily so, for you were already beautiful without such coloring), opened but silence followed. Neuvillette swallowed. Your eyes left his long enough to stare at the man holding your hand before you thrust your bouquet at him, gathered your skirt, and dashed back up the aisle.

Behind you, the courtroom ignited with all of the shock and drama as a high profile murder case as you threw the doors open and dashed into the lobby and eventually out of sight.

The only trace you’d been there at all was your veil as it floated to the floor silently, forgotten.

A joyous day.

It should have been, at any rate.

And yet you shouldn’t shake the knot in your stomach and the claw clenching around your heart. Sleep eluded you for the better part of the night and your maids tutted, pressing cold spoons to your eyes before you were allowed to eat. Food tasted no better than dirt over the last few months and all anyone saw was how careful you were watching your figure.

How you wished things were different. The ring on your finger felt heavy, clunky; a ball and chain around your ankle would have been easier to manage.

It hadn’t been so burdensome at first, of course. Things took time. Perhaps, eventually, you might enjoy your betrothed’s company for longer than a few hours. The potential was there.

But was it enough?

Your maids fixed your makeup, did your hair, swatted your hand away when you reached for just one sip of water.

They all gushed about your fiance, how handsome and charming he was, how well conversation seemed to flow. Every single one of them forgot that the conversations were nothing more than surface level discussions that made you want to gouge your eyes out with a spoon.

You’d almost begged Neuvillette to forge something, anything, that would make this arrangement null and void. Every meeting since the engagement had been heavily supervised under the guise of protecting the Chief Justice’s reputation and your honor, whatever that implied.

Expectation had been there for years, lingered like a ghost. Not from you but from everyone else who cast their eyes on your station. One rarely, if ever, captured the Chief Justice’s attention, after all. Your family had hoped, as others had, but you were content to simply converse over dinner, at parties, exchange books and philosophies and see the man’s smile reach his silvery eyes. He spoke of opera and art in a way so few of your contemporaries could. You tried to control the flutter of your heart when he locked eyes with you across the courthouse foyer after parliament adjourned and you swore you saw his eyes glow.

He was engaging, enthralling, and it was easy to see why the nation considered him such a celebrity.

But your friendship was more than the attention, than the allure of the Chief Justice and all that he encompassed. Some might not call his rulings fair but he saw all of the trappings that Fontaine itself was guilty of pressing onto all of its inhabitants. When you came up with ideas for proposals, it was him you went to for proper language and legal references, always attempting to stay within his schedule, of course. More often than not, he would continue to prompt you to think the proposal through, consider scale and the impact and the precedent.

Never once did he give you an opinion, naturally. Just a different perspective.

“You can be dazed tomorrow,” your mother said as she snapped her fingers in your face. “Your flowers just arrived and the photographer is insisting on family shots here, at the house.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you were dressed by deft hands. It had been something of a game with your maid to pass time when you felt like trying your dress on; little had you known how the practice would backfire.

Something tugged at your gut and you fought the urge to vomit at the thought of the hands (the wrong hands) that would undo the buttons.

No, you made your choice, you reminded yourself. The guilt would fade. The love would fade.

You were closer to thirty than you cared to admit. What your family took for a phase they realized would be a dangerous precedent for your siblings.

Everything you did was for the betterment of the people, you would argue.

What good was the betterment of the people when you were neglecting your duty to your family, was often the retort thrown back with as much acid as your grandmother’s strong tea.

Family.

Duty.

Honor.

All of it was bullshit if the common people were unhappy and left to fend off wolves from above and below.

You’d never subscribed to these notions and they were content to let it be until it was inconvenient. Rather than let you advise on financial planning, to grow an endowment that could take care of the yearly costs of the estate, you were to be cattle in exchange for financial and political support.

Or you would be cast aside, disowned and dishonored, your position taken from you as if it were a rug underfoot.

And so, you accepted all of it with a smile.

You endured.

Just as you endured the flash of the kamera, the fussing over your flowers and your veil during the carriage ride to the courthouse.

The press were eager, as they always were, for gossip and fashion and for a glimpse of the Chief Justice presiding over the ceremony. They weren’t here for you, not truly. Why, of all things, had your parents insisted he be the officiant?

Wasn’t it enough that you were giving up parts of your life, parts of your soul, for a person who would never appreciate them?

Your feet already ached from your heels. A wave of dizziness slapped you across the face as you entered the lobby and you pushed through it. Music began, the doors opened, and your body moved of its own accord, just as you had practiced the night before.

Neuvillette had declined the rehearsal dinner. The one time you were glad not to see him. If you had, you wouldn’t be here now, you were certain.

You gave a cursory glance to your fiance but your attention whipped back to Neuvillette almost instantly. He’d done his best but you could see the faded dark circles under his silver eyes. How late had he stayed up, you wondered. And how long had that braid taken him?

He’d let you style it once, and only once, in the privacy of his library. Waterfalls of silken fabric couldn’t compare to the beautiful blue and white locks between your fingers. He’d been attentive when you showed him the technique, pausing his case review to do so, but…

An ache from your feet ran up to your heart and sat, heavy with longing; it hurt to breathe.

The music swelled to a close and your father kissed your cheek before he passed you along to your fiance. He smiled and you tried not to be disgusted at the sweaty hand that held yours. You held your flowers in your other hand tighter, glad that the florist had missed a thorn in trimming your flowers.

Before you could blink, Neuvillette was already speaking.

And although he was addressing everyone as he read the passage you read aloud to him on a particularly gloomy evening, his gaze never left yours. The man witnessed and knew of the cruelest things the nation allowed, worked under Honorable Focalors Herself, and yet the expression on his face (such as it was, for he was known for his unreadable countenance) was as if…

It was gone in all but a moment as he cleared his throat and prompted you to recite your vows.

It was the subtle raise of Neuvillette’s eyebrows, the way his eyes widened just enough for emphasis that did you in.

Doubt. Anguish.

Was this what you wanted?

You turned your head, every intention to get the words across your tongue and past your lips in mind, when your voice simply wouldn’t comply. All you could see was a life shackled, compromise after compromise and always made against your favor. Concessions that eventually wore down to wondering why you ever bothered.

Did you want to throttle yourself, your spirit, your drive, for potential that wasn’t even there? When the man you loved would be forever kept out of reach?

If not this, then what did you want?

The answer was literally staring you in the face.

You shoved your flowers into your betrothed’s hands and pulled away, not caring if your dress carried sweat stains as you gathered the skirts and ran as fast as your legs could carry you out the door. Commotion behind you roared to life as you haphazardly made your way through the lobby, down to the entrance, and then dashed to the side garden to avoid the headline-hungry press.

There were few options to hide, all of them easy enough to locate. Your family would drag you back if they found you. Assuming they weren’t bickering and that the wedding was even still on from your fiance’s point of view.

A single drop of rain plopped on your head, sudden and cold. Followed by another. And then there was no sun left in the sky as rain came down in sheets, heavy and frigid. Thunder rumbled through your entire being. You couldn’t stay here. Over the roar of the rain, you could hear your name. You wouldn’t heed.

You were tired of coming when called, of giving your loyalty and love to those who sought to keep you from your happiness. No better than a hunting dog.

Soaked, your hair and dress now destined for the Abyss, you slid off your heels and made your way towards the one place you might be able to wait out the rain in peace.

Over the chatter of the crowd, the rumble of thunder was unmistakable.

Of course it would rain. It wasn’t like he’d done a terrific job of hiding his own bias.

The speed at which you’d run back up the aisle was a feat, given the shoes you wore. No doubt those wouldn’t do you any good in this weather. You were probably cold, overwhelmed…

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and Neuvillette’s hand shot out. He grabbed the nobleman’s arm before he could move, already poised to go after you.

“Leave her be. These things happen. It is best for a neutral party to resolve these matters. Wedding planners, family, or friends are usually equipped for these situations,” the Chief Justice said matter of factly.

Fight back, you absolute–

Your betrothed’s arm relaxed in Neuvillette’s grip and it took everything in the Chief Justice not to summon his power and drown him there and then. If there was one person deserving of being reduced to their primal element…

Neuvillette’s voice cut above the crowd as he called for order, requesting that guests remain where they were and that, no doubt, everything would resume shortly. Your parents were already doing a poor attempt at damage control with your supposed-in-laws. Your siblings were casting looks at the door, half-debating if they should go after you; they weren’t like you, not as headstrong, not as independent, and one look from your matriarchal grandmother sent them further into their seats.

He intervened, diffusing arguments with ease, all the while wondering if you were okay. Your parents wanted to use city resources, send out police. For once, your fiance chimed in that such a thing might scare you and you needed help, not to be dragged back kicking and screaming.

“You should go, sir,” the young nobleman said quietly as the bickering picked up again. “You said it yourself: family or friends, and her family doesn’t seem keen to fight for her.”

The man’s smile was shaky but the Chief Justice appreciated the sentiment. At least he had a brain in there somewhere.

“Be sure to keep them from saying too much to the press. Should any ask, Her Honor is also behaving…in her usual fashion.”

