#once he runs out of paint chalk is all he has

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

some scribbles for a sort-of au where the rest of the neighbors are "sleeping" and it's just Wally & Home slowly losing their minds in the dark abandoned studio

[earthtooz]

cw: arranged marriage, fluff, neglect at the beginning, ratio falling hard, pining, ratio being jealous of aventurine, unedited bc i wrote this with my heart not my brain

my brain has been thinking about an arranged marriage fic with dr. ratio...

he isn't kind to you at first, less than happy to share a life with a mere acquaintance. he's heard about you before in passing, noting your achievements with a grain of salt because nothing about you particularly mattered to him, irrelevant against the mass of scrolls and books he needs to read.

you don't really disturb his normal routine too much. you move in to his estate with a fair share of your belongings, but none of them crowd his house too much. you have your own room, pristine guest room unearthed by your artistic touch.

aside from dinners, you don't get to see each other too much. he starts his mornings early, getting up at the crack of dawn to exercise and start his day with a hearty meal. you wake up later, partaking in a slow morning, and if you glanced out the window, you might be able to see your husband running laps around the expanse of his gardens.

you admire his dedication and routine, it's fascinating to live beside a genius. everyday, the chest table that sits in the living room changes, the black and white pieces never remaining where you last recalled. the size of his blackboard is impressive, and yet too small to fit all of the formulas his brain remembers, hands effortlessly dancing along the surface to scratch number after number.

a frequent order of his estate is chalk. a new pile is delivered every three days, and he goes through them without fail every time.

during dinner, he tries to spare some conversation with you. you don't tell him too much about your day, not wanting to bore him with your menial chores. he's only half-listening either way, so you'll feign understanding about his work when he explains what he's up to.

ratio is not an attentive husband, but he doesn't mistreat you, either. he allows you to spend his assets without too much care, doesn't police your everyday tasks, and also doesn't bat an eye at other men or women. his pursuit of intelligence is important, and your wellbeing would not come in between that.

your monotonous, distant routine changes one autumn dusk. you're perched in the front yard with an easel set up before you, the sky in front of you now a blend of pink-purple hues. he returns home earlier than you expected, carriage stopping at the front of his estate, and he witnesses you in your tranquil state.

the paint strokes on the canvas before you are skilled, and show years of dedication to the craft. you're so invested in the piece before you, that you don't even hear him approaching until he calls your name.

"the night turns colder with each minute. shouldn't you come inside before you fall ill?" the scholar greets, and you're snapped out of your creative reverie, looking over at him.

"oh, i had not realised. let me clean up here, first." you take your canvas off the easel, but to your surprise, your spouse kneels down to organise your oil paints back into their box.

"make haste, then," he urges.

during dinner, he can't help but be curious over your hobby, the stubborn splotches of paint clinging to your hands visible to him. that night, you engage in uninterrupted conversation, and discover that he's an artist himself- a sculptor. it calms him, and all the statues reside in a removed room, adjacent to his study.

despite your years of matrimony, you had never once dared enter his study, but the design is so fittingly him. it is organised (well, as organised a genius can be), with shelves and shelves filled with books, discarded scrolls lay around the room, but even then, his taste for greco-roman aesthetics are seen. roman dorics act like stands for little plants, and his many certificates are displayed, along with other achievements.

(his study is overwhelmingly filled with them. though you knew of the merit of the man you were arranged to be married to, you had never known just how expansive the list is. perhaps, that only made him more intimidating to you, standing beside a genius does not feel so light to say anymore.)

he shows you his sculptures, and though many of them are... self portraits... the likeness is disgustingly accurate. it was as if he had casted himself in plaster and displayed it proudly. you wonder how long he must have stared in the mirror to perfect their appearance.

but, there are also various other formidable statues. some of people you recognise. you compliment his skill and don't get to see the blush that spreads along his cheeks.

it seems that you've chipped a way into his heart, because between brushstrokes and chiselled marble, he falls in love with you.

ratio knows he didn't start off being the best husband, but he tries to now, and begins by being present. asks you to dine together where possible, listens when you're talking about your day, and the two of you can be seen venturing downtown together; an unbelievable sight for those who believed that ratio was romantically inept.

perhaps, an even more unbelievable sight, was the soft smile on his face that glanced at you very adoringly, and how you remained unaware of his affections.

and, maybe a jealous veritas ratio is just as unbelievable.

he is practically glaring daggers at the side of a certain blond's head. ratio has never been fond of the scheming businessman, aventurine, and is even less so of the fact that you seem so close to him, more than you are with your own husband. you're speaking with him like how one would with old friends, a peaceful visit to the markets turned sour by his presence.

when you finally, finally, finally, bid farewell to aventurine, who gave ratio a look that signified he was up to no good, your husband held your hand in his gloved one with an unforgiving grip. his mood is dampened for the remainder of the day, and is only made better when you enquire about his sudden glumness, visiting his office to see if he was alright.

you leave him with a kiss on the crown of his head, and a whisper of 'goodnight', before retreating to your chambers, and the only thought that circulates in his head for the rest of the night is you, and how he's going to sweep you off your feet.

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

snowfall

summary: when she’s young and in between foster families, she meets a scrawny kid named Simon. Simon sits to the side while the other kids play, and she gives him her sandwich. When he leaves, forced to go back to his dad, she feels bad for him.

Then, when she gets older, she realizes that Simon was the lucky one. He made it out.

notes: based on the song snowfall, bc I’ve been listening to it and thinking about this fic a lot lately

warnings: mentions of abuse, human trafficking and childhood trauma. Violence. Allusions to smut? Afab!reader

taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins (hmu to be added to any taglist!)

masterlist | requests are OPEN!

You’re back to square one, where you always end up when a foster family lets you go. A big, grey house that was built in the sixties and not once painted afterwards, that’s square one. Makeshift beds and damp rooms, showers that smell of piss and food that has the consistency of cardboard.

The house is so terrible on the inside that everyone flees into the parking lot, a barely better place to be. In the dirt-poor areas of Manchester, it’s all anyone can ask for. The younger kids play with chalk or run around, chasing each other, while the ones your age pass cigarettes and other stuff to each other.

None of you know each other’s names, but you’ve all seen each other in passing. Kids that were left on their own, that don’t trust easy won’t talk to each other either. Not really.

It’s rare to see a new face, so the teen sitting off to the side while the others talk catches you by surprise.

He’s massively tall already, but scrawny as hell, his hair in the awkward stage between short and being grown out. His eyes flit around, meeting no one else’s.

“Haven’t seen you before.” You greet, and he barely looks up. You offer him your name, and he pauses before he responds.

“Simon.” He says finally. There’s a short silence, broken by his rumbling stomach, and you hand him your sandwich without thinking twice. You’re not a big fan of tomatoes. He hesitates, inspecting it before he takes a bite. He barely nods as you tell him you don’t like tomatoes, and you doubt he even heard you.

“What are you doing here? Never seen you before.” You attempt, trying to make conversation. He shrugs in response, and you don’t pry further.

Simon sticks to you like glue in the days afterwards, a silent shadow that towers over you. Timmy, a kid that joined a gang after feeling overly confident, tries to approach you twice, but apparently, Simon’s glower is more intimidating than his stature.

After a week and a half, a social worker interrupts a game of Uno between you and Simon, pulling him away for a conversation. That usually means one of two things: going home, or going to a family of strangers.

You never get to find out which one it is, because Simon doesn’t say goodbye. You tell yourself that he made it home, or at least made it out. He seems like the type.

***

Against your hopes, and in line with all odds, you don’t make it out. Bouncing between foster families leaves you frustrated, angry and alone. A recipe for disaster, and you know it. Two years after Simon left the grey house that smelled like a germaphobe’s nightmare, you did as well.

Barely eighteen, with no one to back you up and not a single penny on your name, that went to shit quicker than you might have thought, and you found yourself exactly where you did not want to end up: the crime scene of Manchester.

It started off with little favors. Timmy convinced you. He said it wasn’t hard to sell drugs. That you’d only have to do it a few times, and then you’d have enough money to start yourself off with a real job. Something honest.

Something that would finally get you some real security. A sense of permanence.

Over the years, little favors turned into bigger favors.

Timmy, of course, didn’t know batshit about anything, and he certainly did not care to look into things more than he had to for you. And by the time your idiot, barely not-adolescent brain realized that, you were in too deep.

You’d done everything wrong, because selling drugs for a few days ‘wouldn’t hurt anyone’.

That was how you ended up as the cliché character of anti-everything prevention movies they showed you, back in the grey house. Abused, beaten-up, trafficked, sold, and not even out of your twenties.

Each time you thought about it, you wanted to laugh at yourself, to try and stop yourself from missing the gray house and the exhausted social workers that weren’t paid enough to care for any of you.

Just this time, you couldn’t go back to the gray house. You weren’t a child anymore. This time, people came for you to make sure that you’d pay them back what you owed them. Technically, what Timmy owed them.

They, whoever they were, took you away from Manchester, the only semblance of home you’d ever known. You found yourself in an abandoned cargo hall, freezing cold. From what you could see, it was snowing outside, the chill creeping inside. The girl next to you was out like a light, either from drugs, exhaustion, the cold, or a combination of all three.

You could make peace with the fact that you would never get out. You could just accept it, like you’d accepted everything else in your life. A voice in your head screamed that it wasn’t fair, and it felt like that scream was becoming more and more real. There was a ridiculous notion in the back of your mind, telling you to get up.

It bled into the screech from the gates of the cargo hall, protesting as they were opened. Your captors pointed their guns, but thick, white smoke filled the building, and you felt yourself become suddenly sleepy.

The last thing you saw were shadowy figures storming the hall, gunfire ringing out, smoke filling your nose and mouth.

***

When you came to, the smoke had dissipated, but you were still in the cargo hall. A group of men in camouflage walked around the hall, checking the men that were lying on the floor. One of them approached you and the others.

Almost automatically, you slinked backwards, out of his reach, but he gave you a soft smile.

He was young, too young to be in a place like this, with a sweet expression on his face that felt too saccharine to belong in the midst of this violence.

“I’m Gaz.” He said. “I’m with the British army, and we’re here to take you home. Are you hurt?”

Varying reactions came from the people around you, and you felt yourself numbly nodding. Home. Had a God heard your prayer and then decided to turn it into a joke?

The doctors arrived a while later, taking a look at everyone that had been with you. Some of the girls around you were drug addicts, and going into withdrawal was never pretty. The cargo hall quickly filled with the stench of vomit and cold sweat, but it meant that you got the time to look at the men that had stormed the hall. A gruff man with sideburns, a Scot with a mohawk that was chattering away with Gaz and-

He was hulking, a mountain that wore a skull instead of a face. You’d never met someone like him in your life, but he paused when he saw you, and you knew that he’d seen you before, this behemoth of a man.

***

It takes two more days before you’re back in England, but it doesn’t feel like a homecoming. Some of the girls have people waiting for them, parents, children, boyfriends, girlfriends to run into their arms and hold. Some are like you. No one comes, and they leave on their own.

You want to follow them. You can’t go back to Manchester. You’ll only return for your papers, if those still exist, and then you’ll leave.

You’re about to finally lift your feet from the cold, concrete floor when you feel a pair of eyes burning into your back.

Turning around, you see it’s the one they call Ghost. He’s standing off to the side, and it reminds you of something. You can’t figure out what it is, even though you try so so hard to just remember.

“Thank you for getting us out of there.” You blurt out, and he looks like he wants to say something, his jaw almost cramping together as he makes a tiny movement. You think it’s towards you.

“I owed you for the sandwich.” He says. The shrug looks forced, and you know that he can’t bring himself to say something more honest. “No tomatoes, of course.”

The seconds it takes you to understand seem to tick by outside of your brain, like a clock hammering with each moment passed. Then, your jaw falls slack.

“Simon?” you ask, too loudly, and the Scot named Soap snaps his head around to stare at you.

He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t have to. You recognize his height, his eyes, the awkward standing off to the side so suddenly that it hits you like a fucking train. How couldn’t you see it before?

This is Simon. The kid that-

“You left without saying fucking anything!” you accuse, and you’re sure the others think you’re exes.

He just nods, and that almost infuriates you. But he made it out. He made something of himself, and you have to respect that. It’s all you want, always slipping away from your grasp, and Simon got it. Carved it out for himself, by the looks of it.

And finally, after an eternity, Simon steps forward and holds out a bag with the yellow-and-green subway logo on it.

“Hope you like it.” He mumbles, and it’s an almost adorable gesture. There’s no tomatoes, as he promised. Someone remembered something from your childhood.

You take the bag, and then you take the step separating you and hug him tightly. Are you overstepping a boundary? Is he going to push you off roughly?

He doesn’t hug you back, but he does allow you to wrap your arms around him (or, as much as you can do that with his new size).

His teammates stare, but you don’t let go. Not for a while.

“You got a place to stay?” he asks, when the others have gotten over the shock of your interaction. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and a part of you hopes that you’re special in this, because you helped him too. Somehow.

“McDonalds is always open, and I’ve got…” you reach into your pocket, finding a crumpled note. “Enough for a large drink.”

He shakes his head. He offers his apartment, his home up to you and you should say no because he could traffic you, or rape you, or hurt you just enough to make you drag yourself back to Timmy.

You get into the car with him, and your mind screams danger. Your gut’s feeling alright though, so you ignore it.

The first change beyond the obvious of his massive frame that you notice is that he’s gotten even quieter. While you drag yourself up the dark staircase with some effort, he stays true to his name, not a single scrape coming from his combat boots.

In the apartment, he switches on the light, and you take in the spartan interior. A small kitchen, a sofa, a TV, a coffeetable with a mug still on it. No dinnertable, but three pictures on the refrigerator.

A young boy, a woman that reminds you of the younger Simon (maybe his mother?) and his teammates. Gaz, Soap, the older guy, two men that you don’t recognize, standing in scenery that looks almost tropical.

He lets you stare, before he quietly shows you the bathroom. You let the lock click behind you, even though you know that wouldn’t make much of an obstacle for the person he’s become.

You shower as quickly as you can, slipping back into your underwear. You hesitate for a moment, and then you grab the big, fluffy bathrobe hanging over the towel rack. Someone had vomited on your shirt, and you refused to put it on again.

The robe was too big for you, black with white skulls on it, and you highly doubted that Simon had bought it for himself. Maybe the Scot that cracked jokes with, or rather at him, had bought it for him and he’d caved to using it.

When you walked out, Simon was pulling clean sheets over the bed in his bedroom. He lifted his head when he heard you, and even through the balaclava, you knew he was lifting a brow at you.

“You’re wearing Soap’s bathrobe.” He commented.

“Someone vomited on my shirt.”

Simon did not reply, but he did turn around to rummage in his closet, throwing you one of his old shirts. You went back into the bathroom to put it on, and decided to not comment on the fact that it looked like a midi dress on you.

He closed the door behind him when he went to sleep, and the click of the lock felt a little insulting to you. Yet, you couldn’t expect him to trust you.

Sleep did not come easy to you, and when it did, you only had nightmares.

After a particularly bad one, you woke up with a start, only to find yourself face-to-face with one of your captors, face hid behind a balaclava, and you screamed.

Only after a few moments did you realize that it was Simon.

Between your panicked apologizing, and his nervous tea-making, it took a while for either of you to speak.

“I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving.” He said finally, sitting across from you on the sofa, and still managing to take up three fourths of it.

“You didn’t have to. You didn’t know me.” You replied.

“I clung to you.” He said under his breath, as if it was an admittance of weakness.

“I liked it. Made me feel less alone.”

Your hands found each other in the dark, his fingers curling around yours and you swore that you could feel his heart hammer in his wrist.

“I don’t want to go to Manchester alone.” You whispered. It was an admittance of defeat.

“I’ll go with you.” Simon replied. He had no incentive to.

In the dark, it didn’t feel as preposterous or dangerous to move closer to him. He stilled when your knee bumped against his leg, and you held your breath, waiting for his rejection.

It didn’t come, only a shaky breath from Simon that gave the smallest of hints about how he was feeling. His hand was still holding yours, warm and a little rough, but it felt real. It made you move closer, to try and lean into his touch.

His hand slipped from yours, and for a moment, you thought that you’d done something wrong, but then you felt it on your waist, and Simon pulled you onto his lap. Your hands flew to his chest to steady yourself, and you could feel his hammering heart beating under his shirt.

Simon was so massive that he engulfed you, drowned out everything around you, and you loved it. There was nothing but him, and that didn’t scare you. It made you feel unfathomably safe.

He hugged you suddenly, a mirror gesture to what you’d done at the airport, his thick arms wrapping around you, pulling you even closer, until your lips were almost on his and he looked up at you with something in his eyes that you couldn’t place, because no one had ever looked at you like that.

You couldn’t help kissing him. Slowly, asking, almost begging, you peeled up the lower half of his balaclava, waiting for him to tell you to stop. Instead, even in the darkness, you knew that the stubble on his jaw was blonde, because it was impossible to forget someone like him. Your lips found his and it felt so right that your hands snaked up to his jaw, cradling his face in the hope that he’d know you cared for him.

Simon returned your kiss equally as hungry, demanding the air you breathed from you, his embrace swallowing you, and you wanted to give it all to him. Your hands shook as you reached to slip them over the band of his sweats, still unsure if he’d reject you, or let you do it.

Cautiously, your hands slipped under his t-shirt first, his skin feeling like it was burning in comparison to your cold fingers, warm to the touch, and safe.

“I thought about you a lot.” You admitted between kisses. “Wanted to know what happened to you.”

Simon stilled at that, his gaze shifting, warping from one unreadable expression to another.

“Nothin’ good.” He replied finally. You felt like an idiot. Like you’d just ruined the moment.

“I’m sorry.” You said, because you had no idea what else to say. His hand found yours, and you felt like whatever was going to happen to you, it was going to be okay.

