#please forgive any inaccuracies in that regard

[puddleslimewrites]

Diagnosis

CW: discussion of a terminal illness diagnosis (it's nonspecific and not in detail, but I thought it best to make a warning)

"...Tell me about the first time you diagnosed someone with a terminal illness."

Doctor looked at them with sad eyes.

"Tell me about the first time you had to look at someone and tell them they were going to die. Tell me how you did it. What you said, what you did. Before, and after." Patient kept their eyes down, shoulders slumped, elbows resting on their thighs. They appeared to stare at the floor, but their mind was elsewhere.

Doctor took a breath. They'd never been asked to recount it. And though they'd tried to forget, the memory came back to them with ease.

"It was a woman in her 30s," they began softly.

Patient listened without looking up.

~

Silence filled the office. Patient was the first to break it.

"Did you cry for her?"

"Afterward, yes. I couldn't with her in the room. I had to be..."

"Strong?"

"Impartial," Doctor corrected.

"Showing sympathy for your patients doesn't make you weak," Patient whispered.

"I know. But it does make my job harder to do."

Patient hummed in acknowledgment. Without their voices, the space was quiet save for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Doctor began to look through some of the files on their desk.

"Do you still cry?" Patient finally asked.

"Sometimes."

A beat passed, then two. Doctor paused on the page that held the history of their current visitor. They glanced over it and decided to make a note in the margin.

"Would you cry for me?"

Doctor stopped writing, eyes trained on the page. For a moment, it didn't seem like they were going to answer.

"...Yes."

Patient hummed again, satisfied. They stood from their chair. "I'll see you next week, doc."

Doctor looked up, alarmed at the abrupt announcement. "Next week? You're not planning to break something again, are you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Patient scoffed. They shot Doctor an innocent grin as they slipped through the door. "I've told you, it's always an accident."

[aphmexphil]

I don't have any real context behind this besides I just wanted to draw them getting married in period clothing lol I found it really cute that in Nahua weddings both the bride and the groom would wear flower crowns and necklaces...On a side note, it was a bit difficult to make out the some details with Feli's clothing especially the hat, I even tally settled on it being a Cavalier hat due to it's popularity at the time but even so please forgive me for any inaccuracies regarding that ^^;

One day I hope to do a few more variations of this theme with them :D

References used:

Left: Folding Screen with Indian Wedding, Mitote, and Flying Pole, ca. 1660-1690s

Right: Bankoku Sozu map, Luzon couple ca. 1670s

[macaroonff]

Taste- Lee Minho (Part 1)

Genre: Undercover detective x gang leader; the roaring 20s Paring: Minho x fem reader Content Warnings: Spice (no smut),mentions of alcohol, inaccurate historical representation, not intended to be factually correct, please forgive any inaccuracies. Word Count: 2957 words Suggested Songs: Taste- Stray Kids Whatever Lola Wants- Ella Fitzgerald Fall in Love With Swing- Trio Manouche Smooth Operator- Sade

↪click here for part 2.

Refer to this for context regarding specific terms in bold

No one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat in one of the many dressing rooms the jazz club contained. He hated how his sweaty palms digging into your lower back barely managed to keep both of you steady against the rough wall.

He despised how desperately you held onto the lapels of his tweed suit, as the cold pearls around your neck jingle against his watch with every turn of your head. Every jingle was followed by a gasp, and together they seemed to override the perky jazz coming from the stage. 

He hated how he was stuck here, unable to release himself from his hedonistic urges, to the point where he neglected his work, the reason he entered this shabby club. 

Priv. Detective Lee wasn't supposed to be here today, not in your embrace, not under your enchantment, not under the influence of something he was prohibited from. 

Alcohol.

Despite his deceptive actions and seemingly careless attitude towards alcohol at parties, Lee Minho had a restrained regimen for himself. Especially when he’s working, which is almost everyday.

He only let himself go when it was necessary in social gatherings, in  those crowded salons where everyone had their eye on him, where he had to follow skewed norms to strengthen his reputation as an owner of a winery acreage in Pomerol, France. A false identity pasted on him to get any sort of tip-off in this industry.

The industry where smuggling had become as common as a nuclear family buying a car.

Last Sunday, when he happened to be at another one of these parties, he was invited by his neighbour Mr Brown to a different wine tasting session at a strange, albeit new jazz club, rumoured to sell cheap booze. And of course he’d go.

Not because of the alcohol, but because of the fact that any place selling cheaper goods meant that it was smuggled. Not necessarily, and not always; but in this day and age he was sure it could be nothing else.

So he enters this somewhat run down club behind the busy streets of downtown Chicago, surprisingly packed with locals, a pungent smell of alcohol immediately welcoming him. A smell he thought he was used to, but clearly not enough to refrain from wincing, his eyebrows furrowed at the chaos and the crowd; at the suffocation he felt walking in.

At the centre of this chaos stood, in all her glory, the lead singer, her sweet voice accentuated by the saxophone, trumpet and piano quartet. She stood below the dim yellow chandelier hung above her as a spotlight, in her white satin, semi beaded dress which fell just below her knees, rather provocative.

He doesn't look away until Brown reminds him of the wine testing and ushers him towards a VIP booth.

He makes his way through the crowd, pushing against bodies dancing the Charleston, a recently popular dance that Minho found amusing. All this while, he probes the ins and outs of the club, looking for all entry ways through which big cartons could arrive, as well as places for them to be stored.

All he found was a door that appeared to lead into the dressing rooms. That didn't deter his ambitions though, because he knew that behind this lively exterior, there had to be secrets involved . He would do whatever he had to in order to uncover the operation.

If he had any flaws, it would be this, that he was too stubborn to give up on what his intuition said. He was hard headed, but in no way was he stupid. He'd be devious if it was necessary, he'd lie if he had to. He'd also seduce if it was extreme.

Well, it wasn't his first time trying. He'd done it before, at least six attempts, and maybe five successful ones. The last one was into girls, and he hoped, fairly desperate that this one wasn't.

After a while, he uses needing a trip to the toilet as a somewhat acceptable reason for leaving the now boring session. The drunk men weren't their most reasonable, and paid no heed to the poor excuse. Apparently being a connoisseur meant taking proper breaks. He shrugs it off with a smile, promising to come back in some time.

Lies.

He was long gone to meet his mysterious flapper who he surveyed every corner for.

Under the new frosted light bulbs bought for the bar, you found yourself in the company of many men and women alike, all desperately trying to sink their teeth into your precious minutes. All of whom you appreciated but wanted nothing to do with. Most of them were here to sign record deals from new radio channels wanting to capitalise on the upcoming modern woman movement. All of which you supported but didn't see yourself working as.

Not because you liked working as the main singer for a rundown jazz club. But because your actual work meant that you were never supposed to find fame. Fame meant prying eyes, and nosey neighbours; something you'd have none of in this lifetime.

Why risk it for fame, when you had important business to take care of here?

You had to make sure that not a single thing was out of line and that not a single person would ever find out of the secret second business run here.

So far, you've done a good job at pretending to be the club's owner's sister. And although it was true, the story behind renovating your grandma's old house into a jazz club wasn't. There was no grandma's old house, there was no renovation, no grandma either. This was always a place for trade.

Your kind of trade. Where you’d find the good dupes and sell it at a higher price, and the actual bottles would be shipped out for a lump sum.

The excess or the bad bottles would be sold in this club, at a discount. It was pretty simple actually, and it made you money.

Sure it was illegal. But sometimes you needed the money, no questions asked. This was how your family knew to fend. This is how you'd continue to fend for yourself.

The risks you took were calculated, and you weren't afraid. While your brother looked after the actual shipments, you'd deliver intel.

You were in control of all the information passing through here. Nothing happening in town would ever slip away from your grasp.

So what if it was a jazz club?

Most people from different backgrounds always ended up at your 'Charmer Club'.

Most people let themselves go. They always ended up telling the bartender about their business, the dirty dealings that they've also been up to. The fact that most were more grey than the white that they appeared to be.

It was no different for you.

And if there was any difference, it was that you'd never let yourself slip-up. You weren't stupid. You weren't a naïve little Tomato like most believe. Even if you did find yourself faltering, you'd know how to convince others into changing their mind about you.

The same way you knew you could convince Mr Brown that you were interested in the specificities of wine when he almost caught you switching bottles from the basement. You barely convinced him, saying that true wine from France would have plum and black cherry aromas, which it did have. Lucky for you, Mr Brown had no idea that dupes could have chemical fragrances added to them too, because he'd never had to collect wine right from the port. Defeated, he said he'd ask his "very dear friend" to figure out the truth.

At first, you were shocked that there was another wine connoisseur you didn't know of, but after asking your people to investigate, you realised why Mr Brown was so confident. Why he was after your tail.

You knew he was new to this part of town; an insanely handsome, Big Cheese foreigner who wasn't yet used to life in America.

That his speciality was French Wine, and that if he was rich here, he was even richer back home. That he might even be a scofflaw, since he hung around in as many alcohol parties as he could, including the ones for the middle class. This piques your interest, and in a long while, you haven't been as excited to unearth someone's mask.

Now, all you had to do was wait. Because you hoped, no, you knew he would come to find you tonight, regardless of never having spoken before. Because most people do the first time they visit this club.

Most people come looking for you when you're done singing. Because they're enthralled, curious, or physically attracted to you. Because you're almost too beautiful for them to admire from a distance. Because you had "eyes like an angel that drew everyone to paradise".

These weren't just based on what you heard, but accounts from your members, beyond tired of regulars ravishing about you. But that wasn't enough for you. You needed beyond sensuality to tempt and guarantee clients. Sure your circle of customers had grown over the last five years you took over, but that didn't mean the risk had dissipated.

So while your confidence was with justification, your anxiety insisted on you keeping things tight-lipped. You had to know everything that occurred in this paltry but pertinent place.

Maybe that was why you were grateful when your target approaches you of his own accord. His deep brown eyes intent on yours, his long hands embellished by his expensive Rolex oyster, an uncommon wrist watch that very few would dream of affording, an orange tie loosened as though he had drunk the daylights out of himself.

He was perfect. Handsome and tipsy, what else would you want out of a person who had the potential to figure out that your French wine happened to be local American?

"Stunning performance," you hear a deep voice say, in a slurred accent, you can't tell if it was because he was French, or just drunk.

"Thanks, first time here?" you ask.

He nods, leaning ahead. "Mr Brown told me, you have some really good wine down here, something I might be familiar with."

"Ahh you must be the foreigner Mr Brown keeps raving about... Mr?"

"Just call me Claude," he replies sweetly.

You raise your eyebrow. Was he so private as to not let his last name slip? You call the bartender over.

"A bottle of our finest Cheval Blanc." you look back and smile at him.

Claude smirks. "I'm familiar with this wine you know. It's made from the labour of my vineyards."

You examine his face, looking for any sign of deceit. You'd come across many con artists, most of whom didn't have adequate expertise in alcohol. Nobody knew the real in a world where fake was deliberately greater. But here's someone who claimed to be, here's someone who you were sure was lying, despite no hint of deceit.

Why would a rich French billionaire come down personally to your shabby store, instead of asking someone else to collect it?

Unless he had something to prove.

Soon the glasses are laid out, and half a bottle poured. You wait as he swirls the glass in his hand. Despite the loud jazz, you hear nothing but the sound of ice clinking in his glass, and the aroma of plum piercing through, making it difficult for you to breathe. You realise, that after a long time, you're nervous. You see him smell the alcohol briefly.

The cup reaches his lips, and he closes his pretty eyes. You watch him gulp a miniscule sip down. It is silent as his eyelashes flutter slowly as his mouth twitches in slight distaste. Just as anyone else would frown, but for some reason his seemed deliberate, and somewhat dangerous.

Dangerous was what Lee Minho thought you were, with the real thing in the glass in front of him. Somehow, he knew it wasn't a dupe. It had the same percentage of alcohol as he knew it should, and not one flavour felt out of place. But then again, he couldn't be sure; he wasn't actually the person he claimed to be. He wasn't an actual connoisseur. If this was the real thing, then it made no sense for you to sell it at a discount.

"Why is one bottle so cheap?" he asks carefully, leaning against the counter. This time, he looks at you in search of deceit. Instead all he reads is a hint of surprise on your face, along with a little bit of glee, he couldn't be sure.

"You should know after tasting them shouldn't you?" you ask, eyebrows raised, a small smile on your lips, as though you had it all figured out.

Lee Minho falters, suddenly unarmed. What did that mean? Did you admit that it was fake? Or were you trying to gauge his identity?

A wrong answer now, and he'd give himself away.

"Of course I know why, but I'd rather hear from you." he avoids, to which you don't reply.

He needs to draw everything from you. "The discounts are unreasonably low, especially for a Cheval Blanc. It almost hurts my pride," he playfully pouts.

He sees you shaking your head in slight disappointment, an amused smile along with it. "You shouldn't worry about that, you're not losing any money here," you whisper close to his ear.

He tries so hard to ignore the smell of may rose and jasmine that accompanied your Chanel no. 5 parfum, and he tried to ignore how some of the others gaped at him, envious of how close he'd gotten to you.

"How can I be sure?" he questions his breath slightly arrhythmic.

How would you know rather, whether a rich business man would have lost his money? Really nobody would know unless they went through the ledgers. Something you were sure didn't exist in his company, or else he'd know just how much he'd lost.

Everything he said pointed to him being a careless business owner, something you thought would never be possible for a man so rich. You scan through his appearance again, his suit looked genuine, the tweed proper. You even gently caress the back of his broad lapels to confirm. He was rich, but was he anything close to the person he says he is?

Out of all the people you met in this small place, there was one thing you knew too well. If something or someone is too good to be true, it probably was. He was no vineyard owner from France, foreigner maybe, but not someone who knows business.

Something about the way he tried so desperately to gauge your business instead of you meant that he wasn't here to play, nor was he here to strike a deal. Most businesses that advertise their brands try to get their way into you, instead of the business. They usually came knowing you were a snake charmer, someone who could sell all the bad ones for better prices. Selling rejected alcohol ended up being a way for them to reduce net losses.

The man in front of you, "Claude", could be one of two things. An embalmer like you, jealous of the profit you're making; or someone here to investigate your business. A situation you were familiar with.

