#my link's always a crier

[skunkes]

from memory

[lokisgoodgirl]

Successional Pleasure: The Rite (II)

A Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my regular Masterlist is here Summary: (2) Loki arranges a meeting, and you're offered the opportunity of a lifetime (w/c 4.8k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Thirsting for unattainable royals. Language. Heavy petting. Ridiculous Asgardian HC lore. Smuttish.

This morning the palace criers announced mandatory palace court attendance for all of Asgard.

Word travels fast, you muse as another person shoves into your shoulder; especially when the Odinsons will be in full ceremonial dress.

A swell ripples through the crowd, pulsing forward. Only one row of people stand in front of you, and the guards lining the jostling mass are becoming impatient.

You always make an effort for these events; everyone does. However bland and self-aggrandising the subject matter (and with the Allfather, when is it not?) – one never knows who’ll attention you’ll draw. But this time, it’s different.

This time, as you fixed your hair and let your solitary maid tighten the laces of your dress – there was only one person you wanted to impress. Him. Because this time, for the first time, he may actually notice you.

But that’s madness, you think as you try and focus. His lovers are legendary. He has his pick of…anyone. Literal deities.

But then, the memory of Prince Loki’s glistening chest emerging from the palace baths with wet hair plastered over his brow as he grunted through his orgasm erupts in your mind. That’s a memory not easily forgotten. In fact, it’s very easily encouraged. And each time you think of it, more layers appear.

In the extended, delusional version, he crosses the pool, the lapping water licking around his proud cock snug to his stomach as he wages a path to cage you by the stone edge and—

Trumpets blare. “They’re here,” a woman beside you squeals. Her hand flies to yours, clawing with unhinged excitement. The guards straighten, spears thudding against marble in ceremonial greeting.

He probably does that shit all the time; wanking in the palace baths with people he doesn’t know. He won’t see you amongst thousands of faces. That’s madness. But when it came to Loki Odinson, didn’t that make it more likely? Nerves tighten your stomach. The glint of their ostentatious headwear is the first sign of approach; two small figures against the expanse of the ancient doors floor to ceiling of the hall. Cheers thunders like a burst dam through a canyon as they move in sync down the wide aisle, each set of guards they pass thunking their staff in salute. Each thud made your pussy clench. And finally, you catch sight of his face.

It's the picture of haughty expectation at the wild crowds losing their minds as he passes. Every slice and draw of his bone structure is set like marble. He’s above it all; stunning decorative armour that would be absolutely no use in battle accenting broad shoulders at sharp angles. Impeccable posture, as ever. Today, the prince wears full leathers beneath – ridiculously fitted trousers which melded seamlessly to a forest green tunic stitched in golden trim.

To complete the act of war that’s his outfit, a stiff collar cut to the curve of his jawline sweeps up to his earlobes; a solitary curl of ebony hair lying against the leather, freed from his helmet. Thor wears the same red and garish gold he always does, beaming greedily at the crowds.

Your eyes roam over Loki’s sweeping entrance and you smile to yourself that the last time you’d seen him – he’d been naked. The woman beside you begins to breathe heavily as they draw closer. You have no idea, you smirk.

Loki’s cape billows with theatrical elegance down the open aisle, and you wonder briefly if his magic has something to do with it. Thor’s certainly doesn’t flutter around his ankles with the same effortless gravitas. Thor’s doesn’t undulate with every stride, timed with the military precision of its master’s thighs.

The guard in front of you lifts his spear, ready to thrust it to the marble floor. You hold your breath, biting your lip, their glory radiating with each falling step. And then, time seems to stop. Because then, Loki, Prince of Asgard, looks at you. His eyes flicker to the side, narrowing softly in your direction. A low dimple in his cheek flashes, only for a moment. And then - -thunk

The metal clang makes you jump out your skin, and by the time you get your bearings, the princes have moved on. They each face the platform, sinking on one knee with bowed heads while Odin pats down the cheers. He begins to rumble on, something about war, or tradition or blah blah.

The dark prince’s jawline is a work of art as he kneels in performatively rapt attention. With each swallow, his cheekbones flash. The golden helmet highlights the harsh lines of his face, lids dropping every few minutes as he struggles not to roll his eyes. You smile.

“Oh that’s good,” the woman beside you hums. You frown at her, concentration broken. It was her turn to frown. She shakes her head, gazing back to Odin. “Thor reached a treaty with Muspelheim.”

The next hour passes slowly, and for once, you’re grateful. When Odin stops, it’s the Crown Prince’s turn to regale the audience of thousands with his diplomatic success. Only half-listening, you use the time to your advantage, perving on Loki kneeling on the polished floor with those long, pale fingers clasped around one knee. When the dark prince stands, the rest of the high-nobles do the same. He whips his cape back, allowing the crowd a gratuitous view of his muscular ass and thighs flexing beneath tight leather while he unfurls. Loki’s imperious eyes scan the heaving crowd with an air of disdain. The look rolls like a sea wind, cold and unforgiving until you feel its weight land on you.

You’re pinned by that stare as plainly as though it’s his hands; his body. Goosebumps ripple beneath your dress. I see you, he mouths silently, subtly, before his gaze falls on his brother once more.

The royal family wave a final time before slipping to the doors at the back of the Great Hall. Loki’s attention hadn’t fallen upon you again, but the waiting. The anticipation; it was exhausting.

Around you, the bustle of a thousand conversations grows to a roar. The front rows of the crowd begin to file out and follow the same path the royal family had taken through the golden doors. High-court, only. Friends and family, that sort of thing. A huge curtain hangs behind the throne, buffeting gently from some unseen breeze. It’s a rich amber with threads of green and red and blue, shimmering patterns that no mortal fingers could accomplish woven over centuries, millennia even.

Gods, noted warriors and chancellors all dutifully bow to the empty throne before circling around the platform and disappearing behind the curtain. On their way to a feast, no doubt.

A set of bird-like fingers wrap around your wrist. With a yank you pull it away, whipping round to see the expectant face of a young boy.

“Get out of here,” you snarl. Pickpockets are rife at these sorts of things. The boy stares. Puberty hadn’t darkened a shadow on his skin, and despite his age, he was un-phased by the abruptness.

“You are requested,” he says, bored eyes searching your face. People jostle by your shoulders in annoyance. “By who?” you scoff. They’d try anything these days.

The boy tugs your hand. “Requested,” he says again as though it explains everything, turning and pulling you earnestly towards the line of guards. With a single glance at an insignia on his tunic, they part for him.

You traipse behind him at pace, clutching long skirts in one fist while eyes in the crowd follow you down the marble aisle against the sea of people and behind the mysterious curtain. “Name?” a voice grunts.

You look from the back of the boy’s head to the bulky figure in front of you. He’s dressed in robes of scarlet, the hint of a dagger’s hilt beneath a thick belt. A wiry red beard hangs down his chest, resting on a buckle of black steel. “I know you not…” he sneers slowly. “No names,” the boy snaps. He barely came up to the gatekeeper’s stomach. “She’s been requested.” The gatekeeper’s face crumples and his eyes dart to the emblem on the boy’s chest before standing aside, holding his tongue.

The youth gestures with his head to follow him, and you do…. down a short corridor flooded with buttery light. Delicate jangling of lutes and laughter ring to ornate cloisters, a glittering view of Asgard below the balcony-walkway taking your breath away. “Hurry,” the boy snips without a backwards look. “Master is not a patient man.”

He claps his small hands three times and a set of golden doors at the end of the cloister swing open. Thor comes into view mid-conversation, still wearing his ceremonial armour, a goblet spilling over the sides clutched in one hand as he gesticulates wildly. There’s a rumble of polite laughter. Your hand shoots out, grabbing the boy’s shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you mutter. He shoots a scathing glance over his shoulder, casting a salty look down to your feet and back again. “You have been—”

“—requested,” you finish petulantly. “Yeah, I know.”

Your ribs thrum as you walk through the doors, pulled by invisible hands. There can only be one person who harbours the desire to have you at this exclusive gathering. And even that’s beyond insanity. Has he mistaken you for someone else? The boy, that is. He’s a barely more than a child. You were about to ask where you should go, when you realise he’s gone. Casting a frantic look around the room it’s evident that familiar groups have already formed, jokes cracking in waves; picking at piles of nuts and fruit and meats. Frigga herself stands by an ornate silver trolley, ladling wine into a goblet while Lofn whispers in her ear. Your knees buckle slightly. There he is.

A small figure works through folds of silk and armoured angles to the back of the room. You follow him, before halting abruptly, steadying yourself against a table. The boy’s come to a stop in front of a shadowed figure, exchanging a conspiratorial nod. Loki Odinson claps him on the back, raising a goblet to his lips. He rests against a pillar, choosing to stay apart from the revels. Watching. Waiting. His eyes meet yours as he sips; dark and dangerous over a rim of gold. One brow twitches upwards in, you presume, greeting. Sweaty palms run slip the front of your dress and you fight the sudden urge to run. It’s pale blue, the finest you own. Which isn’t saying much. The same colour as his eyes, you realise.

The Prince lowers the goblet, cocking his head. He’s still adorned with the ensemble his part in the day’s festivities required save one, the helmet. Dark curls spill freely over the shoulders of the cape fastened to guards beneath, intricate folds of fabric worked to perfection.

He raises a hand, forefinger beckoning twice in subtle succession before lowering it again. Just like the baths, you think with a shameful thrill. Your gaze darts to faces you’ve only seen in paintings around the court as you glide over, trying to look like you belong - but no one bats an eye. Loki unhooks one foot from behind the other, nudging himself off the column. Leather boots gape teasingly around his calves. You wonder, if you beg like a common trollop, if he would fuck you wearing those boots. Only those boots—

“You’re not wearing green,” the Prince drawls. You open your mouth and close it again, irritatingly mute while his blue irises smoulder. “Usually they wear green.” You press your lips together, collecting yourself. “Who?” “Those trying to bed me,” Loki says.

“I’m not trying to—” The prince waves a dismissive hand. “—Catch my attention, then.”

You feel your cheeks heat under scrutiny, a very obvious swallow working its way down your throat. ���I don’t know what you mean your Highness,” you say. “You summoned me.”

“Indeed, I did. So I imagine I must have a very good reason,” the Prince murmurs. He brings the pad of a fingertip to his lower lip, brushing it across the skin as you stand in silent bemusement. “Loki! Did you send for a jester? What fun!” You inhale sharply as Fandral slides into view beside your shoulder. His hair is on point this evening, a lush wave cresting over his forehead and swept to the side as his eyes trail to your feet and back to your face. “Oh, my mistake. Just someone getting a little a carried away with the rouge, it seems.” Your stomach tightens. “I’m leaving, your Highness,” you say with a lacklustre bow and a bitter taste in your mouth. “But you do not have my permission,” Loki growls quietly. His feet come into view on the floor and you raise your head, inhaling the sweet breath from his lungs clouding your lips. “More wine, Loki?” Fandral asks brightly, already pouring into Loki’s goblet. The prince’s eyes don’t leave yours, but his mouth hardens.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he asks through gritted teeth. Fandral looks at you with mock-surprise. “Oh yes, most recent conquest is it? Come for a peek behind the gilded curtain before you’re sent back to the depths of banality? I thought he’d run out of new faces.” He winks; it makes your stomach churn.   “She’s not a conquest,” Loki says, hovering the goblet by his lips. “Not one of mine, anyway.”

Your eyes dart to his and catch them narrow slightly. Fandral looks genuinely confused. “Well, what then? Why is she here? Who is she?”

Suddenly there’s a loud crash to the side. Thor stumbles against the table laden with wine-soaked pears and pastries and mounds of tartlets, knocking a pile of cold meats to the ground. He wobbles after them, kneeling on the floor and beginning to pick them off the stones as if they were jewels. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Loki mutters, and you feel the gentle pressure of a hand on your waist. “Walk with me,” he urges in your ear and a shudder rolls down your spine.

“Loki?” Fandral calls as the figures around you start to blur and the Prince manoeuvres you through the crowd like a feather. “Loki, I must speak to you about the…matter, I’ll…later. Yes, later. Quite.” A wall of fresh air skates over your skin. You hadn’t realised how warm it was inside. The two of you come to a stop at the wall of the balcony, nails skimming against polished marble. Loki clears his throat.

“I apologise for Fandral he’s…” Loki looks up from beneath his lashes, a performative sheepishness softening his face, “well, himself.” You stifle a laugh, focusing on the edge of the moonlit waterfalls in the distance. Silence hangs between you, made louder by the jumbled festivities inside. “Why am I here, Prince Loki?” you whisper, not daring to look at him. “If it’s about what happened in the baths, I won’t tell a soul I swear—” “—It’s not.” Irritation begins to brew in your stomach. “Well then Fandral has a point. Why am I here? I’m no one.” “Exactly.” A prickle of heat rises up your neck, stinging your ears. “Am I a joke to you, your Highness?”

Loki’s eyes flashing in moonlight, but he says nothing. It stings.

“You bring me here to make a fool out of me in front of your friends? In front of Frigga? Frigga.” “I needed to see if any of them knew you.” Loki’s voice is eerily calm, his gaze as unflinching as a cliff jutting into night. “And clearly, they do not. Fandral would recognise you if they did; that little fishwife knows absolutely everything.” “Why would they know me? And what does it matter?” “It matters a great deal. To me, at least. And to you, perhaps.” You push a strand of hair back from your forehead, hating that its damp. The skin feels hot. Hot and flustered and clammy with embarrassment and…shit, arousal. Can he tell?

Black strings of lax curl blow gently around Loki’s jawline, pale lips stained with wine. “Tell me, my Lady…have you heard of the Rite of Successional Pleasure?” he asks, and suddenly all other noise vanishes from your ears save the hum of his voice.

Loki’s eyes run down the blue chiffon of your robe, wondering if he could peel it off and cast it skating across the stone with a solitary swipe of his hand. Allowing you a moment to collect yourself, he decides that yes, he could. “Surely just a legend, my Prince…” you answer demurely, busying your hands and staring off into the distance as an unmistakable waft of heat courses from your bare neckline. He licks his lips, feeling a smirk curl the corners.

“Aren’t we all?” he purrs. Their eyes meet. “I assure you it is very real. A relic, to be sure. But real enough. And I require a partner to enact this Rite, else my succession to Asgard’s throne will not be entrenched in law. I have waited too long as it is, as I keep being reminded.”

“That’s very…interesting,” you say.

Loki straightens. He hadn’t taken you for a dullard, but he does appreciate the delayed gratification of enthusiasm at the proposal. Loki can hear your heart thud faster; he wonders how much of that blood is flushing to your sex beneath the gown billowing about your ankles. You glance at him and quickly look away. It makes Loki’s stomach twist. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps events in the bath-house were simply…opportunity. Or worse, fear. You clear your throat. “What is it, exactly? The Rite of Successional…” “—Pleasure,” Loki finishes abruptly. He rolls his shoulders back, steadying the flurry of unwelcome nerves in his chest.

“One of my family’s farcical traditions. When Asgard’s twin moons are in perfect equilibrium within the heavens, once every half millennia – eligible members of the royal family suitable for rule must, in order to be considered for finite succession, perform the Rite.” “Which is?”

Loki’s eyes fall down the curve of your neck, hovering on your moist lips. He’d thought of nothing else in the days since the bath-house; those lips sucked between his teeth, stretching around his cock; swollen and wet and…

“Pleasure.” It comes out sterner than intended. “To be given, only. A king must not just be skilled in diplomacy, in combat, in war and sacrifice, but in giving pleasure,” he says, imitating the cadence of his father’s voice with a caricatural wave of his hand. “How else can Asgard’s citizens know we are to be trusted, to be benevolent, if is not documented in the annals?”

“You can’t be serious,” you say. “I thought it was a joke, like the other things.” “Contrary to belief, I can be very serious indeed, little owl,” Loki replies with a smile. It fades. The weight of the pet name plucked from nowhere hangs in the air like smoke as you fidget with a fold of your dress. Gods, how he hates that it’s blue. “I still don’t see what it has to do with me,” you posture meekly. Loki tenses, words hissing between his teeth. “Bifrost’s blood, woman. I’m asking you to be my partner for the Rite. Must I carve it in stone?”

The widen of your eyes makes his stomach flutter and you attempt a clumsy curtsey which makes Thor’s staggered collapse among the strewn meats look elegant. “I…I don’t know what to…I—” Suddenly, you look up. “Is it witnessed?” “Of course.” Horror blossoms in your eyes. “Oh…it’s very tasteful,” Loki says, inspecting his nails. “Much more so than the Ceremony of the Sacred Seed, I assure you. It relies more on…aural methods. For the most part.”

“I’ve never been invited to that,” you reply absently, and Loki notes that your fingers have curled around his wrist armour, steadying yourself. “When is the…the moon thing?” “Five nights from now,” he says, and your jaw drops. “I understand I’ve left it rather late, but I really am in rather a bind.” The irony of him practically begging this unknown woman of the court to bring her the greatest ecstasy she’s ever know wasn’t lost on Loki, but for the moment at least…he decides to restrain his natural urge to remind her of that fact.

“Your reputation will only be enhanced, I assure you,” he adds. “It’s a great honour. And I am, if I may say, quite renowned for my skill in that department.” “Why me?” she asked. And there it was. He grimaced. “Don’t lie to me,” she added bravely, and his grimace deepened. “The Rite will only be valid if the recipient has never known the touch of a god. Or, more specifically their…essence. Our essences must never have touched each other. The punishment is severe; there are tomes and everything; rules…how I loathe them,” he says, offering a weak smile. Realisation blossoms in your eyes. “And…I’m afraid my roster has been rather full these past centuries.” A small laugh erupts from your throat that makes it incredibly difficult not to shut you up with his mouth. “Surely you can’t have fucked everyone in the high-court?”

