#it's just really odd sounding to not have the spoken lines

[torra-and-the-toons]

I'm a little sad the official soundtracks for the reboot took out some of the speaking lines in some of the songs, most notably the ones in the Ancient Roman Emperor and The History of the World because those two in particular, the speaking lines added to the song.

Plus it's just really odd to have these long, silent pauses smack-dab in the middle of the song.

And in The history of the world one, when Yakko almost says "shitty" it sounds sounds REALLY weird without the aliens' interruption there.

"We treated the workers real shi............................................................. [keeps singing like nothing happened]"

The one in ancient roman emperor is just funny as hell and I literally slammed my hand on my desk when they just skipped over it like how can you NOT include the "Um... We're still talking about Nero, right?" that shit was like half the reason that song was funny to me.

It's just a really odd choice to make imo.

[stevieschrodinger]

Steve eats, but only because Robin puts food in front of him. Only because she reminds him it's for the pup.

Like he needs reminding. Steve often rests his hand protectively over his rounded tummy. It's reflexive, to protect the only part of Eddie he has left. He feels like he hasn't slept in months, even though he knows he sleeps often, in broken bits and pieces.

He hasn't spoken for a long time, he knows that. Everyone watches him, and everyone used to tell him the same thing, 'they're just dreams Steve, Eddie is gone.'

Steve knows though, they aren't dreams. Eddie is alive, and he's trapped in the Upside Down because Steve didn't try hard enough, didn't push hard enough, didn't say the right things to get the others to believe him.

It upset Dustin the most at first, but Dustin has also been the most adamant because he saw Eddie die, can't even entertain the idea that Eddie might still be alive, because that means he left Eddie behind. That's a lot of guilt to ask a kid to carry.

Steve knows they're talking about him again, like them whispering in the kitchen makes it any better. Steve's starving himself. Steve isn't sleeping. Steve isn't showering. Steve's mate sick even if Eddie never mated him. It's the pup. It's the trauma. It's the nightmares.

They aren't nightmares though, not when Eddie holds him close, laid on a grassy meadow under a sunny blue sky.

El is here, kneeling in front of Steve, 'do you really think Eddie is alive?'

Steve clears his throats, feels full of cobwebs and sand, 'I know he is.'

Steve's said it a thousand different ways. A million. He's cried it and screamed it and shouted it and whispered it and said it as normal and level headed as he could make it sound, 'I am absolutely certain that Eddie is alive,' no one ever believes him.

She nods, 'we will check-'

'El.' It's Hopper, in the doorway, he said 'El' the same way he would say 'No'. 'We talked about this-'

'No, you talked about this. I am tired of this, for Steve, I will check. We will check, just this once.'

And Steve feels too broken to let himself hope, but he heaves himself up off the couch anyway.

El opened a gate in the pool. There's not been water in the pool for quite some time now, and it just seemed apt. A place where there is already a weakness in the world. Perfect for El.

In the end, just to stop the fighting, everyone has gone back to the Upside Down.

Steve squints at the sunny blue sky, not at all surprised to see it. Everyone else is making suitably shocked noises. The grass is green, the trees lush. From the trees, a demodog watches them. It looks different, like it fits here, healthy and well fed now, it shakes and stretches and then lopes off further into the woods.

Everything is overgrown, like the Upside Down is reclaiming everything that One created here.

Nearby, laundry flaps on a washing line, metal band shirts and torn jeans, 'Eddie,' Steve breathes for the first time in over six months, and heads into the house.

There's a bowl of odd looking fruit on the kitchen counter. In the lounge, books. So many books, all stacked and arranged into strange little towers like they are giants in a city, and the books are skyscrapers.

Upstairs, Eddie has clearly nested in Steve's room; there are guitar bits and tools on the desk, two guitars in parts.

The bed is mounded with soft things, Steve scents a pillow, it smells like Eddie...and not.

'Where the fuck is he,' Hopper grumbles.

Steve wants to snap. Wants to scream at them all. They fucking believe him now don't they? They could have had Eddie home months ago if-

Dustin has books from the living room, in the front of each is stamped 'Hawkins Public Library'. So that's where they go.

Steve doesn't know what to do when he spots Eddie. He's crouched on a table, bare toes gripping the edge. He's pale, even more so than before, skin a pale enough alabaster that Steve can see the shadow of blue veins underneath. He's flipping through a book, back and forth, back and forth, before finally stopping and hopping down from the table, 'Eddie?'

Eddie doesn't answer, eyes trained on Steve. His hair has grown, even longer, thick dark curls that Steve wants to bury his hands in.

There's a ticking noise, a low, growling rumble as Eddie stalks closer. Things happen very very quickly, Hopper raises his shotgun, El screams 'no,' Eddie's face peels apart like the petals of a flower filled with teeth as he roars and charges at them.

Hoppers gun is jerked up by an unseen hand, his shot causing plaster to rain down from the ceiling, and then Eddie is floating in the air, roaring as his face blends back to normal and then peels apart again, furious.

El's nose is bleeding, she wipes it away.

Steve moves closer. Eddie looks strange; taller. Leaner. Just, more, somehow.

Steve reaches for him, and Eddie desperately tries to get to him in return, clawing at the air, 'put him down, El.'

'Do not do that-' Hopper starts, but doesn't finish, because Eddie lands neatly on his feet, catlike in his grace, where El drops him.

He lunges for Steve, and Steve let's himself be pulled close and gathered up, Eddie clicking and chittering quietly in Steve's ear, scenting his neck, a strange sucking sensation on his skin as Eddie's face peels apart into one big mouth.

Steve relaxes. He has Eddie back.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

A Fair Few Questions

Aziraphale x Crowley x GN!Reader

In which the Reader finds out Aziraphale and Crowley are Supernatural entities and has a fair few questions for them.

Requests are: OPEN

“So… let me get this straight,” you say, “those are not coloured contacts… Zira, you’re an Angel, and Crowley is a Demon.” You blink as though it will clear the shock and confusion from your system. “And not as in cutesy pet names ‘Angels’ and ‘Demons.’ Real, biblical, Heaven and Hell ‘Angels and Demons.’” Oh, you might just faint if you weren’t careful.

Crowley sticks his bottom lip out thoughtfully for a moment, swishing his wine around in his glass. “‘Bout sums it up, yeah.” 

You let out an exasperated sound that’s not quite a word but not quite a formless sound either. Your hand comes up to rub at your forehead. A habit you’ve grown into. You were going to get wrinkles if you weren’t careful.

“I don’t- what do you mean,” you reply, frustration eating at your brain. “I have so many questions.” 

Aziraphale smiles comfortingly, patting his lap. They’re both sitting on a two seater lounge next to each other- Crowley splayed out in his usual fashion. You let out a little noise of protestion before immediately caving and going to lay across the two of them, head in Aziraphale’s lap. 

The headache immediately eases, and you wonder just how much Aziraphale had to do with it. Anything was possible, right? And now you were thinking about it, all of your aches and pains mysteriously disappeared when he was near. Odd, but suddenly making a whole lot more sense.

“Oh, my dear,” he coos, one hand coming up to play with your hair softly. “I know it’s hard to understand. Humans aren’t quite as aware of us as they used to be.” He looked to Crowley, who was downing some more of his wine ever-so-helpfully. “Crowley, love, do you remember back at the beginning- the Human’s recognised us as Angels and Demons by sight? It’s certainly not like that anymore.” 

“Mm, right,” Crowley replied, laying a hand over your legs and shifting them more comfortably for you onto his lap and not seeming a might bit bothered by the idea that humans did not recognise him by sight anymore. “You have questions, then?” 

You flustered for a moment, looking between the two of them. 

“Are you allowed to answer things?” You ask cautiously. You didn’t want to get them in trouble. Could they get in trouble?

“Uh, sure,” Crowley shrugged, setting his empty glass down on the side table. He propped his elbow on the back of the lounge so he could face towards you. 

“Is… God real?” You asked with another moments hesitation. 

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale replied, a reverent look on his face. “Most definitely, I’ve spoken with her once or twice.” 

You swallowed thickly and thought you might just move on from that line of questioning. The implications of what that meant were astronomical and way too much to focus on right now. 

“Do pets go to Heavan? Oh, please say yes.” 

Crowley chuckled and gave the outside of your thigh a comforting pat. 

“Yes, love, pets go to Heavan. I believe they have a rather nice park, too,” Aziraphale smiled, brushing his thumb between your eyebrows to ease the tension there.

“And- how old are you, really, then?” 

“Oh, we’re about six thousand years old,” Crowley says tiredly. You can empathise. Six thousand years is a long time. You’d be tired, too. You rub a hand down across your face, snuggling into Aziraphale’s tummy a little. “We’ve been here since the beginning.” 

“Since the beginning? Wait- does that mean- what about the Dinosaurs?” 

Crowley looks at you with a sly grin.

“That might’ve been us, I’m afraid, love.” You eye him in a way that says what-exactly-does-that-mean? To which he laughs, and replies, “it’s a joke Humanity hasn’t got yet.” 

You groan and cover your eyes, horrified by the information that has now been shoved at you. You don’t know what to do about any of this information. 

“Oh, dear, Crowley,” Aziraphale chuckles, looking down at you with such love. “I think we might have broke our favourite human.” 

Crowley squeezes your thigh and chuckles. “Mm, unfortunate. Might have to get a new one, eh, Angel? What do you think?”

“I rather think you might be right,” the literal Angel replies softly. You glare up at the two of them between your fingers, “but I do quite like this one.”

Crowley reaches over to pull one hand away from your face, bringing it to his lips to kiss softly. You cheeks heat at the intimate look in his eyes. His, you now realise- entirely real eyes and not at all contact covered. You lose yourself in them for a moment as he rubs your knuckles, lips pressing into the skin.

“Will you tell me something?” You ask, brushing a finger over Crowley’s cheek. “Something interesting you’ve done. I’m sure six thousand years worth of stories is a lot.” 

“Mm,” Crowley replied thoughtfully. “I suppose we do. As long as it’s not the fourteenth century. I hated the fourteenth century,” he makes a face. You filed that away to ask about another time.

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale said, cheeks about to burst with the strength of his smile. “Shall we talk about the court of Henry the eighth?”

Crowley lets out a barely contained bark of a laugh. “Oh, yes. Now that was an interesting assignment. Bit close to the fourteenth, though,” he added with a hint of a warning.

“You’ll live,” Aziraphale brushed him off as he began to tell you all the interesting tid-bits that only someone who was there at the time could tell you about. 

The three of you talked for several hours about different eras of history. You asking questions, Aziraphale being quite factual, and Crowley adding all the juicy facts and drama into the mix to keep things interesting. 

As it turned out, they had a lot of information about a lot of things, and you were looking forward to asking them questions about everything under the sun, before the sun, and everything in between. 

Heavens, you really did love them. 

And they loved you too.

[lumosinlove]

Day three of @oknutzy-week-2024 !!

On The Line

Part Two

Logan took his time getting dressed. Finn was no where to be found. Maybe he knew just as keenly that if he entered their suite, there was no way they were going to leave on time.

The thrum of the want between them, the ache that was always there, had reached a summery sort of fever. Logan hadn’t stopped sweating with it. He could see a thin sheen across his nose and cheeks—which were flushed. He looked at himself in the mirror as he did up his tie and smiled a little, shaking his head.

Was he really going to get everything he wanted this year? Winning at home and—

Finn. For the first time. Finally.

There was a knock at his door and Logan had to cover his mouth for a moment, his pulse jumped so hard. It was Finn. No one else knocked like that. Bum-bum-ba-bum. Logan put a hand against the wardrobe and closed his eyes. He had to calm down. High off the win, high off Finn…

“Hel-lo?” Finn called. “I’m looking for Logan Tremblay the famous—what was it? Baseball player? Hockey? Oh, that’s right, ten-nis.”

“Coming,” Logan gasped out, laughing. His voice sounded strange to himself. “I…” He swallowed. He looked at himself again.

He looked good. Really good. But when he opened the door, Finn made him want to die. He hadn’t changed yet—had probably been giving Logan space by charming the pants off his parents and sisters. He was just in a t-shirt and shorts, but Logan had kissed him now and it was like he was glowing. The way he was smiling at him. Logan’s mouth went entirely dry.

“Let me guess,” Finn said. He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut and making Logan back up until they were chest to chest. “Armani suit, night-forest green is what they call it. A subtle velvet lapel and a black satin tie. And the trousers…well, look at those thighs. They’re custom made.” Finn arched a brow. “Am I right?”

“You picked it all for me,” Logan said.

“Oh.” Finn grinned. “That’s right.”

“You look really good,” Logan said softly.

Finn made that face he did—that smile-frown—and looked down at his sweaty clothes from the match.

“I think that was my line,” he said.

Logan just blinked at him.

“But thank you,” Finn said softly. His eyes flicked down to Logan’s mouth. “I have to change.” He looked at something behind Logan. “You didn’t pop your champagne. The ice is going to melt.”

“Why would I do that without you?”

“So…You’re scared of the cork.”

“Ouais.”

Finn slipped past him, and when he untwisted the wire and wrapped his hands around the champagne bottle, Logan understood that he was being teased.

“Finn—”

Pop. It smoked but didn’t overflow. Finn poured Logan a glass and brought it over to him. When Logan just stared at him, he brought the glass to his own mouth, took a sip, and then held it to Logan’s.

“Go ahead, champion.” Logan drank. Finn put the glass in his hand. “Finish that. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Twenty,” Logan said faintly, and Finn sent him one last smile over his shoulder before shutting the bathroom door.

~

People were definitely trying to talk to Logan and Logan definitely kept losing track of what they were saying. Finn was in a navy suit. A black tie. He was wearing one of Logan’s watches and holding a glass of whiskey and ice that was sweating and sending droplets down his wrist. Logan wasn’t trying to be rude, he just had to excuse himself to get a drink or else he was going to drag Finn out of the party.

“Rum and coke,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the bartender said in French. “And congratulations.”

“Merci.” Logan smiled.

“That was an amazing match,” said another voice.

Logan looked up at the bartender, thinking he’d spoken again and wondering why his accent had changed. It had been French but…odd French. Besides, the bartender was at the other end of the bar, cutting up a fresh lime.

“Hi.” Leo Knut leaned against the bar at Logan’s left with those blue eyes and—dimples. Logan hadn’t noticed those before.

“You speak French,” Logan said in English. “Strange French.”

Leo laughed. “If you say so. And you’re welcome, by the way.”

“What?” Logan looked up at him. He wasn’t wearing a jacket—it must have been draped over a chair somewhere—and the sleeves of a white button-down were rolled up to his elbows. His hands were huge and Logan caught himself before he stared too long. He knew how fast a serve they could create, how powerful a stroke. “Oh. Thank you.”

Leo nodded, looking out towards the crowd. Logan did the same and caught Finn watching him. Be nice his eyes seemed to say. The bartender brought Logan his drink and he took a long, much needed sip.

“Sorry about your run,” Logan offered. He was blushing again, why was he blushing? “Archer’s a fucking baby.”

Jack Archer had beat Leo and been a complete fuck about it. Holding his hands up to his ears for the crowd, holding his racket and miming playing a violin, like he was some kind of master. At least some of the crowd had been in the right mind to boo him.