Multiple cops had come to investigate before, all of whom were easy to shut up. However the person in front of you didn't feel like a cop, he didn't try to exert power, nor did he try to undermine yours. A man so hard to read, you weren't sure how to make head or tail of who he really was.

"Hmm, I'll tell you why I sell it for less, only if you tell me why you don't think it should be sold for less" you offer, laying out your cards in front of him. His response would determine if he was a tremendous, or poor master of deception.

"It is indeed the real thing; however the aroma feels diluted, although the drink's concentration seems correct, I understand that it is from a batch of wine of secondary quality made from bad grapes. However the year it was made in, suffered from excessive rain, and the waterlogged condition meant that production had reduced that year. It would make sense for you to sell it for a higher price due to excess demand."

You smirk, as he got the question right. Somehow, he knew his stuff. The details however did feel as if he had thoroughly prepared for an interrogation.

"Unfortunately the people who buy here don't care about a particular year, they care just for the alcohol. It matters to only a few, such as Mr Brown and your friends who care enough to investigate, Claude."

"We're just curious, after all we're linked to the industry at some level. You don't need to feel offended young lady, if I may ask for your name?"

"My name is a secret for those who I meet for the first three times, if you return after our third meeting, I'll tell you. For now, goodbye; I have other patrons to meet."

With that you leave hastily, already unnerved at the fact that he somehow picked at your disguise. Annoyed yet excited.

After a long time, you had something vaguely resembling a challenge, and the following meetings would ensure that you get every second worth of thrill from him. You'd make sure that Claude, or whatever his handsome name was would only tread carefully from now.

↪ next part

Hey there! This took me too long to write, but I tried something extremely different this time.

Please give me feedback, I'd appreciate it a lot!

Love Macaroon 💖

[holycryptid]

Nightcrawler

Bruce Wayne/Batman x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 6.3k

Tags/warnings: descriptions of blood/injury, angst, allusions to sex, groping/touching, descriptions of medical treatment (suturing), fingering/pussy play, explicit language, unrequited feelings (let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: Bruce confronts his feelings after you put him back together. Again.

Notes: wrote this all the way back in 2020 right after the first trailer came out…found it sitting in my computer files and figured i shouldn’t let it go to waste! since it was written before the movie came out, please excuse/forgive any inaccuracies regarding the batsuit, terminology, setting, and characterization (and the painfully amateur writing) 😣 

The cave is always a little too frigid for your liking. 

Especially when it’s already well into the late hours of the night—a time you definitely shouldn’t be awake. The long fluorescents buzz and highlight the metallic sheen of everything, while still piercing through any inch of unguarded darkness in the gloomy room.  

A light breeze swirls around your huddled figure every so often, and the rhythmic sound of water continuously dripping onto floor somewhere echoes throughout the quiet, isolated space. There’s still some changes and additions that need to be made to the current set-up he has, but it does the job for now. You don’t bother taking note of what needs to get done—you’ll probably forget it all an hour from now anyway.  

You let your head roll back onto the chairs headrest, and your eyes skim over the time at the bottom of one of the monitors screens. 

3:43am. It’s been almost four hours—you always wait. 

You wait even though he tells you not to, and even though you know you maybe shouldn’t sometimes. But you can’t help it. It’s habit at this point. You’re down here at 10pm on the dot. Daily. 

You don’t need to be, but you are; it’s tradition for you to be part of his prep and routine before the nightly endeavour out into Gotham, even if you just sit and watch as he slowly works his way into the suit piece-by-piece, fiddling with various tech accessories that you don’t even know the names of yet.

You try to pass the time by organizing and sorting his skewed files, papers, and small pieces of armour that have been damaged beyond repair—meticulously placing them in their rightful spots on the seemingly never-ending line of desktops, shelves, and hidden drawers. 

But mindlessly arranging anything and everything only lasts for so long before there’s nothing left to do but sit. And think. And then sit some more.

Not knowing how long you’ll be rolling around in one of the padded office chairs for is one of the prices you have to pay for caring too much, and he reprimands you for it, even as you furiously dump an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol onto his body, and he never shows that it affects him in the least. 

He’s stubborn. He’s stupid. 

Your eyes wander along the blank stone walls as you slouch further into the chair, stopping when you see the time again: 3:47am. 

You let out a heavy breath through your nose as you repeatedly click the tip of a pen in and out. You push yourself around in slow circles with the toe of your foot, letting the spinning room distract you for just a few moments just to pass another minute at least.

This isn’t necessarily part of your job. He knows that, and you definitely know that. A lot of things have changed with your workplace duties, clearly, as you notice some earlier pieces of his armour piled in one corner of the room.

Unsurprisingly, things have…happened here and there. It’s becoming a more common occurrence, but it feels circumstantial and…convenient. Maybe it’s all meant to happen at this point. You think about it often enough—too often. Enough to make things awkward for yourself sometimes.

Another anxious glance at the leering clock: 3:51am. “This is fucking ridiculous,” you reason with yourself, getting up from the chair and tossing the pen on the desk. 

You resort to pacing around the grand floor space, now closely watching the entrance and exit as you circle by. All you can do is wait—

And just as you turn your back to the computer displays and monitors, the clocks turn to 3:59am. 

You cut back sharply to begin another circle, and there he is. Four hours later. Alive.

The broad shadow makes your heart stop for a split second, but the only physical reaction you have is your knees locking, keeping you in place and giving you no choice but to stare at the familiar, broad outline of him.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Bruce.” It slips out, a little rushed and aggressive, but you mean it. He knows you well enough to not take any literal offence from it.

Your harsh acknowledgement prompts him to walk in further.

“Yeah, you said that last time,” he points out casually, sauntering into the blinding lights with calm steps, coming around to the front of the desks.

You observe his gait with a hard stare—you take notice of how he hesitantly bends and twists at the hip when he leans back to rest against the edge of the metal desk, rolling his head back until his neck pops with a relieved grunt. 

He’s already got the cowl, cape, and gloves off, so whatever the problem is, it must be worse than what he’s playing off, as usual.

And then you see the issue. “Do you need help with that?” You point at his stomach and drop back into the chair, deflating with concern. 

Your alert eyes study the suit, looking at the damage. 

“With what?” he counters, seeming unaware—avoiding; yet his dark eyes confidently meet yours as he rests back on his hands, trying to find some comfort and seem unbothered by whatever desperately needs your attention underneath the sturdy armour. 

A very thin layer of blood has seeped through a small displacement in the suits plating, soaking into the tri-weave fibers that cover the titanium. You roll your eyes and scoot back to a shelf where a med-kit sits, one that you put together specifically for nights like these, which is every night.  

Positioning yourself back in front of him, the chair brings you to the perfect height to get a good look at the impairment. You can already tell it’s a knife wound just by the location. It’s at the perfect height. It cut perfectly in-between the overlapped layers of plating, perhaps the biggest flaw the suit has. You’re sure he’s aware of that now.

You inspect it briefly, tugging up on the bent piece slightly to see the amount of blood beneath. He takes a deep breath as the dense pressure is relieved from the tender area. 

“Shit—” he breathes in relief. You’ve only heard that clipped tone slip out of his mouth on very few occasions, one of which was barely a week ago, yet you still tense at the vivid memory that you never really want to let go of.  

He’s not one for reminiscing, but unfortunately, you are.       

“It’ll only be a few stitches,” you say gently, letting the plate mold back into place softly. You tap the hard armour pointedly. “Take it off.”

You flick your eyes up to his—the black paint has smeared around just a bit more compared to when he smudged it on with no real technique earlier.

You’ll help him get it off later.

He brings a quick hand through his damp hair and starts unclipping the few clasps hidden on his shoulders and chest. One by one, the durable pieces are detached, and you carefully place them off to your right as he hands them over.

“Can you get the one in the back?” He motions over his shoulder. You nod and mumble a thoughtful ‘mhm’ as you both push yourself onto your feet again.

He turns his back to you, leaning forward on his palms and presenting the last clasp that sits in the middle of his spine. You know he can reach it, you’ve seen him do it before. You flick the clip, carefully pulling away the last plate. He physically relaxes his already tense muscles as soon as the extra weight is removed.

“I don’t know why you do this every night. It’s not worth it,” you confess while rummaging through the med-kit for a needle, surgical thread, topical antiseptic, a gauze pad, and a self-adherent bandage wrap to hopefully hold it all together.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment as you carefully lay out the supplies next to him on the desk.

“I have to…” he whispers, trailing off, but you catch it, shaking your head as you thread and ready the needle with severe concentration. 

“Turn around, please.” He shifts back to where he originally was without a word, leaning back against the cool steel with hesitation once again.

You grab the bottle of antiseptic and apply a generous amount onto the pad, delicately holding it as you take a seat in front of him once again.

“Are you sure you wanna stand for this?” you grimace. The hot sting of a sterile compress isn’t the most enjoyable sensation to experience, especially while bearing weight.

He looks down at you, looking rather uninvolved with the priority. Dazed and distracted; something that could be mistaken for the potential amount blood loss, but the gash isn’t big enough for that possibility. 

This is something you’ve seen more often than you’d like to.

“Just get it done,” he starts, “You know I can handle it.” He dismisses the option, letting his head roll back with a deep inhale as he waits for you to start.

You say nothing in return. Carefully balancing the compress in one hand, your other cautiously pinches the soft, spandex material of his base-layer shirt. It fits comfortably, hugging tightly around the curvature and muscle of his body, improving his movement in the suit.

The shirt is slowly pulled away from his stomach. The thick blood sticks around the tear in the fabric, making it peel away instead. You drag it halfway over the rest of his lower abdomen, pulling and letting it bunch up tightly, staying isolated from the torn skin below.

You stare at the ugly cut for barely a second before you quickly dab the antiseptic around, patting it into the irritated, puffy flesh and watching it fizzle with each pull back.

Sometimes, you feel like he likes the pain. Like he purposefully seeks out the discomfort of an incapacitating injury in hopes of suppressing the turmoil of concern…worry…love… 

It gives him something else to focus on instead of the sorrowful emotions that avoiding you doesn’t seem to fix. It’s only been making it worse, and things are beyond saving now.

Your free hand gently rests against the burning skin of his waist, and his head drops forward at the surprising contact.

“Calm down. It keeps me steady,” you chuckle, shaking your head lightly.

He hums thoughtlessly in response, unconvinced with your excuse, maybe. 

There’s that sudden anxious tension in the room from nothing but a fleeting graze of fingertips. The uncertainty of who’s going to make the first move this time.

You do one more press and then pull the soaked pad away, examining your progress before discarding the bloody material.

“It might only be four sutures or so,” you determine while gently squeezing the inflamed edges closer together to try and gauge the amount of work needed.

He inhales sharply, tightly gripping the rim of the desktop. “Well, the faster you stitch it, the faster I’ll be able to—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” You cut him off with a harsh but accidental hard squeeze of the torn flesh, making his words die in his throat with a groan.  

That wasn’t something you really needed to hear right now, let alone think about as if he wasn’t just bleeding out in front of you only minutes ago. 

You know how that sentence ends; you’ve heard him say it more times than you’d like to admit, but you can’t let him have his way tonight.  

You glare at each other for a moment. Your eyes hold a tired frustration behind them, but his hold a different kind…something that is able to get you to do whatever he says, something that makes you giddy with anticipation, and something that makes you feel just a little more alienated afterwards.

“You can’t lie to yourself anymore,” he says instead.

You laugh coldly. “Well, neither can you. I’ve stopped doing that a long time ago. You should try it sometime,” you counter, snatching the threaded needle with anger while maintaining your unimpressed gaze.

He sighs, messing with his drying hair again as you begin suturing quickly—not so you can get to what he was alluding to, but the opposite. 

For once, you don’t want that, and you don’t want the burden of sadness that comes with it.

But it’s so…tempting.

He gave himself away. You haven’t. And of course he’s leaning against the very spot you were pinned down against a week ago, feeling the contrast to the emotions you’re feeling now: excitement, passion, comfort, love—

It puts you into a conscious daydream for a moment. But you’re awoken from it when you feel his body jolt suddenly. You see the needle poking into the tough muscle of his side instead of the spongey cut.

“Shit— sorry,” you mumble, shifting your focus back to the final suture and looping it through itself securely in a rush.

Seven stitches in total, you notice. You were close.

You grab the bandage wrap and press it firmly over the closed wound before snaking it around his back. You’re able to get two layers from it; the pressure should stop any possible bleeding, but he always manages to tear it open anyway. Sometimes you think he does it on purpose just so he has a good excuse to see you.

“Done,” you sigh, packing up the med-kit and rolling back to its shelf.

You stand from the chair and go to make your way to the exit without another word, not interested in any other interaction tonight. Well, that’s what you hope for, but you’ve learned that he will never let you go peacefully.

You go to pass by him mindlessly as he’s carefully pulling his shirt back down, but he manages to grab ahold of your sleeve quickly when he sees your destination. The effortless pull makes you skid to a stop, twisting back towards him with your inverted momentum, almost smashing your face in his chest, but you stop yourself with your forearm.

He holds onto you tightly, with a purpose, as you share a moment of mutual hurt and resentment. His dark eyes, the opaque paint making them look just as black in the hazy lighting, search your conflicted ones desperately.

“If I asked you to stay, would you?” he asks quietly. There’s no demand behind it, seemingly afraid it’ll scare you away. 

His face softens, perhaps relief from asking. He’s never had to before.

You furrow your brows together in shock, dumbfounded at his apparent stupidity in this continuous situation. You scoff lightly at his rather domestic request. “Why? So we can just dance around the truth like always?” Your voice never raises in volume, but your tone gets harsher as you continue.

“So I can hope that maybe you’ll come to your senses and fucking realize that I lo—”

The hand he had wrapped around your arm moves to the back of your neck before you can even say the word or finish your passionate rant. He promptly pulls you right to him, his deft lips quickly doing the much-needed apologizing in that moment. 

It’s feverish and assertive, seeming out of place in the cloud of desolation and melancholia…yet you don’t stop him. You don’t want to.

He knows you’ve needed this. Not the rushed, messy, convoluted kisses that come from your desperate fucking after a hard night or a close call, the ones that seem to happen almost by accident, by pure circumstance. There’s just always something missing…

Fervour. That’s what you feel now—that’s what you’ve wanted from him every single time he took control of you with ease for the night. You’re never able to make it back up to the manor either.