Loki bit back a laugh of his own. “Rather brazen, aren’t you?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Regrettably, my options in that circle are limited to Fandral. And I’m afraid I cannot bring myself to give him the satisfaction he most desperately desires; it’s far too much fun tormenting him.” You raise an eyebrow and Loki scoffs, smoothing a curl back. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. I know what they must say about me.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, your Highness,” you say with a conspiratorial smile.

“Liar,” Loki replies softly. The sparkle of your mischief fades, and he finds he immediately misses it. “So, I’m…a last resort, then?” “Somewhat, yes.” You bristle, goosebumps rising along your bare arms in the evening chill. Loki watches them flare, fighting the urge to soothe them with his fingertips. Another eruption of his brother’s drunken laughter bounces from the archways.

“What happened in the baths,” she says, eyeing him warily. “Wouldn’t that count? Wouldn’t your…uh, essence have…travelled?”

A small noise scratches from Loki’s throat. “Far too diluted. Fortunately…we were rather far apart.” She moves a step closer, looking up at him beneath her lashes. Her scent makes his mouth water. “And besides, if memory serves you made rather a hasty exit.” “If I agree to this, what’s in it for me?” you ask with a coolness he isn’t expecting. He frowns. “Aside from the obvious?” You shoot him a scathing glare. “You’ll be an honoured guest of Asgard’s highest echelons until the ceremony; luxurious quarters, the finest garments…yours to keep, naturally. A feast in your honour, the honour of my escort, a place in Asgard’s history, and of course…my eternal thanks.” He waits until you turn fractionally towards him before deploying a calculated wink. Your expression is stamped with suspicion, and yet he sees the intrigue nestled beneath the veneer of resistance. He’s not surprised when you shuffle closer, glancing over your shoulder. “Is there um…practice, involved?” Loki feels his brows shoot up. “Practice? Norns haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? Our…”

He whips his cape as he spins, eyeing over his shoulder, catching the glint of Fandral’s flaxen hair hovering by the feasting table. “Our evidence of arousal cannot be in contact before the Rite…not a single drop, lest the entire ceremony be declared null and my honour as a successor questioned.” “Right,” you say stiffly. “Of course.” He can feel the heat of embarrassment radiating from your skin.

You need her, fool. Loki clears his throat with a dry rattle. “But we may…get to know each other. That is expected, at least. If you agree, of course.” You turn to him, eyes shimmering in moonlight. Loki wonders again how he could possibly have missed such a rare jewel in the drab sameness of Asgard’s court. He straightens as your finger runs over the metal at his wrist, trailing up the hem of his cape. “Are you allowed to kiss me?” you ask. A thick swallow works down his throat, his trousers tightening as you add, “What do the rules say about that?” Suddenly it feels as though he could be three-hundred again, unfamiliar nerves sizzling in his belly like fire. “I…there is no impediment to that particular act, no.” “Don’t you think it would be wise to…make sure we’re compatible before you make such a momentous decision?” A flush creeps up Loki’s neck above the high collar of his tunic as the clink of goblets and laughter continue inside the archway and he’s thankful for darkness. A muscle in his jawline twitches, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. There it was again, that audacity. So wilful, and yet…

In a flash his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you back with him into shadow. He slips a hand around your back, cushioning your spine as you meet rough stone with a gasp. Your sultry eyes look up at him with manufactured innocence.

“Let’s spare ourselves the virginal theatrics,” he hums, drawing his nose up the line of your cheekbone. The shiver that racks your body makes the toes in his boots curl. “You will be my partner for this sacred Rite?” You catch his lips with the brush of an autumn breeze, grazing against the words. The scent of you overwhelms him; a deep forest tang with overtures of a fragrant sweetness he can’t place.

He groans into the kiss, hungrier with every work of his mouth against the reach of your tongue. Loki’s hands slide up the swell of your breasts, each moan shivering from your throat into his making him want to explode.

As your fingers card through his hair, he realises the other hand is working down the harsh wall of tunic, sliding down his abdomen, hungry for the engorged lust strapped to his hip. There is a barrier, he thinks wildly, tempering his fear. There is a barrier. You squeeze. “Norns, woman…” he growls between gritted teeth, steadying a forearm against the wall behind your head as his gnawing kisses work down your neck. Stone veins spread in crunching crackles under the pressure. “Loki,” you gasp beneath him, bucking into the press of his armour into your endless curves. The realisation he can’t sate it hits with sudden, unwelcome clarity.

“Far too familiar,” he chides against your ear with a feigned derision that makes another moan snake from your throat. Loki’s cock throbs harder. “I remain your Prince, and you will address me as such.” You crush his lips with a kiss full of such desire Loki thinks he might shatter. His cock rubs against your stomach, harsh friction sending jolts of pleasure lancing through his body and suddenly, you break from him with a pant. “Do you want to know my name now, my Prince?”

His saliva rings your mouth; lips swollen and puffed. He nods twice, keeping his chin low on the second as his eyes flutter closed as you lean to his ear, whispering the word. Now that he knows it, he can’t imagine it being anything else.

“…and I’m no one’s last resort, not even a god,” you say, meeting his eyes. Loki steps back, jaw hardening as you smooth down the front of your dress. “I didn’t mean to imply—” “—Well, you did. So, if this still seems like a good idea in the morning, I expect to see you again under less…crowded circumstances.” Loki bit back the urge to protest, but as much as he was loathe to admit it…she had a point. Preparations for the Rite were usually conducted over months, and as he widened his stance, clasping his hands behind his back, a familiar coiffured sheaf of golden hair glinted and disappeared with suspicious urgency. “Unless you’d rather partake with Fandral?”

Loki’s stomach flips but he swallows down the urge to answer. “You’re familiar with my apprentice?” he asks. You nod. “He shall come for you at noon tomorrow.” A small smile flickers at your glistening lips. “Very well, your Highness,” you say, sinking into a curtsey that makes Loki’s cock ache before rising and gliding towards the open archway. He rolls his lips together, fighting the urge to follow you – but he’s already shown his hand too heavily tonight.

As you pass through the arch, Thor wobbles in the other direction, casting a quizzical glance backwards. “There you are, brother,” he slurs, slumping onto the balcony. His arm makes a heavy gesture towards the party, swinging wildly. “She is the one?” Loki bristles. “Yes, brother.”

“Finally. Norns preserve us, I thought you’d never make it. You know she is not suitable for the ceremony if she has been...sampled, already?” he asks as both eyebrows rise. Loki scoffs and throws his brother an incredulous stare. “I know that,” he snarls. “What do you take me for, some kind of rube?” Thor sighs, picking a slice of cured boar from his breastplate and dangling into his mouth. “Let’s hope you can satisfy her, then – in every way. For all our sakes.” Loki’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “If you can scrape past the requirements, we both know I shall have no issue.” “Mmm,” his brother hums. “If it wasn’t for the other matter her response will be measured on.”

“It’s all in hand, brother,” he lies, ignoring the thump of his heart, watching the bob of your head as you wind between intoxicated council members towards the door. “Five moons is more than enough time for that.” And beside him, Thor snorts.

Chapter Three: Measurement The Masterlist for the Rite is here Tags in comments (≧ヮ≦) 💕

[revasserium]

Why does this scream second chance romance?

reqs are open!

at first sight

hayato suo; 6,284 words; fluff, slight angst, fem!reader, no "y/n", passing mentions of divorce, childhood friends to lovers, hurt/comfort (a little), the slowest of burns, suo is a simp, introspection, more plot than not

summary: and isn’t it strange, that a person doesn’t have to be dead to serve a haunting, how there only need be absence and sorrow and the utterly world-ending ache of what used to be?

a/n: this was not supposed to be this long or this self-indulgent but welp.

He sees you sometimes in his dreams, in the spaces right before he falls asleep — that sweet, weightless, liminal space where anything and everything is possible, even probable. He sees the shape of your laughter, feels the weight of your breath, can almost taste the sugarplum sweetness of your smile. He’d lose himself, then, in the firefly lights of your eyes.

On those nights, he wakes up with a scream curdling up the back of his throat like soured milk.

Because no matter how hard he tries to hold onto the good memories, the ones bathed in the precious, pale gold of summer sun, truth always slips through like a sharp, silver knife. Cold. Ruthless. Unrelenting.

“— so, I know we don’t know each other very well but… you’ve done so much for our shop and my grandma is so grateful and… it always makes me so happy to see you come by —”

The girl in front of him is pretty, in the delicate, unassuming way that all young girls might be called pretty. She is dark, pin-straight hair and thin-rimmed glasses. Suo can tell that she’s put on a sparkly sheen of lip-gloss just for this occasion. Her cheeks are tinted sunset pink; there’s a letter in her hands.

“Thank you,” he says, dipping his head, his hand linked behind his back, his expression schooled into one of polite affectation, the most gentle rejection. He listens to her run herself out, babbling on about visits and admiration and the shape of him outside the shop window, how her heart would skip a beat. He finds himself, wistfully, thinking about the shape of you — when you were small enough to wiggle under the fence in his backyard, dirt caked under your nails, your hair always chopped short, one of your front teeth missing as you tossed pebbles at his windows.

“I’m… sorry,” he says, finally, when the girl presses the letter into the center of his chest, bowing low enough for her long silky hair to cover her face. He slowly folds his fingers over the letter, giving her hand a squeeze as he presses it back towards her.

“B-but…” she looks up; there are tears in her eyes, “why…?”

“I suppose,” he says, voice light and conversational, almost as if he were remarking on the weather, “I’m just not the dating type.”

The girl mumbles something before sniffling and wiping at her eyes. She is, Suo admits, not a very pretty crier. But then again, he thinks, most people aren’t. She nods again, as if to herself, clutching her unopened letter to her chest before dropping into another deep bow and dashing off. Suo can hear the clipped echoes of her sobs as she races down the near empty streets, and he sighs.

He turns on his heels and makes his slow way back to his own house, the place small and empty, but clean. The single wooden shelf is lined with books, alphabetized. His futon is folded neatly in his closet. He goes through the motions of making tea, pouring the boiling water over the dried leaves, watching them unfurl. He breathes in deep and thinks of you —

You were the one who first taught him how to brew tea, your small hands not yet big enough to hold a teapot proper, but whatever you’d lacked in skill, you made up for in determination. He’d always admired that about you, the sheer recklessness of your nature that bled, somehow, into courage in his young mind.

“Careful! It’s hot…” he’d warned, reaching out to catch your wrist, but too late, the water had already spilled a little and you wince, but you don’t let go, your arms quaking as you set the scalding teapot down, biting down on your lips to keep from crying out.

“I know it’s hot! But you gotta use hot water if you wanna make good tea!”

And there, through the misty haze of steam rising from the pair of cups, sitting across the table from you, Suo thinks you’re the most beautiful creature in the entire world.

He loses you, he reflects, the same way he loses most things in his life — accidentally and to the well-tempered beat of fate from which no one can escape. One minute you were right there in front of him and the next, well…

“Moving…?” he says the word as if he’d never heard it before. You sigh, nodding, staring listlessly into empty space, your knees curled up and pressed into your chest, your chin propped on your crossed arms.

Suo blinks, “But… where are you moving to?”

You shrug, “Tokyo, I think,” you say the word with a soft resignation only found in those who have seen and lost, seen and lost again. Suo thinks he understands; looking back, he’s not sure he did just then.

“Because of… your dad’s work?”

“Yeah. He says that if his company does well there, we’d be ‘set for life’ — whatever that means,” you say, picking at a bit of invisible lint on your sleeves.

“But… what about your mom? And the teashop?”

You purse your lips, mulling over your words as if you’ve got a sour cherry pit caught beneath your tongue.

“She says… she can’t leave it. So… she’s staying here.”

“Oh,” Suo says, sitting back against his bedroom wall. Even back then, he was smart enough to understand the implications.

You nod.

Judging by the look on your face, so are you.

“So… when…” he can’t really make out the words; there’s something stuck in his throat that feels oddly like an entire handful of sand.

“End of the month,” you say, finally looking up at him to catch his eyes. And there, he sees the insurmountable sadness, the longing he’d sometimes catch a glimpse of in the slanted summer light. As if you’re waiting for him to do something, to say something. He could never figure out what exactly it was you’d wanted him to do. To say.

Stay.

He’d later realize.

Please.

He’d repeat the words to himself in the encroaching dark, lying on his futon, watching the light cast on his walls go from white to gray to gold, and slowly, sinking into cool, hollow blackness.

Don’t go.

He mouths the words until he can almost taste the shape of them on his tongue. He swallows around them like a fistful of sand, flips onto his side, and tries to go to sleep.

You appear before him like a daydream, a near mirage in the summer heat. One second, he’s laughing with Nirei at something Sakura’s said, and the next, he’s standing stock still, staring at the end of the street where he’s sure he’d just seen you —

You look older now, but then so does he, and your hair is longer, but the shape of your laughter, the light of your eyes — he wouldn’t miss those anywhere. Not then, not now, not ever. Even after all these years.

“Suo-san…?” Nirei peers up into his face, tugging on his sleeve.

“Hm? Oh sorry — I just thought —” he glances back at the end of the street. Just a large van and a few young workers, hauling things out from the back.

“Oh, there’s a new teahouse opening in town! That must be them, moving in!” Nirei says, cheerful and oblivious as always.

“What’s a teahouse do, anyway?” Sakura asks, picking at his ear and flicking something off the end of his pinky.

“Uhm… make tea?” Nirei offers.

“Yeah, but don’t we all know how to make — where the hell’s he goin’?”

Suo takes off down the street, whipping passed their usual haunts, the taiyaki shop, the okonomiyaki stand, Pothos cafe, to the corner of the street, just where the sidewalk threatens to curve into some more residential place —

“Oi!” Sakura calls after him but he doesn’t listen.

There — that sound. Sugarplum and silver bells.

The space is undone, the door propped open with a wooden crate, the young men with the moving company tutting as they grunt and step around Suo to carry more boxes into the space, setting them down along the walls.

“— there’s good, oh no — not that one — that one goes… oh here’s good! Thanks!”

You.

He sees you like something from his wildest daydreams, the shape of you in smoke and stardust — the light twisting and twining around you as if it knows, treating you differently than it might all the other people and objects in the room, focusing around you to paint you in richer tones, in brighter lights and deeper shadows. The air seems to gather around you like a held breath.

And for a moment, Suo himself forgets quite completely that he himself might need to breathe as well.

You turn your eyes on him and the world seems to shift focus like a camera lens shifting zoom. Everything blurs, sound slows, drags, distorts. The room around you fades until it’s nothing more than a suggestion of shapes and space.

Suo sucks in a breath.

“Sorry — we’re not quite open y…”

Your voice trails off, and vaguely, Suo thinks that you sound different than you did before. But there’s still the same lovely cadence to your words, the rounded edges, the crispness of your diction, the sheer weight of your conviction in the things you say and how you might will them into truth.

“It’s… been a while,” he says. His own voice is weak, wavering, dry and scratchy and sounding nothing like himself but he sees the moment you recognize him, wholly and completely.

“H-Hayato-kun!”

“Oi, Suo — who’re you —” Sakura rams a shoulder into him at this exact moment, Nirei pattering close behind, trying to hold him back. Sakura blinks at you, his head flicking between you and Suo as if watching an invisible tennis match. And then, some understand seeps into the depths of his eyes and his cheeks go a ruddy shade of pink.

“Uh — sorry, I didn’t — who —” he looks bewildered and awkward all at once.

“We’re Suo-san’s friends — from Boufuurin!” Nirei cuts in, finally succeeding in tugging Sakura to one side and peering around the rather narrow door frame. He bows slightly before jumping half a meter in the air as a mover clears his throat loudly behind the group of boys now clogging the door way.

You jerk out of your reverie and point the mover towards an empty corner before making your way over, your steps steady. It takes everything in Suo’s being not to move, to neither shift forward, to press into your personal space just to make sure you’re really real, or to turn tail and run till he doesn��t have the breath to keep running any more.

He can’t tell which he’d prefer more, but he knows that neither is the best option right now.

So, he forces himself to stand still, to wait for you to come to him.

And you do, drifting over in a cloud of light linen and a flower patterned apron.

“Hi! Long time no see!”

Suo registers faintly that though your hair is longer, but your bangs are still choppy, and the ends of your hair badly cut, as if you’d gotten annoyed one day and tried to do it with kitchen scissors. He bites back a smile at the image. But there are other subtle changes too — the round babyfat on your cheeks slimming out to a sweet, heart-shaped face, the hugeness of your eyes, almost alien-like in your child years, now balanced out by the depths of your features. Your lips are small and plush as an overripe plum — that, at least, hasn’t changed in the slightest.

“Yeah… what… are you doing here?” he asks, still struck dumb by the sight of you here, in Makochi.

You raise an eyebrow and Suo almost feels the motion like a gut-punch, the familiarity of it overriding your older features until he can’t really tell if he’s living in the present or if he’s been suddenly and unwillingly shunted into the past.

You scoff, “Opening a teahouse, duh!”

Nirei laughs and Sakura lets out a snicker that kicks Suo out of his stupor. He clears his throat, having the decency to at least look abashed.

“Sorry, yes — that much is obvious. Is there… anything we can do to help?” he tries to ground himself in the established notions of aiding the citizens of Makochi. At least here, he knows what he has to do. His voice evens out, his smile returns.

You regard him with that same, questioning look before casting your eyes around the room.

“Sure! Plenty to do if you guys have the time —” and then you start pointing to the various tasks they might help with.

Nirei and Sakura jump to, already used to the pattern, with Suo trailing behind them, moving slower than usual, his limbs feeling heavy, as if they’re full of lead. It takes them the better part of the afternoon to help you set up most of the bigger pieces of furniture. And somehow, by the time they’re done, a good chunk of the freshman class is there, chattering and laughing, lounging at the newly built tables.

“Alright! Who wants some tea? Fresh and on the house — consider it payment for a job well-done!” you clap your hands, grinning as the boys all cheer.

