#like you will never be able to do justice to how brilliant it all seems in your head or whatever

[anothermonikan]

like Kernel means so much to me its kind of insane considering they just started off as a silly roblox avatar, and I do want to share that with people outside of my immediate friend group! but as much as I love Kernel, Kernel just has a bunch of traits and story beats that I like personally and that's not going to be interesting for everyone. I like Kernel because I wrote them so they have a bunch of shit I like attached to them and I don't think that's really how you're supposed to go about writing. there's no appeal to them outside of me. there's no audience for a character like them or whatever. not that I have much of an audience anyways

[silkysoftie]

𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬

shouto todoroki x female reader

summary: when his sweet girlfriend is nervous to meet his family, shouto decides to help take the edge off.

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, college au, quirkless au, established relationship, pet names, praise, tears, fingering, exhibitionism (aged up characters)

beta reader: @themellowminx

a/n: sorry this took so long! i meant for this to come out sooner, but i fell into a writing slump :( sho is a bit difficult to write so i hope i was able to do his character justice! enjoy <3

Little white puffs of snow floated slowly through the still evening air as Shouto quietly led you down the sidewalk to his family home, his palm warm in yours.

Winter had come at last, the days shortening, and the temperatures dropping. You’d met Shouto Todoroki in the spring. The fields of flowers he’d once stopped to pick from for you now hidden away under a thick blanket of snow. After the first snowfall of the year, Shouto had quickly decided winter was your best season, captivated by how you seemed to glow amongst the vast whiteness. Though he’d never mention it, he quite liked the dusting of red that covered your cheeks and nose in the icy air. He couldn’t help the little grin that tugged his lips at the sight of you, bundled up in a pink, fluffy scarf, hair windswept and frosty. You just looked so cozy.

Seeing as the two of you had been dating for some time now, Shouto thought it appropriate for you to finally meet his family. Rei, his mother, was delighted by the idea and invited you to dinner without hesitation, anxious to meet the girl Shouto always mentioned in his letters. Thus, the very next Friday you were at the Todoroki’s doorstep, shaking like a leaf.

What if they didn’t like you? After all, you’d always felt Shouto was way out of your league. For goodness’ sake, the man was built like a Greek god, all sharp angels and smooth muscles. When you’d passed by him on the way out of the lecture hall, his distinctive dual-toned locks catching your eye, you’d had to do a double take, astonished to share a class with someone so unfairly handsome. And to think, he’d noticed you of all people. You’d never been particularly insecure, but next to the campus heartthrob, you just couldn’t compare.

“Hello! Welcome in,” Rei opened the front door, her words soft and gentle, but filled with excitement. Your trembling seemed to worsen at the mere sight of her.

Shouto lightly squeezed your hand in reassurance before ushering you in. After greeting her son, Rei turned to you.

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Y/N. Shouto has told me so much about you,” Rei smiled at you warmly, a slight lift at the corner of her lips. Suddenly, you were struck by how closely Shouto resembled her. They had the same, soft shape to their face, straight nose, and long, sweeping eyelashes. Not to mention the way in which they observed the world around them, quietly, but perceptively. She was almost as unreasonably beautiful as her son. Maybe God did have favorites after all…

“Hel-” your voice wobbled embarrassingly thanks to your nerves. Shouto’s shoulders raised almost imperceptibly, his lips pressing into a thin line in attempt to smother a laugh. Yep, ok, time to go home and dwell on this for the rest of your life.

Clearing your throat, you tried again, “Hello, it’s very nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me over.”

Rei’s smile widened, just enough that a flash of brilliant, white teeth peaked through. Beside you, Shouto swelled with pride, a little smile of his own making its way onto his face at his mother’s reaction to you.

“I also, um, brought you this,” Rei watched with interest as you fished around in your purse in search of something. After a moment you pulled out a small, ornate box, decorated with a delicate bow.

Shouto’s mother took it from you carefully, her movements graceful and slow. After opening the little box, a quiet gasp left her.

“It’s mochi from my hometown…” you wrung your hands together nervously, hopeful she’d like the gift since you’d picked it without knowing much about her tastes, “I know it’s not quite the holidays, but I thought you might like to taste it.”

“My goodness, this is very kind of you,” Rei murmured, her grey eyes examining the little desserts and their descriptions intently.

After a moment, she turned her thoughtful gaze back to you, “Thank you very much, Y/N.”

Shouto had a hard time schooling his features into their usual, serious expression when his mother was so obviously pleased. Rei was a rather reserved woman, a trait she’d passed on to him. And like him, she kept a tight hold on her emotions, her countenance always very carefully calculated. To anyone else, Rei might seem as cold as ice, but her son knew better.

She liked you, Shouto could tell.

Just as you were about to respond, a young woman burst into the hall, running over to where the three of you still stood in the genkan.

“I’m so sorry! I was brewing tea and didn’t hear you come in!” the words tumbled out of the woman in a rush, her glasses slipping down her nose in her haste.

“Y/N,” Shouto said in that temptingly deep voice of his, “this is my sister, Fuyumi.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Shouto mentions you and your cooking often,” you bowed slightly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. It was nice to finally put a face to the name. You wondered briefly if all the Todoroki children looked so incredibly alike. Shouto and Fuyumi shared, not only, their mother’s elegant bone structure, but also their coloring. Fuyumi’s white hair was dotted with the same shock of red that split Shouto’s evenly down the middle. Only their eyes set them apart, Shouto boasting both Rei’s deep, stormy grey and Enji’s electric blue.

Fuyumi beamed at your indirect compliment while Shouto’s eyebrows furrowed somewhat. You guessed he might be embarrassed that you would mention his comments about his sister’s cooking, seeing as he was a rather poor one himself.

“Please come in,” Rei urged you, “We set up the kotatsu today in anticipation of your arrival.”

Shouto helped you shrug out of your winter coat, his long fingers brushing lightly against your neck as he unfurled your scarf, sending a lick of fire down your spine. After dawning your house slippers, the two of you made your way through his family home, stopping every now and then to marvel at the beautiful, traditional, Japanese architecture.

Before long, the four of you were seated comfortably under a brightly colored kotatsu, sipping hot, green tea and chatting. As the tea slowly warmed you from the inside out, the heater worked to thaw your frozen limbs. More than once you had to stop yourself from letting out a sigh of relief, thankful to be out of the cold.

Unable to part from you for long, Shouto pressed himself firmly against your side, his hands fidgeting with his teacup as though he didn’t quite know what to do with them. The feeling of his thick, muscled thigh rubbing up against yours under the quilt did nothing to help calm your nerves. You made a point to focus on the conversation at hand, rather than the heat from his body seeping into yours.

“Natsuo will be joining us later, he has to work late this evening,” Fuyumi mentioned as she fiddled with the teapot, pouring another round for everyone, “and Touya is out doing who knows what.”

“Probably burning down an elementary school,” Shouto mumbled, more to himself than anyone. You hastily brought your teacup to your lips in attempt to hide your snicker. You’d heard all about Shouto’s oldest brother and his rebellious ways, leading you to believe that his comment was more plausible than not.

After regaining your composure you curiously asked, “And what about your dad?”

A somber silence settled over the table at the mention of Enji Todoroki. Your cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. Clearly you’d touched on a sore subject. Whatever good first impression you’d managed to make was likely now squashed. Good going.

“Our father is a politician,” Fuyumi explained quietly, “He’s almost never home… always at one meeting or another.”

Sensing your distress, Shouto huffed loudly, drawing attention to himself.

“That’s fine, more soba for me.”

Was that.. a joke?

A surprised giggle escaped Fuyumi as Rei’s eyebrows shot up, the two effectively distracted from your earlier blunder. You glanced up at the man next to you, all the love and affection you’d ever felt for him bubbling up in your chest. His heterochromatic eyes found yours, the smallest of smiles on his face. God, he was just so good… so good to you.

Mood officially lightened, the conversation carried on as if nothing had happened.

“So, Shouto, how are you doing in school?” Rei questioned.

“I am doing well. Y/N and I study together for our shared classes. I find her presence very helpful,” Shouto responded easily.

Overwhelmed with adoration for your boyfriend, you were unable to focus, a goofy grin pulling at your lips as you stared at your teacup, replaying his kind gesture over and over in your mind.

“Y/N?”

It was only when Shouto’s elbow lightly nudged yours that you realized Rei had asked you a question. Your hands flew to your face, flushed in shame.

“S-sorry, what was that?”

It was as though all of your earlier nerves rushed right back into your body, fingers trembling against the smooth, ceramic cup.

“I only asked if you were enjoying school,” Rei smiled encouragingly, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Oh! Yes, very much. My classes are all very interesting, but I have to admit, I enjoy the ones with your son the most.”

A little smirk tugged at the corner of Shouto’s mouth, clearly pleased with your answer.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Rei laughed a bit, “As much as I’d love to keep chatting, Fuyumi and I have to get dinner started.”

You floundered as she got up to leave, not wanting to seem impolite, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Thanks for offering, but you’re our guest. We’ll take care of it. Like Shouto has told you, I’m an amazing cook!” Fuyumi puffed her chest out in pride, a brilliant smile on her face. Shouto merely grimaced, deflating a little in his seat.

The two left for the kitchen, leaving you and your boyfriend to your own devices.

“Ugh…”

You folded over, forehead smacking against the top of the kotatsu table. Shouto chuckled quietly, one of his large palms coming up to rub at your back.

“They probably hate me,” you whined, words muffled by the wood.

You heard a sigh escape your boyfriend followed by his smooth voice, “They do not hate you. In fact… I think they quite like you.”

The speed at which you were back up and staring at him was almost comical, Shouto’s mouth quirking up at the red mark on your forehead.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you considered his words. Could they really like you? You’d fumbled and stuttered your way through the entire conversation, for crying out loud! Not to mention the slip up regarding his father; you shuddered at the mere memory.

You knew that Shouto, of all people, would never lie to you and if the genuine look on his face was anything to go by, he didn’t plan on breaking that streak of honesty anytime soon, but…

“Ah.. I don’t know! I’m not very good with meeting new people. What if I mess everything up?!” your hands found your cheeks once more, scrubbing anxiously at the flushed skin.

Shouto caught your hands in his, squeezing tightly in an attempt to calm you, “You are not going to mess anything up.”

But his actions had the opposite effect, his warm touch sending shivers up your arms and worry bubbling up inside your chest. Here he was, always so incredibly good and kind, and you were just… well, you were just you! Plain, old you!

“Oh, I am! I’m going to mess everything up and they’ll hate me forever! And then you’ll dump me and we’ll never get married and we’ll never have babies, and-“

Shouto’s lips were suddenly on yours, hot and demanding. Coincidentally, all thoughts seemed to fly right out of your brain, leaving only buzzing excitement in their wake. Your surprise allowed him to slip his tongue inside without much effort, his mouth working expertly over yours.

To put it simply, Shouto kissed you silly.

When the two of you came up for air, panting slightly, he reassured you, “Love, they like you. I know they like you. I am not going anywhere and we can have all the babies you want. You’re overthinking.”

You stared at his lips, a little dazed from the unexpected kiss. Blinking a bit to clear your head, it took a moment for his words to register, but when they did, you frowned, “I know, I just… Ugh! I can’t help it!”

His warm hand slid under your chin, tilting your face to meet his unwavering gaze.

“Then let me help.”

It was a simple—well, it was more of a command than a question—but it had your mind short circuiting all the same.

“Please?” Shouto tilted his head in question, his innocent expression a stark contrast to the implications of his words, “Will you let me help you, my love?”

“Yes,” you breathed out, unable to resist him when his eyes were burning holes into yours with such an intensity it turned your bones to jelly.

His lips stretched into a lopsided grin before he dove back in, hungrily capturing your mouth with his once more. While you were distracted, one of his hands snaked its way under the kotatsu quilt, finding the soft, little space of flesh above your tall, knitted socks and giving it a light squeeze. A squeak of surprise escaped you, but Shouto swallowed it down, fingers tracing a familiar path up your leg. A path you recognized all too well.

It took all your strength—both mentally and physically—to pull away from his addictive taste, “Sho... what are you doing?”

He eyed you curiously, looking as though the answer were the most obvious thing in the world, “Helping.”

You gaped at him, a furious blush staining your cheeks. He couldn’t be serious. For goodness’ sake, Rei and Fuyumi were just in the next room over!

“W-what? I thought we were just gonna kiss! What about your f-family?!” you managed to stutter out, incredulous.

Shouto shrugged, eyes flickering to the hallway and back, “Can you be quiet?”

You nearly choked. Here and now, Shouto Todoroki was going to kill you. They’d find your lifeless body in his family home and wonder what could have happened. Your ghost would float above them, cries for justice falling on deaf ears. And your boyfriend would stand there, knowing he was the cause behind the mysterious heart failure.

“What?!” you cried, but Shouto was unfazed, carrying on as if you hadn’t spoken.

“I think you can,” he murmured thoughtfully, fingers drumming against the inside of your thigh.

This behavior was so incredibly unlike him, that you were at a loss for words, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, “B-but, but-”

“Shh,” he hushed you, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin, “stop worrying and let me take care of you.”

All complaints died on your tongue when he leaned in close, his warm breath prickling your skin as his broad shoulders once again filled your vision. Your heart lurched when his fingers trailed up your thigh, teasing their way up under your skirt. A squeal caught in your throat, your panties sticking uncomfortably to your core. Was he really going to do this right now?! But when his mouth moved forward to capture your own, locking you in another passionate kiss, your thoughts quieted, a happy, little hum escaping you thanks to his skillful tongue.

It seemed this was the response Shouto had been waiting for, because the second you accepted his lips, his deft fingers found your panties, tracing lightly along the hem. He paused a moment, perhaps surprised your lack of safety shorts, but recovered quickly, a single finger hooking under the band. You tried to pull away from him, to remind him of his family in the next room, but he was undeterred, kissing away your protests.

Ever so slowly, his fingers inched under the fabric, resting against your heated skin. You chased after his lips when he pulled away from you, his chest heaving and eyes half-lidded behind his bangs. He was so utterly beautiful that it nearly took your breath away, arousal licking at your core. The air between you had grown warm, whether from the heat of the kotatsu or the moment, you didn’t know.

Shouto looked to you for permission one last time, a single, white eyebrow raised and an unspoken question dancing in his irises. All you could do was nod, so thoroughly bewitched by his beauty.

In an instant, his hand was on you, right where you needed it most. Gone were the fleeting touches and gentle caresses, having been replaced by desire and desperation.

Your boyfriend waisted no time in sliding his fingers up your folds, his eyes gleaming with interest when they came away covered in slick. Shouto’s tongue darted out to lick at his lips, his breath coming a bit quicker thanks to the discovery. He was getting worked up embarrassingly fast, pants already feeling a little tighter.

After a bit of light petting, he finally slid one, long finger inside your sopping entrance, his pace torturously slow and hitting all the right spots. You held back a whine, lip caught between your teeth and your gaze flicking between him and the hallway. A low rumble came from deep in Shouto’s chest, displeased by your divided attention.

In attempt to win you over, he leaned forward, lips grazing along your neck, finger still pumping in and out of you steadily. That seemed to do the trick, your posture finally relaxing and your eyes falling shut. Shouto inwardly celebrated, glad to have finally calmed you.

As he nipped and kissed his way down the column of your throat, his hand picked up the pace, finger thrusting into you a bit faster. The muscles in your thighs tensed and twitched, making him smile against your skin before sitting up, anxious to watch your pleasured expression twist with each careful drag of his digit against your clenching walls.

Hiking your skirt up for better access, Shouto added a second finger without warning, the loud squelch of your wetness making heat rise to your cheeks. An involuntary moan ripped from your throat, prompting him to slap a hand over your mouth.

You both froze, waiting for Rei or Fuyumi to come storming in at any moment, but that moment never came.

“I know it feels good, but you have to stay quiet for me, alright?”

You nodded obediently, whimpers muffled by his large palm. As arousal dripped from your pussy, your knees fell open of their own accord, making space for his hand to slot against you, cupping your heat. Letting your head loll back, you gazed up at Shouto, glittery, little tears brimming in the corners of your glassy, unfocused eyes. It was a precious sight, one that was practically begging for his affection.

Leaning down to place a gentle kiss against the back of his own palm was the best he could offer, knowing your voice would betray you should he let you free. A pathetic whine tumbled from you, desperately wishing it was his lips on yours instead.

“You’re doing so well, love,” he reassured, “I know you want me to kiss you right now, but we can’t risk someone hearing those sweet noises of yours. Just hold on for a little longer, ok? Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

Surely this man would be the death of you.

Your nails clawed at the arm that held you, eyes rolling back when his fingers found that special spot deep inside of you. It felt as though you were on fire, skin burning underneath his touch. All reservations and embarrassment faded away, blinding you to anything other than the rhythmic tempo of his ministrations. Chasing the high that continued to elude you, your hips rolled, grinding down into his palm.

Sensing your impending orgasm, Shouto’s hand lightly pushed against you, urging you down to the floor carefully. Crawling over you, he resumed his brutal pace, finger fucking you as though there were no tomorrow.

You were so damn close. Just when you thought you couldn’t handle anymore, his thumb found your clit, circling the sensitive bud delicately. He just looked so devilishly handsome hovering above you, sharp eyes watching you closely, fascinated by the way your body squirmed.

“Think you can cum for me? I know you need to,” Shouto cooed, thumb and fingers working in tandem to bring you to the very edge.

Your legs quivered, hips jerking up uncontrollably with each press against your clit. Frustrated tears finally slid down your hot cheeks, unable to keep them at bay any longer.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered, a blush of his own settling at the top of his cheekbones, in awe of how angelic you looked underneath him.

His words were your undoing.

Shouto quickly replaced his hand with his mouth in hopes of suppressing your cries. A strangled sound left you, climax tearing through your body with unexpected force. But your loving boyfriend kissed you through it, thumbing away the tears that trickled down your face.

Just when you were beginning to catch your breath, mind still reeling from such an overwhelming orgasm, a knock at the door cut through the silence.

Startled, you sat up abruptly, accidentally knocking your forehead against Shouto’s, “Ack!”

Shouto hissed through his teeth, gingerly rubbing at the welt that was beginning to form when a loud voice rang out from the genkan, “Hey, it’s me, Natsuo! You guys left the door unlocked!”

You and Shouto shared a panicked glance before scrambling to tidy yourselves. Quick as lightning, you adjusted your skirt and rolled your knitted socks back up your thighs.

Rei’s gentle voice answered from the kitchen, “Hi, honey! Dinner is almost ready, Fuyumi and I will be right out!”

While the two of you adopted your former positions under the kotatsu, Shouto reached out and ran a hand through your mussed hair, carefully brushing through the tangles.

“Thanks…” you huffed out, winded from more than just the rush to look presentable.

But before your boyfriend could respond, Natsuo was striding into the living room, briefcase in hand and hair tousled from the winter weather. He plopped down onto the floor across from you, groaning appreciatively as he stretched his stiff legs out under the quilt, basking in the warmth of the heater.

Once he’d settled in, he bowed his head at you politely, “I’m so sorry I’m late. You must be Y/N. I’m Shouto’s older brother, Natsuo.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you choked out, cheeks ablaze as the reality of your risky behavior set in.

Next to you, Shouto sat straight as an arrow, shoulders squared and spine ridgid. He wore a pained expression, though if Natsuo noticed, he didn’t care to mention it.

Suddenly, Rei made her way back into the living room, Fuyumi following closely behind, their arms burdened by many plates and trays of gorgeously prepared food. They’d gone all out, making sure to include all the traditional favorites, the love and care they put into the meal evident. Once everything was laid out on the kotasu table, the two sat down, admiring their handy work.

Conversation flowed easily, Rei asking Natsuo about his day at work and how the office profits were doing. Fuyumi got to work dishing out appetizers, occasionally piping in here and there.

After awhile, Rei’s observant gaze turned on you. You couldn’t help but flinch under her watchful eye, a nervous smile dancing on your lips.

“Y/N, dear, you look flushed. Are you feverish?” Rei’s eyebrows furrowed with concern, the look of an anxious mother staining her elegant features.

You glanced at Shouto, who appeared to be rather uncomfortable with his erection straining against his pants, thankfully hidden by the thick quilt. He merely stared back, a promising look in his eye.

“Maybe I caught a cold on the walk over?”

“Don’t worry, I will take care of you,” were, of course, the next words out of Shouto’s mouth.

tags:

[anika-ann]

Take the Ache - pt.1

Part 1: The Us in Trust (gone)

Type: series, slightly canon-divergent, idiots in love with sprinkles of angst

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 4700

Summary (series): An Avengers’ ally, a brilliant weapons designer, one of the closest friends to Steve Rogers; you’ve been carrying all these titles with pride. And now it seems they are all crumbling down at once, torn down by allies, enemies and by yourself.

How can you fix it? How can you win when your traitorous heart fights for what you’d always wanted and never had?

If you work hard enough, you can do justice to the word 'hero' in your codename. Maybe. But can you really be enough to take the 'ache' from heartbreak?

Series masterlist

Warnings: allusions to slightly self-destructive behaviour, mild pain, minor injury, self-doubt, mention of death

A/N: written for Stella’s Starry Winter Sky challenge; DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; this prologue is a flashfoward and is very short, especially on my scale; title is, just like chapter titles, taken from The Script’s No Good in Goodbye

A/N 2:  No use of Y/N. Main character's nickname made up by Steve is 'Lo (will be expalined at some point, promise)

This feeling – this absurdly heavy sensation in your chest and stomach – was killing you.

It was nothing short of suffocating – and that fact alone was even more absurd and defied all science there was.

Because it shouldn’t feel like this.