Leo laughed and took a sip of his drink. “Oh, you got that right. For sure.”

“You used to train together, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Leo said. “Before I discovered that he was a fucking baby.”

“Lo,” Finn said, appearing at Logan’s side. He smiled briefly at Leo. “Your sisters are looking for you. Hey, Leo. I’m Finn. Thanks for the waffle.”

Now Leo was definitely blushing. Logan pressed minutely closer to Finn.

“Hi…Um. I’m a big fan,” Leo said, eyes flicking to Logan. “And, yeah, that definitely wasn’t my finest moment.”

“No, it was delicious. Send me some syrup next time—well actually…” He wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulders. “He’s the sweet tooth.”

Logan shrugged. “Ouais.”

Leo laughed. “I saw you at breakfast have some coffee with your sugar.”

“Hey.” Logan ducked his head to play with his straw. “I’m a champion.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Leo raised his glass to Logan and Logan clinked it against his. Logan couldn’t help but laugh a little, too. It was so like Finn to break the ice like this. People came so easily to him and it impressed Logan every time.

“Well…” Leo hesitated. “Yeah. I just wanted to say congrats.” He looked between them. “Will I see you at Wimbledon?”

It took Logan a moment to realize Leo was asking both of them. He watched Finn realize it, too. Maybe the coach rumors were more widespread than Logan had known.

Oh,” Finn began and looked at Logan. He was obviously asking Logan and trying to be subtle about it.

As if Logan could go a single moment without Finn at his side. As if he wasn’t already planning to take Finn back to his house in Nice until Wimbledon started. As if he would go anywhere with Finn. As if he hadn’t already started looking up apartments in New York City because that was Finn’s home and that’s where Logan would go if Finn wanted it. Because this had to be equal. This had to be equal. A partnership.

“Ouais,” Logan said. “You will.”

Talking. Congratulations. Thank you. Yes, Wimbledon. Shaking hands. This is my mother and father. Yes, so proud. Are you the coach? Oh. Finn, bashful. I’m a friend. Helping out.

So far from the truth. There was that condensation droplet, tracking down his wrist, disappearing into the cuff of his suit. The curve of his throat. Finn, who could talk to anyone. Finn, who was looking at him. With a slightly raised eyebrow.

Logan blinked and looked away from him, at the circle of people.

A woman—what was her name?—was looking at him with expectance that was turning awkward.

“I’m so sorry,” Logan said. “I…”

Finn grinned and clapped a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Got a tired champion on our hands.”

The woman laughed, the awkwardness fading.

“I only asked,” she said. “What you might be planning for your time off?”

They escaped to the hallway at one in the morning. Goodbyes. Good nights. Congratulations. Thank you. Thank youThank youThank you—

Logan began walking towards the elevator quickly. If one more person stopped him he would—

Finn caught up to him just as he turned into an empty hallway of heavily curtain windows. The wrong way, he’d gone the wrong way, but it didn’t matter, and Logan let out a small sound when Finn’s hands caught his hips and pressed him up against one of the windows. They disappeared in the curtains and Logan could hear nothing but Finn’s breathing, smell nothing but Finn, whiskey, and velvet.

His world narrowed down to Finn’s voice and and those brown eyes.

“What have you been doing all night?” Finn whispered. “Ignoring your admirers.”

“I need you,” Logan’s voice shook. He put his hands on Finn’s chest. “Finn, please. Please—”

Finn pressed their foreheads together and Logan felt Finn’s breathing jump. He was just as desperate. Logan’s fingers closed around the lapel of his jacket.

Finn's hands smoothed down Logan’s hips to his ass. Logan could only pant, head tilted forward against Finn’s shoulder, and hold onto him. Like the clay, Logan wanted to roll around in everything that was Finn. He wanted to be covered.

There was a smile in Finn’s voice when he spoke again. “Lo.”

And then Finn was finally kissing him. Logan let himself be pressed against the window, lost in the thick folds in the curtain, and pinned by Finn’s hands.

Aren’t you lonely? Finn had asked him.

He had been. God, so lonely he thought he would die. But not now. Logan threw his arms around Finn’s neck.

“Finn. Up—the room.”

Finn kissed him again, then pressed his forehead to Logan’s temple, breathing hard. They stayed like that.

“God…” Finn whispered. Like he couldn’t help it, he gently cupped Logan’s chin and kissed him again, again, again. Soft things, like sips of water, of whiskey, like he couldn’t stop. The teasing temper was gone.

Logan smoothed his hands through Finn’s hair, stole four more kisses, and then pulled back to look at Finn’s closed eyes. He kissed one lilac eyelid, then the other.

“Come with me,” Logan said. His hands trailed down to Finn’s and he held them fast. “Come.”

Logan took Finn’s hand in his and pulled them from their secret folds of velvet—and face to face with Leo. Finn stumbled and pressed himself up to Logan’s back. He began kissing Logan’s neck, as if that’s why Logan had stopped. Logan’s hand went to his neck as if that would stop him. It only encouraged him.

“Oh,” came out of Leo’s mouth, soft and breathy.

Finn looked right up. His hands tightened on Logan’s hips.

Leo took a step back. Another. His blue eyes were wide, surprised…And then he seemed to settle. His shoulders relaxed. He put his hands in his pockets. He gave them a smile so slight that Logan wasn’t even sure it was a smile. He inclined his head, just a little, and turned, disappearing back down the hall.

Finn’s breath washed across Logan’s neck. “Lo?”

“C’est bon,” Logan whispered. He turned in Finn’s arms, looking up at him. “It’s…It’s okay.”

He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. Leo Knut might be his opponent, but he wasn’t his enemy.

Logan wasn’t sure, with Finn in his arms, that he had enemies. At least none that mattered.

The suite could have been a cell. It could have been underwater. It could have been not their room, it could have been a different hotel, a different planet. The heavy door slammed, locked, and Finn was against him again.

Logan was more careful when it came time to lay Finn out on the bed. He removed his clothes. No more need for satin or velvet or forest greens and navy. He wanted Finn’s pale ribs and lean, strong arms and narrow waist that Logan had to stop and put his mouth on. He kissed the pink scar on Finn’s knee, the soft skin of his inner thigh.

“You have no freckles here,” Logan whispered. “Only here.”

Finn looked down at him from the pillows, breathing hard. “I—I know.”

Logan brushed his mouth over the skin. He felt the muscle jump beneath his lips.

“Should I put something here?” Logan smiled. “Ouais, I think so.”

“You have to come here,” Finn said. “I’m going to die, you—come here.”

Logan went. How could he not? He sat back on his heels and began unbuttoning his shirt. Finn sat up and reached forward for Logan’s belt, but he got distracted and ended up kissing Logan until they both tumbled against the bed again, Logan’s shirt hanging loose. God, his kisses. Logan wanted more and closer.

“I’ve wanted you,” Finn said, words dragging when he was unwilling to break the kiss. “Lo, you have no idea—”

“Yes, I do,” Logan countered. “Yes I fucking do, you—I…You think I—Finn.” Logan kissed him so hard he felt their teeth knock. It startled a little laugh out of Finn and Logan kissed that, too. “I want…”

Logan pulled back to look at him. “I want you more than anything.” He put a hand against Finn’s hot cheek. “I want…I want to play cards with you, I want you to yell at me on runs, I want…”

How did he begin? How did he use words to make Finn understand?

But this was Finn. Finn who Logan knew understood him like no one else. He held Logan close to him, pressing until Logan let all of his weight go on top of him.

“Forget about my knee,” Finn said. “Say I was still playing and I was good. Winning and everything.” He reached forward and curled a lock of Logan’s hair around his finger. “If someone said to me, ‘Finn, you have to choose. You only get one thing that you really want in your life. What do you choose?’”

Logan tried to disguise his sharp intake of breath.

“You know what I’d choose?” Finn whispered softly. He was already smiling. “You,” Finn said. Then he leaned forward and kissed Logan’s forehead. “You.” He kissed Logan’s closed eyes, his cheek. “You.” His jaw, and his neck. “You.”

Aren’t you lonely?

“Logan, I love you.”

Logan wrapped him up, he let Finn ease his shirt from his shoulders, and couldn’t help his tearful laugh.

“I love you,” Logan said. “I love you…”

They fell together.

The sun of their sport was in Finn’s hands. Logan’s heart rushed like a win and he couldn’t keep quiet. Some accused him of never shutting up on the court—Finn inspired it. He coaxed sounds from Logan until Logan threw his head back. He didn’t care who heard him. He had Finn O’Hara. He had Finn O’Hara, he’d won.

Finn was no better. When Finn eased Logan down on his knees and forearms, Logan hoped his hips would be bruised by Finn’s grip on them. He hoped his neck and shoulders would hold the marks of Finn’s teeth forever. When the sun began to rise and Finn put Logan on his back and hitched Logan’s thighs around his hips, he fingers knotted in Finn’s hair, the other hand snapping to grip Finn’s ass. Finn ignited something vibrant inside him, raw and bright.

“I’m—” Logan tried to say. His thighs splayed over Finn’s hips now, his hands firm on Finn’s chest. He felt Finn’s palms round over his waist and everything in him melted. Finn tilted his head up to see his face. The grin Logan received looked blissed out, nearly drugged.

“Lo.” Finn’s mouth dropped open at the drag of Logan’s nails over his chest. Warmth. Sun in his veins. Logan bent and pressed his face into Finn’s neck. He smelled the traces of sunscreen and earthy clay, and let himself shake apart.

When the sky was pink, Logan got some ice for Finn’s knee, just in case, and Finn laughed at him. He brought them water and called room service to bring them two chocolate sundaes even though it was six in the morning. One melted while Finn fed Logan spoonfuls of chocolate covered vanilla, before kissing tastes for himself.

“I want you to stay,” Logan said.

Finn smiled. “Where would I go? Look at me.”

Logan took a moment to actually do so. Sweat cooling, hair a wreck. Logan touched a scratch on Finn’s shoulder, mumbled something about healing ointment, but Finn put a hand over it protectively.

“Stop, I like them.”

Logan pushed his face into his neck. “Well, non, I wouldn’t let you out looking like this.” Logan accepted another bite of ice cream. “But I didn’t mean that. I meant…”

Finn was looking at him so—hopefully. Logan felt himself blush—Finn laughed at that, too.

“Your blushing.” He kissed the heated skin and dropped his voice to a playful whisper. “I don’t think you need to blush with me.”

“Shut up,” Logan said, and kissed him to prove it. “Listen.”

“I’m listening.” Finn put the ice cream aside. “I’m listening.”

“I know—in the hospital, you said you might want someone separate from this life, but I—” Logan cut off again and sighed, laughing bit at himself. “Okay, there are two parts to what I want. You can say yes to only one or both. Or—or none, I guess—”

Finn rolled so they were even closer, so he was propped on a forearm and leaning over Logan, now on his back. Finn brushed his nose against Logan’s. He trailed his fingers up Logan’s chest. “Ask me.”

Logan swallowed. He sort of wished Finn would do what he always did and just know. But he’d also been holding in the words for so long that he needed to say them before they burned him up.

“I want you,” Logan said. “I want to be…I want us. Do you…”

Finn sort of fell against him. It wasn’t a kiss, though Logan’s bottom lip was pulled between Finn’s teeth.

“Yes,” Finn whispered, and then it was a kiss, a kiss like the one in the locker room. Hard. Sealing a fate. “Yes…”

“Again,” Logan heard himself say—embarrassing.

Finn tilted his head back and laughed, but Logan grabbed his shoulder and he was back, sharp teeth biting gently into Logan’s bottom lip, and then dipping to scrape against his neck. For a moment, Logan lay there with his eyes closed, feeling Finn’s teeth work his skin up into a bruise.

“Ask me the other part,” Finn said.

Logan settled his hands on Finn’s waist. “I’ve never loved this game so much as when I’m going through it with you.”

Brown eyes on him again. “Ask me.”

“These past few months, even when it was just over the phone—” Finn kissed Logan’s words and Logan held him tighter. “Watching tape, morning practices. I even like running when you’re there.”

Finn smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth, but stayed quiet.

“And I understand my opponents in ways I never did before. In your ways.”

“Ask, Lo.”

“I don’t even want this from you because I want to win everything,” Logan whispered. “I just want to spend every second of my day with you.”

“Ask.”

“There are rumors that you’re my coach.”

“And that we’re dating.” Finn smiled. “I think we’ve been dating for months now… So ask.”

“Let’s make them all true,” Logan said. “Be my coach and—and mine. Be mine.”

Finn studied him with soft, brown eyes. Logan could feel his happiness in his bones.

“Yes,” Finn said, then laughed, tearful. “Yes.”

Logan tugged until Finn rolled his weight to settle over him. Logan clutched at his back, turning his face until their mouths found each other again.

~

It was nice, winning Paris and being able to go home. Really home. Surprisingly, the house he kept in LA usually felt just as homelike, but there was something different about being able to go anywhere and having it be French that surrounded him, not English.

And there was something different about bringing Finn home…Finn. His coach.

His.

Finn did the same thing he did in the hotel suites. Walked around, took his time, touched things. Except this time it was Logan’s rooms, not some sterile hotel that Logan just happened to be in. He dropped his bags at the door and looked around the stone house with richly patterned terracotta tiled floors. The far wall was all windows with a patio that overlooked the cliffside and the sea far down below—and where Logan had both hard and clay surfaced courts with the same sea view. Finn leaned in to look at his photographs on the wall. His first wins. Him and his sisters. Finn smiled and touched the glass of one where a baby Logan was being squished nearly to death by the grinning little girls.

He turned back to the center of the living room and looked up at the high, vaulted ceilings where skylights let in more light. The open kitchen, only a massive stone island separating the living room and the appliances. A hallway leading down towards the bedrooms and…

“It’s gorgeous,” Finn said softly. He went to the balcony and slid open the glass door a little. Immediate, the sea whipped its salt and sun into the room, ruffling Finn’s red hair.

It was a good house. Logan had always thought so. But now it was gorgeous. With Finn’s socked feet and Finn’s bags by the door. Finn’s plane sweatshirt draped over the white, massive couch.

“Come here,” Logan said, holding out his hand. “I have a present.” Finn’s eyes dropped down Logan’s body and the entirety of it warmed. “Not me.”

“Then I’m spoiled,” Finn said, but followed.

It was a bit of work, walking Finn past the master bedroom’s door, but Logan had a goal. It had involved planning ahead, calls with his grounds keeper, Luna. Logan had only seen pictures, but he knew it would be perfect.

They came to the short ladder first. Logan touched the smooth, dark grain. Exactly as he had imagined it. He turned back to see Finn already staring upward, towards the still hidden, small loft space above that had replaced what had once been a bedroom.

“I never knew what to do with this room,” Logan said. “I didn’t need an office. I didn’t need a fifth bedroom. So…So I tore it down and made it this. It’s for you.”

Finn stared at him. “What do…What do you mean you made this?”

“I knew what I wanted,” Logan said. “I knew what you’d want.”

Finn was still staring at him. He already looked good from the salt air.

“You made this…for me?”

Logan just stepped away from the ladder and let Finn go up first. When Finn was a few rungs up, high enough to see what lay atop, he stopped.