Neuvillette was certain his absence wouldn’t go unnoticed and the fact that the press were still clamoring at the front stairs despite the downpour wouldn’t help matters. He paid them no mind as rain pelted him, drenching his robes and suit jacket underneath. The rain did nothing to affect his vision nor his drive to find you; he was unbothered by the chill but you…you always did love curling up right next to a fire and being bundled in winter.

There was one place you might go, he pondered, that few knew about and fewer had access to. Short of you running through the city in your dress (which would not be like you), you had little options to avoid the press but to stay near the courthouse.

He found you as he expected to, under a pavilion tucked away into a quiet garden on the property, wringing out your skirts and pacing, feet bare against the wet stone. You were never still when your mind was lightyears ahead of you, be it from following trains of thought or when you were attempting to force a filibuster. Your thoughts were likely half-way to Inazuma by now and just as tumultuous as the storms he heard so much about.

His breath caught when you jumped as you caught sight of him, eyes wide and anguish carved into your face. Neuvillette stepped under the cover of the pavilion, his robes and braid dripping unceremoniously and you immediately reached to wring his hair out gently, without so much as a second thought.

The Chief Justice took off his gloves as he let you finish before he took your hands in his. He could feel the bump on your finger where you held a pen, the tender spot where your flowers pricked you.

“I can’t do it, Neu,” you choked out, shaking your head. “I can’t do it.”

“You don’t have to if it’s going to make you unhappy, if you cannot see a future with the person standing at the altar.”

He worked in rulings, evidence, facts; managing Focalors emotional outbursts was a terrible part of his job description but they never teetered into this territory. He was used to fleeting whims and de-escalation.

This? This was a decision that would change the course of your life. Not immediately, of course. But the future was a terrifying, uncertain thing, and you had expectations to contend with.

Expectations that did not involve him.

The pall of fear lifted from your face slowly, the same way morning dew disappeared from the grass. Something else blossomed in its place, like a sweet flower pushing through the cracks in the cobblestone streets, resilient and resolute.

“The thing is, I can. Just not with the man I was about to marry.”

Shooting him would have been less painful. Such an admission should have, as with all things today, been enough to make a heart soar, even manage to turn bitter water into sweet ambrosia. Your lips parted again before he could speak.

“And I understand you feel differently; you’ve never given me reason to believe otherwise and I am not asking for more than what you have to give. I would never do that to you. If I marry the man in there,” you nodded your head in the direction of the courthouse, “it will always be a lie. Maybe I’ll grow to tolerate him but I will never love him. Not like I love you. As I do now, I will spend the rest of my life looking into his eyes, wishing he was you.”

Neuvillette’s hands dropped yours to cup your face of their own accord. Before he could process anything else, he’d tilted your head up and pressed his lips to yours as if he was a man deprived of air. You were warm, despite the weather, and he could make out the familiar scent of your perfume amid the fresh flowers in your hair. He felt you relax, curve yourself into him, hands finding purchase on the soaked lapels of his robes.

He broke away, his face hot as he admired your swollen lips. Mixed in with your slight daze was that inquisitive expression he would never tire of, one you often gave to silently encourage him to continue speaking.

“Then no more wishing, mon amour,” he whispered, brushing away the stray tears pooling at the corners of your eyes. “Marry me.”

“Don’t just—”

“I should not have let it get as far as it has. What good is duty if your heart is elsewhere?”

“And where will we go, my Chief Justice? The people of Fontaine and our Archon might enjoy this scandal a little too much…it would be quite a spectacle.”

“Qiaoying Village is nice this time of year. I have an acquaintance in Liyue I can persuade to be a witness. Beyond that…we’ll let the current decide.”

His words shook something in you as you reached up and tugged at his cravat to pull him into another kiss. Longer than the last, smooth and steady like a morning tide, passion dancing like an undertow.

[listenheresweaty]

Reminder that Stirringjuice/Ven themself has said that TMC is not fetish content. Kister’s works are NOT an extension of what was described in the allegations document. If you don’t want to consume TMC content anymore, fine (best you don’t— not in a way that gives Kister money anyway), but don’t spread misinformation.

EDIT: after rereading Ven’s callout document and finally being able to access ALL the screenshots he attached, I have decided that I will no longer support him. I will not go back to supporting Alex Kister yet, but I cannot support a blatant ableist transphobe either. link to annotation doc: (not mine) https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vReErDatnpQ_h3W-WlqrmzmPN26-UyDwLVwBKmHV09WhVZtdZQM44HRxvoV0ZTz8Ho-NaBVKYxjNuha/pub

Things I will be addressing:

Why I do not support Ven (separate from other victims)

Stuff that Alex Kister DID do wrong, even if the allegations were exaggerated/faked/done out of malice

The allegations and victims themselves.

WHY I DONT SUPPORT VEN

First of all, this ⬇️ (scroll down its below the blue highlighted ss. Formatting issues sorry.). This is a ss of Ven’s (now deleted, now archived post) response to how many people are calling him transphobic for his transmisogynistic comments in his document, and how he had basically outed Alex. Instead of saying something like “it wasn’t transphobic — I had to out Alex— it was necessary for the victims/proof/whatever”, Ven just says that if Alex didn’t want to be outed or subjected to transphobia, he shouldn’t have been a “groomer” (Ven later says that he had misused the word “groomer”. Everyone that Alex had interacted with in a sexual or romantic manner had been an adult, and had fully explicitly VERBALLY consented.)

However. Even if your opponent is a bad person, you do NOT have the right to be transphobic. EVER. criticize them on whatever they’ve done wrong, hold them accountable in a balanced and civilized manner— etc. Being protected from bigotry/ not getting misgendered, privacy, legal counsel— these are all examples of RIGHTS.

When you start denying something based on whether someone deserves it or not, that “something” has become a privilege. By stating that his transphobia was excused because Alex is a supposedly bad person, Ven has stated that not being subjected to transphobia is a privilege. here’s the link: (takes forever to load the keep reading portion but it works for me) https://web.archive.org/web/20240317125855/https://www.tumblr.com/stirringjuicee/745117180204548096/alex-kister-and-actively-using-being-trans-to-lure

Screenshot of the post below, along with something from the callout doc (annotated by a tumblr user. The non-highlighted color text is the annotated bit.

—— ss from ven response (click. It IS An image it just looks like text)

—- now onto some more details.

Ven, or StirringJuice, made the first allegations document against Alex Kister. He had stated himself that he does not consider himself a victim, just a friend of the victims who wanted to spread the word. Ven starts the document off by describing his past relationship with Alex Kister. He also includes screenshots of text messages from Alex— which often contradict or have no relation with what he’s saying. This is why it’s important to look at the screenshots, guys! Most of the toxicity in Ven’s relationship with Alex stemmed from Ven’s refusal to honestly his boundaries or feelings. He told Alex that he was comfortable with the sexual comments, he told Alex that he was comfortable being just Friends with Benefits, and he told Alex that they were welcome to vent to him any time <- all of this is corroborated by the text screenshots that Ven himself posted.

In Ven’s text messages, we can see him suggesting that Alex gets a therapist. Great! Nothing wrong there. And then you actually look at the ss:

(Ven is the blue. These ss are linked in the callout document.)

First of all. You cannot force ANYONE to get mental help, regardless of whether you think it’s for their own well-being. If their behavior is harming you, leave. But even the worst people on earth deserve autonomy for these kinds of things. Ven literally states that he had FORCED Alex to get a therapist, and you can see him admit it in the messages above as well.

after these ss links (labeled part 9 in the doc), Ven hits us with this absolute banger:

“[Alex] then decided to go off his meds.”

Someone had already said this, but: YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SAY THAT TO OR ABOUT A MENTALLY ILL PERSON. EVER. REGARDLESS OF WHO YOU ARE, OR WHO THEY ARE. it’s an insult to every mental health community.

^ also, Alex gives a pretty good reason for going off his medication. Not that they needed to.

^highlighted text is Ven’s callout post. Purple text is a fellow tumblr user’s annotations. They have a whole post with these annotations. I’ll credit them when I’m done writing out my post. [clarification: the annotator uses “she/her” pronouns for Alex, Ven uses he/him. I use they/them because Alex was never publicly OUT as she/her before they were outed, so I’m not sure what to do]

Also: please go on the callout doc and see the “pt. 11” screenshots yourself. There’s a lot of them and I don’t want to add them here, but please go see them.

^Ven hears that Alex wants to start a new chapter with them (yknow, like redeem the toxic relationship they’ve had) and immediately assumes it’s in the romantic sense.

^Alex admits that they are not ready for a committed relationship, a good first step for smoothing over any toxicity.

^nothing else to add. Annotator did great.

^ text ss as listed under the “pt. 14” link

These are 3 out of 10 ss under the Pt. 15 link. Look at the text indicated to with the red arrow (drawn by me). Ven literally tells Alex that they “don’t understand anything ever.” They also tell Alex in a later ss (plz find it yourselves because I’m not posting all 10 photos) that they “don’t understand [their] own emotions.”

Maybe Alex was making an unhealthy decision by continuing to reach out to someone they clearly had an unhealthy relationship with. But these responses are borderline abusive, especially when aimed at someone who suffers from paranoia.