Suo keeps quiet, sitting at a corner table with Sakura beside him, Nirei across. It isn’t until Sakura digs his elbow rather painfully into Suo’s ribs that he turns his face towards them, hitching a smile to his face.

“Hm?”

“What’s with you?” Sakura asks, never one to mince words. Across from them, Nirei nibbles on his lips as if debating on whether or not to add on to Sakura’s line of questioning

“What do you mean?” Suo asks, folding his hands carefully on the table. He’s not fooling anyone; he knows, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t at least try.

Finally, impulse wins out and Nirei blurts out —

“You’ve been staring at that girl all afternoon and — and I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that before. And you’re the one that gets the most confessions out of anyone in our year, so it figures that if this girl c-can capture your attention like this, she must be someone really special.”

He finishes slightly out of breath, before ducking behind his little notebook, even though he’s holding it upside-down.

Suo lets out a helpless laugh.

“I didn’t know you were keeping track of how many confessions all of us got — that statistic seems irrelevant to our fighting abilities, no?”

“Quit tryna change the subject,” Sakura cuts in, loudly.

Suo sighs, nodding, “I was getting there. We —” he cuts off, clearing his throat as he feels his entire body catch on the edge of the confession.

He takes a deep breath and starts again, this time, pressing a slight smile between his lips, taking on a tone as if telling a story about someone else.

“We were neighbors growing up.”

Nirei blinks, “Is… that it?”

Suo’s smile goes a bit stiff and plastic, “More or less.”

“Liar,” Sakura folds his arms, frowning as he stares Suo down. His cheeks are still pink, but there’s a determined glint behind his eyes that never bodes well.

“Ah… well,” Suo weighs his options, but then lilts his head and shrugs, “you caught me — we were a bit more than just neighbors… more like childhood friends.”

Sakura narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. Suo looks down at his hands, laced carefully on the wooden table before he speaks again.

“We… spent a lot of time together and… her mother owned a teashop like this one.”

“Oh! A family business!” Nirei says.

Suo opens his mouth to correct him but your voice cuts him off.

“You still have them!”

A finger slips along the long tassels of his earring and Suo nearly jerks away, casting his eyes up to find you, a familiar teapot in your now steady hands, your eyes somehow bright and dark at the same time as you look down at him.

“Oh… yes, I —” again, he feels his throat catch, “of course I did. You were the one who made them for me.”

You let out a light laugh, setting a few teacups down at their table and prepping their tea.

“You didn’t have to — I’m surprised they held up after all these years. You know I bought the red beads at the craft store right?”

“Yeah, you… you used your New Years money. I remember…”

“And you helped me pick out the tassels from the lady who sells lucky knots at the market!” you say all this as if it weren’t one of his most precious memories, as if he hadn’t gone to great lengths to make sure the earrings you gave him (one of the only things you’d ever given them, other than perhaps a broken heart) never came to any harm.

Across from him, he can see Nirei putting the pieces together. Next to him, Sakura seems stunned still by the same revelation.

“If I’d know you’d like them so much, I would’ve made you a few more pairs. At least that way, you can try to match them with your clothes,” you grin, leaning down to seep their tea. Suo watches as the hot water washes over the dried leaves, rehydrating them till they each unfurl into their own shape. A deep, floral fragrance fills the air and he feels his stomach both twist and settle in the same motion.

“Jasmine green,” he says.

“Mhm. Your favorite. It’s a little basic but I love it too.” You shoot him a surreptitious wink. Then, you pause, “Ah — but it might not be your favorite anymore, I guess —”

“It still is,” Suo says before you can second guess yourself.

The smile that re-alights your face is nearly blinding in it’s brilliance.

“Anyway, I’ll leave the water here for you guys, yeah?” you set the teapot down next to Suo’s elbow, flash them all one more smile before twirling around and going to serve the next table.

It isn’t until much after dark that everyone leaves and Suo, having made up some vague excuse to linger, finally has you to himself. You hum as you flit from table to table, wiping them down and pushing in the chairs. Suo watches you for a solid minute before moving to help.

“Thanks,” you say, as he helps you push in the last chair and you wipe a forearm across your forehead with a long breath, “phew! Ma really made it look easy back in the day, but this is hard work! And we’re not even officially opened yet!”

“We’ll come by to help whenever we can,” Suo says, the response automatic.

You nod, folding the tablecloth neatly into a square and setting it on the counter.

The silence thickens around you, swirling and charged. Suo grasps for something to say, anything to say. He wishes you’d do something — turn on a light, hum another song, say something strange and outlandish, punch him, perhaps.

You do none of those things. Instead, you wipe your hands on your apron and turn to look at him, your eyes huge in the darkness.

“I’ve missed you.”

It nearly knocks him from his feet. The quiet force of your words, the raw-edged honesty behind them. The way your voice doesn’t waver. The way you say them not like an accusation but an admittance. He thinks he really would’ve preferred if you punched him instead.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling breathless, heat cresting up his chest, and suddenly, he’s thankful for the darkness within the not-yet-opened teashop.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He feels hollowed out by the confession, as if just speaking the words had carved him clean, so clean that the words echo through him, reverberating through his bones till he feels it down to his marrow. He hadn’t known that missing a person could feel like this, or that the word could mean so much until he’d said it out loud.

Missing. The lack thereof. A nothing where there used to be something.

It is a wrongness in the matrix, a hole, an abnormality.

It’s as if he’d been sleeping on the mattress from the Princess and the Pea ever since the day you’d left, a subtle incorrectness that permeated every single moment of every day, so obvious in it’s presence that it had folded back into itself and become something.

That the lack of you was a presence in and of itself, a living ghost that had loomed over him, slinked behind his shadow, hovered over his shoulder until —

He reaches out to touch you, fingers skimming against the skin of your cheek.

You lean into his touch, the motion slight but he catches it almost immediately, and the force of it is the catalyst that propels him forward. He tugs you into his chest and holds you there, burying his face in your hair.

“I — I’ve missed you…” he says again, and you nod, fingers crumpling in his school uniform as you press your forehead into his chest.

“Y-you’re so much taller than before — it’s not fair,” you say, your voice muffled by his shirt. He laughs, ruffling your hair for a second before his fingers so soft and he’s running them through from root to end.

“If I had a sister, I’d tell her to keep her hair long, so I could braid it,” he’d once told you when the two of you were barely in elementary school. You’d tugged at the ends of your chopped short hair and frowned.

“Ugh — I could never grow my hair out long. It’ll just get in the way!”

“It’s longer,” he says now, tugging at the ends even as he takes half a step away, releasing you from his embrace. You glance down at the uneven bits, crinkling your nose in distaste.

“I — I tried to grow it out but… I kept getting annoyed.”

“Yeah, I thought so but… I’ve always liked your hair short.”

“You have?”

“Yeah —”

I’ve always loved everything about you.

He swallows, “Short hair… just fits you.”

You stare up at him for a second longer before nodding, your eyes flickering away.

“Yeah. Guess it does, huh.”

Something clunks in Suo’s chest.

You turn away and he has to physically beat down the panic rising in his chest.

“W-where do you live now? I’ll walk you back. It’s not safe to walk around alone in the dark,” the words tumble from him like a bag of spilled marbles, scattering across the hardwood floors.

You turn back to regard him with a curious look.

“I — I live above the teahouse. So…” you shoot him a lopsided grin, a finger pointed up towards the ceiling of the teahouse.

“Oh. Right.” Suo blinks, watching you watching him before he notices the flight of stairs behind the open door in the back of the room.

“You wanna walk me to the stairs?” you ask, grin slanting sideways till its positively devilish and Suo feels a shiver kiss it’s way up his spine.

“I mean, it’s dangerous to walk alone in the dark, right?” you tease, before turning and slinking towards the back room door. Suo hesitates for a second before he sighs, shaking his head and following behind you.

He pauses at the foot of the stairs just as you pause on the step right above him. You twist around to face him, and the sudden closeness catches his breath in his lungs. Like this, he can feel the heat of your skin, can smell the shampoo in your hair — the same one you’d used when the pair of you were still kids, apple blossom and aloe.

You cock your head, your faces now on a level, your eyes searching his.

It’s so dark, but even in this lack of light, he can make out every single feature of your face.

“I think I can make it up the stairs by myself,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, conspiratorial and low.

Suo lets out a small laugh, nodding, “Good. It wouldn’t be right for a gentleman to leave a lady feeling unsafe at this time of night.”

Your head slowly cocks the other way; he’d almost forgotten that habit of yours, like a sparrow listening for the rustle of leaves or the first breath of autumn wind.

“Since when’ve you been a gentleman?” you ask, still in that soft, whisper-voice, the kind of voice that compels the listener to lean closer, to tip forward until they’re falling into something they don’t even have the name for —

“And… more importantly, since when have I ever been a lady?”

He kisses you then. Or perhaps, you kiss him first. It doesn’t matter — or perhaps it does, or it will. But not now, not in the soft, nebulous darkness that surrounds you, not when your fingers are curling into his hair and his palms are settling at your waist.

And there are no fireworks, but there is light — electricity coursing through his body and yours, neurons firing and firing and firing. A cataclysm of yes and more and finally.

The first time you break apart, Suo is breathless; the second time, he feels punch drunk; by the third, he’s determined that this must be what it’s like to be thoroughly inebriated. His head is spinning, his face is hot, he has to remind himself of where his hands might be — oh, there — one in your hair and the other pressing you to him so hard he’s certain it’ll leave a mark.

The thought pleases him more than it should. Or perhaps it pleases him just as much as it should and always will.

“H-Hayato…"

“Mm — stay — please…” his voice is nearly broken as he drops his had into your shoulder; he takes a shaky breath, “don’t go.”

You let yourself be held, the pair of you propped awkwardly on the first few steps of the stairs, your fingers threading through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere… this is my house now.”

Suo nods, vaguely aware that there are questions he wants to ask you — how’s your mother? Where’s your father? How are you here, alone, opening this teashop by yourself? Living here, by yourself?

But he will get to those later, tomorrow maybe. Right now, he forces his head up and regards you with hazy, blown-out eyes and kiss-slick lips.

“If I sleep on the floor, can I —”

You laugh, running a thumb along his cheek.

“We’ve shared a bed before and nothing’s happened. You don’t have to sleep on the floor — bed’s big enough for the both of us.”

Suo presses his lips for a second before shaking his head.

“It’s not that. I just… don’t think I could trust myself.”

There’s a hoarse, ragged edge to his voice that has you chewing on the inside of your cheek. He glances up the stairs and offers you a weak smile. You consider him for a second more before nodding.

“Yeah, c’mon. I’ll show you where the futons are.”

Upstairs, your bedroom is silver and alien with moonlight. It seems too bright, too sharp. But you step into it and suddenly, everything is alright again. You both wash up in silence, and you dig up an ancient band t-shirt from somewhere in your closet. He wonders how long you’d been here already — how many days and night he’d spent mere minutes from you.

He lays down in the futon after you slip beneath your sheets. He watches the shape of you as you shift this way and that.

Finally, you say, “Night, Hayato.”

“Sweet dreams,” he says.

And he falls asleep counting the sound of your breaths against the rhythm of his own, thundering heartbeats.

“Y-you what?!”

Sakura’s face is tomato red and Nirei looks just about ready to go into anaphylactic shock. Across the classroom, Kiryuu, who’s obviously been listening in, catches Suo’s eye and gives him a cheeky thumbs up.

Suo smiles, cheery and unabashed.

“I slept over.”

“B-b-but — you — I — she just —” Nirei seems to be fighting against some invisible force inside himself even as Sakura continues to gape.

Suo chuckles, nodding.

“Yeah, she moved here last week — it’s a total coincidence that we met up again. She had no idea that I was even here.”

He thinks back to the quiet moments of the morning, of waking up to find you sitting up in bed, staring out the window, your hair mussed and a little frizzy. He remembers the way the morning light had dappled the soft of your skin, how you’d smiled and asked him how he slept.

“Well. Better than I’ve slept in…” he clears his throat, suddenly self conscious of the gravel there. And here, in the unforgiving light of day, the night before seems miraculous and distant. Had he really held you in the dark like that? Kissed you till you’d said his name like something of a prayer?

Had he really held your hand all the way up the stairs?

You catch his eyes and smile, and like this, looking up at you as the rising sun halos itself around your shape, Suo wonders if he still might be dreaming. Because surely, surely — heaven couldn’t have been so close as this.

“So, what do you want for breakfast?” you ask, swinging your legs out of bed, your pale feet pattering against the fresh tatami floors. Suo is momentarily stunned by the sight of your bare legs, the large shirt you wore to bed now somehow terribly short and insufficient as it brushes by the middle of your thighs.

He swallows and forces himself to look away, to shake his head and focus on the words you’d said.

“Whatever you want to make,” he says, by way of an answer.

You hum as you cook, putting a bowl of rice in the microwave and putting on a pot of water to boil. The kitchen here is smaller than the one up front, in the main body of the teahouse, but it feels more homely, every surface effused with a sort of lived-in quality — clean, but rounded at the edges as if worn down by the love of days and weeks and months.

“How long…” he tries his voice again, only to find it wanting. He lets his words trail off and hopes that you understand.

“Hm? How long have I been here? Just a week. It was weird — my mom had bought this place a while back, and started the renovations, but I’d never had time to visit.”

“And where…” again, his voice trails off, his palms pressing flat to the thin counter, his eyes tracking the shape of you as you flitter through the small kitchen like a bird or maybe just a trick of the light.

“She’s not here,” you say, your movements slowing as you take the boiling water from the stovetop and pour it over some rough tealeaves, letting them seep for a few minutes before straining them out and tossing them into the trash.

“She’s… in Tokyo, finalizing the divorce with Pa.”

“Oh.”

His mind makes several inferences at once, even as he watches you soak the rice in the steaming hot tea and split the ochazuke into two bowls.

“I thought they’d… already done that,” he admit, nodding his thanks as you hand him a bowl and offer him a container of store-bought furikake. He takes it and shakes some over his bowl before handing it back.

“Yeah. Most people did.” You don’t offer up anything more and the both of you eat in silence. He polishes off the entire bowl and feels the heat settle in his stomach like a gap being filled.

“So… will she come after… everything is settled?” he choses his words carefully, peering up at you over the empty dishes. You slurp noisily at your own breakfast before licking your lips.

“Yeah, but who knows how long that’ll take? Might be weeks, might be — years, or something…” you drag the back of a hand across your lips and reaches over to pluck the empty bowl from his hands, dropping everything into the sink to soak.

“C’mon, don’t you have school or something to get ready for?”

“So… she’s here to stay?” Nirei asks, his eyes a bit overbright as Suo relays a version of the story, skirting tactfully around the more tender parts.

“Yeah, as far as I know. I promised we’d come by after school today to help her set up some more — you don’t mind, do you?”

“Nope! Not at all!” Nirei beams, but Sakura’s eyes are narrowed. Suo turns his gaze on Sakura and tilts his head with a questioning smile.

Sakura’s cheeks redden, “It’s just — ah, whatever — never mind!”

And no amount of prodding or teasing could tantalize him into saying more.

Time passes by strangely after that — at times slugging by slow as molasses, at others jumping forward in great leaps and bounds. Suo spends nearly every waking moment when he’s not at school or on patrols with you, sometimes simply sitting in the corner of the teahouse, flipping through a book, watching as you served your growing roster of regular customers, at times helping you catalogue new shipments of tea and organizing them by type, brew time, and temperature.

Sometimes, when the light catches you in just the right way, Suo finds himself arrested by the sight, and it’s times like these when he’d tug you forward, a finger under your chin, his lips gentle on yours till he can taste the tang of your smile.

“I heard you’re quite the lady’s man,” you say, casually one day, brewing a test batch of a new varietal of white tea.

“Oh? And where might you have heard such a thing?” Suo grins, pillowing his chin on the heel of his hand, watching you as he always does.

“Just the baker’s granddaughter — she goes the prep school I do, you know the one in the next neighborhood over?”

“Ah… that.”

Your grin goes lopsided as you carefully blow on the top of your teacup and take a dainty sip.

“You got your hair cut,” he says, smiling as he rakes his eye over the cut of your bob, tickling just beneath your earlobe. You go slightly cross-eyed as you tug a strand down over your forehead before blowing it away again.

“Yeah. Figured it was about time I got a proper haircut.”

“I liked it the way it was before.”

“You did?”

“Sure I did. I’ve always loved everything about you.”

Between you, a single column of steam rises in a slow, lazy spiral from the surface of your half-drunk cup. And like this, Suo thinks you’re still the most beautiful creature he’s ever, ever seen.

Your blush is quick and brilliant. Your eyes cut away; you push your hair behind your ears.

“Don’t changed the subject — so what’s this she said about you not really being one for dating, hm?”

Suo shrugs, “I’m not.”

You quirk an eyebrow.

“Then…” you blink at him, cheeks flushing darker and darker, “what do you call this?”

Suo fixes you with a steady look, and now, his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks to you, because he knows that he’d never let the certainty of you slip away from him again. This time, he knows the words to say — knows without the shadow of a doubt his truth, and yours, too.

“I don’t know what I’d call it but… I know that I’ve never really believed in dating.”

You lick your lips, setting the cup down with a soft clack.

“Then what do you believe in?”

Suo doesn’t miss a beat.

“I suppose… I’ve always just believed in soulmates.”

Your mouth falls open ever so slightly. Suo smiles as he reaches forward to tug the strand of hair free from behind your ear just to run his thumb over the smooth, silken ends.

“And, I’ve always, always believed in love at first sight.”

[waxingrunes]

I understand if you’re too busy to answer this or don’t want to, but i was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling us some of your non-explicit headcanons or just some traits you think wolfstar have in general? Your explicit ones are sososo hot but today I'm feeling low and need some comforting. Yiur blog is just a safe space for me but I totally understand if not! I love your work <3 all my love x

There are so many nondescript hc’s I have that this has the potential to turn into a formal essay with cited sources, so I’ll go for more of a generalised dump of info I have for each in a hope that it lifts some of your fog Anon. Maybe bullet pointed because it’ll be easier to read than my usual untidy form of communication. Hope you feel lighter soon.