You shudder slightly when his hand moves to your jaw, gripping it firmly as he slides his mouth against yours consumingly, sucking your lips gently and teasing your tongue with his cautiously. You moan when he deepens the kiss further, letting his tongue fully overlap yours with a practiced versatility. It subdues you, inviting him to give and take as he pleases. 

Several whimpers fall against his lips as you stretch onto your toes to meet his height as best as you can, trying to get more even though he’s already giving you plenty. It’s pensive. Each movement thought out and executed with a purpose, something that you can feel has a very clear destination in his mind.

You let him maintain authority, let him kiss you with a force that could bruise if he didn’t soothe the pressure with his soft tongue occasionally, dipping it back into your mouth quickly after. Your taste seems insatiable to his starved soul.

It all draws you in further, and your hands find themselves grasping at his shoulders instinctually when a forceful hand snakes through your hair to gain better control of you.

Your mouth feels a little numb and swollen from the welcome force, and he pulls away hesitantly when he feels your soft touch finally rest at his collar delicately. He barely lets more than an inch get between your lips, and you can feel the reluctancy in his movements as he pulls back. 

You open your eyes slowly and see his sombre expression—more sombre than usual. The sorrow in his eyes and the agony on his brow is enough to force you to speak up first.

“I wish you told me months ago,” you whisper, lightly resting your forehead against his own as you wrap your arms around his neck, confident that he won’t pull away like he has before.

He looks longingly into your forgiving eyes, taking his hands and sliding them down to your hips in solace; an abrupt switch from from their dominant spot around your face. You understand the conflicts he has to live with. Most of them are caused by his vigilant habits in the night, yet you expected everything outside of that to still be easy for him. 

Unfortunately, trauma picks and chooses its victims at random.

You find yourself looking for words. Maybe for the moment you realized he was different, when he changed.  

“I wish it wasn’t so hard for you, Bruce.” You try to comfort him, provide some ease for his always anxious mind.

He squeezes your hip, silently reassuring you that it’ll be fine, that it won’t kill him.

“I wish it wasn’t so hard for you,” he retorts in an indignant tone, irritated with himself. 

He regrets all of it. Most of all, he regrets making you feel unloved. The nights where he used you as a release, when he would act like nothing happened, when he would unconsciously ignore you, and when he ultimately closed himself off in the end.

“It wasn’t fair. It was…selfish,” he finishes forcefully, taking a quick breath to regain some composure.

“I just don’t want you to be part of that life,” he admits tentatively. 

You can see he’s telling the truth. The way he doesn’t meet your gaze again. He does it to avoid the confrontation that comes with honesty.

You pause to take in his confession, closing your eyes for a moment with relief, but his tone is like a bullet to the heart. The dejected feeling of you possibly not wanting to be here with him in this moment.    

“‘That life’?…You mean your life?” you reason, sounding surprised with his absurd claim. 

You’d think that having done this religiously with him for a year would make him think otherwise, regardless of your acts together. You always showed up no matter the circumstances or emotions.

He pushes against your hips lightly, making some space between your bodies, and you shuffle back without hesitation. You let your arms fall away from his shoulders, and he does the same as you distance yourself.

“My life is your life,” he explains. “What happens to me affects you, why can’t you see that?” His face falls slightly. The realization of you not knowing you’re significant enough to be considered part of his life is…heartbreaking. 

There’s so much you could say to that.

You let the silence linger briefly. “Maybe I’d be able to see that if you weren’t afraid to be in the same room as me,” you say, voice quiet as you test your reasoning.

You don’t want to start a fight. You just want to understand. You want to know why.

You notice how he hesitates when around you, and not in a flattering or complimentary way. It’s avoidant, scared, and even worried. Worry of confrontation.

He takes a deep breath and wraps his arms around his stomach in comfort, carefully avoiding the fresh bandage. 

“I…I’m not…scared. I’m—” Batman doesn’t get scared from feelings, but maybe Bruce Wayne does.

“You’re unsure,” you finish for him. His eyes meet yours with a sense of hope that you’re understanding.

“I just…don’t know how to go about…all of this,” he motions between you with a flick of his hand. 

All of this…meaning—

“Love?” you try, making it more of a rhetorical question.

He presses his lips together in surprise before offering a firm nod. He doesn’t trust himself to say it. It’s hard to wrap your head around. It couldn’t just be that, it had to be something more problematic? Complicated? 

But yet, it all makes sense because he’s him—he doesn’t necessarily do romance; there’s no time. You know that. You’ve seen how he is, nothing but a fleeting moment in the night to most, even to you. 

It all clicks, and you rub your face in relief and exasperation. You can’t blame him for it all. You can for some, of course, but a relationship needs communication from both. It can’t be a one-person effort, but that’s what it ended up being.

He was just trying to protect you. That’s all someone can really ask for, but the execution wasn’t right. He abandoned you emotionally to protect you physically, and that’s not the right balance.  

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth at the beginning? So I wouldn’t spend all this time thinking I was doing something wrong,” you pleaded, stepping closer to him again to pull an answer from his huddled form.

The closer you get, the higher you have to tilt your head to hold his gaze.

He looks right back, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know how to say it…I didn’t know if you felt that way. When I realized you did, I thought it was just…too late,” he admits, stuttering briefly at the end.

It was clearly hard for him, too. But was it not apparent that you were waiting? For him. For anything.

You look down, nodding your head in understanding. “I don’t think I could’ve made it any more obvious, but lust can be confused for love, so I understand.” You were serious, but some sarcasm slipped through at the end.

Lust is deadly; it will bait you, hook you, and then drag you under it’s pleasurable and irresistible cloud of euphoria, disguised as the domineering man in front of you.

“At least you know now,” he says, matching your tone. 

He straightens his posture and locks his cold stare onto yours momentarily, searching for something he still can’t seem to find. 

Giving up, he turns to collect each piece of armour you set aside, and he busy’s himself with meticulously putting it back in its rightful spot for tomorrow.

You watch him with surprise, but there’s no anger at his dismissal. You feel relieved. Relieved that you know. You don’t expect things to be normal right away, not with him. 

You know he’ll come around, but you can’t help but ask a prying question just to entertain your already validated thoughts. And to keep him talking. There’s still so much you want to know.

“So…” you start lightly. “You said you weren’t sure if I was interested at the beginning,” you say carefully.

He stops moving the instant he hears the curiosity in your tone. He turns back to you slowly, an amused expression on his face. Shit—

You hesitate when you catch his look, but continue cooly. “So, if you didn’t know…then why did you keep, uh…” You lose your words, too afraid to be so blunt and direct about your past endeavours.

It seems taboo to discuss it while not in the moment itself. Sometimes you wonder if it’s just a dream. Too good to be true.

He raises his brows knowingly as you trail off, entertained with your hesitation and embarrassment.

“Why did you— why did we continue…”

“Fucking?” he finishes for you bluntly, a small smile playing on his lips, yet it’s devoid of genuine humour. It screams danger.

He chuckles when you nod your head wordlessly. “Like you said, lust is confusing. You can never seem to get enough, and I don’t think I wanted to.” He pulls the sleeves of his tight-fitting shirt over his forearms, watching you carefully as you consider his words.

His tone was suddenly light, confident. He could feel that you were walking the fine line of giving in or leaving without another word. 

“I’m not trying to persuade you into doing anything, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” he clarifies softly when he sees your eyes dance across the floor rapidly.

You laugh lightly, glancing at him reluctantly. “I’m not, but you wouldn’t have to, anyway,”

That makes him narrow his gaze in question. 

You raise a brow in response. “What?”

He glances over his shoulder at a monitor, very obviously reading the time: 4:29am.

And you realize exactly what he’s doing. Why would time matter unless you were to suddenly become busy. Tonight was on the shorter end of time spent putting him back together, and you never fall asleep quickly or peacefully anyway…that’s if you were to attempt it or even make it that far.

You watch him speculatively, still mindful that he’s injured, and probably very, very sleep deprived at this point, even though you can never say for sure.

He doesn’t sleep much. You seem to be his biggest distraction.

He twists a dry strand of hair between his fingers as it’s brushed back from his face, black eyes full of self-assurance as he turns to you for what will be the last time tonight.

“You think we can make it back to the manor?” His relaxed yet serious tone startles you, making you consider the options quickly.

Hard and cold floor, small and cold desktop, small rolling chair—none are ideal, but you’ve made all work before…when he didn’t offer another option, mind you. It was never momentous enough to have taken place outside of the cave. But the manor is…farther. There’s a buffer you don’t think will be beneficial. 

Who fucking cares—

“Here seems to work just fine,” you quip nervously. You haven’t taken notice of how your legs have gotten…shaky. 

There’s a burning heat between your thighs, an ache that blazes bright from anticipation and just him. Just knowing what’s to come. It feels like you’ve done everything imaginable at this point, but that doesn’t lessen your excitement. 

He gives a small smirk that fades just as fast. “Figured you’d say that,” he finalizes. 

Stepping back to you with graceful movements, you’re chest-to-chest again in an instant. He glides a delicate finger up your neck, hooking it under your chin and tilting your gaze to his intimidating one.

“Tell me what you want.”

You desperately want to say ‘anything’, but you know he won’t settle for that. 

You get lost in your thoughts, thinking of the possibilities you can choose from, and he waits for your answer patiently.

“A week ago…when you came back with a torn rotator cuff in y-your shoulder—” you stumble through the sentence but never break from his studious eyes.

“You, uh, didn’t pay any mind to it even though you definitely should’ve, and you had me down against the desk,” your voice turns to a whisper as you recount the events—as vague as possible to save you the embarrassment of being too vulgar in, perhaps, an irreplaceable moment.

As soon as you finish, you swear you see a flame flicker in his eyes. The same one you feel grow stronger in your cunt at the same time. Your knees almost buckle from anticipation, and he can only make it worse from here.

“That’s…a good choice, even though it was kind of impersonal,” he ponders, clearly running through the events of that night.

He’s not wrong. He kept your chest pinned tightly to the surface of the frigid desk, taking you from behind. No hand-holding, no kissing, no eye-contact, no nothing. 

You went on to figure that it was better—easier for him that way. You never seemed to mind anyway.

“That’s nothing I can’t fix,” he mutters, finishing the thought; already set on an alternative for both of you.

Your brows pinch together, curious of what he means exactly. But you don’t have much time to think about it.

His hands quickly curve around your jaw, keeping you still as he swiftly interlocks your deprived lips again. It’s zealous and luring, pulling you even further under the crashing wave of temptation and craving.

The soft joining of your mouths makes your stomach jump with exhilaration and eagerness, clawing your hands into his hair with a gasp of bliss as he grabs your waist just as hard in response. You let out a soft sigh of relief, feeling brave enough to gently bite at his bottom lip as his warm, encompassing hands slide under your shirt.

He barely lets you break for air, delving back into your mouth just as fast as he left it to reposition. The intensity of the heavenly moment builds its tempo, and you find yourself pushing against his chest. Not to pull away, but to try and push him towards the cold, awaiting desk behind his wide shoulders.

You manage to get a single word out in between the consuming and now sloppy kisses he offers. “Bruce—”

He hums contently as he swallows your thoughts, connecting your tingling lips forcibly. He’s too fixated on the passion. He wants it to last forever, but there are more demanding impulses that will be tended to first.

“Bruce,” you gasp when you break apart again reluctantly. He notices the calm assertion in your voice, and only slows the onslaught of kisses enough to reply.

“I know,” he soothes your neediness, now delicately pressing his greedy lips to yours repeatedly in understanding. The heartfelt action controlled by nothing but spirited lust.

His hands glide back up to your jaw, cradling your face in comfort as you twirl the long strands of hair at his neck between your fingers. Heavy breaths cloud your already tangled thoughts, leaving him to take the lead again. 

He gives you one last intense taste of him, stroking his tongue teasingly over yours, firmly capturing your lips together in the process with a pleased moan. You’re almost chest-to-chest, a minute sliver of space keeping your bodies just distanced enough to not completely lose what little control both of you have left.

He’s taken note of how tight your thighs have been pressed together, and how your breaths are becoming shaky with each passing second he uses to dominate your mouth.

You’ve taken note of how his tactical pants, in fact, can’t hide his very prominent arousal for you, and how you can feel the warmth finally releasing from his exerted and thoroughly worked muscles. The heat seeps through his shirt and goes directly to your body, making you shudder when you feel the change in temperature.

You draw in a breath when he finally pulls away. His obsidian eyes wild with excitement and dominion. You’ve seen this look a lot, and you’re ready to hop on the desk without another word.

He floats his eyes down your body observationally, but you don’t notice. All of this is a lot slower than you’re used to. Well-paced. If it were any other night, you’d be on round two by now at least. You’d be whining with pleasure, shaking from release and overstimulation, dripping around his cock as he buries himself as deep as your cunt will allow, over and over until he simply feels better. 

He was always generous with what he gave you.

You press a hand against his chest again, and he moves this time. Taking a  long stride back, he tries to conceal an amused smile as you push him toward the desk. Your eyes light up when you see the knowing and teasing look on his face.

A quiet laugh rumbles against your hand. “This isn’t how it usually goes…” He smiles lightly.

You smile with him. “I never said it’s gonna stay this way,” you challenge, your eyes twinkling with mischief. 

You never take charge. You never dominate. He’s more well-versed with it, and you won’t dare to try to match his competence. 

The backs of his thighs bump the rounded edge of the desk, and your stomach jumps with elation when his index finger instantly hooks into the waistband of your pants, pulling you just a little closer.

But he leaves it there. He slides it side-to-side along the hem, gently caressing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach playfully. You look into his eyes as he casually continues the slow motions. 

Your eyes flick down to his hand instinctually, out of pure reflex, and you watch his finger disappear further as he smoothly twists his wrist, palm resting against your lower stomach momentarily before his shoulder shifts too…angling his hand to travel down. 

His fingers graze lower, creeping to a spot that so easily welcomes him. 

One of your hands grabs onto his shoulder, simultaneously steadying yourself with a gasp as you bring your faces closer again. He gives a fleeting, comforting kiss, not leaving much behind.

His towering height makes it easier for his hand to reach its destination all too quickly. And when a careful and precise finger slips in-between your folds, your eyes close in anticipation and with the thought of relief.

Your minor reaction makes him smirk. Thankfully, for him, you don’t see it.