A huge chunk of the entire callout doc is Ven venting about his relationship with Alex. This relationship is not abusive, it is toxic on both sides. The fact that Ven put this much focus on these barely relevant details— even when the topic was the victims, not Ven himself— suggests that he did this out of petty vindictiveness. If the allegations are true, the victims deserved a BETTER PERSON and a BETTER FRIEND to share their story. Not someone who did it purely because it was en excuse to get revenge. If it wasn’t revenge, why add all these details?? (funny thing— the whole doc. Would be more believable if Ven hadn’t added all this stuff. He destroyed his credibility before even getting to the allegations).

the one below has more transphobia and general assholery than ableism.

^apparently once you are out of the closet, you are not allowed to go back or feel ashamed. Else you are lying and manipulative. Thanks, Ven.

I am done posting screenshots from the annotation document. Please, PLEASE read it in full. I will tag it in the comments. There are so so so many good points.

STUFF THAT ALEX HAS DEFINITELY DONE WRONG, REGARDLESS OF WHETHER THE ALLEGATIONS ARE TRUE OR FALSE:

(Orange text is annotator, black is original doc).

Venting to/ Relying on a minor fan for mental health support (I think it was Mitchie). That’s not good.

making allusions to suicide during their relationship with Ven. Joke or not, that’s unhealthy.

ALLEGATIONS/VICTIMS:

wont say much here because I’m getting tired. some people on Reddit have been pointing out that some discord ss (not the ones I’ve shown you, those were imessage ss) look faked because there is use of military time, which is not an option on discord apparently. Other screenshots seem to use different fonts as well, further indicating forged evidence. I have fact-checked none of this and can’t verify it (not that you should be relying on my word alone, anyway).

I do not support Mitchie, since they’ve been telling people to self-harm and/or commit suicide when they point out flaws in the callout doc. I don’t care what you’ve been through. There is no excuse for that.

As for the other victims.. I find their statements fishy. However, I will not disbelieve them until more has been cleared up.

[wanderersbell]

between the pages

wanderer x gn!reader

genre: modern!au, meet-cute, fluff

warnings: none

word count: 2206

✧.* a/n: sorry i haven't posted in forever teehee i had to use all of my effort to squeeze this out of my brain ૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა

try as you might, it’s impossible not to notice the new customer perusing the bookshelves in the old, worn down shop you’ve taken a job at over the summer. compared to the aged shelves and creaky floors, it’s like seeing a shiny new car in the middle of a junkyard, pristine and vivid against the washed out backdrop. 

it’s pleasantly cool inside away from the sweltering july heat so for a moment you’re sure he only ducked in to cool off, but he actually appears to be looking for something as he approaches one of the towering displays. 

you watch discreetly from the counter as the boy slides a book out and opens to a random page, little specks of dust floating up from the pages and around him, visible only because of the sunlight from the window in the back that casts its glow right above him. 

you cringe a bit at the sight. no matter how often you dust, it never seems to go away, which you suppose is to be expected of such an old little shop. he doesn’t seem to mind though, hardly even seems to notice it as his violet eyes stay fixed on the words in front of him. 

he’s beautiful, so much so that you almost wonder if you’re hallucinating the first time he pushes through the door and takes in the towering shelves lined from wall to wall. he has an air of grace that shows through his calculated movements, almost like a robot that’s programmed to be perfect. 

but he’s very much real when he finally finds what he’s looking for and brings it up to checkout. 

“borrowing or purchasing?” you ask automatically, praying silently that your voice doesn’t sound weird. up close, you realize he can’t be much older than you, and that somehow makes him all the more intimidating. 

his eyes are sharp and cold as he meets yours, practically the textbook definition of unapproachable. 

“borrowing.” he replies. his voice is a bit softer and higher pitched than you were expecting, but there’s a hint of roughness to it that almost makes your skin prick with goosebumps in a way that you try to ignore. 

as you turn away to find the notepad for him to write his information down on, his eyes drift to the whiteboard next to the counter. ‘book of the week’ is written at the top in blue marker, with the title of a novel underneath. 

there’s a half written annotation on the board that you were in the middle of jotting down before he walked in. in your opinion it’s messy, unorganized, and impossible to understand. just a jumble of thoughts that you scribbled down as they came to you. 

you’re the only one who ever adds anything every week and most people coming in hardly spare it a glance, but when you find what you’re looking for and slide it over to the customer you notice his eyes flitting over your scribbles. 

it almost makes you feel self conscious of what you’ve written. it could be worded so much better, and your handwriting looks so much nicer when you slow down a bit, but you hadn’t anticipated anyone actually bothering to read it. 

he shifts his attention back to you as soon as he realizes you’re looking at him and he takes the notepad and pen from you without a word. 

you fidget with a stapler while he fills it out, suddenly becoming aware of how fast your heart is pounding behind your ribcage. when he’s done he hands it back to you, you hand him the book, and then he turns to leave without another word. 

your usual ‘have a good day’ gets caught in your throat for some reason so all you can manage is a small, awkward wave that he doesn’t even notice as the door swings shut behind him. 

when you glance down at the ‘borrow’ list, the first thing you notice is his handwriting, somehow equal parts neat and messy. the tops of his letters nearly loop together but blunt angles prevent it from being considered neat. the other thing, is his name. 

‘kuni.’

he seems to have chosen not to write his full name, which technically isn’t allowed but also isn’t really that big of a deal at the end of the day, because his phone number is still written where it should be and your boss never checks the list anyway. 

the entire thing was such a normal, boring interaction that had it been anybody else you probably would’ve forgotten about it by the next day—but this lingered on your mind throughout the rest of the week. 

the following week when he returns the book, he exchanges it for another one. there’s a new novel listed this week, and you don’t even process the fact that kuni pulls his phone out to write down the name of it because your eyes are glued to the red eyeliner lining his lower eyelashes. it’s stark against his pale skin, so perfectly drawn that you once again find yourself questioning whether or not he’s even real.

you almost choke on your spit when his gaze flicks up to meet yours and you quickly slide the ‘borrow’ list over to him, completely missing the way one of his eyebrows quirks up in mild amusement at your reaction. 

it takes him a bit longer than last time to write his information down because he pauses to skim over your annotation for this week's book, which is much more presentable this time around. 

if you weren’t awkwardly staring at your feet still caught on the fact that he looks like he walked straight out of a painting, you would’ve noticed the flash of an impressed expression on his face, but you keep your eyes pointed down until he sets the pen back into the tin cup to the side with a clink. 

when he grabs the book and silently turns to leave, you take a grounding breath. 

“have a good day.” you blurt out to his retreating form, internally thanking the heavens that the words come out even and not too quiet. 

kuni doesn’t stop walking towards the door, but he turns his head to the side and lifts his hand up in acknowledgement. 

“you too.”

you don’t work fridays and the shop is closed on the weekends, but when you return on monday, kuni’s book is already filled out as returned, meaning he must have stopped by on your day off. 

you feel a bit bummed out at the fact that you missed him when he came back, but he had replaced it with another so all you can do is hope he’d show up again sometime before friday. 

much to your surprise, when you turn around to erase last week's book and change it to another, there’s something new written on the whiteboard. 

just off to the side of your previous annotation are notes, scribbled in a slightly familiar somewhat elegant chicken scratch. it takes you a second, but when you realize it’s kuni’s handwriting your heart jumps into your throat. 

his notes branch out from what you have written in response, taking in your thoughts and then challenging them with a counter argument that has you thinking from a perspective you hadn’t been able to see before. 

after being frozen on the spot for a bit longer, you grab and uncap the marker and start scribbling a response to his response, trying to ignore the excitement thrumming in your limbs. 

to think that someone else would take an interest in the featured books, and even bother to pick apart your annotation and invite you to think harder about the story was almost hard to believe. 

especially because it’s him.

anyone else might feel a bit bothered having their opinions countered so bluntly, but you’re so stuck on the fact that you have someone to indulge you in this interest that it never even crosses your mind. 

when you finish and stand back, an entire half of the whiteboard is taken up by two people’s handwriting where it once would have been nearly empty. instead of erasing it to add the new one, you move to the other side of the board and add the new week’s novel, as well as your thoughts on it that you had organized over the weekend. 

still feeling elated by the unexpected happening, the rest of your shift goes by in a flash until an hour before the store closes when kuni finally shows up again, all intimidating sharp gracefulness.

it’s not until he walks up to the counter after wandering off to find something to check out that you finally realize it’s not the featured book he’s returning, and he had actually never even checked out the book that was listed on the whiteboard last week.

you had wanted to say something about the notes, but the way he doesn’t even acknowledge that they exist has you clamming up and doubting whether or not he was even the one who wrote them in the first place. out of the desperate desire to not embarrass yourself, you decide it’s best left unmentioned. 