Sirius

• will lick a yoghurt pot if there’s no clean spoons. There’s the option to go for fruit instead, but he wants the yoghurt and by god he will get his yoghurt

• is a fucking terrible driver, gives Remus and any passenger white knuckles due to speed issues and not using a lower gear when taking corners

• is however, in complete control when on a motorcycle; very hot, very controlled and will take his passenger’s safety very seriously

• professionally trained in ballroom and ballet, the latter which he is sometimes mocked in jest for, even by Remus, until he one time caught him stretching elegantly on the floor one morning with his upper body laid flat between long, toned, wide spread legs, ‘morning moony’, a healthy blush on his cheeks

• private crier, doesn’t cry easily

• goes quiet when angry as an initial defence but it doesn’t take long for him to start dropping breadcrumbs of sarcastic comments; can also be snobby and bratty, perhaps sometimes will get nasty and direct (bringing up things he shouldn’t to score points in the heat of the moment)

• suffers immeasurable guilt (helped by the point above) but is always masking a weighted feeling of guilt no matter what he’s doing, so much so it’s manifested into quite a serious anxiety problem in the wrong crowds

• he fidgets a lot, not in a chaotic way, just always has to have his fingers busy with something

• likes the smell of gasoline

• once had to talk himself down from throwing a child in a dustbin

• loves the colour red; blood red and cherry red to be precise but secretly loves dark blue even more because it’s what looks most handsome on Remus despite him not wearing it often

• sighs a lot

• pretended he couldn’t speak English to get away with jumping a queue

• hates the smell and taste of liquorice (unless heavily strawberry/cherry/raspberry flavoured)

• on one particular messy night out he got so impatient waiting at the bar, he reached over and grabbed a discarded bottle of alcohol the server had left open and swigged it

• digs his nails into his skin when anxious and is often reminded to relax the tension in his joints

• stargazes often

• once linked his pinky finger with Remus and asked him to pinky promise not to tell anyone what he was about to tell him, since which a tradition of trust was born where Remus will offer his pinky or the last two fingers for Sirius to hold or squeeze when he’s feeling unsure in public, or in any situation where verbal reassurance isn’t appropriate

• gets a weird thrill at the sound of cork popping from a bottle

Remus

• collects beer mats and keeps them in a drawer, thinks about making them into a display

• got tired of kids playing ball against the wall of his place (after repeat offences and him asking very nicely for them to stop) one day so went out, retrieved the ball and threw it so hard against of the cars it set the alarm off

• owner of said car came running out the house and Remus blamed it on the children. Never had the same issue again

• has a wildly sweet tooth and will always drop one or two packets of sugar into any warm beverage

• stares into space and gets involuntarily caught on someone’s face one too many times which makes them uncomfortable from the ‘Death Stare’ phenomenon when in reality, he’s lost in lala land

• can cook, is actually a proficient cook, but will not cook for anyone but Sirius, James or Lily

• will crack his knuckles, wrists and neck absentmindedly, all of which makes his company squirm because it’s often very loud and ‘pop-py’ but Sirius fucking loves it

• stays very calm during an argument but can shout louder than most and when he does, ears ring from the silence that follows

• prefers tea over coffee

• will eat liquorice any time he wants to piss Sirius off

• cries more than Sirius, but still a private crier

• always has to be the old boot in Monopoly

• loves words that are vowel heavy or double voweled because those are the ones where the scraps of Sirius’ lost French accent surface the most

• has a gentle touch, is aware of his size and nature of his lycanthropy, therefore always somewhat reserved

• loves socks, has a collection of ‘dad socks’

• has the messiest writing out of all the Marauders but loves handwritten things, owns three very different fountain pens for very different purposes

• is polite, but as he’s aged doesn’t tend to ‘fake smile’ a lot, feeling no need to fill uncomfortable silences for the sake of others

• has a chair he favours and often dozes off in it. Most of the time waking up to Sirius on top of him

[anigst]

Do you have any fav whumpy shows? Like your go-to rewatches or ones you love to recommend?

ngl a lot of times instead of rewatching a whole episode i just go throu my blog for a daily dose of whump😂

But here's a link to the same anime list i always recommend.. there isnt much to add to it but i really love Detective Conan whump too!!! here's whump list. sometimes i rewatch the movies (Crossroad in the Ancient Capital is one of my favs) or pick a random ep from the list to rewatch haha

there're more recommendations in my recs tag

as for non anime shows i rewatch often:

One Ordinary Day

Fabricated City (2017): seriously ji chang wook whump is the best whump

The Worst of Evil

L.U.C.A: The Beginning (the whump in the early episodes is 10/10)

The Merciless (2017): ahem..im siwan is a pretty crier (゜-゜)(。_。)

and ofc how could i forget: Prodigal Son

[lemon-muncher]

I was thinking some Shalnark x Dom reader? The gender and particular flavour is up to you :3 whether you're in the mood for sadism, bondage, pet play, whatever really. I just want to make him whine and feel so good he cries ✨😌

I LOVE HIM SO MUCH GOOD LORD SOMEONE HOLD ME BACK FROM HIM

Doing this headcanon style so I can add a bunch of stuff for him <3

I'll be keeping this gender neutral and have separate mini headcanons in some of them for female and male genitalia :]

Shalnark is definitely a crier. As much as he hates to admit it, the second he gets the tiniest bit overwhelmed, his eyes water like crazy.

Considering he's a manipulator, both as a person and as a nen user, giving up control isn't something he's use to. But the second his partner rips the control from under his feet, he's at their mercy without complaint.

Definitely a switch... Like I said, he's a manipulator and needs control to do pretty much anything but he finds it nice to let o of all the stress every once in a while.

He's kinky... THERE I SAID IT!!! He may have a cute and innocent face but the things he searches on his phone will get him sent to horny jail! Dude as 50 taps open dedicated to porn and twitter threads of some of the most foul things. I'm talking the hub, X Videos, probably some sketchy furry roleplay is mixed in there too.

Lets get into some of the specifics:

Chocking: He has the biggest turn on for breath play and he has ZERO clue where it came from... Whether you're riding him, plowing into him from behind, or forcing his head deeper into you sex, if you restrict his breathing in anyway, his eyes are immediately rolling back.

Hair Pulling: Another one that'll get his eyes rolling. He has the prettiest blonde hair and who wouldn't take the opportunity to pull him up by it. He has a really sensitive scalp so the slightest tug will have him yelping. If you snuggle after the deed, and you scratch his head he'll quite literally purr

Impact Play: I have nothing to say about this just know it's on my mind...

Roleplay: Yeah...

Feminization: Put this man in a pink frilly skirt! Call him princess and throw some thigh highs on him. Another one of his kinks that he randomly developed. Probably started from a twitter video to be honest. But he loves if you dress him up all nice and pretty and takes him out. Call him 'your girl' or 'princess' out in public and he'll pull you to a nearby alleyway.

Exhibitionism: Will have sex with you anywhere. And I mean ANYWHERE. The alleyway I mentioned, yeah, that's a frequent quicky spot for you guys. He already has to be careful about being spotted since he's a criminal but the thought of being spotted in such a vulnerable position has his holding back moans

Voyeurism: I guess you could call watching your own sex tapes voyeurism... But he always has his phone recording during sessions between the two of you. Even if its just making out, he has it on tape. If either of you are away on a mission and he's horny, he's going through his achieves of the two of you.

Mommy/Daddy Kink: He randomly whined mommy/daddy while you fucked him and quite literally caused you to freeze in place. Not cause it's a bad thing but because he pulled that shit straight out of his ass and surprised the both of you. Wants to be babied from his mommy/daddy but also wants his back blown out by them.

Anal Play/Pegging: This man thrives off of prostate orgasm. Loves the feeling of having endless orgasms without spilling a drop of cum. Whether it's your fingers, tongue, buttplug, or cock/strap-on, he'll end up shivering from it the feeling of being full. I'd like to think he sent you a porn link of anal play on 'accident' just to give you the hint of what he wants.

[ironwoman359]

Our Own Villain Ch. 9

Prologue, Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6, Ch.7, Ch.8, Ch.9, Ch.10

Word Count: 5,570

Chapter Summary: Everything Roman has worked for threatens to crumble around him as Logan puts his plan to save his friends into motion.

Pairings: Logicality, could be read as romantic or platonic, platonic Moxiety

Chapter Warnings: Anxiety, guilt, isolation and anger, overworking, fantasy violence, just generally unhealthy thought patterns going on for Roman.

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

AN: IT'S HERE! As always, I cannot post this story without acknowledging the incredible @theinvisiblespoon, who helped me edit this and resulted in over 400 extra words of flavor for this chapter. They're the absolute best! Also, shout out to @teacupfulofstarshine for helping me get over some writers block with a few of these passages, she's an absolute darling <3

— — —

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

The captain of the guard bowed low before Roman, a faint tremor in his posture betraying his nerves.

“I’ve had my men up all night, searching the city from top to bottom,” the captain continued, “but there’s been no sign of the fugitive.” 

The man kept his head low, glancing tentatively up at Roman who paced back and forth across the floor of the throne room, arms crossed across his chest. He barely noticed the captain’s discomfort, lost entirely in thought. 

Where could Logan be? There was no way he could have left the Imagination, so how had the guards not found him yet? Roman supposed he could have snuck out of the city somehow, but there was nothing for him out there but wilderness, and it was cruel, even for Logan, to run away without even trying to rescue Patton and Virgil. No, he had to be hidden somewhere, somewhere that he thought was clever enough to escape Roman’s notice. 

“Keep searching, Captain,” he ordered. “He must be somewhere in the city. Perhaps he has enlisted the help of one of the townspeople and is being kept out of sight. Issue a decree that anyone found to be harboring criminals will face charges of treason. I want every-”

“Your Highness!” a new guard burst into the room, and Roman spun around with a glare. 

“What is it now? Are you men so utterly incompetent that you’re incapable of following the most simple of commands? I said that I was not to be disturbed!”

“It’s just, your highness,” the guard stammered, cowering in the face of Roman’s rage. “There’s an attack at the gates–” 

“What on earth makes you think I care about the gates right now?” Roman exclaimed. “There is a traitor loose in the city, corrupting the people and conspiring against me. Nothing at the gates could possibly be more important than finding–”

A roar pierced the air, and Roman went rigid, his hand automatically gripping the hilt of his sword. 

“Dragon Witch,” he hissed, and the guard nodded frantically. 

“She was spotted flying down from the mountains, your highness. The gate guard sent me to warn of her attack.” 

Roman slammed his fist down on the table. 

“Of course she would strike now, when we are distracted and unprepared. Captain, send criers through the streets to order your men to mobilize at the main gate. And bring me my armor! We must not let her take the city!” 

The soldiers scrambled from the room, and for a moment, Roman stood alone. After everything he’d done, everything he’d worked for, he now was faced with this. His oldest and strongest enemy, coming to challenge him when he was at his weakest. Did she think he would simply cave before her might? He was Roman, Prince of the Imagination, Thomas’s Hero, the last bastion of goodness left for the entire mindscape. He wouldn’t be overthrown by a mere construct. He laughed to himself. No one was around to hear it.

The next several minutes were a flurry of activity, and soon Roman was on his horse, his silver breastplate glinting in the first red rays of sunrise poking over the horizon as he cantered through the city streets.  

The thought of Logan somehow escaping the city during the battle briefly crossed his mind, but he pushed the idea away. They would find the logical side eventually; after all, there was nowhere for him to run. 

Outside the city wall, the Dragon Witch let out another roar, and Roman urged his horse forward, drawing his sword. 

Right now, Logan didn’t matter. 

What did matter was making sure that his realm did not fall. He was Roman, Creativity, creator of this realm and Prince of the mindscape. He was a hero, the only hero Thomas had left after all the others had fallen prey to the wicked machinations of those accursed Dark Sides. 

And nothing, not the others, not the Dragon Witch, nothing, was going to stand in his way.

— — — 

Screams rang out through the streets as another of the Dragon Witch’s roars shook the city. Seth pressed himself up against the wall of the alleyway, peering out from behind a corner. The palace drawbridge lowered and Prince Roman and his guards in full armor appeared. The thunder of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone and with the blare of the soldiers’ warhorns echoed all around Seth, and he ducked out of the way as the battalion rode past his hiding spot. 

The market was quickly emptying as merchants and shoppers fled the streets, and he intended to take full advantage of the chaos. Now that he had secured a place by the square, he hoped to pilfer enough foodstuffs from the merchants to be set for at least a week. Seth waited until the last terrified shopkeeper had disappeared from sight, then he crept out from the alleyway into the square. 

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly pulled him back into the shadows. He spun with a cry, his fists up in an instant ready to strike, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw who had attacked him. 

“Maddie?”

“We had a deal, Seth,” the girl said, glaring at him. 

“But I saw you…the Arachnids…”

“Show me the servant’s entrance, please,” Maddie interrupted, folding her arms. 

“What, now? We’re in the middle of a siege! Come on, let’s comb through the market and see if we can get any–” 

“Seth, if you don’t show me that servant’s entrance right now, I will ensure that you spend every waking moment for the rest of your life fighting tooth and nail for that market spot. I said it was yours once you showed me the entrance, and unless you take me right this second–” 

“Okay, okay!” Seth said, raising his hands in surrender. “Sheesh, Maddie, what’s gotten into you?” 

“It is vitally important that I gain access to the palace. The reason why doesn’t concern you,” Maddie said as Seth led her up the street towards the palace walls. 

Luckily, the entire city guard had ridden out to the gates with the Prince to fight the Dragon Witch, and the barred gate where Seth met his contact on the palace staff stood unprotected. 

“There’s a door on the other side of the garden that the servants use,” he said, pointing through the courtyard. “Though I don’t know why that would matter to you, it’s not like you could get in. There are easier places to steal food from, especially since the city is under attack right now?” 

Maddie didn’t bother answering, she just pushed past him and pulled experimentally on the gate. It was locked and didn’t budge, but she didn’t seem put off by that fact. 

“Thank you, Seth. Our deal is complete. The spot by the market is yours. Now, I suggest you take cover; as you so aptly pointed out, the city is under attack.” 

“What about you?” Seth asked.

“I have something I need to do,” Maddie answered, pulling a small glass vial from her dress pocket. She uncorked the bottle and poured a few drops of its contents on the gate’s lock, and Seth stared in awe as the metal melted away like ice on a summer’s day. 

“Now go,” Maddie ordered. “I’ll explain later…if we ever manage to resolve this whole ordeal.” 

Part of Seth wanted to stay and see what on earth the girl was up to, but just then the very sky seemed to explode, bright purple lightning and blue streaks of light flashing all around as the ground shook. Seth became overwhelmed with nausea, and he fell to his knees, retching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maddie still standing, seemingly unaffected by whatever strange spell had caused the world to fall apart around them. He tried to call out to her, but she slipped through the gate and disappeared into the palace grounds before he could force his mouth to form words.

As soon as it began, the lightning stopped, and after a moment of gasping, Seth regained his bearings. He looked at the open palace gate, but then another roar rang out, and he turned and ran back through the city towards his new market spot. Maybe after he scavenged what food he could, he’d risk the gangs and take cover in the sewers until this was all over. Whatever had Maddie acting all weird, he didn’t want to know about it. He’d have a hard enough time surviving the Red Sun as it was. 

The Dragon Witch’s roar echoed through the streets and Seth stumbled as he skidded around a corner. 

When would this madness end?

— — — 

“Prince Roman!” the Dragon Witch called out, her voice reverberating through the city. “Show yourself and face me!” 

She hurled a spell at the city walls, and they buckled and folded beneath the weight of her magic. She stretched out her wings and roared, the very sound of her fury sending a squad of guards who were approaching to draw back in fear. A few of the gate guards tried to stand their ground, but she batted them away easily with a swing of her tail. 

Slowly, she stalked into the city, giving the peasants in the streets plenty of time to run screaming from her mighty presence. The slower and more dramatic she was in her approach, the more time it would give Prince Roman to muster his entire guard and ride out to face her. 

After a few minutes of her lazy destruction, the sound of battle horns rang out in the distance, and the Dragon Witch smiled. Looking up, she caught sight of Prince Roman’s black and red banner fluttering in the breeze, signaling that her quarry was coming within her grasp.

“Ready, little hero?” she asked quietly. She felt the grip of the human sitting on her back tighten. 

“As I’ll ever be,” came the answer, and the Dragon Witch chuckled. 

“Don’t worry,” she reassured. “Just stick to the script we practiced and you’ll be fine.” 

Prince Roman came into view then, and she had to give him credit where it was due. Even in this mindset, when the very fabric of her reality was changed because of his pain and anger and frustration, he was personally leading the charge against her. How many tyrant kings would send their armies out to die in a battle that they wouldn’t dare to risk themselves?

He wants so badly to be good, she thought as the prince stared up at her, his face twisted in a look of disgust. Not just good. Perfect. If only he could see the truth. 

“So it comes down to this!” Roman called up in a loud, clear voice. “I have to admit, I didn’t think you capable of this level of betrayal, Logan.”

He spat the name out like it was poison, and the Dragon Witch felt her passenger tense. 

You can do this, little hero, she thought. Save us all. 

“Prince Roman!” Logan’s voice was firm and unwavering, and the Dragon Witch couldn’t help the small swell of pride she felt at the sound. 

“Release your prisoners and surrender, or see your realm destroyed!” 

— — — 

Roman stared up in disbelief as the Dragon Witch sneered down at him. Of all the possible outcomes, of all the ways that he’d expected a confrontation with the last remaining free Light Side to go, he’d never expected this. 