It could be unpleasant, yes, but it shouldn’t feel like your ribs were being crushed, a phantom of debilitating pain you knew wasn’t really there. And yet it was.

Your knuckles ached. Hurt. Stang. You suspected that was the courtesy of you having wrapped the tape around your hands wrong; but you weren’t exactly an expert and you had no patience to watch a video, nor the heart to try and remember the details Steve had so gently taught you. Mainly because it was his fault that you were here in the first place.

It was her fault.

You punched the bag again and again, focusing on the sting to help you disperse the memory of Steve very carefully laying his hands on your hips to lead your movements during punches, because the key to having a mean right and left hook was the impulse for the punch coming with the slight rotation of the hips. Even Steve did so to create the explosive power behind his punches, despite his arms being ten times stronger than yours and the size of goddamn bowling balls, the muscles of his arms threaded by the supersoldier serum.

Now, you punched the bag purposely without that rotation as to out of spite; unfortunately, you also miscalculated the power behind the hit as well as the angle of the impact, and failed to properly tighten your hand in the wrist, resulting in a sharp jolt of pain all the way up to your elbow.

You hissed and shook the hand, taking a few breaths before you kept going; this time mindful of clenching hard enough. At least you hoped you did.

After all, you couldn’t quite tell; you were no expert.

That was the problem to begin with – you weren’t skilled at combat. You didn’t need to be, because you weren’t an agent. Steve had been kind enough to teach you, because he had wanted you to be able to defend yourself at least a bit just in case he wasn’t around.

At the time, you hadn’t found it insulting. In fact, you had found it charming. You had turned almost starry-eyed at the fact that he cared that much, the sincerity and worry in his gaze, along with an almost palpable enthusiasm, perhaps born from being able to teach you something and even show off in front of you.

You had been wrong.

You were a smart woman, but apparently, you were also an idiot.

An idiot who could never match the expectations one of your closest friend had for his future partner. That was, if you could even still call Steve a close friend, when the amount of time you had spent together lately was decreasing at alarming pace.

The thought of losing the bond with him stung much sharper than the microcracks to your skin under your wraps, bringing frustrating tears into your eyes.

With a lovechild of a huff and a growl, you hit the bag harder; and you almost wished you could give yourself a real reason –a physically painful reason – to cry.

But wasn’t the loss of a dear friend a good enough reason? Mourning the loss of shy hope? Wasn’t anger, eating you alive, good enough either? Because you were angry. So damn angry.

At yourself.

At Steve.

At Sharon.

She had simply walked in in her badass agent attire, perfect hair and light touch of make-up accentuating her natural beauty, all lean and gentle curves and the perfect brains and her stupid last name and went and stomped on your hopes like they meant nothing.

You huffed again and dropped your hands, wiping away the sweat at your brow, inhaling and exhaling before you gritted your teeth and hit the bag again.

It was wrong of you to think that way, you knew. It was incredibly unfair.

But you really did dislike the woman, as much as she didn’t deserve it.

And that might have been the worst part; Sharon didn’t deserve even a lick of your antipathy.

She was one of the most likeable people you had ever met. She had that magnetic personality and looks of a woman who attracted anyone in her vicinity with her kindness and smiles and brilliance and courage and skill. And while it was true that Steve was a supersoldier, he was also only human. He was only a man. You couldn’t blame him for falling for her, for spending so much time with her, be it at work and outside of it. The whole team was, too, even if there were probably less than romantic feelings involved than in the former case. Again, you couldn’t blame the team; and not only because Sharon sure as hell made for a better company that you did these days.

Hell, had your heart not belonged to another already, you would have probably fallen in love with her too.

And boy, was she was around too much for anyone to resist her pull.

She was around a lot.

Ever since the joined operation of SHIELD and the Avengers Initiative to take down a rogue fraction of former HYDRA had started, Sharon practically moved in to the compound, simply for the convenience of not having to commute and rushing in here whenever the team found a new lead. In fact, with her knowledge, experience and skill, she was an indispensable part of the very team. And they were always planning, discussing different angles, gathering intel, training so they could coordinate their attacks better. She was basically a new Avenger at this point, deservedly so.

And what were you?

A scientist. A weaponry designer.

You tried your best to keep the team safe, yes, to give them what they needed so they could continue saving the world, but you were technically nothing but a glorified lab rat.

Sharon Carter, the legendary Agent 13 on the other hand? She was out there. With Steve. And with others. She truly had their back. Kicking ass and probably looking flawless while doing so, Lara Croft style.

You weren’t unfit, but you could never keep up; let alone measure up. Compared to her, you were but A. Pathetic. Little. Human. With. A. Lame. Right. Hook. There was barely any power behind your hits.

And you knew that you were being mean and were exaggerating and that you were viewing her and yourself through the lens of jealousy and frustration and hurt, but that didn’t change the fact that all these things were true and you were feeling nauseous whenever you saw her face or god forbid her and Steve in the same room.

Shaking your head again, you continued punching, breaths coming out heavy and ragged, a courtesy of your work-out and your work-out only; it had nothing to do with the suffocating feeling of the crashed hopes you had been trying to push away when you had thrown yourself into work consuming you.

Nothing at all.

“Hey you,” sounded from behind your left shoulder without warning, causing you to waver, your hand slipping along the bag with your wrist bent, another jolt of pain riding up your forearm.

You turned on your heels with a hiss, heart thundering in your ribcage at the fright – and at the fact that your thoughts of Steve might have actually summoned him:

Summoned him to stand there in all his glory, white tee and grey sweats and trainers, with worry etched into his brows as he immediately went to inspect your left hand without as much as a greeting at your part, a murmured sorry on his lips.

You swallowed hard, unable to speak a single word.

He was beautiful. He was such a ridiculously beautiful human being, inside and out, his fingers tender as they cradled your slightly achy wrist attentively, gaze meeting yours with another wordless apology.

You had almost forgot how your heart stumbled whenever you saw him, how the slightest hint of his smile could take your breath away.

You had almost forgotten because you had been trying your best to avoid him, to avoid the heartache that came with knowing he wasn’t and would never be yours, the knowledge solidified by his absence you too might have had a hand in but regretted it all the same.

But he had started it. He had replaced you. He-

-was talking to you, apparently.

“’Lo? Are you okay?”

“Hm?”

You dropped your hand from his as if he burned you by speaking the special nickname only he was allowed to call you, the soft sound bringing a smile to your lips automatically. He wouldn’t even have to address you, however; your lips acted on their own volition whenever, ache or not, because Steve made you smile. And for all your stubbornness, your chest still felt lighter at merely seeing him even now.

That was what being in love with him felt like.

It was an evil juxtaposition; wishing to be in his soothing company, unable to get enough, and despising it at the same time because of the feelings that had so inconveniently took your heart by a storm.

It was a dilemma in which self-prescribed isolation until you’d settle your foolish heart seemed like the best option – that was, until his eyes roamed your face with concern and all the work you had put into stomping on the fluttery sensation in your chest upon seeing him looking at you like that turned into nothingness, denying the basic law of physics.

You knew there was a way out of this inner turmoil; you knew were being childishly angry and that acknowledging that was the first step.

You knew that eventually you’d come to terms with Steve being with Sharon, because ultimately, you wished him all the happiness in the world.

You knew you’d learn to live with the fact that the happiness simply wasn’t with you and you’d make your peace with you and him remaining good friends.

It was just not quite the time yet.

And until then, you’d have a hurricane in your ribcage and an earthquake in your mind whenever you’d see him, affection and animosity rising and falling like a tide.

You cleared your throat, brought back to the reality by the sound of your name.

“I’m fine, Steve. I don’t even feel it anymore.”

“I’m glad,” he said, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know. It’s okay. I just didn’t hear you,” you admitted. “Got lost in my thoughts.”

“A new brilliant invention in the works then?”

You chuckled, the light-hearted question taking you by too much surprise to hide the bitterness in the sound, and reached for your water bottle.

“Sure. That.”

You took a swing from the bottle, the cool liquid soothing to both your throat and your nerves.

You never used to be nervous around Steve – not like this. There had never been molecules of charged with awkward energy, not this much at least; whatever nerves you used to be feeling always tasted more of giddiness and content deep within your soul.

Funny how quickly things could change when certain blonde strode into your lives.

But you couldn’t blame Sharon. You shouldn’t blame her, because she was just a correlation, but the cause. Sharon or not, Steve would have made a move ages ago if he had been interested and you, you could have tried to make a move too, had you had the courage and truly believed the probabilities he had wanted you to be more than friends with him were high. But you hadn’t.

You still didn’t.

No question of that nature from neither you nor Steve. Because Steve had been waiting for the right partner as he had always been saying and that partner wasn’t you and now, she finally showed up and occupied an unhealthy childishly large portion of your brain no matter how much you tried to shush that green monster living in your head and eating up your heart.

A new brilliant invention, Steve said. How about something to make jealousy settle? Maybe you should start working on that, it would be a hit. Or perhaps you could work on some kind of a shield to hide yourself from Steve’s softly inquisitive gaze – like the one he was watching you with now – that had always made you fold and reveal your cards, no matter how close to the chest you had planned to play them.

He had no damn right to stand there, head slightly tilted to side, brows furrowed with concern, making your stomach clench, sending your pulse fluttering. Not when he-

“Is everything okay? I feel like we’ve been like ships that pass in the night lately…”

I’m surprised you noticed, you thought bitterly, instantly chastising yourself for that unfairly aggressive note, swallowing the venom of the words forming on your tongue. You shrugged instead.

“We’ve been busy. With the HYDRA fraction popping up… we both have our plates full.”

“Never stopped us from making time for each other before,” he whispered, insistent, his lips pursed slightly in thought, the same focus he directed on the world around him when he was either strategizing or wondering how he could capture the image in front of him on paper evident on his face.

Being on the receiving end of that look of his used to be a privilege; now, it was what you imagined being stabbed in the gut felt like. With a twist of the knife added for good measure.

Never stopped us before, he said.

‘Before’, you weren’t crushing if not in love with your fellow ridiculously charming agent, you thought, hiding the remark behind another shrug.

“Yeah, well-“

Your voice died in your throat as Steve’s fingers sprawled gently over your forearm, effectively stopping you in your tracks before you could turn away to move onto stretching, trapping you in the bottomless sea of the unfairly tender emotion in his irises.  

“I miss you.”

Your throat closed up as the words echoing the very same sentiment got stuck there, your heart now hammering painfully against your ribs and sternum.

Yeah. You missed him too.

His warmth, his kindness, his vulnerability, the quiet way he seemed to understand you without words.

Of all the Avengers, as much as you liked them every single one of them, Steve was your favourite; and it wasn’t merely the attraction and the different nature of your affection for him. It was simply because it was Steve with whom you had formed a unique bond.

Getting along with Tony was easy despite him not being the easiest person to befriend; your shared interests and your more-than-common goal and expertise worked in your favour, your job as his right hand as well as working on your independent projects for the Avengers providing you with hours spent together without any forced interactions. Not to mention the role Tony’s excentric nature played; once he decided to figuratively adopt someone into his circle, you were just there.

Natasha, while intimidating, had the enormous advantage of being a woman. The platonic mother and sister to the team safe Bucky whose feelings for her were everything but platonic, she had an innate ability to convey her feelings about boys driving her crazy in a single glare, whether it was aimed at them to make them realize the absurdity of their behaviour or at you in silent sympathy. While you and her alike did not enjoy being in a room overflowing with oestrogen-driven creatures, you were a solace to each other when the room reeked of testosterone.

Bruce, on the other hand, had the same advantage as Tony. While his focus in science was slightly different than yours – even though between the number of his PhDs and other titles, it was hard to tell which was his main field – he was a relatively comfortable person to spend time with, at least in the lab, where you could either cooperate or stay out of each other’s way.

If Tony’s adoption figurative rights concerned his professional inner circle, Clint’s were more literal. He was the fun uncle, sometimes with ridiculous habits and antics, but whose wisdom could take one by surprise. Having seen all he had in his life, he appreciated simple things, simple friendships; and his aiming skill was as deadly with a bow or a gun as it was with well-meant advice or jokes.

Thor… well. Thor was a whole another species, someone you hadn’t had much chance to interact with; but the opportunities you had had, were nothing short of pleasant and bewildering, his boisterous nature reminding you of extroverts who simply found the most introverted person in the room and made them the centre of attention and their friend, whether they liked it or not. Those less-than-social people, you, in this scenario, would always end up enjoying themselves eventually; and you had to admit that much like Clint, Thor had a knack for cracking not only thunder, but also wisdom one often forgot he possessed.

Bucky was a person haunted by demons who sharpened his fists and tongue alike. A partially reformed ladies’ man who had seen way too much evil during his relatively short life and had been forced to commit almost half of that evil, he was a surprising wild card of the team. He was deadly – on battlefield, in training, in personal life, n verbal sparring with Sam. He’d die for his people and would live for them all the same. He was a storm; a slightly unpredictable force Natasha knew how to navigate, almost as good as Bucky himself did. Oftentimes you weren’t sure what you and Bucky were, whether you were friends or not but the fact alone that you were – or had been – close to Steve earned you his respect and care. The fact you could work on his mechanical arm helped too.

Sam’s warm energy and his innate ability to make people around him comfortable made him a natural friendship material – not to mention his utter fascination with the things you could do to improve his favourite robotic buddy Redwing. From TV and music and books to the mysteries of life, he was, in a way, an opposite to Steve. Where Steve and you seemed to understand each other without as much as a single word, with Sam, it was through words.

And Steve… well. ‘Special’ was not enough of a word to encompass the complexity of him and all the ways in which he was exceptional, as an entity and to you. Politely inviting from the start, assuming the responsibility of the unofficial team leader and official strategist, he had clearly worked to make you feel comfortable and welcomed, even as you were more of an Avenger-adjacent employee than anything else. However, the true bond had been forged in quiet moments and through similarities and contradictions of your pair.

Like a pair of twins, you both carried around a sketchbook or a notebook with a pencil, almost without fail. But where you drew designs of ideas suddenly born in your head, only to make them into reality later, Steve did the opposite; he drew what already was reality laid in front of him, only to bring it alive on paper for the second time, capturing it so vividly you were certain it would rise from the page any moment. Where your specialty were inanimate objects, his was people. The number of times that found you in the common room when you couldn’t sleep, ending with both of you lounging on the couch, often touching in an inconspicuous but reassuring and encouraging ways, were next to astronomical.

The second experience you bonded over, however, was much darker – but perhaps brought you even closer. To a point, you shared it with all the Avengers, with all your close friends; but there was something about the way you could relate to Steve so profoundly and vice versa that solidified your relationship with him in particular.

You both wanted to help people. And despite doing your best, you did so in ways that sometimes made you lose sleep, good intentions tainted with violence. You did help; and to do so, you hurt. Steve with his impeccable strategy and iron-solid fists; you with the weapons you designed. And when that darkness crept in too close, so close it seemed to come from within, you found each other; you shared each other’s light and reminded one another that violence was never your primary purpose and was but a momentary means for future tenderness.

Where you struggled to grant yourself the same benefit of doubt on your own, you never had doubts about him; with Steve, it rang true. Not a soldier, not an usurper; a protector’s soul. As much as you tried to convince yourself that what you were made of the same thing, that you were merely protecting your teammates and other people from much more merciless displays of power, in the cold space of your room and workshop, it wasn’t always enough for you to believe. Being with Steve – spending time with Steve – always made you a believer.

Even now, with his cerulean eyes still observing you, the ugly feeling brewing in your gut – the jealously, the envy – felt so much more tender and much less evil, his touch grounding you and wordlessly whispering a plea to cut yourself some slack and allow yourself to feel whatever your heart thrummed with.

“You spaced out for a bit… feels like you’re always miles away,” he said, his thumb pressing softly into your forearm. “Miles away from here, but from me too. And I can’t help but wonder… did I do something to wrong? Offended you or hurt you? If I did it wasn’t my intention.”

Your breath caught in your throat, alarm bells ringing in your head as you tried to gather your thoughts and get your expression under control as not to give him any hints, even as your mind spoke of the things he had or hadn’t done so painfully clearly.

You exist. You exist and you are happy, just as happy without me as you were when I was by your side, as a friend, a mere friend with silly hopes-

You had to stop with these thoughts. That was not on him. Not really.

Pushing you to backburner because of loving someone else was barely something you could hold against him. Friends didn’t do that to each other, but you were also aware half of the distance put between you was on you and at your attempts to deal with your own feelings.

You sighed, willing the corners of your lips to rise reassuringly as you squeezed his hand on you before escaping his hold, pretending you didn’t feel as if he had had drawn his mark on your skin in ink for you to remember.  

“You didn’t.”

“Did something happen then?” he pressed, the protective note that always made your heart race finding its way into his voice, enticing you to tell him everything and let him make it okay. Except he couldn’t. No one but you could. “Are you-“

“It’s nothing, Steve. You… don’t worry about it. I just got a little busy at work,” you said, his expression speaking volumes about how much he knew that was a lie – or at least a half-truth and the goddamn genuine interest written all over his face made it so hard to think straight and resist- “I’m just--- working through something.”

His shoulders slumped, a barely-there movement to his hand as if he was about to reach out again. And you couldn’t bear it.

“And I need space to deal with it. On my own. Alone,” you added, willing yourself to raise your chin as to show you were determined to do it so.

Something flickered over Steve’s face, a quick emotion you didn’t get a chance to decipher as the door to the gym opened, drawing Steve’s eyes on instinct and yours as well.

The determination to resist Steve’s inquiries with a straight face skyrocketed in an instant, a jab to your gut making you strung like a bowstring in preparation for another hit. Because you would be prepared for that hit. And you would not be hurt nor shaken by Steve’s attempts to get in; for you to find peace for now, you needed to keep him out, at least at arm’s length.

The second and a half that took him to turn back to you was enough for you to steel your heart, a shield having gone up against his expression of concern and unfair gentleness wrapped in an intimately low voice.

“Okay. But if you ever-“

“It’s not your job to worry about me, Steve,” you cut him off, so sharply it made him actually flinch the tinniest bit, the emotion on his face clear this time.

Hurt.

He set his jaw tight despite the regret in his eyes, a courteous nod telling you just how deep that tone and words cut.

You hated yourself for putting that expression on his face; something heavy and solid, a wall you yourself had built appeared between you, blocking his attempt to reach out, and now, he had added his own side to it.

And if you kept going like this, that wall would cut him off from your life completely.

You gulped as the idea made something visceral in your bleed.

“I mean… I know you feel responsible for the whole team, Steve,” you said, this time mindful of your tone. “I just know you have enough things to worry about. And, uhm, Sharon’s waiting for you.” Your encouraging smile must have tuned into a grimace, but Steve didn’t mention it, the tension in his jaw easing just the slightest bit at the mention of his beloved. Of course it did. Your caricature of a smile hurt your cheeks. “Thank you for worrying about me, Steve, but I have to deal with this on my own. I’ll be fine. But I promise I’ll make space for my friend in my busy schedule, yeah?”

Now that brought a small smile on his lips, a little sparkle of almost-joy lighting up his eyes – and your heart ached.

“I’ll clear up mine… take care of yourself, ‘Lo, alright?”

“Aye aye, Captain. Have fun.”

He gave you one last smile before turning on his heels, jogging to Sharon. You held your face long enough for neither of them to see when your own smile slipped.

You left the gym not five minutes later, irritated with how their warm up – her warm up – naturally was three times more impressive than your whole work-out, your gloomy thoughts back like a seasonal cold.

You didn’t notice Steve’s lingering gaze as you walked away without as much as a goodbye, a sharp icy feeling settling in his already tight chest. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew you had been avoiding him. And you were hurting, your mind preoccupied with something; something you didn’t trust him with. Didn’t trust him enough to let him help you, to comfort you.

Seeing you walk away from the space he had barely just entered felt like letting you walk away from his life. It felt like losing you.

But he was not giving up without a fight.

He swore to himself he was done not pushing, ready to confront you the moment an opportunity would arise or was created by him.

He never got the chance.

With FRIDAY noticing a chatter about gathering forced in one of a few remaining bases of operations of HYDRA, all he got was your brief be careful addressed to the whole team.

Had he died on that mission, he’d die wondering if the words you had always took time to tell him and only him in person still applied and if you still truly cared whether he came back or not.

Next chapter // Series masterlist

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

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[katareyoudrilling]

The Sweepstakes: Javi Gutierrez (Porn Star AU)

Series: The Sweepstakes

Pairing: Porn star Javi Gutierrez x Female Reader

Summary: It seemed like a great idea at the time, but now you’re not sure you’re brave enough to claim your sweepstakes prize.

Word count: ~3.2k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: reader is a full-figured gal, vague body descriptions, body insecurity, some ass smacks, ass worship, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected PiV (there is paperwork)

A/N: Huge thank you to @burntheedges for all her help with this!  Javi is a new character for me as is some of the subject matter I’m writing about.  I hope I’ve done both justice!  Spanish translations are at the end, but everything should be able to be understood in line with context.  I hope you enjoy!

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Taglist – link in bio or ask me to add you!

“There’s a kitchen to the left and a bathroom here,” Erin opens a door to show you a spacious full bath.  “The production room is at the end of this hall, which is where I will be if you need anything.”

You nod along and follow her down the hall.

“And of course, here is the room where you’ll be doing your scene!” She opens the double doors with a flourish.

It’s so… bright in there.  Is it always that bright?

You look around the large bedroom.  A bedroom you are very familiar with, as it is where your favorite porn production company films many of their videos.

You wrap your arms around your torso, feeling exposed even though you’re still fully clothed.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

You entered a sweepstakes you never expected to win.  You saw the ad after a particularly satisfying session with your vibrator.  It said, “Enter to win a night with your favorite performer!”