“thanks,” you say almost hesitantly as you add the book to the return pile to put away later and pass him the clipboard so he can cross his previous entry off the list and add a new one. 

if only you had been paying attention instead of being lost in your own doubt, you would’ve seen how he eyed the whiteboard and the way a corner of his lips turned up a fraction at your messy reply, but his back is turned and he’s already leaving by the time you look up again. 

and you would never know it, but a while later across town a boy with the pretty red eyeliner walks into a library and checks out another book, one that had been hastily written down on an old whiteboard where a pretty person that made his hands sweat with nervousness works.

this continues for another two weeks and another two books before you finally muster the courage to mention it to him. one of the things he had written under your annotation didn’t make any sense to you, and you can’t help but ask the next time he comes in. 

he clearly wasn’t expecting you to know that it was him, because he looks absolutely taken aback when the words come out of your mouth. 

“what did you mean about the protagonist's actions mirroring the dialogue in the first half?” you try to say this as casually as possible, but your hands are wringing each other behind the counter as you speak. “i mean, i noticed that the emperor almost perfectly predicted what would happen, but it was still super vague.”

it takes kuni a few seconds to gather his bearings before he responds in stride. 

“it was in the story one of the elders told.” he explains. “the one that describes the man who had to pass three trials before he could figure out how to lift the curse.”

“oh!” you gasp, finally understanding what he had written. it was such a small section that you had completely overlooked it so you can’t help but feel a little amazed by his attention to detail. “i never caught that, good eye.”

“mn.” he responds stiffly. 

in the silence that follows afterwards, neither of you know what to say for a moment. the annoying fluttering is back in your stomach and even though you want to say a million things, not a single word forms on your lips. 

“did you know it was me the whole time?” kuni eventually asks, eyes burning holes into the counter. 

“yeah, pretty much.” you admit sheepishly. 

if you didn’t know any better you would think the tips of his ears looked a little red as you slid the clipboard in his direction, but you decide not to point it out and instead clear your throat and give a pathetic attempt at pushing the conversation forward. 

“so did you read the new one?” 

you don’t realize how stupid that question is until it’s already out of your mouth given the fact that it’s monday and you had just added the new one to the whiteboard about an hour ago, but he pretends not to notice that and glances behind you to see the title. 

“not yet.” kuni replies. “i’ll get around to it tomorrow.”

you can’t stop the smile that takes over your face at his words as a rush of warmth and anticipation fills your chest. 

as soon as you begin to internally debate whether or not to ask him where he’s been getting the weekly recommendations if he’s not borrowing them from here, it’s almost like he knows you’re waiting to bring that up because he’s already halfway to the door after he scribbles his information down on the list. 

“do you already own all of these books or-“

“see you next week.”

you can’t stop the tiny pfft that slips out as the door swings shut behind him. and just like that, the store is empty again. 

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

Annotations | Spencer Reid

Add yourself to my taglist! | Here’s my masterlist!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Just fluff! & a mention of child trafficking, but hey, what's different in the CM universe?

Author's note: I'm finally writing a season 1 Spencer fic! Wanted to add a bit of Elle in this one 'cause I do miss her! I actually also just love this one... I think it might just be my favorite Spencer Reid fic I've ever written.

Words: 3K

After a well-deserved day off, the BAU team was back at the FBI headquarters, ready to tackle another case. Spencer had enjoyed his Sunday at home, just reading and playing chess all day long, but he was happy to be back at work, too. 

He was the first one in the office and decided to head into the breakroom for a nice cup of coffee. As he stirred in his mountain of sugar, he turned and took a seat at the table. The breakroom table was almost completely empty, save from the single book that was on it. Intrigued by the lonely item, Spencer reached for it. ‘Looking for Alaska’ it read on the black cover just above the cartoon of a daisy. 

It was a book he hadn’t read yet but after quickly reading the back, he was quite interested to read the whole book. Seeing as Spencer had a little bit of time, which was probably enough for him to finish the entire book, he started reading it whilst enjoying his morning coffee. 

As he went through the book, Spencer noticed the annotations in the margins and the highlighted quotes. Something he’d found even more interesting than the book in itself. There was so much you could learn from a person by just reading their margin notes and even their handwriting. 

From the handwriting alone, Spencer could tell a lot about the owner of this book. The letters were of average size with a lot of space between them. They even slightly slanted to the right. They were well-adjusted and adaptable, they enjoyed their freedom and didn't like to be overwhelmed or crowded. 

Whoever this person was, judging from their notes in this book, they were the smartest and most interesting person ever in his opinion. 

“Everyone who wades through time eventually gets dragged out to sea by the undertow.” 

They had underlined the quote and wrote “Everybody dies – Death is inevitable” in pink. Spencer fought the urge to write his own thoughts right next to it. This was someone else’s book, not his. He couldn’t ruin this person’s book with his scrawny handwriting. 

Besides, his coworkers started to file in and JJ told everyone to gather in the briefing room. He left the book on the table and joined his coworkers on the case instead. Though his mind was preoccupied with the details of the case, it kept going back to the notes in the book. 

He didn’t even know who this person was and still, he couldn’t keep them out of his mind. It even got to the point that he got weirdly excited when the book was still there when he returned from the case two days later. 

This time around, he decided to write his own thoughts in the margins. They had used a pink pen, which allowed him to use his usual black one that made his notes stand out from theirs. It felt weird writing in someone else’s book, but he felt somewhat of a connection to this person reading through her annotations.

They had gotten halfway through the book, Spencer noticed. The annotations stopped when the ‘AFTER’-part started. Which was where Spencer decided to stop, too. He could read the entire book before their morning briefing, but he didn’t want to spoil the person reading this. 

Besides, he secretly hoped the book was there again tomorrow with more notes for him to read. 

Luckily for Spencer, the next day he got in, the book was still there. Or, upon further inspection, he found that the book was there again. The person had continued reading and continued annotating. When he went back to the notes he wrote down, he noticed more pink words. 

“What’s your Great Perhaps?” 

With a soft smile, Spencer grabbed a notepad with the FBI logo imprinted on it before scribbling down the answer to her question. There wasn’t enough space in the margins for all his ramblings, so this was his best option. 

Once he was done, he stuffed the A6 page between the book in the right spot before continuing to the next part where new notes in pink lettering had appeared. They had underlined and highlighted a couple of quotes, written down some thoughts. 

Spencer actually found her notes more interesting than the book itself. 

For days, Spencer spoke to the book’s owner through their notes. At first, it was ‘Looking For Alaska’ for a couple of days. Even though they had already finished the book, they kept communicating through their notes. The next Monday, they had left him ‘Little Women’ by Louisa May Alcot. As they kept going back and forth, they kept changing the book they left. From old classics to poetry books to new releases, the two of them had their very own book club, even if he didn’t even know who this person was. 

“What are you doing?” Elle asked when she entered the breakroom where she found Spencer hunched over yet another book. 

It had been ten weeks since Spencer had first given his thoughts on Looking For Alaska and now he was reading ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’. Or, in Spencer’s case, he was re-reading it. It had been Spencer’s favorite book since forever and it made him wonder if she knew that. 

“Oh, I’m–” he let out a chuckle. “I-I guess I’m kinda book clubbing with someone I have never seen before.” He looked up to find Elle staring down at him with an amused smile on her face and an eyebrow quirked. Spencer chuckled before turning back to his book. “Yeah, I know how it sounds. But she’s been leaving me books in the breakroom and we’ve been leaving each other notes in the margins.” 

“She?” Elle questioned, stirring her milk into her coffee. 

A smile befell Spencer’s lips as he tried to hide the obvious red tinge that tinted his cheeks. “Yeah, I learned that her name is y/n a couple of days ago. She’s been writing to me in the margins in a pink pen.” 

“Romantic,” Elle wiggled her brows, which didn’t help Spencer’s furious blushing at all. “Have you seen her around? I mean, she must work here, right?” 

“I haven’t dared to look her up yet.” His coworker shot him an inquisitive look. “Yeah, I-I guess I’m kinda nervous? I mean– I got this pretty vivid image of her in my mind from her words on the paper and even her handwriting, I guess I’m scared she’s going to transcend my expectations.” 

A teasing smirk tugged at Elle’s lips. “You’ve got a crush,” she pointed out. 

“Who’s got a crush?” Morgan asked when he and Penelope walked into the breakroom, sending an even deeper red to Spencer’s cheeks. 

“No one,” he mumbled before grabbing his book and coffee, and heading back into the bullpen. 

The worst thing was that Elle was right. He did have a crush on someone he didn’t even know. He knew her thoughts on every single book that ever existed and he could tell a lot of things from her handwriting and her notes. 

No matter who she was or what she looked like, she was already the most beautiful girl in the world to Spencer. 

And that scared him. 

Especially when he started noticing the books she was leaving him. At first it was ‘The Other Einstein’ then ‘Crime and Punishment’ and lastly, she left him ‘The Color Purple’. When she left him that last book, he knew she knew who he was. She wasn’t scared to look him up and find him. 

By week eleven, she started leaving him notes on his desk, too. It surprised Spencer that she hadn’t pushed him to meet. It had come up once, but Spencer got too scared and dodged her question. He thought she would just stop talking to him because he didn’t want to meet, but when the next book came the day after, he knew she respected his decision. 

“I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ask. And that in wondering about the big things and asking about the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, the more I love.” 