Logan sat on the Dragon Witch’s back, staring down at Roman with a determined expression on his face. He looked almost comical, in his simple polo shirt, tie, and glasses while riding atop such a majestic and mighty beast, but Roman wasn’t in the mood to find humor in the situation. 

“Release my prisoners?” Roman repeated. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, we will destroy the realm,” Logan repeated simply. 

“If you think that I and my forces won’t be able to defeat the Dragon Witch before she destroys the city, let alone the realm, then you’re sorely mistaken.” 

Logan frowned, tilting his head. 

“You would risk your entire world’s existence, rather than accept defeat?”

“I’ve not been defeated yet!” Roman shot back. “Besides, I made this world. If it is destroyed, then I will simply make it again. Your threat is meaningless!”

“And the lives of the people living in it?” Logan demanded. “Are they meaningless too?”

Roman opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, the world split apart. Purple lightning filled the sky, and he let out a cry of anguish as a wave of emotion slammed into the walls he’d placed up between his realm and Thomas. 

There was the same fear and anxiety from Virgil as there had been before, but there was also sadness, doubt, and guilt, manifesting in bright blue flashes throughout the storm. The guilt was somehow even more debilitating than the fear, and as he fought to keep the emotions from reaching Thomas, he could feel his grip on the realm itself slipping. 

No… he thought, desperately trying to hold on to his composure. No, no, no… 

— — — 

It has to be perfect. If it’s not perfect, then I’m just a fraud, I’ve basically been lying to my fans this entire time, and I can’t let that be true, I won’t let them down like that, it has to be perfect.

Thomas let out a gasp as his creative flow slammed to a halt, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread. 

“It will be good enough,” he said aloud to his empty room, but the swirling thoughts of dread and despair only grew stronger. 

But what if it isn’t? What if you’ll never make anything worth watching again and all the sacrifices you’ve made, all the friendships you’ve harmed along the way, all of that will have been for nothing? Your dreams will never come true and your friends will all abandon you. You’ve never really been that good a person anyway, why on earth would they stay? You’ll end up all alone for the rest of your life, and it will be your fault.

“What is going on?” 

Thomas started to reach out for his sides, but he wasn’t sure who exactly to summon. Who could be responsible for this type of thinking? He’d never felt like this before, as though his thoughts were being forcibly pulled out of his control, except…

Except for that time when Virgil had ducked out. He hadn’t been as aware of it, but his thoughts had felt just like this: foreign and strange and fully divorced from what he was directly experiencing.

Thomas frowned, and decided that the best thing to do would be to summon all the sides together. He started to reach out with his mind, but before he could contact anyone specific, somebody appeared in the corner of his vision. 

Unfortunately, it was the last side he wanted to see. 

“Janus?” he asked. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“I think you should take a break, Thomas,” Janus said quietly. “Put the laptop away and try to get some rest.”

“What? No,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “I need to keep working on this, it’s my best idea ever. It could completely change the course of my creative career, I just have to get these feelings under control and then I’ll–” 

“Thomas,” Janus interrupted sharply. “You’ve been working for fifteen hours straight.” 

Thomas glanced at the time on his laptop and was startled to see that Janus was right; it was nearly three in the morning, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d stopped to take a break. 

“You need to stop,” Janus said, his voice firm. “Your magnum opus can wait until tomorrow.” 

“I guess…” Thomas said slowly. “But what’s going on with the others? I felt…strange, just now.” 

“Get some sleep,” Janus said. “If everything goes right, you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

Thomas frowned, giving Janus a skeptical look. 

“Is that my Deceitful side lying to me, or is it the truth?”

“At the end of the day, does that really matter?” Janus asked with a tight smile. “Either way, you need the rest.” 

“I suppose,” Thomas said, stifling a yawn even as he spoke. 

Janus watched as he closed his laptop and got up, a strange expression on his face. Thomas tried not to pay him much attention, quickly swapping his jeans out for some pajama pants before falling into bed. 

“Summon the others tomorrow,” Janus said as Thomas closed his eyes. “By then, they should have things straightened out.”

Thomas was already drifting off, and he felt more than heard Janus’s final words. 

“I hope.”

— — — 

Roman was losing his control. He looked up, and he could see the imagination around him beginning to crumble away. He noticed bits and pieces from his room, the bright white of his bedspread, the shine of the lights around his mirror, the blood red of his sash where he’d thrown it on the floor. The fantasy around him– his soldiers, his city, the Dragon Witch, even Logan himself– it was all flickering in and out of existence as the mental barrage continued. 

“NO!” 

Roman stopped trying to channel the emotions away and instead closed his eyes and pushed, forcing his mental walls back up, stronger and better than before. 

“You won’t take this from me!”  

He opened his eyes, only to see that the outburst of energy had reverted the Dragon Witch into her human form. She stood before him, leaning heavily against her magic staff, Logan now on his hands and knees at her side. Roman drew his sword, pointing it at the pair with a shaking hand. 

“You. Can’t. Take this from me!” 

Logan’s entire body was trembling, but he looked up and met Roman’s gaze, glaring at him even as a tear rolled down his cheek.

“You’re insane,” he whispered. 

Roman let out a bitter, hollow laugh.

“If you just now figured that out, then you’re…” he trailed off, looking down at the shaking side. 

He had begun to fade away as Roman’s control over the imagination loosened, but he was fully solid again now. His breath was ragged and his skin was pale, as though he’d just attempted to run a marathon while running a fever.  

“You’re…not part of this realm,” Roman said slowly. “You’re part of Thomas. You shouldn’t have disappeared.” 

Logan still looked ill, but at Roman’s words he pushed himself to his feet. 

“What was that word he used?” Logan asked, looking over at the Dragon Witch, and a small, triumphant smile spread across his face as he looked back to Roman. “Checkmate.”

Roman’s eyes widened, then the Dragon Witch lashed out suddenly, her staff glowing as she swung it towards him in a wide arc. Roman threw his sword up and blocked her strike, and her spell went ricocheting off through the city.

For a moment, all his attention was on the fight, on blocking and parrying and counter attacking, but he’d sparred with the Dragon Witch dozens of times, in both of her forms. By the third strike from the witch, he’d settled into a familiar rhythm, and turned his attention back to Logan…or what he’d thought was Logan.

“Who are you?” he shrieked. “You can’t be him! He shouldn’t have disappeared! So you must be–” 

“Meaningless?” asked a voice he’d never heard before.

Roman pushed the Dragon Witch away and took a step back, staring in disbelief as Logan’s form began to flicker, just like the rest of the imagination had, just like all the other characters Roman had designed to fill his vast fantasy world had done when he was losing his control over the scene. But he was back in control now; this shifting had another cause. He’d barely had enough time to form the thought before the image of Logan was gone. 

In his place stood a barefoot girl in a tattered dress, her hair a wild mass of curls and her fists clenched at her sides. She looked somehow…familiar, and Roman tilted his head. 

“Do I know you?” 

The girl didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He remembered now, for the longer he looked at her the more he recognized where she’d come from. When he’d first created the town surrounding the castle, he’d decided it needed citizens to make it feel more lived in. He’d made soldiers, peasants, shopkeepers, tradesmen and artisans, and then, to make the place more realistic, he’d made a handful of street urchins. 

He’d scarcely given the creations any thought after forming them and setting them loose in the city, and why would he? They weren’t meant to be important; the girl had no family, no backstory, no real role to play in his realm. So how on earth had she ended up here, fighting alongside the Dragon Witch and impersonating one of Thomas’s sides?

She looked up at him and he could see fear in her eyes, but there was a quiet strength too. The girl folded her arms and took a step towards him, and the Dragon Witch held out an arm, as if to shield her.

“Careful, little hero,”she murmured, and Roman looked back and forth between the two in disbelief. The girl ignored the witch and took another step, looking up at Roman with a determined expression.

“Like I said,” she repeated. “Checkmate.”

Roman turned and ran, knowing even as he did so that he’d never make it back to the palace in time. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should have known something was wrong! Why else would the Dragon Witch attack now when she’d never attacked during the Red Sun before? Why else, except to draw him and all his guards away from the palace, leaving the castle vulnerable to an unseen enemy, a more crafty enemy… 

A shadow fell over him, and he glanced up as he ran to see the witch in her dragon form flying along above him, the little girl on her back once more. She quickly overtook him, and landed in the market square, spreading her wings out and blocking his path to the castle. 

“You’re too late, Prince Roman,” the Dragon Witch declared.

“I’ve defeated you before,” Roman cried, shifting into a fighting stance. “I can defeat you again!”

“You can defeat me all you like,” the Dragon Witch replied, her mocking voice echoing his own inner thoughts. “But you’ll never be able to outsmart him.” 

— — — 

Logan had no idea what was causing Roman’s realm to fall apart, but he was exceptionally grateful for it. 

The few remaining guards inside the castle were too overwhelmed by the effects of their very fabric of reality unraveling around them to notice a small girl running through the corridors searching for the dungeons. 

He found the correct door after only a few minutes of searching; Roman’s penchant for the dramatic meant the one door that very obviously looked as though it led to a dungeon did in fact lead to a dungeon, and he pulled the vial of acid the Dragon Witch had given him out of his pocket. Technically, the Dragon Witch had described the liquid inside as a magical potion that would dissolve any substance besides its own container, but the ‘potion’ was functionally identical to a freakishly effective vial of hydrochloric acid. 

Tomato, Solanum lycopersicum, Logan thought as he poured a few drops onto the door handle of the dungeon. After a moment of sizzling, the lock dissolved away and he pushed the door open. 

The room was dark, faint torchlight flickering ominously off the stone walls. Six cells lined the room, and the two at the end of the row were occupied. 

“Patton?” he called. “Virgil?” 

The prisoners looked up, and relief flooded through him when he saw their faces. 

“Maddie?” Patton cried, jumping to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Who is that?” Virgil whispered to Patton, but Logan ignored the question. 

“Not Maddie,” he said breathlessly. “It’s me.” 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another vial, downing its contents in a single gulp. A strange tingling sensation enveloped his body, and he had to admit that in this case, he didn’t have a scientific explanation for the shapeshifting potion that the Dragon Witch had given him.

“Logan?” Virgil asked in disbelief. 

“Watch your hands,” Logan said, stepping forward to pour the remainder of the acid on the locks on their cell doors. 

“I knew you’d figure something out,” Patton said, his eyes shining with pride. “I just knew it.” 

In a moment, both cells were open, and Patton rushed out, pulling Logan and Virgil both into a bone crushing hug. For once, Logan didn’t think, didn’t analyze or worry, he just wrapped his arms around his friends and let himself slump into them. 

They were all safe, and they were all together. For one, shining moment, that was all that mattered.

“Are the two of you alright?” he asked when he eventually pulled back. “You’re not injured, are you?”

Patton shook his head. 

“We’re fine, Logan,” he said, and Virgil nodded in agreement. 

“My head will be a bit sore for a few days, but I’ll live. What about you? We heard the Dragon Witch attacking…” 

“I’m fine,” Logan reassured him. “In fact, the Dragon Witch attack is my own doing.”

“What?” Virgil exclaimed. 

“The potion…” Patton said, his eyes widening. “That’s where you got that potion that made you look like Maddie, isn’t it?” 

“Technically, the potion made me look like myself, as it was an antidote to the spell that she cast to make me look like Maddie–” 

“Hang on, where is Maddie?” Patton interrupted. 

“She’s with the Dragon Witch…pretending to be me.” Patton’s jaw dropped open, and Logan grimaced. “I know! I tried to tell her that it would be safer if she stayed behind in the cave, but she insisted. She said that the distraction would hold Roman’s attention for longer if I appeared to be aiding the Dragon Witch directly in her assault.”

“Back up,” Virgil said, holding up his hands. “You let the Dragon Witch cast a spell on you?” 

“She is Roman’s biggest villain,” Logan said simply. “Asking her to help us defeat him was the only logical choice left.”

“To be fair,” Patton admitted, “It’s not that much crazier than what we tried to do.” 

Logan frowned. 

“What you tried to do?” 

“We’ll tell you on the way out,” Virgil said. “Right now, we should move, before the guards come back.” 

Logan nodded, and the three turned and began making their way out of the dungeon. 

“Remember what happened on the bridge?” Patton asked as they climbed the stairs, and Logan nodded. “Well, I had a feeling that it wasn’t Roman who caused it…I thought it might have been Virgil. And it turns out I was right!” 

“You caused the Imagination to fall apart?” Logan asked, looking back at Virgil. “How?”

Virgil shrugged.

“I’m not exactly sure. I had an overload of anxiety, but something was blocking me from channeling it away the way I normally do.” 

“Roman’s cutting off our access to Thomas,” Patton added. “I think that’s also why we can’t sink out. Reach out for him now; you can’t feel him, can you?” 

They’d reached the top of the stairs, and Logan paused. Normally, he was at least subconsciously aware of whatever external stimuli Thomas was experiencing, so that he could filter through the information and assist with decision making. He’d been so distracted by the quest to save Virgil and Patton that he hadn’t even noticed the lack of that awareness.

“I can’t,” he said aloud, and Patton nodded. 

“I can’t either. Whatever Roman’s done, it’s making him our only access point to Thomas. So we’ve been waiting for the right time to try overloading that access point.” 

“When we heard the Dragon Witch attacking, we thought it would be our best shot,” Virgil said. “And for a minute there I thought we would actually do it, but just before we could break through, the wall went back up again. Somehow, Roman was still stronger than the two of us put together.”

“Perhaps…” Logan mused. “But nonetheless, the two of you did have a strong effect on the Imagination. I wonder…would it be successful if all three of us tried to breach that barrier?” 

As they spoke, Logan led them outside and through the palace gardens to the servants’ gate in the side of the wall. The three stepped out onto the street, and Virgil looked around hesitantly. 

“So…now what?” he asked. 

Logan opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a familiar roar sounding from the market square. He grimaced, and looked back at his companions.

“Our original plan was to try and sneak out of the city. But simply escaping from Roman isn’t actually going to solve this problem.” 

Patton glanced at Virgil, and at a small tilt of the anxious side’s head, he locked eyes with Logan and nodded. 

“You’re right,” he said firmly. “This whole thing happened because we’ve been ignoring this problem. The only way we’re going to bring an end to this is if we confront it head on.”

“Guess we’ll get a chance to test out your hypothesis, Logan,” Virgil added as they hurried towards the square.  

“If it comes to that,” Logan agreed. “I do still hope that we’ll be able to use reason with Roman, though after all we’ve done to reach this point, I don’t know if that will be effective.” 

“Probably not,” Patton said quietly, and Logan glanced at him. 

Patton met his eyes for a moment, and Logan was surprised at the amount of melancholy he saw there. All through their ordeal, Patton had maintained a level of optimism that bordered on recklessness. As much as Logan had found that to be unrealistic, he also had relied on it for strength more than he’d realized. That Roman had somehow managed to dampen that was almost more offensive than the fact that he’d locked Patton and Virgil up.

Before Logan could think of an appropriate response, the trio rounded the corner into the square, then immediately skidded to a halt. Patton let out a gasp and Virgil swore under his breath; all Logan could do was stand there blankly and take in the scene.

Guards in full regalia lined the square, blocking off every possible avenue of escape. The Dragon Witch lay sprawled out on the ground, a deep wound in her side causing her breath to come in quick, pained gasps. 

Roman stood over her fallen body, and the red sunlight shining down on his silver breastplate made it look as if he was bathed in blood. His face was twisted in a terrible mix of fury and triumph, and he brandished his sword at his defeated foe, as though daring her to stand and challenge him again. 

She was in her dragon form, but as her wound spilled blood down onto the cobblestones, that body fizzled away, revealing the humanoid woman Logan had first met outside her lair. Her robes were torn and bloody and her face was deathly pale, but her eyes still blazed with a defiant fire as she stared up at her opponent.

“Any final words, Witch?” Roman asked in a steely voice.  

The Dragon Witch opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a high pitched cry rang out through the square.

“Stay back!” 

Maddie darted forward, putting herself between Roman and the witch’s body, gripping Dragon Witch’s staff tightly in both hands. The thing was nearly twice her height and she brandished it clumsily, but Roman still paused in his advance. 

“Out of my way, girl,” he said, but Maddie shook her head.

“I said back!” she insisted, shaking the staff towards him. 

“Run along now, little hero,” the Dragon Witch coughed, reaching weakly towards the girl as if to pull her back. “Your part is done.” 

Maddie shook her head again, and Roman frowned. 

“I won’t tell you again. Stand. Down,” he said coldly. 

Maddie shifted her feet and gripped the staff more tightly, but she did not move, and Roman sighed, raising his sword. 

“Enough!” Logan shouted before he could bring the blade down.

Roman looked up, his eyes flashing with hatred as they landed on his three fellow sides. Logan’s confidence faltered as the full force of that glare landed on him and he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. 

What if it doesn’t work? What if it’s not enough? I have no more tricks up my sleeve…if this plan fails, then what are we going to do?

Logan’s racing thoughts were pulled to a stop with a sudden, simple touch. He looked down and saw that Patton had stepped forward and intertwined their fingers. The moral side glanced up at him and nodded, a slight waver in his smile the only sign betraying his own nerves. Virgil stepped up beside them, locking eyes with Logan as he wordlessly took Patton’s other hand. An understanding passed between them, and Logan smiled, giving Patton’s hand an encouraging squeeze. He looked back to the square, and took a deep breath.“Enough, Roman!” he repeated, his voice steady and strong. “This ends now!” 

— — —

AN: So I know that LAST time I updated I said I wanted to update the fic more and then almost 5 years passed, but I can say with confidence that THIS YEAR chapter 10 at least will be released, if not the entire end of the fic (I won't actually know whether the conclusion takes one or two chapters to write until I, you know, write it, but it's outlined, I promise). I've been trying to finish this story for so long, and I know it looks like nothing happened between these updates, but rest assured, I thought about this story and how much I wanted to finish it often during these past few years. Thank you so much for being patient with me, and thank you to anyone who still has stuck around to read this, even after all this time. I love each and every one of y'all <3

(If you were on the Our Own Villain taglist, I will be tagging you in a reblog, tagging has changed so much in four years that my taglist copy-paste doesn't even work anymore)

[skittlewrites]

LU Boys Headcanons

Hey! I have some headcanons that I'd like to share, and most of these will make, at the very least, brief appearances in my stories. Some of the boys have more than others, but oh well.