Your favorite performer had just given you a fantastic orgasm.  In your dopamine haze it seemed like the best idea you’d ever had.  You’ve never had an orgasm with a partner, but he gets you there every time.  Could he do it in person?

The “he” in question was none other than Javi Gutierrez.  The friendliest porn star there ever was.  Sunshine incarnate. You wondered and then you clicked submit.

Now, seeing the room in person, faced with the reality of the large bed and sunlight filtering through the curtains… your brilliant idea doesn’t seem so brilliant anymore.

Erin leads you into the room and continues, “Since you’ve opted not to be filmed, we have removed all the cameras except one.”  She gestures towards a tripod in the corner.  “The lens cap is on though, it’s just for sound.  We will be monitoring the feed just to be sure everyone is safe.”

“I… I don’t know… if I can do this,” you choke out, your breaths coming faster and faster as panic builds in your chest.

“Hey, it’s ok.”  Erin places her hands on your shoulders and captures your darting gaze.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.  If you just want to meet Javi and call it a night, that is completely fine.  He really is the sweetest.” She smiles at you, and you let out a long exhale, allowing your shoulders to relax slightly.

“He won’t be upset?”

“Upset? No. Our performers are all very aware of how intimidating this is and would never judge anyone for backing out, Javi especially.  I know he is excited to meet you, though.”

“Me? Why?”  That’s just ridiculous.  One of the most beautiful men in existence is excited to meet jiggly, squishy you?

“He’s excited to meet everyone, all the time, but we did show him your photo and tell him a little about you from your paperwork.  I believe his exact word was deliciosa.”  She winks.

Delicious? What? Javi is always so complimentary to his scene partners, telling them how beautiful they are and how good they feel, but none of his scene partners look like you.

“What do you think? Want to meet him?” Erin asks you gently.

You nod.  “Yeah, I guess.”  If Javi is who you think he is, then he will at least be friendly and kind.

“I’ll send him in in a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable and remember, we are here for you, however you want this evening to go.”  She leaves the room, closing the doors behind her.

You face the bed, the space you’ve traveled to in your mind so many times now real in front of you.  You’ll just meet him, and it will be fine.  So what if you’ll never know what it’s really like to be with him.  So what if this once in a lifetime opportunity passes you by.

You hear the doors open behind you and quickly turn around only to be blinded by the gorgeousness that is Javi Gutierrez.

He’s wearing a white tank top that shows off his broad, muscular shoulders, lightly freckled from the sun, and loose linen pants that hang low on his hips, revealing a thin slice of tummy and happy trail.  His skin positively glows in the setting sun.  His hair falls softly in ringlets of brown and gold around his handsome face.

“Hello, I am Javi.” He introduces himself with a wide smile and open arms.  You allow him to gather you into his broad chest, too stunned that this is happening to even introduce yourself properly.  You mumble your name against him.

His scent fills your nostrils—citrus and the ocean breeze—and you breathe it in greedily.  Too soon he lets you go and steps back.  A look of deep concern fills his chocolate brown eyes as he considers you carefully.

“Erin said maybe you want to leave.” His deep voice is so gentle and soothing. “It is ok if you do, but I hope not.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “Say what? That I would be sad not to get to fuck you?”

“You don’t… really want to do… that with me. It’s ok.”  Your cheeks heat as you stutter your answer.

“Of course I want to, why would I not want to? You are so beautiful. Bonita.”

“No I’m not, you don’t want this,” you gesture towards yourself, your tummy, your ass.

“I do want this.  What is wrong with this?”  He looks genuinely confused.  “May I touch you, bonita?”

“I… I guess.”

He takes your hand and brings it to his lips then trails kisses up your arm.  You shiver as his mustache brushes against your sensitive skin.

“¡Que linda!  So beautiful and soft,” he murmurs as he gets to your shoulder, dropping your arm and placing his hands on your waist.  “Why would I not want more of you to fill up my hands?” He slides his hands around to your ass, bringing your fronts together.  You can feel his length hardening between you and your mouth falls open in surprise.  He squeezes your ass, “This. You. Are beautiful.  And I do want to fuck you.  Te deseo, bonita.”

He closes the distance between you to press a kiss on your mouth, currently open in shock.  He teases your lips and chin as his hands knead your ass, pulling you against him.  One hand travels up to palm your breast. He finds the hard point of your nipple and you gasp as he pinches it.

“Do you not want the cameras because you do not think you are beautiful, bonita?” he whispers against your skin as he drags his angular nose along your jawline.

You nod as you whimper.  The idea of watching yourself like that… it makes your insides churn.  You just knew when you saw the question in the paperwork that you would never want to watch it, so why record it?

He pulls back and holds your gaze intently.  “It is your choice, por supuesto.  But I hope I can make you feel beautiful tonight.  With me. Will you stay?”

His smoldering gaze is hypnotic and you find yourself replying, “Yes, I’ll stay.”

“Bueno, this makes me very happy.”  The smile that lights up his face confirms his words.

You find yourself smiling back, your insecurities taking a backseat to the fizzy excitement now bubbling through your veins.  His joyful presence is contagious.

Javi returns to your mouth, no longer in teasing nips, but with intent as he draws you into a deep kiss.  His tongue slides against yours with languid, knee-weakening strokes.  He leads you backwards until you feel the bed against the backs of your legs and directs you to sit.  With your head tilted back, he continues to explore your mouth, standing between your legs, his large hands cradling your face.

He steps back and pulls his tank top over his head.  He moves to return to your kiss, but you stop him with your hands on his chest.  You have to see him, touch him, this beautiful man you’ve fantasized about so many times.

“You’re gorgeous, Javi,” you whisper reverently as you drag your palms down his golden chest, delighting when his nipples pebble under your fingers.

“Gracias, bonita,” he chuckles softly.  His fingers trace your jaw and the shell of your ear as you explore his body.  “Undo the tie,” he murmurs as your fingers trace the edge of his trousers.  You can already see the shape of him through the thin material, straining to be released.

You bite your lip and Javi groans, “Fuck. Those lips, ay, son deliciosos.”

Carefully, you tug at the drawstring knot, it gives way, and his pants slide down his beautiful legs, revealing the full glory of his nakedness to you.  His cock bobs in front of you and your mouth waters at the site.  You shift, squeezing your legs together at the ache building at your center.

His glorious length, hard… for you.  It boggles your mind.

“It’s so sexy, you looking at me like that,” Javi growls.  “I can’t wait to fuck you with this cock.”  He strokes himself in front of you.  He’s so thick it sends shivers up your spine.

You look up at him and lick your lips.  “Can I taste you, Javi?” The boldness of the request surprises you even as the words escape your mouth.  You’ve become brave so quickly in the presence of Javi’s obvious desire.

“Absolutamente.  Whatever you want.  I am here for you.”  He smiles down at you as he stands in front of you next to the bed.

You take him in your hand and stroke lightly from root to tip, then bend over to retrace your path with your tongue.  Javi’s approval rumbles in his chest as you lick and taste your way along him, ending with a swirl of your tongue over the head of his gorgeous cock.  Grasping him firmly in one hand you draw him between your lips.

Javi caresses your neck and cheek as you pump him into your mouth.  You close your eyes and focus on remembering the salty taste of his skin on your tongue.  You never want to forget.

You lose yourself in the rhythmic action, stroking him with your hand in time with your mouth until your jaw aches.  You pull back to catch your breath only to have his mouth on yours again.

“Your turn, bonita,” he practically growls into your mouth.  “I need to taste you. Por favor. Lo necesito.”

You remove your clothes with his help. You want to look down, away from his face, so you don’t see his reaction to you, but you force yourself to meet his gaze.  What you see looking back at you is pure lust and desire.

Goosebumps rise over your skin at the intensity of it, your nipples pebble and your pussy throbs.

“So soft,” he whispers reverently, cupping your breasts.  He squeezes and moans before taking your nipple in his mouth.  He presses you back, so you’re laying on the bed.  Out of habit, your arms move to cover your body, to somehow make yourself smaller.

“Don’t hide from me, bonita.”  Javi gently takes your wrists and pins your hands out to the side.  “Let me see you. You are so beautiful. Quiero verte.”

Sincerity shines from his kind eyes.  You take deep breaths and relax.  You want to trust him.

He kisses your lips then travels down your neck, sucking at your pulse point and making you gasp.  He gathers your breasts in his large hands and nuzzles into them before taking each peak in his mouth.  He travels across your belly, licking and nibbling at your roundness, before grasping your thighs in his hands and licking a broad swipe up your slit.

You moan as his warm mouth envelopes your cunt and his tongue nudges at your sensitive bud.  “Delicioso,” he groans between licks.  He slips a finger inside you, and you instinctively roll your hips into him.

Him stroking you inside and out is divine, and you try to sink into the sensations and just enjoy, but a thought keeps worming its way back in.  Your mind won’t let it go, so you clear your throat, “Um Javi? I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, sweetheart? Are you ok?  Do you not like it?” he kisses the inside of your thigh, looking worried.

“No no, it feels so good, don’t stop.  I just…  I… fuck…” you lose focus, distracted as he resumes dragging his fingers in and out of your pussy, circling your clit with his thumb.

“I have read your papers, have you changed your mind about something?”

“No, it’s not that.  It’s just… I’ve never… come with a partner.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs into your skin, continuing to stroke you, “Do you come when you watch me?”

“Every time,” you moan as his fingers find a spot deep inside that makes your arch off the bed.

“Then we will see.  It is ok if you do not.”

“I want to.  With you.”  You do, so so badly.

It’s something you’ve thought about a lot.  It could be a matter of skill, but you can get yourself off alone just never with a partner.  You have a suspicion that how you feel about your body might be the reason.  None of your partners have ever said anything to make you feel badly, but you haven’t exactly let them appreciate you either, assuming that they wouldn’t.

You cover yourself, turn off the lights, only partially undress, in the hopes that a partner won’t notice what you look like.  As if they haven’t been looking at you in all the moments leading to the bedroom.

But Javi didn’t let you do that.  In this bright room, you bared yourself to him and he said you were deliciosa.  

“You have my word, I will try very hard,” he places his free hand over his heart, sealing his promise with a nod, making you giggle. “And we have things to help, if you need them.  It is ok. I will take care of you.”

“Thank you, Javi, oh…” you cut yourself off with a moan as Javi dives back into your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth and making your hips jerk.

You decide to believe him and work to clear your mind.  Your eyes drift close as you focus on the pleasure he is pulling out of you.  His warm tongue strokes wide and firm, circling your clit in determined strokes.  You let your body respond how it wants.  Your hips rock into him with each stroke of his tongue, seeking that perfect pressure.  It feels amazing.

But you don’t come.

Before you can get frustrated, Javi kisses his way back up to your tits and gathers them in his palms.  “Look at you in my hands,” he moans, mouthing at your soft flesh, swirling his tongue around each nipple.  You take the opportunity to run your fingers through his silky hair, twirling one curl and then another.

He groans in appreciation when you tug slightly.  The sound goes straight to your core.

He looks up at you with a wicked grin. “Roll over, bonita.”

He rolls you on to your stomach, kneeling across your outstretched legs.  He gently smacks your ass cheek, sending ripples through your body. You gasp and your pussy clenches around nothing. 

“Yesssss,” he hisses and he smacks you again.  “Look how you bounce for me.”

He takes handfuls of your ass cheeks and kneads and squeezes them together.  Suddenly you feel his cock slide through the cleft of your ass.  You try to twist to see him but can only get glimpses of him staring down at you, slack jawed and wrecked.

Your body is making him look like that.  It makes you feel powerful, and you wish you could watch him enjoy you.  For the first time, you regret not allowing the cameras.  

“Fuuuck,” Javi growls, sliding his cock between your ass cheeks.  You whimper and whine pinned underneath him.  “I could come like this, bonita, you feel so good.”  He lets your ass cheeks fall apart and smacks them again before gathering you back up around his cock.  “So juicy and plump.  Fucking amazing.”

You’re drenched with arousal and unable to relieve any of the pressure.

“Fuck me, Javi, please,” you beg.

“Sí, bonita, I will fuck you,” he growls.

Javi scoots back and rolls you over then wedges himself between your legs.

Taking his cock in hand he glides himself through your slippery folds, nudging at your clit with each stroke.  You whimper as he teases you until he notches himself at your entrance.

He eases himself into your channel.  He’s a lot to take and works his way in gently, watching your face for signs of discomfort.

You let out a guttural moan as he bottoms out in your cunt. “So good Javi, you’re so big.  Fuck, I’m so full.”  The stretch of him is glorious.

He pistons his hips slowly at first as you both savor the drag of him through your walls.  Gradually he speeds up until he’s slamming his hips into you.

Every thrust reverberates through your body.  Your breasts and tummy wobble, but you don’t try to stop them.

“Look how you bounce when I fuck you,” Javi groans, continuing his relentless pace, “ it’s so sexy.”  His fingers dig into your thighs as he presses you open.

“Yes Javi, more… yes… please.” You beg nonsensically as your orgasm begins to sparkle at the edges of your awareness.

“You need to be filled up, don’t you bonita?  You need to be stretched around this cock.  That’s it.  Fuck. You feel so good.”  He moves a hand in between your bodies to circle your clit and you cry out.

“I think I’m close, Javi,” you whine.  He circles your clit faster continuing to drag his thick cock in and out of you.

“Let go, bonita.  Let me see it.”

You tip over the edge, an edge you have never found with a partner before, but you’ve never felt so desired with a partner before and so free in your body.  Javi’s skill with his cock and mouth and fingers is unparalleled for sure, but what does it is the look in his eyes and his filthy words when he fucks you.

He has made it so clear that his arousal is not despite your body, but because of it.  And he made you believe it too.

“Bonita?”

“Mmmm?” you mumble as you come back into your body, the aftershocks of your orgasm spacing farther and farther apart.

Javi is next to you, holding the back of your hand up to his lips as he peppers it with kisses.

“I have a question.”

“What is it?” you crack one eye open.

“Can I go get Erin to set up some cameras? For the next one?” he asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

You bite your lip as a shy smile spreads across your face.  “Yeah, ok.”

“Deliciosa.” He smiles in return before bounding out of the bed towards the door, leaving you giggling on the bed.

You stretch out while you wait for him to return, feeling more at home in your body than you have in a long time. You wiggle your fingers and toes and smile to yourself. The next one is going to be fun.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Translations: Deliciosa/o/son deliciosos – delicious, they are delicious Bonita – beautiful Que linda – how beautiful/pretty Te deseo – I desire you Por supuesto – of course Bueno – good Gracias – thank you Absolutamente – absolutely Lo necesito – I need it Quero verta – I want to see you

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[maxdibert]

I find what Hermione did to Marietta so... evil and stupid.

She added a curse in a list, not a contract of secrecy or anything, just a list, and didn’t tell anyone about it (so people signed a binding document without being informed of the risks, which sounds really fair - great start by the way - totally doesn’t look like something the evil guys do). A curse that is practically useless, a curse that doesn't prevent a person from talking about it or warn of betrayal, it serves just to punish the traitor - if Marietta had left Hogwarts before they saw her scarred face no one would know it was her.

There is also a chance Marietta must not have know what Umbridge was doing in her punishments because Harry, for no reason I can understand, decided not to tell anyone about it - so maybe the girl didn't know the harm that other people would suffer if she spoke, maybe she had no way of understanding the gravity of the situation.

Then comes to Hermione's own stupidity: why name the list DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY? Why advertise what it was for? If she left the title blank it could just pass as literally anything: list of people invited for a party, book club members, maybe they were signing up for a theather play or a musical like High School Musical, anything.

Now this girl became scarred for life and her friend gets hate for acting like a real friend should.

How is Hermione's good when if Draco had done half the things she did they would scream he was bad? How is what Mulciber TRIED to do to Mary bad - but what James ACTUALLY DID to Severus good? And I am not talking about Harry, he is an unreliable narrator (and not even he could deny his father was a bully), but about the people that read it and don't seem to be able to judge for themselves because the narrator said that good was bad and bad was good, then it must be true!

Absolutely, I agree with everything you’ve laid out, and I think this moment with Marietta is one of the clearest examples of how. Rowling applies a double standard to her so-called "good" characters, particularly Hermione, who is essentially a self-insert.

What Hermione did wasn’t clever, it wasn’t brave, it wasn’t protective, it was cruel, thoughtless, and, frankly, dangerous. People love to praise Hermione as a brilliant and moral character, but let’s be honest: this act is pure retribution. The curse doesn’t prevent betrayal or even expose it in a timely or functional way, the only point of the curse is to cause pain and shame. If Malfoy had done this people would never stop talking about how sadistic he is. If Snape had done it, we’d still be hearing about it as “proof” of his evil. But because it’s Hermione, it’s portrayed as this big “girlboss” moment. She’s the smart, sassy heroine who “got one over” on the traitor.

This is classic Rowling. Her protagonists, particularly the ones she identifies with are always portrayed as morally correct, no matter what they do. Their actions are justified, excused, or handwaved, while equivalent — or even lesser — offenses committed by “bad” characters are relentlessly demonized.

The Marietta incident exposes all of this hypocrisy. Rowling doesn’t want her readers to think critically, she wants them to accept her judgment as absolute. If she says Hermione is good, then even when she curses a girl’s face off without consent, it’s framed as justice. And if she says Snape or Draco is bad, then even if they’re trying to protect others or deal with their trauma, they’re irredeemable.

It’s manipulative writing, and it falls apart the moment you stop accepting her moral framing at face value

[mahesiyah]

You may be wondering how I got here.

It all started when my boss, Queen Beryl, demanded that I defeat the Sailor Senshi once and for all, and this was my final chance to do so. Not known to be one to crumble under pressure, I, the great Jadeite, devised a brilliant plan to lure out the Sailor Senshi by threatening to destroy all of Tokyo if they didn’t meet me at the airport.

Naturally, being “warriors of justice” or whatever they proclaim themselves to be, they showed up. That’s when I used my evil magic to sic a couple of jumbo jets on them.

Everything was going according to plan until that Tuxedo Mask arrived.

Though the guy did spend a lot more time yapping than he spent doing any actual fighting, and I did defeat him in a matter of seconds, throwing the smug bastard into the ocean — to drown, probably. What do I care what happens to him?

Here’s where things start to take a turn for the worse for me. Sailors Moon, Mercury, and Mars all run up to the edge of the runway, staring at their beloved Tuxedo Mask’s stupid red rose and worrying about whether or not he’s okay. Being in a euphoric state after a short moment of victory, I decided to taunt the Sailor Senshi for crying over him. I ridiculed them for expressing their worry over his safety and accused them of being foolish girls who aren’t able to do anything, including defeating me, without the help of a man.

I wish I hadn’t had done that.

Looking back, I wish I had thought twice about this or had reflected on an insightful question, something to the effect of “what can help me understand that this outdated belief is not only sexist, but also incorrect?” because the Sailor Senshi seemed to get really riled up by my words, vowing to defeat me.

Initially, I didn’t think anything of it, but in the end, they proved my opinions about women and girls to be completely wrong.

As I resumed my magic that sent the jumbo jets rolling towards the Sailor Senshi, the blue-haired one (Mercury, I think?) used her own magic to create a giant cloud of fog that made it difficult to see. Difficult, yet not impossible — I pressed on. But then, all of a sudden, something, I’m still not sure what, but something happened that caused the airplanes to change course towards me.

(I think I might have felt something get stuck to my back shortly before this happened?? Like a piece of paper?? I think it’s still there, too… Oh well, can’t do anything about it now…)

And then, the one named Sailor Moon threw her damn tiara at me. I just barely managed to dodge the wretched thing, but as I recovered my footing, I saw one of the jumbo jets directly above my head, almost right on top of me.

I had no choice. I had to teleport back to our hideout. It was either that or get run over by an airplane.

My hope was that Queen Beryl would show me mercy if I revealed the identities of the Sailor Senshi, since I saw them transform earlier upon their arrival to the airport.

Alas……

Yup, Queen Beryl actually went through with it, subjecting me to the Eternal Sleep. I’ve been here ever since, stuck in this block of ice for god knows how long. You can probably tell that I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on my actions, can’t you? I know that it’s a long shot, but if you see Queen Beryl, can you let her know that I’m really sorry and that I’ll never say anything bad about women or girls again? Hell, I’ll even kiss her feet if I have to……just, please……somebody……LET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!!

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Hihi~

I thought I'd make another request, if that's okay?

May I ask for number 4 and 42 with...hm...let's go with Jango again since you did so good with him last time!

❤️ - @vodika-vibes

Hello gorgeous @vodika-vibes

Thank you so much for the request, that's so sweet of you. Love oo.

I hope you like this one as well. As this is my second time writing for Jango Fett, I hope I did him justice in your eyes. Thank you for being amazing, and congratulations on your 500 follower event. You are such a brilliant writer, you deserve all the follows.

Oh, before I forget, I wrote with a f!reader, hope that's okay.

Love oo,

The Job

Warnings: Weapons dealer, mentions of assassination, angst, longing, mentions of eradicating Jedis, put-on pleasantries, alcohol, I think that's it. If I miss any please let me know.

Italics: Flash back

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Your voice filled the room as you went on about one story or another, “…You should have seen them. I could hardly breathe with their ego taking up all the space in the room.”

Jango rolled his eyes as he stood off to the side, listening to you tell another story about some boring Senator or something. Truthfully, he only took the job of being your bodyguard, simply because he needed credits, not because he actually cared about you. 

Regardless of whatever notion ran through your head. 

Regardless of how amazing the dress you wore looked on you. 

Regardless of how shapely your legs looked in those heels, or how your neck was displayed so lovingly, practically inviting him to bite it, and kiss it with the way your hair was done up. 

He was here solely for the credits. 