Upon reading the note, Spencer felt the tips of his ears heat up. He started to fall in love with the swoop of her ‘s’ and the way she dotted her ‘i’s and crossed her ‘t’s. 

He reread the note a couple of times, each time even better and more beautiful than the last. And each time, he noticed more and more how the pink ink was fading at the very end. 

That was when he decided to buy her a new pen. Two even. One with pink ink, the other with purple. He left them in the break room, slotted between his copy of ‘Love: Poems’ but not without underlining his favorite quote in the purple color. 

“Does the one who always waits suffer more than the one who has never waited for anyone?”

When Spencer found the book again a couple of days later in the exact same spot he had left it, he wondered if she had found it and read it at all. The disappointment slowly built inside his chest, bracing him for the worst. 

But when he opened the book, the pink pen had vanished and underneath the line he’d indicated with the purple pen was her answer. 

“So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Til then my windows ache.”

The first five words were underlined twice as well as the last part of the line. She had even drawn little hearts in the margins. Spencer couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. He was probably crazy for thinking this girl felt the same way about him as he did about her. But seeing this, seeing the little hearts, he couldn’t think anything else. 

“You seem happy this morning,” Penelope said as she and Elle walked into the breakroom for their own coffees. 

Spencer quickly slammed the book shut and looked up at his coworkers. “Yeah, uh… I-I guess.” 

The two women in front of him exchanged glances. It was stupid of him to lie to one of the best profilers in the BAU and the woman who thrives on workplace gossip. He knew that, but he couldn’t just come out and tell them he was falling in love with someone he’d never met. 

“It’s her, isn’t it? Y/N?” Elle asked, her lips curling up on one side into a smirk. 

Penelope’s eyes shimmered at the promise of some new office drama while the two women walked closer towards Spencer to take a look at the book in front of him. Though he held his hand tightly on the item, Penelope and Elle somehow knew how to pry it off and open it, causing the purple pen to fall out and fall on the carpeted floor. 

Almost feverishly, Spencer picked it up and dusted off any dirt that had gotten on it. 

“She’s drawing hearts,” Elle pointed out. 

“Aww!” Penelope cooed. “She’s drawing hearts!” She clutched her chest as though her heart was going to pop out. 

Trying to ignore the heat that rose to his cheeks and that probably tinted his skin a bright red, Spencer grinned sheepishly. “What d’you think that means?” he asked, pushing his glasses further up his nose. 

“I think she’s into you as much as you are into her,” Penelope commented excitedly, which didn’t do much good for the blush residing on his cheeks. 

“You think so?” 

Elle scoffed. “Yeah! It’s very clear you guys are into one another. You should ask her out!” 

Before Spencer could say anything, Hotch poked his head inside the breakroom. “Who should ask who out?” he asked, having caught just the end of their conversation. 

“Spencer and y/n,” Elle replied without batting an eye, much to Spencer’s dismay. 

It was one thing some of his coworkers knew, but having his boss know about his little crush. This was even more embarrassing than when Morgan had tackled him in a park in Illinois when they were hunting down an L.D.S.K. and they had to duck before they would get shot. 

“Oh, y/n from the third unit?” Hotch asked, immediately capturing the youngest’s attention. He knew her? It surprised him a little that he didn’t know that. Neither did he know that she was in the crimes against children unit, though that part didn’t surprise him that much. “She’s coming in to help us with the case later today. We’ve got a child trafficking case.” 

Spencer completely froze up. He was actually going to meet her and it wasn’t even on his own terms. Of course, this was bound to happen, seeing that they worked in the same building. But he’d hoped he could ask her to meet him away from work. When he wanted to. 

“Seems like you’re gonna get your chance to ask her out, Romeo,” Elle joked as she smacked the book against his chest, holding it there for a moment until his hands got a hold of it, before passing by him.  

Penelope and Elle followed behind Hotch, leaving Spencer in the breakroom. He looked down at the book for a moment. He wasn’t going to have time to underline anything as a message to her, so instead, he drew a quick purple heart right next to the pink one she had drawn. At least then she’d know that he had seen it. 

During the briefing, Spencer couldn’t quite concentrate. His mind was a little too focused on the impending meeting. He was incredibly curious to know what she looked like and sounded like and if her perfume did smell of violets the same way her books sometimes did. 

“We’ve got the agents of the third unit consulting on this case with us,” Hotch explained to them and the mention of the unit y/n worked at captured Spencer’s attention. “Let’s meet at the SUV’s in ten minutes.” 

Hotch concluded the briefing and exited the room, having the others follow behind him. While everyone either went for a quick bathroom stop before leaving or gathered their stuff from their desk, Spencer made a beeline for the breakroom where he was hoping to meet her. 

As predicted, there was a girl hunched over the book he had left with a pink pen in her hand, scribbling some of her well-thought notes on the pages, sprinkling a portion of her in his belongings. She clutched her pen, her thumb sticking out ever so slightly. It looked almost childlike, but it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.

“You hold your pen funnily,” he pointed out, capturing the girl’s attention straight away. 

Though at first, her brows were furrowed at the weird comment, her features quickly softening as her eyes landed on him. “Hi,” she greeted, her face breaking out into a big, toothy grin. 

Spencer’s world started spinning. The girl he had been talking to had to be the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Her smile, her bright, shimmering eyes, the freckles that were scattered across her nose and cheeks like a constellation… Everything was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. 

He was proven right. She did exceed his expectations in every way possible. 

“It always shocked me when I realized that I wasn’t the only person in the world who thought and felt such strange and awful things.” The quote rolled off his lips a little too easily. But it was the first thing that popped into his head once he realized he hadn’t said anything and he was just staring at her. 

Y/N’s head tilted slightly, almost in confusion. Then, she stood up and slowly approached Spencer. “At some point, you just pull off the Band-Aid and it hurts, but then it’s over and you’re relieved.” 

There was a double entendre to her words. On one hand, she was merely quoting the first book they’d read together, but on the other, she was telling Spencer that them finally meeting was like pulling off a Band-Aid. 

Though in this case, it didn’t hurt. 

Spencer let out an airy laugh as he looked down at her. She was actually right here. In front of him. He could touch her, if he wanted to. He could smell the hint of the violet perfume she used. He could look into her eyes and actually witness how soulful they were. 

“I-I’m sorry it took so long for us to– I didn’t mean a-anything. It’s just–”

She placed a hand on his arm to stop him from stuttering and rambling, and chuckled. “It’s fine, Spencer. I get it. We were sucked up in our own world, communicating through these books… It was hard to break that bubble.” 

“Yeah,” Spencer all but whispered. He then grabbed the hand of hers that was still on his arm and squeezed it. “But now we can–we can talk about books in real life?” The statement came out in a question, uncertainty dripping from his tone. “I-I know this really nice bookstore in the city. I-I’d love to take you there sometime.” 

Her face lit up at his words. “Are you asking me on a date, Dr. Reid?” she asked. 

An awkward chuckle rolled off his lips as he scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, not wanting to let go of her hand just yet. “Yes? I-I mean, if you wanna go. You don’t have to feel like you have to say yes.” 

Y/N squeezed his hand right back. “I would love to, Spencer.” 

And just like that, their fairytale that started in the margins of her books, sprang to life. 

Underlined quotes came out into longing gazes and sweet touches.

Annotations became sweet nothings whispered under the dim light of the bookstore. 

The perfect romance you’d only read about in books. 

Everything taglist: @calamitykaty @littlemissaddict @n0wornever @wanniiieeee @unnowhatthisistbh

Criminal Minds Taglist: 

@boimlers-gonna-boim @samsbirks @tinaasthings @dysphoricsanity @love4lando @elenamoncada-ibarra @r-3dlips @magstheslayer 

[ravisinghs-wife]

Could you please post grayson x reader dating headcanons?