To start us off, we have Wind!

-He certainly looks small and sweet, but he's a terror when he's angry.

-He's super protective of those he claims as family.

-The wind reacts to his emotions and feelings without prompting. It has a mind of its own when it comes to its champion.

-His hair is bleached blonde from all of the time he spends out on the ocean (He despises the cap of the hero's clothes).

-He can dual wield! I feel like this would be very fitting for him (This has made an appearance in ATS as well :) ).

-Full name is Link Aalto (Aalto is wave of water in Finnish)

More under the cut!

Wild

-He's super good with animals. Small, large, feral, domesticated, anything really. He understands them to a certain extent, and they generally understand him as well.

Legend

-He's one of the more graceful ones in the group, but the most graceful.

-Doesn't really have an issue with Hylia, and is a fan of Din and Nayru (During the Oracle of Ages/Seasons, he made good friends with them both, imo).

Time

*shrugs* nothing yet

Hyrule

*shrugs* nothing yet here either

Twilight

-Country accent 100%. When they're in his Hyrule, it gets so crazy thick and the others tease him relentlessly about it.

-Loves pumpkins. As Ordons' main crop, he's a huge fan of all things pumpkin, and he and Sky trade recipes.

-Best friends with Dusk, evolved into a relationship.

-Loves to gossip with Warriors.

Four

-Speaks the same dialect of Hylian that Sky does (Ancient Hylian), so they tend to gravitate to each other when they get frustrated or overwhelmed.

-Has a bit of an accent compared to the others, but its nowhere near as prominent as Sky's.

Sky

-He's the most graceful in the group. His fighting looks very similar to dancing in the sense that its fluid and smooth.

-He dances with Fi. During his quest and once Sun was stuck in the crystal, Fi would occasionally force him to slow down and stop pushing himself so hard. They would dance together, Fi teaching Sky some of her favorite dances, and Sky teaching her Skyloftian dances in return. They both loved it.

-Sky hasn't danced since Fi returned to the Sword.

-Sky has a prominent accent. In my head, it sounds kind of like Fi when she speaks in-game, melodious, smooth, and ancient.

-His ears are very expressive. They move with his expressions. Skyloftians also have much better hearing than other Hylians. This comes from spending so much time on their Loftwings, and the necessity of hearing others flying with them, and needing to be aware of Skytails.

-Sky will startle and/or spook easily, but he doesn't get genuinely terrified very often at all. There's only a few things that will truly scare him.

-He's really good with anything with wings, and cats. Since Remlits don't exist outside of his era, this translates over to cats imo.

-Uses a lot of statistics and probabilities. This carries over from Fi, and he's aware that he does it, but tries not to most of the time (Sun thinks its adorable).

-His anger is quiet. He doesn't typically yell, but he gives off an entirely different vibe when he's angry. Depending on the situation, he can sometimes be quick to frustration, but he'd never take it out on anyone except himself.

-Speaking of, he feels like most things are his fault. Huge guilt complex. Sun and Groose hate that he feels this way, but despite their best efforts, he finds a way to blame himself for most things. :(

-He's a silent crier. He's always been on the quieter end, and he doesn't like to bother people when he's overwhelmed or upset.

-He's very light. I feel like most of Sky's 'bulk' comes from his layers. Living in the sky, the nights must be frigid, and the wind certainly doesn't do anything to help. So, he wears multiple layers, all Skyloftians do. I fee like Skyloftians might have a different bone structure than other Hylians, especially as the Loftwings carry them around, and can catch them out of freefall so easily.

Warriors

-Loves pumpkin soup. Had some when he was on Skyloft in the War of Eras, and has wanted more ever since.

-He knows Fi fairly well, having spent so much time with her during the war. He and Sky sometimes talk about her for hours at a time.

-Gossips with Twilight.

-He can understand a good deal of Ancient Hylian, but not as much or as well as Four can.

-He struggles on and off with speaking. Proxi hangs around him more often than not, and she'll help out when he needs it.

Good grief, I didn't realize how much typing this would be. But regardless, here you have it! Sky's got more than the others because I love him and I have a lot of Feelings about him. I know that Time and Hyrule have nothing, but I don't know their characters very well, so I just don't know what to think about them. Lol.

Have a good day!

[ourloveisforthelovely]

The Words "Best Friends" Become Redefined. Part 2

Regulus Black AU

Summary: You had been Regulus’ friend since childhood and now his mistress. The war had changed many things, Regulus among them. Now its time to decide if you should put your self-worth over missing someone who was gone.  

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader

Rating: M- smut

Song in Chapter: King of Wishful Thinking by Go West 

Link to Part 1 

______

I'll get over you, I know I will. I'll pretend my ship's not sinking and I'll tell myself I'm over you. 'Cause I'm the king of wishful thinking.

Your eyes snapped open as the song on the radio began to register in your sleep-deprived mind. Groaning, you sat up and threw a shoe at the radio knocking it off of your chest of drawers. Anything about being “the queen of wishful thinking” made you want to barf.

It had been several weeks since the night at the pub and you were no closer to getting over Regulus than you were on day one. Every day seemed to be the same, emotionally. You would wake up, cry a little, get mad at yourself for being sad (because you were right and he was wrong), then get up and force yourself to put on a happy face.

Regulus wasn’t helping any matters by sending you letters every single day. He had sent you the emerald bracelet that you returned several times before you finally gave up and just kept it. When it came to the letters, you just gave them to Sirius to do whatever he wanted with them.

Sirius

You were more thankful than ever for your friendship with the elder Black brother. He was always a willing ear when you needed to rant. Sirius also took extra care to not tell Remus anything about the true nature of your relationship with Regulus. For all that Remus knew, in your mind, was your friendship with Regulus had ended and you were being a royal grouch about it.

Sighing, your mind went to the previous night when you were once again raging about Regulus to Sirius.

“I’m a real idiot, Sirius. I go around throwing away perfectly good boyfriends. Well, I don’t know if he considered himself my boyfriend but god damn it…Regulus is such a freaking jerk!”

Sirius sat on the couch watching.

“You’re still wearing his ring.”

You looked down at your hand. The ring that Regulus had given you years ago was still sitting proudly on your finger.

“I know that I am! I am a mess, Sirius. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. All I want to do is cry. You know me, I’m not a crier! I can handle a crisis!”

Sirius smirked.

“A trait that you share with your brother so well…look, love, just because you love him doesn’t mean he’s good for you…hey look at me being the responsible one. Normally that’s your brother's job”

You groaned dramatically before sitting down.

“I know you are right but I don’t want to accept it. I am having a shit time at just throwing away a ten-year friendship and slight love affair. Why wasn’t I good enough for Regulus to fight for? Why couldn’t he say no to your family’s psycho ways and fight for me? Am I not…”

Sirius held a hand up.

“I’m just going to stop you right there, Y/n. You are more than good enough! You have always been good enough! Personally, I think that you are too good for the bum. Now come with me, we are going to do something. I want no complaining.”

You reluctantly followed Sirius into your bedroom. He led you to your full-sized mirror and put you in front of it.

“Now I want you to stand here, look at yourself, and tell me some of your best qualities.”

You gave your friend a frown only to earn a slap to the behind.

“I’m your best friend. I can do that…now get going, sugar bean.”

You sighed and looked at your reflection for a moment before meeting Sirius’ waiting eyes.

“I’m smart. I’m a good friend. I’ll fight for those I care about no matter the cost. I have a giving heart…I may be a sass queen…”

Sirius snorted.

“May be?”

You chuckled before turning around and hugging Sirius.

‘“Thank you, Sirius.”

Getting out of bed, you felt somewhat better. While Sirius could drive you crazy, he also knew how to make you feel a lot better.

He really does remind me of Regulus.

A truer thought couldn’t have been said about that one. Whether they argued and swore that they were totally different. Regulus and Sirius’ friendship styles were extremely similar. Standing in you in front of the mirror and making you list off good qualities about yourself was definitely something that Regulus would have done.

Stepping into the shower, you sighed in relief as the hot water washed over your aching muscles. In addition to your poor state of mental health, you had been pulling extra duties for The Order. This meant nightly patrols, tons of research, and spying on unsuspecting death eaters with Sirius and Remus.

“Hi sugar, I know that you miss me.”

You froze. This had been the first time that you had heard Regulus’ voice in your mind. Legilimency. Of course, Regulus could do this. You internally smacked yourself in the head as you “chose” to ignore him.

“Oh, you’re still not talking to me, huh? That’s too bad. I miss you, princess. Do you really expect me to go from spending every day with you for ten years to nothing so easily? I miss everything about you.”

You closed your eyes. Even though you were quite good at Occlumency, you made no move to push Regulus from your mind. Maybe you were asking for what you were getting. Maybe you were being weak…but damn it was wonderful to hear Regulus’ voice in your mind.

“Still nothing? Y/n, you really are being so stubborn. Maybe you should know what I miss. I miss seeing your beautiful face underneath me. How beautiful you look after I kiss your lips until they’re swollen and your cheeks are flushed bright pink. I miss how desperate you get when I suck on those dusty nipples. I miss how you move under me. You can’t tell me, love, that you don’t miss how your pussy trembles when I’m pushing in. Don’t forget, sweetheart, that it was I that showed you how to please a man. Now, that I know you are wet, how about a word? Anything…tell me where you are and I’ll come to you. We can fix all of these nasty little issues that we are having and get back to us…the real us.”

You bit your lip at “the real us.” Regulus didn’t remember what the real “Regulus and Y/n” was. He forgot what your friendship meant. He forgot what actual love was…

Forcing Regulus’ voice from your mind, you quickly turned off the shower.

“I have got to keep him out of my mind.”

You spent the majority of the day trying your best to avoid having your mind fall back to Regulus. Thankfully, there was enough crazy going on at the ministry to keep you busy for hours. The less that Regulus graced your mind the better. You weren’t able to sit around and think about his cocky voice in your head that morning…and how deliciously deep his voice sounded.

Merlin, I am really fucked.

You thought before putting your head down on your desk. Maybe you were more screwed than your realized?

Later that day you were more than happy to meet Remus and Sirius for dinner at a bar. Seeing your friends was just what you needed to “get out of your head.” The moment that you walked into the bar, Sirius motioned you over to the table.

Taking off your jacket, you nearly collapsed at the table. Normally, you would have kissed Remus and Sirius both on the top of their heads. Today, that wasn’t happening. Both men looked slightly offended as you held your hand up.

“Rain check. What a day! I am beat!”

You commented as Remus slid you a glass of fire whiskey. He gave you a small smile. Remus wasn’t a fool. He knew that there was more to your friendship with Regulus ending than what he was being told. Remus wanted nothing more than to question you and then go kill Regulus…but that would get him nowhere. You were depressed enough as it was. If he “offed” Regulus, you would be inconsolable. If Remus was to do anything, it would be to let you tell him in your own time.

What is it with Lupins finding the Blacks so damn interesting?

Remus looked across the table at Sirius who gave him a small smile.

Oh, that…that right there.

Remus added to his thoughts before turning to you.

“Long day?

You nodded.

“We don’t have many short ones any longer. I swear, this war needs to hurry the hell up. I don’t think that I was meant for this being careful thing. I ran into Augustus Rockwood today and had to stop myself from saying you’re next mother fucker.”

Sirius giggled.

“I’m surprised that you didn’t. Y/n, I have to say that Remus and yourself are the sassiest people that I know.”

“Does that assessment include yourself?”

Remus asked, cheekily. Sirius rolled his eyes.

“See what I mean? Sass!”

You leaned back in your chair and took a sip of your whiskey as the lights in the bar went out. Immediately, you reached for your wand as some death eaters walked into the bar.

“Boy, they sure like to make a big entrance.”

You murmured as Remus, Sirius, and yourself dropped to the floor. Remus’ eyes were wide as he turned to you.

“Get out. There is an exit in the back. Sirius and I will take the exit over there. If we all go together it will draw too much attention. If you want to go with Sirius, I’ll go the back way.”

You shook your head. The last thing that you were about to do was let them be separated. Besides, you could handle getting out on your own.

“No, just go. I’ll meet you lot back home.”

You whispered before crawling off toward the back of the pub as people in the bar started screaming. As much as you wanted to go back and fight, you knew it would be stupid. The three of you were outnumbered.

Once in the other room, you moved to stand up but someone grabbed you from behind. You quickly threw your elbow back hitting whoever it was in the ribs. When they made a painful moan, you pulled away enough to get a good look at who it was.

“Going somewhere, sugar?

You froze as Regulus took off his mask. As much as you wanted to stand and stare at him, you couldn’t. Taking out your wand you launched hex after hex at Regulus only for him to repel them away. You wanted him to hurt as much as you were hurting!

“Come on sugar is that the best you’ve got?”

Regulus said, sounding bored. You stopped and glared at him. You wanted Regulus to feel your misery. If there was anything of the man that you cared about in there…you wanted him to see your side.

“I don’t kill things. Unlike you, I don’t hurt people that I care about.”

Regulus chuckled.

“Oh, sugar. You really are mad.”

You picked up an empty bottle and threw it at Regulus. He sighed as it only hit him in the chest.

“Go away, Regulus. If you’re going to kill me then just be a man and do it.”

You snapped. Regulus was about to reply but stopped the moment that he heard Lucius Malfoy’s voice. He stood motionless for a moment before rushing forward and wrapping his arms around you.

“Don’t scream. Be silent.”

He hissed before standing his body upright. The last thing that Regulus wanted was for Malfoy to have any idea that he had “company.”

“Black, we need to go. Nothing that we came for is here. It was another piece of bloody useless information.”

You stood wrapped in Regulus’ arms clutching tightly to his death-eater robes as he gently rubbed soothing circles on your back.

Soothing…what is happening here?

You thought before taking a moment and breathing him in. Never in a million years did you think that you would ever be in Regulus’ arms like this again…yet here you were. There you were and he was holding you just as he did before turning away from you.

“I knew it was a waste of time. Go ahead, I’ll be along shortly. There is something else that I need to take care of.”

Regulus replied. He waited until he was positive that Malfoy was gone before letting go of you. When you looked back at your love’s face, he looked ready to panic. His cool calm composure was gone.

“Take the second door and get out of here. Turn into your animagus form the instant you are outside and don’t turn back into a human until you are home. Run and don’t look back…just run.”

“Reg..I…”

He shook his head before pulling you into a kiss. Neither of you moved away from the other for a moment. It was savoring the moment… enjoying the closeness that both of you missed. You sighed as Regulus’ tongue caressed yours. This was the kiss that you missed…the kiss that you longed for in your dreams…

Regulus was the first to pull away.

“Go! Stop wasting time…just please…go.”

You gave him one final look before morphing into your cat animagus form and rushing out the door into the dark silence of the ally way…

______ @amelie-black @jessyballet @knreidy1 @georgeweasleydumbhoe @justfinishthis @acciosiriusblack @siriuslyceleste @mimisparkle12 @teletubiswszpilkach @ell0ra-br3kk3r @darkenwolfie @livshifts @stelleduarte @starsval @millies0bsimp @coffeeaddictednymph @readtomeregulus @daddyslittlevillain @rogue-nyx88 @panpride @saramaple @missgorldafirst @s-we-e-t-t-ea @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @f4iryluvy @buttercup-beeee @i-love-scott-mccall @gugggu6gvai @jag9000 @quinis @yousmellllikecaca @mentally-unstable-hoe @haroldpotterson @padf00ts-l0ver @goldensunshineshit @aurorasnape12 @ad-astra-again @rubyroscoe1 @dumybitch @spideyxalmighty @lucasfilms77 @lostarc24 @marichromatic @play-morezeppelin @ravenhood2792 @un-lovesherself @melaninnbarbie @criminalyetminimal @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @moldy-old-boot @hankypranky @summer-novak @emiwrites3reads @shaylybaby2032 @knight-of-gleefulness @deanwherescas @sprnaturallover @wontlookaway @shitfaceddaniel-blog @untoldshortsofthefandoms @li0nh34rt @tas898 @mycuddlycorner

[firenati0n]

y'all it is 5:10am, but stay with me for a second, okay?

apologies and bear with me for being embarrassing and effusive and gushy on main yet fucking again (i cannot be helped!) but I had just the most utterly garbage day connected to a particulary shitty week [insert "lemon, it's wednesday" gif here] and I was just feeling very out of sorts for a myriad of personal reasons and decided to read (and subsequently reread) a fic by the lovely @myheartalivewrites called Paper Chains.

I had been saving this specific fic for a day I was feeling low and needed some real pining longing yearning slow burn (yeehaw!). That day arrived. Here I am.

When I tell you...my ass has been thinking about this fic on loop. I need all 25k words tattooed behind my eyelids. I reread it about half an hour ago with ugly anime-worthy tears streaming down my face. I felt a bruise and crack very deep in my heart start to heal over. I cannot tell you why, for I do not understand it myself. All I know is that when I started reading, my chest hurt in the worst way possible, and now it hurts in the best way possible. So now I'm the town crier, here to tell you to go read it if you haven't. And if you have, go reread it.

Everyone go read Paper Chains right the fuck now. Go!!! And then report back to me for screaming purposes. I'll be here. 💛

p.s. the fic also features and links some truly wonderful art by @lizzie-bennetdarcy (that you can find here and here, for starters...I won't spoil the fic one!!). A delightful addition to the experience. Big fan of your work always!! ❤️❤️❤️

I will always be in awe of artists and writers and creators—you pour SO MUCH of yourselves, hearts and souls and all, into your work. When I consume it, my cup fills yet again. Thank you! A privilege, as always.