Logan put a hand on his calve. “Your knee. Is it—”

“It’s fine,” Finn said softly. He was gazing around the space. “It’s…oh wow, Lo.”

A pleased little shiver ran up Logan’s spine and he followed Finn halfway up the ladder, enough to rest his arms on the floor but give Finn the space to himself. Finn looked at the cushy white chaise, the pillows and blankets. He flicked on the warm glow of the reading lamp, then off again. Finn touched the empty shelves, then the single filled one.

“These…These are what I’ve been…” He turned to Logan, wide-eyed. “Did you, like, take notes?”

“I like to know your game. That includes books you wanted,” Logan said. He took a breath. “You said that, as a player, you wanted a partner to feel like your equal. Mais…I’m the player. I want it to feel equal, too.” He pulled himself up another rung on the ladder. “Do you like it?”

Finn let out a watery laugh. He put a hand to his chest as he brown eyes filled. He shook his head in disbelief and looked up at the skylight. The waiting shelves. The soft, low chaise that he could stretch his injured knee out in. “Baby…” He sank down onto the chaise and covered his mouth with steepled fingers.

Logan climbed the rest of the way up the ladder. He knelt across the small expanse of floor until he was kneeling between Finn’s feet. He touched the tender scar on his knee protectively and bent to kiss the raised skin.

Finn let out a shaky breath, and then his hands were on Logan’s neck, his cheeks, drawing their mouths together. A salty tear came between their kiss and Logan pressed into it.

“Thank you,” Finn said into his mouth. He pressed a kiss to Logan’s cheek, then the other. “Merci.”

Logan smiled a little, eyes closed as Finn pressed their cheeks together. They wrapped their arms around each other at the same time. Logan cupped a hand to the back of Finn’s head and let him press his nose into his neck, rubbing his back gently, first over his t-shirt, then tucking his hand under it to feel Finn’s warm back.

Finn took in a shuddering breath and Logan felt it beneath his palm.

“I know,” Logan whispered. He stroked his fingers through the hair at the base of Finn’s neck. “I know.”

“I won’t play again,” Finn said, muffled. “Not like before.”

Logan could only hold him through it. He’d known it would hit Finn. He just hadn’t known when.

They stayed there until Logan heard Luna open the door and call out.

“She takes care of the property,” Logan said softly as Finn pulled back. His eyes were a little red, but he looked okay. He smiled and nodded that he was. Logan wiped gentle thumbs under his eyes. “She helped me with this. She’s wonderful. Probably here to welcome us home.”

He could all but see Finn linger on the word us. The smile that came with it.

“We better go meet her then.” Finn pressed a kiss to Logan’s palm, and they made their way down the ladder.

They slept and recovered. They ate and swam in the protected cove at the base of Logan’s cliffs. Logan sunk beneath the waves of Finn’s body. He didn’t need air. He needed Finn with salty hair and slightly pink shoulders. Finn mixing Daiquiris and Paper Planes.

And he needed Finn beside him on the hot courts, putting him through backhand drills and split sprints. Spotting him in the gym and keeping him pushing. The back of his t-shirt covered in clay when Logan pulled him down and kissed him until they’d lost the light and had to turn the court lights on.

“Nope, nope,” Finn said now, above his head and upside down with Logan on his back. “One more, come on.”

Logan blew air out and arched his back against the bench press. His muscles were shaking. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Come on, Tremblay,” Finn said. He hovered his hands just above where Logan’s were clenched around the weight. “Bring it to me.”

With a last burst of effort, Logan did, and Finn helped him guide the weight back into its rest.

“Good,” Finn said, coming around the bench as Logan lay there, chest heaving. Finn patted a hand over his heart. “That was good.”

“Good?”

“You’re gonna love me for it later,” Finn swung one leg over the bench to straddle Logan’s thighs and then bent forward slightly to dig his thumbs into Logan’s hip flexors. “Promise.”

Logan groaned. “Hm…”

“Fruit, water, then let’s do some band work.”

“How about you take me to bed.”

“Oh, I will.”

For a moment, Finn disappeared. Then he was back and holding out a strawberry to Logan. Logan raised his head only enough to take it between his teeth.

“Let’s go now,” he said chewing.

“Non, nom.” Finn took the stem of the strawberry back and ate the rest off himself. He balanced the bowl of fruit on Logan’s chest and threw the strawberry green at him. “Get up, let’s go.”

It was their last night before leaving for England and Wimbledon before Logan knew it. He hated packing, and Finn—for once in his life—was no help. He was just as terrible. They both wandered aimlessly around the bedroom Logan already couldn’t imagine not sharing. How had he slept alone before? When Finn eventually had to take some calls, Logan found that he actually didn’t mind packing Finn’s suitcase as much. He liked looking at his things. Which t-shirts had holes and where. The blue hat.

They met back up in the living room. Logan emerged with their suitcases, leaving them to push the sliding doors all the way open to let the evening breeze in, just as Finn threw his phone down on the couch before following it with a huff. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned and looked at Logan.

“So many people want you, Lo.”

Logan just smiled and nudged for Finn to lift his head and shoulders so Logan could sit down, Finn’s head in his lap. He rubbed at the base of his neck. He made his fingers light and ticklish through his hair and watched Finn’s face relax.

“I love this place,” Finn said. “I really love this place.”

“It’s yours.”

“They say it’s going to be a heat wave in England.”

“I know. Good thing I’m used to the heat.”

“Black’s not playing.”

“His ankle.”

“Have to get through Lupin, though.”

“And Knut,” Logan said. He’d become more and more worried about beating Leo. He was skilled, yes, but even more than that he was unshakable. His mental game was the strongest Logan had ever seen—and then there was himself. Prone to throwing rackets and all sorts of stupid things.

“I was watching tape,” Finn said. “Of one of your first matches against him.”

“Ouais?”

Finn still had his eyes closed. He swallowed. “You broke a racket over your knee.”

Logan sighed. “Ouais, well…I do that sometimes, I guess.”

Finn shifted a little. He straightened his bad knee slowly and Logan stilled, understanding. He watched the way the fragile tendons moved under Finn’s pale skin.

When he looked back at Finn’s face, Finn was staring up at him with firm brown eyes.

“You’re never going to do that on a court again,” Finn said. “Okay?”

Logan touched Finn’s adam’s apple. He cupped a hand against his cheek. He wanted to kiss all the fragile, healed parts of him.

“Yes,” Logan said. “Okay.”

Finn put his hand over Logan’s. “Hey, Lo?”

Logan tilted his head. “Rouge.”

Finn smiled a little, brows drawn together. “Huh?”

“Red,” Logan explained, realizing what he’d said. He pushed his hand through Finn’s hair again. “Red.”

Finn’s closed his eyes, smiling. “Oh.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Hm,” Finn said, pushing into Logan’s hand. “Oh. I’m gonna love you forever.”

~

ONE YEAR LATER

“So, Logan. You’re back in Wimbledon as the defending champion. And this year it’s a re-match of last year’s insane six hour final against Leo Knut.” The interviewer shook her head, smiling. “Quite a day here. How are you feeling?”

Logan was at the Breakfast At Wimbledon desk with a mic clipped to his shirt. A girl had dusted some powder of his nose and forehead.

You’re pretty good, but for the shine, she’d said in her light accent. Hey, do you know how crazy your eyelashes are?

Logan thought of Finn, early in some blue mornings, making him stir with a tender thumb just under his eye.

“I’m feeling good,” Logan said. He cleared his throat. English had been coming easier and easier to him, but it was always harder to grasp somehow on television. “I think about that match a lot, of course. But my coach, ah, when we are studying the hard parts, parts where I almost lost, he has a good way of saying it’s a first draft and this one is—will be even better.”

“Oh gosh, imagine that, what a treat for the fans!” She folded her hands in front of her. “You bring up your partner and coach, Finn O’Hara. Speaking of him. Here we were thinking Finn was completely out of the game for good, but you two are set to play in the men’s doubles finals today! What a treat that was this year to see you two together. How ever did that come about?”

“Oh,” Logan said. “Well.”

Finn had been nervous, or giddy when asking him. Maybe both.

I was—I mean, you’re going to be focused on the real deal, I know. But doubles…not as much running around for me. Doctors say I’m doing good. I think I’d enjoy it. I know I should ask Alex, but would you ever want to—

Logan smiled just thinking about the memory. About tackling him and kissing him and yes yes yes.

Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s kind of romantic, non?”

He caught the show going on as he passed a TV in the lobby. The panel fluttered happily around the romance of it all for a good while and then moved back to the upcoming men’s final.

Well, you know we do love the Black brothers here, our hometown boys, and I am sad they were both knocked out. Really, though, I could not be looking forward to this match more. There’s something about Tremblay and Knut matches, the older generation and the newer. We always call Black’s game a sneak attack. Tremblay is different. The almost dark intensity, in your face, of Tremblay’s game…He wants you to know he’s taking you apart. And Knut’s the same but lighter, it’s vibrant in a completely different way, its buoyancy—

They really found so many ways to call him old in this place.

“Hey, baby.” Finn said when Logan came up behind his chair. Logan leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek, then his neck, then he tilted Finn’s chin to the side to kiss his mouth.

“Hey.” Logan sat down at the iron table on their hotel’s sun covered patio and tilted his face up to the sky. It had nothing on Finn, though. He scooted his chair closer to Finn and and settled his hand on his knee scar, “Ça va?”

“Good.” Finn pushed a plate of mango towards him and put his hand over Logan’s. “Picked up your match clothes. Oh, and ordered you an omelette.”

Logan smiled, chewing. “Merci.”

“Aren’t I romantic?”

Logan arched a brow.

Finn laughed one of Logan’s favorite laughs. Lips closed, smile making his eyes crinkle. He held up a slice of mango and Logan took it from his fingers.

“So,” Logan said, swiping a thumb over Finn’s knee. “Do I get to coach you today?”

~

It was something else, being on the court with Finn. It felt like a gift. Finn in a baseball cap—not the blue one, Wimbledon called for white fabrics only—but Logan loved it anyway. Finn holding his palm up to whisper strategy to Logan. Getting to watch Finn move on the court. It wasn’t the same—he used to do these glorious, long slides like Logan couldn’t believe. But it was still beautiful. His footwork. That wicked one-handed slice of a backhand. His top spin drop shots that won them more points than not. Getting to go down on a knee near the net and listen to the familiar power of Finn serving the ball behind him.

Logan wasn’t so used to doubles. He lost a millisecond every time the ball bounced in the sidelines before remembering it counted. The only easy thing to train himself into seemed to be letting Finn take some of the shots. Trading off with him, weaving around the grass court. They killed at it. Logan had thought they’d probably be good, but they knew where the other one was like magnets.

Logan had known they were going to win by the third round. The finals was nothing. He had Finn at his side. When Finn’s final, perfect shot was right down the line, Logan let out a shout and jumped into the air. He heard the crowd roar. He turned and looked at Finn. Finn had raised his fists. He had his head tilted back, grinning, his racket at his feet.

Logan didn’t even wait before running forward and hugging him around the waist hard. His nose went right where it always did, pressed against Finn’s collarbone, and Finn clutched him back.

“So good,” Logan said in his ear. “Fucking beautiful, you’re beautiful out here.”

Finn was laughing and slapping him on the back. He reached for Logan’s hair, knocking his hat off. “I love it. Oh, I love it here with you, Lo, I love you…”

He liked standing and being interviewed better with Finn at his side, too. He liked being able to reach out and squeeze his hand.

“Logan,” the woman interviewing them said. “You’re playing the Wimbledon final tomorrow and I don’t know if you saw but your opponent is here watching. Anything to say, how are you preparing for tomorrow after this win?”

Logan wiped sweat out of his eyes and squinted up at the stands. Sure enough, in one of the front rows, Leo Knut was sitting there. He wore a light blue t-shirt that rippled in the breeze and a pink baseball cap that tucked his blond curls out around his ears. He raised his hand slightly, looking like he knew he was probably on camera and a little awkward because of it.

He also looked good. The bright colors suited him, setting off his tanned skin. When the breeze pushed his t-shirt sleeve up a little, Logan could see a stark tan line like the one he always got and Finn never did.

“Oh,” Logan said. “Ah…C’est pas, um…See you tomorrow?”

The audience laughed and Logan looked at Finn to see if he was smiling. He was.

“And you, Finn, as Logan’s coach, how do you think this win will translate into tomorrow’s game for your player?”

Your player.

Finn glanced at Leo, too. “Well, it’s a totally different game. Leo isn’t going to make anything easy, he’s so talented and he has an outstanding team behind him. But…” He threw an arm around Logan’s shoulders. “This win definitely doesn’t hurt, so, yeah, see ya tomorrow, Knut!”

The audience laughed again, cheering as Finn raised the trophy over his head again for them. Logan took a step back, watching him bask in the sun of it all before the photographers would descend and want both of them together.

“Can we get one of you both holding the trophy? Thank you, thank you…”

They were positioned at center court, shoulder to shoulder, each holding one of the trophy’s handles. Logan hated this part. The flashes. His smile felt so posed to begin with and it would feel even worse after holding it for two minutes.

“Hey,” Finn whispered.

Logan turned his head, and suddenly Finn was kissing him. Smiling and kissing him.

The cameras went off like fireworks.

[gynandromorph]

another little nofna style emulation comic i drew a bit ago that was primarily about why something can "look like words" when it isn't... it is possibly Legend's first time considering the involuntary nature of reading words. she can rationally know that she isn't looking at writing, but her mind continues to see words that she must try to decipher.

the comic ended up getting side-tracked, but i kind of just let these comics go where they go. it is the nofna spirit.

PS and Legend have probably only spoken several times at this point, as classmates. in my head, this is their first season of classes, and they have only just recently proceeded from practicing handwriting and making letters to writing out spoken word.

i imagine that letters and writing are not intuitive at all to people who haven't grown up with it. Legend knew how to read well before entering school. PS has not really internalized that letters represent sounds. she has seen her teacher or classmates speak words as they're writing lines, and later, other people can tell the words that were spoken while writing the lines. her penmanship is naturally excellent, and prior to this module, she was praised by her teacher lavishly.

i imagine that because MOST RODENTS become markscrafts, and rodents tend to be rather... prolific... in number. that classes for this profession would be fucking huge.

the teacher cannot individually dedicate attention to every struggling student, so the first practice is to pair two struggling students together who seem like they compensate each others' shortcomings and see if they can rehabilitate their grades together.

if students continue to fail despite peer review, that is probably the time where a teacher would talk to them privately or recommend a tutor, etc.

the classes also function by a "revise and resubmit" principle over an "extra credit" principle as it is the most direct way for students to figure out what they did wrong and the least amount of extra work for the professor.

their professor is a mouse; a tried to write the grade print small (called "mouseprint" in the canon).

PS's language here is very rough and strange; i imagine she has, at the VERY most, been exposed to common for only a year. she is maybe ~15-16 in age, psychologically. ever since i made her as a character, i assumed one of her core traits was a low drive to do work. she became a markscraft SPECIFICALLY because she did not want to put in the work to earn prestige or more credit. she picked the easiest possible career for her.

as a younger mind, and only recently introduced to the idea that she has to perform labor or GTFO society, her dislike of work is very obvious and she is not reserved about sharing it. she came from a life where she could volunteer to do small tricks for high value treats if she felt like it, and this life is comparatively brutal and demanding in her mind.