At least that’s what he kept reminding himself, as he followed you around the room, while you were glad-handing the various Senators, politicians and potential buyers for your weapons. It actually made him laugh that a weapon’s manufacturer needed a bodyguard. 

“I don’t need a bodyguard” you emphatically stated, as you met with him before the job, “what I need is a second pair of eyes that I can trust.”

“You think you can trust me?” Jango narrowed his eyes on you, someone who trusted a bounty hunter or a bodyguard for hire was clearly looking for a way to end their own life fast. 

“I don’t trust you. However, I do trust your Mandalorian honour, and the fact that I’ll pay you more money than anyone else is able to; that’s what I trust.”

“What could you possibly know about Mandalorian honour?”

“I know enough. Enough to make sure that your pay will not be looked down on in any way shape or form.”

And just like that he was on the payroll, granted this was now his fifth job with you. The first time, you gave him a bonus for stopping an assassin. The second time, you gifted him a new set of blasters, top of the line from your latest batch. The fourth time, you upgraded his armour’s software. It provided him intel on a level he never imagined possible. Each job always left him better off than the time before, and he wasn’t complaining; however this wasn’t the job he was going to dedicate the rest of his life too.

His eyes focused on your hands, waiting for the signal that said you had enough and you wanted to head back to your suite.

As much as you looked like you were having fun, laughing, joking, even flirting with some, the truth of the matter was that you hated talking to people. You only did it because you were the CEO and President of your weapons company. If it wasn’t so you could earn more credits, you’d never even bother to speak to half of those who were all so quick to practically lick your feet. 

You flicked your wrist three times in a counter-clockwise motion against your thigh. It was your signal, you had enough. Enough of the fake laughing, enough of the pretend happiness, enough of the put upon smiles. To anyone else, it looked as though you were getting rid of some speck of dust that seemed to bother you, to Jango however, it was your call for help. 

His steps toward you were full of purpose and determination as he closed the distance. 

“Mistress,” he whispered loud enough for others to hear, “you have an urgent call.”

You nodded in understanding, pretending it was a chore to leave the company of these so-called exquisite associates. You bowed, offering your apologies one last time, leaving them with a flirty laugh and a fond farewell. 

The moment you entered the lift, you let out a sigh of freedom as you began to undo your hair, the myriad of pins keeping your hair in place were now in Jango’s hand. Without even having to ask, he held out his gloved hand ready to receive your offerings. You let out a contented sigh as you shook your hair out massaging the scalp to ease its tension.

“Why do you bother?”

“Hmm?” You asked as your eyes closed enjoying the freedom your hair felt.

“Why bother putting it up? Especially in such an intricate design.”

“Because…” you let out, enjoying the feeling of your nails stimulating your scalp, “at a high society gathering, and one where I am looking to gain one or two more buyers, I have learned the more intricate your hair, the more likely you are to gain someone’s attention.”

“Really?” He tilted his head as he looked at you, “Because they’re too stupid to realize you’re just as brilliant and beautiful with your hair down as opposed to up?”

Your fingers froze in place as you glanced up to look at Jango, smiling, “Did you just say I was beautiful and brilliant?”

“I believe I said brilliant and beautiful. Interesting how you flipped that. I also said they were too stupid to recognize your talents.”

“But you think I’m beautiful.” You smiled as you let your fingers glide down your scalp, guiding your hair over one shoulder. 

“That’s what you choose to focus on?” Jango shrugged, “Fine that’s on you. Anyway, I really don’t understand how having an intricate hair updo correlates to signing a potential client?”

You shrugged, not understanding it yourself, “All I can figure is that they must feel a woman who handles such intricate designs must be able to handle the intricate world of weapons. I don’t know.”

The lift dinged as you reached your floor, Jango put away the pins in one of his utility belt pockets. Before he opened the doors to the lift his helmet scanned the hallway, making sure there were no unwanted guests waiting for you. Once he opened the door he examined the hallway, keeping you guarded, after making sure it was safe then and only then were you allowed to exit the lift. Once you did, Jango put the lift back into service and sent it back down. 

As soon as you entered your suite, you took off your heels and walked around the carpeted floor barefoot. “Oh my force!” You stood curling your toes into the carpet, “This feels divine!”

He couldn’t help laughing at your reaction, as you stood there for a few minutes, your head tilted back as you kept sighing in contentment from the relief, “Must you wear those heels?”

“Let me ask you, did you or did you not notice my legs in them?”

“Yeah,” he answered, not feeling ashamed or embarrassed, you had amazing legs, maybe not to everyone, but to him … he thought they were beautifully sculpted. 

“Did it make you want to talk to me?”

“I guess.”

“Hence the heels, everything I do is to make it easier for me to find more potential buyers.” You stretched as you headed to the bar the suite contained. “Want a drink?”

Jango nodded as he took off his helmet, “Mandalorian whiskey, Keldabe Night, top shelf.”

“But of course.” You smiled as you poured him the darker whiskey, while you served yourself a more amber coloured Corellian whiskey. “Thank you.”

“You’re paying me. Not sure how much a thank you really is needed.” He stated as he took a sip of his drink.

“No, I mean, thanks for making today a little less depressing. Just knowing you’re there to have my back, and knowing I can be myself around you … it gives me a little bit of peace, so I appreciate it.”

He wasn’t there for accolades or to be your friend, he was there to earn a paycheque. To earn credits, and to rebuild his status until he could exact revenge on the Jedi. “Again, you’re paying me. So not sure how much your thank yous are needed.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you headed to your bedroom, “You can’t just say, you’re welcome. Even if you said it just once, it won’t kill you.”

He watched you walk off annoyed at him. Well if you were going to be this pissed already, might as well rip the bacta bandaid off, “I won’t be able to work for you anymore.”

You froze in your spot, your heart clenching as you realized the warm feeling you felt for him had seeped further into your soul than you had realized. You turned to look at him, shock in your eyes. “What?”

Jango cleared his throat as he looked away from you, “I got another gig. Pay is a lot more, and it will help me accomplish my goal.” At least that’s what Lord Tyranus promised, a way for him to exact revenge on the Jedi, a way to help rid the galaxy of his enemies once and for all. “It’s a long-term commitment. I won’t be able to take on anymore of your requests.”

Tears welled up in your eyes for a second as you looked at him, you closed your eyes for a brief moment before you nodded, “Understood.” You steadied your nerves and looked him in the eyes, “Well then, thank you Jango Fett for all your services. I assume you will stay at your post until I am safely returned home?”

“Of course.”

“Good” you turned and headed to your room, “I will include a bonus as a thank you for your exemplary service. If you know of anyone who you trust to take your place, please make sure to forward me their contact information.” You slammed the door closed and leaned against the frame as you slowly slid down, wiping the tears. You knew this wasn’t ever going to amount to anything, yet you had let your heart foolishly hope for something, you hadn’t hoped for in a long time. 

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[tacticalvalor]

«────── « HEADCANON » ──────»

I've been thinking about this for a hot minute, but I only just remembered it again and felt like sitting to write it out… But the whole dynamic between Anakin and Palpatine, right? Especially the opera scene from Revenge of the Sith?

That's how Harcourt and Elsa's dynamic was prior to everything that led to Wilson's Heart. At least, that's how I envision it based on the little we do hear about them in game. More below the cut.

I skimmed through a no-commentary playthrough of the game again, and here's everything that's said about them and their dynamic (both between them, and the wider family):

[First Mention] I was to meet a… colleague. Here. Dr. Arthur Harcourt. He collects data from mysticisms all over the world; any culture claiming to have a link to the afterlife. […] If we can find him, Dr. Harcourt will be able to truly explain what is happening here.

[Finding the Journal] My God, it's… his journal! Harcourt's notes! He never let anyone examine them…

[Seeing the Device] I can't believe Harcourt did it. He… actually created it.

[Banter] No need to curb your language, Wilson. My late husband was… well, let's just say I've heard it all before.

[Examining Corpse] I'll be fine, Wilson. I'm a mother, I have to be self-reliant.

[About the Journal] I needed Harcourt's journal in order to gain the knowledge to build the device for Andrew myself. After months of searching, I finally tracked him down here; residing as a doctor. Pretending to care for people… pathetic.

[About Wilson's experimentation] You, Wilson […] just another casualty of his cruelty […] to keep the device from me, he put it in you.

[About Haunting] No! Of course not. Even after all these years researching the supernatural together, we couldn't have expected this […] I didn't even have to attempt to create it. The fool did it himself.

[About Harcourt's "Innocence"] He deserved it, and more! I might not have intended for him to be killed, but it is a far better fate than he deserved. After what he put us through… What he did to us is unforgivable.

[About Relationship] Arthur Harcourt… was my husband. Brilliant, but only in his mind - not his heart. My son's human body was made… unusable… thanks to a drunken outburst one evening, from Arthur. A small push down a flight of stairs. That's all it took to ruin the life of an innocent, sweet child. And Arthur? He didn't even care. He left us; conducting more research - our research.

[About Separation] Arthur - that son of a bitch! He knew it! But he took the research - and his journal - that we had discovered together… and abandoned us. So if there is a God, Wilson, and any justice in this universe, he is rotting in Hell as we speak.

NOTE: it's important to remember that Elsa is an unreliable narrator, to a degree. She leads Robert and the others on to achieve her goal of resurrecting Andy. That said, I don't think she ever lied about Harcourt's actions, just their relationship dynamic (re: initially telling Robert they were colleagues, not spouses).

But circling back to the original concept of this post… The build-up to this conflict between Elsa and Harcourt.

Given the time period, the age differences, and the later abuse, I believe that Elsa was manipulated and groomed by Harcourt from the get go. They seem to have a lengthy relationship, and given I imagine Elsa to be in her mid-30s, it's likely she was in her early to mid-20s when they'd become acquainted. So there is already a power dynamic, but it seems like there was another factor as well.

Harcourt is easily able to find a position as a head doctor in this hospital, meaning he has experience. Elsa seems to have similar experience, though on the side of clinical research, meaning it's likely that Elsa could have worked under Harcourt as an intern throughout her later education. Being someone in a higher position, it's not unlikely that (prior to their interpersonal endeavors) Elsa idolized Harcourt as a mentor and authority figure.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? That's the dynamic Anakin had with Palpatine, and the one that ultimately led to Anakin turning to the Dark Side. The one that ultimately led to Elsa becoming willing to kill people, and use them not unlike Harcourt used her.

And we see the seeds being planted in that aforementioned opera scene. The way that a subtle sense of doubt is created to lessen the trust held toward the Jedi Order. Just watch:

The part that really inspired this, too, is when Palpatine tells Anakin to search his feelings and explore what trust is held between all the involved parties. Especially the line:

" They asked you to do something that made you feel dishonest, didn't they? "

More headcanon for Elsa, but I imagine she always did believe in the supernatural. That's why she was eager to work alongside Harcourt, too. He used that to bait her in. But how? Well, again… looking at the time period (and even to a degree, today's beliefs), if someone says they believe in the supernatural or mysticism, what is the reaction? Mockery. Ostracization. Out casting.

If Elsa had ever expressed her beliefs, or the type of research she would wish to delve into, she'd just as quickly have to bury it. To be dishonest with herself, her feelings, and those around her. Harcourt would have been one of the few people who would listen to her grievances, if not the only one. It would have been easy for him to use that to his advantage.

And I just think their dynamic is so… interesting. Awful and tragic. But interesting to delve into and try and develop from the bread crumbs that the game gives us.

[gatheringbones]

[“I want to spend a moment reflecting on exploitation: I’ve been eyed for social work since I was in my mid-teens. A racialized, mentally ill, gender queer youth, I was also remarkably articulate, psychologically precocious, eager to help and to please. The adult service providers whose orbit I floated in were quick to notice and take a shine to me—I was one of those once-in-a-blue-moon clients, the kind it feels both easy and rewarding to work with because I was so traumatized yet seemed to “improve” so quickly. The adults I trusted always seemed to want me in their empowerment initiatives, they were eager to put me on youth councils and committees, they gave me leadership roles despite the fact that I was in way over my head. I was brilliant and gifted, they said. I had so much to offer, they said. Helping was what I was made for.

I came to identify my worth with helping, my lovableness with how much I was able to give and please. It didn’t matter that most of my early jobs and roles involved some significant risks—for example, facilitating antihomophobia workshops in high schools as a high school student myself might have required a rather enormous amount of self-disclosure and vulnerability to strangers, but it was all for the cause, wasn’t it? And how proud my youth workers were whenever I came back from another successful outing. And if the honorariums they paid me were less than minimum wage, well, it was more money than I’d ever made before, wasn’t it? And how lucky was I to get paid to do something that did so much good for other people?

When I got to college age, I knew it was my purpose in life to help and heal other people. In my darker moments, it sort of seemed like that was all I was good for—and all the trusted adults, the wise youth workers and therapists and psychiatrists who mentored me, said I was gifted. They said I was special. My diversity made me fashionable. So “interesting” and “textured,” one psychotherapy supervisor called me. A wealthy white psychologist said I was an “ambassador for my people.” (She didn’t specify which people.) This was how, at twenty-two years old, I began an internship that involved doing therapy with adults who had survived childhood sexual trauma. Although I had no real clinical training, I held sessions for them at night in the windowless basement of a hospital in Montreal. I learned therapy techniques quickly, from videos on the internet and by practising on the job. People were counting me. I had to help.

Some quick number-crunching tells me that I gave over 4,000 hours of unpaid therapy in order to get to paid work as a clinician. By contrast, the very first sex work gig I got paid me $100 for some nude cuddling and a sloppy hand job that I completed in twenty minutes. I almost never think about that first gig now. I still dream about the stories my clients told me in that first unpaid therapy internship I took at twenty-two. Occasionally, I still cry, wondering how they are now, if I’d done enough to help them.

My social work experience isn’t every social worker’s experience, so I can’t claim to speak for the whole social work community. What I can say is that the people around me saw something useful and beautiful that they liked in me, so they took it and used it and I allowed it to happen because I wanted to feel loved and I didn’t think I really had choices. What I can say is that my sex work practice started out rough and frightening, but it blossomed into a decent learning experience and a business that paid me lots of cash up front, usually with no strings attached.”]

kai cheng thom, do you feel empowered in your job? and other questions therapists ask sex workers, from The Care We Dream Of: Liberatory & Transformative Justice Approaches to LGBTQ+ Health, edited by Zena Sharman, 2021

[mlqcdrabbledabble]

MLQC - Medieval AU ideas drabble!

We have seen the guys in medieval roles, but what if we mash them together!

- takes place during the 17th to 19th century

- the MC can have various roles like:

Being a peasant, maid or servant, who is in a lot of trouble because of her parents, or the daughter of a noble family-- who wishes not to be married off to someone she barely knows and does not love. Some ideas there.

Let's give our main guys some roles!

More below

In order of Hiarchy:

Victor

"A kingdom is nothing without the strength and faith of it's people."

He is the King, Emperor, or a Duke (duh :P)

A true king of the people-- Victor was appointed to become the King (or emperor) by the previous royal council he was apart of for many years. He had no direct claim to the throne, however, he worked hard and the concil of the people favored him. He now is at the top of the kingdom (or empire) and continues to do what is best for the kingdom and it's people.

Although he is extremely pragmatic and a bit disconnected from the problems of common folk. However, no one can deny he is extremely intelligent and given the right information-- he can solved just about any issue.

Lucien

"Knowledge is the greatest weapon one can wheld."

Royal Phasician, Apothecary or Medicene man-- also a close advisor to the King.

Eventhough they seem at odds, Lucien is one of King's closest and most trusted advisors. He is the right hand man and probably the second most (if not the most) power person in the kingdom.

Additionally he has a network of spies and knows everything there is to know about the kingdom and it's enemies. This is a man you want on your side because he knows everyone's weaknesses, and more than 101 ways to make people talk.

Gavin

"I am on the side of order and justice in a world filled with chaos."

Cheif Knight, General, Commander and advisor of the kingdom's military forces.

Extremely loyal to the crown and the complete opposite of his younger brother. He is dedicated to justice and apprehension of criminals. Though he pleaded for his younger brother to be spared when he was caught doimg criminal actitives. Which was very out of character for him to do.

Gavin lives with the fact he spoke up for his brother, and must be the one to put him down if he causes too many more issues with the kingdom.

Kiro

"I live to bring the music and soul we all have a connection to-- let it all come forward and shine."

Bard, musician, jester and voice of the people-- and a spy master.

Kiro is the most talented musician in the whole kingdom. His songs heal the broken hearted and uplift the downtrodden. Though he has a darker (hidden) side that no one suspects from such a bright and brilliant man.

He easily infultrates high class parties and other kingdom's realms with his famous performances. All the while gathering valuable information about them as well.

Shaw

"I am a freeman. Because I chose to be."

The outlaw, criminal, pirate Captian, secret agent, hunted and treasure hunter.

He had always been a trouble maker from a young age. He never out grew his criminal nature, unlike his older brother, he became a theif and a lowlife. He was captured and was going to be excuted, but his older brother pleaded for him to be spared.

Instead, he was exiled and resents his older brother for saving his life. Shaw was able to commendere a ship and crew to do piracy. He deliberately steals from the kingdom that spared him. Though he has heard there is a great treasure there... not made of gold nor silver. He will take this great treasure for his own.

Main Character (MC)

My idea is that depending on where the MC starts will affect how they interact and know our main male leads.

High-class: Knows Victor or Kiro

Princess from another Kingdom or Related to Nobility

Mid-class: Knows Victor, Gavin, Lucien or Kiro

Royal Maid

(could be bumped up to head maid or fruther, if they work hard enough ;))

Lower-class: Knows Gavin or Shaw

Villager

Criminal: Knows Shaw, Lucien, Gavin or Kiro

Theif, witch, or some other thing that's considered a severe criminal act...

Extra stuff!

Not sure if they should have evol or not...

Thinking not because they'd be hung for witch craft...

But Shaw probably be like, "yeah! give me cool lighting powers!" (That'll make him too op xP)

I want them to interact more!

Anywhoo you got any thoughts or feedback? Would love to heart it.

Cheers! (^3^)/

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The doctrine of dynastic wealth

The biggest news story of the moment Propublica's reporting on the Secret IRS Files, a trove of leaked tax data on the wealthiest people in America that show that they pay effectively no tax, through perfectly legal means.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/15/guillotines-and-taxes/#carried-interest

The Bootlicker-Industrial Complex has completely missed the point of this reporting and its followup, like the revelation that an ultrarich candidate for Manhattan DA was able to pay no tax in many years where her family booked millions in revenue.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/17/quis-custodiet-irs/#trumps-taxes

The apologists for super-rich tax-evaders lean heavily on the fact that America has a tax-code that substantially reduces the spending power (and thus political power) of people who work for a living, while enhancing the wealth of those who own things for a living.

The rich are obeying the law, so there is nothing wrong here. But what Propublica documented is that America has a different set of laws for the super-rich than for the merely rich, and that these laws are in a wholly different universe from the laws for the rest of us.

It's another example of America's unequal justice system - a subject that includes long prison sentences for crack possession and wrist-slaps for powder cocaine, long jail terms created by the cash bail system, and a host of other race- and class-based inequities.

It's more proof, in other words, that America isn't a republic where we are all equal before the law, but rather a caste system where inherited privileges determine how the law binds you, how it punishes you and how it protects you.

One person well-poised to describe how this system perpetuates itself is Abigail Disney, granddaughter of Roy Disney and great-niece of Walt Disney, inheritor of a vast family fortune shielded from tax by a generation-skipping trust contrived solely to avoid taxation.

Writing in The Atlantic, the heiress describes how she was inducted and indoctrinated into the system of American dynastic wealth, surrounded by brilliant accountants who treated their exotic financial vehicles as completely ordinary.

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/06/abigail-disney-rich-protect-dynastic-wealth-propublica-tax/619212/

Personally, these financial enablers were "decent, good, kind men," and they gave Disney 40 years' worth of gospel about protecting the capital, growing it, and passing it on to the next generation.

As a credible 21 year old, Disney had no frame of reference. The creation of a dynastic, ever-growing fortune through legal but frankly bizarre accounting fictions was treated as normal.

To the extent that these tactics raised any doubts, they were addressed through doctrine: the idea that government bureaucrats can't be trusted to spend money wisely.

Disney doesn't say this, but a common trope in these discussions is that the government is ever tempted to give money to poor people, and must be protected from this impulse.

This racism and classism are dressed up as "meritocracy" - the tautology that the rich are worthy, the worthy are rich, and anyone who isn't rich is therefore unworthy.

In the first generation, this doctrine is merely sociopathic, but when passed on to a new generation, it is eugenic. Walt and Roy demonstrated their worth by founding a studio and navigating it through the challenges of the market, and that is why the market made them rich.

But their children - and grandchildren - didn't get their wealth by founding or running a studio. They got their wealth by emerging from the correct orifice. If their wealth is deserved, those deserts are a matter of blood, not toil.

In other words, they were born to be rich, not just as a matter of sound tax planning, but as a matter of genetic destiny. They are part of a hereditary meritocracy.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/13/data-protection-without-monopoly/#inequality

Disney describes what it's like to be indoctrinated into the hereditary meritocracy: her family told her that the appearance of philanthropy is good, but actually giving money to poor people is a foolish enterprise, "unseemly and performative."

And they urged her to marry her own class, "to save yourself from the complexity and conflict that come with a broad gulf in income, assets, and, therefore, power." Power should be in the hands of "successful" people, because they know how to wield it.

Accept this ideology and you will be showered with wonderful gifts: like private jet trips, which quickly become necessities ("once you’ve flown private, wild horses will never drag you through a public airport terminal again").