[historiaxvanserra]

These Violent Delights | Chapter Three

Summary: The day has come for you to forsake the safety of Velaris and make your solemn oaths to Beron Vanserra; the cruel and tyrannical High Lord of the Autumn Court and his son Eris Vanserra. Your mate. Cruel and beautiful and yours.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader

Word Count: 8k

Main Masterlist

Waking from the ether feels like being torn from your old life again. You need a few moments to shed the fleeting remnants of your mortal life; the winter cold as it permeates the thin walls of the cabin, the warmths of the sister nestled at your side,  that feeling of hunger like a devouring cavity that lives within you even now and that dresser-- adorned in painted flame, flowers, eternal night and the murky depths of the sea. That dresser haunts your memories almost as often as that infernal Cauldron. 

In these moments when sleep still shrouds your conscious mind, you give leave to your anger; it runs like water into old wounds and it festers there. The saltwater purifies in ways that fire cannot. In a few moments, when the visions abate you, then you will be able to face the fire. To watch as the hues of your bedroom move from murky green and chalk blue into pearl and burning gold. For now, let the morning come in with the subtleness of the tide.

You're still cocooned between silken sheets, allowing the sunlight to thaw out the morning chill from your bones, when you notice the wraiths as they work. Nuala and Cerridrwen are the personification of shadow and smoke as they glide through your rooms, drawing the curtains with a flourish as golden light seems to pour into the room. Nuala tends to your laundry while her sister begins to draw your bath. The smell of steam and wildflowers from the meadow fill the air; juniper berries and chamomile soap that seems to cling to you. 

The sound of the water lulls you into a misty wakefulness which is sullied by the opening of the apartment doors again. This time three sisters spill into the room, each dressed in varying shades of night; black, navy and indigo, accented with jewels strung tight against the hollows of their throats and the morning light catches in the crystals and casts the room in speckled light.

With as much grace as she can muster this early in the morning, Elain unceremoniously slumps down on your unmade bed and crawls to sit beside you as you once had when you were girls. 

“Get up!” Nesta commands briskly leaning against your vanity. 

“Morning, love,” Elain says, her voice airy on the morning breeze. She looks particularly wraith-like this morning, her eyes are ringed purple and her rich sienna irises are glazed over, glassy and veiled with a milky film that speaks to an oncoming vision.

Your bed shifts under the weight of movement again as Feyre places Nyx, swaddled in his favorite blanket, into the space beside you. He moves against the confines of his wrappings, coiling and loosening and he is half-free before you pull him into your embrace. His smile and quiet babbling tugs on your emotions in a way that almost feels like a carefully crafted ruse. 

“Using the baby against me is cruel.” You chastise, pulling yourself to sit against the headboard as you take Nyx in your arms so that he is resting on your knees. 

“I know but you really do need to get up.” Feyre says, still half-wrapped in the arms of sleep herself. Feyre is the night; dark, and vast, strangely comforting. 

“The High Lord has asked to see you before the ceremony,” Nesta says. Her voice is filled with something sharp and wicked. They’re all looking at you now; each saturated in her own shade of sympathy as you resign yourself to action. Rising from the bed in feigned indifference, you wordlessly hand Nyx off to his mother, before walking over to the copper tub in front of the dying fire. The cold copper draws the heat from your skin and in its wake leaves an icy metallic sting that cuts bone deep. 

“Very well then,” You say with a heavy sigh, “I best not keep him waiting.” 

You look to your sisters then, once they had been three girls; mortal and each afraid and now they stand before you half-divine and formidable. And where did you stand amongst them? You don’t feel particularly formidable.

You feel fractured, all adrift in a violent sea.  

So today you will wear your sisters virtues like armor. Until you have sworn yourself to him. 

“We’ll not keep you,” Nesta says, cutting through the poignant silence as you rise on uncertain feet towards the tub nodding curtly at them as they disperse.  

The swathes of your ivory nightgown pool like water at your feet as you wade into the tub before sinking low into its comforting warmth. The water is white-hot, burns in the most sadistic way, and when the burning subsides it gives way to a misty wakefulness saturated by the aromatic smell of juniper and jasmine. You recline your head against the lip of the tub and cast your gaze to your sisters again. . 

In this light Nesta looks like a vision; draped in black and silver, her hair braided like a crown atop her head and her face has an austere beauty that could bring a King to his knees. Nesta is a silver flame; wrathful and vengeful, and should she let it, her fire would ravage worlds until all that stood between her and total destruction was herself.

Eris is flame too; terrible and red. Slow-burning, all-consuming and utterly devastating.

Like calls to Like.

Once your sisters have left you let yourself sink into the scalding waters, sinking lower and lower until you are submerged entirely; the water becomes you and you it. Nesta always said that you were water; calm and clear with a dangerous anger that swells like a storm under the skin's surface, violent like the sea. And should you let it, the tempest will tear you apart, and perhaps the world with it. Looking up from underneath the fractured rays of sunlight spill into the room and pierce through the dark waters– there is something sacred in that sinking feeling. Then visions come to you in flashes of black, red and–

“I dreamt of you last night,” It’s Elain’s voice that lingers on the edges of your room. It’s airy and haunting and her eyes are wide and glassy as she exhales. Elain is flowers; painted in the pastels of Springs early blooms and her hair shines like shadowed sunlight in the pale morning.

“I dreamt of you and him.”

“A dream or a vision?” You ask, your voice wavering and curious. 

Elain takes a tentative step into the room, her fingers buried into the skirts of her dress and she broaches the subject again, “I hadn’t had a vision in months”.

“But last night I saw you.” 

Elain’s soft hands brush over your own, the tips of your fingers tangling together and your draw in a sharp breath as something in you calls to her and all the breath is taken from you when she reaches out a pale hand to your cheek. 

It burns through you like fire and Elain begins to speak.

'These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and water,

Which as they kiss consume.’

Elain falls through the ether with a deep inhale as the trance falls away from her and she scrambles to find something to ground herself in those moments.You brace yourself against the lip of the tub as Elain falls to the floor in tears, hands desperately grasping for anything to hold onto. Soaked to the bone and bare to the world you take your trembling sister in your arms and hold her there until the ragged breaths soothe and settle to a steady inhale-exhale. You run a confronting hand through Elain’s unbound hair, pressing a chaste kiss against her hairline repeating the words to her. It’s okay. I’m here. Elain looks up at you through dark lashes, wet with unshed tears when she whispers hoarsely.

“Please don’t marry Eris Vanserra.”

---

The cloister in the royal temple on the outskirts of Verona is steeped in near darkness save for the jade light from the stained glass windows that pierces the veil of the dark, like sunlight as it cascades down into the murky green depths of the river that flanks the Autumn’s capital city. There is a solemn silence that hangs in the air and for a moment this room feels more like a watery grave than a quiet reprieve from the ceremony below. The orchestral music plays and you pick out the sounds of lyres and harps as their music washes over you. You suck in a sharp breath and all at once you feel panic hit you like a raging tempest, wild and raging as it drags you into its merciless depths--

The sharp knock on the screen door reverberates through the silence of the cloister.

“Come in.” You say, your voice hoarse and shaky as clutch at the tight lacing of your corset, trying to catch your breath again. Light spills into the room like the tide and you turn, half-expecting to see one of your sisters standing there, her face painted in sympathy as she takes you in her arms and whispers a few comforting words to you. 

The man that stands before you is a much more volatile prospect indeed. 

“My Lord.” You greet him coldly. 

“High Lord now, isn’t it?” Beron Vanserra offers you a saccharine smile as he crosses the threshold of the makeshift bridal apartments. He’s dressed in a deep crimson tunic, embroidered with threads of gold; It is wholly perverse for a man so cruel to look so poised and striking. You notice the way his shoulder length hair looks like polished bronze and his eyes shine like onyx in the morning light as he regards you.

“Don’t you make a beautiful bride,” Beron’s voice is laden with false flattery, undercut with an air of threat, “you’re going to make my son a very happy male.” 

Beron all but leers at you. His eyes trail lazily over the curves and divots of your body in the obscenely intricate dress he had chosen for you. It is adorned in rubies and pearls that catch in the light like drops of blood. You feel your skin begin to crawl when he presses a chaste kiss to your outstretched hand.

“It is a shame about Eris though.” Beron says dangerously low, as if daring you to ask what it is he means. 

“The flowers look very beautiful” you muse absently, it is all you can offer him-- some small, non-committal response to placate him.

Beron pays you no heed. 

“I’m assured no expense has been spared with the ceremony.” Beron continues, picking at some stray threads on the sleeve of his tunic. His lips are set in a straight line and you notice the grimace that graces his features as he takes in the decor from your spot in the cloister overlooking the antechamber of the temple. 

The walls are carved into ivory marble and sandstone, and the high, Gothic archways are adorned with carvings of mythological heroes and Princes from songs. The large circular window behind the altar is decorated with stained glass that casts a myriad of dappled light onto the marble tiles. You swallow thickly thinking of the obscenely large sum of money being spent on your mating ceremony to the Autumn heir. 

“So I’ve heard, High Lord.” Beron nods at that, the use of his title softening him to you again and you dip your head in a show of false deference.

“Yes, well,” Beron says, his lips twitching lightly as he traces the swell of your breasts and the slope of your neck, “I have reason to believe you will be worth every penny.” 

Beron takes a step towards you and you loose a breath as he draws nearer still. His frail, aged hand reaches out to touch you. From your position in the cloister Beron Vanserra towers over you. His presence is a looming reminder of your position in this world. His slender fingers feel warm and smooth against the skin of your throat as he tilts your chin so that you are looking in his eyes. You wonder if Eris’ touch feels as perverse. 

It wasn't that night in Hewn City, you remember. That night he had touched you with such careful reverence. 

Like you were a Goddess worth kneeling too.

“You should be warned,” Beron says to you, his eyes bore into yours and in them you see something akin to devilment cross them. Beron’s voice is soft and pensive in a way that seems rehearsed “The Autumn Court is an inhospitable place for outsiders.”

“Rhysand might be content for you to play at war and politics but you will find that in Autumn it is not becoming of a Lady of your position.” 

“Yes, My Lord” you say, your voice equally as soft, with an almost breathless quality to it as the realization of his words takes root in your chest. Your heart is thunderous in your chest-- it beats so loud you’re sure The High Lord of Autumn is privy to it. 

Beron hums thoughtfully as he lets go of your chin once more.

“Eris has a dangerous temper -- the fire runs hot in his veins” Beron’s words are chosen carefully, crafted to intimidate. “I can assure you he will not abide these foolish notions any more than I will.” 

You nod meekly, recalling the words of Elain’s vision. These violent delights will have violent ends. 

“He might be blinded by the thought of a pretty face and a tight cunt for now but it won’t last.” He muses to himself and again you see that light fade from his eyes and morph into a sadistic joy as his words spark outrage on your face. 

You don’t dare look at him again lest he see the tears that have gathered at your waterline. Beron considers you for a moment, sweeping you up in his hold so that your arm is wrapped around his bicep loosely and he begins to lead you from the darkness of the cloister and into the light. 

“And what will my position be at court?” You ask carefully, observing the harsh set of Beron’s jaw as you talk. 

“As Eris’ mate you will be a Lady of the Autumn court -- you’ll take tea and play cards, attend balls -- bear him sons.” Beron laughs, casting a glance to you as you continue your descent down the temple stairs before he takes his leave. Then he is gone with the wave of a hand and he leaves the charred scent of wyrmwood and valerian root in his wake. You lose a shaky breath and try ceaselessly to wipe the unshed tears from your eyes before continuing your descent into the heart of the temple. 

Your storm rages violent and cold then; You were born from the depths of the sea. To be cruel and beautiful. You are not some docile little girl or a brood mare destined to bear sons and obey. 

You are a storm incarnate and by the time you are done, the whole world will know it. 

The temple in Verona is carved deep into the natural sandstone of a cliff face, its sharp peak cleaving it from the valley and river beyond. The grand temple overlooks the river and on days such as this, the smell of seafoam and salt, stains the air. The stained glass windows line the junction between the walls and ceilings, and illustrated in them, is the story of birth, creation and rebirth. It breeds a strange sense of reverence in you. As the sun filters through the windows in beams of shadowed light, the aisle is dappled in a technicolor glow. The air is thick and heady with the smell of wine and smoke and from your spot at the end of the aisle, you can see The High Priestess intoning her mass. The Priestess is obscured by plumes of incense smoke and the flicker of candle flame illuminates her face. She is a vision in the lonine orange light; she is heavily veiled, runes adorn her arms and face, and her eyes shine with a cerulean clarity as she chants her blessings to the Fae in attendance. Her altar is littered with offerings to the mated pair, amphora’s of fae-wine, bouquets of lilac and patchouli, small trinkets and garlands of laurel and pomegranate. The temple is alive with ceremony; a possession of veiled priestesses, anointed with incense, leave a trail of petals in their wake, as they kneel at the foot of the altar before filing into the pews. 

“Last chance to run!” It’s Cassian’s voice that jolts you from thought. 

He laughs as you clutch at your chest as you reel from his intrusion. He’s dressed in his ceremonial uniform; it’s much prettier than the frayed training leathers you’re used to seeing him in. His broad shoulders seem to strain against the navy fabric that is decorated with embroidered silver brocade. His hair is pushed back behind his ears neatly, a few errant strands catch on the breeze and he looks more like the Cassian you had grown to care for. 

“I think it’s a little late for that now.” Rhysand says pointedly to Cassian as he retreats into the aisle to find his seat at the front of the temple with the rest of your family and friends.

On the opposite side of the aisle Beron Vanserra stands near the altar along with Eris and his favorite courtiers and trusted soldiers that gather behind him to bear witness to the hastily brokered mating ceremony his father had managed to coerce you into. And there’s a woman. She’s tall and beautiful with hair the color of sand and a face that is bright and warm. She looks out into the aisle with contempt and then back again to Eris and from here, on the outside looking in, you can see it. Not quite love but fire; consuming and searing through her and the heat seems to seep into his bones as he turns around to meet her eyes and you can swear you see the ghost of regret grace his face. 

You will make him kneel to you, you think. As you had done that night in Hewn City. He had called you Goddess then. 

A storm incarnate, you remind yourself as you approach the aisle hesitantly. Violent, merciless, and beautiful. With all the force of a raging tempest. 

As the orchestral music begins to sweep through the temple you feel Rhysand clear his throat and come to stand at your side, his eyes burning holes into the side of your face. Rhysand is dressed all in black. In his High Lord robes he cuts an intimidating figure. In this holy light he looks quite beautiful, in a boyish sort of way, never really having shed that youthful magnetism that seemed to enamour everyone so. On any other day, you wouldn’t have looked twice at Rhysand but as your freedom hangs precariously in the balance you want to cling to something you know-- something warm and familiar and safe. So you take his arm as he guides you out into the aisle. 

Your vision is partially obscured by the light mesh veil that adorns your face. It’s honey coloured and decorated with tiny ruby crystals that fall like tears. The dress itself looks like wine red; satin and chiffon that clings to you like water as it marks the contours and caverns of your body in a way that makes you feel laid bare. The fabric is gathered about your bust delicately and accentuates the slope of your shoulders. Rhysand’s cool fingers rub comforting circles into the flesh of your arm where he holds it tight. He feels your tense involuntarily as the harps swell to a stop when you step up to the heart of the temple. 

Then you see him; it’s hypnotic and slightly aggravating as he examines you, his eyes trailing over your body and coming to land on your face. He looks at you and you feel as though light goes all through you. He’s steeped in jewel tones that saturate him in autumnal light as he stands against the cool marble and stone of the temple. His hair is tousled and rust coloured in the half-extinguished candle flame and his eyes shine like amber, incandescent and devastating. His tunic is jade coloured and embellished with gold thread along the cuffs and collar. 

“Come forward, child,” the Priestess gestures to you as you take a step towards the altar, bowing your head in a show of devotion. She takes your hand in hers and kisses it chastely, murmuring a blessing against your skin. She repeats the action for Eris before gesturing to you to face him. When you turn to face him he takes a step forward on certain feet and takes hold of the sheer fabric that veils you, briefly admiring the feel of it between his fingers before bringing it over your head in one fluid movement so that your face is entirely unobstructed from view. Eris burns bright; a slow-burning flame. It’s warm and all-consuming but no less volatile, no less devastating. As the priestess continues to intone her blessings, you and Eris stand, looking at each other in the light searching for something to cling to in each other’s eyes in those sinking moments. In a flurry of movement the priestess takes your hand again before pressing the ceremonial blade to your palm, the metal glints in the dappled light and a slicing burn gives way to blood that pools like rubies at Eris’s feet. 

Stepping to the altar he grasps your hand in his as a pained hiss escapes you. His hands are broad and warm and his fingers are long and graceful as they ghost over your cold skin. Your fist clenches in his unrelenting grip and when he feels it, he yields to you, his hand going slack as your fingers curl around his. He had the strange tenderness of someone who has never been loved, it seems almost rehearsed. His palms and the pads of his fingers are rough and mottled with fire and the way he holds your hand in his is possessive. 

Sacred and perverse. 

His hand pulls away from you now and in turn he offers it up to the priestess, she turns it over in her grasp and slices into his palm as she had done to you. He places his hand in yours again. Palm to bloody palm as he sinks to his knees before you. He kneels to you in his own show of reverence; you, the visage of some ancient deity and he, the last devotee. 

Eris Vanserra works diligently, threading the ribbon through your joined hands, binding your bloody hand to his. The crimson ribbon that joins you, a representation of the oaths by which you are bound together. 

Your shared sin.

The words come next; spoke in unison and recited like a prayer:

Ode to my love; 

Blood of my blood, bone of my bone;

Here, I surrender myself unto you;

In sight of The Mother; 

I give that which is only mine to give;

My word, my bond, my fealty,

I pledge to shield your back, and keep your counsel,

I pledge that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,

And yours the arms in which i wake

I pledge to you my living and dying;

I am yours and you are mine,

From this day until our last day.

The next few hours seem to pass in a perpetual state of anxiety induced haze and you bear witness to it all from somewhere outside of yourself; a ghost or spectator to the tragedy that had become your union to The Autumn Prince. 