Grayson Hawthorne dating Headcanons

word count: 0.8k

warnings: ooc!grayson, one Taylor swift reference but none besides that, I'm pretty sure (let me know if I missed any!)

a/n: English isn't my native language, so I apologize for any mistakes

Masterlist

His love language his quality time and gift giving

you'd have a sleep over every few weeks

you would stay up late and do different activities like reading, watching movies or just gossip and talk about everything

he would always do many little different things that show that he cares about you

they would be little things like always keeping your favorite pillow fluffy or always having your favorite drinks and snacks in stock

he would annotate books for you and write a two page review on it

he would read your favorite books immediately after you read them so you have someone to talk about the book

he'll always have your favorite book/your current read on him on road trips incase you get bored and forget it

he spoils you ROTTEN

he'd buy you your favorite things, whatever you desire be it vinyls, books or plushies

he takes you on shopping trips where you drag him into the book store

he'll listen to your rambling about your favorite books, and books that you want to read

he secretly takes a picture of every book that you look at so he can gift them to you

he'll buy you the call it what you want necklace <33

"not because I own you but 'cause I really know you"

you MELTED on the spot

you'd get him a polaroid camera and he would always gift you hs favorite photos

you somehow convince him to post some of his photos on Pinterest

he does it anonymously tho

his Pinterest page would blow up and all the booktok girlies would use his pictures in one of these "convincing you to read this book by its aesthetic"

most of his pictures that he publishes on Pinterest are candids of you tho

dancing together<33

he would also teach you how to take professional pictures, if you don't know how to

every time you want a photo of you for your instagram account or just because you like how your outfit looks right now, he'll be ready to make a whole photoshoot on the street

he always take the most perfect pictures of you and you have so many perfect photos of yourself

he would love to teach you how to dance, if you don't know how to

he is a perfectionist so It could be a bit hard to learn it with him

"not like this, you stepped on my foot for the second time already"

"I guess your teaching skills are just really bad"

"or you're just a really bad student"

he'd love to teach you things and you would teach him skills that you are good at in reward

he would also teach you how to fight with a sword because why not

you would teach him things in reward that you are good at and he isn't

for example if you are good at crochet you would teach him that

"no, you have to hold your fingers like this"

"but I AM holding my fingers like you are holding yours"

but he eventually figures out how to do it after an hour or so

he immediately is perfect in it after he figured it out and he is able to crochet a perfect sweater after only TWO DAYS of learning it

one day you go to built a bear and make a bear that always reminds you of each other

you guys also use this function where you can take a audio

you record an audio of each other and put it in the bear of the other one

every time you are aways from each other and miss you, you listen to it

sneaking out to the pool at night together<33

he has a soft spot for you so when his brothers find out who gets him smiling at his phone like that they immediately want to meet you

this is very important for Grayson because his family is such a important thing in his life and he just wants you do get along but is scared because his brothers can be big idiots sometimes

but his worries are not coming real

you get super well along with his brothers and become besties

you get along the best besides Grayson of course with Xander

he's just amazing and makes a "welcoming karaoke" as he calls it

you and Grayson sing a duet

you two would also pull pranks at this brothers

taking morning walks together <33

you would always pick tiny flowers from the garden and put them in his hair

HE LOOKS ADORABLE WITH THEM

building lego flowers is not a rare activity for you guys

you would always meet for the afternoon and plan the rest of the whole day for the building of lego flowers

you guys whole room is full of lego flowers

you also would also play chess together

he definitely has a goodreads account

you are his only friend on there because he refuses to accept any other people

he's the first one to like your updates and reviews

in overall dating Grayson would be like the cutest things in the whole world<33

[mossman004]

My aesthetic

hating school but loving to learn

messy and smudged cursive written in black ink

almost illegible notes

room full of house plants

candles everywhere because ew electric lights

scattered papers all over the floor and desk

owning a bookshelf but half of the books are in piles on the floor

obsessed with David Bowie, Queen and any other rock stars from the 70s

studying with music but the genre of music changes every 10 songs

drinking way too much tea and coffee

sleep?

shelves if trinkets collected from walks (rocks, crystals, bones, dried flowers)

annotating classics with words like "LMAO" and "that's rough buddy"

rereading dead poets society, the secret history and the picture of Dorian Gray a million times

obsessed with astronomy

researching topics and conspiracy theories at 3am

scrolling through TikTok and Pintrest instead or studying

Reading horror books (Lovecraft and Poe)

Only wearing Doc martens and converse cuz they're the only shoes i own

mixing grunge (flannels, ripped jeans, band tees, fishnets) with fancy clothes (grandpa sweaters, collard shirts, dress pants, blazers)

leather jackets covered in pins (bonus points if they're handmade)

loving cryptids and all things supernatural

crimes, sci-fi or horror movies playing in the background while studying

notes covered in doodles

hair constantly being messily pulled back

way too much jewellery

heavy eye makeup (bonus points if slept without taking off)

loving the rain/ dancing in the rain

Mars bars and mint aeros

book pages beside band posters on walls

obsessed with eyes ( but can't make eye contact)

spending cold days at art galleries, museums, and libraries

playing punk rock on guitar and classical music on piano

having the same hairstyle for 3 years

ink and paint covered hands

in love with the moon

talking to the moon and stars

freaking out about failing a test and then getting 100%

Greek Mythology

"Achilles was a bottom"

sleeping with 10 blankets

crying about dead historic figures in the middle of the night

using halloween decorations as everyday decorations

POMEGRANTE

justice for pluto

protesting women's and lgbtq rights

ranting about the issues of misogyny in ancient greece

coffee stained paper

finding random things in pockets

singing songs in different languages but not knowing what the lyrics mean

chipped nail polish

A bowl of used matches

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 6.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, my terrible, terrible combat writing, descriptions of injuries, allusions to suicide

story playlist

Instead of sleeping that night, Shera read over Aemond’s notes, unable to start once she started. She lit a few candles, shoving Moongeist over in bed. “Taking up too much room, bubby,” she huffed, sitting cross legged and stacking some blankets and pillows into a makeshift book stand. Finally, after adjusting the candles position a few times, she could finally see. She began to read.

‘Ser Symeon was known to wield a long staff with blades at both ends and would spin it in his hands to chop down two men at once.’ the text said. Aemond had written, very crudely and sloppily; ‘Ask Criston about double ended staves. What about double ended morningstars? Is there such a thing?’

Between notes and annotations, he would have pieces of plain parchment shoved between the pages. Upon it were no words, but drawings. They started simply, a shaky depiction of a box, an etching of a vase in charcoal. As the years progressed through the book, his drawings improved. He never strayed from the medium of simple charcoal on parchment, but they were still very good. 

Shera tilted her head, inspecting the folded papers. She wouldn’t have expected Aemond to be the artistic one, she always thought Helaena to take up that mantle with her intricate embroidery of various insects and beyond. But these were on par with etchings pressed into a maester’s journal, or something displayed in a posh palace in Essos. She realized that besides a creative outlet, these served another purpose— it hit her quickly, he used drawing as a way to train his lone eye back into a sense of depth perception and attention to detail. Those two things were what Shera suffered with immensely, still. As adept as she’d become with sewing, she still pricked her finger or accidentally sewed into her skin because she couldn’t see the correct position of the needle. Her designs for her clothes were intricate but hardly ever symmetrical and never able to be duplicated. 

It was so… smart. It was so smart of Aemond to pick up the skill of drawing, something so inherently reliant on sight, to train himself back to some sense of regularity. It was so… Aemond. 

Shera clenched her hand, her nails sinking into her palm. Why didn’t she think of that? Why didn’t she do anything— her sewing was hobbyistic at best and not nearly enough to train her eyesight. She’d spent all that time wallowing in self-pity instead of doing something. 

She felt an acute feeling of despair, then. I should have written to him more. I should’ve bombarded him with letters and given him no choice but to reply. I should’ve pried to Helaena to see what he was doing beyond niceties. 

Letting out a sigh, she pushed those thoughts away. 

Out of curiosity, she flipped to the end of the tome and looked for the latest drawing. Three pieces of paper fell from the back, onto her lap. 

Opening the first one, it was a depiction of Helaena holding Maelor near the window. There were streams of light coming through the window and the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. Maelor was smiling, his chubby fist held out to the curtain, the small indent of his dimpled cheeks even visible. The detail was… exquisite, it was like looking at a mirror of such a situation.

Opening the second one, it was smeared with charcoal dust. Unlike the first drawing, this one took up the entirety of the page. It was hard to discern for Shera what she was looking at, at first. Leaning more to the light, it became clear. It was a portrait of Vhagar, evident in the pallor of her scales and lack of horns. Each scale was detailed impeccably, some wrought with scars and marks from her old age. The sag of her throat was held up in regard, her teeth jagged and crooked, opening in a sneer or even a laugh. 

Shera imagined what Vhagar’s laugh would sound like— something out of children’s stories, like a cackling witch, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she swirled a cauldron of bubbling green ichor. It made her giggle, the thought of Vhagar hobbling from a hut in the woods with a cane made of gnarled oak, waving away the children who dared to set foot on her property. She would need to tell Aem— someone about her depiction some day. 

She never did have the chance to see Vhagar up close, as much as she had wanted to. Aemond had promised to take her for a ride when it was daytime, so she could see the expanse of the ocean from the sky. But he never did. He wasn’t able to. Something in her heart clenched as she thought of the fact that Aemond only got one ride upon Vhagar with his full sight, one ride upon his destiny while he was still whole. Before it was taken from him— from… both of them. 

She unfolded the third paper. It was a drawing of a woman, someone Shera didn’t recognize. But they… felt familiar. The woman had billowing curls and a snarky smile on her face, eyes lit up with fire and fervor. The positioning of the piece made it feel like she was looking back to someone— her arm outstretched in an offering, as if to beckon the person looking towards them. 

Shera wasn’t sure what to make of it— the other two drawings had been something she knew and could understand. But she didn’t understand this one. She wondered who the woman was, even after she’d drifted to sleep.

—

“Shera, are you warm?” Helaena asked softly as she observed Shera fanning herself with her hand, while Moongeist was panting furiously. 

“She ‘ought to be,” Aegon grumbled, arms folded over his chest as he looked out the slats of the wheelhouse window. “She’s still dressed like she’s in the North. Winter isn’t coming down here, Shera. You can take off the fur.” 