It’s sad just how wet you already are, but it spurs him on. He let’s his fingers explore, alternating between rubbing you and slipping a single digit inside, only doing so to gather your arousal to rub across your clit smoothly. 

A quiet moan gets caught in your throat as he repeats that process a few times, building you up and teasing you onto the edge continuously. 

“Mm— please, f-fuck—” you whimper, fisting the shirt in your grip on his shoulder. 

You don’t need to finish that sentence for him to know exactly what you mean. He needs it, too. His tactical pants have become increasingly uncomfortable.

Your plea makes him apply more pressure to the slow strokes he gives your throbbing cunt. You all but drip onto the two fingers that glide over your aching clit and back to your slick entrance, occasionally giving you what you want. 

He pulls them slowly in and out of you, making sure you feel them nice and deep before he drags them against something that makes you pant with desperation. Your eyes remain shut, brows pulled together tightly as you focus on the sensation of his intent touches, but he watches your face appreciatively, analyzing your pleasure with each movement he makes.

A particularly harder jolt of his fingers up into you makes you choke, caught between a gasp and a whiny moan. That makes his eyes drop to where his hand disappears.

He hums in satisfaction. “Is that the spot?” he questions with a mocking tone, knowing full well what the answer would be. “I think it is…” 

You nod your head quickly, eyes reopening ever so slowly to meet his. 

His eyes are full with devilish aspirations, and your knees almost give out when he roughly thrusts his fingers back in again for a final time. You let out a small cry of bliss and dissatisfaction when he slips them out of you, wiping them off on his pants carelessly. 

You were decently wet before, and you are definitely abundantly wet now.

“I think you need to lie down.” He sounds concerned, but you know it’s just for show to make your heart pound harder.

He takes your hand from his shoulder, holding it securely as he shuffles your bodies around, putting you in his place and himself in yours. Now your thighs rest against the desk, and he crowds you against it.

“Lift your arms,” he says cooly, observing your dazed expression with care.

You raise them, and he pinches the hem of your shirt, delicately dragging it up your torso and over your head with caution. He tosses it on the chair off to the side.

Your eyes catch the mangled slash at the bottom of his shirt again, and you quickly reach for the thin material. 

He doesn’t question your intentions, letting you maneuver the thin fabric over the bandage, his chest, and extend onto your toes to pull it over his shoulders. He peels it from his arms, and your hands can’t help but wander across the firm muscles that stretch around his entire body. 

The power he holds within him—the Batman—is unparalleled to anything you’ve ever seen. It was terrifying. It was unbelievable, the things you’ve seen his body do. And he would continue to push his limits.

[freesia-writes]

The Bad Batch: Tech and Vel [Part 6]

A fun action/adventure/romance with Tech and an original character, set during the Clone Wars. Rated PG-13 for passion and peril. ;) And just a heads up -- so far, it's got about 27 parts, and I anticipate about 30-32. It kinda got away from me. ;)

Also, I did my best to keep a steady plot line and tried to think of all the potential plot holes or questions or whatnot, but ultimately, this was just an excuse to indulge in imagining a little romantic adventure for Tech. So forgive any inconsistencies or inaccuracies and enjoy the ride. ;)

(STORY STARTS BELOW THE PHOTO) Also, I'll publish the rest on Wattpad for those of you who want to read it all at once. But I probably won't finish it til the end of the month; want to see how Season 2 ends!

Vel was lounging on the bridge one day when she decided to go down to her quarters. As the door slid open, she noticed Tech on the opposite side, performing some incredibly procedural calisthenics in an open corner. At the whoosh of the door, Tech stood up, momentarily pausing his routine.

"Ah, excuse me," he said, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his brow, "I assumed you would be upstairs for a longer period of time." He bent to pick up his armor, wearing only his black base layer. "Sorry," she said, waving one hand in front of her dismissively, "Don't mind me, keep doing your thing." Pausing for a moment to discern between any possible self-consciousness at being observed and the importance of maintaining his fitness routine, Tech watched her walk to her bunk. Returning the armor to the ground near a crate, he moved slightly to place a tall cargo pile between himself and her before continuing.

Vel saw him drop down out of the corner of her eye and found herself unable to resist a surreptitious glance. Was he... hiding? She smirked, a mix of cynicism and a shocking bit of warmth, and turned down to her book. She read for a moment, listening halfheartedly to the various quiet rustling sounds and occasional grunts coming from the opposite corner.

Finally, she could resist no longer, her curiosity far outweighing her desire to read. She stowed the book and stood, moving sideways until she could see Tech through a gap in the cargo. He was swiftly moving back and forth in some strange crawling motion, holding his body in a rigid plank while bringing alternating knees up to his chest before flipping onto his back and performing a similarly complex routine. Entirely without her permission, she found herself noticing a surprising agility and strength she hadn't seen before. She marveled at the fluidity of his movement, not being familiar with this sort of exercise, when her unabashed assessment was interrupted by his awareness. "Unlike Wrecker, I do not enjoy being observed while exercising," Tech stated, pausing his movement and sitting up on his knees to look at her. "I can continue later."

"No, sorry," she said, wincing at her own obviousness, "I just..." Just what? She paused, hating the feeling of being exposed, but decided to admit her curiosity. "I just haven't seen anything like that before."

"Of course not," Tech replied, with a hint of pride in his voice, "It is an adaptation of Noghri combat forms, blended together to provide a challenge for every muscle group of the human body. Some may criticize its lack of bravado or showiness," he continued, and Vel mentally replaced the "some" with "Wrecker" as he spoke, "But it is highly effective when executed correctly." She found a small smile on her face as he rolled up his sleeves, adjusting his goggles and regarding her with patience. When she realized her expression, she quickly dropped the corners of her mouth to nonchalance. "It looks hard," was all she could say, lowering her eyes to his forearms, unremarkable yet indescribably pleasing to the eye. She followed them down to his hands, splayed on the tops of his thighs as he sat on his knees. He noticed her gaze, lifting a hand to the back of his neck for a quick rub that belied his discomfort. "Sorry," she said again, "I'll let you get back to it." But before she could decide her next move, their planetary arrival was announced. "Coming out of hyperspace," came the voice from the bridge, and Vel braced herself for the inevitable forward jolt. The ship lurched to a cruising speed and Kashyyyk came into view. The planet was impossibly green and dazzlingly blue, peppered with rich tones of brown and red. As they dropped low over the tree line, Vel pressed her face to the window, eyes wide. She had never seen such a place.

Canopies of trees stretched out as far as the eyes could see, interwoven with simple rope ladders that branched out like a spiderweb. Sparkling rivers flowed beneath, lined with reeds and bushes, weaving throughout the massive forest. The Marauder came to a smooth stop on a landing platform as Tech finished assembling his armor. Helmet under his arm, he moved toward the lift. 

He had seen her gaping at the scenery, and he understood her awe -- it was a fantastic ecosystem and unrivaled by most of the planets he had seen. It had been months of missions to Outer Rim deserts or greasy Core underworlds, and this was a disproportionately refreshing sight.

"Would you like to see Kashyyyk?" Tech asked, his hand hovering over the control panel for the lift. 

"What makes you think I haven't?" Vel replied, guarded and cocky by default.

"Your face," Tech answered bluntly, regarding her solemnly from his bespectacled helmet, "When we entered the atmosphere."

Vel laughed, caught off guard by his seemingly complete ignorance of her sarcasm. She felt herself let the walls down a little, surprised at his genuine honesty and intrigued by the invitation. "Sure," she shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant but feeling a growing sense of eagerness in her stomach. She joined him on the lift and the doors whooshed closed.

***

Their stay on Kashyyyk ended up stretching into days and then weeks as the team waited for their cargo to be ready. They coped with the extended stay in their own ways, from excessive exercise (Wrecker) to target practice with the locals (Crosshair). Tech found a local archive of the region, full of everything from mythology to botany, and set to work expanding and updating his own files.

Vel took some time to herself, meditating in the forest which was an entirely new experience. She tried to reach out to the Force but felt nothing but a dull ache. She strained to move a pebble, and it teetered onto its side after a valiant wobble. She let out a breath of frustration, flopping onto her back under the shady canopy of trees.

No wonder she had failed Jedi training. The only time she felt even remotely connected to the Force was in perfect moments like this, surrounded by lush nature that was an undeniably living, breathing entity on its own. When it came to the nuance, the precision, the rules, the complexity... She didn't have the focus. Once again, didn't have what it took.  Sunlight streamed through the boughs, casting little dancing reflections off of the bugs and dust that swirled through the air. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, folding her hands behind her head. She had no idea what she was doing. Was the plan to just cavort around the galaxy with this ragtag band of defective clones, like some kind of pathetic pit droid, fixing the ship and anything else that was needed? A crunch of leaves behind her startled her to her feet, and she swung a large stick toward the intruder without ever consciously picking it up. Holding it in front of her like a sword, she squinted as he stepped through the foliage. Even with both hands in the air, one of them still held a datapad, and Tech took another step closer.

"If you would be so kind as to postpone my impalement," he began, hands remaining in the air as he approached, waving the instrument, "I found something nearby that I thought would be interesting to you."

She lowered her arm, casting the stick off to the side. It landed among some bushes with a swish, "Sorry," she said, "Old habits. What did you find?" "There is a geological cache approximately two clicks east of here," he said, pulling his visor down as he continued to enter information for his scanner. "You told me about a part you used on the ion cannons of a cruiser that drew power from a particular mineral that is found on only two planets, of which this is one. I'm curious if the same process could be replicated on a smaller level to provide a boost to the hyperdrive when it begins to fail." "There's only one way to find out," Vel replied, brushing off her pants, "Lead the way."

***

The geological cache ended up being a fascinating wealth of history and information about hundreds of minerals and elements. Vel found herself feeling childishly giddy, an age-old love of learning awakening within her, a curiosity she hadn't felt since she was young. She was still young, technically, but her life experiences left her feeling a million years old, and the voracious delight of discovery had faded long ago.

But here, it was different. Somehow, being unable to do anything else and being forced into a world as captivating as Kashyyyk had brought back some old yearnings, and in the dusty third level of the geological cache, Vel was pressed close up against a glass case containing a variety of minerals and describing the possible reactions between them all.

"Tech!" she exclaimed, pressing a finger into the glass, "Look at this!" He sidled up behind her, raising his visor to examine the text she was indicating toward. After a quick skim of the words, his eyes squinted behind his goggles.

"I would have never guessed," he said simply, regarding both the glass case as well as Vel with a newfound curiosity. There was a different sense about her suddenly, a disarmingly genuine enthusiasm for the content of their exploration. It was a refreshing departure from her typically morose behavior and borderline annoying apathy, and he found himself intrigued.

"It says there is a botanical archive as well, a sister site that can be accessed here," Vel said, reading a map at the end of the exhibit. "Can we look?" she asked, turning to look at Tech and realizing her appearance. She stuffed down the girlish delight and set her mouth in a casual line, "I mean, it would be smart to check it out, since the Syren plant's fibers are worth a small fortune if we can extract the pheromones." Tech did not miss the sudden change of composure, but it didn't seem to invite conversation, so he simply nodded in agreement, entering new coordinates on the datapad and pointing to an exit.

***

As always, artists, please feel free to create any part of this story! <3

[clairethecutepup]

Cowboy Bebop: "Pudding Problems" (Pg. 2)

What happens, when Faye Valentine takes the following note from Angelica Pickles' book: breaking a man through the creation of pudding?

-------------

Feehhhh, coloring's starting to get tedious again... Why did everyone have to agree my stuff looks better in color than manga-styled black/white? I really need to do less panels and/or show less in each panel to color. I'm using Clip Studio Paint, in case you've got any suggestions to fix that. Speaking of coloring, there's not gonna be anything too dramatic/complex for this comic because it's meant more to be a "gag" one than anything. For Heaven's sake, it's about distress being induced by pudding, of all things...

I had a bit of trouble with finding angle-appropriate references at times, in regards to the inner sections of the ship, so please forgive any inaccuracies that may pop up. I drew that "engine-thing" behind a rear gate, in the "living room" area, as I couldn't find a reliable reference for the angle I was going for: Faye lying in front of the TV screen, on the couch. Interesting fact: the TV's dialogue was originally meant to be, "W-Wait, I can explain...!" but that kinda made it seem more like Faye was using a communication screen, than a viewer watching a show and chiming in her personal commentary. Speaking of her, she was hard to accurately draw, but I did my best...

Also, you've got Ed sleeping facedown, as I could totally see Ed sleeping that way; although, I'd also imagine with the legs bent upwards and thus hanging the feet over the knee area. I didn't draw my full-on imagined sleeping pose for Ed because I doubted the legs would actually be able to even be visible, with the panel edge likely cutting it off. Of course, wherever Ed seems to be, you'll likely find Ein-- or, as I've gathered, anyhow.

[ltcommanderandroid]

Post-Series Verses

Life is Finite - Canon This verse follows the canon of the films, in which Data receives the emotion chip, in which he sacrifices himself for his friends, in which Data is forced by Starfleet to serve as a living security system at Daystrom Station, in which Data is resurrected in a body shared with aspects of his siblings.

Notes on Portrayal: In this verse, Data's emotions are experienced suddenly, almost overwhelmingly. Though linked to previous experiences, there are also instances where they take him by surprise. He often reacts more strongly or in unexpected ways to stimuli, due to excitement or surprise regarding his own reaction to it. Also, please forgive any inaccuracies, it's been a long time since I saw the movies and I have only seen Picard season 3.

Life is What You Make of It - Canon-Divergent This verse follows canon up to the wedding of Riker and Troi, except for Data not receiving the emotion chip. In this, promoted to Commander, Data does succeed Riker as first officer aboard the Enterprise and, following Picard's eventual retirement, transfers to the Titan to serve as Riker's first officer there. As he never receives the emotion chip, instead, he must find emotion within himself, eventually realizing that not being able to feel as humans do does not mean that he can't feel at all.

Notes on Portrayal: In this verse, Data's emotions are the result of finally setting aside the idea that, to feel, he has to feel as humans do. Instead, he eventually comes to form pathways and associations that allow for an experience of emotion which may, in the entire universe, be unique to him. It started with one simple alteration in behavior - instead of saying and thinking "If I were not an android, I believe I would feel ____." he simply altered the thought pattern to "I believe that I feel ____." This also means that the transition into feeling was less abrupt and, therefore, he is more balanced than the canon version of himself.