Your beautiful mate. 

This should have been a happy occasion; the union of two souls, bound together by the Gods themselves. Born from the same star. But Beron Vanserra had robbed you of any romantic notions that today is anything but a warning fire. 

You are a vulnerability. His mate. And whether Eris Vanserra loves you or not Beron intends to exploit that vulnerability; a pretty ornament to bring Eris to heel. 

The ballroom is a show of opulence; soaked in the amethyst fae-light and chandeliers glitter like moonglow on open water. The paintings hang on the wall, rich oil on canvas, framed in gilded gold and the high table is decorated with fine ivory place settings and delicate china adorned with painted autumn leaves. The retinue of Beron’s courtiers look like a jewel-toned fire; flames of amber, topaz, and ruby that burn through the cool light of the ballroom as they take to their seats. It’s a great farce. The way that the colours of night and autumn come together in a crude harmony. You wonder if Eris sees it too. 

The music is soft and loud and mixed with the laughter and idle chatter the hall is a cacophony of sound, no longer ceremonial and orchestral but rather, jovial and light-hearted with an undercurrent of anticipation. From your position at the heart of the high table, you can see the courtiers of Night and Autumn mingling on the lower tables, and as the fourth course is served, it seems inebriation is beginning to set in. Their faces in the crowd are exaggerated and expressive, the distinct wine-blush staining the room a specific shade of hedonism. The air is thick with it, wine and body heat. It’s almost tangible. 

The sound of Cassian’s voice echoes along the high table as he and Nesta seem to be in the midst of a heated debate. Feyre and Mor are quietly discussing court gossip with animated gasps and hand gestures that you only catch from the corner of your eye. All of that is drowned out by the conversation between Rhysand, Beron and Eris. 

You only stare on, watching and waiting as the evening begins to unfold before you. 

You cast your eyes along the table to see that it is laden with food; roasted meats, and seasonal vegetables, garnished with fragrant spices and herbs that taint the air with their aroma. It’s pure gluttony. More food than you have ever seen, piled high and largely untouched. It seems cruel to you. To be confronted with such abundance now, when once, hunger was all you knew. It should feel like heaven to live in the knowledge that you will never know poverty again but sometimes it feels like condemnation. To live knowing that your life, meagre as it was, had been stolen from you and in its place, this. 

The stiffening of the body next to you brings you back from the precipice. Eris is a vision in the sapphire light; his face is beautiful in the most conflicting ways. He’s all delicate and angular; soft slopes and harsh lines that come together in opposing harmony. His face is a perfect juxtaposition. He’s a slow-burning fire tangled in the amethyst moonglow. 

“You should eat something,” His voice is tense and low and he doesn’t deign to look at you when he speaks. Even his presence is contradictory in nature; the way his face is set in a neutral expression that arches on contemptuous, and yet, his hand, still bound to yours, is warm and tender, as the calloused pad of his thumb strokes slow tortuous circles into the skin of your hand. 

“I’m not hungry,” it is a lie, an obvious one at that, as at that moment your stomach seems to betray you. He laughs then. Much to the ire of Beron who sends one measured glance to his heir, never quite looking away from Rhysand as he talks about some foreign policy or the other.

The laugh itself is not wholly cruel but teasing, meant to make you feel small as he finally turns his gaze on you. It’s fierce and piercing, warm and you think that when he is looking at you the whole world melts away for a few moments. Eris is handsome; of that there had never been any doubt. Especially in this light he almost takes your breath away. 

“Please eat something, little fox.” is all he says finally, cutting through the tension that had settled over the two of you. 

You laugh back at him now as he watches you carefully, his stare is unyielding and burns into the side of your face. Yet you refuse him the satisfaction of looking back at him. It is Beron’s stare that has you shrinking in place, searing and critical as it bores into the side of your face. It is then you notice the woman he had brought with him looks at you both with a peculiar mixture of envy and scorn that makes heat coil in your stomach, it creeps up on you, kissing its way up your throat and ghosting over your cheeks, leaving blush stains in its wake. 

You look at him once more, forlorn and dejected when he won’t meet your gaze. You look down to the space between you to the place where your hands are bound to his. Your hands are clasped together and come to rest on your thigh innocently as his thumb continues to rub small circles into the skin of your hand. It’s absent-minded and self-soothing on his part. You doubt he realizes or cares about the comfort it has been bringing you in these moments when you feel like you are drowning. So you surrender yourself to the tide.

You are the sea; wild and untamed, sacred like salt. A force to be reckoned with. And try as he might, he will not burn you. 

When your stomach elicits another growl you relent to him and decide to eat something after all even if the satisfaction on his face is enough to awaken the storm brewing inside of you. It’s not quite anger but either way, it washes over you and awakens you with a jolt. 

With your free hand you grab the first thing in front of you; pomegranate, ripe and sweet-smelling and red. Red like the thread that binds you to him. You spend a few moments contemplating it before letting your free hand fall to your thigh, to the place where his body joins with yours. You begin tugging at the binding in an attempt to free yourself from his tender grip. 

“No!” His voice is louder and sterner than he meant for it to sound as he pushes you away with his unbound hand.

“Why not?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at the harsh tone in his voice, “it’s just a stupid ribbon.” 

You attempt to free yourself again, only this time his grip is rough and unrelenting.

“That stupid ribbon is thousands of years of tradition, girl.” It is Beron’s voice, cruel and malignant that chastises you. 

“My apologies.” you say dumbly in response, looking down to where your hands are joined in shame, “forgive me High Lord.” You’re not sure if it's Beron of Eris you are apologizing to. But it is Beron’s words that play on your mind. 

Eris bids you to look at him when his father is once again taken into conversation with Rhysand and you notice then how Eris’ amber gaze softens with his grip as he lets go of your free hand and he waves you off as you look on apologetically. These are the traditions of his people. And foreign as they are to you, they are his; yours now too you suppose.

“The ribbon signifies the sacred vows we have made to each other.” Eris explains carefully and those amber eyes never once leave yours. Even as he brings his free hand to cradle your face in one hand, or as he runs a tender thumb over the the smooth flesh of your cheek. 

“I’m sor-” you move to apologize again though the words are cut short when Eris squeezes your hand comfortingly beneath the table and offers you a secret smile. A secret courtesy to be kept between you and him.

“Think nothing of it, wife.” There’s a little bite to the words that speak to his jest and you feel once again that you are talking to the man that had enamored you so that night in Hewn City. 

He clears his throat again to speak. 

His voice is measured and calm this time as he says “It can’t be removed until the wedding night.”

“The wedding night?” you ask, looking up at him as he turns away again.

“Until the marriage has been consummated.” Eris clarifies, not daring to look at you he shifts a little in his seat, crossing his boot-clad leg over his knee.

“Ahah! The bedding!” Beron leers at you and you notice the twitch in Eris’ jaw but his face remains set in a perfectly neutral expression before morphing into his own rehearsed smirk. He mutters something to his father that you can’t quite catch but whatever it is, it is enough that Beron hums in satisfaction and turns back to The Night Lord of Night with a dangerous smile on his lips. 

You swallow hard. 

Your throat goes dry and makes it harder to swallow your dread. Silence settles over you both again, you’re not sure that he notices or pays much mind to you in those moments but drowning in the silence, you feel his hand squeeze yours with a fond pressure that makes your heart swell with something close to affection. 

After a few more moments of that awkward silence and his hand squeezing yours, you dare to look along the table again. Beside you Rhys is sat in a grand chair that marks him as a High Lord, next is Feyre who cradles Nyx in her arms as he sleeps soundly despite the music and chatter of the courtiers. Nesta and Cassian seem wholly immersed in each other, each drinking deeply from their cups as their conversation becomes louder. At some point, she catches your eye and quirks a brow at you in question. You can’t think of what to do so you only shake your head a little in response, hardly enough for anyone else to notice. 

Moving on you find Azriel in the crowd, he’s pressed against the wall, drink in hand, spectating from the sidelines as he does, lying in wait for something to catch his attention. Something does catch his attention though; it’s you. He sees the way you watch him carefully. There was something dark and reassuring in his eyes, a wordless conversation contained between you and him in that moment. He’s been a friend to you this whole time, and his distrust of Eris meant he was the only one openly vocal about his reservations regarding your marriage to the Autumn prince. Apart from you of course. Azriel slinks off into the shadows and not long after you notice that Elain has also managed to escape. There is some amusement in how obvious they are in their affections for each other and yet, not one person is observant enough to take notice of it. 

“Your sister, Elain,” he starts, there is a menace in his voice and a thread of amusement as he cocks a brow to Lucien who is dancing with Feyre now,  “She’s my brother's mate, yes?”

“She is, My Lord.” You nod, your eyes fixed on Lucien, who had been begrudgingly invited and you find yourself enamored by his graceful movements as he sweeps Feyre up in one fluid motion, turning with her in his arms before placing her on the ground again. Lucien is beautiful you think; not in the same way as Eris perhaps, Lucien is sunlight where Eris is fire-- but beautiful still. 

“Have you noticed the way she always seems to disappear in a room full of people and no one seems to notice,” It’s not meant to be a jape or a taunt just simple observation on his part as his eyes scan the room and Elain is nowhere to be found amongst the masses of bodies. 

“The spymaster, too.” he adds, his tone is careful and bereft of emotion. 

“How strange,” you say, offering him a weak smile in response. Any smart retort lives and dies on the tip of your tongue at that moment and you’re left trying to scrape some dismissal together but no matter how hard you try, nothing will come forth.  

“Perhaps they have retired to their beds for the night.” he offers, a sly smile on his beautiful lips.

Clearly, someone else is taking note. 

He turns to you then and you can see the wicked smile that takes over his features but it is gone just as quickly as he looks down at you clumsily holding your knife in hand in an attempt to tear open the fruit in front of you so that you may finally eat. 

“Here,” he says softly, reaching over you with his free hand to take the pomegranate from your hands, “give me the knife”.

“Don’t trouble yourself, My Lord,” you say quickly, your hand covering his to stop him in his tracks.

“No you don’t” he says simply waving your hand away again. Eris holds out his large hand to you, his palm open and expectant as his eyes find yours. Gods, he is devastating, you think. And intimidating. You see a flash of fire cross his eyes and Beron’s words play in your mind once more. 

You twirl the cheese knife in your hand once more before handing it to Eris with a trembling touch. Eris is skilled with a knife. His fingers are elegant and deft with a blade like he knows it innately. It is malleable under his touch and glides through the air as he carves into the pomegranate. Fruit flesh relents to the sting of his blade; sweet liquid spills onto his fingers like blood and the seeds shine like rubies in the candlelight. Eris takes a seed between his thumb and forefinger, holding it to the light before holding it to the sulk on your lips. Fruit flesh is cool and wet against your lips, the juice is tart and sweet and red. 

Almost metallic.

Almost like blood. 

It takes you a few moments to relent to him but when you do, you obediently open your mouth to him; all pretty pink lips and canines. It’s feral the way he watches you. The way you watch him. Like two predators circling their prey. There’s the ghost of a dare glinting in his eyes when you lean into him and wrap your lips around his fingers. It’s metallic and sweet, a heady mixture of skin and seed. You moan gospel around his deft fingers and when you are done he looks as though he is ready to devour you. 

The little peace that you had found in those moments seems to subside with the abrupt ending to the music as Rhysand stands beside you raising a glass to the room, with others following one by one to also raise their glasses.

“As the night draws to its close, let me be the first to wish you both well; my greatest wish is to see your bond grow strong, and with it the pledges we have borne witness to today. Your union is tangible proof of the alliance between our two courts and with your love, let those allegiances too grow strong so that we may all know peace and abundance in equal measure.”

As Rhysand’s speech draws to its close you feel Eris’s hand again squeezing at yours as if in warning for what will come next. Rhysand’s words didn’t surprise you as you thought they might, they lacked any brotherly sincerity and in its place was the proof that you had been sold to Eris so that Rhysand may profit off your sacrifice.

“As is tradition, the bride and groom will now retire to their bed.” As those words leave Beron’s lips you feel yourself pale in a mixture of embarrassment and dread. It’s Cassian who draws your attention as in his drunken stupor he hollers at the mere mention of the bedding. Nesta is quick to silence him with a jab to the ribs and she sends you an apologetic half-smile. Not that it appeases you any. This is the fate they have designed for you. It is easier to resign yourself to it, and relinquish control instead of having it taken from you. Breaking is easier than being broken. 

As the music begins again Eris seems to don a mask; his smile is saccharine as he rises to his feet in one fluid motion and you follow shortly after. He leads you to the middle of the ballroom and looks again at where your bodies are joined together. He places his free hand on the small of your back and in turn, you wrap your arm around his shoulder. He leads you effortlessly into a slow, sultry walk as you and he slink from the opulent ballroom and into the long, narrow corridors of The Forest House. 

“Are you afraid?” Eris asks gently as he examines you carefully and you don’t miss the way his eyes linger at the swell of your breasts or the way his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hip as he leads you up the grand staircase.

“Should I be afraid, My Lord?” you ask incredulously, offering him a sweet, amenable smile. That is what they want you to be, isn’t it? Agreeable, obedient, docile. A pretty thing to warm his bed and keep his counsel until his father is dead and buried.

He looks down at where your hands are bound together and you swallow hard.

You have already been bought and sold and with every passing second you can’t help but think your fate is to be a broodmare to birth sons and live in quiet isolation. 

As Eris’s own mother has. 

That behind Eris’s scheming and his initial hesitancy to claim you, there is still a lingering sense of ownership. That he felt entitled to you, to your body and your life should it come to that. All because The Mother deemed him worthy of you. For all his solemn promises he still bought you for a price.

“I won’t touch you,” there is sincerity in his voice that warms you, nerves set alight as his broad hand ghosts your uncovered shoulder.

“Not until you ask me to, anyway,” he adds, there is an air of playfulness in his voice but there is something else. At that moment you are assured that if you would have him, Eris would ravage you. He might be a cruel prince with a wicked temper, but there is an irresistible and undeniable tension between you. Something that calls your body to his. Perhaps it is the wine, or the gravity of the vows you have sworn to one another but either way, this man before you is lust incarnate. 

“What if I never want you to touch me?” you retort, there is something unserious about the way you say it. Both of you know that it is only a matter of time before you permit him into your bed.

“I can’t say I’ve ever dreamed of the priesthood.” He laughs a little. It is sweet and careless as his hand dips a little lower on your hips.

“I’m sure you’ll find some pretty little nymph to devote yourself to,” you say, thinking of the sandy-haired woman who had been watching you all night. Eris’ face twists into a fox-like grin. Like he has finally got you right where he wants you. 

“Who was the woman here today, the one with the golden hair?” you ask, your gaze wavering under the heat of Eris’ stare. 

“Her name is Chryseis, but you needn’t pay her any mind” he reassures you, forcing you to look at him. And only him. He’s right. She isn’t important, not truly. What’s more pressing is the way her eyes trailed you contemptuously and the feeling of volatile jealousy that toot root in your body. It is unnatural and selfish. Whatever Eris and that woman share predates you, and any vows he made to you. 

“She is very beautiful” You don’t quite know where the words come from but it tastes like saltwater on your tongue, “Is she what you gave up to have me?”

“She is nothing to me,” he says honestly. You think it is nice to see him like that, in those small moments where he is unencumbered by all that plagues him.

In that moment, you stand there, your hand still bound to Eris and again you allow the world to dissolve like sugar on your tongue when he is looking at you like that. His fire is gentle and slow-burning now, it comes off him in hot plumes of smoke.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” he quips as he tries to catch his breath, painfully aware of how your hearts beat in tandem, “Or only when you’re jealous?” 

He’s toying with you now and humiliation coils tight in your chest.

“Why would I be jealous of your lover?” you say, all bared teeth and venom as the tension between you cools to anger. It’s unnerving, and your hairs stand on end in morbid anticipation. As he closes the gap between you so that you are chest to chest. So close that his lips ghost over your own as he comes to whisper in your ear. 

“I never said she was my lover” Eris jibes, only half-amused as he takes in the way you shrink before him as his fathers words ring in your ears once again each time you bring yourself to fan the flames of his anger. 

“If you want me to forsake all other women, all you have to do is ask.” his breath is hot on your neck and he stares down at you, hypnotized by the rise and fall of your chest. “I offered as much that first night in Hewn City, don’t you remember?”

“Let it be my first act as your husband.” The way he says it is full of ardour and taunt. You’ve no doubt that he would too. But you are the sea; violent and willful and you will not surrender to him yet. 

You don’t say anything then only press your bound palm to his before leaning into him. His eyes pierce your soul and warmth pools in the pit of your stomach as his hot breath fans your face, lips coming to meet yours in a tender kiss. Only before you can heed the call of your soul to his, you pull away from him.

Eris hisses at the sudden loss of touch and he drops his free hand and begins to untether your hand from his. He turns his back to you, readjusting his posture to a cool, calculated slouch that exudes an aura of arrogance that he wears so well. The sounds of his riding boots against the tile cut through you like a knife. He tosses his head to the side, long russet strands framing his profile as he speaks again.

“You called me a Goddess once, do you remember?” Your eyes search his and in that strange amber gaze you see the man you saw that night is Hewn City. Wicked and vulnerable and good, despite it all. Eris nods and you watch the long column of his throat as he swallows thickly.

“Tonight I will let you kneel at my altar.” Eris Vanserra moves like a man starved; all teeth and tongue and ardent hands as he pushes you up against the wall outside of him apartments. His kiss is all consuming and devouring as he claims you with reckless abandon. His hands are warm and sure against you; one that holds your jaw gently and the other holds your hip in a bruising grip. 

“You are going to be my ruin, wife.” His echoing whisper answers as his figure retreats into the darkness with the promise of what is to come.