It's a subject that is well-documented in Mike Mechanic's 2021 book JACKPOT, on the daily lives, dysfunctions, and above all, ideology of the super-rich:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/13/public-interest-pharma/#affluenza

As to the seductiveness of the ideology, I had my own experience with the "decent, good, kind" professionals of the finance sector. When I moved to London in 2003, I opened a checking account at Barclays, a giant high-street bank.

I quickly discovered that part of Barclays' legendary profitability came from understaffing its branches; when I had to see a teller, I could end up waiting in line for an hour.

When I complained about this, a teller told me that for a nominal annual sum, I could get a "premier" account that came with a host of benefits, including priority tellers. I signed up and was inducted into the premiership by my branch manager.

He asked me if I needed any help with tax preparation, and boy did I ever. I was filing tax returns in Canada, the US, California, and the UK - it was a mess: not just expensive but confusing, and I couldn't make heads or tails of the paperwork.

A week later, a very smartly turned out Barclays "tax specialist" came by the academic research center where I'd borrowed a desk to meet with me. She was wildly excited to discover that I was on a work visa and not a UK citizen.

She told me that this made me eligible to become a "non-dom" - someone living in the UK, but not "domiciled" there - and therefore not subject to any tax at all.

She laid out a whole plan for me: I could establish residence in one of the Channel Islands (Jersey, I think?), incorporate a shell company there, and continue to get free health care from the NHS, use the public roads, etc - all without paying a penny to HM Exchequer.

And when I was ready to buy a house, the whole thing would only get better: I could buy it through the shell company, reverse-mortgage it, rent it to myself, take fabulous deductions on the way, and pass it on tax-free by transfering the shell company rather than the house.

It was dizzying, and I kept asking her to go back and explain it again. She assured me that it was legal and normal, what every non-Briton living in the UK should do, and really poured the pressure on.

It was weirdly spellbinding, like a wizard was demonstrating an interdimensional portal to me and asking if I wanted to go through it to a magical land - a magical land that "everyone else" was already visiting on the reg.

I told her I'd think about it. Five minutes after she left the office, I snapped out of the trance. I never called her back. I figured out my UK taxes.

But today, reading Disney's account of having reasonable-seeming, friendly experts tell you something bizarre and indefensible is normal, I was powerfully reminded of my own brush with the dynasty-creation industry.

[snowbellewells]

@kmomof4 Good heavens, Krystal!!! 😭 What exactly are you trying to do to me?!? I’m seriously just in your prologue, and I was tearing up and almost bawling, not once, not twice, but three different times!!

You wrote Killian’s guilt and inner turmoil of loving his brother’s wife so well that my heart was breaking for him - even before the horrible, heartrending event happened. You have always been a brilliant writer - better than you give yourself credit for, I think - but you get more masterful with every story you put out, and this is very definite proof of that. 😍😍😍

I did love the joy and happiness and affection that was clearly present in Emma and Liam’s union. It was beautiful to see, even if just for a little while. And I loved the playful comraderie between the three of them, family and best friends, even with the pained turmoil Killian was hiding away. Emma was right about his loyalty and honor; he would have hidden it forever and never said a word, and would have preferred that to the pain losing Liam brought to the both of them. I loved their easy conversation and how well they understood each other as in-laws and friends, as evidenced in their evening walk…and then it was just shattered so completely. 😭

The abruptness, the quick finality and the unfairness of Liam’s loss so soon. And then her not even having the comfort of his child with her! 💔 It seems like more than Emma, and all of them really, should have to bear. You did such an intensely vivid and powerful telling of that scene though. From Killian’s hearing Emma scream, to the sight of his brother already gone, to Emma stumbling across the room and begging him to wake Liam - wow! I couldn’t breathe or look away until that scene was finished, even as I wanted for it not to be happening. And then Emma’s strength, even though her pain is clear, and Killian’s struggling to do his duty and wanting to be there for Emma but not being able to without revealing his secret. You’ve evoked all of it so well, but it was just tearing me up in the best and most dramatic of ways. I have been accused more than once 😏 of liking the hurt and angst, and I guess that’s true, because this was SO GOOD. I guess, if the hurt is this painful, then the comfort when it comes will be all the more satisfying? 🤷🏼‍♀️

Sheesh! I know I am not saying enough- and I’m not sure I am doing all the feels you produced any sort of justice, but what a start!!!

And the. Emma comes to see him, wants to know why he is staying away, and he can’t tell her!! And then he’s going to leave!! You are breaking my heart! But you know I’ll be back for more! 💔😉💔

A Scoundrel… Or a Gentleman?

Ohhhhhh, I’m so happy to FINALLY be posting this fic!!! Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton’s story, When He Was Wicked, I wrote the prologue - 8k words - last September, then took a six month break before sitting down and getting the rest of the thing written. I so hope I did the story justice and that you enjoy and let me know what you think!!

And now thanks to whom thanks are due!!! @jrob64 is a LITERAL SAINT for everything she did to make this fic better. She is an outstanding beta and a dear friend, but I seriously tried her patience going back over and back over and back over AGAIN trying to make this just right. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, my friend, for EVERYTHING!!!

To @hollyethecurious for all the historical info that she shared with me and asking the questions that needed to be asked and answered before the fic was ready for posting. Her support was absolutely invaluable. Thank you, babe!!!

To @motherkatereloyshipper for her work on the Prologue artwork shown below. It is soooo beautiful, I could stare at it for hours!!! Thank you so much, darlin!!! Please give her lots of love!!!

The fic is complete with a total of 9chs. I’ll be updating twice a week- Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Summary: Killian Jones has been in love with Emma Nolan since the day he met her - the day before she married his brother Earl Liam Jones. That was six years ago, and Liam has been gone now for four years. Emma and Killian have both arrived in London for the season - her to seek a husband so she can hopefully bear children, him to finally take up his duties as the earl, including finding a wife. Will they succeed in their respective desires?

*spoiler alert- of course they will. It’ll just take them a little while to get there…*

Rating: M (smut in later chs)

Words: almost 8400 words of approx 59,5k

Tags: Regency Romance, Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton’s Story, Smut in Later Chapters

On ao3 if that’s your preference.

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@Jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615 @donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings @booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza @djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling @caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones @mie779 @kymbersmith-90 @bluewildcatfanatic

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

Prologue

There is a moment in every man’s life in which his future becomes clear. A turning point of sorts. The moment when he becomes a man, when he leaves the irresponsibility and temerity of youth behind and turns his eyes to the future. A future that he’d never bothered to think about before. Unfortunately, that moment came for Killian Jones when he first laid eyes on Emma Nolan at a supper celebrating the imminent marriage between herself and Killian’s brother, Earl Liam Jones.

After years of chasing anything in a skirt, Killian grimaced at the irony. In all that time, he’d never allowed his heart to become entangled with his many, many romantic exploits. Allowing himself to be chased until he conquered, his reputation as a rake and a scoundrel was well deserved. He’d even stopped attending church, although he assuaged the pricking of his conscience by telling himself the derelict stones of Kilmartin Abbey on the Kilmartin estate up in Scotland… no originality among his ancestors there, who were so proud of the title when it was newly bestowed about 300 years ago, they attached it to everything they possibly could... Anyway, the Abbey couldn’t withstand a direct strike of lightning, which would surely happen if Killian Jones ever showed his face inside. 

Killian Jones

Worst of Sinners

He would have had it printed on calling cards if he didn’t think it would actually kill his mother. The only semblance of honor he’d maintained in his heart over all these years was the fact that the only times he’d slept with married women was if their husbands were tossers, and they’d produced at least two male offspring. Three, if one was sickly. He’d also never seduced a virgin, but even that wasn’t enough to redeem him now. Because this was the one thing that truly blackened his soul beyond all redemption. 

He coveted his brother’s wife. 

And had since that fateful moment two years ago. The day he met Emma Nolan. Now Emma Nolan Jones. Lady Kilmartin. Countess Kilmartin. Wife of his brother, the Earl of Kilmartin.

He could torture himself for days, thinking of every iteration of Emma Nolan Jones, but it would never change the simple fact. He couldn’t have her. She’d never be his.

Now, looking around the room where he, Emma, and Liam were enjoying some after-dinner conversation, he had to rise and cross the room to the decanter, pouring himself a drink to avoid the thoroughly besotted eyes Liam and Emma were making at each other.

“What shall we do for our second anniversary?” Emma asked, sitting down at the pianoforte, her long delicate fingers tickling the keys. Killian swallowed a low groan.

“Anything you want, darling,” Liam answered. He smiled gently at his wife as he opened the evening edition of the Times. She turned her attention to Killian.

“What do you think?”

“About what?” he asked, turning to her, a charming, lopsided smile on his face. No one took him seriously when he smiled like that, which was exactly the point. She pressed her lips into a thin line and Killian relented slightly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

“What should we do for our anniversary?”

If she’d thrust her own hand into his chest and squeezed his heart to dust, it probably would have hurt less. He shrugged indifferently. He was, after all, an expert at hiding what he really felt.

“It’s not my anniversary.”

Emma rolled her eyes, the corner of her lips lifting in amusement. It probably wasn’t a good thing that Killian spent far too much time studying the lips of his brother’s wife.

“I’m aware,” she huffed. “I was asking if you had any ideas for us.”

Killian lifted one brow quizzically. “Why would you ask me, when I have absolutely no experience in the realm of marriage or the anniversary celebration of such?”

The amusement left her face and was replaced with irritation and no small amount of sympathy. Emma rose and moved toward him.

Oh, God, he thought. Please no. There’s nothing worse than when she…

She placed her hand on his arm.

“You won’t always be unmarried, you know,” she said gently.

She shouldn’t be touching him. She couldn’t be touching him. His next words were with the singular purpose of getting her away from him.

“Am I to become your project then?” he bit out. “‘Killian can’t possibly be happy living his life of debauchery and aimlessness, so I must see him married,’” he mocked. “I am not interested in marriage, thank you very much.” 

She removed her hand from his arm and backed up, her brow furrowed, her mouth a small o of hurt. Thank heaven, it bloody worked, he thought, even as the guilt surged.

“We care about you, Killian, and we want to see you happy.”

And there it was. We. Not I. We. They were a unit. Liam and Emma. Lord and Lady Kilmartin. She may not have meant it that way, but that was what he heard. As if he’d ever forget it.

“I care about you, too.” His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and he shot pleading eyes toward his brother who finally gave up all pretense of reading.

“Emma,” he chastised lightly. “Killian is a grown man. Let him find his happiness when he’s ready. In his own time.”

Emma shot her husband a disgruntled look. Killian had to bite back a bark laugh. He knew Emma almost as well as he knew his brother, and he recognized the root of her irritation was at being thwarted in her attempt to arrange the people in her life to her satisfaction. Liam smirked at him and picked his paper back up as she returned to the pianoforte and sat down, her visage contemplative. It suddenly lit up and Killian’s heart rate increased with it. 

“I should introduce you to…”

“Emma.” It was only a single word, but Liam’s voice held a note of reprimand in it. Leave him alone.

Emma deflated and Killian could have kissed his brother. He may have only thought he was saving Killian from Emma’s nagging, but if he had to suffer the woman he was in love with trying to find him a match - a match he was wholly uninterested in - it might be the final straw of his sanity. Truly. 

“We should all go for a walk,” she said suddenly. Killian looked out the windows where darkness had finally descended over London.

“Isn’t it a little late?” he asked.

“Not with two strong escorts,” she cheeked.

“I’ve an appointment in an hour,” Liam said. He winced and rubbed his temple. “And I’ve got a headache. I think I’ll lay down for a bit before leaving.” He looked at Killian then. “But you should go.”

Absolute proof that Liam hadn’t a clue about his brother’s true feelings for Emma.

“Parliament?” Emma asked. Liam nodded and rose. “Do you want me to wake you when we return?”

“I’ll ask my valet to do it, darling,” he said, dropping a gentle kiss to her lips. Killian averted his eyes. He’d never begrudge his brother and his beloved their happiness, but he certainly wasn’t going to watch them bask in the clear love between them. 

“I’ll just be a moment,” Emma assured him once Liam left, a soft smile on her face, her forest green eyes glowing. Perhaps it should disturb him how certain he was of the color of Emma’s eyes when she wasn’t even in the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He dreamed in shades of green these days. Emma green, the color should be called. He poured himself another drink and slammed it back, trying to steel himself for their impending constitutional. 

He knew he shouldn’t be accompanying her. He knew he shouldn’t ever be alone with her. But when she smiled, he was helpless to resist her. It may leave him wracked with equal parts guilt and desire later, but he couldn’t deny himself any amount of time in her presence. Because that’s all there would ever be. He’d never act upon his desires. Never betray his brother in that way or sully Emma’s reputation. There’d never be a kiss, meaningful glances or touches, whispered words of love and affection, or moans of passion. 

All he’d ever have was her friendship, her smile, and her company. And besotted fool that he was, he’d be happy with it.

She came back down wrapped in a soft yellow cloak and he held his elbow out for her to take. Resigned to his fate, he escorted the love of his life out of the house and to the street below. Lucky him.

~*~*~

As Emma and Killian walked along the street, Emma couldn’t help but think what a dear man her brother-in-law was. Oh, he’d be certain to scoff and list all the reasons his soul was as black as they came (none of which, she was afraid, were exaggerated) if she expressed those sentiments out loud, but she knew him nearly as well as she knew her husband, and Killian Jones possessed a heart of honor and had a capacity to love that was unequaled among the men of her acquaintance. And if she didn’t find him a wife soon, she’d go mad.

“Killian,” she began, turning to look at him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupted. “Didn’t Liam just suggest that you let me find my happiness in my own time?”

Emma’s jaw dropped in shock. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

“You’re a bit of an open book, my dear,” he said, looking at her and booping her on the nose. Emma huffed indignantly as they continued their walk.

It was funny. When she met Liam, she fell head over heels in love more quickly than she ever imagined possible. He understood her in a way that she’d never experienced before. Of course, she loved her family immensely, but as the youngest of six siblings, she often felt lost in the shuffle. Killian was the only sibling Liam had, and removing herself from the hubbub of London and her large family felt like a breath of fresh air. Not to mention the actual fresh air of Scotland, her new home.

But then there was Killian. She hadn’t met him until the day before her nuptials to Liam, since he’d just recently returned home from the Napoleonic Wars on the continent. He was handsome, to be sure, but there was an undeniable connection between them that she felt from the moment she met him. If Liam understood her the way no one ever had before - the opposite side of the same coin - then Killian was like a puzzle piece that fit her perfectly. A puzzle piece she never knew she was missing. He completed her. Besides Liam, Killian was her very best friend and that was why she wanted him to be as happy as she was. And the only way that was going to happen was if she found him a wife who’d make him as happy as Liam made her.

“Finding me a wife is not among your duties, Lady Kilmartin,” Killian spoke again, drawing her from her musings.

She huffed again. “Well, it should be.”

He laughed, which delighted her immensely. She could always make him laugh.

“Very well, then,” she said, dropping the subject for now. “Tell me something wicked. Something that Liam wouldn’t approve of.” Her lips lifted in a conspiratorial smirk that he returned in kind. It was a game they played, that spoke again to how Killain somehow completed her. As much as she loved her husband, hearing about Killian’s exploits was always immensely entertaining. And she knew Liam enjoyed hearing about them, too, even if he gave a token admonishment whenever he was also present. Killian never shared too much, he had too much discretion for that, but he’d share hints and innuendos that never failed to amuse her greatly.

“Alas, I’m afraid I’ve done nothing wicked this week,” he said with a sigh.

“You?” she asked, incredulous. “I find that very difficult to believe.”

“It’s only Tuesday, my dear,” he reminded her.

“I’m aware,” she shot back, “but aside from Sunday, which I’m sure you’d leave sacred…” She shot him a look that belied her words completely, earning her another laugh, “that would leave Monday, and a man can get up to quite a bit of mischief on a Monday.”

“Not this man,” he assured her. “Not this Monday.”

“What did you do then?”

He was quiet for a moment as they continued walking. 

“Nothing, really.” 

There was a tone of melancholy blanketing his words and Emma stopped and turned to him. His blue eyes shone under the street lamps and Emma was shocked at the intensity she found there. A moment later it was gone and the thought occurred to Emma that Killian Jones perhaps wasn’t really the man he wished others to believe him to be. Even her.

She squeezed his arm gently. “We must find you something,” she whispered into the night.

He held her gaze a moment longer then he looked up.

“We must return. Liam will have my head if you catch a chill.”

“Liam will blame me for my foolishness of insisting on a walk after dark, and well you know it. This is just your way of saying you have a woman waiting for you, probably wearing nothing but a sheet.”

He smirked. A devil-may-care grin that made Emma roll her eyes and recall why the female half of the ton fancied themselves in love with him, even without the title.

“Don’t be jealous, my dear,” he said, the teasing clear in his voice, making Emma roll her eyes again.

“As if I ever could be,” she scoffed.

He stopped and faced her, the way his black hair flopped over his brow making her long to brush it back. The intense look was back in his crystal blue eyes and Emma had trouble drawing a deep breath.

“I know.” His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “It’s the only reason I tease you.” He reached up and lightly ran his knuckles down the side of her face. “You’re the only woman I know who would never stray. I can’t tell you how much I admire you for that.”

“I love your brother. I could never betray him.”

“I know that, too.” His hand returned to his side. He was so handsome and so in need of love, Emma felt her heart would break. If only he’d let someone, anyone, into his heart. If anyone would care enough to look beneath the handsome, yet devilish facade, they’d find the man she knew- kindhearted, loyal, and true.

They continued toward Kilmartin House and Emma took a deep breath. “Thank you for bringing me out tonight. I was just feeling so closed in, claustrophobic almost. The fresh air did me quite a bit of good.”

“Then I’m happy to have been of service, milady,” he said as they climbed the steps to the front door of Kilmartin House. The door opened, the butler obviously looking out for them, and Emma undid and handed him her cloak and gloves.

“Will you stay or must you go?” she asked Killian. She could just see Liam’s valet coming down the stairs out of the corner of her eye.

Killian checked his pocket watch. “I’ll wait for Liam, if he hasn’t left yet. I came on foot, so I might as well avail myself of his carriage after he’s done with it.”

Emma nodded and turned to the valet. 

“Has his Lordship left yet?”

“No, my lady. I’ve rapped on his door, but he must be sleeping quite soundly. Do you still want me to wake him?”

Emma sighed. As much as she wished he could sleep longer, she knew how important this meeting was.

“No need,” she assured the man. “I’ll wake him myself. Thank you.” She nodded at him and Killian and hurried up the stairs.

Moments later, Emma’s scream pierced the night.

~*~*~

Killian had no memory of taking the stairs three at a time to rush to Liam’s bedchamber, one of two thresholds in the house he’d never breached. He suddenly found himself there, staring at the bed on the other side of the room, barely conscious of Emma screaming from where she sat on the edge of the bed as she shook the shoulders of his unnaturally pale and still brother.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Whoever that was lying on the bed, it wasn’t his brother. His brother was gone. He’d seen death in battle, but death wouldn’t dare come for Liam. Liam. Who was so strong. So steady. The pillar of their family. The one they all relied on. The picture of good health. 

He took a laborious step forward.

“Emma.” His voice was hoarse, strangled, and unsurprisingly Emma made no indication that she’d heard him, her screams continuing unabated. When she finally stopped to take a breath, her face turned to him.

She rose, her movements so slow and graceful, her face nearly as pale as Liam’s, Killian could have mistaken her for a ghost. She glided toward him and as she got closer, he could see the splotches of color high on her cheekbones, the sunkenness and redness of her eyes, the tear tracks down her cheeks. She grabbed his hand, her grip so tight her knuckles were white.

“Wake him up, Killian,” she begged, more tears spilling from her eyes. He met her gaze, knowing the same devastation she wore on her visage was reflected back to her on his own. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her in tightly, automatically, like some kind of machine. She grabbed the lapels of the coat he wore and buried her face in his chest, moaning like a wounded animal. “It was just a headache.” Her tears soaked his shirt. “It was just a headache. How could this happen? I don’t understand!” 

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t offer her any sort of comfort beyond holding her as he was now because he didn’t understand either. Between Eton, Cambridge, and the Royal Navy, he’d been trained for everything the life of a gentleman had to offer. But he’d never been trained for this.

She pulled back suddenly, the cry falling from her lips coming from the depths of her soul. 

“WHYYYYYYYY??!!”

Just as suddenly as she pulled back from him, she collapsed in his arms, bringing them both to the floor. He stared, unseeing, at the far wall, wondering why he wasn’t crying. He was numb and his body felt heavy, like his very soul had been crushed. Killian’s internal cry echoed Emma’s.

Why?

~*~*~

“Could she be with child?” 

Killian sat behind Liam’s desk, and blinked at the question posed to him by Lord Isaac, a short and thin man who rather reminded Killian of a rat. The representative of the Committee for Privileges of the House of Lords had a self-important air about him that grated on Killian’s nerves. Liam hadn’t been gone - he still couldn’t bring himself to say or even think the truth - twenty-four hours and here was this bastard, demanding an audience and droning on about some sacred duty to the crown. He turned his attention back to Lord Isaac, his brow furrowed.

“What did you say?”

“Her ladyship,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully, as if Killian had no idea of whom he spoke. “If she’s carrying, it will make things… difficult.”

“I don’t know,” he said, enunciating his own words just as carefully. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this right now. “I haven’t asked her.”

“You need to.” The man sniffed indignantly. “I’m sure you’re eager to assume control of your new holdings, but before you can do that, we must determine if she’s carrying. Furthermore, if she is, a member of our committee will need to be present at the birth.”

Killian was stunned. There was no other word for it. “I beg your pardon?” He was amazed he was able to get the words out.