Legend's corsage is red star (Rhodohypoxis baurii) and PS's Leaf is a leaf from a large pineapple lily.

Legend is, conversely, probably 18-20 psychologically. idk, the ages are very weird with these animals. i've imagined her parents as highly Civilized people like XX's mother, but a little less strict. while many citizens of society hate wild people (presumably because many of them are serial killers who might serial kill them), not all of them do (example: nutsedge, who sympathizes with a Wild Hawk killing her classmates), and i imagined Legend's parents impressing into her rather strongly that she did not earn being born into a well-off family and physically gifted species.

of course, this didn't stop her from forming a superiority complex towards rodents anyway-- but, i think she's tolerating a significant amount of Weirdness from PS here that she extremely would not tolerate from someone she didn't assume was wild-integrating-into-society, from the constant touching, to the rude openness, the disdain for work ethic, the odd language usage, and the outfit that's essentially showing up to the study session in pasties and booty shorts.

it seems that in these stories, the animals attain a "fluent" level of speech in common relatively quickly (emancipation, secretary), somewhat influenced by natural talent; i think PS has a brute force spaghetti-against-the-wall approach that lets her just mimic as many phrases that she thinks are novel as possible. usually this is an option only available to toddlers who lack the self-awareness to feel embarrassment about constant awkward linguistic mistakes, but PS also has no cultural priming to be embarrassed of the behavior. you can see her parroting various things she's heard, such as "sooo much" as an emphasis phrase, and even "essentially" after Legend says it in passing. other more abstract phrases such as "with credit" or "okay" i imagine she knows simply by being exposed to them over and over again.

when the two get into deeper levels of literacy and markscraft classes, i imagine that Legend's knowledge of grammar and Big Words in general, combined with an ability to verbally express usually unwritten rules in the language, helped propel PS to a level of fluency that has her speaking like she was raised with it 99% of the time.

[theemporium]

this is just a wee blurb heavily based of that scene from 'the score' by elle kennedy and a prompt lula picked for me from this list! enjoy!!!🫶🏽

.

After the last conversation you shared with Trent, you doubted you would have ever heard from him again.

The relationship didn’t end on good terms, though there was no real love lost—at least not on your side. Whatever feelings you had for the boy were long gone by the last few months of your relationship. The mere fact that nobody in your family or close circle liked him should have been an eye opener, but unfortunately it took a shitty night out and wandering hands for you to see the boy for what he truly was. 

You had been broken up for the better part of a year—having not spoken to him since that same day—when he showed up at your apartment complex. 

Jack hadn’t given you much of a choice before dragging you and Luke out of the house that morning. With both his younger siblings now fully situated in Jersey, he felt like it was his big brother obligation to show you his favourite spots. Today was no different, despite your insistence that you had work to do, and you allowed yourself a carefree day to hangout with your brothers on the odd day they had no game or practice.

However, you weren’t expecting to show up at your apartment with your brothers walking behind you to see your ex-boyfriend intoxicated and on some sort of verbal rampage.

You stopped listening at some point when the blood was roaring in your ears and the tears welled up in your lash line started to blur the sight of him in front of you. You vaguely felt hands on your shoulders, trying to guide you inside the building and away from the mess—but the damage had been done. 

Your chest felt tighter with each breath, your whole body felt like it was shaking and you still couldn’t really see beyond the layer of tears. You felt like you had been teleported back to last year, on that very night where you found Trent standing in the middle of the buzzing crowd in a club with his hands on another girl and his tongue down her throat after he told you to ‘get over it and leave him to his business’. You hated that you felt that way.

You could hear your brothers’ voices, though you couldn’t make out what they were trying to say. You could only guess the words leaving their mouths. Maybe they were asking if you were okay or if you needed anything. Maybe they were calling Quinn for help. Maybe they were reassuring you that he was gone. 

But that wasn’t what you needed. 

“Call Nico.” 

Jack blinked, staring at you with a look of confusion. “What?”

“Call Nico,” you gasped out between heaving breaths. “Please.”

“Nico Hischier?” Luke questioned, his brows furrowed together. “Like, our captain?”

“Please call him,” you had managed to croak out, and there must have been a look of desperation on your face because both boys ended up doing just that.

It felt like hours before Nico arrived, when in reality it had been less than ten minutes. Jack had gone down to open the door for him and bring him. He had tried to explain what had happened, a rushed summarised version before they reached your apartment door. But he had stopped listening to whatever Jack had been saying the second his eyes landed on you.

“Schatz,” he whispered in a soft voice, and it broke you all over again.

Jack stood there dumbfounded as Nico rushed towards you, engulfing you in a hug that had you squished between his arms and chest. Luke, equally as confused, seemed to catch on quicker than his older brother as he grabbed his arm.

“Hey, we have to go get that—thing!” Luke muttered, attempting to pull Jack a few steps back.

Jack frowned. “Huh?”

Luke shot him a look. “That thing. Remember?”

Jack shook his head. “No?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, dude,” Luke groaned as he placed both hands on his older brother’s shoulders and practically manhandled him towards the door. “Give them some time alone.” 

You didn’t lift your head as the sound of your bickering brothers disappeared behind the closed doors. You didn’t dare shift a muscle as you buried yourself further into Nico’s arms, letting the feel of his body and the smell of his cologne completely overwhelm you. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Nico murmured eventually, his arms tightening around you. “I am going to shove my hockey stick so far up his ass, it will come out the other end.”

You huffed out a laugh. “That’s graphic.”

“I meant every single word,” he replied, his lips brushing against your forehead as he pressed a chaste kiss to your skin. “How are you feeling?”

“Drained.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Nico murmured before he pulled back, guiding your face to look up at him with a gentle nudge of his knuckles under your chin. “I’m glad you called me.”

You raised your brows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, it means you feel safe around me,” he answered with his lips twitching upwards.

“I always feel safe around you,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks flush as you spoke. “You’re like a bear.”

He paused. “What?”

“You’re like a bear,” you told him, attempting to bite back your smile when you watched his confusion grow. “Like a teddy bear. Soft and cuddly and comforting.”

“A teddy bear,” Nico repeated, like he couldn’t quite believe that is what you said.

“My favourite teddy bear,” you added, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I wouldn’t want anyone else with me right now.”

His face softened at your words as he tugged you back towards his chest. “Then I’ll be your teddy bear, baby.”

.

[yourantag]

The Red Means I Love You (Edgar×Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentine's Day. However, as you can see from the word count, that was a fool's errand. I wanted to delve more into yanderes since I find them fascinating in writing, and now, here we are. Staining White Day red, I present to you the most generic title for an Edgar fic you will ever see. (Btw, I apologize to Edgar fans- I might've massacred your boy but I swear I tried my best.) Word count: 4.9k words TW: Blood, violence, murder, yandere themes, and blackmailing. Summary: Accepting the invitation of a dubious letter sounds just about as bad as it actually was. Oletus manor is not a name spoken without notoriety, after all. Was that where it all began? Was this your first mistake? No, it was further down the line, wasn't it? Yes, perhaps it was when you became the muse of an artist with no inspiration.

Reality has disappointed you time and time again. The expectations of a life of peace was crushed easily under the hands of society. So, you fled. You fled inside your head, transporting yourself into worlds of fiction. Romance, mystery, fantasy, and the likes kept you alive. It was the only thing you could really call safe.

Among many genres, you favored one above the others. 

Horror.

There’s a certain comfort that comes from these fictional tales. You know they aren’t real, that the killer can’t find you, that these psychopaths don’t exist. Are there people similar to them? Sure, but they aren’t in your life. Thus, they merely stay as silly little people within a book.

But, it’s not quite enough. The thrill of words upon a page cannot compete with the real deal. While you weren’t stupid enough to seek out murderers or the like, you were still dumb enough for Baron DeRoss, apparently.

The envelope is white as a dove, a blood red stamp sealing it shut. It whispers promises and praise, false hope and rewards. It’s an enticing offer, truly. Would you let it guide you astray?

Well, you were never one to turn away from the call of the abyss.

-

“I really don’t get it. I know it’s game changing, but it’s not helpful for anyone else but me! Why do they want me to team up with them?” You huffed, resting your face on your palms. Edgar merely rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist. Focused on the canvas in front of him, he let the brush streak red through white.

“You said it yourself, your abilities are game changing. We don’t even know the full extent of your abilities– who knows? Maybe you could completely uproot the current meta. Besides,” He smirked, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “The hunters are terrified of you.”

You paused, letting your arms fall flat against the table.

“Scared? Of me? I’m just another survivor– what do they have to be afraid of?”

Edgar hummed, tapping the handle end of his paint brush against his lips. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t quite fancy being stabbed.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

Most survivors didn’t possess the ability to fight the hunter, not really, yet here you were. When Jack had first chased you, he had the reckoning of his life. You wince at the phantom feeling of stabbing steel into flesh and bone. That was, admittedly, not what you had expected to be your special skill.

You pouted, cheek against the cool wood of Edgar’s table as you glanced around. His room was an odd combination of an art exhibition hall and an actual bedroom. It was big and extravagant, but you wouldn’t expect any less from him. 

Well, kind of.

Edgar confused you. Intriguing, even among the sea of other unique characters within the manor. You suppose that’s why he’s your favorite comrade and closest friend, if you could call him that. He’s never kicked you out of his room or flat out yelled at you, so safe to say he didn’t hate you, at least. 

He’s neutral on all matters within the manor, composed regardless of what he faced. All he cared about was his art, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps that was how he was unaffected by everything.

You suppose that’s natural for an artist. You can’t claim to understand it perfectly, but in a way, you truly understood.

“It’s like… you’re a moth drawn to a flame, right? Art is something you’re willing to give your life to, dedicate your whole body and soul to. Even if you have to sacrifice your time, energy, or health, for the perfect outcome, you’d do it.” You had said it off handedly, not thinking much of it then. In some respects, wasn’t his passion for art just like your obsession with thrill?

But then he had grabbed your hands, looking into your eyes with such fervor. His gaze burned, a certain desperation flickering within it. What was he seeking so fiercely? What was making Edgar, apathetic, snide Edgar, act like he had found an oasis in the desert?

“You get it?” He whispered, almost pleading. 

“Maybe,” You responded.

That had been enough for him. 

Since then, you and Edgar had become an odd pair. Not quite friends, but too close to be acquaintances. You gravitated towards him, as he did to you. More often than not, you’d ask him if he’d like to team up for matches. More often than not, he’d say yes.

You suppose that’s another reason why other survivors regard you with care.

Edgar isn’t the most difficult person to work with, but definitely not the easiest. He’s all too much and too little: haughty and snide, distant and cold. He’s a reliable teammate, not a likable one. 

Still, the playful sparkle in his eyes as he led the hunter straight to you made you beg to differ. You’d curse him out as you ran, glaring at him after the match was over, before begrudgingly thanking him for supporting you with a painting or two.

However odd it was, you wouldn’t trade your friendship for the world.

-

There’s a letter in your mailbox. 

That isn’t especially weird, considering that’s what a mailbox is for. Letters, mail, packages, whatever. Still, you can’t help but pause as you stare at it. A white envelope with a lovely red seal, the stamp itself in the shape of a camellia. The embossed flower is outlined in gold, shimmering softly in the low light of your room.

Gently, you pry open the seal, careful not to damage it or the envelope. Once you’ve successfully extracted the letter without destroying everything, you stare at it with uncertainty. 

It seemed like this was a love letter from the presentation alone, yet you couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled. You couldn’t understand why, however. It was beautiful, but simple. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor alarming. So why, from the depths of your heart, was your subconscious screaming at you to run? As though you were about to open Pandora’s box?

You unfold the letter and read.

-

Edgar gives you the nastiest side eye you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you deserve it after the stunt you pulled. Then again, what else were you supposed to do? He was going to be sent back to the manor if you hadn’t let yourself go down.

In the end, thanks to your sacrifice, the potential tie had turned into a win. Sure, you were the one sent back to the manor instead, but a win was a win! Though, Edgar seemed to disagree.

“You’re an idiot.”

You would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that he was wrapping your wounds. The tender touches were barely there, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He was being careful, making sure you didn’t feel even an ounce of unnecessary pain. The concentration he was putting into taking care of you was something you had only seen when Edgar was painting. 

The subtle quirk of his lips, eyes barely narrowed, and relaxed shoulders expressed more to you than any words ever could. The guilt that pooled into his chest, made evident by the quiet sighs he’d let out, seemed to manifest itself as kindness and gentle care.

It made you really want to tease him.

“Ow!” You hiss, flinching slightly away from the man. Edgar freezes, staring at you with concern.

“Shit– sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The sincere remorse in his voice immediately makes you regret your decision.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, I– gah, sorry. I was just messing with you.”

The painter’s formerly soft expression faded into a scowl, a glare sent your way even as he finished wrapping you up. Edgar immediately stands up, leaving you scrambling to do the same as he leaves the infirmary.

“Ahhhh, wait, I’m sorry! Wait, Edgar, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do that again! C’mon, don’t leave me like this! I–” You trip on something, stumbling as you lose balance. You fully expect to kiss the ground, what with one of your arms in a cast, when lithe arms catch you.

You glance up at Edgar with a sheepish smile, gazing upon the apathetic look upon his face. Apathetic, to anyone else but you. You can see the little curl of his lips, the faint swirl of amusement in his eyes.

He helps you reorient yourself, hands on your shoulders. Once you’re safely standing, Edgar turns and continues down the hallway. His steps are slower than usual. It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an invitation.

You grin, chasing after him once more.

“So does this mean you forgive me?”

“No.”

-

“How do you manage to stay sane, painting the same thing over and over again?” You ask, half dangling off a couch. Edgar’s room is still as grand as ever, but you can see the changes. It seems more lived in, more homey. There’s a table that isn’t covered in paint, brushes, or other art supplies. There’s shelves with books instead of art supplies. Then, those cabinets have, wait for it, something other than art supplies.

It seems like a small shift to others, though that’s probably because they don’t visit Edgar half as often as you do. The first time you saw the couch, you thought you were hallucinating. 

The Edgar Valden, using something other than a stool? Incredible, revolutionary, absolutely groundbreaking.

He did not appreciate your dramatics, or so he claimed, but you knew he was covering his mouth to hide his smile.

“I’m not painting the same thing, and I am, in fact, going insane.” Edgar responds, frown deepening as he mixes a few colors together. You hum, peeking at the canvas as much as you can from your position. From the sketch, you could tell it was a portrait. A rare occurrence, considering Edgar preferred landscapes.

“Why the sudden interest in portraits?” You ask, sitting more comfortably on the couch. Glancing at the shelves, you skim through the books. Edgar wouldn’t mind if you read one of them, right?

The man pauses, his expression almost bashful. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but raise a brow. Edgar has never been afraid to draw attention to himself. He’s no pushover, willing to fight for what he wants while still remaining relatively neutral. To see him like that, a dust of what can only be blush upon his cheeks, twists something in your heart.