Headcanons

[originalhybridloverfics]

You Are To This Day The Only Woman I Have Ever Loved - CH 2

A/N: I'm a little nervous about this chapter, still, I hope it's enjoyable.

I apologize for any mistakes or medical inaccuracies.

Serkan could not explain the sense of urgency, of panic creeping over him. His heart felt like it was going to beat right out his chest, his throat kept closing and he had this explicable fear flowing through his system and he could think of nothing but Eda.

She had to be okay. He had gotten to know her and God, she was amazing. She was fun, beautiful, talented, smart, funny, caring, forgiving, the list went on. She was so many things and he found he cared for her deeply. He couldn’t imagine something happening to her. Hadn’t she suffered enough?

He parked his car and jogged across the hospital parking lot and ran through the doors, and up to the counter, he was about to demand where Eda was when he heard Melek’s voice.

He whirled around, Melo had tears streaming down her eyes, her body shaking as she stood in front of Eda’s aunt who was in tears her arms wrapped around herself.

He noticed the blood on Melo's hand. His stomach turned violently with the knowledge it was Eda's blood.

“I don’t know how long she was there!” Melo cried. “If I have gotten there sooner, if I had just met her there-”

“You couldn’t have changed what happened,” Ceren was with them and her words were spoken softly. “Sometimes bad things just happen.”

Serkan moved away from the counter and walked closer to Eda’s family his heart in his throat.

“But why do they keep happening to Dada?!” Melo cried distressed. “This shouldn’t be happening. Dada doesn’t deserve this! And even if she makes it she could still lose the baby!”

“Baby?” Serkan’s voice shook, his heart thudding in his chest. “What baby!?”

Melo whirled around, her eyes widening at the sight of him. “Eniste?”

Despite Eda and Serkan not being together, she continued to call him that. Serkan would never admit it out loud but he liked it. She was just so happy and sweet and he liked her as a person.

“What baby? Where’s Eda?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“She’s with the doctors,” Ayfer answered. “They're doing everything they can for her and the baby.”

“She’s pregnant with my child?” Serkan asked but didn’t need the confirmation. Everything inside of him was screaming that he and Eda created that child together before he lost his memory.

“Oh, God,” Serkan groaned, he clutched at his heart as it pounded almost painfully against his ribs, he stumbled back, his feet feeling unsteady beneath him.

Melo acted quickly grabbing his arm to steady him and led him over to a chair, easing him into it.

"Abi," Engin appeared suddenly with Piril. Serkan hadn't even seen them.

Serkan stared off unseeingly not noticing Leyla and Erdem in the corner, somber. He couldn't see anyone.

“Serkan?” Ceren asked as she moved closer with Ayfer.

Serkan didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

Melo placed her hand on his shoulder gently, squeezing and his eyes snapped up to hers. They were wide with shock and fear. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“No,” Serkan’s voice shook. “No, I am not okay? How could she had not have said anything?”

“I don’t think she knew?” Melo confessed. “She’s been so stressed and so focused on taking care of the company and trying to get you to remember, dealing with Selin, she forgot to care for herself.”

Serkan ran a shaky hand through his hair. “None of this is right. This shouldn’t be happening. None of it.”

Serkan knew he cared for Eda but this feeling in his chest was saying it was more than that and now all he could see was her. S child in her arms with her dimples and her smile and her eyes. God, he wanted their child to be just like her.

Everything was slipping away from him right when he wanted to know everything about his lost year. Pieces of his old life were in his reach and he wanted nothing more than to put it all back together again.

Everything was so wrong. He could feel it in every bone in his body. He wishes it was him who was in danger right now, whose life was hanging in the balance. He rather Eda be unharmed and perfectly fine, healthy, nurturing their child.

Why couldn’t it have been him? Hadn’t she been through enough? Hadn’t he caused her enough pain?

How much more could one person endure?

It was two hours later when a doctor emerged from behind two double doors, walking toward Melo. “Mrs. Yildiz family.”

“Yes,” Ayfer said. “We are her family. Is she going to be okay?”

“I am Dr. Kaya. We are doing everything we can. We were able to stop the bleeding, we had to take her for emergency surgery for her open fracture. It was important to clean and stabilize the bone. The kind of fraction Mrs. Yildiz has can get infected easily but because of her pregnancy, we had to give her a not as effective antibiotic that won’t cause harm to the baby.”

“Baby?” Aydan gasped, grabbing a hold of her son’s arm. She and Seyfi along with Selin had shown up twenty minutes after he did.

Serkan felt Selin tensed beside him. “She’s pregnant?”

Serkan ignored everyone and focused on Dr. Kaya. “Does that mean she didn’t lose the baby?”

“I don’t know how it’s possible but no, she didn’t lose the baby. The bleeding that occurred was because the baby was in distress but both Eda and the baby are stable for now. I’m concerned about her head injury, she has some swelling on the brain, if it does not go down I’m afraid she will need to be taken into surgery again.”

“Can I see her?” Serkan asked.

“Serkan, I think it’s best we let Eda be with her family,” Selin interjected, placing a hand on his arm.

Serkan jerked his arm from beneath her fingers, shooting her a glare. “I need to see her.”

“Is she awake?” Ayfer interjected.

“No, and we’re not sure when she will wake. It’s all up to her.” Dr. Kaya relayed.

“Can I see her or not?” Serkan asked impatiently, choosing not to acknowledge his words. Eda would wake up. She had to. There was no other outcome that Serkan would accept.

Dr. Kaya looked at Ayfer. “Mrs. Yildiz?”

“It’s okay. He can see her first.” Ayfer nodded.

Dr. Kaya motioned Serkan to follow him.

Selin’s hand snapped out the second he moved away from her, her fingers digging into his wrist. “Serkan, you should let Ms.Yildiz see her first. She’s her family. We should go home.”

Serkan ripped his arm away. “If you want to go then go but you will be leaving without me.”

Selin watched as he walked away from her and toward Eda with no regard for how she felt. He didn’t even stop once to look back at her.

Hate simmered in her heart. She should feel remorse for hurting Eda and her unborn child but all she felt was failure. Failure to keep Serkan at her side and failure at getting Eda out of her life and away from Serkan.

Selin turned on her heel. She needed to find a way to end Eda once and for all, sever every connection the other woman had to Serkan once and for all.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Serkan wasn’t sure what he expected when he walked into the hospital but it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t Eda, laying in bed hooked up to monitors, her head wrapped in a bandage, her arm in a cast, her skin pale, the room around her void of her light, of the beautiful colorful essence that she excluded from her being effortlessly, offering hope to a troubled world.

He stepped forward slowly. His heart thudding in his chest. “Eda, I’m sorry but please, wake up.” his eyes drifted to her stomach and his hand moved before he registered it, landing softly on her stomach. It was mostly flat with a small curve, barely noticeable unless you knew what you were looking for. “We have so much to talk about. I don’t know if you knew or not but I think I can understand if you did and why you wouldn’t say anything.”

His other hand moved to her cheek. “I haven’t been the man you fell in love with. Or the one you lost but still you tried to bring him back, bring me back, and I pushed you away with cruelty and harsh words. I’m sorry.”

He paused, gathering his thought, his chest tight with a feeling he was beginning to understand. “I should have tried harder to remember. Hell, I should have tried period with you, I hated that everything was different from what I remembered so I ran from it and from you and the way you make me feel. It was a mistake. I know that so let me fix it. Just wake up when you’re ready and we will work this out. All of it. The company, the shares, the baby, you and me, all of it.”

Eda didn’t move, didn’t react, the readings on the monitors didn’t change and Serkan felt his world grow a little darker, he stepped back reluctantly and walked out of the room even though it was the last thing he wanted. Every step away from her felt wrong but her aunt was waiting. Her friends were waiting and in truth, he didn’t feel like he deserved to be at her side.

He needed to earn that right and since he been back he had done nothing to do that.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The hour grew late, Serkan had refused to leave the hospital throwing around his wealth and reputation to ensure he or Eda’s family didn’t have to leave when visiting hours were over.

His mother had gone home with Seyfi after making him promise to call when Eda wakes up. Layla and Erdem left, Layla assuring him she would take care of his schedule. Engin took Piril home to rest. Ceren and Melo fell asleep in the chairs in the waiting room. Ayfer was inside with Eda.

Serkan paced outside the door, feeling restless. Selin went to get coffee. She kept insisting they should go but he refused. Selin went as far as to bring up that he had to be at the office but he reminded her that Layla was taking care of it.

Like hell he was going to work when Eda was hurt, fighting for her life. No, this is where he needed to be. Everything inside of him was telling him he shouldn’t be anywhere else but at her side.

He selfishly wanted to be the first person she saw when she woke up and despite all that had happened, that he said, he wanted to be the one she asked for.

At one point, he finally just slid down to the floor, facing Eda’s door, praying that she would be fine.

Serkan wasn’t sure at what point he fell asleep but he was awoken by commotion.

His eyes snapped up to the sight of Ayfer being ushered out of Eda’s room and doctors and nurses rushing inside. Serkan jumped to his feet pushing his way inside and coming to a dead stop.

Eda was flatlining, he stumbled forward but was pulled back.

“Get off me!” he snapped. Trying to shrug the strong arm off of him. “Eda!”

The arms tightened and pulled him forcefully from the room and all he could hear was the long beep, never-ending, all he could see was the doctors working over Eda, her dark hair fanning out across the pillow.

It happened suddenly and without warning.

One moment he was standing in the doorway of Eda’s hospital room and the next it was like he was being transported to a time he didn’t remember, to a memory his brian had locked away from him.

He was talking at a college seminar and a beautiful dark-haired woman walked down the steps and into the light. He was intrigued instantly.

He was pulled into another memory, Eda marking his car, arguing with her, Eda handcuffing him.

His head felt like it was going to explode, there was this pressure behind his eyes and he closed them tightly, putting a hand to his head as memory after memory hit him.

Eda surprising him with her skills behind the wheel, the first time she called him a robot. Helping her through her panic attack on his plane, waking her up on the beach, and the way she smiled at him so sweetly. His idea for her to pretend to be his fake fiance. The first time she slapped him. The first time she kissed him.

God, he never told her but that kiss was unlike any kiss he ever had before. He was so angry at her for it because it shocked him. His world had turned on its axis.

Eda agreeing to his contract and wrongfully assuming it was because he wanted Selin back.

It was never about Selin.

The first time he picked her up, the first time he took her to his place and her clear love for animals, the first time she met Sirius.

He remembered the first time he slipped her flower engagement finger on her hand for the first time and how right it felt. How perfect it fit.

Their fake engagement, seeing her in that yellow dress for the first time. She had looked so perfect and he felt so drawn to her, the softness of her skin when he fixed the strap of her dress. Her pure delight at his magic trick. Their first dance. There was no need to dance as close as they did but he wanted to. He wanted to be as close to her as possible.

The first time they stargazed together and he pointed out Sirius's star. He remembered the way being around her made him feel that night. He felt peace and a sense of calmness he wasn’t used to.

He remembered being angry with her for getting close to him, he didn’t want to feel this way but he hated when she pulled away from him. He remembered coming to her house with Sirius for the first time.

He remembers them talking about Selin being jealous of her and God, everyone had to be jealous of Eda. She was an angel by some miracle that had fallen into his life.

He remembers riding with her in his car, the top-down, music playing from the radio, her dancing to the music singing along, her hair blowing in the wind, her smile wide and carefree. The happiness he felt in that moment just being with her.

The first time she suddenly lost consciousness and the fear he felt. It was such a strange trait about her and constantly worried him.

The first time he saw her in her swimwear, the irrational jealousy he felt, hearing that he wasn’t her type from Seyfi and then trying hard to subtly show her that he was.

The first time he prepared dinner with her.

It was something so simple and domestic but he thoroughly enjoyed himself. There was just something so easy being in Eda’s presence.

God, he remembered that white dress she wore to the dinner they had with Selin and Ferit, when he saw her in it for the first time, god, it was like all thoughts left him and there was just her. The most beautiful vision he ever saw in his life.

The fear that took over when he saw her slip into the pool when he was still under the impression he couldn’t swim, nothing else mattered only to learn that she was pretending not to be able to swim.

God, she really knew how to drive him crazy.

Their time in Antalya was some of his best memories and held a special place in his heart. He felt that trip had really brought them closer in a way he hadn’t been aware he was capable of.

He remembered opening up to her about his brother.

It was the first time he really felt like he could open up to someone about his brother’s death and how that grief was still with him even to this day.

Waking up to her snuggled against on the couch, the peace and happiness he felt, the way his heart reacted around her, trying to beat right out of his damn chest at her proximity.

The first time he played his guitar for her, the hug they shared outside, he felt like his chest was expanding with the warmth he felt. Her pure joy and elation when he gave her his guitar pick at the end of the night.

He knew he had feelings for her but after that night he knew it was more than that, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

He remembered how bad it felt when she was pulling away from him on his birthday. He remembered sitting down with Selin and hating every moment, he remembered sitting down with Eda at one of her small cafes and the surprise on her face. He remembered her gift. She gave him the world.

Little did she know she was his world.

He remembered accusing her of stealing.

It was stupid but he was trying to rationalize why she was avoiding him. He had never been more wrong.

The way he missed her in their time apart even when he was wrongfully angry with her for a betrayal she did not commit.

When they sat in the park together, discussing Selin and her jealousy of Eda.

He didn’t say it but there was not a single thing about Eda, Selin shouldn't be jealous of. Eda was unlike any woman he had ever known. And when she said he didn’t want her touching his soul, it was true but it was too late. She already did.

The regret he felt even before she brought proof that Kaan was behind it. The pain he felt watching her slip off her ring and place it in his hand.

The need he felt to fix things with her, needing her back.

All of this became so real to him. For him, it was no longer about their contract and more about wanting her in his life.

Finding her in the garden talking to flowers brought happiness to him that he wanted to hold onto.

He remembered handcuffing her and taking her up to one of his family's vacation homes, letting her vent her anger by throwing things, her astonishment that he was able to get them out of the cuffs the whole time.

He remembered arguing with her in the rain and the sight she made, clothes drenched, damp hair clinging to her, raindrops running down her skin, the fire in her eyes, when he pulled her to him. He wanted to take hold of her mouth with his own.