[francesderwent]

there’s a lot of return imagery in The Alchemy, it’s a song about a triumphant comeback. but I don’t think it’s an adequate interpretation of the song to chalk all that up to her relationship with her fans or her public, even if the titular alchemy is the Manuscript-esque justification of her pain by its transformation into art. when we look at the bridge, “wheres the trophy? he just comes running over to me”, there is clearly a romantic love interest, the return to whom isn’t merely an old habit. so how do we reconcile the return and the romance together? I think I figured it out.

alchemy is turning base metals to gold—a magical transformation Taylor has written about many times before. deep blue, but you painted me golden. I once believed love would be black and white, but it’s golden like daylight. in the middle of the loss of her life, Taylor stops looking for the alchemical turn. I felt aglow like this never before and never since. I may never open up the way I did for you. I’m so afraid I sealed my fate, no sign of soulmates. there is nothing to redeem the catastrophe, no link on the invisible string that can provide an explanation for what happened.

and then she circles you on a map. and suddenly, what happens every few lifetimes is happening again, and she’s back. I haven’t come around in so long. but I’m coming back so strong. someone is offering her his heart. no more benchwarmers who don’t know how to play the game and sit on the sidelines while she does all the work. from now on, her partner is aiming to win just as much as she is. what was hopelessly blue is turning, inexorably, to gold, all over again. and that’s terrifying. there’s a part of her that wants to resist, wants to flee. but: honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?

the return in the song is the return of the tiniest bit of faith—of faith in love. and if Taylor Swift believes in romance again? you really can call the amateurs and cut ‘em from the team. nobody does it like her.

[soda-sparkss]

Wallaby Headcanons!

I love these two way too much! I have to share my headcanons with you all, the citizens of doodletown!

Wally loves to play with Barnaby's ears! They're very soft and one of Wally's favorite textures.

Wally's favorite place to sit is on Barnaby's shoulders

Barnaby likes to show Wally magic tricks! He once pulled an apple out of his hat as a confession gift and Wally was so impressed!

Wally often forgets little things about himself, but Barnaby is there to remind him!

Wally chews on the stitches of his fingertips as a nervous stim, so Barnaby helped him stitch them back together

Movie nights! So many movie nights!

WWally's eyes dilate whenever he's near Barnaby and the silly blue dog can tell when he's staring affectionately or with malice

The two love to hold hands while walking! in fact, Wally's gotten so used to having his hand held that he'll accidentally grab another neighbor's hand if he's walking alongside them.

Since Wally can eat with his eyes, he's curious as to how everything tastes. Barnaby often has to tell him not to eat a chunk out of the counter-

The two like to draw on each other's faces an arms! Frank has spotted them all marked up at least 7 times

Wally likes to cook in his spare time and Barnaby is his certified taste tester!

They both walk barefoot around the house

Wally is almost always at Barnaby's place!

They give each other stickers!

Wally is the only person Barnaby shares his food with

Barnaby is teaching Wally to dance!

They have little ragdolls of each other that they cuddle with at night

Wally prefers Barnaby's hand beans over fidget toys

Wally doesn't mind when Barnaby lays on him amd oftentimes falls asleep when he does

Sometimes they'll plan picnics or have playdates where they decorate the sidewalk with more chalk drawings

They always go to Howdy's place together

Barnaby helps Wally read through the guestbook

Wally gives gentle pecks/kisses while Barnaby prefers to give big wet kisses

Sometimes the two do their own thing whike in each other's company

Wally always gets up early, no matter how late he went to sleep. Barnaby always sleeps in past 12

Only Barnaby has seen Wally cry

Wally loves sweet foods while Barnaby like savory foods

Wally doesn't mind the texture of paper while Barnaby despises it

They both eat whipped cream right out of the can

They have three photobooks filled with mostly pictures of them together

They both like to act in Sally's plays!

Wally loves to be tickled and Barnaby always does it to cheer him up after a bad day

Barnaby likes to chew on Wally's fingers. He doesn't seem to mind

They have alternate nicknames for each other! Spots and Swirls

Barnaby gazes lovingly at wally even when he does the most mundane of things

They both hate the sound of fireworks, but love the looks of them

Wally uses Barnaby as a pillow

They like to play with the beetles in Frank's garden

On weekends, they build pillow forts in their houses and make shadow puppets!

Sometimes Wally just needs a big ol squeeze! And Barnaby is al2ays there to provide!

Both have stepped barefoot in paint and run aroind the neighborhood to leave little tracks!

They have one tree they carved their names into as a pledge to never leave each other

Wally will listen to Barnaby talk to for hours on end

Wally gets jealous sometimes and often secretly holds grudges

Barnaby makes Wally some hot cocoa if he can't relax

They kiss each other's hands before going their separate ways

Wally tries to paint in the dark and Barnaby has to remind him to turn on a light

Barnaby likes to trace little shapes on Wally's hand. Sometimes he even leaves him a message!(Wally can barely understand what he writes though)

[mickandmusings]

hiding in plain sight

pairing: prince eric x f!reader

word count: 2.6k

summary: after months at sea, eric returns home to the island. the second his boat docks, he wants nothing more to turn around and hop back into water. his mother, the queen, has begged eric to keep his feet on dry land, and he obliges, spending his time trying to find adventure on the island he calls home. eventually, he finds it in y/n, the newcomer who max loves more than eric himself.

based on a request from @hopeisrising! (hope you love it!)

warnings: fluffy with a tiny bit of angst, a sort of secret relationship, mention of marriage and children, this hasn't been edited, max is the best character

-

It was not completely unusual to see Prince Eric flitting about the island's market on his leisure days, his loyal shaggy dog often trailing behind, both of which greeting the people shopping about the stalls as they weave through the small crowd of people. The Queen's suspicions were never raised when her staff had told her that Eric had run off to the beach side market, her son was always running off for new adventures. She would sigh and nod, just happy he was on land for once.

Yet, for the past month, Eric had spent nearly every free moment he had at the beach. He would part early in the morning, often before nearly anyone in the castle was awake, taking his carriage down to the beach, Max's fluffy head often sat next to him. The Queen would not see him all day, only seeing him as night fell onto the island. He would return with sparkling eyes and a smile painted across his face, nearly walking on air. His mother had chalked it up so the healing sea air and her son's ability to find adventure here on their own shore. The Queen's people, however, seemed to know something she didn't. The vendors in the market were sworn to an unspoken secrecy, seeing Prince Eric's dimple-accented smile grow as he talked over the flowers in Y/N Y/L/N's booth.

The young newcomer had not been on the island long-her boat transport had only left for a handful of weeks when she settled into her new job selling flowers for a local farmer. Y/N and Eric's meeting had been one of pure coincidence-it had been one of his numerous days at the market, scouring for anything new to peak his interest, and it had been Y/N's very first day running the stall. Like a moth to a flame, Eric spotted her almost instantly, noting that he had never seen her around the island. Despite his position of royalty on the island, Eric found his hands sweating as he thought of the best way to approach her. Luckily, Max had made the executive decision to live up to being man's best friend. The shaggy dog had all but raced toward the flower stand, approaching Y/N and nearly toppling the girl over. Eric's eyes widened as he raced over, only to quickly note Y/N's boisterous giggle as she pet Max. As Eric approached, she looked up at him, taking his breath away.

"Oh! Hi, is this your dog?" She looks back down at Max, who stood in front of her with his tongue hanging out adorably. Eric could only bring himself to nod. She smiled. "He's so cute! What's his name?"

Eric willed his voice to sound.

"Max."

"Max!" She spoke in a bubbly tone, the dog looking up at the sound of his name. "Well, Max, I bet your friend here is glad to see you. I'm sorry, I never introduced myself. I'm Y/N."

Eric smiled, blushing as he linked a name to the face he had been staring at. "I'm Eric, it's lovely to meet you."

Y/N's smile dropped as she stopped petting Max suddenly, her eyes widening. Without a word, she took in Eric's frame, noting his clothes-a fair bit nicer than anyone selling in the market. She blushed profusely.

"I-I am so sorry, I didn't realize I was in the presence of royalty. Forgive me, Prince-"

"No, that's alright," Eric begins, interrupting the nervous blunder. "It's just Eric." Eric smiles at her, his dimples prominent as he crouches down to their height, petting Max affectionately. "It seems Max has taken a liking to you."

Y/N smiles, her eyes gleaming in the sun.

From that day on, Eric found himself making the small trip to the beach nearly every day. He would slip out of the palace in a quiet fashion, Max already waiting at the wheel of the carriage for a lift into the seat. He'd spot her quickly when they arrived, but Max would find her first, nearly toppling over other shoppers in a run to get to Y/N. Eric would catch up eventually, looming around her stand as the two talked the entire day. She would tell Eric of her trips before landing here, and, in turn, Eric would tell her of his own adventures. When she closed her stall for the nights, Eric would often convince her to take Max for a walk on the beach before nightfall, where he would spend most of the time trying to get her to laugh, just for a chance to see her heart stopping smile. After weeks of their company, Y/N and Eric had settled into the sand as the sun began to set, Max running after a stick Eric had just thrown. The air was quiet besides the crashing of the waves when Y/N spoke.

"Eric," Eric's sea glass eyes turned to her, full of adoration. "Not that I'm complaining, because I enjoy your company immeasurably, but, why have you been spending nearly every day on the beach with me? I mean, I am just a normal girl, you're a prince, certainly you have more important things to do."

Eric's heart skipped a beat. How do you tell someone that you're in love with them?

"You-you are a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stifling routine. I had missed the sea, adventure, all of it, but I found it in you, all with my feet still on land. That was life changing, I-I am," Eric takes a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts out, Y/N's eyes piercing his as he spoke. "I am enthralled by your presence. You captivate me."

Y/N sighed, her eyes darting down to her lap. Her heart aches at Eric's words, of course she feels the same way-Eric was kind, and he made her laugh until her ribs were sore. His presence was warm, always offering an arm when they strolled along the beach, or offering to help her close up shop every night. Deep down, however, Y/N felt her insecurities bubble to the surface. She was a simple girl, one who worked on the island, one that lived in a normal home, one smaller than Eric's study back in the palace. Eric was royalty, and there was no way any of his advisors, or even his subjects, would agree to him being with someone like her. Eric found her the most worthy of his love, but his mother would not, at least not in Y/N's eyes.

"Eric...," Her eyes lined with tears she refused to shed, swallowing as she spoke to him. "I could say the same for you. I was lonely when I arrived, I had never been on this island, and I knew no one. You and Max quickly became the highlight of my days. But as much as I care for you, and as much as you care for me, it will never change the differences that will divide us forever. You are expected to carry on a royal lineage, and I am not royal in any sense of the word. Your people would never approve. I am nothing more than just another simple girl."

Y/N's eyes remained on her lap, waiting for Eric to say something. She had expected her heart to shatter-he would deliver his rejection just as quickly as he had confessed to his affection for her.

"What if they didn't have to know?"

Y/N cut her eyes to Eric, she certainly hadn't expected that.

"I beg your pardon?" Y/N was thoroughly confused as to where the prince's idea was headed.

Eric turns to face her, his warm, calloused hands enveloping hers.

"What if they don't have to know? It is my normal routine to come here nearly every day, so being here with you would change nothing. We could still be together here everyday, as if this was our daily life together. None of my mother's staff wanders down to the market, she simply sends me for it. There's no risk of her finding out. I would eventually like to tell her, but if you feel as if it is too soon to propose the idea of us, I am willing to do whatever you wish."

Y/N's heart hammers in her chest as she breaks out into a small smile. She says nothing, only leaning her head onto Eric's shoulder as his lips meet the top of her head in a kiss, his arms coming around her, his hand resting on her waist. No further words were needed, the pair of them understanding their arrangement.

For the following weeks, the couple did just as planned. Eric would stumble out of the castle in the early morning, spend his entire day with Y/N at the beach market, walk with her on the beach for a while before taking her back to her home, and stumbling home into the palace later and later each night, desperate for more and more time with the person he so lovingly adored.

Queen Selina noted her son's absence more quickly than he realized. His chair would be empty at meals, his study-usually where Eric spent all of his time-was now empty, the doors shut. The palace was missing his presence completely. The only ones who ever saw Eric were those in the stables, Eric would come every morning for a carriage and return it every night. She knew asking her son would be pointless-he would not give her a straight answer. Her son had not even mentioned anything to Grimsby, much less to her. Her suspicions were raised, and so she sent a member of her staff into the market the very next day.

Like clockwork, Eric rose early and traveled down to the market, smiling as he and Max spotted Y/N setting up her booth. Eric's smile widened as he made his way over, his arms picking her up and twirling her around to face him, their lips coming together in a small kiss. Y/N blushed under Eric's gaze as he helped her move heavier baskets around to the front of her booth. The Queen's lookout taking in the couple's interaction with wide eyes, wondering how she would break it to her Majesty that her son was hiding from her because he was in love.

When night began to fall, the Queen's spy raced back to the palace in hopes that the Prince would not see her. After escaping, she pushed the doors of the palace's dining room, pouring her findings out to the Queen who was just as shocked. She thanked her lookout and dismissed her, thinking of what to do. Did Eric truly think so little of her? That she would disregard his feelings of love for the girl just because of her status?

The Queen took it upon herself to visit the market the next day, without Eric knowing. As she hopped down from her carriage and strolled into the market, she noted the more professional and contained the otherwise lively market felt. Sure, the Queen was a beloved and just ruler, but she was also still a Queen. Y/N picked up on the change in energy quickly-softly pushing away Eric's kiss as she felt the Queen's eyes on her frame. As the Queen approached, Y/N stiffened at Eric's side, her frame dipping in a curt bow. Y/N felt as if her skin was ablaze, like a child being chastised.

"Mother, I can explain." Eric's voice came first, firm and confident.

The Queen shakes her head at her son, and Y/N feels tears grow in her eyes. This would be the last time she would see Eric, she would likely be banished from the island.

"There is no need for formalities, son. I can see exactly what is happening here. I only wish you would not have hid this from me." Both Y/N and Eric hung their heads, accepting their defeat. Y/N felt Eric grab her hand in an act of comfort, waiting for his mother's words.

"I wish I could have met the girl you are in love with sooner. She is certainly beautiful, Eric, I can see how enamored you are." The Queen's face broke into a smile at the affection clearly displayed between the couple in front of her. Eric's head popped up, his eyes meeting his mother's as he spoke.

"You-you are not angry?"

"Angry? You silly boy, I am elated! My son is in love, with a girl from our island no less. Eric, I am incredibly happy. Of course, I wish you would introduce her to me." Queen Silena raised an eyebrow at her son, as he broke out into a smile of his own and introduced Y/N to his mother.

-

Many years later, Eric finds himself running about the castle in a desperate search for his wife. He takes the steps up to their bedchamber two at a time, attempting to find her as fast as possible-well, at least faster than his five-year-old daughter who was actively searching for them both. The game had started as a simple game of hide-and-seek between Eric and his daughter, but now it had blown into a full-fledged hunt-his daughter running about the castle to find her parents, Max hot on her heels, providing his trusty nose to find Eric and Y/N.

Climbing back down the stairs, Eric found his study door ajar, signaling someone was in there. Taking a chance, Eric opened the door to find it seemingly empty. He caught his breath as he spoke:

"Love?"

"Eric?" Y/N's voice called back. "I'm over here, behind the map crate."

Eric chuckled, pulling back the heavy crate to see his wife crouched against the wall, her knees to her chest. He sat next to her and copied her movements, moving his own knees close to his torso.

"Nice hiding spot, darling," he whispered down to her, hoping to hide from their daughter for a few moments longer.

"Well, we are experts at hiding together, are we not?" She was referring to their brief stint of secrecy. Y/N smiled and rested her head against Eric's shoulder, kissing the underside of his jaw softly.

Eric nods silently before commenting, "I much prefer this hiding game." The couple is quiet, listening for small footsteps or the patter of Max's paws against the tile.

"How long do you think we have until they catch us?"

Eric looked down at his wife, his dimples growing as a bright smile lights up his face.

"She is too much like the both of us, it's likely she and Max have already found something new to explore."

Y/N chuckles against Eric's shoulder, his arm moving around to her shoulders, his hand resting on her waist. His lips come to the top of her head in a kiss, making Y/N feel nostalgic. Eric's whisper cuts through the air, making Y/N's heart soften.

"You gave me my most favorite adventure, I love you both."

Y/N blushed, her husband's sweet words still eliciting a schoolgirl -like response from her.

"Hm, I love you too, but I think Max likes me more."

Eric looks down at his wife, moving his arms quickly to face her completely, mischief in his eyes.

"Oh you've done it now, dear wife."

He stands quickly, running out of the study, shouting towards the direction he last saw their daughter go:

"Y/D/N, I've found her! I found Mama!"

[saltsicklover]

Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part Three

Read Part One and Two

Part 4 Coming Soon (Like really soon)

Prompt from THIS ASK

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU

Word Count: 4800+

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Crying, History, Beau being a Good Dad, Icemav is here, Still No Bobby

The wind whips past us, the warm California sun dusting over my skin. I can feel the undersides of my eyes and down my cheeks beginning to chap with the newfound wind against my tear washed skin. I can't help the continued scrunch of my eyes as we walk. Between the sun and the stinging of my skin, my expression stays wrinkled tight with distaste. 

Though I've been on more air fields than I can remember, I still feel like a stranger here. Amongst the jets and the pilots, the mechanics and the helicopters, I feel so small. Like the ground could open up and swallow me whole with no consequence. I know I don't belong, but I walk along anyway, step for step with my father who practically owns the ground we walk on and the skies above. 

The hanger is large and imposing, just as they always are. Tall buildings meant to swallow jets, blocks wide and just as deep. The hanger is painted that same sad taupe hinted gray color as everything else, yet it's more imposing than the rest. There's a metaphor here, somewhere. Something about soulmates and their ability to blend into the background until they are standing right in front of you, suddenly the only thing in your view. Yet, the only thing that my mind can fixate on is the stuttering of my heart and the sweat collecting in my palms. 

A section of the hanger is set up with tables and chairs, all perfectly pushed in and lined up. It's a classroom of sorts, the fresh air carried in through the open doors of the hanger. If I cared about this part of the world, the Navy that is, I could get lost in the diagrams scrawled across chalk boards scattered around the space. I could zone in on something to distract from the tension in my body, though it seems to be the only thing keeping me standing. It takes an extra moment  for me to pull myself back to reality. 