Before you can untangle what exactly you were feeling, the painter coughs.

“Well, I tried talking with Victor about expressing oneself. He suggested letters, or other mediums I’m comfortable with. So…” Edgar stares at his canvas, his smile more so a grimace. “I’m trying out his suggestion, I suppose.”

You tilt your head, humming to yourself as you nod. Sliding off the couch, you grab one of the books on Edgar’s shelf. “Well, then I wish you the best of luck.”

His eyes linger on you, closing softly as his expression relaxes. When he opens them again, he starts creating new hues with more focus.

-

“I’ve been getting letters recently.” You mention, flipping another page in your book. Edgar paused, turning to look at you.

“And?”

You closed your eyes, contemplating. This really wasn’t something you had to tell him. But, well, nothing too interesting has been happening lately. The matches have finally grown duller, the thrill fading as you stayed longer. You were running out of things to ramble about, so why not?

“They’re love letters. Nicely decorated, with neat handwriting. If I had to guess, someone born into privilege.” You think Edgar flinches at that.

“It’s really sweet, honestly. A shame they’re anonymous.” You skim over the words on the page, brows knitting themselves tight. The main character was oblivious to the danger so close to them. How frustrating. 

“A shame, really.” Edgar echoes back, delicately brushing shadows along the red camellias. His painting seemed nearly finished, if you only stared at the beautiful flowers. The rest of the canvas was rather barren, a figure still not yet painted whole.

“C’mon, theorize with me! Who could it be? I put my bets on Jack.” You sighed dramatically, head thrown back with your hand on your forehead. 

You received no response, however.

“Hear me out! He called me darling, dear, and tried to kill me. Obviously, he fell for my sick kiting skills and great looks. I rest my case.” Still, nothing.

You were getting really worried with how unresponsive Edgar was being. Usually, when you started overexaggerating like that, he’d make a snarky remark. Something like “please, you get terror shocked at 5 ciphers” or “you make amphibians look appealing.” 

The silence was really getting to you.

“I mean, he’s got confidence in spades so it probably isn’t him. Still, I kinda hope it is, he’s rather attrac–” SNAP!

Your head snaps up from your book, turning to Edgar so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. There, in his hands, are the remains of a broken paint brush. Blood oozes from his tightly clenched hands, slowly trickling down his palm and under the cuff of his shirt. That was reason for concern as is, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes.

Blue, like the sky. Blue, like the sea. Blue, like the wings of a morpho butterfly.

Blue, like the swirling vortex of the night sky.

You rush over, grabbing the first aid kit you know he keeps for you, before standing next to him. You’ve never seen him like this, eyes so dark and blank. It’s honestly scaring you a little, but that means nothing when he’s hurt.

So, you kneel, pulling out tweezers, disinfectants, and bandages. Gently prying his hand open, you discard the larger pieces of the brush. With the tweezers, you pick out splinters of wood embedded in his skin. You whisper apologies as you do, knowing this definitely hurts, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

By the time you finally disinfect his hand and wrap it, Edgar seems a lot more like himself than before. He gazes at you with quiet consideration, blinking slowly. Languid, calm, almost cat-like.

“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his hand. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him react like that. The kinder side of you hopes it’ll never happen again, if only so he won’t needlessly hurt himself like that. The morbid side of you wants to see him like that again, what you can distinguish as cold, searing rage threatening to consume him whole.

Edgar leans his head forward and onto your shoulder. The scent of citrus, chamomile, and something chemical tickles your nose, brushing against you as the painter sighs. He seems… tired.

“Let me rest my head, just for a bit.”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

-

The next few letters you get are… odd. Passionate as always, but far more obsessive. The first few had been sweeter, more tender. This was escalating in a weird direction, and as much as you loved yourself a good horror story, romance and horror never mix well. They were starting to threaten you, saying they’d hurt the people around you, and that was where you drew the line.

So, you start ignoring them. It sounds foolish, especially for a connoisseur of all things freaky, but life is more mundane than fiction. If this person doesn’t have the guts to confess to you, does it make sense that they’d have the guts to actually go through with their threats? Logically, no. 

Besides, even if they did, the people of the manor are strong. They can hold their own. Even if they can't, that person will get outcasted for hurting a survivor, regardless of if they’re a hunter. “No violence outside of matches,” that was the first rule both factions set.

So, it was safe to assume you had nothing to worry about. You have more important things to deal with, anyway, especially with a new survivor arriving. His name was Orpheus, a novelist. You were thrilled, especially since he was the author of some of your favorite series.

You were busy with preparations, practically skipping with joy. The other survivors poked fun at you, both for your enthusiasm and the lack of a certain painter at your side.

Edgar was concentrating on his art, as per usual, and you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed a little lonely, though, so you tried to convince a few people to talk to him. They all just looked at you as if you grew another head. 

“Are we… looking at the same person?” Mike asks, smile strained. You frown, turning away from the banners you were fixing. 

“Yes! Edgar Valden, our resident painter, our sassy rich boy, our lovely old friend. I say he is lonely, and I think you should talk to him. I mean, you’re easy-going, fun, and silly. Who wouldn’t like you?” Even if half of it was an act. Still, Mike was one of the people Edgar tolerated better than most. Perhaps it’s because he’s another form of an artist?

“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him yourself? You guys get along just fine.” Mike looks away, fiddling with his hands. You narrow your eyes at the sight.

Mike Morton, local funny man, someone with dedication and deceit running through his veins, nervous? It’s not faked, the sweat rolling down his neck and the faster breathing all indicating he was genuinely nervous. Maybe even scared.

“Edgar, I really do love him, but he needs more friends. I think the only people who talk to him on a regular basis are Luca and I. Adding a few more people to that list would be nice, so…” You bring your hands in front of you, clasped tight as if you’re about to pray. “Could you please talk to him?”

Mike deflates, sighing as he nods. You smile brightly in response, promising to make it up to him.

-

“Hey bestie! You excited for the new survivor?” Demi croons, grinning as she tosses an arm around your shoulder. You laugh in response, leaning into her.

“That’s about the dumbest thing you could ask me. Of course I am! He’s written so many good books. God, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around him. He’s made some stories that have basically shaped who I am now!” You sigh, smiling so widely your face hurts.

“Well, don’t forget your boyfriend in all the excitement! I can see he’s basically seething with envy.” 

You pause, turning to look at Demi.

“Who?”

Now, it’s Demi’s turn to look confused.

“Uh, you know, Edgar? Are– are you guys not together?” She asks, genuinely shocked. You feel your face heat up, your hands itching to cover your blush. 

“Wh– no! We are not! Why would anyone ever think that?”

Demi gives you a deadpan expression in response.

“You two are basically glued to each other’s side, go into every match together, hang out almost every day– Hell, you’re the only one Edgar has allowed in his room without it being necessary!” 

Well, that’s news to you.

You furrow your brows, blinking in shock. Sure, you two hung out a lot, but it wasn’t like you guys were friends exclusively with each other. You had Demi, Mike, Melly, and even Violetta while Edgar had Luca, Victor, Andrew, and Galatea. It wasn’t like you… hung out… every… day…

“Oh fuck, we really do look like a couple.” You mutter, having half a mind to smack Demi as she laughs. She’s completely unapologetic about it, struggling to breathe as slowly calms down and giggles.

“So, you two aren’t dating?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows. You huff, fighting back a smile.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Then in that case, I’m allowed to flirt with you as much as I want!” Demi cheers. She spins you around, causing a laugh to bubble up from your throat. The two of your twirl around in a silly dance, the faint sound of Frederick playing the piano the only background music.

At the end, she dips you down, smile upon her lips. She leans close to your ear as your smile is wiped away.

“Be wary of him.”

-

With Edgar, it’s like you’re taking three steps forward, then five steps back. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he throws a curveball at you.

That desperation he had in his eyes the day you became his friend, flickering like a brilliant flame, you understand it now. However much he claimed he didn’t need people to understand him, how he didn’t need to understand others, it didn’t mean much. He still craved it, to be understood. To not have to be questioned, to not be approached with dishonesty, with intentions that lied beyond just him being him.

You suppose that’s exactly why you got along. You wanted to understand him, and he wanted to be understood. A match made in Heaven, you suppose.

It’s why it miffed you a bit that you really can’t understand Edgar at the moment.

He hates drawing portraits, yet he draws a figure, the same exact one, in every one of his new pieces. They look familiar, a lot like you, but you’re pretty confident Edgar would rather die than paint you. You’d tease him to Hell and back, all while he complains and swears up and down he’s never being nice to you again.

The landscapes, adorned in reds of all shades, always have that figure in each one without fail. Is he in love with someone? That would explain why he’s so weird lately.

Edgar’s odd behavior was already messing with you, but on top of that, the letters were getting worse. Instead of being slid into your mailbox, they were flat out in your room now.

Normal people would think someone just slipped it under the door. Reasonable assumption. However, unless that person has not only a very thin arm, but a long one, you don’t know how they’d manage to get it all the way to your desk.

You stare at the white envelope, stamped shut with a red seal in the shape of a camellia. The outline of the flower is in gold, though the beauty of the letter and the seal means nothing. Not when it got into your room. Not when it clearly has a splotch of dark red glaring at you.

Your hands are shaky as you open the envelope, a familiar curl of thrill fighting with your new found protective instincts. The letter is white as a dove, the red tainting it made all the more stark.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you read.

‘I didn’t imagine love would be like this. Wonderfully warm, like the rays of the sun in winter, and unbearably painful, like a knife in my heart. Do you just like hurting me? No, I know that isn’t true. After all, you always look at me with concern when I’m injured. Still, it’s hard to believe you’re this dense.

These past few weeks have been driving me mad. Your attention has been solely on the arrival of the new survivor. You’ve been ignoring me so much I can barely stand it. Can’t you spare even a moment for me? Is that novelist really that important? Seeing you look at him with stars in your eyes… it makes me want to rip his head off his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve your attention, nor your admiration, not like I do. I’ve known you longer, loved you for longer. He doesn’t deserve anything from you, yet he gets everything I could ever want and more.

Did you know? When you’re excited, your smile turns bigger, more genuine, till dimples show. Your eyes crinkle just a little, your hands moving to curl in front of your chest. You stand taller, you shine brighter.

It’s such a beautiful sight, I hate that I have to share it. Sometimes, I wish I could just put you in a cage and never let you go. Then, you wouldn’t look at anyone else but me. You wouldn’t think about anyone else but me. But, that’s not how you should live. You deserve to be free and happy. So, I’ve decided to get rid of anyone that doesn’t deserve to be around you.

I think I’ll start with that novelist.’

Your blood runs cold.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Just who is this? Who are they and just why are they so obsessed with you? Get rid of those who don’t deserve you? Who gave them the right to decide that!?

You take a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves. Your heart is racing, and for the first time, the thrill in your heart turns into true fear.

You’ve never minded being the one hunted. In fact, you practically adore it, the addicting rush of adrenaline pumping through you. It’s why you came to the manor. But your friends? They’re not the same, and you wouldn’t want them to be. You want them safe and happy, not hunted down by some freak who thinks they “aren’t worthy of you” for whatever sick reason.

“Fuck, fuck… Orpheus, I need to find– no, it’s probably too late for him, there’s blood on the letter. Okay, okay, stay calm, stay fucking calm. Who would be the next victim? Mike? Melly? No, it’s probably Ed–” You pause.

Almost comically, everything clicks in place.

Camellias.

Red.

Ignoring them.

Edgar.

You bolt out of your room.

-

Normally, you’d knock. You know Edgar hates it when people barge into his room. However, considering the circumstances, you think that’s the least of your concerns.

You can’t help but pray in your mind. To whom? You don’t know. You don’t think anyone can truly help in this situation. It couldn’t be anyone else but Edgar, but still, you prayed. You hoped against all hope that your conclusion was wrong. 

Edgar would scold you for barging in, sigh, before smiling and asking if you were really that desperate to see him. Everything would be fine. It would all be just a cruel joke.

But just as life is more mundane than fantasy, reality is far cruller than fiction.

The large windows to Edgar’s room let in the light of the falling sun, casting the room in many shades of gold and orange. In the middle of the room, in all his glory, is Edgar. His back is to you, paint brush in hand. You’re hit first by relief, then with the heavy scent of iron.

You shake, hands covering your mouth as you finally process what's around Edgar. Orpheus, drained of blood, head sat on a chair, body left haphazardly on the ground. Jack, ghastly white and face twisted, his horror eternally memorialized in death. Demi, eyes closed and serene, seemingly asleep if not for the purple veins that roam along her arms.

You fall to your knees, the shock hitting you so strong you can’t stand up any longer. He was your secret admirer. The one who kept sending letters. The one who went into your room just to place them on your desk. The one who threatened to kill your friends. The one who did kill your friends.

Edgar, finally, turns around. His cheek has splotches of blood on it, his hands no better. It’s startling just how much of it is on him, but worse yet, you know not all of it is on him. There’s a lot of blood in a human body, much more in two, so where was it?

When he smiles, it’s just as sweet as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Was this really your friend, or a demon in disguise?

His smile, ever so sweet, only serves to unsettles you, looking more like a nightmare.

“Ah, you’re here! Come, I need to show you my newest masterpiece.” Edgar steps closer to you, dragging you by the hand to a canvas you hadn’t noticed before. He was standing in front of it, so it was only natural.

You numbly follow, heart in your throat. You’re grateful, distantly, that the “masterpiece” is not the corpses of your friends. You think you’re going to throw up, eyes trying to look at anything but them.

So, you gladly look at his so-called masterpiece.

You really wish you didn’t.

There, on the canvas, is a portrait. This time, it’s so painfully obvious it’s you that you can’t even deny it. Surrounded by red camellias, hands curled in front of their chest, with a smile so genuine, dimples showed. Eyes crinkled, back straight, and God, did it have to be so accurate?

The red of the camellias are familiar, as is the red of your blush, the colors of your clothes, your hair. 

It’s all been painted using your friend’s blood.

Edgar comes behind you, his arms circling your waist. A content sigh leaves him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hold is gentle, but firm, possessive in a way you never thought him capable of. His lips brush against your neck, a kiss much like a collar pressed into your skin. You can feel them curl into a smile.

“What do you think, my muse? The red means I love you.”

[obae-me]

hii, i hope you're having a good day. I love your writing and I was wondering if you could do the "bros being protective" with diavolo, barbatos, simeon and solomon.

The people have spoken! And I shall answer! Please accept this as a late holiday gift! We shall have more protective headcanons! I hope hope hope I did the datables justice!  

They’ll Always Protect You Too

TW: Mild Violence. More violence is implied. Threats. As Always, Read Safely!

_____________________________________________

Diavolo

It was a miracle. Somehow, you and Diavolo managed to find a time where you could spend the day together. And by miracle, that means you assisted the prince into sneaking out of his own castle. Otherwise, you'd both never get to be out on your own. Sure, the ruler of the devildom could by all means order everyone to leave him alone, but the both of you knew that either Barbatos or Lucifer would find some way to keep an eye on him.