“… a bit warm, yes,” Shera muttered, narrowing her gaze at Aegon. It wasn’t simply just the climate temperature, but the fact that there were so many people in this wheelhouse at present, all warm bodies exuding heat.

Helaena had Maelor on her lap with Aegon to her right, and the twins to her left, who were constantly swapping seats. Aemond was sitting across from Helaena and next to Shera. He tried to give her as much room as possible, but their thighs were still touching. Moongeist was sitting on the floor, riding out the bumps. 

“Who’s bloody idea was it to stuff all of us into one wheelhouse?” Aegon continued, a bit crabby due to his lack of wine. 

“We’re almost there, Aegon. You can stop your whining at any time.” Aemond finally uttered. He had been quiet the whole ride up to the Kingswood, focusing solely on looking out the window. 

“I will stop whining when there is a breeze, a bottle in my hand and that dog is about ten feet away from me,” the oldest prince huffed. “He smells.” 

“Aegon, you smell bad on the best of days. Moongeist just needs a bath— do you even know what those are?” Shera interjected, coming to her wolf’s defense in a heartbeat. 

Helaena, Maelor and the twins giggled heartily. Aemond cracked a grin at the joke. 

“Uncle Aemond should dunk you in the river again, kepa,” Jaehaerys tittered, still laughing away. “You might catch a fish in your mouth again!” 

Aegon rolled his eyes and sighed— his lips perking up into a soft smile. “Maybe Uncle Aemond and the dog can fish in the river instead. Isn’t that what wolves do? Catch fish?” 

“… that’s bears,” Shera said with an unamused tone. 

The wheelhouse came to a creaking stop and Aegon was the first outside. Moongeist was next, followed by Maelor, then the twins. 

Helaena helped Shera down the steps, Aemond behind her. 

In a turn of events, Shera unclasped the fur stole from her shoulders, as well as the outer layer of her dress, tossing it back into the wheelhouse. She instantly felt lighter, the breeze cooling her shoulders. She had on a gray silk dress with cutout shoulders and a high throat clasp. It was flowy, almost weightless material. She adjusted her hat, which was a gift from Helaena. It was a sun hat with a veil sewed around it, coming down just below Shera’s jawline. 

“Ah, finally, you look somewhat like Shera and not a furred beast,” Aegon whistled, walking backwards towards the clearing. 

“I don’t wish to be encumbered any more than I already am in the wilderness. If I am chased by a boar, I don’t need ten pounds of fabric weighing me down.” 

“If you’re chased by a boar, then we will be eating roasted boar that very night, won’t we, Moongeist?” Hela cooed to the wolf, who was letting Maelor climb on his back.

“It feels strange,” Aemond murmured behind Shera, his hand ghosting over the small of her back to help guide her, as Moongeist was playing nanny to Maelor– which she didn’t entirely mind. “To be back here after all of this time– all of us.”

“Except Daeron,” Shera reminded him gently, her hand going down to pat Moongeist on pure instinct, but upon realizing he wasn’t there, she let out a noise of discontentment, her hand going to her chest to rest upon her furs, which weren’t there either. “Ugh, I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m walking alone.”

“Moongeist is the new Daeron,” Aegon called back, now having Jaehaera upon his shoulders, while Jaehaerys was on Helaena’s shoulders. “I’m sure your dog can squire just as good as Daeron, anyhow.”

“You could always hold Aemond’s hand, Shera, like you used to,” Hela giggled, Aegon howling in turn.

“Oh, please, you didn’t get me anything for my nameday, brother– count this as my gift if you and Shera skip through the flowers hand in hand!” 

Aemond scowled. “If my niece weren’t upon your shoulders, brother, you’d be on the ground, preferably with a black eye.” 

Aegon stuck his tongue out mockingly and Jaehaera imitated him.

Soon enough, the troupe was sitting down in a grassy clearing, blanket over the dirt. The twins were stained blue already from the amount of blueberries they consumed, laying on their backs in the sun like two turtles. 

Aegon had managed to open a bottle of wine, sipping on it frequently while snacking on cheese and crackers.

 Helaena had a leaf insect crawling on her fingers, murmuring to herself as she observed it carefully. “They do not bleed… the mulberry leaves, they walk, animated upon mine hand… when crushed, they do not bleed, no blood… the leaves have no blood,” she hummed, the foliage-like creature.

“Do they change color with the seasons, Hela?” Shera asked as she, too, watched the bug. 

“Yes, they do,” the princess replied, violet eyes not moved from the insect. “In Winter, they die and crumble like the leaves, becoming gray and desiccated under the earth… but they’re just sleeping.”

“Mumma, mumma, tadboles,” Maelor squealed as Moongeist padded into the clearing with the toddler upon his back. “There’s… tadboles!”

Helaena was snapped from her reverie by his squeak. She extended her hand to offer the bug to Shera for a moment before an expression akin to recognition came over her face. “I’ll… put him back on the plant.” she murmured low.

Shera thought about her… disassociation spell from the previous day while staring up at the sky. They were in an enclosed clearing with tall trees all around them, the scent of pine sap wafting through the air. She watched birds pass overhead in the sky— they looked like robins, always in a flock. 

There was a large, dead tree near the edge of the forest. Its bark was stripped from its trunk, laden with woodpecker holes, cracked and splintered. It had a larger opening in it, showing that it was hollow inside. She wondered if a family of raccoons lived there. 

Turning her head to another part of the Kingswood, she felt that waft of breeze over her face again, just like yesterday. The same cream colored blur whizzed past her without any noise, merely the sensation of movement. She tried to follow its path, jolting up suddenly with alarming speed. 

She lost track of it. 

Putting a hand to her head, she groaned. She sat up way too fast, sending her brain into a tizzy. Glancing around, everyone else was gone— save for Aemond, who was staring at Shera. 

“Where did they go?” she asked, her mind suddenly off of the creature evading her vision and moreso focused on the fact that everyone was gone. 

“They left half an hour ago, Shera,” Aemond said, a brow raised. “They went to the creek.” 

“Oh.” Half an hour ago? 

“Helaena said you do this,” he continued. “Disassociating?” 

“It’s… new. I think.” she muttered, pulling her legs up to her chest. 

“You should go to a maester about that.” 

“Mm. And why are you still here?” she tried to ask politely, but it ended up coming out a bit harshly. 

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave you alone here while you were… occupied. That’d be depraved indifference.” he huffed.

“Depraved indifference? Like leaving a dog tied up outside in a storm?” she grumbled, digging a finger into the dirt. “Is it so hard for you to say you care about me?” she uttered suddenly, slightly mortified that it came out of her mouth without thinking. Well, I suppose the cat is out of the bag now. 

Aemond stared at her, the pupil of his eye waned to a slit. His jaw clenched and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t need to say it for it to be true,” he said. “Words mean nothing, they’re empty and meaningless. Actions are everything— keep that in mind.” 

“You write a lot for someone who says words are empty and meaningless,” she pressed, the flare of indignation broiling in her— something that only surfaced when talking to Aemond. 

“You misunderstand me, Shera,” he said her name like a blessing and a curse, his lip twitching again. “Someone can say all they like. That they care, that they will do something, that they will fix something— but their words are empty unless they actually do it.” 

Her eye drifted once more, seeing the cream blur dive into the forest. She didn’t know what came over her, her limbs spurring into action as she got up with a start, bolting after it. She heard Aemond’s garbled voice behind her as she ran through the forest, eye unable to focus on it, but she could see it. Glimpses of it, calling to her as it bobbed and weaved through the branches.

Shera, Shera. She heard the whispers of some unfamiliar being in the back of her mind like an itch, a buzz at the base of her skull. It was calling to her, pulling her to it. She lost her shoes somewhere along the way, bare feet traipsing on the ground, cutting into jagged rock and sharp branches.

Aemond’s voice was more urgent now, but she still couldn’t understand what he was saying. And she… she was outrunning him. She felt like a doe, agile and free and the pain of her feet, bleeding and punctured, didn’t even bother her. 

Come, come, little wolf! Come.

The dark of the forest let up into a wide expanse of blue sky, blue sky and the scent of the ocean… the blur was gone and all she felt was open air as she skidded off of the cliff. It was freeing, those splinters of wings bursting through her elytra, cracking and flitting. She treaded nothingness…

Then her wrist snapped, pulled right out of its socket as she was yanked back, her ears ringing as the adrenaline died down. The breeze of the sea stopped as she was enveloped in warmth, in fire. She glanced up– Aemond was staring down at her with a wide eye, hair sticking to his forehead with the sheen of sweat.

“What the… fuck, Shera?” he breathed, his chest heaving. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” 

“No– n… no,” she croaked in turn, her uninjured hand grasping into the leather of his doublet with such force that her knuckles were white, veins bulging against her skin. “The… it…” her tongue felt tied, throat dry as the pain of everything caught up to her at once. Her bleeding feet, her ballooning lungs that couldn’t catch enough oxygen, her dislocated wrist, hand aloft at an odd angle. 

Moongeist barked somewhere in the distance, howl echoing through the forest.

She did not remember much after that.