He wanted to taste her, wanted to feel her wet skin against his, wanted to bury his hand in the wet strands of her hair. He just wanted her. Everything she had to give, he wanted.

Waking up to her next to him in bed was more than he could say. She was always so cute when she first woke up.

Watching the video of her helping his mother broke through what walls he still had up. She was an angel in his life that he didn’t deserve.

It was surprising that all she wanted was a simple apology.

Nothing felt more right than slipping her ring back on her finger. He wanted it there always.

Then Selin had to come in and give him the panic of his life by speeding up the time for her wedding and cutting his time with Eda short.

He wanted her with him all the time.

Seeing Eda try on wedding dresses that were so her, she was so beautiful, so original. She was going to be the perfect bride one day.

He remembered first hearing about her parent's death, the cause for her claustrophobia, and wrapping his arms around her, allowing her to cry on his shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to help her with her phobia the way she was helping his mom.

Sometimes he didn’t understand her, she was so talented and beautiful and smart so why couldn’t she see that it was never about Selin. He never cared that Selin was getting married, it had always been about her shares. Why was she unable to see he only had eyes for her?

He remembered Selin asking him to choose and it was an impossible notion to him because it was never a choice. It was always going to be Eda. His heart knew no other answer.

He couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to her and he needed her to stay but he didn’t know how to put it into words.

He remembered panicking about her leaving his life to the point it made him sick, that night she took care of him was one of the best nights of his life.

He was kidding himself thinking he could let her go. He had never felt freer than when he finally told her he was in love with her. A weight lifted off his chest when he kissed her and the looked in her eyes after had his heart soaring.

He remembered the first time they went to their cafe and the peace and the happiness he felt there with her.

He remembered, sneaking around because they hadn’t told anyone they were together and were avoiding his mother and her aunt and their disapproval.

He remembered talking to Selin about his feelings for Eda, Selin telling him she always dreamed he would be the way he was with Eda with her, he remembers her accepting that while she loved him he did not feel the same.

Or at least at the time, he believed she had accepted he was in love with Eda and moved on with her life.

He remembered cooking dinner with Eda, watching the stars, cuddling on the couch, he remembered giving her his gift. Her star and how much she loved it. The joy and happiness that filled his heart made him feel like anything was possible.

He remembered the way Eda looked on Selin’s wedding day. She completely outshines the bride, he hated that he couldn’t touch her, hug her, kiss her. It was a crime.

He remembered the jealousy he felt when Efe showed up.

He wanted to keep Eda all to himself but he also wanted to tell everyone about them. He didn’t want to have to hide how he felt about her when his feelings for her were the truest thing he has ever felt in his life.

He remembered how free it felt when everyone did know.

He remembered buying a house in Italy and making plans to opening up a branch there.

He wanted to follow her to Italy. He wanted her to follow her dreams and he wanted to support her, he wanted to share in her success and joy. He wanted her to have everything she wanted in life and he wanted that life to be with him.

He wanted to just leave with her. It didn’t matter where they went as long as they were together. He wanted to run away with her and leave everything but their love behind.

He remembered their first time together and how perfect it felt.

They were connected in every way imaginable and he couldn’t even think about ever being apart from her.

He remembered telling her about the house, he bought and his intention to go with her to Italy. She was so happy and it made him happy.

This was what love was feeling joy at someone else's happiness and giving without wanting anything in return.

He remembered his father blowing up his world when he revealed he had a part to play in Eda’s parent's death. The truth tore Serkan apart, shattering him into pieces.

He saw his life with Eda, all his plans for their future slipping through his fingers and there was nothing. Absolutely, nothing he could do to change it.

He couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t fix his father’s mistakes.

His father ruined every hope and dream he had for his future with Eda.

He remembered coming to the decision to end their relationship to protect her. It was the hardest thing he had to do and he hated the pain he caused her but at the time he was under the belief that he was doing right by her.

If she were to find out the truth he would only be a constant reminder of all that she lost. She would never heal or move on and be happy and that couldn’t happen. Her happiness was more important than his own.

It was hell being apart from her and watching her grow close with Efe.

He remembered the fear he felt when he found her unconscious in the ditch during the company retreat. When she woke up without remembering their break-up it was a short reprieve from the hell his father had forced on him until she remembered.

Going back to his vacation home was a new kind of hell, constantly hit with the reminder of their first time there together. The first time they made love, cuddling together in bed afterward, having breakfast together, the way she looks in his shirt. It was one of the happiest days of his life.

He remembered when Eda asked him to tell her his happiest day. There wasn’t enough time for that. Every day spent with her was his happiest day. When she asked him to tell her about his saddest day, he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t break her the way the truth broke him.

He remembered dancing with her on Piril’s birthday. The desire in her eyes as they danced close, the need he felt to be even closer.

He remembered when he thought she was pregnant. There was a fear and a sense of responsibility, and panic. Seeing Eda, holding little Serkan though was a sweet sight. She was such a natural. She was going to be an amazing mother but he wasn’t ready for it then.

They weren’t even together, currently and she was pregnant. How could he ask her to build a family with him when he destroyed hers? How would he tell his children that their grandfather from his side of the family is why their mother grew up without her parents, why they would never meet their other grandparents.

He remembered how much she believed him after the roof collapsed. She believed in him more than he believed in himself.

He remembered not understanding what her problem was with Selin, why she was so threatened by her. Selin meant nothing. He never loved her as to where she was concerned she meant everything to him.

He never loved anyone the way he loved her and he was sure he would never again.

He remembered her being the cause for his mother finally being able to go outside again. She gave him a miracle and she did it just to be her. To help. She was too good for him and his family didn’t deserve her.

He remembered the fear that she would start to move on from him. That she would fall in love with someone else.

He remembered finally coming to the decision to tell her the truth and let her make the decision about him.

He remembered getting drunk and only wanting Eda, watching her sleep the next morning and he remembered Selin ruining everything by telling Eda the truth about her parent's death.

Her pain and tears tore into his soul. He hated that she questioned if he ever really loved her. He will always love her with every nerve, every cell, and molecule, in his body.

He remembered the mistake he made in not telling her the truth. He broke her trust.

He remembered tearing into Selin for interfering in matters that did not concern her, for constantly involving herself in his personal life. He remembered telling her that he never loved her and was in love with Eda.

He remembered not even reading Eda's contract before signing, he could have been signing everything over to her and he wouldn’t have cared as long as she remained in his life, as long as she forgave him.

He remembered when she removed her ring and had him do the same. It had gone against everything inside of him. That ring had become a part of who he was.

The rules of her contract were ridiculous to him but he would follow them as much as he could to keep her with him.

He remembered seeing her model that dress for his mother's foundation and God, she almost stopped his heart she was so fucking gorgeous and perfect.

He remembered asking her to meet him and waiting for her, the ache in his chest when she never showed but he was unwilling to give up on her.

He remembered his jealousy about her spending time with the photographer and warning the man away from her. Eda was a taken woman and he had no intentions of giving her up.

He remembered finding out the switch of address in the invitation he had given her and that Eda had waited for him as he waited for her. He had his suspicions of who tampered with the invitation.

He remembered trying to help her with her phobia as they rode an elevator together, holding her close, breathing her in, feeling her heart against his, kissing her. Everything had fallen away and it was just the two of them.

He remembered finding out about Eda knowing about Ferfit, Selin, and Kaan’s involvement in their contract being released to the public. He couldn’t even bring himself to be mad at her for keeping it from him.

He remembered testing if she was jealous of him.

He remembered when they did pottery together, his arms around her, breathing in her neck, wanting to just stay like that forever if it meant she would always allow him this close.

He remembered about their competition about Bulga being into him.

Serkan wasn’t an idiot he knew the woman was attracted to him but he didn’t care. She had no chance. He only wanted one woman and that woman was Eda Yildiz. There was absolutely no reason for his fairy girl to be jealous.

He remembered intentionally seducing her when he spoke to her of feeling her tremble when she said his name, the desire in her eyes, the way she lost her breath, and how she said his name. Almost sounding like a plea. It was everything.

He remembered her aunt's birthday, ice skating, the way her body heated when he spoke french to her, laughing and practically dancing on the ice, snow falling around them.

He remembered trying to soothe her anger when her grandmother came to the company. He called her Eda Bolat.

It had such an amazing ring to it. Perfect. He wanted her to be a Bolat. He wanted her to be his wife.

He remembered the awful feeling of Eda keeping him at a distance and letting him go like he was so easily replaceable in her life. She meant everything to him. Didn’t she feel the same about him but if she did why was it so easy for her to let him go?

He remembered Eda staying over, walking in on her in the bath and needing to imprint the moment on his memory, Eda talking to that stupid statue Bulga gave him. He tried not to focus on her because he was uncertain if he would be able to keep his hands off her. He brought her breakfast in bed because she deserved that. She deserved to be treated like the Queen that she is.

He remembered having a special bracelet made for her after hearing the story of the bracelet she lost when she was a little girl, the smile on her face when she opened the present was more than he could’ve hoped for only made better when she embraced him.

After he was arrested and released her avoidance of him was so painful, made worse when she told him they could not be together and he wondered was this how she felt when he ended things between them? It was like his soul was poisoned and slowly dying.

He couldn’t take seeing her with Prince Seyman, right after. But he wasn’t the only one who was jealous so was she and it all came to a boiling point when they confessed to it.

There was nothing about that night he didn’t remember, each stating their claim on the other, practically ripping each other clothes off and finding themselves nearly fucking against the bookshelf before finding a bed and making love to each other's bodies, caressing and worshipping. Kisses that had toes curling and desire becoming their only concern, finding relief in each other.

He woke up alone and half thought he had dreamed their night of passionate sex but then there was the knocked-over lamp, tangled sheets, and her scent in the air. That scent that never failed to do things to him.

He remembered the astonishment when she surprised him on his plane and the joy when she proposed to him. He said yes, of course, it was the only answer he could give, it was all he ever wanted. He remembered discussing Paris right after and all the things he wanted to do with her but he seriously doubts that if they ever made it to Paris they would leave their hotel room.

He remembered playing the piano for her and proposing to her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, he wanted to give everything and more and he wanted to be able to tell his children how much their father loves their mother.

He remembered their real engagement party and how chaotic it was but he was happy to have their marriage accepted by their family. The fear and anger he felt when that prince bastard thought he could kidnap her, the feel of her in his arms after was the only thing that could calm him.

He remembered the awful misunderstanding about postponing the wedding, believing Eda was having second thoughts about building a life with him.

He remembered their time in Spanca, it was the best trip he had since their first trip together. Eda joining him in the tub was the best way to end his night, followed by amazing shower sex and making love to her in silk sheets, whispering sweet words and I love you’s.

He remembered walking into her dressing room the day of their wedding. She was standing in front of the mirror in a silk robe. He came there to tell her he had to go and sign some papers but he would be back. He made a promise that he would always fall in love with her.

He never should have left that day. He should have insisted on signing the documents electronically. He should have married her that day and taken her to Paris for their honeymoon.

He should have taken her away just the two of them for months on end. They should have made memories together and traveled the world, and practice building their family. God, there were so many things they should have done if only he had chosen differently.

If only he hadn’t put work first before what was supposed to be the start of their new life together.

He remembered when the plane went down, he was on his way back home to her. He was eager to marry her. He wanted to be able to wake up next to her and call her his wife. He remembered the fear and the panic as the plane lost control and was heading for the ocean.

The panic that the life he dreamt of was going to be ripped away from him.

The fear wasn’t for himself. It was for Eda. Never being able to see her again, feel her touch, the warmth of her skin, her sweet smell, the sound of her voice.

The pain she would feel if he were to die. He never wanted the memory of him to haunt her. He wanted her happy living her best life. He wanted her to take the world by storm and do what she did for him. Bless the world with all the color she could and ultimately her goodness and beauty and intelligence. He wanted nothing holding her back not even the loss of him.

And now remembering everything, their love, her and then remembering how terrible he was to her when he first came back. He was cruel and mean and harsh and he wanted to kick his own ass.

He caused Eda pain, he was the cause of her tears, he pushed her away and made her feel less than she was. He belittled their story and the importance she was to him.

What the hell was wrong with him? He lost his memory but he was not this person to her not even when they first met.

And now she was laying in a hospital bed fighting for her life and the life of their child, believing he didn’t love her.

She was wrong. He loved her. He kept his promise he loved her without his memories and now with them, he still loved her. He loved her in a way he didn’t know was possible.

If she didn’t make it, if their child didn’t make it, he wouldn’t be able to go on. He could never forgive himself. This was all his fault.

Serkan stumbled back crashing against the wall, his legs giving out on him, tears streamed down his face.

His heart hurt and he couldn’t breathe.

“Serkan!” He felt hands on his face but he couldn’t see anything beyond the image of Eda fighting for her life.

“Eda,” he whispered hoarsely. “Eda, I need Eda.”

“Serkan, I can’t make out what you are saying. Calm down. Everything is going to be okay.”

“No, I won’t.” Serkan dug his palm into his eyes and roughly wiped his tears away. “Nothing is going to be okay again if she’s not.”

Serkan looked up at Selin and his expression darkened. “Don’t touch me.”

Suddenly the commotion in Eda’s room died down and Dr. Kaya stepped out.

Serkan pushed to his feet moving away from Selin. Melo and Ayfer were already there. “Eda?” Serkan's voice was desperate. “Is she okay? Is the baby?”

“It’s too early to tell. We’re not sure exactly what happened. It’s possible she had a bad reaction to the medicine she was given. We need to run more test to be certain? We don’t know what damage was done to her or the baby.”

“Do it. Do whatever you have to,” Serkan said and the doctor nodded.

Selin seethed inside. She needed this to be done. Eda was ruining everything and now she was fucking pregnant with Serkan’s child. That should be her. Eda had continuously taken everything from her from the day Serkan introduced her as the love of his life.

She stoled Serkan from her. He was her’s. He had been for years. She broke up with him because he wouldn’t share his life with her. She agreed to marry Ferit to show Serkan what he lost but no, he had to go and find Eda and the best version of himself.

He was everything she wanted when he was with Eda, kind, caring, thoughtful, affectionate, loving but with her, he was a passionless man who only looked at her through calculating eyes. Not eyes of love and admiration.