“Baby switching,” Lord Isaac said grimly, with all seriousness. “There have been instances…”

“For God’s sake…” Killian interrupted, scrubbing his hand down his face.

“It’s for your own protection as much as anyone’s,” Lord Isaac assured him. “If she were to give birth to a girl, and no one is there to witness it, what’s to stop her from switching the babe with a boy?”

Killian couldn’t bring himself to dignify that with any kind of response.

“You need to find out if she’s carrying,” Lord Isaac insisted. “Arrangements will have to be made.”

“She was widowed yesterday,” Killian bit out. “I will not burden her with such intrusive questions.”

“There is more at stake here than her ladyship’s feelings,” Lord Isaac continued, haughtily. “We cannot properly transfer the earldom while there is doubt as to the succession.”

“The devil take the earldom,” Killian snapped.

Lord Isaac drew back in visible horror. “You forget yourself, my Lord.”

“I am not your lord,” Killian growled. “I’m not anyone’s…” He stopped suddenly, realizing almost too late that he was perilously close to tears. He glared at the man in front of him, trying to stave them off. This little weasel, who didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t just an Earl who had died, but a man. 

His brother.

He expected that as soon as the abhorrent little rodent left, the door was locked behind him, and Killian was sure no one would observe him, the tears would finally come. 

“Someone has to ask her,” Lord Isaac said.

“It won’t be me,” Killian murmured.

“Then I will.”

Killian could take it no longer and was out of the chair like a shot, grabbing Isaac by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him against the wall before the man could even blink.

“You will not approach Lady Kilmartin,” he growled, menacingly. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the damnable man choked out. Killian realized he was turning an alarming shade of purple, so he stepped back, releasing him.

“Get out.”

“You’ll need to…”

“Get out!” Killian roared.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, when you’re in a more calm frame of mind.” The man left quickly with as much dignity as he could muster and Killian closed the door firmly behind him, turning the lock before he returned to the desk.

He dropped his head into his hands and a single tear finally spilled over and tracked down his face. His chest was tight and his throat felt so narrow, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. A gasping sob escaped him and the dam broke. Killian’s anguish poured from him in a seemingly endless tide, the tears streaming down his face, soaking the loosened cravat he wore and the shirt underneath.

How had it come to this? Yes, as long as Liam and Emma had remained childless, he was second in line to the earldom. But no one seriously expected him to inherit. Liam was barely thirty and the picture of health. 

Word had already reached him that men at the club were calling Killian the luckiest man in Britain. What no one realized was that he’d never wanted this. He’d never wanted the earldom. He wanted his brother. 

And no one seemed to understand that.

Except Emma. Her devastation equaled his own, he knew. 

They’d put her to bed last night, him and her mother, Ruth, who’d arrived quickly after his urgent summons, and she’d slept soundly all night, too worn out from the shock of it all. Killian knew, because he’d spent the night opposite the large bed where Emma slept, in one of the chairs where he imagined Liam and Emma taking their morning coffee before starting their days. He couldn’t bear to leave her or be alone with his own thoughts.

When she woke this morning, he could see the moment she remembered the events of the night before. Her eyes landed on him and he saw a moment of alarm, surprise, confusion, and then finally realization. He stood on shaky legs as her eyes filled with tears. They only lasted a moment, however. He watched as a firm resolve took over her gaze, her movements choppy and stilted as she swiped away the evidence of her anguish.

He grudgingly admired her for that and stood before her helpless to do anything useful. What were they to do? Neither of them was prepared for this. They were young, happy, carefree. They’d never dealt with death before and all the myriad details involved with it.

Who would have guessed the Committee for Privileges would get involved? And demand a front row seat to an event that should be a private moment for Emma. If indeed she was with child. Which he was not going to ask her.

“We must inform Alice,” she said.

“Of course,” he murmured. Why he hadn’t thought of that, he’d never know. Their mother would be equally devastated.

“I’ll write the note.” 

Killian could only nod, wondering what he was supposed to do. The answer became apparent when Lord Isaac arrived. But he couldn’t think about that now, all that he stood to gain since Liam was gone. There was nothing good about Liam being gone. And if anyone dared to offer him congratulations…

His tears spent, Killian lifted his head and stared sightlessly out the window. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he?

He only wanted Emma. But not like this. Not at this cost.

He’d never coveted Liam’s title. The money or power.

He’d only ever coveted Liam’s wife.

And now he stood to gain everything that had been Liam’s. Except his wife. Guilt wrapped itself around his heart and threatened to strangle him. 

He didn’t want this. He’d never wanted this.

“Killian?” Her soft knock and voice drew his attention to the door. The locked door. He rose and moved toward it, making no effort to hide his grief. He unlocked and opened the door and she stood there, as thin but strong as a young birch tree, her face pale, her green eyes round as saucers and beyond exhausted.

“I’ve sent a note to your mother,” she murmured. “Is there anyone else…”

Killian shook his head slowly. He knew he should say something to her, but his mind just refused to give him anything. He was too broken, too grief stricken. Just like the woman in front of him.

He gently took her elbow. “You should sit down. You look exhausted.”

Emma shook her head, even as she allowed him to lead her into the room and toward a chair. 

“I can’t,” she murmured. “I can’t stop. If I do…” She shook her head. “If I don’t stop, I don’t have to think. And if I don’t have to think…” she trailed away and her eyes filled with tears again. It didn’t matter. He understood perfectly.

Then she turned her eyes upon him and her mouth opened like she had something to say. He steeled himself against the despair in her eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

~*~*~

Seemingly overnight, Kilmartin House in London changed. 

First, Alice Jones arrived from Scotland. 

Second, Emma’s own mother, Ruth Nolan was a much more frequent guest than she’d been when Liam was alive. 

Third, Killian was a much less frequent guest than when Liam was alive. 

And Emma wasn’t sure she’d survive that last one.

Of course, it was a comfort to see her mother-in-law. They got along well and Emma loved her. And she’d known the grief of losing her husband. But now she’d lost her son, and in many ways was in as much need of comfort as Emma herself.

And of course her own mother was also a comforting presence, having also been widowed young, but Killian was the one she needed. Killian was the one who knew and loved Liam best, besides herself of course, and Killian was the one who most understood what she was going through.

He still came to visit occasionally, but when he did, he didn’t feel there. Not like he was when Liam was alive. His eyes were distant and he didn’t come anywhere near her, beyond what propriety demanded when greeting her or taking his leave - a formal bow, a slight brush of her knuckles with his lips, murmured words she could barely hear. He wasn’t the same.

And it was killing her.

But, she reminded herself, he was hurting, too. 

She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him. She reminded herself of it when he didn’t tease her. She reminded herself of it when they sat together in the parlor and neither had anything to say.

She’d lost her husband. And she’d lost her best friend at the same time.

She was lonely. And so sad. Why had no one told her how sad she’d be? But would she have believed them? Of course not. There was no understanding this kind of grief without experiencing it for herself. 

Killian was the one link to the husband she’d lost - who’d loved him as she did - and she hated him for being here, but not being here. To walk beside her in their mutual grief. So they could be a comfort to each other.

It never occurred to her that in losing Liam, she might lose Killian, too.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Alice’s gentle question drew Emma from her musings. She blinked, momentarily unable to really comprehend the question, much less answer it.

“Uh, fine,” she said after a moment, with a slight shake of her head. The soft smile on the face of her mother-in-law, coupled with the joyful sadness in her eyes, prompted a small smile from herself as well. It brought home the fact that while Alice had lost her first born, the fact that Emma was carrying a piece of him brought a measure of peace to her grieving heart. “No different than I ever have.”

Alice sat down across from her and folded her hands in her lap. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“If it wasn’t for my missing courses, I’d never know anything was different.” And it was true. She’d been around enough pregnant women to know what to expect in the early weeks and months, and the only thing she was experiencing that might be a symptom of early pregnancy was that she was a bit more tired. But, of course, that could be the grieving as well. Her mother had told her she’d been tired for a year after her father passed. Emma experienced none of the expected quirks and illnesses other women had told her about.

She’d be happy to be losing what little breakfast she was actually eating each morning, if only so she could imagine the little one waving, hello, I’m here!

“I wonder if Killian will be visiting today?” Alice mused.

“He hasn’t been here in three days,” Emma murmured, “So I expect he will.” She’d never admit to counting the days between his visits, but she had been, and he was due for his bi-weekly visit.

“He’s grieving Liam,” Alice said softly.

“So am I.” Her voice was a bit sharper than she’d have liked. “So are you.”

“But it’s different for him,” she continued. “He’s a bit in limbo until you deliver. And that’s still six months away.”

“Well, I can’t do anything about that.”

“Of course not,” she replied. “I just hope that he begins thinking about the future soon. If you do deliver a girl, he’ll have to marry and produce an heir.”

Emma scoffed. “Killian will do what has to be done, but he’d never marry while he’s still grieving Liam and it’d be dreadfully unfair to expect him to.”

“Of course,” Alice agreed. “I just so want him to be happy. Even with Liam gone.” She sighed forlornly.

It was odd. Emma wanted Killian to be happy, too, but imagining him married was rather hard to picture. Of course, it hadn’t stopped her from trying to push Killian in that direction. But if she was really honest with herself, he just didn’t seem the type. For years, she’d had Liam and Killian had been their rather constant companion. Could she be happy for him if he found love and happiness and she remained alone? Was her heart big enough?

She was tired and feeling a bit weak as well. She stood, grasping the arm of the chair when a sudden wave of dizziness came over her. 

“I think I’ll lay down for a nap,” she said. “Wake me when Killian comes, if you please.”

“Of course, my dear. That’s a very good idea. You need your rest.” A sudden gasp escaped Alice and Emma saw that she wasn’t looking at her, but at the seat she just rose from. 

There in the middle of the cushion was a small patch of red.

Blood.

~*~*~

Killian stared at the almost full bottle of rum sitting on his desk. His life would have been much more bearable if that amount of alcohol was enough to get him drunk. But unfortunately, Killian was blessed with quite a robust constitution and could hold his liquor with aplomb and grace. 

He glanced outside the window to see it was still some hours from sunset. Also unfortunately, he couldn’t make himself override the good manners and etiquette Alice had instilled in him from the time he was a small boy that refused to let him get bosky before the sun set. 

He tapped his fingers against the desk and wondered what he ought to do with himself. Liam had been gone for nearly two months now, and he hadn’t yet brought himself to move into Kilmartin House, still living in his modest apartments a few blocks away. According to Lord Isaac, whose lectures he was eventually forced to endure, the title would go into abeyance until Emma delivered. And if she gave birth to a girl, then the title and everything with it would be his. But given that that event was still six months away, Killian felt he could get away with not taking up residence in the earl’s house. He told himself he didn’t want to move in only to have to move out again in six months.

But the truth was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure he could survive living under the same roof as Emma. 

She was still living in the house. She was still the Countess of Kilmartin. And would be until she gave birth to a girl and he married. Which he was absolutely not inclined to do.

Because even if he did end up as the earl, Emma wouldn’t be his countess, and that knowledge was enough to make him seriously think about damning etiquette to hell and downing that entire bottle of rum between now and sunset.

He would have thought his grief would have overtaken the longing in his heart for Emma, that he could be near her and not want her so much he could barely breathe. But no. His heart still ached with the pain of loving her. Even being in the same room with her caused his breath to hitch and his heart to race. 

And now, all that longing was intertwined with a suffocating guilt. As if there hadn’t been enough of that when Liam was alive. 

Emma was in pain. Grieving. And he should be there comforting her. Who could better do so? No one had known Liam better than he did. The two people who knew and loved him best should be comforting one another in their loss. But no, instead of comforting her, he was lusting after her. What kind of bastard lusted after his sister-in-law, his pregnant sister-in-law, when his brother wasn’t even cold in his grave?

Him, apparently. 

And so he stayed away. Not completely. He couldn’t get away with that, not with his mother in residence at Kilmartin House. In addition, although the title wasn’t potentially to be his for another six months, everyone was looking to him to manage the affairs of the earl. 

It was the least he could do. For Liam. For Emma.

He may not be able to be her friend at the moment, but he could make sure her finances were in order.

She didn’t understand. And he knew she didn’t. She’d often come to visit him when he was working in the study of Kilmartin House - going over various solicitor’s and land steward’s reports - looking for their previous camaraderie, he knew, but which he was unable to give. Not yet.

“My lord?”

Killian looked up at the door to see his valet, Smee, and a footman wearing the unmistakable green and gold livery of Kilmartin house.

“A message from your mother,” the man said, approaching with an envelope in his outstretched hand. “She said it was urgent.”

His brows rose on his head. Urgent? That was new. His mother had sent him nearly daily missives, or it seemed like it anyway, but they were never more than just prattling on about the doings at Kilmartin House. She was likely just trying to keep herself busy.

Once Smee and the footman left the room, he opened the letter.

Come quickly, it said. Emma has lost the baby.

~*~*~

Killian himself was nearly killed several times, not to mention the numerous pedestrians who were in his way, as he raced on horseback to Kilmartin House.

But now he stood here in the foyer, holding his crying mother, and he didn’t know what to do with himself.

A miscarriage they called it. It seemed like such a small word for such a profound happening. And why had they called him? This was the province of women and doctors. Of which, he was neither. What could he possibly do?

But then it hit him. He was the earl.

Slowly but surely over the last two months, Killian had been stepping into Liam’s shoes. And now that process was complete. The final nail in the coffin, so to speak. 

It took nary a thought to murmur comforting nonsense to his mother as he led her to the downstairs parlor, her sobs abating. 

“It’s like losing Liam all over again,” she whispered.

“I know,” he agreed. And he did. While Emma had been pregnant, a small piece of Liam still existed on this earth. And while he wasn’t yet prepared to step fully into Liam’s shoes, by the time she delivered, he would have been, and he would have done everything duty demanded. For Liam, his child, for Emma.

But he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t. Not yet.

That last fragile link to Liam was snapped and he was right back where he was two months ago.

“How is she?” he asked.

“In shock,” she answered quietly. “She’s been crying. She can’t seem to stop. She asked for you.”

Killian’s head snapped toward his mother.

“Me? Why?”

Alice’s face was surprised. “She wanted you.”

“But… I can’t…” he stammered.

“Yes, you can.” His mother looked confused at his refusal. “You have to,” she insisted.

Killian shook his head vehemently, his hands starting to tremble. “I can’t go in there.”

“You can’t abandon her!”

“I’m not! I didn’t!” he cried, the grief breaking free. “Liam abandoned her! Liam abandoned me!” he shouted. His voice shocked him. He sounded like a wounded animal - pained, panicked, confused. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. “She was never mine to abandon!”

“Killian George Alaster Jones!” his mother cried, shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Mother,” he all but moaned. “She needs a woman. What can I do?”

“You can be her friend,” she said softly.

“No. I can’t. Not yet.” The anguish on his mother’s face was real and he knew his was the same. In a move of utter and pathetic cowardice, he rose and ran from the room. 

~*~*~

If there truly were nine circles of Hell, then in the month since he’d taken on his duties, Killian surely must have taken up residence in one of the lower levels of Hell on earth. With every new ceremony, each document he signed as Kilmartin, and every “my lord” he was forced to endure, it was as if Liam's spirit was being pushed further and further away.

Everything that had been Liam’s was now his. 

Except Emma.

And Killian was determined to keep it that way. He would not bring that last insult to bear against his brother’s memory. He’d seen her, of course. And offered his best words of comfort. Which were, truthfully, woefully inadequate. And both he and Emma knew it. 

He’d been more relieved that she was physically unharmed than upset over the loss of the child. But he couldn’t very well say that.

Their mothers, for some reason, felt compelled to describe the event in gruesome detail, a chamber maid trotting out the bloodied sheets as proof that Lady Kilmartin had indeed lost the baby. Lord Isaac had nodded in approval when presented with the evidence, but had then added that Lady Kilmartin would still need to be observed closely for the next few months to be sure she was not increasing. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to circumvent the sacred laws of primogeniture, he’d asserted.

The rage inside Killian at that statement nearly propelled him to pick up Lord Isaac bodily and throw him out the window, but he managed to control himself by the most tenuous of grips.

He still hadn’t moved into Kilmartin House. He knew it was expected, but the circumstances at the house hadn’t changed, and Killian still couldn’t bring himself to live in the same house as the woman he loved.

Who now stood at the threshold of his study. She looked thin and pale, but her green eyes flashed.

“Emma?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

He was shocked. He couldn’t deny it. She’d never been here. Not when Liam was alive. And certainly not after.

“I wanted to see you.” The rest of her statement, her accusation really, went unspoken. You’ve been avoiding me.

Was this improper? He hadn’t a clue. Their relationship now was so different and ambiguous, he couldn’t guess what rules of etiquette applied. He motioned to a seat and she took it, her fingers twisting in her lap. 

She finally looked at him, her gaze intense, grief and anger swirling in their depths.

“I’ve missed you.” Make that an even lower level of hell.

“Emma…” he tried.

“You are… were… my friend,” she said, angrily, swiping at the tear that tracked down her face. “Besides Liam, you were my closest friend!”

Emma, I…” he tried again. He was a fool. And a coward. And he didn’t know what to say to her.

“Where have you been?” 

“I…” He was speechless. Brought down by an angry and grief-stricken face, and a mountain of guilt. Although guilt for exactly what, he couldn’t pinpoint any longer. It came from too many sources to make sense of anymore.

“I needed you.” The plaintive need in her voice nearly undid him. “You knew him best. You loved him the most, besides me. Why didn’t you come and help me?”

Killian looked down at his desk. He couldn’t lie to her. But he couldn’t tell her the truth either.

“I don’t know,” he settled upon instead. She was quiet and Killian couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

“That’s it then,” she whispered. 

“I guess so,” he replied sadly. The sadness threatened to consume him. In the eyes of the ton, he may have gained much, but in reality, he’d lost everything. And the one person who needed him the most… he couldn’t be what she needed. He couldn’t stand to be near her. Because the grief and the anger and the love and the guilt were a never ending flood, and he was drowning.

The ticking clock on the mantle was the only accompaniment to her swirling thoughts. She looked at Killian and took in his tense shoulders, his rigid bearing, the unbridled grief on his countenance mirroring hers. 

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he finally said, taking a tentative step toward her. Then another. Then another. Then he was kneeling before her, his hand on her knee. “I’m so, so sorry, Emma.”

“Why did this happen?” she cried. “I don’t understand!” The tears poured from her eyes and Killian gathered her into his arms. “It isn’t fair!” She clutched at his jacket, holding on for dear life as all the grief, all the anger, all the confusion that she thought she’d already released burst forth from her all over again.

“It isn’t fair that it happened to me!” she lamented. “It isn’t fair that this happens to anyone! Oh, what am I to do?”

“I don’t know.” She could just hear him murmuring into her hair and placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. And the comfort she felt from him holding her was almost more than she could bear. For the first time in months, she felt safe and warm. And not alone.

Her tears finally spent, she pulled back from him. 

“Will you come back? To Kilmartin House?” she asked, her voice shaky. “Will you stop ignoring me? I still need you.”

She could see the tears in his own eyes, grief and something else she couldn’t identify, as she waited for him to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t know what to say to you. Didn’t know what I could do, so I stayed away.”

“I know,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap. She still clutched at him, unable to let him go, or the warmth and safety he gave. “I knew that’s why you were staying away, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” He released her and stood, even as her arms reached for him again. “I’ll take up my residence in Kilmartin House.”

He could deny her nothing. And living under the same roof couldn’t possibly be any worse than what he’d already had to endure. And if it was, and it did actually kill him, then so be it.

“Thank you. That will… that will be a great comfort to me. And your mother as well.” She paused for a moment and rose. “You know, you were to be his father, in a way.”

Killian felt the blood drain from his face and his heart stop. 

“What did you say?” The words were soft, weak, he could barely catch his breath to get them out.

“The baby,” she replied, turning toward him. “In the absence of his father, you’d have been the closest thing he had. And even with him gone, having you here will help me let him go. Let them both go.”

But Killian didn’t hear those last words. His heart started beating again at a gallop and the blood rushed in his ears. All he could grasp from her statement was that he would have been a father to the baby, and that knowledge destroyed him. 

The title, the lands, the money, the power, the responsibility were all his now. The only things that weren’t were Liam’s wife and child. And now Emma was telling him that wasn’t true either.

He grabbed Emma by the arms. He was shaking, and she looked frightened but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let her go.

“No!” he cried. “I can’t! I won’t! I’m not Liam!”

“Of course you’re not,” Emma cried out, thoroughly alarmed at the sudden change that had come over Killian. She’d never seen him like this. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, his grip on her arms painful, but her words to try and reach him, to get him to release her, fell on deaf ears. He looked wild, crazed, like a cornered animal that would either make a last desperate attack to try and save itself, or fall over and wait for the final killing blow.

“You can’t ask this of me,” he breathed, the strength and energy that fueled him, completely disappearing. He still held her tightly, but his eyes were finally seeing her and not some vision playing out in his mind. “I can’t do it.”

“Killian, you’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Please let me go.” He released her suddenly, the recrimination in his eyes and the restored blood flow in her arms bringing tears to her eyes.

“I’d… I’d better go,” she said, pulling away from him. She looked at him for a moment more, trying to make sense out of what just happened. She’d never seen Killian like that before and it frightened her. She wasn’t afraid of him, though. Even after that, she knew with utter surety that he would never harm her and would protect her to his last breath.

“Perhaps… perhaps it would be better if you remained here instead of Kilmartin House.”

“Y- yes,” he stammered, nodding with a jerky motion. “I think that would be best.” 

Not only had she lost Liam, and her child, but it was now clear she’d lost Killian as well. And she didn’t quite know what she would do about that.