[wildechildwrites]

Kensington Gore

Part 2 of Corn Syrup

John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley (unrequited)

Word Count: 764

Warnings: 18+, noncon voyeurism, smut, angst

No use of Y/N

Summary: Short Partner Fic to Corn Syrup Ghost listens to you and Soap fuck because he's a little in love with the both of you.

A/N: I'm sorry for always making Ghost a weirdo, my instincts for him always go way dark lol and this time he's a sad weirdo so

AO3 Link: Kensington Gore

Fuck, he felt like a creep. He just worried about you, had even stood awkwardly in your hospital room, looking down at the tubes holding you together. All you could do was ask about Soap, staring up at him with sad eyes. He couldn’t blame you, the Scotsman was magnetic in a way not many people were, and Ghost couldn’t help but hate him for it, just a bit. How could you not love Johnny? He lit up every room he was in. Hell, Johnny even put up with Ghost's stupid jokes over the comms, and you knew that he always had your back.

But he'd seen your heart shatter in the gym, watched your eyes fill up with tears, and so he'd followed you, listening to your sobs through the doorway. He wanted to say something, to knock and throw out the perfect one liner, to say something the way Johnny would, but Ghost wasn’t good at that, so he just stayed, listening.

He'd lingered when Johnny showed up, tail between his legs. He'd slipped into the shadows, telling himself he was keeping an eye on things. You two fighting would divide the team, compromise missions. As your superior, he had a responsibility to monitor the situation.

He ran out of excuses when he heard Johnny start to fuck you.

The walls of the barracks were bloody thin, the uninsulated brick doing nothing to drown out the noise. That was the real issue, not the fact that Ghost was creeping closer, leaning against the door to your room, his breathing as slow and steady as when he lined up a shot.

Simon lets his eyes slip closed, imagining Johnny sinking into you, stuffing you full of cock. He wanted to see, wanted to watch your pretty face contort as he listened to Soap mumble to you through the wall. He could feel himself getting hard. He knows he should leave, that he should go back to his room and give you two some privacy. Instead, Ghost presses his forehead against the door, and slowly undoes his fly.

Of course, you had to be a crier. Ghost imagined you whimpering and scratching at his chest, tears running down your pretty face as he forced you to take everything. A strangled gasp from inside the room, "It's too big!" And his knees nearly buckle. He pulls his cock out and spits in his palm. Stroking himself, trying to match the erratic pace Johnny was setting, the sound of slapping skin through the door driving him on.

He wondered if you'd let him watch. He knew Soap was a showoff, had walked in on Johnny once, sprawled out on a tiny bed in a safe house, hand around his cock, his head tilted back, eyes closed as he lazily stroked himself. Ghost had stood in the doorway, watching his Sergeant's Adam’s apple bob up and down.

"Have ya got a joke for this one?" Soap had asked, his eyes still shut.

You were so shy though, so easily intimidated, he could imagine you blushing and avoiding his eyes. He'd drag you into his lap, make Soap take you from behind as he held you to his chest, watching your facial expressions, listening to you whimper and moan.

Ghost gripped his cock harder at the thought of your glittery eyes staring at him. He’d grab your hair, just mean enough to make you gasp, make you part those pretty lips for him. He could tell you were close by the noises coming through the door, could imagine your pretty pussy being filled with Soap's cum. He wondered if you’d let him eat you out after Johnny was done fucking you, let him clean you up and make you cream on his face, whining and squealing at the overstimulation. He could imagine Johnny watching, cock still slick with you, his expression lazy but heated.

He came soundlessly, eyes closed tightly, holding onto the image of you sitting on his face, of Soap’s watchful eyes. His hips stutter forward, hands stumbling to catch his release. The noises on the other side of the door have stopped, and regret and shame hit Ghost as the haze clears. He zips his pants up and quietly moves away, heading back to his room. When he’s safe behind closed doors, he strips, not bothering to turn on the light. He leaves the mask on tonight, climbs into bed sticky. Thinks of you and Soap, intertwined.

That night he dreams of warmth and tender hands. He wakes up in his cold bed, alone.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Robin is my beloved song because there’s so much tenderness wrapped up in the need to allow a child to stay a child as long as possible (something we are terrible at in this world). And then to put it on her Denial playlist because we just suck at letting kids stay young? Just never leave me beautiful song with a stunning bridge full of love and tenderness.

Yeeeeeeeeessssssssss.

I've talked about this before I think, but "Never Grow Up" is a song that's always been gut-wrenching to me, because on the surface it's this sweet lullaby to a friend's baby, but the lyrics are actually a reflection of all the pain she's been through, and the undercurrent of the innocence she feels she lost (or was taken from her). She's mourning a part of herself and mourning for the future (e.g. the things she's going to lose like her parents, fleeting experiences, happiness, etc.) which makes even more sense in the context of Would've, Could've, Should've.

So Robin is kind of in that same vein, even if it's approached from a different way. It's a touching tribute to a friend's child and the love she feels for them. How she and all the adults in their life work their damnedest to preserve their innocence and make that childhood possible and make it last as long as possible. It's full of all the specific details that are a trademark of her writing -- playing with dinosaurs covered in mud, the dragonflies over the bed, the swingset, the trampoline, etc. -- but paint the picture of childhood being experienced to its fullest, in sweetness.

Yet there's still the undercurrent of her older self hiding the pain through this love letter to the child: we all vowed to keep the secret from you (because we all know that life will not be this idyllic for you for long), you have no time for regrets (like you'll have as an adult like I do), you talk nonsense from your imagination because you have no idea (what life will have in store for you and how life may try to curb your lust for life), etc. And much like how part of Never Grow Up's poignancy is how it is contextualized by other parts of Speak Now (namely Dear John, Haunted, Last Kiss, etc.), Robin is also contextualized by other parts of TTPD (the heartbreak, the loss, the anger, the defeat). She wants this child to experience the joys of life as long as they can before the realities of life gradually carve off their wide-eyed innocence.

So it makes perfect sense why it's on the Denial playlist, like you said: it's because we strive to make the childhoods of our loved ones as magical as possible, even if it involves a little deception to get there. (Just think about how those who celebrate keep the Santa mystery going as long as they can; it's not to deliberately lie to kids, but to let them believe in the magic of the story to create memories.) I could probably make a link between the "secret" she helps to perpetuate for the child in Robin and the stories she told herself to keep the dreams alive in her head from her other experiences on the album, hence Denial. But. That's probably another post lol.

The song is SO tender and so loving and grabbed me from first listen. I've said it before, I'm not much of a crier until I have a breakdown (because I'm dead inside lmao) but Robin is one of the closest times I've come. And like many of her other songs it feels so cinematic to me, like I could picture the child running in the mud and pumping their legs on a swing and roaring through the yard in 24 fps and lens flares lol.

[delusionaid]

HEADCANONS : click the link to get some random headcanons for your muse.

Diluc is very good at using chopsticks. (Business trips to Liyue? I'm gonna give him a personal hc here and say Crepus forced him to learn how to eat with chopsticks when he was younger so he'd be able to do it as an adult. Diluc loathed it then but is grateful now.) Diluc almost drank the lethal dosage of caffeine once. (Boy has a thing for knocking himself out with drinks, apparently.) Diluc can play the guitar. (*Lyre) Diluc is smart but also very stupid. (I mean..) Diluc is a sleepwalker. (*TALKER. He's a sleepTalker. Kaeya can attest to that from the time he was new to the house and they had to share a room for a while. He usually says nonsensical or incoherent things, but it can be quite entertaining. He never remembers doing it the next day.) Diluc has one, very simple word that they cannot figure out how to pronounce. (I got this 3 times. Must be true. Want to guess the word?) Diluc desperately needs a hug but doesn't know it and refuses to ask for one. (Ok this is actually canon on this blog so well done.)

Wriothesley can play the piano. (I kind of like the idea, to be honest. It's hard to imagine what life with his "parents" looked like. I like both the version where it was really terrible living conditions and they were mostly neglected, but I also like the thought that they had to learn certain things and present a certain way in order to be "of value" to those they were "sent to". So some of them being able to play music could be an idea to play with.) Wriothesley needs a nightlight to sleep. (Hm, not sure about light, but I like the idea that he almost sleeps better when there's noise because he's always had that. First with his "siblings", then living in the street, then the Meropide, and even now the room around him probably makes noise all night long. Silence would be deafening.) Wriothesley's least favourite subject in school was Math. (shrug.png) Wriothesley could easily survive The Hunger Games. (I got this twice so it must be true. Grim.. but I somehow agree. There's some analogy to his life there, I think.) Wriothesley is smart but also very stupid. (WHY DO ALL MY MUSES GET THIS.) Wriothesley likes to eat straight coffee beans. (...Listen, we've all done strange things when hungry.) Wriothesley stole a lollipop at the checkout when they were 5 and they still feel guilty about it. (Nah, he earned that lolly.) Wriothesley is an ugly crier. (You know what, I'll take it. Most people are.)

Alhaitham is tumblr famous (Got this twice. For what I wonder?) Alhaitham is very willing to eat inedible things. (<.< Is this a slight against Kaveh's cooking?) Alhaitham is a dog person. (I disagree, he's a cat person. He likes that they're independent and don't want him to play with them 24/7.) Alhaitham sleeps in until noon. (I think he has, on occasion. He's not an early bird but he isn't (my) Diluc either.) It would not take much for Alhaitham to turn evil. (Literally canon every time he brushes some evil plot and rejects it only because it turns out to be flawed.) Alhaitham is great with kids. (...I mean. Depends on the kid.) Alhaitham has a diary that they write in with a glittery gel pen. (Fun fact, I think if he found a glittery gel pen that wrote really smoothly, he'd use it. Like who cares that it glitters if it's personal notes, the writing experience is pleasant. But he's not going out to buy glitter gel pens specifically.) Alhaitham needs a nightlight to sleep. (I wanna say.. used to need. Now he just sleeps in a bedroom with a window that lets in a lot of moonlight on most nights.)

tagged by: @apocryphis thank you! tagging: @voyagaer @liliavanrouge @dhabibi @nagareboshiko

[lesvegas]

New Vegas - Now Under New Management!

In 2301, the city of New Vegas had been a raiders’ paradise for nearly twenty years. Backed by an army of robots, a hedonistic courier has rendered the Mojave untouchable by anyone who would take the keys to the city from their cold, dead hands. But it was only a matter of time before someone else aspired to become the new king of the wasteland, and all they had to do was be born within the Strip’s walls.

Chapter 1: Vegas Lights [ao3 link]

Casino floors never had any clocks or windows so the patrons could forget about the illusion of time. It was easier to give away everything you had on games and drinks when you weren’t being reminded of a family or a boss expecting to see you at a certain time. If you were particularly susceptible, you could waste entire days and nights and all your savings on the slot machines until you had nothing to bet but your own life. This was just one of many ways some guys in the old world managed to suck the money out of idiots with disposable income despite starting their businesses in a desert.

They weren’t stupid enough to not take advantage of the view, though. If you already forked over the cash, you could have access to taking up space in a casino hotel’s luxury suite, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. If you don’t look too hard, you can just bask in the glow of the pretty Vegas lights, bright enough that you can forget missing the natural night sky.

I won the lottery by being born in one of these rooms. I’ve never had to pay a cap for anything. I’m not even twenty and I’m already king of the wasteland. And up here in my ivory tower at the top of the Tops, I can only stare forward at the lights for so long. Even a ruler with no responsibilities has to look down at his subjects sometimes, and I’ve been making a habit out of observing the street below.

There were no rich kids wasting daddy’s money or wealthy men and their gold diggers out on the town. There were no small-time vendors selling trinkets and snacks or criers promoting the acts of the week. There were no tourists from the West or lucky locals from Freeside. Hell, there weren’t even any whores flaunting their goods outside of Gomorrah anymore; they were all inside, where it was marginally safer. The Strip was packed, always, but never with anyone that was worth a dime.

It was mostly raiders down there. Worthless fucking raiders. They had to still be raiders; they didn’t actually do anything around here to earn all the caps they spent at the casinos. Not that they had to spend much when Fresno made this place a raider’s paradise.

“You need to open the window when you chain-smoke.”

I didn’t look back at my father. But I did open the window a crack before he could ask me again. The coolness of the night air almost made it possible to ignore the smell of blood, sweat and shit outside. I took a fresh cigarette out of my case sitting on the windowsill, used the last embers of the butt between my fingers to light it, and took a drag. I tossed the useless butt out the window, watching it fall, almost hoping it’d light up one of the palm trees below. Maybe it’d fall and crush some of those Fiends sitting around on the sidewalk, inhaling Jet, blissfully unaware of their inevitable demise. Wishful thinking.

“Wider, please.”

He was reclining on the sofa where he had been for hours, reading a pristine copy of Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor again. There was little else for a man like him to do when there was no real work to be done. According to the posters in Vault 21 and some old books I’d read, my father was an ideal man; he was reserved, he prioritized me and his ‘wife’ above all else, he only ever drank or smoked when Fresno did, kept his hair neat and wore a shirt and tie every day, spent most of his free time reading-

“Auguste?”

I shoved the window open all the way. Fine, let the whole room smell like shit, see if I care. If he really preferred the stench of the Strip to the scent of cigarettes, I could keep the window open. Let the sounds pour through, too, all the yelling and obnoxious music. He’d learned to tone out the noise years ago.

I looked back at him over my shoulder when I felt him staring at me. He was sitting up now, holding the napkin he used as a bookmark between his fingers, debating if he was finished reading or not. The room was smokier than I thought, I’ll admit it, but he didn’t need to be on my ass about it. I put my cigarette out. “Happy?”

He slipped the napkin between the pages he was on and closed the book, leaving it in the corner of the coffee table before standing up. His shirt was only slightly wrinkled from lying down and his blond hair was still perfect without any product. If only I was so lucky.

“Is this about Brutus?”

I must have looked real upset just then, because I saw one of the rare instances where my father looked like he actually regretted asking me something. I spoke up before he could even think to apologize.

“Is what about Brutus?” I asked, coming off way more defensive than I wanted to.

“Your…” He paused, trying to find the right word that wouldn’t piss me off. “Mood.”

No, of course I’m not still upset about losing my best friend. He was just some dumb animal I’ve had since my tenth birthday. Just a stupid puppy Fresno gave me with the hope that I’d be so distracted I’d forget my father even existed. God forbid a ten-year-old want his father’s attention sometimes.

“It’s been a week. I’m over it.” I lied, then tried to change the subject before he could pry. “You never complain when Fresno smokes indoors.”

“I’m not Fresno’s father.”

“Obviously. That thing doesn’t have a father.”

I thought I was pretty clever, but he didn’t seem to like my joke very much. I closed my cigarette case and pocketed it before he could come and take it from me. “Am I wrong?” I continued. “Would someone with a decent role model be responsible for this?” I made a sweeping gesture out the window with a splayed hand.

He approached the window, and I stepped aside to let him have a look. There was absolutely nothing new down there that he hadn’t seen, but he seemed to be looking for something anyway. He eventually spoke again without looking at me. “I don’t see why you care about what goes on in the streets. You only go outside to have dinner or catch a show. Your life is confined to suites, bars and casinos. Nothing that happens out there has any relevance to you.”

He took a step back and closed the window half-way. He pulled his sleeve up to check his watch. “You’re as safe and taken care of as any young man can be. Your only concerns are what happens within these walls.” He pointed out, then walked over to the coat rack by the door. I followed him.

“What about you, huh?” I asked. “Did you really come all this way just to be some weirdo’s trophy husband?” “Auguste.” He always spoke more firmly when I talked shit about Fresno. “If you’re so unsatisfied with the state of New Vegas,” He put his coat on. “You’re more than welcome to do with it what you will once you inherit it.”

The idea of this city becoming a monarchy was still bizarre to me. I was basically a prince set to take over once Fresno finally croaked, sure, but it still felt wrong somehow. A city like this shouldn’t really have a ruler. Stars and casino owners, sure, but even a mayor wouldn’t feel right. Maybe I was just too used to the hands-off approach Fresno had taken since before I was born.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I said. “Come on, you told me you left Reno for Vegas. Didn’t you ever have dreams for this place that didn’t involve… this? You said Reno didn’t have opportunities anymore, what with the families, and the, uh…” “The NCR.” “The NCR!” I snapped my fingers. “New Reno had no room for new ideas or new money, that’s what you said. It was all family drama and politics. New Vegas was really new again, a real diamond in the rough, the last real city in the world. You always said you wanted to start something out here, so why are you just letting raiders run it into the ground while you’re wrapped around Fresno’s finger?”

He only buttoned up the bottom two buttons of his coat, and took a look at himself in the mirror by the door. “I didn’t just leave Reno because it lacked financial opportunities. It also lacked any reason for me to stay.” He said. I already knew he didn’t have any family he wanted to tell me about. “I came to Vegas to find a purpose. And, eventually, I found something more important to me than any ambitions I previously had.” “Yeah, that’s real sweet.” I teased. “But seriously, what did you think it’d be like today, twenty years ago? What did you really want before you met Fresno?”

I was so close to getting a real answer out of him, I could just feel it. Something in his eyes seemed to give way as he adjusted his tie, but it was closed off again when the door suddenly opened.

Fresno, my father’s ‘wife’, seemed eager to see him but frowned when they saw me. I don’t think they’ve ever smiled at me. “Oh, I thought you’d be alone in here.” They said to him. “This is our suite.” I pointed out. “We share it. I live here.”

“Whatever.” They said dismissively, then smiled at my father. From the way he’d been checking his watch and the way they were dressed, it was obvious they had a date planned tonight. They had a date planned almost every night, but this one must be a fancy date, because Fresno was wearing a white shirt under their leather jacket. “Dinner and a show downstairs? Or the Ultra-Luxe?” They asked him, leaning in close enough to kiss him. They weren’t wearing lipstick today. “What are you in the mood for, my Valoire?” My father had the audacity to look at me instead. “Would you like t–” “No.” I said firmly. I wasn’t going to be dragged around as a second thought. I had business to attend to, anyway. Before I could give them a look of disgust, I turned around to return to my place at the window, looking down.