She took Aydan from her, a woman who once believed she was the perfect woman to marry her son and become her daughter-in-law.

Even Piril had become good friends with Eda and publically supported her relationship with Serkan.

And now Eda was carrying Serkan’s child.

She should be the mother of his child. She deserved to have everything she ever wanted. The effort she put into her job, her relationship with Serkan, the need to be perfect. Yes, she deserved to be the one to have Serkan’s affections and his child. She deserved the picture-perfect life they could have together if given the chance.

If only Eda would stop fighting and die already. Just how many times did she have to try and kill her before it took? Perhaps the third time would be the charm.

She would not lose Serkan to her again. She refused to watch them being together.

She would not watch Serkan have a family, building the life she always wanted with Eda when she has been here all along.

“If you would like a moment with her before we take her to run test, you only have a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Serkan pushed into the room, letting it shut behind him.

He hated the sight of Eda pale and looking weak. She appeared to be just sleeping but he knew better, her arm was in a cast from surgery. There was a bandage on her head, the monitors she was hooked up to were steadily beeping.

He moved forward, carefully sitting beside her on the edge of her bed. He clasped her hand in both of his. Her skin was slightly cold from the chill in the hospital and he rubbed it to try and bring her warmth.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered. “I hate seeing you like this, you should be laughing and smiling and gracing everyone lucky to be near you with your goodness not laying in the hospital for reasons out of your control. I know things haven’t been easy for you and you have been unhappy but I promise that’s over now. You fought for me and now it’s time for you to fight for yourself and for our baby. Can you do that for me, Eda? If you can I promise you everything is going to be okay.”

Her fingers curled around his, tightening, his eyes snapped to her face. “Eda,”

“Serkan,” her eyes fluttered open and she smiled softly at him. “You’re here.”

Her eyes were slightly glassy and he was sure she was a little loopy from the medication. She was cute when she first woke up, always a little disoriented.

He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek and Eda leaned into his touch, her smile soft and tender. She shut her eyes, savoring the soft touch of his hand against her skin.

“I’m here, baby, and I’m not going anywhere.” Serkan lifted her hand and held it to his own cheek.

“Promise?” She asked, having trouble keeping her eyes open.

“I promise.” He said softly.

“Promise you won’t break any more promises,” Eda whispered.

Her words were soft but they felt sharp like a knife cutting into his heart. He turned his head and kissed her palm. “I will never break another promise to you. I rather die than break any more promises.”

Eda smiled her eyes drifting shut again.

A few minutes later a nurse came and took her for tests. ‘

Serkan waited outside the room for Eda to be brought back. Selin returned but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with her yet. She wasn’t what mattered.

[smolbeandrabbles]

This Is What You Came For - Nolan Sorrento x Reader (Ready Player One)

@mandy23b​ @wltz-bby @happyskywhale #mendotagsquad

GIF Credit: X

Nolan Sorrento + 29 - “How is my wife more badass than me?” Requested by @purebloodwitch​ Author’s Note: Alright! Second to last 100 Sentence Challenge request! We really are almost there now! 🙏😁 This is a Ready Player One AU. You’ll figure out the AU as you read 😉 I made... some Tron references in this! I don’t think enough to warrant you having needed to see it-!  😁 Maybe you’ll want to look up what exactly a Light Cycle is. (Specifically how you use one in Tron: Legacy) Also I know that the Cycle would technically be in her OASIS inventory but I really like the idea of her just carrying the stick around strapped to her belt or thigh or something to use it. So ignore that inaccuracy!

Disclaimer: AU / Neither RPO or Tron has anything to do with me. / gif not mine / lyrics not mine / References to Lacero

Premise: With the final Key of the OASIS up for grabs, and IOI certain that it will be theirs - you’ve become unnecessary. When it all goes wrong, there’s only one Sixer that can step up to the plate...

Words: 4948

Warnings: AU / Swearing

_______ Baby, this is what you came for Lightning strikes every time she moves Yeah Baby, this is what you came for Lightning strikes every time she moves And everybody's watching her But she's looking at you, We go fast with the game we play Who knows why it's gotta be this way We say nothing more than we need I say "your place" when we leave Baby, this is what you came for Lightning strikes every time she moves And everybody's watching her But she's looking at you --- Yes, I am gonna win, And I’ll light the fuse, And I’ll never lose And I choose to survive, Whatever it takes You won’t pull ahead, I’ll keep up the pace And I’ll reveal my strength to the whole human race Yes I am prepared to stay alive And I won’t forgive, vengeance is mine And I won’t give in because I choose to thrive Yeah, I’m gonna win! Race, It’s a race But I’m gonna win Yes, I’m gonna win 

---

You weren’t supposed to be here. In fact you weren’t even supposed to be on standby near IOI plaza. You were supposed to be at home - a simple spectator to the final challenge. Today was, of course, the day that IOI claimed the third key. Your husband, the OASIS for himself. Buuuut, as usual with Nolan, it had to be done the hard way - and everything appeared to be going terribly.

It wasn’t so hard to get your motorcycle from point A to point B and before you knew it you were hurrying towards the War Room. You heard the whispers and murmurs get steadily louder as you rushed from room to room; but especially as you ran the walkways over the Oologists. Y/N’s here! Y/N’s here! Y/N’s here! Yeah - everyone knew what that meant.

“Y/N! Ms.Sorrento, I-!” His assistant caught you as soon as you flung the doors to the correct floor open. “Paul, now is not the time to tell me what Nolan does or doesn’t want me to do. It looks like he needs me and, regardless of that, I think the sixers need help.” Several of them stood to attention as you clambered up on one of the platforms ready to strap yourself in. Good kids that respected you. Well, that came with the territory, you had spent time training a few of the best here too. Michael, their drill instructor and another guy you liked plenty, rushed over to perform final checks and run down exactly what was happening with you, he knew this was serious too. “Shall I inform him you’re here!?” Paul seemed to be halfway to the door already, “Nah, he’ll figure out soon enough!” You gave Michael a fist bump as you pulled on your gloves. “Andrew up there?” Nolan’s head of security seemed pretty important to keep around right now. “Uh… I don’t know I-” “Don’t worry, just make sure he is.” You took a breath regarding your visor for a moment. Okay – time to teach these kids a thing or two, again.

You were something of a marvel within the OASIS yourself - though you weren’t about to brag about it. IOI’s secret weapon, and boy did they desperately need you right now. F’Nale, but with covert OASIS based operations. And you were very alike; you understood why Nolan trusted her as much as he did you. An “official” I-R0k; although you would never like the comparison, considering you could trust him about as far as you could throw him, and didn’t understand why Nolan had so much faith. You two didn’t get on, which is why you’d been left out of a lot of this key stuff. For this to run smoothly Nolan had to keep the two of you from clashing, and I-R0K was the one getting paid for things you would consider less than legal. Except you had two keys, and they ought to remember that. Besides, it looked like his faith was going well...

You glanced up to Nolan’s office with a gentle sigh as you slipped on your visor to log in. Am I going to have to rescue you again, husband dearest? Much like him you didn’t wear your wedding ring - his in a box in the left pocket of his jacket ‘over my heart, where it matters’ is what Nolan always said. Yours on a chain around your neck, which you would often kiss for good luck, as you did now. The familiar start up screen greeted you with those five letters you knew all too well; before presenting you with a host of IOI portal options. Your flashed smile was confident as you stepped towards one.

Sector 14, Anoraks Castle, Planet Doom

 *** You knew what you were as much as everyone else did. Nolan’s last line of defence. IOI’s secret weapon. Everyone knew, if they didn’t already, that it was serious when you took to the War Room floor and suited up. You would never call yourself a Gunter and you certainly weren’t a Sixer in the traditional sense, you enjoyed your time in the OASIS sure – and you were probably in it a little too much for Nolan’s liking, but that made you perfect. You knew what you were doing, and you weren’t restricted. For one thing, your Avatar still retained her original name. Today you’d changed into your battle uniform, but usually you could blend freely with everyone else. Working for him sure, but unlike the Sixers you were invisible. Before you’d met Nolan Sorrento you’d been a stuntwoman – when movie making still existed. It didn’t make the transition to becoming a fitness instructor that hard, and eventually that led to becoming a personal trainer for the elite (no one else was paying for such a thing these days). Nolan wasn’t one of these people, Nolan was someone whose form you’d commented on once or twice to help – and also a man who infuriatingly thought he knew everything. He’d in no way been your favourite person, the kinda rich corporate asshole that thought his money could buy him everything. But he liked your attitude and soon enough you realised that Nolan was only pretending not to listen to you. You warmed to him, and he you – to the point you knew he wasn’t kicking around your gym just for his workouts. You got hired as his trainer, and then promptly dropped as you started dating. Nolan wasn’t one for dating people he hired, because he liked to avoid scandal, which is exactly why you weren’t an official IOI employee. But he was as married to his job as he was to you, so, it had to bleed into your life somewhere. Truth was when it came to your relationship you were firmly in the drivers’ seat; and Nolan Sorrento needed you. Badly. Possibly none more so than he did now. You’d spent this morning at home – wishing him good luck before he left and letting him know you’d be on standby. Nolan had flashed a confident smile, and told you you didn’t need to be. “We have that… Orb of Osuvox thing, you can take the day off.” You were pleased he was at least pronouncing it correctly, “Okay. But with two keys and being arguably the best Sixer you have-” He crossed the room and kissed your forehead, “Y/N. That’s exactly why you need to stay…” He took your hands in his, touching his head to yours, “If I keep you safe here, then I know if things start going wrong, we still have a chance.” “Babe…” You pulled back, “Am I not your chance?” “We have this.” His blue eyes flashed in over-confidence (Which was correct in hindsight!) “Relax. Watch it here instead. You’ve done your part.” You tipped your head, before pulling him to you fiercely by his shirt collar for a fiery kiss – you’d have removed it, if you didn’t know that he had to go. “Finish it.” He blinked hard and swallowed harder, to Nolan that felt like a promise. Like the and hurry back was lingering unsaid on your lips. “I… I will.” Only that was before you’d watched that level 99 magic artifact implode on him, and you’d reached for your motorcycle keys then. No matter what Nolan said; you were always going to be on standby for him, you would step in if necessary, no matter the cost. The only thing that kept you on the couch for any longer than that was watching the appearance of Mechagodzilla. Now there was a movie Nolan had you watching 1000 times and yet still waxed lyrical about. How excited he was to tell you he’d built one in the OASIS. You had gifted him with a miniature figurine of it for his desk, and there it sat, his pride and joy. It always made you smile when you saw it. But even his faithful mechanical monster wasn’t helping him this time. And as you watched that explode you sprung from the couch. “SHIT!” Did that mean Nolan would have zeroed? No, no, no, no! That shouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t be happening! You snapped the viewing screen off and sprinted to the garage – very nearly cursing yourself. You should have gone with him; you should have pushed Nolan, made it clear he needed you for moral support and no wasn’t an option – then you’d have been at HQ right now. Hell, you should have BEEN on that field right now, you could have gone from here - but what you really needed was IOI intel, portals, and access to their inventory. The one thing that gave you pause before you started your bike ignition was the vibration of your phone in your pocket, you pulled it out; ‘He needs you.’ was all it said – hastily written by his assistant, you pocketed it again and took a deep breath. Hand stilled for a moment over the gold band pressed against your chest under your shirt. “Yeah… No shit.” You always felt at home on bikes – and felt that it was always a quicker way to navigate through the city. You’d get to IOI Plaza quicker than you ever would in a car at any rate. Your OASIS vehicle of choice was a Light Cycle – Tron was one of, if not your all-time, favourite 80s Pop Culture movie. Although your current mod meant you had a version closer to the type in Legacy, a little easier to carry around and extremely fun to mount. You’d always flashed Nolan a grin and referred to your bike as ‘an ACTUAL gold piece of 80s media’ only for him to scoff at you. But yours had won you that first key before anyone else in IOI had, and you got to waltz into his board meeting and practically demand to be employed. (Unsurprisingly, Nolan didn’t really want you involved. Oh, until you proved you could do it!) The Light Cycle games were also ever popular in the OASIS, and you were the current reigning champion. Those had cemented your place in the OASIS, rather than your role as an IOI agent – it was unsurprising that everyone assumed you were a gunter. Many had tried to beat you, and all had failed – now it was time to put all those skills to a different kind of test. Hopefully you could win this one too. Nolan was counting on it.