~*~*~

Once Emma was gone, Killian sat back down behind his desk and poured himself a tall drink.

He’d made a promise to her and broken it almost in the same breath. He’d spent the last month fulfilling the duties of the earl and then Emma’s words made him realize something.

She truly had no inkling of his feelings for her, and as long as that was the case, as long as she didn’t understand how much he hated himself for every step he took in Liam’s shoes, he couldn’t be near her. 

And that brought him to a decision. Rarely in life had his path been this clear. He slammed back the rum and rose from his desk. When he arrived at his bedchamber, he found his valet carefully folding a cravat.

“Smee,” he asked. “What do you think of India?”

~*~*~

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought! Next ch will be up on Saturday!

[ellewords]

atsumu was like the sun. he shined and glowed and warmed people just by being near them. without a single thought, he was able to brighten the mood in ways that no one else could. even on his darker days or when his being felt too harsh, he left an impact that made everyone long for more. you couldn’t always see him, couldn’t always feel his presence, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there somehow, unseen but known.

by association, that sort of made you the moon. you could shine brightly and leave a warm glow and comfort others when they felt like they were in the dark. but all of that wasn’t possible without the sun. without atsumu.

people didn’t know you unless you were by atsumu’s side. they didn’t spare you a glance until atsumu brought attention to you. but you didn’t mind. all you wanted was to have him by your side, to support you when you couldn’t hold yourself up, to be brilliant beside him even if you would never outshine him. you were content in your current situation.

so why did it hurt so much seeing him continue to shine? why did his warmth suddenly feel so cold? why couldn’t you be as bright as him all on your own?

or, atsumu will always be the sun, you always the moon. maybe now it’s time to accept that you’re nothing without him so you can finally shine for yourself.

-💛

—  from elle ! 💛anon you never miss, do you? aaaa this was so good it lived in my head rent free ever since i first read it >_< i just had to write an addition to this for the way you made my heart actually ache. i hope i did your drabble justice :<< this just hit a lil too close to home ngl thank you for reading everyone, i hope you like this! reblogs are appreciated, they help a ton <3

fic notes / warnings : timeskip!miya atsumu x gn!reader, angst, fluff (-ish? kinda) ending, oneshot, wc: ~1.52k (!! my longest margins addition so far omg)

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

atsumu has a gravitational pull, that much has always been clear to you and everyone else; a pull so strong that you can’t help but orbit around him. every room he walks into, he commands the attention of everyone present. one can’t help but simply be drawn to him — with his bright smiles, boisterous laughs, and larger than life movements. it’s no wonder why everything seems to bend to his will, how the universe seems to revolve around him. 

you’ve moved around him for as long as you can remember, every now and then, he lets you borrow his light. the world has associated you with him and you don’t blame anyone one bit. 

his name has always come first. setter for the inarizaki volleyball team, miya atsumu. invited to the all-japan youth intensive training camp, miya atsumu. captain of the inarizaki volleyball team, miya atsumu. setter for division one volleyball team, the msby black jackals, miya atsumu.  

meanwhile, yours is treated as an afterthought, an attachment, a footnote in the awe-inspiring narrative of his life. you’re known as his childhood friend. his best friend, the one who cheers him on from the stands in every single one of his games. alleged significant other, according to whispers in the hallway and to the tabloids and paparazzi. his eventual confirmed significant other, ln yn. 

atsumu and who’s that with him? atsumu and his best friend. atsumu and his significant other. atsumu, oh, and yn’s here too. it’s always atsumu before yn; his name before yours. sometimes, you wonder if anyone would know your name if he hadn’t started dating you.    

you walk behind atsumu, not beside him, when you enter a room. fingertips loosely intertwined with his, you attempt to keep your head up as atsumu introduces you around. they spare you a quick “hi”, before beginning a conversation with your sun. 

though he’s not really your sun, is he? you’ve always had to share him with everyone else. everyone needs a little sunshine in their life, a little warmth; his brilliance is dazzling, like everyone else, you revelled in his glow. 

the world has always associated you with him, but it never worked the other way around. atsumu has always shined on his own; you needed him to have light for yourself. 

~

no one blames the sun for burning a little too bright; it’s simply the way it is. similarly, you’ve never blamed atsumu for being the way he is. he doesn’t know, didn’t mean to do it in the first place. atsumu has always existed for himself, lived life the way he sees fit.

you can’t blame him, no matter how much you wanted to. even if you forced yourself to. 

staring at the sun is fascinating, but do it long enough and it starts to hurt. the warmth is no longer comforting, but harsh and prickly. the light is no longer magical and dazzling, but blinding and terrifying. it took some time, but you eventually convinced yourself to look away. 

“ya sure ya wanna do this?” atsumu asked, immediately recognizing your hesitance. he doesn’t want to break up, he wants you to take your words back, he wants you to tell him that this was all just some sick prank. but right now, it doesn’t matter what he wants. what matters is how you feel, the emotions he didn’t realize you had been feeling. 

“no…” you mumbled. the intensity of his gaze makes your knees buckle, but you stand your ground. even in the chilling darkness of his living room, he radiates light and understanding, making everything all the more difficult. you bite the inside of your cheek, letting a few beats pass before your next words, “but i have to.”

“i believe in you,” atsumu nodded, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his jeans. he lets out a quiet exhale, eyes gazing on the suitcases in your hand, “yer gonna do so many amazin’ things.”

your grip on the bag’s handle tightened. it was the end of an era, one that you didn’t expect would be ending at all. but it had to be done. for the first time since you met atsumu, you finally began to think of yourself. a small smile plays on your lips, hoping that he picks up on the pure gratefulness of your tone, “thank you for lending me your light.”

his reply would play in a loop in your mind. even in a breakup, the darkest the night has ever been, atsumu offers you a little bit of light. as expected from the sun.  

~

the moon goes through several phases. some days are better than others. it’s a wave of several highs and lows, but you grow to understand that’s how things are. on some nights it’s as invisible as they come, the clouds blocking out what little light it already produced. though it glowed on other nights, you often feel like nothing has changed. but you learn to trust the process either way. 

gazing at the moon is calming, not dazzling and exceptional, but calming. it provides peace, serenity. you often gazed at the moon, especially on the nights where you could only toss and turn. a cold breeze would blow past you and send shivers down your spine, painting your bare skin with several goosebumps. leaning on the balcony railing and taking in the sounds of a city that barely slept makes you think of him. 

you miss the sun; you miss your sun. you miss his presence and the warmth he brings you. atsumu checks in every now and then, asking how you’re doing and wondering if you’d ever want to meet for a cup of coffee. you’ve never accepted any of his offers for fear of only getting pulled back in. 

you’ve never realized that you always had a gravitational pull of your own. atsumu spends most of his nights gazing at the moon. when his heart raced and his mind buzzed, the moon brought him tranquility — as did you, his anchor. 

[ miya atsumu ] : the night sky is nice tonight, it makes me think of you. i like that we’re always looking at the same one. 

[ miya atsumu ] : i hope you’re doing okay.

he’s right, the night sky does look nice. the moon is full and shining the brightest you’ve ever seen it shine. gleaming, enchanting, and breathtaking doesn’t seem to do its beauty any justice. perhaps the poets and artists had been right all along, the moon is the perfect muse. your thoughts almost convince you that its light isn’t artificial. but twinkling beside the moon are the stars, shimmering high above the world you know, their light completely their own.   

you’re not okay. being the moon may not be too bad, but you’ve already realized that you want to be amongst the stars as one. 

~

days turn into weeks, and eventually months. sometimes they blend together when nothing of interest or importance happens, though you strive for events that are worth remembering. you’ve found a job that you actually like, one that you truly excelled at. you’ve started to put yourself out there, to meet people that pushed you to be better than you had been the day before. slowly but surely, you began to create your own light.

some days your light faltered, some days are dimmer than others, but it was a light of your own. it’s one that didn’t need another’s glow to exist. soon enough, you find yourself accepting one of atsumu’s many offers for a cup of coffee.

he’s now brighter than ever. setter for division one volleyball team, the msby black jackals, miya atsumu, has turned into setter for japan’s olympic team, miya atsumu. his radiance is as blinding as ever, the largest grin on his face as he waves his hand out the second he caught sight of you.   

but you’re brighter now too, weaving through the cafe tables with your head up high. you’re more sure of yourself, standing taller, making each step towards him with purpose. you’ve lost the tension in your shoulders, the weight that built in your chest. and atsumu notices it too.  

“you’ve changed.” he smiles, much softer than you’re used to. his gaze is fond as you settle in the seat in front of him.  

“i know,” you reply, the corners of your lips twitching upwards, “but thank you for lending me your light.”

atsumu’s smile remains that same soft one that you’re not used to as he recognizes your words almost immediately. he leans back in his seat, gesturing a hand to you, “never gave ya anythin’, this is all you.”

he replies with the same words he said several months ago, the latter half of the sentence being the only addition. warmth fills your chest as he never lost a single ounce of sincerity. the only difference? this time you actually believe him. 

atsumu may still be the sun, but you’ve become a star in your own right; you no longer need him to shine. maybe someday you’ll shine bright enough to allow yourself to exist beside him. but for now, this is enough. 

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

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[ilikekidsshows]

The Marinette and Kagami Sub Arc Breakdown

Okay, it's finally done, the big analysis, where I tackle a topic I've wanted to write for simply because it's a topic I personally find interesting and fun, AKA, The Best Sub Arc in the Entire Series So Far, AKA, How Marinette Proved Without a Shadow of a Doubt that She'd Never Be Like Chloé And We Stan.

One of the most interesting parts of the Marinette and Kagami rivals to friends sub arc is that it's one of the aspects of the show that directly connects to Marinette's past as a victim of bullying and is, in a way, about her overcoming that past. Not many things in the show remind us of the revelation in 'Origins' that Chloé had been bullying Marinette for years before the show's timeline, especially since Chloé became pretty declawed as a school level threat as the series went on to the degree where I think many people watching forgot that she used to hold a lot more power, and Marinette used to be wary of her.

But, the reason why Marinette being a bully victim is important in her arc with Kagami is this: people who have been victimized don't necessarily recognize it when they're victimizing others, and I believe that Marinette shows signs of this mentality in the show, particularly in season three. I'll illustrate how Marinette's ex-bully victim mindset informed the early stages of her relationship with Kagami and how Marinette overcame her internal biases when it comes to Kagami and her behavior towards Kagami.

In 'Origins', when Alya quotes Majestia's by now immortal line, she also says something that is very much what someone who has been victimized would identify with: "That girl over there is evil, while we are the good people." While Alya was very accurate that she and Marinette are good people, she didn't really know much about Marinette at this point, so she was actually pretty much guessing. The reason why this line is important is because it relies on an assumption that a moral binary exists on the bully-victim scale, instead of these roles being dynamic and socially formed. If you’re a victim of a bully, the bully is evil and you are a Good Person.

Some people who've been systematically victimized think on some level that them being victims means that they can never be instigators, that they're automatically morally pure because the person who victimizes them is the evil one. This is a very typical argument in social justice circles, where a person who is victimized for one thing might say bigoted things about another group and claim that they can't be a bigot because they suffer from bigotry. The simplest example I can give is white women refusing to accept that something they've said about black women could be offensive to black women specifically, because "how could a victim of sexism be racist". Now, what happens between Marinette and Kagami in the show is nowhere near this level of victimization switcheroo, but it still has that false binary in that Marinette thinks that her actions have more moral justification than they actually do.

The interesting thing about how Kagami is introduced is that her future role as a love rival was downplayed in ‘Riposte’. Her Akumatization was because of family issues and the idea that she might be attracted to Adrien came from Marinette's jealous grumblings while she was rescuing him from Riposte (I'm mostly referring to the "She doesn't deserve you" line). Outside of that little bit, 'Riposte' comes across as a pretty standard Victim of the Week episode, instead of setting up a romance sub arc. As such, Marinette already viewing Kagami's Riposte form as a romantic rival serves more as foreshadowing rather than it actually forming their relationship.

Then we get to 'Frozer'. Marinette doesn't really know much of anything about Kagami at the start of this episode, as we can see in her mental image of Kagami as a cackling mean girl. Because Marinette doesn't really know Kagami at this point, when Adrien tells her he's thinking of asking Kagami out, her mind gives a placeholder mental image of her, seemingly based off of Chloé, another rich girl with a (supposed) crush on Adrien. This is the episode that establishes Kagami as a romantic rival to both the audience and Marinette, and Marinette’s negative mental image of Kagami establishes the idea of this rivalry being antagonistic. However, because this setup happens in Marinette's headscape, it's actually a one-sided antagonism.

Kagami isn't actually antagonistic towards Marinette in 'Frozer', but there is a certain assertiveness and physical presence to her in the episode that Marinette, as a former bully victim, might find imposing. Kagami gets in her personal space, because she's telling Marinette something she's sure Marinette doesn't want the boys to hear, but to Marinette, the body language could have come across as threatening. The way Marinette stares at Kagami throughout the scene with a deer-in-headlights look can indicate more general startlement or a sense of foreboding. And the episode ends with Kagami kissing Adrien on the cheek, establishing her as a threat in Marinette's eyes. From Marinette's view, Kagami's behavior in 'Frozer' confirmed her fears about Kagami, that she was a rich bully.

This interpretation of Kagami informs a lot of Marinette's actions in 'Animaestro'. Here we see just how much Marinette has started to view Kagami as the new Chloé in her mind. Even when the actual Chloé shows up, Marinette is more ready to side with her than Kagami. And why this happens is because Chloé actually accidentally enforces the idea that, because Marinette is a Good Person, any person who works against her happiness is a bully and a Bad Person. While we could argue that Marinette has no reason to listen to anything Chloé says, we have to remember that Marinette has been lowkey hoping Chloé would become a better person in episodes like 'Antibug' and 'Zombizou'. When they both agree that Kagami has to go, Marinette could have taken it as another sign that Chloé's not all bad, or Marinette could have simply come to the conclusion that Kagami is actually worse than Chloé, and so teaming up with Chloé to take her down is justified.

It's important to note that 'Animaestro' chronologically takes place right after 'Chameleon', another episode where Marinette thinks she's morally justified in practically bullying someone because they're acting in a way she disagrees with. Because Lila was revealed to be able to dish back the same, if not even worse, that Marinette could unleash, Marinette never learned that her behavior at the start of the episode was bullying and therefore bad. Lila "justified" Marinette's actions after the fact because she was actually a bad person all along, so Marinette doesn't need to feel bad about basically harassing her. If Lila had just been someone who fibs for fun, with no malicious intentions, Marinette's behavior would have been completely out of proportion.

This is why the approach Chloé and, by extension, Marinette take against Kagami is so vital. With Chloé hatching a scheme that was so much like one Marinette would put together, the lines between Marinette and Chloé were blurred in this episode. Simply because it was such a convoluted plan might have also been why Marinette didn't seem to realize the implications of what she was trying to accomplish. I mentioned during my liveblog of this episode that Marinette doesn't seem to consider that, since the plan was to publicly humiliate Kagami, the plan working would have meant hurting Kagami really badly. I also pointed out that, because the trap triggered for the wrong target, this fact didn't really register with Marinette completely, since she merely noted that of course Chloé would have a bad plan. The plan was bad because it failed, not because it was morally wrong.

However, even though we didn't see it happen in the episode itself, what happened at the movie premiere did alter Marinette's perception of Kagami. Most likely it was contrasting Kagami to the actual Chloé and realizing that she had been mistakenly attributing Chloé's traits to Kagami. The change in Marinette's perception is clear in her panic spiral when she realizes Kagami is her partner for the game in 'Ikari Gozen': "She's brilliant, strong, cute!" Marinette would never spell out all of Chloé's better features in such a way, which means her stance on Kagami has moved away from seeing her as The New Chloé.

Even though Marinette doesn't see Kagami as a bad person at this point anymore, she does still consider her strictly opposition. She refuses to work with her, preferring instead to sabotage her and her chances with Adrien, just this time without the attempted humiliation. This is mostly because Marinette sees Kagami and thinks she has it all: looks, confidence, influence, a connection with Adrien. Marinette is absolutely convinced that if they won the contest, all attention would be on Kagami and she'd be sidelined in favor of her. It's easy to think that a little bit of sabotage is okay when Kagami seems to have such an unfair advantage.

Unfortunately for Marinette's peace of mind, the point of 'Ikari Gozen' is to dissuade her of the notion that Kagami is fortunate in every way possible. We can see that Marinette thought that sabotaging the game was fine because Kagami had so many advantages because, as soon as she discovers that Kagami is friendless and has no connection to Adrien outside of fencing, she feels very bad for what she was trying to do. Marinette didn't actually want to hurt or upset Kagami. In 'Animaestro', Marinette didn't think about Kagami's feelings at all in relation to how Chloé's scheme might make Kagami feel, but this time she is thinking about them, she simply misjudged them at the start. She thought her purposefully throwing the contest would be a minor setback to Kagami, not what it ended up being: a betrayal by someone she was hoping to befriend.

I noted during my liveblog of this episode that Marinette's relationship with Adrien also started with a misunderstanding where Marinette first saw Adrien in a more negative light before that impression was proven to be false and they became friends. The development in 'Ikari Gozen' mirrors what happens in 'Origins' in that Marinette first has a false impression of Kagami, but is ultimately proven wrong in her assumptions and becomes friends with her. Marinette nominating herself as Kagami's friend even in her phone call with Tomoe suggests that Marinette recognized a similar need for friends in Kagami that she's seen in Adrien.

Marinette has gotten over seeing Kagami as an opponent in 'Desperada', where we see how Marinette reacts to Kagami and Adrien enjoying an inside joke together: she is miserable. Marinette recognizes the similarity between Kagami and Adrien and, rather than making her mad with jealousy, it makes her feel defeated. While Marinette's perception that Kagami was put together and perfect was taken down in 'Ikari Gozen', 'Desperada' shows us that she still thinks she can't measure up against Kagami, although now it's for the reason that she can see the connection between Adrien and Kagami and doesn't think she has what it takes to compete with that.

'Love Hunter' is the episode where this new sense of insecurity comes to a head. When Marinette's hair falls out of its usual style, it signifies her letting down her guard and enjoying both Kagami and Adrien's company, because Adrien and Kagami are both her friends at this point. However, when Marinette is reminded that there are things that Kagami and Adrien experience that she can't relate to ("It's not every day we can escape from everything they expect from us"), she hastily ties her hair back into the usual twintails, her insecurity forcing her to put her walls back up again.

Marinette is in emotional turmoil throughout the episode, allowing Adrien and Kagami to have what could constitute as an ice cream date alone at first, only to interrupt Kagami's attempt to kiss Adrien a few minutes later by whisking Kagami away to help solve the Akuma situation. This is why Marinette wanted André to pick the ice cream blend, because she started to project her relationships with Adrien and Kagami onto the ice cream too much. Marinette values her friends' happiness very high, high enough to stand aside when Kagami refers to their similarity as the reason she and Adrien are made for each other. Marinette does respond to Kagami that choices can be hard, so her standing aside is also about Marinette simply not acting at all, either to allow Kagami to go for Adrien unchallenged or to pursue Adrien herself. The choice between Adrien and Kagami was too much for her. Marinette being indecisive is of course a major character flaw I've discussed on this blog repeatedly, so the idea that it might have played a role here too makes sense from my perspective.

So far the Marinette and Kagami arc has been about Marinette learning not to subject other people to the kind of treatment she gets from Chloé, overcoming the temptation to turn into a bully to protect herself, and also making friends along the way. But there is still more ground that can be covered with this immensely interesting relationship. This is actually why I feel we really need to see Kagami and Marinette interacting after Kagami and Adrien break up. Because Marinette still has unresolved feelings about Kagami and not just Adrien after the season three finale.

[poswiecenia]

( 💧 ) FIVE HUNDRED YEARS had come and gone, not without trial or tribulation as various instances of archon and mortal alike challenged her ability. she'd hid behind clorinde or neuvillette in past and while it may have been more . . smart to ask them for help she couldn't do it. working through it all aside, she knew that what she was asking WOULDN'T BE ACCOMPLISHED what-so-ever.

SHE'D BEEN TAKEN by the man's skill, with and without the usage of his vision and even the brilliant show of his delusion before . . well. the show stopping interruption by her former chief justice. while surprised in the moment she had been secretly disappointed she'd not been able to see much more ; a visual spectacle was much more thrilling than written reports from fontanians THAT TRAVELLED ABROAD.

THOSE THAT FOUND enthusiasm in chasing down the traveller to shoot film so that their dear archon may find time in her BUSIED SCHEDULE to see the film 'pon it's screening during the annual film festival . .

A FEW EVEN fortunately ( or unfortunately, depending on how much they saw . . don't think she's unaware of disappearances of civilians of what was once her nation - though she was naught about to lend accusation without evidence once again ) coming across the traveller and the harbinger engaged in a trial of their own. one even mentioning absently a small petite chérie TAILING THEM BOTH.

HER HANDS COME to find placement on her hips, nose raising up in the air as she scoffs, feigning offence. ❛ WELL I AM not like most people, and besides, i understand loyalty to ones word ! wishing to further the desires of ones archon must BE RATHER IMPORTANT to you, no ? ❜

from WHAT SHE'D READ and the assumptions that she could gather from what dossier's that had landed on her desk . . tartaglia was one of her majesty's loyal harbingers. he HAD THE REPUTATION he had for a reason.

SHE IS RATHER appreciative that he didn't have plans to lay her low -- though the preening she felt for being so correct in her point couldn't be ignored. she was rather obvious in body language over how impressed she was with herself ; leaving court still hadn't rid her ABILITY TO DEBATE !