So, feeling like a rebellious teen in a cliché Coming-of-Age movie, Diavolo snuck out while Barbatos was distracted. He tried to disguise himself by wearing casual clothes, wearing a jacket with a hood over his head. Of course...it didn’t hide him all too well. There’s not many in the Devildom with his grand stature and booming voice. But one could hope...and pretend. 

He wanted this to be a normal day with no royally annoying responsibilities.

Of course, he hadn't really done anything like this before, so he didn't know quite what to do, so you suggested walking around. You could get something to eat, window shop, whatever you both wanted.

For a time, everything went swell. You both had a bite to eat, making sure no pickles were involved. You looked around shops, and while people were absolutely turning their head to make sure that they really did see the prince of their realm strolling down the street, no one said anything or bothered you two. 

That was till Diavolo got a call. He’d been found out, and from the sounds of it, a fretting Barbatos was on the other line. It’s odd to hear the butler worry so much, so with an apologetic grin, Diavolo stepped away from you for a moment to assure Barbatos that all was well. 

You turned, going to pace just a few steps down the street before a demon bumped into you, staggering you backwards. Their D.D.D. fell out of their hands and onto the floor. “Whoa! Sorry there,” they actually apologized. 

“Oh...uh...no worries.” Still a little stunned from the abrupt encounter, you bent down to pick up their device for them.

The demon snatched it from the ground before you could even touch it. “Say, weren’t you just at Café Lament earlier?” Finding it a weird question, you struggled to respond. This, they took as a confirmation. “I knew it! You looked familiar! The human for the exchange program, yeah?” Again, they didn’t give you much time to answer. “Aren’t you staying at the House of Lamentation?” Why did they want to know so much about you? And why were they not letting you speak? “Who was that demon with you then? Didn’t look like any of the Seven Sins.” This was beginning to lead down a road that made your stomach churn. “Are you out here alone?”

"They are not." It was a simple declaration, but a strong one, a wave of power washing over you both, raw magic filling the air, flooding your lungs as if you had just inhaled a cloud of smoke. The other demon felt it too, freezing in place, suddenly aware that they were messing with the wrong person. You were gently pulled, being suddenly moved behind Diavolo's back. His first instinct was to put himself between the two of you. He did not shout, he did not fight, he simply stood there, slowly lowering his hood to reveal his face. "If there is something you need from them, you can ask me."

The demon's eyes grew wide from sheer panic. If there's one rule down here demons do follow, it's to not tick off the prince. They stuttered, immediately falling into this act of false respect, bowing their head towards their ruler. "I-I was simply curious about the program, your majesty. Of course, I only wanted to learn about your wisdom first-hand and I-"

"Enough," Diavolo simply raised his hand, the demon silencing immediately. If he did so with a spell or simply sheer intimidation you did not know. "You are dismissed." Those words were laced with magic so powerful, you almost turned and left yourself, but Diavolo kept his arm near you...kept you close.

For the other demon, however, they began to walk backward, their body betraying them as the order from the prince flooded their bones. They kept moving with their head bowed till they were several feet away from you. Only then did they snap out of it, looking around them in a fearful daze before they ran off.

Diavolo remained in place, shoulders squared, suddenly aware of the whispers of others, the public looking on. He whispered to you, guiding you away from everyone else, using his body to keep you out of sight. “Let us...return to the castle.” He said nothing till you both were on castle grounds, the gate shutting behind you. Then he turned, his posture sagging slightly as he no longer felt the need to be so regal. His words were assertive but not aggressive. “Are you alright?” 

How could you be truthful when someone like Diavolo was right in front of you? You knew he was a prince, but sometimes you forgot...how real that royal status was. “I’m...I...I’m okay.” 

His lips parted as his jaw dropped ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed in a bit of pain. “You don’t need to act around me. My title is simply that, just a title. Sure, I may be a prince, but don’t you see more to me than that?” 

You looked away from him for a moment, but then nodded. He was more to you than just a prince. “I’m a little frazzled, but they didn’t do anything to me. You came just in time.” 

He managed a smile, sighing in relief. “I’m glad for that at least.” He gestured towards the castle, the two of you walking. He fell back just enough to stand with you shoulder to shoulder. “I’m sorry today didn’t go quite as planned. Shall we spend the rest of the day here with just us? No one will bother you. You and I are free to be just who we are without having to fear the consequences.” 

Barbatos

For the love of Diavolo, give this man more of a break. 

Even on his day off--his royally ordered day off--he still was thinking about grabbing groceries and other various items for the castle or for Diavolo. “The dining hall could use new drapes,” he had said. “I am running rather low on tea, what if a guest arrives?” He had fretted. “As it happens, I am currently on the hunt for a particular set of antique measuring cups,” he informed you. Perhaps work never really ends as a demonic butler. Although that last bit of information did seem more personal than the others...

So, the heavy duty of convincing the butler to do something for himself for a change now rested on your shoulders. At the rather desperate request of the prince, you might add. Of course, at your simple suggestion of heading out, he expressed how happy he was to do something with you. 

Sometimes two and two really does just equal four. 

So you both took the time to go on a lovely stroll. To avoid getting him to think about work, you brought up the idea to find a more scenic route of the town, leading him away from shops and places where he could start checking off his errand list. 

He agreed, leading you through a lovely public garden and up to an overlook, the two of you peering down at the busy buzzing demons that scurried around the Devildom. 

Then your peaceful moment was interrupted by a ringtone. With a polite ‘pardon me for a moment’, Barbatos took the call. Guess someone finally contacted him with an offer for the aforementioned antique measuring cups. Good for him, he deserved something nice like that. 

You allowed him his privacy, wandering a little ways away to look at a lovely flowerbed with several glowing flowers. Only, as you crouched down to observe the petals, some stranger did the same thing right next to you. “Aren’t these gorgeous?” The demon asked, acting unfazed as you flinched, startled at the sudden appearance. 

You stood, moving around to the other side of the public flowerbed to give yourself some personal space. “Y-yeah, they’re...nice.” 

…The demon mimicked your movements, coming around so they were shoulder to shoulder with you. You felt like you could hardly breathe with them being so close...

Now was the time to leave, you figured, before the situation escalated. So you took a step forward...only to find the demon was now blocking your path, standing directly in front of you, hands in their pockets, keeping you from moving on. “Why the rush? We were having a good talk, weren’t we?” What talk? The single mention of the flowers? “Stay with me a while...We have a lot we can talk about.” Their hand outstretched to grab you. 

All the sudden, a swirling portal crackled into existence behind the demon. Neither of you had time to fully comprehend what was happening before rattling chains shot forth from the other side, wrapping around their limbs, entangling the demon in their grasp. “Wh-what is this?” The demon shrieked, struggling. They had no time to ask any questions. With a brisk tug, the demon was pulled into the magical void. 

When the portal closed, Barbatos was behind it, tucking his D.D.D. back into his pocket. For a moment, you could’ve sworn the relatively calm and neutral expression had vanished, a frown and furrowed brows framing angry glowing eyes. But you blinked and that image was gone, replaced by his typical pristine smile. 

“I...what was that?” You asked, head still spinning at the whole situation. 

He took a few steps closer to you, making sure that you were unharmed by checking you over. “That was me simply doing my upmost to keep the city streets free of...” He had to actually pause to think of the proper word. “Needless commotion.” 

“Where...where did they go?” You couldn’t help but ask. 

“If you really must know, just to one of the castle’s holding cells. There they can mull over their mistakes and relearn some common manners.” You stared at him, wondering what to properly say in a situation like this. Something seemed to chip away at him the longer you looked at him. “Trust me,” he ended up saying. “I had seen enough to know where it was going. I won’t waste time when it comes to you and your safety.” Once more, a flicker of honest emotion brushed over him. Just for a second. A look of worry, of pain. “Not again.” Then it was gone, and he simply smiled once more as he brushed away a winkle in your clothing. “Shall we head back to the castle?” 

“What about those cups you wanted to get?” 

He put a gentle gloved hand on the back of your shoulder as he turned you towards the direction the castle was in. “I can always retrieve those later. There are more important things to attend to right now. Tell me, what kind of treats would you like me to make for you today?” 

Solomon

He...he asked you to come because of some emergency...The voicemail had been brief and cryptic. Something about ‘the end of times’ and ‘terrible mistakes’--it was hard to make out the message when a sound like roaring wind kept washing out his voice. So of course, you ran over to Purgatory Hall as fast as you could, breathless, prepared for an apocalypse, only to find him standing outside waiting with a smile. Cheeky wizard. Had he really done all that just to get you to come spend time with him? Not that you necessarily felt like complaining. Living in different dorms meant that you didn’t see each other as often as some of the others. 

Besides, it always felt like he was busy doing something. Not that he would ever tell anyone what it was he was working on, some spell or plot of some kind. Something that he always taunted was just out of your magical league, or something that your mortal mind would struggle to comprehend. Possibly just all a scheme to get you to study harder…and possibly one that was working. 

Anyways, that was no longer the point. The focus now was on what you would be doing for the remainder of the day. He had a list of all the Devildom’s most fascinating shops, ones that contained relics and essentially fancy highly-sought-after dust-covered objects. You agreed to go along with him on the exception that you both would go out and get something nice to drink. After making a mad dash all the way over here, you were now quite parched. Any longer, and you would yourself be a relic. 

He laughed at your joke and that was that, going so far as to buy you a drink from one of the local cafes. Now you were both ‘even’, as far as he was concerned, perhaps making up for his little crank-call earlier. 

Speaking of a call...

You recognized the sound of some of the brother’s voices on the other end of Solomon’s phone, all shouting through the speakers. Apparently some sort of cursed spell went haywire and was causing havoc through the House. When there’s something weird, and it don’t look good, who you gonna call? King Solom--Nah, doesn’t have the same ring to it. Although, Solomon really should think of charging some kind of fee for fixing so many magical mishaps. 

That train of thought aside, Solomon gave you a slight humorous roll of the eyes, walking away from you as he tried to solve the problem over the phone. 

You figured you’d check your D.D.D. Maybe the group chat had some fun messages in it. You’d hardly even unlocked your device when a demon approached you out of nowhere, backing you up against a wall. They were uncomfortably close. 

“Excuse me,” you scoffed, going to move out of the way, but the demon slammed their hand against the wall, keeping you from moving. But that wasn’t going to stop you. You ducked under their arm and backed up. 

They glared, still silent, still not sharing their intentions. They started to approach you again. 

Time to go. 

You dashed into an alleyway, rushing through till you were on the other side, trying to blend into the crowd. You didn’t dare look behind you yet, simply swerving around people and weaving yourself through a maze of pathways, trying to ensure you’d lost the demon. 

The moment you finally decided you’d turn around, someone grabbed your arm. 

Before you could even think it through, your mouth was already speaking a spell. “Spirit of wind, protect me!” You quickly turned, palm facing your attacker. 

A burst of wind rushed from your body. The impact was so forceful, it pushed you back, falling to the ground while the person who had grabbed you was a few feet away from you. They groaned a bit under a mess of now wind-swept white hair. 

It was not the demon. It was Solomon. 

You quickly got back up on your feet and to his side, pulling him by the arm to help him stand. “I’m so sorry!” As you were helping him, you noticed some bruising on one of his hands, all focused around the knuckles. “I thought...there was a demon and they...” 

Before he spoke, Solomon simply chuckled, straightening once he was properly upright. “I was worried about you for a moment, but it seems maybe I shouldn’t have been.” After he dusted himself off, he scanned you over for injuries. “Are you okay?” 

Still trying to catch your breath, you looked around, trying to spot the demon that was chasing you. “I...think so, I don’t see them around.” 

Something flashed behind his eyes as he smiled. “You must’ve shaken them off. Good job. And that spell you casted? It was nearly perfect.” 

Once the facts were starting to settle in, you realized where you were...how far you had managed to make it before Solomon caught up with you. You were nearly on the street you normally took to make it back to Purgatory Hall. Had you run this way subconsciously or...was there more to it than that? You raised an eyebrow at the other human. “How...How did you find me?”

He hummed a bit, amused, putting a finger to his lips. “A sorcerer never reveals his secrets.” He then used that finger to point down the street. “We’re nearly home anyway, so why don’t we head back?” 

Before you moved, you wanted confirmation for your suspicions. “Did I hurt you?” You gestured towards his hand, and for a second, you watched his all-clever expression fall into an exhausted one. 

“You did not, no. Don’t worry about me.” He looked at his knuckles and let out a single breathy laugh. “Didn’t even feel it. Guess I’m getting older, huh?” 

You shook your head at him, a bit in disbelief both at the joke and at the thought of the ‘wise wizard Solomon’ throwing back-alley punches. “Guess I owe you one, don’t I? Thank you for saving me.” 

The joking halted, Solomon waving you over so you could walk side by side as you headed back to the Hall. “No need to thank me for this one. I’m just glad to see you safe...even if you did hit me with a spell.” Okay, so there was still a little joking. “But if you still feel like you owe me, how about...staying with me for the rest of the day?” 

  Simeon

The angel had been working much too hard as of late. Not only does he have to watch over the Devildom’s smallest guardian angel, Luke, but he does have to essentially manage the Devildom’s oldest human, Solomon. On top of those two, he was working on a new writing project. Night after night he would work on this manuscript, writing himself right into a horrid bout of writer’s block. A travesty in two parts. 

It had been decided. Simeon needed some fresh air. 

Spending some time outside away from the responsibilities of Purgatory Hall would do him some good both physically and creatively. Maybe being around you for the better part of the day would bring down some divinely timed inspiration. 

Regardless of the outcome, Simeon simply beamed when you came all the way over to the Hall to ask him to come with you to the heart of town. He was quite literally glowing, a faint light shimmering behind the silhouette of his body. Of course, he did feel a bit guilty leaving Luke and Solomon home alone together, but he promised to bring them both home a little gift. He was always sweet like that.

You let him tell you what he was working on while you both walked, glad to hear him talk so passionately about something of his. He shared with you his outline, his plot, his main character...and you couldn't help but notice some...similarities between your story and this protagonist of his. But you couldn't be fully sure if that was his intention, after all, creators take bits and pieces of the world around them to make their art. But...knowing him...and his stories...it was absolutely based off of you.

However, before you were able to question him on his choice of character creation, he got a phone call. Without thinking, he answered it, not even checking to see who was calling. Luckily, it was only Luke. Unluckily, the angel was very upset, apparently near tears at some scary movie Solomon had shown him.

With an empathetic 'oh dear', Simeon stepped aside to do his best to console the little angel.

You watched him move away from you with a little smile, shaking your head a little as you wished Simeon the best of luck in your mind.

“Excuse me,” a sudden voice called out from behind you. You turned to face a demon, one you had never met before. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.” 

Immediately, a little feeling settled into your gut. One might call it paranoia, the other would call it intuition. You didn’t trust this demon one bit. “I...uh, am not sure I’d be of much help. Perhaps if you asked someone else you-” 

“I didn’t want to ask someone else, I wanted to ask you.” …Man did you hate it when your gut was right. The demon stepped closer, the look across their face a bit more sinister than before. “Are you saying you don’t want to help me? That’s rather rude.” 

You took a step back, and then the demon grabbed your wrist. 

All the sudden, a bright light flashed behind you. The demon quickly let go of you, shielding their eyes as they were suddenly blinded. What was it? An explosion? A flashbang? Then the light faded, the sound of footsteps coming up behind you. 