At the front of the room, a man leans up against a table, back to us while another man sits in front of him, legs up on the table. They are both in uniform, though their body language is excessively causal. They don't notice as we approach, too wrapped up in each other to care about how their conversation carries through the hanger. 

"I know it's going to be a change, Mav, but it's going to be good," 

"You know me, Ice, I'm not good at staying in one place," 

Then, my father coughs, a subtle way to express our presence. He's always been a man of subtly if he could help it. That has the pair turning to us, their conversation now on hold. The man sitting doesn't get up, but he pulls his feet down from the table. His mop of brown hair is un-styled and no doubt out of regulation, but the Captain's bars sit dutifully upon his collar speak louder. The other man is all striking eyes and light hair, face full of wrinkles but in the way well conditioned leather is. Warn and loved. I would recognize him anywhere, though our history is nothing more than brief snippets of memories now, of history past and gone. 

"Excuse us, Captain Mitchell," My father sounds all business, and then his eyes catch the blond man, "Admiral Kazansky, sir," I seem to be the only one who picks up the waver in his voice. 

"Cyclone," The pair speak in time. Their eyes flash to me then back to my father, their expressions natural.  I focus in on Kazansky. His lip twitches just a bit, almost cracking into a grin. But he's better than that, the COMPACFLT is much too skilled in the interpersonal relationships that come with his position to let a smile slip. The three men bounce glances between them. The stern expression that Captain Mitchell once held is breaking, eyes twinkling as a subtle smirk curls across his lips. 

"Oh!" My father almost exclaims, turning to me, "This is my Daughter. Birdie, this is Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, and the Commander of the Pacific Fleet, Admiral Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky," 

The introduction has the Captain rising form his seat. He leans over the table, one hand planted firmly to the top whilst the other extends my direction. There is no care for the files spread out over the top, just his palm pressed firmly to the surface. His smile is all crooked teeth and kindness. I return the smile, ignoring the way my father fights off a grimace. The Captain commands the room, from the angle of his shoulders to the way confidence bleeds from him. He thrives with each new set of eyes directed straight at him, and I am no exception. 

"It's nice to officially meet you, Pete," I shake his hand firmly. I hope he can't feel the layer of sweat that coats my palm. If he does, he doesn't mention it. There is no questioning of my phrase, either, like it's almost expected that people know him, officially and otherwise. I can no longer hide my own smirk, as incomplete pictures from my memory are snapping together, finally whole. This is Pete, Tom's soulmate, his husband, his wingman. After this brief introduction, the pieces are falling into place. I have heard my fair share of stories about this very man, but nothing like what someone might expect. Where there are usually tales of heroics and jets, Tom has filled those spaces with tells of their private life. 

I know that Pete texts Tom constantly, even though Tom hates anything having to do with cellphones. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell drinks whole milk, something that Tom can't wrap his brain around. He washes the dishes with wash cloths instead of sponges. Little details, intimate but not private information, and it rolls around somewhere in the back of my head. 

"The pleasure is all mine, Birdie," I believe him wholly, no question in my mind that he takes pleasure in meeting me- in watching my father squirm. His smile only grows. His eyes are flicking between me and my father who is standing just over my shoulder, a foot or two away. I turn my attention to the man next to Pete. Tom, as he introduced himself to me when he first met, is nothing but shinning eyes and a grin of ambrosia. He rolled his eyes at me, a laugh dancing from his lips the first time I called him Admiral Kazansky. I never have quite figured out the humor there. 

"It's great to see you again, Tom," I ignore the confused glances as I greet him, stretching my hand out towards him. He rolls his eyes fondly. 

"Get that hand out of here!" Tom chuckles, pushing himself off of the table, "Who do you think I am? Come around here and give me a hug, Little Bird!" 

He embraces me, taking me into the fullness of his hug. He bleeds warmth in the way Pete bleeds confidence. I take it in, letting it swallow me whole. There's a scent that clings to Tom's clothes, something that I've never quite been able to place. It's rich and clove full, over taking my senses. There is something special about a hug from the Iceman. He asks how I've been, his lips pressing into my hair. I'm still smiling, somehow impossibly wider as I pull back to meet his eyes once more. 

"Well, Tom," I chuckle in turn as he takes my hands in his own. "I-" There's a hesitation. Even with the adrenalin of reuniting, anxiety still has it's claws dug deep into my skin. I drag my teeth over the fullness of my bottom lip before continuing. "It happened, and I'm..."

"Somewhere between bargaining and boycotting?" His eyes scrunch at the corners, long lines of skin creasing with knowledge and understanding. There's such a kindness in his eyes and it threatens to break me open. Tom has always been able to read me like this. It used to freak me out, in the beginning. He could look at me for less than a minute and surmise just what was thrumming through me, even if confusion seemed to cloud my own understanding. 

"Cut that out!" I laugh gently, squeezing at his hands with my own. He squeezes back, that knowing look plastered behind his glasses. "I hate it when you do that, you know," I don't. 

"What can I say," he winks. He still holds me close, closer than any newly introduced folks should. I dodge the rhetorical, focusing my sights elsewhere. 

"With everything you've told me, your soulmate being the man who irritates my father to high heaven really makes sense," I shoot a look over to Pete. He quirks an eyebrow. I can feel my father's eyes square and solid between my shoulder blades. The Admiral is laughing, the sound a bit scratchy against his throat, but it's whole and happy. "How's your health?"

God, that's a scary question, but I can't keep it tucked under my tongue. His expression goes soft, soft in the way melted candles are when their wax is hardening after the flame is blown out. There's a strength being regained there, beneath it all, cooling. I can see the ice cold, no mistakes veil flicker behind his eyes and it's a comfort. a familiarity from long time past.

"I'm good, Little Bird," He grips my hands a little tighter, thumbs pressing into the tops of my hands, "Scans are clear, have been for a few months now. I'm good,"

"I am so beyond happy for you, Tom," I pull him into another hug, tighter this time. I mumble into his collar, for the both of you. He squeezes me tighter. It's a thank you, if I've ever felt one. It only lasts a moment before my father is clearing his throat again, no doubt confused and likely feeling awkward watching his daughter embrace one of his heroes so freely. I look at Pete first, who looks confused too, but more interested than anything, before turning to meet my father's eyes. 

My father looks like he's ready to speak, but his mouth only opens and closes a few times before he scrunches his whole expression. No words are said. I stand next to Tom, wanting to bounce on the balls of my feet out of pure nervousness. I don't. Mostly because I don't want my father to give me that disapproving look- and because standing next to Tom is more comforting than I remember it being. 

"Are either of you gonna clue us in?" Pete supplies, a hint of joy behind his voice. Between the look on Tom's face, all kind and warm, and the look on my father's, confused and frustrated, there's no doubt in my mind that Pete is having an absolute hay day with all of this. 

"I worked at the USO in Pensacola, and did stints out in D.C, and Maryland with the org too, and Tom just so happens to spend a lot of time stuck at the USO," I giggle a bit, nervousness bubbling through the explanation. 

"Little Bird and I have spent a lot of time together over the last couple of years, over cold sodas and prepackaged food," Tom laughs at the memory, "I don't think anyone plays a better game of Pinochle than this young woman right here," 

"I've had a lot of practice, thanks to you, Tom,"

My father, with still furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line, gives us a curt nod of understanding, signaling his readiness to move onto a new subject. As fun as it to watch my father wriggle under the intense stares of the other men, I still smile sheepishly at him. I know this is not even close to why we walked all the way out here in the first place. My nerves are shot, thinking about it all. I don't know how much longer I can smile and pretend that my thoughts aren't racing a thousand miles an hour over this whole situation. 

"What brings you two out to the hanger this afternoon?" Tom asks, lacing his hands politely in front of him. Pete sits atop the desk now, looking just as interested to help as Tom does. 

"Mav, roster up," My father directs, cutting to the chase. His features are stern and even, leaving nothing to be deciphered through them. Maverick quirks a brow. 

"What?" Maverick asks with a cock of his head. 

"I'll explain when you're through," Dad waves his hand non committedly, "Roster up" 

"Bradshaw, Seresin, Tra-" 

"With first names, if you could, please, Maverick," My father interrupts with a mildly defeated sigh.

"Do you want them in alphabetical order too?" Pete asks, smirking. My father just shoots him one of those looks. Tom and I both bite back chuckles. Mine is nervous, Tom's is nothing but bright.

"Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Sersein," Maverick starts slow, pretending like he is trying to remember just to get further under my father's skin. He even counts them off on his fingers. "Natasha Trace, Rueben Fitch, Javy Machado. They are our main pilots, with Robert Floyd and Mickey Garcia as our main WSO's. We also have a backup team that we call in from other detachments if-"

"Robert Floyd," The words are directed at me, cutting Maverick off. He's spoken the name like an Epiphone. My father's eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised. "I told you there was no Rhett," 

"But I know what I saw, Dad, and Rhett is in that photograph," I counter back feeling defensive and confused, but I know what I saw. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, even as I bury my face in my hands. It shouldn't be this hard; Rhett is in that photograph, even if they want to fight me on it. I'd die on this hill. 

"Rhett?" Maverick interjects. A hand is placed on my shoulder. I pull my gaze from my hands. The hand belongs to Maverick. He's leaning towards Tom and I, hand on my shoulder to offer a sort of comfort. "Rhett Floyd? Bob's twin brother?" 

Consider me wrong... and dead. Dead wrong. 

"Oh, for fucks sake," My face is landing right back into my hands as I sink to the ground. The tension in my body is no longer enough to keep me standing. Pete is over the table in a second, sinking down to the floor next to me. Tom's hand is planted firmly over the lip of the tabletop above my head to keep me from smacking my skull against it. 

"Birdie?" Pete asks gently, putting his hand back onto my shoulder. I can't find the words or the heart to explain it all again. 

"This Bob," I sniffle, my voice still muffled by my hands, "Does he know Hagman?"

"Hangman" My father corrects. 

"Yeah, they know each other," Pete confirms, his voice softer than before. I lean my head against Tom's thigh as my father pulls a chair out to sit, to be closer to my level. 

"Want to tell us more, kid?" Tom's voice is low, gravely and it wraps around me like a warm wind. 

The words are stuck in my throat, the letters making a home in the folds of my vocal cords. I want to speak. I want to pick the words from the swollen flesh of my throat and piece them together in some sort of serial killer magazine cut-out letter for the world to read. Maybe they could print it in the paper. The carbon smudges and inky fingerprints could then find their way to Bob. To Jake. To Rhett. To the men who sit with me now and wait so patiently for me to put my own tongue on a plate for their sheer understanding. 

These men, Pete, Tom, and my father have taken so much grace with me and with this whirlwind of a shit show. Tears swim behind my eyelids, threatening to roll down my cheeks. My tongue is still at home behind my teeth, but somehow words are creeping up coated in bile and anxiety. 

"I met Jake and Rhett at the airport in Dallas this morning," I manage after a few moments. I've spread the whole interaction out in my brain, cutting pieces like I'm editing an old film reel. Cut this, keep that. If only there was a way to reshoot a scene, cut something better than the flimsy film I lived. I can't speak another word, instead I thread my fingers into the neck of my t-shirt. With an uneven sigh, I pull the neck down, revealing the sentence scrawled delicately across my collarbone.  

Oh, it's just Bob.

Tom doesn't look. I don't either, but my father and Pete are focused in on the ink. There's a beat of silence, like  everyone is holding their breath at the same time. Nobody dares say anything. I just burry my face in my hands again.

"And you've never heard this before?" Tom inquires, assessing all of the details. I can only shake my head no. My less than dignified response is met with hums of understanding. 

"Did it feel like this with you guys?" I ask the room, "So... fucked?" 

And then Pete laughs. He fucking laughs. There's the swift sound of a hand hitting the back of a head, and then Pete counters back with a groan. I can hear my father fighting back a giggle, but I don't pull my hands away to see anything. I can hear enough; the darkness of my caged fingers seems to be the only thing to keep the drowning feeling from taking over again. 

"Oh, kid, you've got no idea" Pete is chuckling again. No hand smack to the back of the head this time. That gets me to peek out from behind my fingers. "Picture this," Pete makes a dramatic gesture outwards with his hands, setting the scene, "It's 1986, night before we are to report to TOPGUN and Goose and I were at the O Club. It's a bar- and back then, people were smoking inside-"

"Get to the point, Captain," My father mutters. 

"Anyway, I'd know Goose for forever by that point. We were in that damn bar for the first time, talking like usual and he looks at me and goes You wanna know who the best is? and I swear all the color drained from my face in that moment. We had gone to that bar to let loose before training started and instead of getting to drink and relax, Goose had to mother me," 

I can't lie and say that Mav's story doesn't make me feel a bit better but all I can manage is a hum in acknowledgement. No more words come. 

"I had the pleasure of finding out moments before, that same night," Tom chimes in from above me, my head still laid against his thigh. "Slider, my RIO, found out that Mav and Goose slid into the class at the last second. I didn't have any idea that it would have turned out the way that it did. Not with my sentence."

"Hey, we did not slide in," Maverick's voice goes slightly tighter, laced with annoyance. 

"Sliders words, not mine, first of all. And second, Slider had pointed across the room and told me he had to go accost the new guys, then pointed to you and Goose. I'd known about Goose through Slider, but when I asked him who else he was going to torment he looked at me and said the hot brunette."

The laugh that escapes my lips catches us all off guard. My father is laughing too, right along with me. Tom joins in a second later, a chorus of laugher around a smug Maverick who's mumbling about still being hot. 

The wind shuffles through the large open door of the hanger, lukewarm by the time it reaches us. But Maverick's hand on my shoulder is warm, as is Tom's thigh beneath my cheek. My father looks at me as if I were the sun. His eyes not quite meeting my own. His narrow eyes crease the skin around them, a shallow biological attempt at reflecting some of my emotion right back at me. It's stifling, even under the abnormally chill of the fall evening as we are tucked into the back of the hanger. 

It's safe here, if only for a fleeting moment. My heart broke open next to my severed tongue, both resting atop a sliver platter. But these men are not vultures, they are not here for the taking. Instead, they are art restorers and surgeons and everything soft, comforting and warm. They serve only to take the broken and severed pieces of myself and repair them. To put them back into the cavernous spaces of my body that yearn to have them back. The same parts that yearn for bourbon, God, and Bob. 

And maybe that says something about me; the inability to keep my own broken parts together and how they cut into my skin when they were mine and mine only to hold. But here and now, these men holding pieces of me with gentle hands whilst they share pieces of themselves. It gives me hope. Hope that everything is going to be alright. It can be heard in the laughter. 

"Hey Dad, Pops, Cyclone and... stranger? What's all the laughing about, and why are you on the ground?" A new voice breaks us out of our haze of laughter. I'm wiping at my eyes, a bit startled at the presence of a new person. He's tall, mustache clad and pure muscle. He saunters over to us, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his flight suit. 

This man carries himself with the kind of confidence only overly cautious people exude.  Shoulders square but slumped in on himself. His steps have a small hang-up when he catches my eyes, a wariness stemming from somewhere unseen. Maybe it's the way I, a stranger, am triangulated between his superiors all too casually. 

"Hey Baby Goose," Mav greets him, warm crooked smile and squinted eyes. It's fonder than the smile I received. "What are you doing here?" The first questions from the stranger was dashed- but the nickname connects another set of dots in my brain. I look up at Tom and mouth Bradley? in silent question. It's met with a proud smile and a nod. I know of Bradley. Of course I know of Bradley. 

I know of him in the same way I know of Pete, little fragments of information in the back of my brain. He likes mustard, a lot. Has an affinity for terrible Hawaiian shirts. Flies just like Mav, though Tom only admitted that after he'd been awake for a little over thirty hours. An ex college baseball player, and a current baseball fanatic. Bradley Bradshaw is Tom Kazansky's pride and joy. 

"I'm here for the hop you schedualed," Bradley says like it's obvious knowledge, "Oh, and Hangman made it back this morning. He's in the locker room getting changed. I think I saw Phoenix and Bob pull in too," 

"The hop?" Tom asks.

"The hop?" Pete asks too, a little more urgently. Those two little words are bathed in question and a bit of panic. 

"Yeah... The hop that you schedualed? Are you okay, Mav?" Bradley asks, eyes focused on Pete. The older man just nods, his eyes darting around like he's trying to remember scheduling the hop in the first place. 

"He's fine, Baby Goose," Tom reassures his son, but doesn't clue him in to anything else. 

"Bob is here?" My father asks, suddenly swerving the conversation in a whole new direction. Of course my father would be the one to speak up about the fact turned issue that we all clocked the moment the words left Bradley's lips. Ever the mediator and coraller of the vagary, Cyclone makes my business his business, even more than it already had been. My father's always been able to make sense of the world, even when I can barely tell left from right. 

And right now, left abandoned me somewhere between the airport and the gate to base. No doubt forgotten like a wallet in between the seats of the taxi. Right, as far as I'm concerned, has achieved sentience and think's it's main objective is to tell up or down apart and its bad at it's job. 

"Yes, Bob is here. Everyone should be here this evening. Are you here to observe the hop, Admiral?" There is a confusion to Bradley's voice. It sounds like he is doing his best to act casual, yet professional in front of his superiors. 

"Not exactly, Lieutenant Bradshaw," My father sighs, pointing a finger towards me, "The woman between your fathers is my daughter Birdie, and we are..." He trails off, trying to find the words. With a roll of my eyes, I stick my hands out in an attempt to ask for help getting to get to my feet. Bradley takes the hint, stepping forward to grasp my hands and pull me up from the ground.  

This close, Bradley is all tepid touches and musk. A small hickey peaks out from under the collar of his flight suit, but it looks like it was made half hearted- left pink and speckled rather than bruised dark and purple with passion. Bradley holds my hand an extra second or two, maybe longer. I'm lost in the pattern of his skin for a moment as he steadies me on my feet. 