Fresno probably wanted to say ‘you weren’t invited, anyway’, but held their tongue. The only thing stopping us from lashing out at each other was the fact that my father seemed to like us both equally. He was very careful not to lean one way or the other unless one of us were obviously in the wrong.

I heard the door open, and a pause before it shut again. It might have been a moment of hesitation. Maybe my father and I would continue our conversation later, maybe we wouldn’t. But I already knew enough to know that any real individuality he had was destroyed years ago. He was devoted to Fresno, they were devoted to him, and neither of them could care less what happened in Vegas. It was all on me to make something of this place. Where a king fails, a prince inherits his mistakes.

I closed the window the rest of the way and got a glimpse at my reflection.

Despite my best efforts, I was the splitting image of my ‘mother’. Oh, I had my father’s strong nose and his bright blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. I had Fresno’s complexion, their fiery hair, their strong jaw, their obnoxious freckles, and their weak frame. There was only so much I could do about that, but I made up for it in keeping my hair short and tidy, and only ever wearing suits. Yes, my suits were much flashier than my father’s, but that was warranted in this city. And red was my colour.

I took out my cigarette case and opened it. There were only a couple sticks left. I lit one and saved the last for later as I turned my gaze down to the street again.

One of these bastards shot Brutus, and I was going to return the favour. But it’s been seven days since and I still hadn’t figured out who’d done it. All I really knew for sure is that it wasn’t a Khan; for all their faults, they weren’t stupid enough to pick a fight with me. They had their own home somewhere in the desert and treated Vegas like the attraction it was, for the most part. We were also their biggest buyer next to the Fiends. No, they knew well enough not to fuck with me or my dog.

Honestly, I don’t think it was a Fiend, either. They’re stupid, sure, but there were two types of Fiends: the ones that were fucked up and mellow, and the ones who were fucked up and aggressive. The former occupied the Strip, the latter were in Freeside if they were lucky. If a Fiend was going to attack, they’d do it to my face, not shoot from afar. I can’t imagine they’ve got good aim after taking God knows how much Jet.

Then there were the 80s. They weren’t too common around here, even with Fresno’s affiliation with them. All I ever see them do is act tough and ride those goddamn ‘motor-cycles’ they’re so obsessed with. Loudest fucking things in the wasteland. The second this city is mine, I’m outlawing them for good. Maybe they knew what was coming and wanted to strike first. Maybe I’m overthinking it.

That left the Scorpions, Vipers, and Jackals. A dwindling gang, a cult, and the weirdos that now ran the fanciest casino on the Strip. Not including any individual raiders that weren’t really part of a group. Hell, maybe there was no real motivation behind it; people shot and killed animals for fun all the time. Maybe Brutus and I were just unlucky that night. I don’t fucking know. But I still want the head of the son of a bitch that did it.

I stepped away from the window. I wasn’t gonna make any progress watching ants go by. I figured my father and Fresno had freed up the elevator by now, and so I left the suite to head downstairs. I had my own date at Gomorrah. 

Thanks for reading. Fresno belongs to my partner, @thespiral <3

[whump-me]

Whumptober Day 19: Psychological

This is a standalone story in my original Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.

This story contains: brainwashing, emotional whump, minor whumpee

Words: 2400

---

This is what you were made for, the instructors always told them. They told them that when they cried. When they missed their old life, their family and friends. When they remembered what they had lost when the men came in their unmarked vans and stole them away with their syringes full of liquid that put them to sleep. When they remembered everything they would never have again.

The lives they had left behind were fine for ordinary people, the instructors told them. But they weren’t ordinary. They had gifts most people could only dream of, and it was their responsibility to use those gifts for the greater good. They had purpose, and purpose required sacrifice. They had to sacrifice their families, their friends, their dreams for the future, in order to be who they were born to be.

The instructors said it as a comfort, wrapping crying bodies in blankets and pressing mugs of warm chamomile tea into their hands. They said it as an admonition, as they locked them in the punishment room for a day or two or three. They said it when anyone cried, when anyone questioned, when anyone’s face showed a flicker of doubt.

It was tempting to believe. They had all lost everything when PERI had come for them. Some of them hadn’t even known they had powers. Almost none of them had known about the Enhanced gene that gave some people supernatural abilities, or about PERI, the government-funded program that hunted for children with the gene and trained them as operatives. None of them had seen this coming.

Almost none of them.

They had lost their previous lives all at once, with no warning. Now they spent their nights in bare cell-like rooms, and their days in an exhausting training regimen. Physical training. Mental training. Ability training, which varied depending on whether they were telepaths or pyrokinetics or could heal with a touch—there were almost as many unique powers in the cohort as there were people.

There was no time for fun. Friendship wasn’t allowed—any members of their cohort who spoke too to each other, or in whispers like they had something to hide, were quickly separated by the instructors.

It was tempting to think there was a reason for it. At least once they all came to realize, one by one, that they were never going home again.

Yasmina watched it change the others. She watched them all start to reluctantly settle into their new life. The criers stopped crying as much. The yellers stopped yelling as much. The ones who had sworn they wouldn’t cooperate started getting invested in the competitions the instructors set for them.

From the outside, she was sure she looked the same. She had faked being a yeller, because it was easier than faking tears. The downside to that was that it meant fewer warm mugs of tea pressed into her hands, and more days in the punishment room.

But she had been prepared, and she had endured. She had let her defiance fade, little by little, until she was the obedient drone the instructors wanted.

But she didn’t believe any of it. Not like the others. She didn’t need to believe it. Unlike them, she was getting out.

She had let herself be taken on purpose. Tasha, her legal guardian for two more years, had taken her for a routine blood test at a clinic that her parents’ Enhanced resistance team knew PERI monitored for abnormal genetic results. The plan had been her idea; it had taken months to persuade the others. Only once she had threatened to make it happen on her own, without their help, had they agreed to let her do it.

Her parents would have said she was too young. But her age was the only reason she could do this at all—even at sixteen, she was almost too old for PERI training. Some of the kids in her cohort were seven or eight. And her Enhanced ability was perfect memory—she could learn everything about the facility and the training process, and deliver it back to the team in every perfect detail.

And her parents, killed on a mission last year, were no longer around to object.

She lay on the top bunk in her cohort’s dorm, staring up at the ceiling. Now that almost everyone had given up on their defiance, most of them had earned enough trust to sleep in the group dorm instead of the individual cells. There wasn’t as much difference between the two as she had expected. The dorm was quiet—there was no whispering between beds, no sound at all aside from light snores and the occasional suppressed tears.

The constant competitions, with harsh consequences for failure, were successfully driving wedges between them all. When that didn’t do the trick, having to practice their abilities on each other did it. Also, the dorm was bugged, and everyone knew it. If anyone talked for too long, an instructor would come and take the offenders away to spend the night in the punishment room.

Yasmina lay awake, listening to one person’s sleep-talk and another’s quiet sobs. She listened until the familiar mental tickle brushed the back of her mind. She relaxed into the hard mattress, a smile coming to her face. She stayed awake as long as she could every night, waiting for contact, but it had been weeks since the last time Tasha had reached out to her.

She hadn’t been afraid—she knew her parents’ team wouldn’t abandon her here. But, well, she had wondered. There was always the risk that something had happened to Tasha. As a fairly weak telepath, Tasha had to get close to the facility to make contact, which was dangerous.

Can you talk? Tasha asked.

Yasmina sent a burst of wordless affirmation in response. She wasn’t a telepath herself, but all she had to do for Tasha to hear her was think strongly enough and clearly enough.

How are you holding up? Tasha’s voice was thick with concern, like an instructor pressing a mug of tea into a crying trainee’s hand.

In answer, she downloaded image after image into Tasha’s mind. The two of them had practiced the technique together in the weeks before Yasmina had gotten herself captured. She had practiced focusing on her memories until Tasha could see them as clearly as she could. Tasha had practiced memorizing the details. They had found, through trial and error, that still images worked the best. That meant it took a long time to transmit the information, but it was worth it.

When she was done, Tasha sent her a wave of wordless thanks. Yasmina responded with a burst of acknowledgment. She curled on her side, ready to go to sleep.

Wait, said Tasha.

Yasmina opened her eyes again. Is something wrong?

The opposite, said Tasha. It’s been a year. It’s finally time to get you home.

Yasmina sent a burst of confusion along their telepathic connection. A year? It couldn’t have been that long. She tried to count up the days, and then the weeks. But they all blended together. Every day of training was much the same as last. And they didn’t have calendars in here.

Not yet, said Yasmina. I’m not done here.

We agreed on a year, said Tasha, sharp concern leaking through the connection. We’re not leaving you in that place a day longer than necessary.

There are still parts of the facility I haven’t seen yet, Yasmina protested. And I’m doing fine. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Sometimes the training was even fun. She hadn’t known her body was capable of this kind of strength, or that her memory could get even better than it had been when she had started.

And while she was here, she had a purpose.

Yes, it was a sacrifice. But she could make that sacrifice. It was her responsibility to make that sacrifice, to use her ability for something worthwhile.

We’re getting you out, said Tasha, her mental voice too firm to allow any disagreement. Be at the south perimeter gate at the start of your evening free-training period.

Her voice cut off before Yasmina could offer any more protests.

Yasmina stared up at the ceiling again, no longer the least bit sleepy. All of a sudden, she wanted to yell—the way she had when she had first come here, when she’d had to fake defiance to make her ruse believable. She wanted to let out a good scream, loud enough to tear her throat, loud enough to get her thrown in the punishment room.

Why, though? It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to go home. She had clung to that secret like a worn-out teddy bear for her entire time here. The others wouldn’t get to go home. The others had to find a way to cope with that. The others had to swallow the instructors’ propaganda because it was the only way to make their fate tolerable. But not her. Her time here was temporary.

But home felt like a flickering image on a distant TV screen. Home was her room at Tasha’s house, which used to be a walk-in pantry—Tasha hadn’t really had room for her when she has taken her in. Home was faking a smile for Tasha and trying to pretend her grief was fading. Home was trudging through her classes and trying to pretend any of it meant anything with her parents gone.

Tasha’s house might have been home, but it wasn’t where her life was, not anymore. Her life was her mission, the adrenaline rush of collecting information for the enemy under PERI’s noses. Her life was pushing herself to excel at her training while holding her secret close to her chest. Her life was using her ability for a purpose, the way her parents had, instead of sitting in Tasha’s old pantry with nothing to do but try not to cry too loudly.

What had she even done with herself all day when she hadn’t had a mission?

The next evening, she considered not going to the gate. But of course she went, because that was her mission, and those were her orders. Her training hadn’t just shown her how strong she could be; it had taught her the importance of following orders, of sticking to the mission.

When she reached the gate, it was open. Johan and Marissa were waiting for her, their bodies tense, their eyes darting warily back and forth. Marissa hustled her out, while Johan checked her over with concerned eyes.

This training facility was surrounded by twenty miles of forest. Johan and Marissa hustled her down a narrow path through the trees, which became an unpaved road. Marissa’s Jeep was waiting there, the engine idling.

Yasmina climbed into the backseat. Tasha was waiting for her there. When she saw Yasmina, a grin of pure relief spread across her face.

“You’re out!” Tasha boomed. “You made it!”

Yasmina cringed against the car door. Tasha’s voice probably wasn’t that loud, but Yasmina was used to furtive whispers.

“It’s so good to see you,” Tasha continued. “God, you’re so tall. I didn’t think you had another growth spurt left in you, but I guess you proved me wrong. And those muscles.” Tasha flexed one of her own bony arms. “You could bench-press two of me.”

Had Yasmina ever lived in a world with this much idle conversation in it? She stared out the window at the passing trees.

I’m really proud of you, you know, Tasha said, her voice blessedly softening. “We all are.”

“It was the mission,” Yasmina said with a small shrug. She shot a look over her shoulder. The facility had already disappeared into the distance. A sharp pang tugged at her heart.

She would never miss the facility itself. She couldn’t think of a thing she liked about that horrible place, except maybe the training itself. She had never had the chance to make friends—the instructors had made sure of that. But she already missed the mission.

“So,” said Tasha. “Now that you’re free, what’s the first thing you want to do?”

Yasmina turned away from the window to stare at Tasha blankly. “What do you mean?”

“There’s got to be something you’ve been missing,” Tasha said. “You want to go shopping? With how much you’ve grown, I’m sure none of your old clothes will fit you. Or we could splurge on a fancy dinner at that Italian place you like so much.”

Yasmina remembered shopping. But the memory was distant and hazy. She couldn’t remember what she had liked about it, or whether she had liked it at all. Mostly, what she remembered was all the colors, and all the choices. The thought made her head hurt. In the training facility, she had worn the same plain gray trainee’s uniform every day. She had hated it at first, but soon enough, she had stopped thinking about it. Now it was just one more decision she didn’t have to make. One less thing to distract her from the mission.

“We could dig out your old roller skates and go to the rink,” Tasha suggested. “I remember how much you used to like doing that with your parents…” Her voice trailed off as she frowned at Yasmina in concern. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Yasmina nodded. “I’m okay.”

Of course she was. She had completed the mission. She had done what she was made for. She had made all the sacrifices she’d had to make.

And now it was over. The absence of her mission left a hollow place inside her. It was her responsibility to use her gift for the greater good. It was her purpose. If she didn’t have a mission, then what was the point of her life?

Tasha said something else. Yasmina turned back toward the window and stopped listening.

It would be okay. She would be okay. She had followed her orders to the best of her ability, and she had completed her mission.

And now that she had proved she could handle a mission, soon they would give her another.

That thought finally let her relax. She leaned against the door and let the rhythmic hum of the engine lull her to sleep.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @gala1981

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[shoppingcartshells]

I’ve been really enjoying the turtle fic, violence and pizza to me is one of the fics that is essential to my personal enjoyment of the rise turtles, so thank you for bringing it into existence :D

I’m still really interested in your interpretation of the way the Hamato Ninpō works, would you mind going more in depth on your thoughts on it?

ohohoh....hamato ninpo... fuckk . chews on an ikea establishment IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED!!

for starters, i suppose, i LOVE writing it as not just "thing that gives them powers" but "thing that is also Them and they just have powers" if that makes any sense? bc the hamato ninpo, in essence, is connection to their family. it IS their love and care for each other, and that Connection is intrinsically tied to it — its how they got their ninpo, and its how they broke their ninpos free in the movie. they were connected, and they were there together, facing off their greatest enemy yet.

and, as such, i build off of this Connection and Them-ness to sort of make it an empathy link? because their ninpos are THEM. its their soul, which grants them their inherent powers, guided by their Connection with each other. their own ninpo is Themselves. as such, when there is that Connection, it carries with them emotions. its just a natural result of how it works; they feel, and they are connected, so they feel each other.

their ninpos are also not just their soul, but also sort of an aura? its the most noticeable with mikey, especially in the future timeline where hes the most powerful, but they have the ability to affect the real world around them beyond just using their powers—easiest seen in the way that spaces they linger in have a sort of lingering Scent that they were there. again, their ninpos are Themselves, and as such where they go, their ninpo goes. meaning that emotions will linger too with the traces of their ninpo—but not in the exact sense like their true ninpo, but rather a general presence of their most common emotion.

for example:

mikey loves his family. he is Very powerful, to degrees he isnt quite aware of. as such, the whole lair has a passive feeling of love, because when hes home, mikey, happy or sad, loves his family. and he feels safe when hes home, because he knows theyll protect him, and he knows that He will protect them

donnie also loves his family. donnie typical loving his family So Much. meaning, when hes in his lab, oftentimes hes working on something to protect them (especially after the shredder and then kraany fiascos). as such, when in his lab, his siblings can expect to feel that passive feeling of protection and love

much like mikey and donnie, raph loves his family, and he wants to keep them safe. as such the training room room carries that feeling of protection and love and saftey. are you sensing a theme here yet?

and leo... hehe... well, in tqiv&taip, he hasnt been all that present, so its not particularly relevant... but id imagine that, if one were to crawl into his bed and really focus, there would be a lot of anxiety, stress, and Upset :)

following the theme, i imagine post invasion the lair was just Filled with upset. its like being an empathetic crier but Worse

all that to say, it is VERY tied to their emotions. that was why leos speech WORKRD to burn off the kraang infection

jumping off of that in a very smooth segue yep, THEIR WEAPONS!! ohh their weapons...

theres always that saying that your weapon is an extension of yourself, and in this case it is Extremely literal.

the weapons arent their own beings, of course, but theyre sort of like a clone of their souls in a way. its still them just separate—their subconscious made tangible. (mystic weapons make a sort of bond similarly to how the turtles feel, but it is nowhere near as intimate compared to the fucking hamato ninpo).

and!! since ive sort of run out of things to say: some exclusive insight to our favorite blue silly :)

we all remember how leo struggled with portals? well, in this AU, thats because the mystic weapons that they had were catalysts, not their own full, separate things—if they had been fully fledged weapons with their powers, it would have been much like having to tame a wolf. because the weapons would have been their own type of subconscious, separate from both creator and user.

all that to say: because their weapons were essentially placeholders for the onces they create with their ninpo, the reason leo struggled in this au wasnt Just the inherent difficulty of trying to figure out how portals work, but because of his insecurity. he was struggling, and it Showed—and the more he struggled to fix it, the more insecure hed feel, and, well.... something something leos vicious cycle

(ALSO why his ninpo is so Distant now. because he feels, both consciously like he deserves to be disconnected and he IS disconnected from his family because he isnt talking to them and it shows. so in one way, hes consciously pulling away, but its also subconsciously.

and, those feelings could be made worse by the fact that one of his swords is still in the prison dimension—a piece of himself, lost, that he'll never get back.)