( likely never would, even in her freedom and change of career. )

SHE HUMS, HEAD tilting to the side as she regards the question with active contemplation as heterochromatic blues remain on him. she feels like a rabbit in a dance with a fox sizing up its prey with how he stepped around her. what a funny little thing she was, holding strong as she laughs ; warm.

❛ IN MY FIVE hundred years i've found masters of weaponry often have expertise with their vision element - if they have one. it's like an instinct, one that you seem MORE THAN QUALIFIED in, ❜ let alone genuinely fascinating ; she'd not seen so many melusines in her time be EVER SO ON edge before.

HE'D MANAGED TO leave almost all of them airing out complaints just by wandering about the city. she'd not a lick of understanding what all of them had been so upset about before she'd accused him of guilt in the trial. after all that had been divulged ( she'd been quite beyond herself upon the whale's breaking into the court but the surge of abyssal energy had not been lost on her ) she HAD AN IDEA.

❛ IN NOT JUST weaponry but survival and two powerful elements . . i've seen and heard enough of what capabilities you hold, maître tartaglia, especially with what you have done ( INTENTIONAL OR NOT ) for fontaine, ❜ her words are double sided, expressing her gratitude for what he'd done to keep her absolute worst nightmare at bay, and desire to learn at least something from all OF THE SKILL he has honed.

With grace and aplomb, Furina smiles up at Childe despite the very plausible threat he laid forth to test her resolve. Beneath the genial veneer of your request, what do you really feel about asking this of a Harbinger? it asks. Do you ask this to prove a point, or out of genuine belief that I of all people am the one you want to learn something from?

After all, so far as he knew, Furina had never seen him wield his Vision. Many duelists of the court agreed to spar with him on their own time, sure, but as for fights in a place where the Archon would take any interest, much less see? The only incident where Furina herself watched him fight was when he jumped the banister following that misbegotten trial.

‘Fight’, well, more a one-sided beatdown — a slaughter by any other name, were meka able to bleed — but he obliterated those guards with use of his Delusion, not Vision.

Childe cocks his head and smirks down at Furina as he crosses his arms. “You might be surprised at the amount of people who believe I’d do just that, no matter the political repercussions. Luckily for you, mademoiselle, not only are you correct in your point, but also I have no interest in killing you.

“What does interest me is what you hope to learn from me. Inspiration is one thing, and knowing that I won’t pull my punches another, but of my fighting style, what you’ve seen personally is less mastery over hydro and more mastery of weaponry.”

His eyes take on a sharper edge, though his smirk remains light and playful. Snow flurries around his boots and the wind whips up the edge of his heavy wool cloak as he steps around Furina, eyeing her as if she is a fresh recruit.

“Now, I don’t doubt that you’ve heard tales of me that originate from outside of Fontaine — I assume that you kept yourself well-informed while in your previous position — but I cannot imagine many paint me and my use of my Vision in a good light, if they even detail that much at all. So, recognizing all this, do you know what you’re asking to learn, Miss Furina?” He grins. “Or did you come all this way to ask me to teach simply due to my winning personality?”

[carewyncromwell]

“Mr. Know-It-All, Well, ya -- you think you know it all, But ya don't know a thing at all... Ain't it, ain't it something, y'all,  When somebody tells you something 'bout you -- Think that they know you more than you do? So you take it down, another pill to swallow... Mr. Bring-Me-Down,  Well, ya -- ya like to bring me down, don't you? But I ain't laying down, baby; I ain't goin' down! Can't nobody tell me how it's gonna be --  Nobody gonna make a fool outta me, baby...”

~“Mr. Know-It-All” by Kelly Clarkson

x~x~x~x

In the journals she kept during her time at Hogwarts, Mia Flume outlined seven very good reasons why she would loathe Jacob Cromwell for all eternity. Outlined below are those such reasons: 

1) He’s an insensitive prat who doesn’t care about anyone else’s well-being. 

Hogwarts castle...could anything truly be more beautiful? Seeing the shadow of it in the distance from her home in Hogsmeade was one thing -- it was so much more imposing, being dwarfed and yet cradled in its shadow. Even looking at full pictures of it in Hogwarts: A History didn’t do the castle justice. 

Mia couldn’t stop staring up in delight. She was so engrossed that she only really realized they’d arrived at the shore when the boat she was in came to an abrupt halt that made the whole vessel shudder back and forth. 

“Whoa!”

Mia was just barely able to steady herself by grabbing onto the edge of the boat. The huge gamekeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, hoisted himself up and out of the little boat he’d ridden all by himself and held up his lantern, smiling jovially. 

“Well, c’mon, then, yeh lot!” he said. “T’ th’ Great Hall we go!”

Her face bursting into an eager smile, Mia stumbled over her own feet, ready to climb out of the boat --

Unfortunately, at that very same moment, another boat had pulled up alongside hers. A boy a head smaller than her with curly dark hair leapt out before the boat had even stopped, and in his haste, his flailing arm ended up slapping right into Mia, knocking her backward. 

“Wha -- ahhh!”

SPLASH.

Mia fell right out of the boat and into the water. It was really quite shallow, all things considered, since they were so close to the shoreline -- but she still ended up soaked head to toe. 

Some of the other kids in the boats started to laugh while Mia sputtered, blinking rapidly as she moped her wet bangs out of her eyes. 

“Hey!” 

But the boy seemed completely oblivious -- he’d instead run on ahead to the castle, his mouth wide and smiling as his eyes ran over every tower and window with an oddly hungry expression. 

The snooty-looking brown-haired boy who the rude curly-haired one had accidentally landed in the lap of before the journey even started shot Mia and then the other boy a rather bewildered expression before sidling more carefully out of the boat himself. 

“Oi! You!” he called ahead. “You might want to look where you’re going!”

But the curly-haired boy seemed too giddy about the castle in front of him to properly take in the scene happening behind him. This much was obvious when he shot the biggest grin over his shoulder at no one in particular. 

“I am looking where I’m going! And isn’t it brilliant? Just LOOK at it!”

He threw his arms open wide. 

“The greatest school for magic in all of Great Britain -- arguably the world! And we’re here! Isn’t it brilliant?”

Hagrid couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Maybe, but yeh still oughta be mo’ careful there, Jacob.”

With one large hand, he scooped Mia up out of the water by the back of her drenched black robes. Mia glared irritably at Jacob, who still seemed perfectly oblivious of her even as she and the other snooty-looking boy came right up to walk alongside him. 

With every step they made toward the castle, her shoes gave small squelching noises. Mia imagined putting a couple of live slugs inside this boy called Jacob’s shoes as payback, just to make herself feel better for having to walk up in front of the whole class in sopping wet clothes. 

2) He’s an insufferable know-it-all who never shuts up. 

Mia had really been looking forward to her classes. Sure, having to do homework would never be particularly fun, but she was still determined to do her very best and learn as much as she could. After all, Hogwarts’ professors were among some of the most talented witches and wizards in Wizarding Britain -- as much as she knew she was going to help work in her father’s store one day, she wanted to be a great witch. There was only so much she could learn about magic in Hogsmeade Village, helping in her father’s kitchen or visiting Zonkos -- she’d need a proper library, and proper professors, if she was going to learn as much as she could. 

Unfortunately for Mia Flume, her classes were rather frequently interrupted by the curly-haired Ravenclaw airhead called Jacob Cromwell. Shockingly, though, it was not to disrupt the class or act out, like one would expect. No, whenever Jacob raised his hand to speak, it almost always turned into an intellectual diatribe. 

“Professor, wouldn’t it be good to also study the Budge variation? I found a passage about it in the Library the other day, while doing some extra reading on the Shrinking Solution -- Zyment Budge adding more Shrivelfigs to increase its potency was just fascinating to read about, even if it was largely by accident. Though I can’t help but feel like one could help compensate for the texture of the daisy roots by adding in a splash more of leech juice than the normal recipe requires. Has anyone else tried that? Reckon we’d have to have a bezoar on hand, if we tried it now, just in case, but...”

Every time Jacob brought one of their classes to a halt with questions like this, Mia felt the strong urge to hex his mouth shut. And yet, somehow, most of the teachers actually enjoyed listening to Jacob prattle on. 

Professor Slughorn seemed to look forward to Jacob having something to say about his classes and frequently chortled whenever he raised his hand. Professor McGonagall was so impressed with Jacob’s talent for Transfiguration that she even gave him a handful of private lessons. Professor Flitwick in particular -- who Mia worked really hard to try to impress, considering his position as conductor of the Frog Choir and his considerable talent at Wizard Dueling -- seemed to have rose-colored glasses on when it came to Jacob. The Charms professor would even reward Jacob with house points, whenever the boy rose his hand to slip in obnoxiously scholarly additions to his lectures. 

Even some of their classmates had come to find it endearing, rather than obnoxious. Fellow Ravenclaw Olivia Green would often smile listening to Jacob go on, even if she wasn’t completely able to follow his thought process entirely, and sometimes interjected serene additions herself, if she felt up to it. 

“It doesn’t seem very humane for animals to be used in Transfiguration anyway,” she said airily, after Jacob had gone off on a tangent about comparing the Transfiguration Formula to Muggle algebraic equations in the middle of their second year Transfiguration class. “If we transform a mouse into a snuffbox, aren’t we effectively killing it? It was alive, and now it’s not. Or is it still alive while it is a snuffbox? Wouldn’t that be scary, to be alive, but suddenly not be able to move?”

Duncan Ashe, the snooty-faced Slytherin who’d been so derisive of Jacob in the beginning, would still frequently roll his eyes and tell Jacob to shut his trap whenever he prattled on, but whenever Jacob would get distracted doing something else, he’d always peek over at Jacob when he wasn’t looking, unable to completely hide just how impressed he truly was from his face. 

Mia, however, was far too irritated to be impressed. How could she be impressed with someone who loved hearing themselves talk so much that they couldn’t even shut up and let a professor do their job? He was a bloody show-off, that’s what he was. Nothing but an obnoxious, pig-headed show-off. 

...Okay, maybe he was some other things too. But the point still stood. 

3) He has the attention span of a goldfish, and the work ethic of one too.

All of the Flumes had been Hufflepuffs. Ambrosius had been one; his wife Jenie had been one; and sure enough, all three of their daughters ended up becoming Hufflepuffs, one right after the other. In ‘74, there was Tia; a year later, Mia; and then three years after that, Callie -- and all of them ended up receiving recognition for their amiability and good work ethic, which Horace Slughorn himself said they’d inherited from their father. Mia in particular had been determined to make her father and family proud -- she was widely considered to be the brightest of her sisters when she was young, and at school, that conclusion was echoed by her teachers. And with that combination of smarts and relentless, hard-working attitude, she was definitely the image of an ideal student. 

And yet even with all that hard work, Mia seemed to always come up short. And a lot of that was once again thanks to Jacob Cromwell. 

One day in particular, right after her OWL exam for Potions, Mia was so enraged that she went to go sulk in her older sister Tia’s bunk in her dorm rather than her own, hugging a pillow beside her chest and fighting back tears of anger and frustration.

“It’s not fair -- it’s just not FAIR!” Mia’s voice came out as a muffled, furious sob as she buried her face in her sister’s pillow. “The examiner was talking to me -- it was my exam, and I did everything perfect -- even the Polyjuice Potion! I grew some of those ingredients myself, just to make sure it’d be right!”

Tia’s brown eyes softened sadly. “Polyjuice? Mia...that must’ve have taken an entire month, for you to gather the ingredients...”

Mia choked back another sob. “Two! I had to pluck the fluxweed during the full moon, and I’d just barely missed it the first time...”

Tia brought a hand through her younger sister’s hair. 

“But...then it sounds like you did everything perfectly,” she said reassuringly. “You’re bound to have gotten an O, on your OWL -- ”

“Yeah -- but right when Mr. Tofty was looking over my work and appraising it, he got distracted by Jacob Cromwell, off in the corner, taking over the bloody blackboard and drawing all sorts of shapes and lines all over it. Instead of brewing a potion like everybody else, that absolute prat decided to let his head fly off into the atmosphere as per usual, and he got distracted going on a long, meandering lecture about the chemical composition of bezoars, theorizing if one could apply the Muggle periodic table to potion antidotes! Everyone else was tearing their hair out, brewing the hardest potions imaginable to try to get top marks -- and this airheaded git who never studies for any test at all, not even the most important tests of our entire lives, gets heralded for being a Potions genius and is probably going to get an O for doing NOTHING AT ALL!” 

She threw herself down on Tia’s bed, screaming into her pillow. 

Mia didn’t feel well enough to go down to dinner that night, so Tia headed out to the kitchens to pick up some tea and toasties to cheer her younger sister up. 

4) He thinks he’s better than everyone else and acts like it. 

As much as Mia enjoyed her classes, what she enjoyed most of all were the extracurricular activities. She was part of the Frog Choir and Dueling Club herself, while her older sister Tia participated in the scholarly Sphinx and Hippogriff Clubs and her younger sister Callie ended up being a colorful and well-liked Quidditch commentator. Then of course all three Flume sisters were frequently invited to Professor Slughorn’s “Slug Club” meetings -- with how fond he was of their father as a student, he was quite interested in seeing how they would blossom, post-Hogwarts.

And yet, for all of his many talents and interests, Jacob Cromwell never joined in on any extracurricular activities. In fact, the first time Mia heard a classmate ask if he was attending the upcoming Quidditch match, Jacob’s face twisted into a dry, almost mocking smile.

“Why would I want to watch a bunch of meathead jocks chuck balls at each other? No thanks -- I’d rather do something that involves some real brain activity...”

His disdain of Quidditch and its accompanying parties seemed to expand to anything that was more on the social side. Jacob seemed perfectly disinterested in going to any school functions that involved dancing or small talk. Although Jacob seemed to really enjoy Slughorn as a professor, he never showed up for any Slug Club meetings, no matter how often Slughorn invited or guilt-tripped him. Professor Flitwick had even expressed sincere disappointment that Jacob spent so much time chasing after the Cursed Vaults, when he would’ve loved to have such a talented tenor as part of the Frog Choir. 

And all this wasn’t even touching Jacob’s behavior at the Dueling Club. 

The very first time he strutted in there, back in second year, Jacob brashly declared that he wanted to face the best duelist there. Since none of the older students wanted to wipe the floor with him, they instead paired Jacob off with one of Mia’s fellow Hufflepuffs -- the poor boy then proceeded to get his arse handed to him, when Jacob Transfigured a snake out of his wand and then -- once it’d gotten close enough to his opponent -- Transfiguring it again into a rope that wound itself around the other boy and made him fall over. Jacob Cromwell then went on to beat every other person at the Club so effortlessly that it was like he could read their moves before they made them. The time Mia actually decided to try to give Jacob some of his own medicine for a change by challenging him at the Dueling Club herself (not long after that disastrous Potions OWL exam), he ducked and blocked every single spell she threw at him with a smile, before tying her up in magical bandages so tightly she resembled a mummy and knocking her back-first into a suit of armor. It took a good fifteen minutes for Mia’s friends at the Club to cut her loose off all those bandages, afterwards. 

And yet even with how good he was at Dueling, Jacob never joined the Club -- never came for meetings, never tried to bring in new members or tutor newer ones. He’d just strut in now and again, knock everyone around a bit, and then leave, presumably to find something else to entertain him. 

Mia had never wanted to hex someone’s head into a pumpkin more in her life. 

5) His temper’s so violent I don’t reckon anyone’s safe around him. 

Interestingly, for as much as Jacob Cromwell clearly disdained parties, he did attend one, in Mia’s memory. It was a Winter Ball organized by the students -- the theme had been “fire and water,” so the Great Hall was decked out with a gorgeous ruby red chandelier and flowing blue streamers, and the tile floor under them rippled like sparkling blue waves even as the sun began to set through the tall windows. And really, it was probably one of the most fun events in Mia’s fourth year, considering it gave her the opportunity to have fun with both of her sisters and their friends at school, while also dressing up and enjoying lots of good food. 

At least until Jacob Cromwell pushed Sharon Edgecombe into the punch bowl, knocking the whole rest of the table over in the process, and started a fight right in the middle of the dance floor. 

Mia didn’t ever get the full story about what had happened -- but according to what Sharon had said, Jacob Cromwell had gotten it in his head that she was sweet on his “friend” Duncan Ashe, and in a fit of jealousy, he attacked her. Many students had a hard time believing that story, but Mia was ready to believe it. Jacob Cromwell had always been a reckless, entitled, childish sort -- it’d be totally in-character for him to lose his temper thinking this guy he was clearly head over heels for and yet didn’t bother committing to might be interested in someone pretty and popular like Sharon. 

Both Jacob and Duncan had been escorted out of the party by Mr. Filch -- but just about everyone who’d been at the party that night decided right then and there that they would never pick a fight with Jacob Cromwell. 

6) He breaks every rule in the book and never feels sorry. 

If pressed, Mia would have to admit that she was something of a goody-two-shoes. It really wasn’t that she was afraid of getting in trouble for breaking rules -- it was really more that she saw very little reason to break the rules, just for the sake of breaking them. Very often a lot of those rules were very sensible and were there to try to keep everyone else safe. Even in the case of the silly ones, it seemed like the tiny gain that would come from gloating and “sticking it to the Man” would be outweighed by the punishment that would no doubt ensue. This was why even if Mia didn’t earn the Prefect badge herself for her house and year (there had been some concern among the staff that she’d be a bit biased in her enforcement of the rules, whether in favor of Hufflepuff or against certain other students of different houses), she still generally respected authority and didn’t needlessly antagonize anyone. She even ended up endearing Mr. Filch to her somewhat, after she offered to let him sample some of the chocolates that she’d made for the school staff one Valentine’s Day. 

Jacob Cromwell, on the other hand, was anything but a rule-follower. In his tenure, he’d broken just about every school rule imaginable -- trespassing in forbidden corridors; breaking curfew; trekking through the Forbidden Forest unaccompanied; sneaking into Hogsmeade village and smuggling firewhiskey and butterbeer back into school; stowing away into other people’s common rooms; busting into the Restricted Section of the Library; casting magic in the corridors; smuggling in contraband; experimenting with dangerous potions and advanced magic; leaving school grounds without any oversight or permission; and so on. Even his uniform was in a constant state of disarray, with his collar undone, his shirt forever untucked, and his tie flapping free rather than under any kind of jumper or sweater. 

And yet despite all this -- despite how unfair it was, that he could get up to so much trouble, all the time -- so much of the staff and student body couldn’t help but like Jacob Cromwell, for the work he and his friends did to try to help with the Cursed Vaults. And so, time and again, Jacob’s bad behavior continuously went unpunished -- which, in Mia’s opinion, perfectly explained why he continued to break more and more rules unabated, until he finally went way over the line. 

7) He cared more about the Cursed Vaults than he did his own friends and family. 

This was the most damning thing about Jacob Cromwell, to Mia Flume. For someone who somehow managed to endear so many people to him, even with how obnoxious, arrogant, rude, violent, condescending and overall aggravating he could be, he was still more interested in cracking the mystery of those stupid Cursed Vaults than he was actually being a decent friend, brother, son, or even human being. 

Everyone was whispering in confusion and concern, when Olivia Green disappeared. Everyone interrogated Jacob and Duncan about it at the time, though neither of them could offer a proper explanation. Duncan had always removed himself from any discussion, clearly too wounded to talk about it. Jacob, on the other hand, would answer, but end up saying almost nothing.

“...I do know what happened to her.” 

“It won’t be long.”

“She’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Over the course of their sixth year, both Jacob and Duncan’s behavior grew more erratic, but it was Jacob’s that got the student body whispering. It was around this time that he started leaving school grounds without permission or oversight -- he’d done it several times, presumably sneaking into Hogsmeade and then using the Floo Network to travel to and from. No one quite knew where he was going or what he was doing, but there were some pretty nasty rumors -- rumors he was skulking around Knockturn Alley...that he’d even been recruited by some old Death Eaters. Such rumors were given more steam when Albus Dumbledore ended up expelling Jacob -- something that, many suspected, was largely in part to the death of Duncan, who was found with the remnants of an experimental Erumpent Potion. Duncan Ashe would never have experimented with such dangerous potions, before befriending the likes of Jacob Cromwell...

And then, in the midst of all that -- in the midst of losing his best friend, of disgracing his family and himself -- Jacob Cromwell disappeared without a trace. Some said he left the country -- others, that he’d killed himself. Some claimed he’d joined You-Know-Who’s old supporters and was now skulking around Knockturn Alley with a completely new identity and face. 

When Mia had heard about Jacob Cromwell’s disappearance, she’d felt no concern for him whatsoever -- but she had felt sorry for his family. No matter how much she’d daydreamed reading about adventures in far-off places as a kid, she’d learned that one could and should find happiness just where they are...and so she knew she would never in a hundred million years choose anything over her family. 

It was a pity that Jacob Cromwell’s mother had such a heartless son. Mia couldn’t imagine hurting her mother so badly -- just disappearing without a word. Jacob had a little sister too, Mia seemed to recall -- he’d rambled about her more than enough times, over the years. 

As if I ever would leave Callie alone, to fend for herself, she thought scathingly. As if I’d leave Tia alone!

And all because he just had to know what was up with those stupid Cursed Vaults. It had to be just karma, Mia told herself, that he finally got some proper come-uppance for putting so much value on something like that, over sticking by the people who cared about him -- over caring about other people and their feelings. It was a story of hubris, clearly -- a cautionary tale that should be used to ward people off from becoming anything like Jacob Cromwell. 

But then he had to actually come back. He had to come back, somehow just as boyishly 18 as he was when he first disappeared -- and much to Mia’s ire, he kept popping up at the far corners of her life, almost taunting her, while always being just out of reach of her best hexes. 

For these reasons and more, I swear here and now that I shall loathe Jacob Cromwell for all eternity.