A squeeze of my hands before he releases them brings me back around. 

"Thanks, Bradley," My soft smile is met with his confused look. Eyebrows are dropped low over narrowed eyes. 

"How do you know my name?"  The question is clipped short by the tightening of his throat.Definitely anxiety masked as confidence. 

"I know a lot about you, Bradley," I chuckle. As stressed out as I am, even with the run down feeling weighing at my shoulders I still find it somewhere within me to make jokes. "Tell me, Bradley, do you still have that blanket with the awful duck pattern all over it?"

I watch Bradley's eyes go wide, mouth falling open. There's stunned, there's scared, and then there is whatever look Bradley Bradshaw is giving me right now. I'm barely keeping it together, but Tom and Pete are losing it. Big, loud laughter fills the air. 

"They're," Is all Bradley can manage after a moment, his eyes scanning my face feverishly, "...geese"

The look on his face is good, but the worry flashing behind his eyes makes me ease up. 

"Oh my God, I'm sorry! I'm friends with Tom! He likes to talk about you, a lot, and I saw my chance to fuck with you and I took it, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you!" I finally apologize, the look on Bradley's face becoming too much to take. I do giggle, though.

Bradley looks over my shoulder at Tom with narrow eyes, "I hate you, for the record," 

"I know you do," 

"Who do we hate?" Fuck, I know that voice. I recoil a bit at it, my face scrunching up as far as it can. I bristle but I stand strong.

"My Pops," There's faux anger in Bradley's voice, "He's letting his friends use personal information against me," 

"Oh, in that case, I'm sure you deserve it, Roos," Jake jokes, "Who's the-" Then his eyes meet mine as he appears from behind Bradley. "Birdie!?" 

"Wait, you're Rooster?" The nickname clicks. 

Bradley exclaims at the same time, "You're Birdie?!"

"God, this world is too fucking small!" I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. I turn to look at Pete and Tom. Tom shrugs while Pete just chuckles on. It's like they both know, or knew, something I don't and are basking in the pure knowledge of it. 

"You okay, Birdie?" My father asks, pushing himself up from his seat. 

"I'm okay, Dad," I reassure him. He lowers his voice when he gets closer, asking again if I'm really okay. I shrug, but nod, doing my best to flash him my most convincing smile. 

"You're Cyclone's kid? Cyclone's Birdie?" Bradley asks, "The woman Jake met this morning?" I nod in acknowledgment, my smile faltering. "Oh my God, that means you're Bob's-!" Bradley's words are halted by a swift elbow to the ribs. I swear I can feel the pain of it too, radiating somewhere between my ribs. Maybe it's just the anxiety. 

"You told him?" 

"I did, I'm sorry,"  Jake starts, almost tripping over his words. "Can we talk? Privately?" 

"We better," I counter back, no venom but all bite. Jake and I break away from the group, walking away from the classroom set up. Eyes linger on us for only a moment. The lukewarm air blowing in from the open hanger door is cooling the closer we get to the exit. He takes me by the elbow, leading me out of the hanger and down the sidewalk. We finally stop between the hanger and another small building near the gate to the airfield. 

TAGLIST

@kmc1989 @inky-sun @harperdoodle @possiblyexisting @eloquentdreamer @ravenwtfbro @jessicab1991 @muddwheelz123

[toubledrouble]

More quick pjo/hoo headcanons

(most of these are cabin 6) (also, if I accidentally stole your headcanon, definitely let me know so I can either delete it or credit you)

Listen, I'm tired of Athena kids being only the architecture/math kids. Give me Athena kids who excel in humanities. Athena kids who know everything about their latest hyperfixation, that's it. Athena kids who are craftsmen or artists of any sort to the extent where you could mistake them for Hephaestus or Apollo kids

Generally just. Different cabins discussing someone's godly parent, because really, if you take a closer look, many gods have common traits. Like Apollo being the God of logic, music and poetry while Athena is the goddess of wisdom and art/craftsmanship. Plus Hephaestus being a blacksmith - also a craft. Dionysius, Athena, Hermes and Apollo are all associated with theatre. Hades and Hecate are both associated with magic. Is it a Demeter kid, or an Athena kid that really likes botany? You may never know. It's like Frank thinking he was a son of Apollo only to discover he is actually a son of Mars - you can have a tip and there is quite the chance you will be proven wrong.

Also. The deal with Athena kids and chess. Listen, I love you, but as a strategy lover with adhd, I have to tell you that I keep losing because I just can't focus on it. Just. Nope. Not working.

Similar goes for word games - do you think a bunch of dyslexic kids is going to love them? Maybe if it was in Greek, lmao.

I cannot get over this one: Athena kids playing instruments. Obviously, not with such an ease as many Apollo kids, but Athena kids are still pretty decent at it. Also, Athena is after all the creator of the flute. That's right. Musical talent runs in the family xd

I am once again here with my sacred animals headcanon. Gods sending their sacred animals to check on their kids. Kids being able to talk to those animals, or just being surrounded by them. Cabins having them as pets (yes, give me a cabin with a whole damn lion on a gigant dog bed)

All of the art god kids™ team up and try to convince Cheiron to let them see different musicals. So far, they have succeeded only with Hamilton, but that doesn't mean they'll give up.

Tyche, Nike and Hermes kids have bets that get out of hand very often, but they're unstoppable. Also, along with Athena and Ares kids, they take competitions to a next level, none of them willing to lose

Actually, genuenly: I'm cancelling the blond Athena kids thing. I'm moving it over to the Apollo cabin and establishing that if anything like this should work there, it should be with brunettes, because Athena herself is most commonly depicted as a brunette. Case closed.

You know that paint that basically turns everything you paint it with into a chalkboard? Or those gigantic stripes of blackboard that you can stick on your wall, mostly made for little kids to draw on? The Athena cabin has that.

Or you know what? Had. It had to be removed and replaced with whiteboards because the cabin was filled with chalk dust, which covers everything and also isn't very comfortable to breathe in.

The cabin smells like lemon and peppermint, both of which repel spiders

It also has automatic floor heating because everyone knows that the floor is the most comfortable place to study

Oh, and there is a ton of creative projects in various stages of progress

The Athena cabin sends out a messenger (animal or a person) to bring a literal olive branch when they seriously want to settle things - it's both a clever reference and a symbol of Athena. Ares cabin is the only exception because last time, they set it on fire.

You've heard all about the language headcanons, but what about Demeter kids understanding the language of flowers?

Apollo kids are either extremely afraid of snakes (because of Python) or they love them (like Asclepius), no in-between. I'm convinced that at one point, a kid determined to get their siblings to love snakes as well got one and named it William Snakespeare. That is officially the only snake liked by every cabin 7 resident

Apollo kids actually love their godly sibling, Aristaeus - God of shepherds, beekeeping, cheesemaking, stuff related to that, medicinal herbs, olive growing, oil milling and the winds that provide respite from the heat of midsummer, aka the chillest guy I've ever heard of. I'm convinced he visits the camp once in a while and brings them the good stuff. Asclepius probably visits sometimes too, but as the God od medicine, he's a busy guy. He still loves helping his sibling when it comes to his area of expertise.

All Athena kids have a gift directly received from their mother (and most of the time, it's sending a mixed message)

A cool gift concept - a weapon in the style of Jason's, except it turns into a weapon the user needs the most at the moment. It's also great because Athena kids easily adapt to any weapon with little to no training and obviously, this is a very strategic weapon to have. I also think that unlike Riptide, it could be lost very easily - Athena would definitely want to teach her kids a lesson about keeping an eye on their stuff.

You aren't allowed to ask the Athena cabin about their favourite philosophers because it always turns into a fight

Since Athena only needs a mental connection of sort to have children, there are definitely Athena kids with mortal moms or infertile parents

One time, an actual child of Minerva shows up to Camp Jupiter. Needless to say, the Romans aren't taking it well. Children of Athena are probably called to explain the circumstances of their birth, which results in a discussion uncomfortable for both sides

Since Apollo stays basically the same in Roman mythology, it can be kind of hard to tell if his kid is roman or greek. I think many children would be relieved to know that both options exist and they aren't just weird

Have I talked about how different regions worshipped gods a bit differently? Yeah. I want that to be a thing noticeable in demigods. I think I mentioned this in some of my earlier posts.

Poseidon kids instinctively know the international code of signals (a flag code used for communication between ships)

Hera's (goddess of family) and Hestia's (goddess of home) cabins can be used by unclaimed demigods

[dallonwrites]

+ passage of beau running that i wrote on rachel's stream and then spruced up afterwards...i'm a running boy atm so this was fun esp coming up with the neighbor details. sometimes specificity like this won't come for me at all but sometimes it does and its beautiful!!!!

In the evening he runs alongside the sunset. He thought about driving out somewhere beautiful, even if it was just to run somewhere by Golden Gate Park, like a tourist, but instead settles for the neighborhood, the same loop he’s done for six months that shows him the same sights over and over — the sidewalk patch with chalk drawings of whatever the children from the house behind it are interested in, recently its butterflies and beetles; the house that used to belong to a couple who sold desserts to a local bakery until it shut down, who’d let him and his Mom pick figs and plums from their yard, and then the new owners cut down the trees. He runs past the turn where he almost crashed into a parked car during his first driving lesson, the house with the boy he sometimes sat next to on the bus who knew where to get pot and once got high and kissed in the boy’s old treehouse until their hands travelled downwards, and then he never spoke to Beau again. The sunset is quick, it swells orange until it fades into itself. He runs past the front yard with the painted rock garden for the grandmother who died when he was fifteen, just after they moved here, who they never met but still brought baked coconut bars to the open reception to be courteous, to be kind. He tries to zone out after the second loop, focus on himself and what's in front of him, the trees and streetlights and when they move past —whenever he gets tired he imagines it as film, motion passing through a reel. And then he's home, the evening dimly lit. He ran for the duration of a-ha’s Scoundrel Days album, which is only about 40 minutes but he’s tired, more than he thought; or he doesn’t think he’s really that tired but there’s a heaviness to it, all weighted and jittery. Back inside he doesn’t stretch, just stands in the cold shower for a long time.

[rafent]

✦ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 ✧

There is a cottage in the woods.

Nil watches it through tiny breaches in the briars, like the peepholes of a starving white wolf. A nuclear family nests inside consisting of father, mother, and child; picture-perfect, as quaint as the humblest aspirations can hope to be. The hardworking father descends the mountain to peddle cut lumber. The diligent mother rises early and fills the forest with smells of plain but revitalizing cooking. The lone child plays all by her lonesome, quietly and causing no trouble, asking after no toys her parents cannot afford.

Each is hard at work in their painted-on roles, but the mother especially. She dabs away her sweat with the bone of her wrist, tidies her spilling bun and adjusts the straps of her apron when they fall loose amid midday labors. Her chemises and linens air on the clothing line, brought in before the preparations for supper.

These pristine appearances are what throw him off, of course, the singular child that induces pause. Is it not all too mundane? Should there not be a second wretch to frolic in the garden beside the first? Over the course of several days, Nil gleans what he can for the simple act of confirmation. On the fourth, he approaches. He learns there are many allowances the littlest ones will make for a kind and studied smile.

“Do you know my mama, mister?”

“I do. I am friends with her, from long, long ago, but it is very cold outside. Can I wait for her in there with you?”

“Okay.”

It is the most innocent that let the devil into their home. It is the most innocent that is the devil, after all. Kindly Nil sits and waits, his fingers drum thoughtfully against the naperon, studying the stains of spilled, ill-dried broth. The smell of washed millet and dank wood. It is a pleasant home, a proper home; that is the reality; the truth, in the same way that Nil does not really know who this child’s mother is, her face, her age, or even her name. He knows only that they have the same eyes.

She arrives eventually. She sees his eyes, too. How? her chalk-white expression asks. At this distance there is no mistake for either of them. After a moment he rises from the chair with a severe set of his mouth, there is nothing of Nil in it anymore.

“Outside.” On his demand they go together. As one might estimate the age of an oak tree by its quantity of rings, the length of existence for a Fell Child can be judged by different visual parameters; the cocked alertness of her spine, the clenched fingers down at her side, the primordial readiness of fight and flight. But it is futile, Rafal has made sure of his advantages from the moment they stepped out, the defective Child leading and Rafal at her back. It does not stop her from trying.

“I’ve left Gradlon behind. My ambitions, my dragonstone—everything. I have a family. You don't have to do this.”

His lips twist, amused, bitter, disbelieving, everything at once. He laughs with all his chest and says to the pleading red eyes that have damned her, neither gleeful nor triumphal, merely factual: “But I will. Did you think laying with a human and birthing his pups would absolve you of this struggle? Never.”

Those born of Gradlon cannot run even from the enemies they have never made. The dice their blood has cast for them from the moment each drew breath, hissing in the viper pit hundreds and thousands strong, wanting with all their wicked hearts to be the last and only one. Revanche, a conferred axe from Divine Dragons, points at her like a wielded guillotine, like Rafal is judge, jury, and executioner. The reality is only that he is rightful heir over it all.

And ultimately, like it has been for countless others, it is easy. She is nothing like Nel. Her atrophied strength does not compare, not the pitiful tooth she straps to her thigh - a single knife batted away - or the futile scrabble of her nails down his arm in her final throes. Her face is not remotely alike, too plain without the dragonkin's trappings of gold, that it evokes nothing when he stares into it, rips into it. So it is easy. 

“Mama! Mommy! Momm—”

Hair topples fully from the struggling bun, the apron like Rafal is white now freckled and stained. Rafal looks down at a homely brown-haired niece; a nameless, wretched, sorry inheritor of Fell Dragon legacy and sees nothing of her mother in her; there is everything of her human father about her. That does not leave him satisfied. He is the one that will not take chances.

...

Too soon, the truant father returns home from cutting wood, catching a young man in his home with an axe in his hand, his two greatest treasures shattered on the floor. His mouth opens to yell, to scream, to say anything at all. This noise stirs the wolf, startles him, provokes him, and for that there is movement—

. . .and then there is silence.

There is a cottage in the woods and no family inside.

[wawamouse]

Oz Rewatch 3: S2E03: Legs

This week, leading up to the midseason finale, we have another episode that felt a little filler-y. A lot

I'll just bullet point them first to refer back to:

Resolved/continuing from last episode:

Miguel refuses to name Glynn’s daughter’s rapist after learning who it is / Glynn refuses Schibetta's help in getting the name

Diane returns to Em City and gets the cold shoulder from McManus

Kenny's rehabilitation progress regresses after Adebisi interferes

Schillinger out of Solitary, charged with Conspiracy to Murder

Augustus + Beecher tension resolved through extended fart joke lol

Ryan gets his breast tumor surgery

New storyline introduced:

Augustus’s retrial w Said

Giles’s babbling and Sister Peter

The Aryans kill Alexander Vogel, Schillinger starts his revenge plot against Beecher

Busmalis starts digging a hole

Cyril is introduced

Shirley is introduced

--

Of course, we started out the episode with Sister tittering gleefully over Glynn and Mukada's "lover's tiff". She would be disappointed to realise as the episode progressed that her little soap opera from last week's episode had basically come to an end, though.

[No words; I hear a soft, dejected sigh from Sister over my shoulder]

Unfortunately, Giles is introduced this episode. As I have made clear in my posts in the past, I don't really care much for his storyline or that fact that this is the only real storyline Sister Pete has that is disconnected from many of the other characters she usually deals with. Thinking it over, I believe what might've improved this arc would've been if the lack of resolution over Sister Pete's husband's dead had been introduced earlier on as something affecting her, with the story revolving more around Sister Pete's lingering feelings on the matter and less on Giles and the mystery his babbling presents. I just don't think Giles is that compelling as a character, and if he is really only supposed to be there to unlock some of Sister Pete's back story, I would have liked the whole plot to actually focus more on her.

I sorted of tipsily ranted about it on my Season 1 finale post, but once again something about this bugs me. I don't really have any problem with Said being characterised as arrogant and somewhat foolish, but on this third viewing, I'm starting to see more flaws with the way Said is written. I'm still not sure how to explain it necessarily. In my season 1 rant, I chalked it up to the fact that the writers don't seem familiar with any of the concrete viewpoints a character like Said would have, and therefore he's always just saying vague things about black liberation or prison abolition or revolution or what have you. At the same time, my suspicion that maybe Said is actually sort of just dumb (to put it bluntly) seems like a viable option; Sister mused while we were watching Said boast about Augustus's chances that maybe he was just supposed to be daft about the law... After all, if he understood how things actually worked in the world, maybe he wouldn't be in prison. I think the "Said is actually just that dumb" theory falls flat, though, because in-universe he seems like a pretty highly regarded thinker (except by Querns? lol).

I sort of forget how Said's arrogance plays out in the long run in this season (beyond failing Augustus), so maybe this is a thought I'll put a pin in for now... But I do find it a little 🤨🙄 how he is painted as so delusional in this particular arc. I did sort of think he had been coming down to earth at the end of season 1 after his heart problems but season 2 has him back to doing Too Much. Having Busmalis as the voice of reason, telling Said that he couldn't overthrow the system felt very much like a moment where the writer was speaking to those who Said is meant to represent. Maybe I'm reading too much into that one, but I just feel like it's a cheap move. Of course Said's vague and radical views are going to look preposterous! He hasn't been written from a concrete understanding of any particular ideology or framework! Idk. They should've made Said a communist or something 💀

Anyway.

Moving on, we have a continuation of Ryan's cancer storyline.

I must say, me and Sister were very ???? about Ryan's story to Gloria about how he knew his wife since high school, they impressed their friends by fucking like bunnies minus the babies and then he married his wife because he felt bad she was barren, before cheating on her "a lot" and somehow, the conclusion of this story was... that he didn't want to die in prison? And somehow this monologue earned sympathy points from Gloria? Lol? GIRL? Were you even listening?

Sister: Aw, he does actually love his wife... [long, dubious silence]... I think.

Sister: Ummmmm... what about SHANNON...?