The first thing Simeon did was gently lift your wrist, making sure you were unharmed. It was a bit sore, sure, but nothing terrible. He ran his fingers over it before letting your hand fall back to your side. With a slow turn, he looked at the demon and smiled. 

He said nothing. Not a thing. Just stared, an unwavering ring of light around his irises. 

The demon didn’t like that. Blinking spots out of their vision, they growled.  “Damn angel.” 

“Do you wish to atone?” Simeon finally asked, his usual friendly tone now a serious one as cold as Lucifer’s. The demon didn’t reply, considering their options, wondering if they would rather fight or flee. A spotlight then seemed to shine over the demon, every part of them uncovered under this warm glow. The warmth then seemed to grow hotter, the air humming with magic. “Or would you rather experience Celestial Retribution?” 

You struggled to see with all the light, trying to shade your view with a hand in front of your face. But you heard the demon run more than you saw it, listening to them curse obscenities before scrambling away. The light only faded after the demon was long gone. 

When you were able to see the angel again, his face was covered in shadow, his head tilted downwards. “Simeon...” 

In a few quick steps, he suddenly had you in a hug, releasing his nerves and his anger in a long sigh. “Thank heavens you are alright. I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.” He pulled himself back and rested both hands on your shoulders. “You’re not hurt right?” 

“Yeah, I’m-” You were going to say ‘yeah, I’m not’ but were cut off by the angel before you could finish. 

“You are?!” He actually raised his voice a little, emotions running high through him. 

“I meant no! I’m not!” 

He dropped his hands and took a deep breath, collecting himself. “Forgive me.” He put his hand over his chest and closed his eyes, waiting until he was properly composed before reaching that same hand over to you should you want to take it. “Shall we both head back to the Hall? I think we both would feel better away from the crowds. Plus, I think Luke would feel much better after seeing you again.” He still looked at you with worried eyes. “Don’t stray too far from me. I don’t think my heart could take another scare.” 

[clevercrumbish]

You're at a house viewing. You're being shown around by the agent. The property is good: spacious, well-built. Technically within your budget, though perhaps a little bit of a stretch. The agent takes you into a small, close room off the ground floor hall.

"So this was an office, but I think with the furnishings available it could also be a small media room or something like that, it'd really be up to you. There's a lot you can do with it given all the sockets and such, you see."

You look around. The wall of this small room is lined with brackets for articulated monitors or tv screens. Above them, you can see pins in the wall for hanging paintings or photos. A lot of pins, enough that the entire wall could have been covered in paintings, or photos... or posters.

"It's wired for a sound system, you see." The agent points at an audio jack socket in the wall. "And the walls are thick, so noise wouldn't be an issue."

You look at the doorjamb. The agent is right, the walls of this room are twice as thick as in the rest of the house.

"The one downside, just so you're aware." She says, bending down to gesture with her pen at something on the floor. "There's a bit of an odd stain here, just a wear and tear thing, you could definitely sand that off if you were inclined to have the floor refinished and it's pretty minor, but just for full transparency, you know."

You look directly at the agent. Her head snaps up to make eye contact and stares back at you. Her piercing gaze is a challenge, a powerful weapon drilling into the back of your skull. Neither of you speak, you can feel the power of your own expression beaming out from your face like a laser before breaking harmlessly as if a shallow wave against the bulwark of her stony countenance. She knows. She knows you know. She's not even daring you to say anything, she knows you won't. The entire battle between you is being decided in tiny faciomuscular twitches, never to reach to the cruder, more barbaric arena of the spoken word.

"An office." You say plainly, fighting for your life to keep your tone steady.

"Or a media room." She replies in expertly practised kind.

[guillotinna]

Intelligence analyst! Reader

No romance sorry 🤷🏻‍♀️

Baddie! Reader too bc these men r too comfortable 💅🏻

Imagine intelligence analyst! Reader who worked with Laswell in the past getting called in to look over some Intel. You owe Kate a favor so you couldn't really say no, she wasn't asking. You show up on base with your stupid government clearance, crisp work shirt and bad attitude. Hours turn into days which turn into 2 weeks. 14 days you've been stuck on the stifling base surrounded by brutes. You missed the basic luxuries you took for granted. The dull government building you once dreaded walking into each day looked like Eden compared to wherever the hell you were. And the task force....they were nice enough. Capable, helpful, a little odd but you've been around weirder in your line of work. What annoyed you was how they talked down to you, so clearly underestimating you. Sure you were fairly young compared to your counterparts, maybe your government-issued phone was covered in stickers and maybe there wasn't an ounce of muscle on you but Kate called you here for a reason, that should be proof enough. But no. Your days are filled with "are you sure?", "how do you know?", "who told you that?". Some of it was the team double checking your info, nothing inherently annoying, but the rest of it was rooted in their lack of faith in your skills. What would you have to do to get them to trust you?

Cut to 5 AM on a random weekend. You find yourself awake and unable to fall back asleep, so you head to the gym to stretch out your stiff bones. Being on a military base means constantly being surrounded by a lot of people which is why you've never been to the gym before but you figured the one time it might be empty is ass-crack o'clock on a Saturday. You were right! Plenty of quiet, serene minutes pass as you loosen your tension with yoga enjoying the peace. Until, 3 of the 4 men acting as the biggest pains in your ass clamor into the room, breaking the silence. They notice you quickly being the only people in the facility and of course they make their way right to you. As you get into downward dog, you hear in a thick scottish accent. "Wow, can't say the gym sees a lot of yoga. When was the last time you had a proper workout? " Tired of being spoken down to and slightly delirious from lack of sleep, you blurt out "probably when I fucked your dad".....oops. instead of hearing the shouts of anger you expected, you hear Gaz bark out a laugh and look up to see Soap's mouth agape in indignation. "She got you good mate, my god". Happy to not be screamed at this early in the morning, you glance and the scary lieutenant only to see a small wrinkle where his mouth sits under the mask indicating a smile. "Jesus christ Lass, you've got quite the mouth on you". Oh, he made it so easy. "That's funny, your dad said that too". In return, you get more laughter from Gaz and loud groan of disgust from Soap and he finally walks away. After a clap on the shoulder from the remaining Sargent and a brief "see you later", all parties continued with their respective activities.

Later in the afternoon, when the 141, Laswell and yourself all reconvened, a large part of you was expecting to get torn a new one for disrespecting an officer but instead, as you walked into the room you heard Gaz recounting the conversation to Capt. Price. "-and she was quick with it too captain. A proper shock if I do say so myself. " The chuckle you heard in response told you it was safe to enter the room. Sort of. "I heard you were bullying my Sargent earlier." Uh oh. No sir, just some banter, that's all you swear. "I wouldn't call it bullying. That doesn't sound quite like me." You mustered just as Kate walked in. "Dont lie y/n, I'd be surprised if I didn't hear about your attitude. Now leave these children alone and start working. You're onto something here. " You send a glance to the pouting scottsman only to watch his stick his nose up at you. Children was right. "Yes Ma'am". The conversation in the gym created a positive shift between you and the team. Maybe it humanized you, or maybe they just needed a laugh. Whatever it was, the doubt they shared over your skills eased significantly, allowing you to make more progress than you had before. It wasn't long before you got the hit you've all been searching for.

[pianocat939]

I'm kinda not feeling any creativity going through, so have this instead. Also, disclaimer, both parties are undefined in both name and gender so if the pronouns get confusing, I apologize.

Have some Blind Yan because I have no creative juice

Tw: murder (not super descriptive), entrapment, implications of abandonment or disowning of (not MC),

Additional disclaimer: This is an accurate depiction of a certain type of blindness, specifically someone who retains a small amount of their vision. (And I can say accurate because one of my parents is blind so aha- you can't tell me it's wrong.)

Imagine MC being like a fugitive, literally running away for some kind of crime.

And of course, they encounter some terrible weather on their never ending journey. So their miserable selves end up trying to look for a shelter. (It’s giving “food for the poor”)

They find a fairly-sized mansion on the outskirts of a town. It’s so dead and silent, they assume it was abandoned. Even if the mansion seemed so exquisite.

It’s quite dim. They notice the mansion is spotless, with not a single problem in the building at all. Until they notice a lit room down the hall.

Usually they would never approach any possible humans, but in that moment, the curiosity was too much.

In that said lit room, is a person sitting in a chair. Seemingly a library full of…odd books. Books without a proper cover, and held together by rings.

They notice the person is reading…with their fingers. Sliding their fingertips across each line.

MC realizes that the person is blind. Of course, given their current state, they’re going to take advantage of that. Just as they were stepping away from the door frame, a sudden thunder crackles, causing them to flinch and lightly bump into the wall.

Well shit.

“Hello? Is someone here?”

MC is frozen. The person stands up, their arms stretched outwards as they guided themselves through the doorway. A bit faster than MC would have liked.

MC is quick to speed walk away, until the person speaks once more.

“You’ll get sick if you go back out there. You should stay while you’re here…Even just for a few hours.”

MC paused. Does this person not fear the possible dangers? They don’t even know a fugitive is within their home.

.

.

.

And so MC finds themselves drinking tea with this blind one. Oddly not minding their little rambles.

It doesn’t surprise MC that the mansion was bought by their parents. No wonder there were so many expensive braille books. But they found it odd not a single helper was around.

"Oh I only have a cleaner come around twice a week. Everything else is managed by me."

After a few hours, the rain didn't stop at all. If anything, it got worse. MC was deciding whether or not to just suffer through the shivering wetness. Just as they were about to excuse themselves, the blind one stops them, standing up from their chair to face them...Well, trying to.

"Don't leave, just stay. You could get terribly sick from the cold.'

MC just books it. They have nowhere better to go anyway. They reveal a bit about themselves, who they were really. Except saying "wanderer" instead of fugitive. The government can't catch this fucker yet-

In the morning, the rain has stopped. MC was not only woken up by the blind one, but served a plate of food as well. Surprisingly not burnt or too much salt. It looked like a typical dish that anybody could make.

Before MC could even repack their things to leave, the blind one asks, almost begging for them to stay. It seems the loneliness bothers this person. MC is hesitant, but decides to stay.

Over the days, MC notices something. The blind one always seems to be shuffling close by, every spoken word from them making the blind one to smile and hesitantly approach in the direction of sound. It seems the person is a lot more clingy than one would assume.

They are a little amazed the blind one is able to live mostly on their own, even recognizing the light or dark spaces. Even if their movements are hesitant.

.

.

.

Ah but inevitably, the government comes knocking on the mansion door. They're quick to panic, packing up everything they could and about to bolt- until they hear a strangled scream.

They know they should run, but curiosity and maybe even worry for the blind one is too overpowering. They glance down the stairs, and witness something all too shocking.

There's three bloody bodies, their black suits tainted with a slight red. Stab wounds and ripped shirts accompanying the already horrifying scene. In the middle, stands the blind one, huffing a little. They held a kitchen knife in hand. The blind one looks around, outstretching their arms in front of them, stepping forward slowly.

"Dearie? Where are you? No need to run off now, those intruders are gone."

MC, horrified and literally so confused, tries to open the door- but it’s completely locked. Someone hugs them so tight from behind, the bloodied knife still in their hands. MC is more terrified than the time they committed crime all those months ago.

"Don't go. Don't leave me. I made sure they'll never find you. I'm useful, right?" The blind one's voice is desperate, as if they were about to cry. They drop the knife, pinging against the marble floor. "I know I can't see- but I can still do most things just fine. Don't throw me away like everyone else, don't coup me up in this cage like they did. You can stay, and I can pardon your crime."

Tears started to flow from their eyes, as they clutch MC's clothes tightly, their nails digging into the fabric. "Just stay with me. I don't want to be alone and broken anymore. I'm not helpless."

The blind one can cook, cook well it seemed.

-

(I felt like doing a bit of angst and a tiny sprinkle of violence. Bro having both parties with undefined gender or names is HARD to write. But then again this was like last minute scramble typing)

- Celina

[safetycar-restart]

(Thank you for answering my little!arthur ask ❤️)

My next brain rot is cat!max.

We’ve spoken a lot about how his relationship with his domme is an act of repairing the rough relationship he had/s with his Dad. So, I’ve been thinking of playing with cat!max using toys. Essentially just allowing him to be a playful kitten, which he couldn’t do when he was younger.

Something tells me that when he becomes comfortable he can be excitable. I think that either chasing a laser or playing with a ball is one his favourite because then he can play with his domme(/owner?) at the same time.

Like, the image of playing with Max using the laser is so sweet to me because he knows that his domme won’t judge him for trying to catch it and maybe his domme secretly makes it easy occasionally to that she/he/they can reward him? Or, dangling a feather in front of him whilst he’s in our lap?

The whole idea of letting Maxie do everything he couldn’t do it so lovely to me

-🎞️

The last line of this ask really sums it up for me. That's everything I love about cat!max in the D/S AU. And this whole idea is so so cute.

Firstly, I almost thing you'd need to teach max how to play with cat toys? Which might sound odd, but it's because he's spent so much time trying to avoid those toys and trying to resist the desire to play with them that when you actually get him some... he has no idea what to do with them?

Like you buy him a scratching post and he literally just stares at it. He knows it's something for him, knows it's a toy for cat hybrids, but he has no idea what to do. You have to tell him that he can scratch it with his nails and it feels nice and fun before he does it, and even then he's so shy about it.

In fact maybe you make an excuse to leave the room, like to go check on dinner or something, just to give Max some time without feeling like someone is watching him. You return a few minutes later to find max using the scratching post happily, dragging his nails across it and purring lightly.

He falters when you walk in, but you only smile at him and take a seat on the couch, acting like this is completely normal so that max can feel relaxed. It works and soon max is back to using his scratching post.

Max absolutely adores it, and then when you start to buy more toys, the process continues.

I just LOVE the idea that he becomes excitable as he gets more and more comfortable? Max is a pretty chilled, reserved person but he really becomes energetic and excited when he's around people he's comfortable with (it's worth noting he is always extremely reserved around his father).

When you buy him a laser pointer, he is both nervous and confused, mostly because he knows there's no point to this game. There's no ball to catch or anything. This is literally just him trying to catch something he will never really catch. You'd be entertaining him with absolutely no objective. It's the exact type of game that his dad would never let him play.

But you encourage him, promising him that you would enjoy doing it and then you can stop after a few minutes if he doesn't like it. So, reluctantly, he agrees.

And oh my god he LOVES the laser pointer.

At first he's reserved, just barely trying to touch the laser on the floor, but then you start moving is quicker and encouraging him and oh my god he has a great time. Very quickly he's throwing himself to try and catch the laser.

And yeah I love the idea that you make it easy for him to catch sometimes. You never tell him this, and it's so so worth it because he gets so happy every time he catches it.

He always turns to you, cheering and going "Did you see that? I caught it! Did you see that???" and he's so excited, purring a little and asking you to put the laser pointer on again.

And the feather???? While he's on your lap???

Max thinks he's died and gone to heaven the day he wakes from a nap on your lap and you're dangling a feather in front of hm. He goes to get it and you move it out of his reach.