—

The next moon was quiet for Shera as she recovered from her outing. The maesters set her wrist back into place and set it taut with a sling. Her feet were bandaged and she was prescribed bed rest for at least a week. They tried to give her milk of the poppy, but she refused– she couldn’t stand how it made her head swim, swim more than it already did.

Cregan blamed Aemond, threatening to take Shera back to Winterfell until the wedding. Rhaenyra calmed him, citing that Shera wouldn’t go out of the keep without a more attentive chaperone.

Once she was mostly recovered, lunched with Helaena every day and watched Aemond spar with Criston every other morning– but she usually hid behind the ramparts to where he wouldn’t see her– she felt oddly shy about watching him. She hadn’t had any disassociation spells, nor saw anything of the mystery blur. However, she did have Ser Erryk Cargyll as her sworn sword, issued by Rhaenyra herself. 

She hated being followed, being observed under a lens like she was a child. Indignation broiled in her chest– but one eve, while passing Aemond in the hall, he didn’t say anything to her. They hadn’t spoken since the incident, where Shera was fairly sure that Aemond was convinced she tried to kill herself by jumping off the cliff– she wanted to explain that wasn’t the case, to explain everything she’d been experiencing. But he would think her mad. Surely.

She pulled herself out of the corset after, slipping into a more comfortable, loose fitting garment. Shera had sent away her maids and told them not to return until the morn. She didn’t wish to be fretted and pulled at like a sickly hen, feathers plucked before the slaughter.

Slowly, she untangled the veil from her hair and set it aside. Fingers gliding through her braids, she let her hair fall in curled tresses down her back, resting well past her bottom once it was all out. 

The last thing to come off was her leather choker— she placed it on her boudoir, the tips of her nails ghosting over the still prominent scar there. She abhorred looking in the mirror, seeing nothing but a banshee looking back. 

Even though she had retired to her chambers, she didn’t sleep. She found it hard to sleep most nights and ended up pacing. It was late in the night and most of the Keep were asleep, save for the occasional guard. She found it the perfect time to sneak out to the tunnels that crisscrossed throughout Maegor’s Holdfast. 

She wished to test and see if she truly remembered the path that led to the water gardens— which she hoped still sparkled just as wondrously under moonlight as they did before. 

Moongeist was curled up atop her bed, snoozing away. He worked so hard to guide Shera that she loathed to wake him, so she didn’t. She wasn’t completely hopeless without her wolf guide, but it could be teetering on the edge of stupidity, to wander the dimly lit secret corridors without her safety net. Stupidity that masked itself in bravery in her mind. 

Glancing back at her veil and choker, she left them behind as she descended into the tunnel— she would be out of sight, and wished to let herself breathe for once, uninhibited and unveiled. She pressed to the wall for balance, her nightgown fisted in one hand, the other committing the curve of the stone to her mind, for later. If her memory served her correctly, she should be passing the royal apartments and the other guest rooms.

The sound of hushed voices caught Shera’s attention. In hindsight, it is rude to eavesdrop upon conversations– but she couldn’t help herself. 

The somewhat familiar gruff sound of Daemon’s voice met her ears as they perked up, pressed against the wooden backing of a bookshelf that led to the tunnel from, what she could assume, was Rhaenyra and Daemon’s chamber.

“She won’t be beholden to us, Nyra,” Daemon’s voice whispered in an urgent, hushed tone. “She was raised under them, she has no reason to like us.”

“The North is a powerful ally we need on our side once the time comes, Daemon. Cregan is already beholden to us by the oath of his father,” she breathed, “This is merely another way to bring the Starks into the fold. I’d rather them be ready to defend us, Shera, at a moment’s notice.” 

“Beyond the allegiances, the betrothals, the treaties; she is hardly a worthy vessel of Valyrian seed. A baby with dragon’s blood would tear that soft bellied wolf apart. Even then, are we so sure she isn’t still… in favor of Alicent’s brood? You saw her with the two at the dinner.”

“You’re thinking too far ahead, Daemon. I suppose I do love your… farsightedness, but we must focus on nearsightedness. We will deal with the issues of the girl’s mettle after I’m on my throne,” Rhaenyra turned, a finger pressed to Daemon’s jaw, which was clenched in agitation. “You needn’t worry. If her constitution proves weak, she shan’t survive the court— and any trace of allegiance she might have to my half siblings shall be snuffed out swiftly when the time comes.”

Shera felt her sudden burst of confidence fester into bile rising from the back of her throat. Once the time comes? Her stomach churned– she knew that there had been tension between the two sides of the King’s family but she hadn’t expected such planning and cunning already, before the gauntlet had even been thrown down, before the King had even passed– 

And she was a part of that plan, apparently. Moreso a link to her brother’s allegiances and by extension, the North. 

The tunnel she was in suddenly felt very small, like the walls were closing in on her. Panic bubbled in her chest like frothing sea water, the undercurrent threatening to drag her out to the endless expanse, water filling her lungs until they burst.

Her bare feet stumbled as she continued forward, trying to recognize any of the exits from the labyrinth, but it seemed fruitless. Tears welled, stinging and blinding her even further. She wasn’t quite sure how long she had been lost for– but it felt like the better part of an hour before she finally pushed one opening forward, falling out onto the stone ground of another room in the holdfast.

Shera sniffed, her hair falling in front of her face like inky tendrils, clinging to her tear streaked face. Her knee was skinned from how hard she’d fallen, blood trickling down her skin and staining her nightgown. Glancing around, her vision was beyond fuzzy, her head spinning. 

Idiot, idiot. She chastised herself further, fists supplanted into the ground, her nail beds scraping against the unforgiving stone as she attempted to pull herself up. 

She hoped to every God, the old and the new, that the room wasn’t occupied.

“Alicent? Alicent… is that you?” 

Fuck.

Shera froze, the croaking voice directed at… her? It was like hearing the Stranger speak, whispering in her ear. Surely it was a figment of her imagination. 

“Ali-cent,” it spoke again, followed by a hacking cough and a drawn out moan. “My… my medicine— have… you brought it?”

Shaking her head, she ventured closer to the bed where the voice was coming from, a lone beeswax candle lit on the bedside. Some incense was also burning, an intense smell of concentrated herbs that was almost too much for even Shera— what was this? Finally reaching the bedside, she was in horror at what she saw. 

Was this… the King? 

He looked more corpse than human, cheeks sunken and teeth missing and blackened. His body mass was half of what it used to be— he… he was so small now, his labored breathing, moreso wheezing, wracking his body. His eye was missing. 

She held back the urge to vomit as she got closer, now knowing what the incense mask was for. He smelled terrible— complete of death and rot, as if his body was already withering and decaying. It was on par with the scent of a dead elk she and Moongeist had found a few years before while exploring just outside of Winterfell. Its body was bloated and stinking, maggots writhing from the orifices of its body. It was one of the most disgusting sights she’d ever seen— ‘twas tainted meat, as the ravens and foxes wouldn’t even touch it. 

The King— Viserys the Peaceful. He was no more a king presently, akin more to fodder for vultures. No, she didn’t think that vultures would taint themselves with his rotten flesh. 

She peered on. Viserys wasn’t much older than Daemon, was he? And… as much as she hated to admit it, Daemon was only just past his prime, mayhaps still even in it. But Viserys… looked aged to about eighty or ninety, his skin liver spotted and plagued with… some disease she couldn’t identify. His hair was all but gone, sticking to the skin of his skull in small patches, like a child’s doll that’d been mutilated.

“… y-your grace?” Shera whispered, unsure of what to do.

“A-ah, forgive… me… dearest, there is a glint upon… your eye.”

Yes, and you lack one, decrepit corpse. Shera resisted the urge to huff. 

“The… the vial—,”

“This one, your grace?” she murmured, seeing a small phial of liquid. She sniffed it, the overwhelming scent of milk of the poppy hitting her nostrils.

“Mm.”

She handed the medicine to him, watching him struggle to even lift his bony, gaunt hand. She brought the lip of it to his mouth, listening to him greedily drink it as if it were the most delicious of wines.

“Much… better, thank you,” he breathed, putting his hand back over his forehead. “Have… you thought much more upon… Rhaenyra’s proposal?”

“Her proposal, your grace?” Shera responded meekly. She still wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, where the king thought she was Queen Alicent. Her hands shook as she put the empty vial back on the nightstand.

“Helaena… and Jacaerys… ‘tis a fine match… it would… reunite our… the… the house of the dragon.” 

Gods, what year did he think it was?

“... I am still mulling it over, my king,” she responded, glancing around the room for any way out.

“And… have Otto… send a raven to Lord Stark…” he wheezed. “Propose a union… between your ward… and Aemond. The North… has stayed out of the… realm for far too long…”

Aemond? There were talks of a betrothal to Aemond? Her heart began to race, even though she knew that the king’s mind was at least twelve years in the past or more– the mere thought of… it could’ve been true, it could’ve happened– 

She bit her lip until blood welled to the surface. Everything could have been different.

Did Alicent refuse? Was there… even a raven sent? 

“Yes, your grace,” she sniffed, holding back tears. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alicent.”