Takeaways & Stray Thoughts:

Sister: I only remember Shannon Me: You only remember her name because she’s pretty Sister: [cackling wildly] That’s true! You know me so well… I don’t even remember the brother’s name—I just remember Shannon saying “what are we going to do about your brother?” 😜… I don’t remember the commissioner’s name… or the girl whose legs we were looking through in that one scene (Diane; there was a scene where McManus was doing sit-ups and the camera was shooting from ankle level behind her) 🥴… I don’t remember the commissioner’s name (Glynn)🤣, or the priest (Mukada)🤨. I remember Sister Peter Marie’s name, but she’s pretty, too... I also remember Miguel’s name but that’s because I’ve become his guardian angel 😌…… Hm, the fiancee (Said’s ex-fiancee) was pretty too… Is Shannon coming back? [sighing, flopping around] Probably not... I bet she'll be too busy supermodeling to be on this show again... 😭

Let it be known that between our episode viewing/discussion and me making some decaf to type this up, Sister kept musing about prison health insurance premiums, at one point saying something about "...She™—Shannon. You know, Shannon?"

Sister: I feel like Mr Religious Guy (Said) is becoming crazy...

New nicknames earned: Miguel, "the rat king" (due to how he tends to hunch his shoulders when he's walking "like a little rat, scurrying around", according to Sister) (frankly "the rat king" is just what she has been calling me all week due to a sweater I have been wearing so I think the name was already on her mind)

The Rat King in motion

I noticed that there were a lot of amusing background details happening in this episode. I wonder if different directors for episodes pay particular mind to having extras do stuff in the background (does the 2nd AD change between episodes? Maybe I should start looking up the crew, too...) Anyway, this episode seemed especially rife with extras amusing themselves in background scenes and moving around more to look busy. Likewise, I feel like this episode had a couple more fun little character/interaction moments compared to past episodes... Augustus and Beecher bickering, Agamemnon "Mm, me too" Busmalis, etc...

Arm wrestling, basketball, reading and walking—all in one shot; Adebisi terrorising Fiona and Tony; McManus keeps ketchup in his important looking cabinet, it turns out; a push-up contest, possibly

Sister: Faces smushed this episode.... two

Why was this episode titled Legs? Besides Diane's leg?

Sister is not a fan of Peter Schibetta so far

During Hanlon's scene with Mukada where he was talking about how he loved to take it up the ass, Sister mistakenly thought I said he was one "one of the gang" instead of "one of the gays", which led her to thinking he was one of the Italians

...Immaculate side eye....

[angst-king]

Below the surface

((This is a Kaminari Angst story.) ((CW Mention of Drowning, child abuse, neglect & trafficing))

The class thought they knew Kaminari pretty well, he was just a fun-loving guy who didn’t seem to have a serious bone in his body. He wasn’t the best with academics and hardly had a hand on his quirk. How the hell did he get into UA?! Sure, he did improve in some areas but still struggled and seemed generally happy. He had some weird things about him, like how he’d jump when the communal showers were turned on, how he’d scarf down his food or just stare at it. At the beginning of the year, he seemed extremely awkward but broke through it with jokes. However, his jokes didn’t completely hide his hyperawareness of everyone around him.

They all just chalked it up to him having some quirks about him. Everyone has them right?

Denki made friends with everyone, he was personable at least, and the bakusquad loved him. He was their bubbly fun-loving electric blond boy who adored video games and trying things out! Denki was also a pretty good listener especially when they moved into the dorms and some of his classmates had a hard time adjusting. He’d listen to them vent. He’d let Mina paint his nails while she went on about her home life. Though if anyone asked him about his, there wasn’t much he could say…..How could he?

His parents were never home, hell they sold him off to the commission once he got his quirk since they didn’t wanna parent him. The only reason he wasn’t there anymore was because they wanted to try out dual teachings and UA got a hold of his records.

Today was the day his friends would see who he was underneath his smiles and laughs.

Today’s mission went wrong. How you ask, it was a school team up during patrol. They were entrusted to handle patrol and broke up into squads. A villain outbreak happened and let's just say long story short someone’s quirk had a misfire and shrapnel was coming down. Kaminari got in front of a civilian to protect them from whatever was coming. Little did he know the quirk’s effects.

Now that the air had cleared Kaminari’s squad was looking for him and under the rubble was a small blond in his now oversized t-shirt. The poor child looked confused and horrified, one of his classmates picked him up and rushed him over to the first rescue truck they could find. Though as soon as Kaminari was set down he tried to crawl off and run. He screamed for them not to hurt him and backed himself into the corner of the bed he was on. It took a while for them to get him bandaged up before the crew said he could be taken back to the school.

Bakugou, Eijirou, Mina, Sero, and Jirou were in the truck. They listened as the child cried out for the medic to stop, and they hadn’t done anything to him yet. At first, Bakugou was the first to speak up….well more like a yell.

“Dunce face stop fucking screaming, he’s just trying to fucking help!” Eijirou was quick to bap Katsuki on the forehead pointing out how Denki was acting.

“He’s scared dude. No kid screams like this for no reason. I’d be scared too if I got turned into a child and suddenly some adult is trying to touch me.” Bakugou adjusted himself in his seat, arms folded as he grumbled lowly. When they got to UA, they brought him to recovery girl with the hopes that he would cooperate more easily.

Well, to say getting him bandaged was difficult was an understatement. Denki seemed to want to avoid the school nurse at all costs. His peers could hear his screaming from her room to their classroom! Some said he was just being dramatic while others quietly sympathised. Aizawa gave the students a heads-up.

“Look I understand this is strange but, I need you guys to be patient with him. These sorts of quirks vary in effect so we don’t fully know how he’s being affected. Whether he remembers people from his teen form or not, as well as he may have some baggage from his younger years that may resurface.” The way Aizawa said the word ‘baggage’ the class seemed confused. He said he would not delve into it unless he needed to and had Kaminari’s permission.

“For now I just want you to be kind and look after him.” It was another minute before there was a knock on the door, Aizawa gave a small ‘come in’, and on the other side was Recovery-Girl. The class’s attention shifted to the old woman.

“Denki will be physically alright, it took some…effort, luckily his injuries are superficial and will heal. His current age is somewhat unknown, I’m guessing maybe 6-10 years old. He doesn’t know how old he is himself, and we don’t have much to compare it to. He’s very jumpy and easily startled, you will see lots of scarring since I couldn’t find a shirt for him just yet just pants. He doesn’t remember UA at all so do not be surprised by this.” The class gave a silent nod before Tenya spoke up.

“Where is Kaminari, is he resting in your office, Recovery-Girl?” Recovery-Girl looked a little confused before she looked behind herself and noticed the child wasn’t with her.

“He was just with me a second ago, holding my hand.” She said to herself wondering where he could have gone. She looked back down the hallway there wasn’t a trace of the boy to be seen. How’d he disappear so fast!? She looked back to the class with worry Aizawa asked if he should radio Nezu to announce a lockdown and search. Recovery-Girl shook her head at this suggestion.

“No no, especially if he knows we’re doing a lockdown, it’ll cause him to panic more than he already is. He’s probably trying to find a place to hide. If we have the teachers go after him it’ll only traumatize him more. He sees adults as a threat, remember….also you remember the first day of school Shota” The man sighed when that was brought up, rubbing the back of his head with a nod.

“Yup, I remember, damn that kid could hide in places I didn’t think he could fit in. Now he’s smaller the kid could be anywhere.” Then there was the class, confused as ever what were they talking about? How would the heroes going to look for him to make it worse? What happened on the first day of school?! Aizawa could see the confused looks on their faces and leaned against his blackboard, giving the school nurse a look she said.

“Just tell them, it's for the best they know.” Aizawa nodded and cleared his throat now all eyes were on him.

“Alright, listen up. What I say about your classmate must not be told to anyone outside of this room unless they are a teacher at the school. Got it?” The class collectively hummed a ‘yes’. Shota continued.

“Kaminari Denki used to be in the hero commission. For those who don’t know the hero commission ‘breeds’ children with strong quirks and trains them like soldiers. As you can imagine the conditions weren’t the best. Denki was let out of the commission 6 months ago so he’s lived his entire life in that facility, and to say how he was treated badly is a gross understatement. I will not go into detail as to what I know he’s been through, but all I will say is. To him, he sees us adults as a threat to his safety. He’s trying to get out because he feels trapped. Think of him as a scared prey animal like a bunny or a rat, he views us as lions or wolves….But I’m going to entrust you all with the special task of bringing him back. I will ask all the teachers to shut their doors so he can’t get into a classroom if he hasn’t already. This will limit his options.” The class stood in stunned silence, their minds all on different frequencies. But they have their task and now need to focus on finding their classmate. Aizawa grabbed his radio and gave the order for teachers to lock their doors and take attendance.

“What do we do?” Started Mina, Momo was the first to speak up.

“Well, first we should take off our support gear or anything that could look threatening.” Some furrowed their brows.

“Why would we do that?” “Because for 1 we won't need it to get to him, it could make it harder to get into tight spaces, at most maybe a rope if he’s stuck somewhere. And 2 because it could look threatening. Like Aizawa said he’s easily frightened. For example, Bakugou would have to take off his gauntlets and mask. Cause I don’t know about you but some of us would look scary to a tiny child.” “Momo’s right,” Iida said while lifting off his helmet and placing it on his desk. The class wasted no time dismantling their hero costumes for those who needed them.

“Let's split up into groups, upper level, and lower level. I’m passing out walkie-talkies for progress reports.” Momo said as she used her quirk to create the devices. The class divides themselves in half and gets assigned their levels.

“Okay remember, be gentle and quiet, and try not to scare him!”

Once the class leaves the rooms they’re on the search for Kaminari. Passing door after door, they were happy to see that the classroom doors were all closed. The lower level group let the upper level know that they’d made it and were splitting up to cover more ground. The only sound in the halls was their feet padding on the tile as they looked around. Searching corners and behind stairwells.

Kirishima’s group was on the upper level, tension was as thick as a knife. Even Bakugou was worried, he started to regret yelling at Kaminari in the truck. How could he not tell them he was a commission kid? That was his entire life it's not like he’d have no memory. Maybe it was too painful to talk about? Maybe it was something he didn’t wanna remember. If that was the case they’d understand but this explained a lot of his behavior. How he’d jump when you touched his shoulder, or how jittery he could be some days. How he seemed to be lost when it came to human interactions, or learning he’d never had certain foods, and that he mainly lived on rice bowls before the dorms were put in place.

“You think we could bribe him to come out with candy?” Suggested Mina, Sero shook his head.

“No, if he knows it's a bribe he won't fall for it. He’s a child not stupid. We’re strangers to him.” “dang-it how are we supposed to find him? This place is so big, it’ll take all day.” “where would you hide?” Katsuki spoke up, the group looked back at him.

“I’m serious, if you were a tiny brat, where would you hide? They said to think of places he’d hide.” Eijirou scratched at his chin while thinking before blurting out.

“The bathrooms! He might not be able to read so he could be in any of them. And since the door can be locked he’d think he’s safe.” Eijirou radioed that they would be checking the bathrooms to find him. Hurrying off to the nearby bathrooms on their section of the top floor. Mina and Jirou went and checked the girls’ bathroom while the boys checked the boy's bathroom. Nothing.

Deku’s group reported the same thing, and then Nezu came into their frequency.

“Hello class 1-A I got wind that you are searching for Kaminari. I’m looking through the school surveillance to see if I can help you. Whoever was closest checked the school storage closets, I saw him head that direction.” With that instruction, Eijirou’s group checked their location and went to the nearest storage closet, which was in the teacher’s lounge. The door was locked, which was weird, that door was only ever locked when school was over.

Mina managed to melt into the lock to get the door open, at first they didn’t see anything until the soft whimpering noise came. Looking to the left and down they saw a flash of yellow and then sparks of electricity. The lights flickered on and off repeatedly. Finally, their eyes landed on Kaminari who was curled up, knees to his chest under a table. Shuffling themselves inside quietly Eijirou was the first to speak.

“Hey Denki” Teary eyes darted up at them and he scurried farther under the table. The electricity he created grew stronger as he cried for them to not hurt him. Eijirou was the first to get down on his knees prompting the others to do the same as he tried to calm the boy down.

“It's okay Denki, you’re safe, no one’s gonna hurt you. We promise none of us are gonna hurt you and we won't let anyone hurt you.” Denki made a soft noise before shaking his head ‘No’. Saying he didn’t believe them.

“You’re gonna bring me back to the guards, I don’t wanna go back.” “We’re not gonna bring you back to them. There is no guard to bring you back to buddy.” That seemed to get Denki’s attention.

“Th-there isn’t?” Then Jirou chimed in. “No there isn’t, do you know where you are, Denki?” “…Th-the c-commission?” “No, you’re not there anymore. You’re at UA, a pro-hero school.” Denki then started to come out of his curled-up position, his quirk also fizzling out a bit.

“You’re safe, we just have to bring you back to Mr. Aizawa okay?” Then Denki starts crying again shaking his head.

“N-no, no adults, they’re scary.” “Alright, how about we take you to our dormitory?” “dormit-tory?” “yeah, it's where we all live. It's like a big apartment building sorta.” “y-you promise they won't bring me back?” “Yes, Denki we promise.” Slowly Denki crawled out from under the table and into the light. Recovery-Girl wasn’t joking when he said Denki had scars! There were many small scars, but there was also a large one on his back that resembled lightning. When the child got to his feet he held onto Kirishima’s belt tightly. Eijirou didn’t mind this and took this as a sign that Denki trusted him.

Sero texted that class 1-A group chat to let them know Denki had been found and that one of the other groups needed to inform Aizawa that they’d be taking Denki to the dormitory. He knew that if he used the radio Denki would probably freak out. With that, they walked to their dormitory.

Taking Denki outside was, sad to say the least. He looked like he’d never seen outside before let alone walked outside! He was completely enamored with how warm it was, how bright the sun was. And that there was no fence….Damn. When they reached the dormitory Denki mentioned how it looked similar to the commission.

“That's kinda what our dormitory looked like…but really dull and a lil smaller.” Bringing him inside he stayed close by to EIjirou. He looked around the place cautiously as if someone would pop out of nowhere at any time. Eijirou took him over to the couch just as some of the other students came in. Seeing the others Denki became anxious again and tried to hide. Eijirou saw this and just held Denki reminding him that the others wouldn’t hurt him.

“Aaw there’s Denki, where’d you find him?” Inquired Ochako.

“In the teacher’s lounge under a table.” “oh wow, good thing Nezu gave us the idea to check the storage places.”

Some tried talking to Denki, asking how old he was and if he remembered them. This was obviously overwhelming him. He nuzzled himself into Eijirou’s body making a nervous noise, while his quirk sparked. Some were confused as to why he was hiding as if what Aizawa had explained earlier had been forgotten.

“OI, back off of him will ya!” Called out Bakugou from the kitchen, he didn’t yell, but he was loud enough to make the group pause. He came over with a bag of chips and some juice and offered it to Kaminari.

“Hey kid, got ya something” Denki looked over at him and the snacks.

“You can have them, they’re yours,” Bakugou stated handing them to him, Kaminari cautiously opened the bag and ate one of the chips. Quietly muttering a ‘thank you’ as Katsuki down beside him. His sparking faded to nothingness as he quietly ate his snack.

“You guys can’t crowd him or you’ll scare him. You remember what Mr Aizawa said.” Ejirou added, that there were many ‘sorry’ ‘didn’t mean to’s from the class as they took a step back. The only one who came forward was Momo, she had a small shirt in her hand, it was plain nothing much. But it would fit and that’s all that mattered. Denki happily put the shirt on and then asked.

“Since I’m not at the commission anymore. Does that mean I don’t have to do training?” “Training?” “Yeah, we have training every day, it was always before the sun came up and went all day.” “What was the training you had to do?” “Hm, it was mainly sparring. Or I think that’s what they called it. We’d also have ‘stealth missions’ and assassin practice.” That truly got the class’s attention.

“And what did those involve?” “Well with sparring, we’d sometimes use our quirks, other times we were given weapons. They tell us not to stop until the bell rings. I got hurt a lot when we’d spar, sometimes they’d make bets on who would win. I don’t win very often so the adults always get mad at me.” “A-and what about assassin practice?” “Hm? It's like tag with weapons! I don’t like being ‘it’, I can run super fast but I don’t like hurting people. Though the handlers say that I’m not a big boy if I don’t.” The class looked unsettled with how casually Denki spoke about it, he still ate his snack while he talked as if it was nothing. Like some snack time story!

They decided to not press too much for his past unless he wanted to, besides it was a little disturbing!

They did notice that Denki seemed to be a lot quieter as a child, though they connected that to being shy of nervous around others since he was so small. That was until he pointed out how nice they were.

“You guys are really nice compared to my roommates” “Your roommates?” “Mhm! They usually sound like the blond guy over there, but a lot meaner.” When Denki said blond guy, they all knew he meant Katsuki. Katsuki shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering how bad were those guys.

“Sometimes they could be nice but most times all they’d do is scream at me, take my food, or make me do things I don’t wanna do. If I want them to be nice then I have to be strong like them or they’ll go back to being mean” “Wh-what did they make you do?” “Make me sleep on the floor or in the closets, make me get in trouble n’get punished for things I didn’t do.” And all of this happened to him while he was barely even 12! What the hell happened after age 10? He got out of there 6 months ago!

The worst of what they knew about their beloved electric quirk user was yet to come.

As the day got later, Denki learned some of his classmates’ names. He still only stuck around with the Bakusquad since he seemed to feel the most comfortable with them. They planned to sleep in the common room sleepover style. They got everything set up, blankets, and pillows, and Bakugou was in the kitchen. Kirishima looked at the time and figured Denki needed a bath n had to have his bandages changed. Momo had given them a set of pajamas for him to change into afterward.

“Alright Denki, we gotta get you cleaned up so we can change your bandages. Gotta take a shower kiddo.” Then everything changed. Denki’s entire demeanor changed in the blink of an eye. He frantically shook his head and began to cry. His hands came up in a defensive way over his head as he pleaded for them not to make him take a bath. The group looked bewildered by this sudden change. Seeing the fear flickering in his eyes as he looked at them.