This turns into an absolutely adorable game where max is laying on his back with his head on your lap and you're dangling the feather above him. He tries to catch it without getting up, and of course he's still half asleep and purring so loud your legs are getting a massage and it's just... it's everything.

Also, imagine max's mother and sister coming to visit and discovering how much more accepting he is of his cat hybrid nature now??

[earlgreytea68]

i dont actually know the general consensus on I Am My Own Muse but to me it very clearly feels like pete addressing the fans directly - almost like a conversation? like the opening lines "here i am not sure you should take a chance. I like playing dumb letting you figure me out" basically completely summarises petes relationship with us during the early parts of this era. His uncertainty coming back but also the way he likes to keep us on our toes (like hes always done). His constant surprise that even one person appreciates his art. His odd fourth-wall-esque relationship w us - he always knows more than he lets on. like. these are crazy opening lines.

Especially looking at other songs petes addressed to us (namely thriller and our laywer). Those songs still feel like petes putting on a persona for our benefit. Hes talking to us through the mask he thinks we'll like best - but for his benefit not ours. In those songs he still wants to show his appreciation for the fans but hes afraid to be vulnerable about it. He hides behind tongue and cheek self deprecation (put this record down, we are bad news, we're only good to have almost famous friends... that whole song tbh) or like implication of rejection/disaster (we r not making an acceptance speech, car crash hearts, only thing i havent done yet is die) and its all glitz and distraction bc thats what he does. he will tell us their hearts beat for the diehards but not before telling us why its a bad idea. its defensive from the get go but in Muse he doesnt do that. yes he defends himself but his tone is balanced between resigned and resolute. its stripped down to just his own thoughts voiced aloud. it feels so much more genuine despite how much vaguer in address it is.

Also the general theme of this song is feeling hidden/secret (e.g. the angels didnt know his name, him feeling faded, feelings were tucked away) but trying to draw attention anyway(throw the year away, smash all the guitars, drop a bomb on things we care about) even if its hard/painful (twist the knife again, trying to keep it together).

This coupled with the title is a perfect representation of his journey as an artist in this era no? The vulnerability hidden in old songs and spoken word poems that he relives each night of the tour. An amalgamation of every little moment he created and tucked away is reborn on stage. And who has he shared this particular journey with??? The fans. It was us who he finally trusted with his works and words in the shows and we sang them back at him. Patricks journey alongside pete has felt more obvious bc of his whole demeanour but its pete who wrote his heart out to us. I think this song is a way of pete kinda of juggling this idea in his head before it ever took shape in thw real world. A way of connecting back with his audience. Not as an act of nostalgia but as moving on together. its a gorgeous song and it feels like a love letter to us in the very oarticular way a love letter from pete wentz feels like. its not soft or even sweet but it leaves you feeling comforted and stronger anyway. its solidarity yk.

ANYWAYS thats my ramble for today hope it was worthwhile <33 i really had to get that one out otherwise i may have exploded. can you tell smfs as an album and an era is my baby. sorry this is such a long one lol. hope you r having a great day :)

Awwww I *love* this. I *adore* "I Am My Own Muse" and I always have and I love everything you say about it. To write a song that sounds like that and then call it so deliberately "I Am My Own Muse," like, that we are there and ever-present but in the end he's got to come from his own authentic place. And it's like his instinct is to play a little coy and not be so vulnerable, but also he just wants to scream so someone hears him: Smash all the guitars 'til we see all the stars, like, he's screaming so that we will all see. He's trying so hard to keep it together, keep it together, so smash all the guitars 'til we see all the stars, because we are all in it together, and throw the whole year away and start fresh.

Look, i am Peterick all the way, we all know, and I think I've even used lyrics from this song in a Peterick fic, but in my secret heart of hearts, if you really ask me to be serious, what do I think Pete Wentz is writing about........I kinda think he's always writing about us.

[gumnut-logic]

Cethair (Bit 4)

Óen | Cethair - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4

Glossary (contains backstory spoilers)

Here is the next bit. Meet Cethair :D

Thank you to all your amazing support with this. I've received such amazing feedback, you are all gorgeous and ever so supportive.

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

There was a myth, told by the fire of those who bonded with a dragon with their dying breath. Fallen on the battlefield or cursed with sickness, their breath was taken by a wyrm who saw into their heart and judged them worthy.

The dragon would give life, heal wounds and sickness, and the cherished loved one would be saved.

But there would be something different. At first small things, a change in food preferences, or the odd request, before a personality change would take them away from their family, their community, and eventually they would disappear, never to return.

Some said the dragons took the souls of the dying. Some said they turned into dragons themselves. Others that there was a price for life that had to be paid, that those who were saved were not really saved at all, but enslaved to their saviour.

Some spoke of horrors that should never be spoken.

What was known was that dragons were a great people with knowledge and capabilities beyond that of man. While man partnered and loved them as family, there was always that awareness that dragons were more than they seemed and that there were questions they did not answer.

So rumours continued to speak and some feared the dragons and the myths became lore.

For those from across the Great Western Sea, the place Virgil knew as his childhood home, dragons were everything. Beloved Thunderbirds protecting and honouring their tribe in a harsh world.

But the myths persisted and while he had grown up with the beautiful creatures and loved Dá as much as his brothers, the question was always there. Something to be aware of…

And now to fear.

The ocean was a dark abyss that roared as it pounded onto the finely pebbled shore. Behind him Cóic let off another bellow into that darkness.

It was answered, not by sound, but a golden glow.

Far out beyond the breakers, the ocean lit up with a slowly expanding golden light, strengthening to shine through the waves themselves, lighting up their greens and gold-plating white foam.

Gordon would love this.

The thought came unbidden and brought tears to Virgil’s eyes, blurring it all.

A hand on his arm urged him forward. “Virgil, all will be well.” John’s voice was melodious as always and as he turned to look at him, his red hair was blonded by the light.

Virgil swallowed and took a step into the water.

Golden foam writhed about his leather boots.

Cóic let off another roar, this time joined by both Dá and Óen.

Virgil drew in a wet breath and straightened his shoulders. John had not let go of his arm. On his other side, his big brother reached out and touched his elbow, holding gently, and together they walked into the glowing surf just as a golden dragon lifted its head far above the waves.

And warbled at them.

It was a sea serpent, rumoured to live at the greatest depths, to roam the ocean, wise, yet mercurial, quick to temper and a scourge of the fisherman as they foiled nets and stole catches.

Again, Gordon would have loved to see this.

Virgil’s sight blurred again and he looked down at his little brother, still struggling for breath in his arms.

Scott and John nudged him forward and the freezing surf crashed over his thighs.

The serpent towered over them, red eyes glistening as it peered down. Its snout was slender, but as its mouth opened, dagger-like teeth protruded from its jaws. Its glowing scales flickered gold with hints of greens and blues, ever so smooth over its long snake-like back and belly. A frill of fin structures encircled its neck and shoulders, tapering to a single line down its spine. Two great webbed claws stepped out over the waves.

And one reached out, palm up, to Virgil.

Cóic and Dá crooned at him from the beach.

“Virgil, give Gordon to Cethair.”

Virgil looked at his brother. Lit up by the golden dragon, John appeared ethereal, a soft reassuring smile on his face, Cóic’s silver-white scale at his temple shining in the light.

“He will be safe.”

Scott’s hand tightened on his arm.

And something nudged at Virgil’s hair.

Dá bellowed as Virgil looked back to find the golden dragon’s snout at eye level, every glowing scale vibrating with energy, red eyes flashing.

Cethair warbled again and touched its nose to Gordon’s wrapped shoulder.

“Let him go, Virgil.”

Golden light surrounded him, Cethair’s warm breath washing away the cold air.

Trembling, Virgil lifted up his little brother, his bright, sunshine, ever smiling little brother, now broken and dying in his arms, and offered him to the sea dragon.

That claw wrapped around Gordon, encompassing him in light until he almost disappeared, as the dragon reared up and took him away.

Virgil reached out as Cethair drew Gordon in close, holding his little brother a moment and nuzzling him with its snout.

Another warble and the sea serpent turned in the water, creating a wash that swept over the three brothers, and disappeared into the depths taking its golden light with it.

There was a pain-filled sound to Virgil’s left, but he couldn’t respond, caught in a gasp of his own, his legs dropping from under him as if they wished the cold sea could take him as well.

It was John who dragged him and Scott from the water, all of them shivering and soaked to the bone. Virgil found himself bundled up with both Scott and John in a flurry of white feathers as Cóic curled around them.

It was only then, as the world slowed and gave him a moment, that he could give in and breakdown in grief.

-o-o-o-

TBC

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: July Wrap-Up.

This month, I picked my knitting back up with a vengeance, started a Three Sentences Writing Challenge, AND participated in several work-adjacent Social Events (who am I, even), On Top Of accidentally nerfing myself with several brick-like books, so! This little stack isn't half bad. Photos and/or reviews linked below:

ORDINARY MONSTERS - ★★ This was a miss for me, y'all, AND it was a brick, so it took a hot minute to read. I wanted it to be better than it was, but it rambled and wandered Too Much (which, coming from me, you KNOW is bad). Salty also-rambly 1.5k review linked.

IF FOUND, RETURN TO HELL - ★★★½ Way cuter than I was expecting!! I had a good time with the second person. Hugely relatable (which. wild. all things considered.).

THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE - ★★★½ Funnier than anticipated, and very readable for something out of the '50s! I see why it's a cornerstone of the (sub)genre. Glad I have a copy on hand now.

THE ACTOR AND THE TARGET - ★★★★★ This Rewired My Brain. It took me three (3) weeks to get through. It was so good. If you're a writer, definitely check this out, 10/10 recommend.

WHEN AMONG CROWS - ★★★½ I checked this out from the library because hardback novellas are Expensive if you're not sure you vibe with the author's style, but I had a good time! Witcher fans should descend on this, I think.

ALWAYS COMING HOME - 76*/618 pages read; will report back later. I asked the People about this one, and the People have Spoken (read: this won my What Do I Read Next Poll), but I may or may not have miscalcuated how many brain cells I have available lately between work and writing, so I may or may not be cutting this with library books. I'll finish it. Eventually. (*asterisk because she keeps referencing Other Pages In Line, and every time she does I jump ahead to read those pages instead and then come back to where I was. I'm dual wielding bookmarks through this tome, it's an Experience™ so far!)

Under the Cut: A Note About ~*★Stars★*~

Historically, I have been Very Bad™ about assigning things Star Ratings, because it's so Vibes Heavy for me and therefore Contingent Upon my Whims. I am refining this as I figure out my wrap up posts (epiphany of this month: I don't like that stars are Odd, because that makes three the midpoint and things are rarely so truly mid for me)(I have hacked my way around this with a ½). Here is, generally, how I conceptualize stars:

★ - This was Bad. I would actively recommend that you do NOT read this one, no redeeming qualities whatsoever, not worth the slog. Save Yourself, It's Too Late For Me. Book goes in the garbage (donate bin).

★★ - This was Not Good. I would not recommend it, but it wasn't a total waste or wash--something in here held my interest/kept my attention/sparked some joy. I will not be rereading this ever. Save Yourself (Or Join Me In Suffering, That Seems Like A Cool Bonding Activity).

★★★ - This was Good/Fine/Okay/Meh. I don't care about this enough to recommend it one way or another. Perfectly serviceable book, held my interest, I probably enjoyed myself (or at least didn't actively loathe the reading). I don't have especially strong feelings. You probably don't need to save yourself from this one--if it sounds like your jam, give it a shot! Just didn't resonate with me particularly powerfully. I probably won't reread this unless I'm after something in particular.

★★★½ - I liked this! I'll probably recommend it if I know it matches someone's vibes or specific requests, but I didn't commit to a star rating on Goodreads. More likely to reread, but not guaranteed.

★★★★ - I really enjoyed this!! I would recommend it (sometimes with caveats about content warnings or such--I tend to like weird fucked up funny shit, and I don't have many hard readerly NO's). Not a perfect book for me by any means, but Very Good. This is something I would reread! Join me!!

★★★★★ - I LOVED THE SHIT OUT OF THIS, IT REWIRED MY BRAIN, WILL RECOMMEND TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION (content warning caveats still apply--see 4-star disclaimer). Excellent book, I'll reread it regularly, I'll buy copies for all my friends, I'll try to convince all of Booklr to read it, PLEASE join me!!

[admirableadmiranda]

Hi! I have an perhaps silly question!

I am currently reading volume 4 & 5 of the official translation. Up till now, I didn't have that many problems with it (mostly because it's been years since I read the fan one and since I don't speak Chinese and English isn't my first language the only thing I noticed at first was that it... read ? Better if that makes sense? It was easier at least.

But I have. Concerns. Does Wei Wuxian truly say fuck (or whatever equivalent there is in swear words) all the time? Because I noticed it in vol 4 and now I keep seeing it! I know he's supposed to be pretty informal, but that + the way he speaks sometimes ("I know I've got a bad rep" ??? "What are you doing on my turf"???) keep taking me out of the story xD idk if it's because I took a break in my rereading and got used to fics modifying his speech patterns... but given that when I'm writing mdzs fics I usually make sure to... idk adapt the speech patterns so they're not too modern sounding? Am I overthinking this? Should I let wwx say fuck all the time?? XD

Hope this doesn't bother you and thank you in advance for your answer!!

Hi! Hello again! How’s it going?

So full disclosure I have not read the official translation in full yet, but uhh… yeah I’ve seen more than enough of Suika’s prose to know that there’s something off about the way she translates WWX that just eliminates an important element of his character.

For what you’re saying between ExR and Suika’s translations with Suika being easier to read, I get that. ExR has a lot of trouble with tenses and plenty of times they use a word that’s not quite what they actually want it to mean, so it takes more work to read what they intend to say over what the text says, but Suika’s text only really is improved by being cleaned up, @kimalysong and @jiangwanyinscatmom have a lot of posts on text either vastly altered from the intent or lines just flat out missing, if you’re curious about going down the rabbit hole of the official translation.

Now WWX does swear on occasion, especially when he’s younger and using the rougher Yunmeng dialect, but the other lines you’ve quoted tend to have Suika’s usual problem of making lower class characters speak roughly and often with southern accents regardless of how they sound in Chinese or with consideration to the character at hand. Wei Wuxian has an incredible grasp of language and literally switches linguistic registers depending on who he’s talking to and what the situation is and given some of his lines that I’ve seen in the official translation compared to stuff in exr or that my friend has translated for me, it seems like Suika has flattened all of that out in favor of her usual style of handling lower class characters.

I think you’re noticing it because it’s at odds with everyone else’s translations and grasp of WWX. While ExR has its own troubles with grammar at times, you can still see the strength in his language usage, to say nothing of Fanyiyi and Taming Wangxian’s translations which are much more solid on that front(@mxtxfanatic has posts comparing the language uses between exr, Fanyiyi and Taming Wangxian if you’re curious) and really lay out a well spoken character who can adjust his speech as needed (and drop the occasional precision fuck strike when needed).

I am not impressed by Suika’s way of translating characters speech especially as it pertains to Wei Wuxian, and I think you’re right to say that it feels weird. Don’t follow her style of speech, continue to write a WWX who absolutely understands the tangled web of a world he lives in and adjusts his language for the person at hand consistently.