“Hey hey kid, it's just a shower, we don’t wanna get your PJs dirty.” Again Denki refused Eijirou’s reassurance and this time said.

“I-I’m not falling for it. Th-they say that a-and then…then th-then” This time Sero came over to help inquiring what was causing Denki to be so fearful of taking a shower.

“What is it, Denki?” “Y-you’re gonna drown me!” He blurted out, and everyone in the room froze. The room almost pinning silent except for Denki’s ragged breaths.

“Drown you?” Sero repeated, Denki nodded and explained it to them.

“Th-that's what th-the chamber is f-for. Th-they put me ins-side and fill it up w-with water n don’t let me out un-until I pass out. Or the big kids force m-me in and shove my head in the w-water bucket, or put a t-towel over my face!” Katsuki had turned off the stove when he heard that, the entire room still silent with a stunned look on their faces…..That explains the flinching. Sero could barely utter a word just staring at the blond in horror. All they could hear was Denki begging for them not to put him in the shower! It was another minute before Katsuki had come over from his place in the kitchen.

He then reached over and picked up the child, pulled him to his chest, and just walked around shushing him softly. Adding a light bouncing to his walk as he did this. One hand gingerly rubbing his back the other holding Denki up. He walked around the entire lounge quietly whispering soft reassurances of his safety until Denki ultimately quieted down. The class watched in shock. Since when in the hell could Bakugou Katsuki be so damn gentle!?! How did he just casually walk up, scoop the child into his arms, and do all of that? Who was this guy and what did they do with their Bakugou?!

Finally, when Denki was just sniffling and making small noises Katsuki went over and asked Momo if she had any wipes. When she brought over her bin of body wipes, Katsuki set Denki down and gave him the bin.

“Just need you to wipe down your body with these in the bathroom alright? Put on your PJs and when you’re done we’ll bandage you up. Think you can do that?” Denki nodded and went into the rest room leaving the class to now gawk at Katsuki in amasement. They waited till the door was shut for them to start asking questions.

“Dude what the hell was that?!” “How in the hell did you get him to stop crying?” “didn’t know you could do that!”

Then finally “Oi Oi OI! Shut it….I’ve seen the old man do that with Eri and it seems to work. That’s all.” He grumbled out, though they all knew there was more to it than that. Yet they collectively decided not to press for more answers knowing the result won't be what they want. So they just situated themselves back to their routine and Katsuki went back into the kitchen to finish making dinner.

When Denki came out in the PJs Momo gave him he shyly went and gave Momo her box then went over to Katsuki with a proud look on his face.

“Tada! Look ‘Tsuki I did it!” Yeah, the entire class felt their heart melt at that point. Katsuki looked over and smiled at him giving him a pat on the head.

“Good job kid, I’ve made you nuggets and fries, can you take these to the big take over there?” Katsuki asked while handing Denki a stack of paper plates, Denki nodded and toddled off to the lounge and put the paper plates on the big table in front of the couches. Katsuki wasn’t far behind with the big tray of chicken nuggets and fries that he also set down. They let Denki get what he wanted first and then they all went at it. Jirou put on a movie that Denki seemed excited about, it was Finding Nemo, and he’d never seen it. By now the class wasn’t too surprised, some guessed he’d never seen a kid's TV show in his life!

While they watched the movie, Eijirou and Katsuki made fast work of rebandaging Denki. Thankfully the movie kept him pretty distracted so it didn’t take them long to do it. They were saddened to see all the scaring and a barcode with serial numbers that seemed to be tattooed on his neck. Mina took the opportunity to try brushing out Denki’s hair which was much longer, almost shoulder length. Which compared to his teen form where it only reached his jawline. His hair was very tangled and messy, some of his hair needed to be re-sectioned out. She did her best not to tug or yank at his hair, taking her and reading his body language to know when to let him take a break. By the end of the movie, Mina with the help of Jirou got Denki’s hair completely brushed out, some of it was put into a ponytail to keep it out of his face.

Looking at the time and then at the small child they saw he was getting sleepy and put him down…well tried. Eijirou tried to put Denki down on the cot but, the little one refused to let go and would make a small noise when Eijirou tried. They took it as a sign just to let him sleep with him, which Eijirou didn’t mind. He didn’t move much in his sleep and if it made Denki feel safe then that was fine by him. Everyone got themselves settled into bed, whether that was in their rooms or the common room, and went to sleep.

(time skip)

It had taken 3 days for the quirk to wear off and by then the class had found a new appreciation for each other. As well as a new perspective on their classmate. When the quirk finally wore off they woke up to now-16-year-old Denki who went on about his day like nothing had happened, as if everything was a dream until someone pointed it out.

“Holy shit he’s normal again!” Denki looked confused at this and asked what they were talking about. Hanta then asked if he remembered anything.

“Hm well I remember this strange ass dream that I’d turned into my kid self, you guys didn’t look the same at all honestly. As if we were strangers, didn’t know where the hell I was either.” “well dunce face, that was no fucking dream, you got hit by some stupid quirk. So everything you ‘dreamed’ was real.” Replied Bakugou as he sipped on his coffee.

“….Y-you guys saw things didn’t you….you heard things didn’t you?” It took them a minute to understand what Kaminari meant by this until Sero came over.

“Yes we did but, we don’t hate you, we don’t see you as weak. We just see that as a part of your past. It just explains some of your behaviors and that is okay.” “I-I just di-didn’t wanna tell you, I didn’t think you’d believe me h-honestly.” “I mean yeah it sounds crazy but, we have no reason to judge you. Besides if Aizawa had to tell us it was bad, then it's bad.” “W-well d-do you have any questions for me? I know you guys are probably curious about everything else” Jirou then came up behind him and joined the conversation.

“You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to. Sure, we’re curious but you can talk about it on your own time at your own pace. We’re not gonna push you to talk about your past, Kaminari” Denki let out a small sigh of relief and rushed his hands through his hair with a smile.

“I’m glad I’ve got you guys, You’re the best friends I could ask for.” “Tch whatever Pikachu, don’t get all mushy on us, it's too early for that.” “Whatever ‘Tsuki~”

Even with Denki back to his older self, the squad couldn’t erase the younger version of him. They now knew what lay below the surface of his smiles. They couldn’t put away the memories of the blond huddled under a table in fear. They couldn’t shove away the conversations they had with him that he so casually brought up. They couldn’t un-see the marks on his back and that most definitely multiplied by the age he was now!

And wondered if they would ever go deeper ever again….Even if they promised to never force answers from him, that didn’t stop them from wanting to delve lower into the depths of Denki’s trauma.

[catsafarithewriter]

A/N: PART 26 of the Bedlam au! In which Haru finds some answers, even if she doesn't like them

X

It has been a long time since Haru last stepped foot inside the Sanctuary – the real Sanctuary – and everything feels a little... off, after her many visits to the Other World. Like someone has snuck into her house and moved everything an inch to the left. Imperfections she'd never noted before now catch her eye – the faded paint of the postbox, the off-centre angle of the tower, the rickety wicker chair... Things the Bedlam had corrected, like an artist amending an early sketch.

But it is her Sanctuary, warts and all, and finally open to her again after all this time.

She hopes the reason why isn't what she thinks it is.

"Baron! Muta!" She storms across the courtyard, heart pounding. "Toto! What–"

Her foot collides with something and she freezes.

A small, button-eyed doll lies abandoned on the cobbles, its facade and dress an uncanny replica of her. She crouches down and warily turns it over. Caught up in the chunky woollen hair is the zipper from the inside of her bag, broken during a case – back with the true Bureau – and which she'd been meaning to fix ever since.

She flips it back over, and now she sees the button eyes are cracked, as if they had undergone some great pressure.

"Serves you right," she mutters, and continues into the Bureau.

Within, the Bureau is as empty as it was without, and there is some minor signs of disturbance – but only in the manner of an abrupt breakthrough on a case, rather than an intruder wreaking havoc. The desk is littered with files and books, and in the centre of the room there is chalk circle, inlaid with symbols thay Haru had no hope of understanding. Several footprints mar the lines, but only those of Baron and Muta.

"I thought Baron learnt his lesson about taking shortcuts from the last time he summoned a demon," Haru says, and pointedly sidesteps the circle. She sets the doll (face-down) on the desk and rifles through the abandoned research.

The majority of the research is in the form of Baron's own case notes or from his extensive book collection. Usually he's fairly fastidious, returning his sources as soon as he's finished with them, and setting aside anything of use. Haru's only seen him resort to such chaos on the most rushed of cases – or the most desperate.

There is an anomaly among the collection though; a book Haru doesn't recognise and which bears a Cat Kingdom Library stamp on the inside cover.

A scrap of paper has been deliberately slotted inside and Haru flips it open to the marked page.

In all my travels, I have never seen anything so reminiscent of the monsters told in my kittenhood, as is to be found in the Beldam, the page declares. She is a kind of witch, nearly fae in her love of games, and resides almost entirely in an adjacent world of her own making. When she does venture out, it is only to lay her traps – button-eyed dolls mimicking her prey – through which she watches them.

Haru's blood runs cold. She affords the doll a hard stare, even though it likely can't see her, and wonders just how long it had been hiding in her bag, eavesdropping on her life. Had it heard her final conversation between her and Baron? How had it ended up here?

Once she has collected enough information, Haru continues to read, she then alters her world, weaving puppets which pose as improved, or perhaps idealised versions of her prey's friends and family, using them to create a wonderland kind of life.

"Not quite wonderland enough," Haru remarks to the empty Bureau. She can't be certain, but she thinks she hears the building around her creak in agreement.

When her prey has fully fallen for the other world, the Beldam offers them the chance to stay forever if they allow buttons to be sewn over their eyes. This done, the Beldam is free to take the soul of her victim. What she does with these souls, I do not know.

"Nothing good, I'm sure," Haru says. She begins to skim the rest of the page. "C'mon, give me something to work with."

I am only grateful that her appetite seems to be limited to human children, and I have encountered only one who has managed to escape her grasp.

She flips faster, hoping to find some mention of how the kid had escaped. Nothing. On the plus side, at least she knows what she's facing now. On the negative... everything else. She turns back to the bulk of the information, staring at the page and its damning words.

A noise shakes her from her thoughts. It's a clattering, wooden sound; one she recognises from too many cases. As she rises and approaches the window, she's not surprised to see Baron's cane bouncing across the cobbled courtyard. It rolls to an eventual stop beside Toto's column.

But no Baron.

She goes to gather up the stick, and finds his top hat lying abandoned near the Sanctuary entrance – close to where the Beldam's world had spat her out. A ticket, not unlike an old-fashioned hatter would use, is tucked into the ribbon. Instead of a price, it simply says TWO BUTTONS.

It leaves little doubt as to its origin – or its message.

"Would work a lot better if you hadn't already proven you were a lying toerag," she grumbles. She still doesn't want to believe the monster has her friends – even if she and Baron left on bad terms – and she returns to the Bureau. She rifles through his desk with the familiarity of one who's done it before, but is still not sure exactly what she'll find. After finding a live crab in one of the drawers once (case-related, but still) she affords the search its due care.

Eventually she finds what she was looking for. The pouch is small and mundane, and the dust she takes a pinch of is even more so.

Creation dust doesn't have a very wide application of uses, but there are times its ability to react to Creation magic has been invaluable. She scatters a few motes across the top hat and cane.

It lights up.

Creation, then.

Baron's.

For good measure – because she's encountered weirder Creations than what the Beldam is – she scatters a portion over the doll.

Nothing.

"Well," she says after a dubious pause. "Shit."

She drops the pouch into her bag, stuffs the incriminating doll into a drawer, and storms towards the doorway to the Beldam's world, top hat and cane in hand.

Time to rescue a Bureau in distress.

[trainsinanime]

Cars and Planes in Spy X Family - Episode 3-6

Following on from the posts I made about episode 1 and episode 2, we start settling into the main run of the show, which means fewer establishing shots and fewer cars. But still some! We start when Yor moves in with her new family.

The van that delivers all her earthly possessions (mostly poisons) is a Barkas B 1000, the standard van of the GDR. Here’s one in real life:

Picture by Ubahnverleih, found on Wikimedia Commons, declared public domain via CC0

The Barkas was a classic case of GDR engineering stories: On the same technical level as the western competition when it was introduced in 1961, except the two-stroke engine was already on the way out, functionally not worse and in some regards better than the VW Bus Loid drives in episode 2. But then it was never updated and got older and more behind, and at the same time the production facilities were never able to keep up with demand, so there was always a van shortage in the GDR. Among other things.

The next major thing is the plane they take to the old castle. The castle, by the way, is almost certainly heavily inspired by Neuschwanstein, which was also the inspiration for the Disney castle, and which was very much built as a theme park for a weird bavarian king in the 19th century itself.

The plane appears to be a Cessna 208 “Caravan”, a single-engine turboprop plane that is often configured as a float plane.

Picture from the Alain Rioux collection, found on Wikimedia Commons, licensed under GNU Free Documentation License 1.2

The Caravan is a very common light-duty workhorse plane; for the tasks that are too big for a small hobby plane, but don’t require or allow a larger twin-engine one. Float planes, tours, local deliveries, transporting sky-divers, all that stuff. It absolutely fits well for spy things, and it continues the theme where the people from the west use cars and planes from the west.

There’s just one tiny detail: It first flew in 1982, but the show seems to be set in the 1960s. I guess we’ll chalk that down to it being an alternate universe. By the way, if you want, they still make this plane and you can buy one.

The interior of the plane is a bit wrong here:

In this shot, you can see that there is far less space than the actual plane has, but most importantly, you can look out the rear window - something that the Caravan doesn’t have, that’s where its tail is. With a low tail and three windows on each side, this appears to be the interior of a Cessna 205/206. Those were actually built starting in 1962 and thus fit into the show.

Picture by Arpingstone, found on Wikimedia Commons, released into the public domain

But look at that cockpit! Really nice. All the instruments are there, all the electronics, all seem to fit the 1960s, and it’s just beautifully painted. (Do note that this screenshot, where he asks whether everybody has their seatbelt on, is before the other one, where only he has his seatbelt on… If you’re ever in a small plane, please put your seatbelt on at all times.)

I haven’t talked much about the cars alongside the road, but I want to give them a quick shoutout once more:

This is a beautiful rendition of a Wartburg 353, version from 1966-1974, the bigger, slightly more fancy car in the GDR.

Picture by Oostblokblik, found on Wikimedia Commons, published under CC-BY-SA 4.0

All in all, Spy X Family continues to excel at portraying great cars and planes that are beautifully drawn and appropriate to the setting! And that’s because I stopped here, and didn’t look at the end credits yet. Oh, that school bus… but that’s a topic for another day.

[thesherrinfordfacility]

So something terrible happens which makes future Crowley go back to try to fix it and there's just 2 Crowleys running around in the present? Oh, and thanks for explaining!

Regarding not taking yourself seriously: I may not be entirely convinced by this particular theory - or any, yet - but I don't think time travel is completely out there or impossible either. Considering the way Adam resets things after the failed Apocalypse, the timeline clearly can be messed with, as can time itself, as Crowley repeatedly demonstrates. I saw the post you reblogged about the rugs and we are rapidly moving out of the territory of plausible deniability regarding the sheer number of bizarre continuity errors. Any one or two of them on their own, yes, but collectively?

If you do go looking back through the minisodes, Crowley's hair seems to go shorter-longer-shorter in Job and his sideburns look like they get quite a bit shorter in the crypt in the Resurrectionists. I didn't see anything in the Nazis minisode, but that doesn't meant nothing's there.

further ask:

hi anon!!!✨ first of all, im so sorry for not getting round to your asks until now!!!

re: first ask - mhm that's the half-baked idea, anyhow!!! and tbh 💀 im not completely convinced either but i like to entertain the possibility just out of Fun, so here we are!!!✨ oh god The Rugs - so the red one, that appears during the ball? okay sure i can accept that it is part of the Austen Aesthetic, and once the magic lifts it shifts back to the normal s2.

as for the s1 one... im torn. because i saw the amazing post where they hand-painted the mf sink tiles bc they would be in the background of a couple of shots, and wanted to at least be as close to the s1 ones as possible (GO crew honestly do the Mostest). and yeah okay, re: the difference between the s1 and s2 rugs, maybe it's that they thought 'well it's going to be on the floor most of the time and therefore out of shot' but. there are two shots that literally focus on it. as the focal point. so to my mind, they either literally couldn't find a like for like replacement (completely valid), or something Fishy is going on.

ive seen a couple of people remark on the flashbacks potentially being skewed because they're from aziraphale's perspective, but ive genuinely had the half-baked idea that the whole season is. there's so many in-story indicators, to my mind - biased red/yellow colour grading, the cartoony loch ness animation in ep3, and tbh the whole ball thing - and i do wonder if this whole rug sitch (as well as other Unexplained Things) might be chalked up to this very thing; that we are seeing s2 for the mostly part literally through aziraphale's eyes, and that what we see is a little... altered. magicked. as i said, half-baked idea, but there we are.

i did end up going through ACtO, and it's currently sat in my drafts at the moment because... well, idk what to make of it. the scenes where - by my estimation - he has the longer, more defined-curl wig, is every shot in job's house (three scenes, iirc), and so it might actually, if you consider that these scenes were likely filmed in alternative days to the other ACtO scene, a plain continuity/wig-availability issue. plus, when looking at the dialogue, all the scenes in some way link together (so i don't, essentially, think it can feasibly be the same time-travel theory). the only thing, i guess, that still remains valid is that we are seeing a recount of the events of ACtO as per aziraphale's retelling... but even then, there are plenty of scenes where they are very heavy in the crowley perspective (ie it doesn't feel like aziraphale is fudging anything), so this doesn't 100% feel like a true explanation either imo.

i do still need to look at the resurrectionists minisode though, so may well be able to parse some crackpot musing once ive done that!!!✨