*** Your avatar materialised on just the right side of the battle. Maybe a little too close to danger, though. You took a couple of steps back from the shattered bridge, giving only an obliging glance to the lava before turning to the castle; the real fight was in here. “Taking the bridge out isn’t a bad idea… I suppose…” – It was likely the only credit you would give I-R0K. This particular part of the planet looked like more of a winter scene than the rest of it. And not from any cheery Christmas movie, you thought, much more like the Day After Tomorrow. The wind whipped your avatar’s hair around and left a distinct chill on your VR gear; you shivered against the cold involuntarily before you broke into a run, hoping you weren’t too late. You had highly modified your avatars coding, twice, for these exactly moments. Within seconds you deployed her fairy-like wings. You couldn’t remember exactly when you’d last used them practically, rather than for extra show. But if ever there was a time, it was now. Beneath what you could hear from the OASIS itself was the nearly comforting noise of the war room and the murmur rippled – this was serious business. You could leave nothing to chance. The sound of real fighting echoed off the ice as you kept running, letting you wings vibrate against the cold air to give her lift, hopefully this would work! *** At first Parzival wasn’t sure what exactly had hit him, only that his right hand side had taken the brunt of the force. Luckily not enough to take out his armour quite yet. Looking up, he faced an avatar he’d never seen before skidding across the ice to a stop, whereupon she used her wings to right herself. Those must have been coded by the person to whom she belonged; he’d never seen a mod like that. He suddenly found himself with a sense of dread; dressed in a black leather jacket reminiscent of Sorrento’s own, underneath was a T-Shirt emblazoned in lights: IOI-6whatever-her-number-was. A Sixer?! But with an avatar like that she wasn’t just a regular one. He stood shakily, eyes flicking back to Sorrento – who looked more than a little surprised that she’d just joined the fight. Parzival smiled; Nolan was off guard – now was his chance. Z got just two paces – albeit at a very good run – before you were back in front of him. Every step he took you mirrored; wings stretched out defensively. These might have been kids, but you weren’t opposed to getting up in his face. Your eyes glittered in a way that made the colour seem unnatural (your favourite, if he was wondering), and Parzival was forced to take a slight step back. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch him.” You were more than happy to take the space he’d conceded. “Fine. I’ll just take both of you!” You had to give him credit, almost admired the attitude, eyes narrowed. Parzival wasn’t about to back down without a fight; hell, you might even find this one enjoyable. “You sure about that when you can just walk away now – it might be less painful for you.” “This is my world – and I’ll protect it from IOI and HIM by any means necessarily!” You sighed, with a shrug, “Suit yourself-!” There was just no way around you. Parzival realised he’d have to go through you and he wasn’t sure how many more of these painful hits he could take. You were highly trained and knew what you were doing – it raised so many questions as to why he’d never met you before. “Y-Y/N!” “Save it!” You didn’t even turn to Nolan’s avatar as you snapped, holding your hand up to silence him, give this kid an inch he’d likely take a mile. (Also you weren’t entirely happy anymore about your husband leaving you behind, but now wasn’t the time for that). You went for Z again – weapons unnecessary; your avatar was fine with relying on your own fighting skills and knowledge. Especially in close combat – magic was nice, but you’d still take your own instincts over that. Really you should have told him he didn’t have a chance, and you weren’t bad at dodging his tricks either. Given you were IOI’s best kept secret, there was probably too much going on in Parzival’s head right now to keep focus on what he was doing. He didn’t have any friends to save him. Your next sharp strike had him down on the floor – flashing red in warning that any second, he could be taken off the board. And it was painful, you made sure of that, to keep him there for a minute. You had a couple of other idiots to deal with before you removed him from the top of the scoring. For the first time since you’d got here you acknowledged the cavernous area you found yourself in; it seemed to be nothing but ice and stretched on endlessly. That chill still clung to your VR equipment and as you caught your breath it fogged up in the virtual air. I-R0K pulled you back to the matter at hand; “You’re a little late to the party don’t you think-!?” You didn’t even regard him properly, eyes flicking across, face hardened; “Shut your damn mouth. I got here didn’t I-!? Thought you boys wouldn’t need my help. Thank me later.” Then as a snarky aside, “This is all on you, I guess? A lot of good your plan did-!” “It woulda been fine. It’s your company that was infiltrated.” You did actually turn to Nolan then, arms folded, “HIS company.” Nolan looked a little affronted, but held his tongue. You knew he wasn’t about to chide you for being here. Looking between them again you couldn’t help but smirk; “I see your little orb didn’t work.” “It was taken down from the inside.” “...Exactly.” That still counted, you didn’t know why I-R0K was trying to pretend that it didn’t. “That’s not my fault.” “No one thought to just turn it back on?” They looked to each other and you realised it’d never crossed anyone’s mind, “Oh god, men!“ You ran your hand over your face; “So. What happened?” Nolan came in to defend his old friend from your onslaught – painfully aware of how much you didn’t get on; “It’s not exactly on him, my rig did get hacked.” You raised an eyebrow, “You still using that ridiculous password?” “Yeah.” His eyes flickered gold. “You still got it on a post-it?” “No.” His answer was far too quick, voice pitched slightly, and you sighed folding your arms once more, “I told you to change it.” It sounded like something a teen would use anyway - Bo55man69? Who was Nolan Sorrento kidding? “I… I was getting to it!” He stuttered as you gave him a hard look. “Little late for that... if you two idiots will excuse me!” Then you finally regarded the third man in the room looking between you utterly confused, yet still on the floor where you’d left him. Best not to leave him unchecked for long – you could bicker with these boys all day, it wouldn’t win Nolan the final key. “Now, Parzival, where were we?” The teen stood on his feet, he had a couple of tricks left, he knew that – maybe back up would even arrive. In fact, he was sure that if he just swept you from the equation it wouldn’t be so hard to take out the other two. Parzival leant around you to regard the Cataclyst, half buried in snow. Maybe he could use that as leverage, Sorrento might not care about setting foot in here again, but he surely wanted control. He wasn’t sure you and the other one would be best pleased about the prospect of Zeroing out. You followed his eyeline, and in that split second where your concentration wasn’t on him, he darted forward; “Oh no, you don’t!” Nolan dodged to the side, which was kinda unhelpful, because he was a lot bigger than both of you so could probably have taken a decent hit with his Avatar no problem. But, sure, instead he was content to watch you scrap with a kid over the most destructive device in the OASIS. You dragged Parzival back across the ice, letting your wings do most of the (literal) heavy lifting. “Why are you making this so hard-!?” “I can’t give up!! Not for everyone that actually knows a damn thing about what this place stands for!” You laughed, dropping him and firmly positioning yourself between Nolan, the Cataclyst and him. “Trust me, you’re only seeing what you want to see about the OASIS. You’re only seeing what you want to see about Nolan too, but you’re also a man running out of time. You can leave, right now, you can stand down. Parzival you have choices.” “I’ll NEVER let the OASIS fall into the hands of IOI.” You weren’t exactly sure how he was going to get out of it, but if he wanted to continue to fight you, you were down with that. “Suit yourself, but when this ends – remember I gave you the choice.” He came at you again, and this time you knew the only option was to take him out. *** For just a moment you let yourself regard Parzival sympathetically. In all honestly you got it, why everyone had gathered here to stop IOI from swallowing up their favourite pastime. But their perspective was what they saw, IOI and its loyalty centres. Your husband, the face and the front of that. On any other given day, you’d be on the other side fighting him and you knew that. You were painfully aware of it. But you knew him; you knew you couldn’t change the company and Nolan needed the support of IOI to get to this point. Maybe Loyalty would go, maybe it would stay – maybe when he got what he wanted, you could persuade Nolan to do anything. But he needed this. For what the OASIS had done to his family, he needed this more than the kid standing in front of you. And that was your only thought. “Sorry, kid.” And you meant it as you delivered that final blow. Parzival zeroed. For him, the game was over. There was eerie silence for a minute and you looked to the floor, feeling solemn, folding your wings away again. That would weigh heavily on you for weeks, you knew. From across the field the two men watched you in disbelief. You had actually done it. IOI was guaranteed the win. After all that, Nolan Sorrento only had to clear the final challenge. “How is my wife more badass than me?” Nolan murmured, shaking his head slow. “Well I don’t really think it’s that hard-!” He glared at I-R0K momentarily, eyes sparking back to that gold, before you spoke up. “Leave.” “What?” You didn’t even look across to I-R0K, “Your job is done here and I want you gone.” “Are you kidding me!?” “Unless you want to zero out too.” Your eyes were harsh and cold, and despite the obvious grumble Nolan nudged his friend, nodding in agreement. “You got me this far, old friend… You’ll be well paid.” You received a glare, before he jabbed a finger at you, “Don’t you DARE mess this up-!” and with that, logged out of the game. Now alone, you regarded Nolan properly for the first time since you got here. You wanted to run to him, but you knew it wasn’t over. You still had to beat the challenge and get the key. “Where are you?” He spoke first. “Downstairs.” You gave a little nod, “Andrew with you?” “…Yes.” At least his security was there, that seemed important to you. Even if the fight was in the OASIS. “You came all the way here… for me?” You titled your head, Nolan already knew his own answer, it was his lack of belief that got you; “I couldn’t let you do this alone. Not after what I saw.” “Guess I should have let you come.” “Well…” You smiled gently, “I’m here for you now.” *** You both stood in front of the final problem, with you looking for a final solution. They had won it and still failed, that wasn’t the key. It had to be something so Halliday and so out there, that it was so obvious… that’s what made it so hard. Nolan was a little less patient with you; “So how do you beat it? If it’s not about... winning?” You looked up to him, with a raised eyebrow. How exactly was he going to run the OASIS again? Maybe you’d be best zeroing him and winning it all for yourself. “Boy, you still got a long way to go.” You nudged him gently with your elbow and went back to studying the game hard; “It’s the right game we know that - the ice broke after a minute for everything else except for this one. But winning can’t be the objective.” Then it clicked; “Oh-! Of course.” “Of course what?” He was still clueless. You were trying to imagine the OASIS full of all Nolan’s favourite pop culture references instead. You didn’t think you’d find yourself complaining at all the 90s/00s obscurities somehow. As long as he kept Tron – or it’d be divorce. Instead you pointed to the retro TV; “The whole damn competition is about Easter Eggs and this game... was the first one.” You picked up the controller with a smile, “It’s about finding the Easter Egg-! Literally!” Nolan tipped his head, curiously, as you continued to explain, “Warren Robinett hid his name on the start screen, sort of, back in a time when creators didn’t get shit for things they worked so hard on...” you nodded back towards Nolan, “Kinda think you’d know a little about that.” Glad it wouldn’t show up on his OASIS avatar, Nolan’s faced burned slightly at your mention of his Gregarious days. He didn’t have to say anything though, his eyes had a habit of changing colour to give away his emotions and they’d flicked back to gold. “So, you can beat it?” “If that’s the answer, yeah!” You gave a single confident nod, coupled with a gentle smile And for once he smiled too, one so beautifully genuine all you wished was that you were seeing it on his actual face; “You’re a star!” “Oh no.” You shook your head firmly; “Your Oologists found the game, they deserve the credit. They deserve a hell of a lot - let’s be honest here!” And you’d make sure they got it, you did always like checking in on the kids and asking them about their latest piece of Halliday trivia whenever you happened to be kicking around HQ. You swallowed hard; “Okay, Noe, lets just hope I’m right!” *** The gravitas of the moment demanded you to stare up at Halliday’s avatar with a certain level of respect. It felt too wrong to be right. But you knew the man you’d married, and hopefully this would give him just the opportunity needed to show more than only you who he really was. You bowed your head, before stepping forward to take the Crystal Key delicately as it was offered. Voice soft as you bit your lip. “Thank you…” As you did so, the ice before the both of you cracked, raising from it a door of the same gem stone. You hopped down from the podium and back across to your husband, who was staring at the door with the same type of hesitation. You noticed his hand was over his heart – because even in Nolan’s haptics he would be able to feel that wedding ring digging into his skin, transferred to his shirt pocket when he wasn’t wearing his jacket. You couldn’t help your little smile at how absentminded and soft it was. He wasn’t even thinking about the OASIS when he was sitting in his office doing that. “Is this really happening?” “Uh huh.” You looked to the door, “Let’s go see what’s really waiting on the other side.” “Y/N- Wait-!” But you were already jumping across the ice path towards it and Nolan had no choice than to follow you to the door. Three holes for the three keys; yours were his and you took a step back from him. But he was still hesitant. “What?” “After all this, I just can’t…” “Honey…” You took his hand and made him look back to you, “You’ve wanted this for five years.” You looked back to the final key in your hand, taking a deep breath, “This is what you came for.” “What if I do the wrong thing?” “I know you.” You held the Crystal Key out for him, “You won’t.” Nolan took it from you gently, opening his inventory for the other two, Copper, then Jade… before he looked back to the Crystal one and paused again. You wondered what was happening around you, mass cheering? Were people upset? Your focus was Nolan, everything else was drowned out. Everyone knew what the official line for the plan was. Could the man you loved go ahead with it, that was the question – even if it was only on your lips. You regarded him for a minute, key in one hand, your fingers laced with his other and you wondered if he would really go through with it. Nolan had long had issues with the OASIS; it was in part responsible for the death of his sister, and he also held the belief that people spent far too long escaping the problems of the real world here instead of facing the ones outside. Now he truly had the keys to the Kingdom - would Nolan Sorrento shut it all down? Would he monetise it? He pandered that one to board and shareholders alike, but could he really go through with such a thing? You didn’t like to guess that he could - but making it exclusive to those that could afford it wouldn’t solve his problem. Those that could afford it would be pivotal in fixing the world, after all.

Nolan glanced to you and exhaled, squeezing your hand a little tighter, he’d dreamt of shutting this down since he’d lost her. And that’s what he really talked to you about in the dead of night curled up in your arms when no one else could hear. He gave a firm nod and turned back towards the door “Okay. Let’s do this...” Then looked back to you, placing your avatar’s hand over his, “You got me here, Y/N. So I won’t do this without you.” You could feel yourself start to well up, you weren’t one for crying and usually you’d curse yourself. But this once you’d let them come. “Nolan…” I love you. I love you too. I love you SO much. He gave a nod of encouragement, and a gentle smile – you returned both. “On my count…”

Whatever came next, and whatever Nolan chose to do here - you’d do it together.

---

15/16! Woo hoo! We’re there! One more to go and we’ve done it!! 😁

Thank you for reading and enjoying these so much so far! Hopefully we’ll go out with a bang! 😉💙

[true-intha-blu]

In Regards to Kingdom Hearts UX: Dark Road; Baldr, Loki, Luxu, and Luxord

Hi there. This is True-InTha-Blue coming to you with some interesting lore I was discussing with some very wonderful people on the Destined Oath Discord server. Once again I thank them for helping me out with this analysis and mythos research, as well as asking questions that really got my brain thinking about what all of this could be. This, of course, is in relation to the Kingdom Hearts Union Cross Dark Road game that was released 6/22/20. Specifically for Chapter 1.

This does contain slight spoilers so for those who want to go in completely blind. I recommend playing through KHuX:DR first, then coming back to my theory. This will go over a lot of Norse Mythology, how it relates to this new game, what roles the characters play, and what it could mean in the future. Warning, I’m not one for screenshots so prepare for a large amount of text.

Theory time:

In KHuX:DR we’re introduced to the new character, Baldr, named after a prominent god in Norse Mythology. As the Son of Odin, Baldr’s murder is what eventually leads the world into Ragnarok, the Norse armageddon myth.

Let’s investigate the Mythos of Baldr.

Baldr is the Norse god of peace, justice, light, forgiveness, and love. He and his mother, Frigg, had prophetic dreams of his death. As such, Frigg made every object and being in existence vow to never bring harm to Baldr. Every object and being except one, mistletoe. This was because no one saw mistletoe as a threat and was too young to make such an agreement.

This made Baldr pretty much indestructible. As per usual with the Norse gods, they made sport of this by throwing dangerous stuff at the man since they knew he couldn’t die. That was until Loki decided to fashion an arrow or spear (Different tellings of the myth have different weapons) out of mistletoe. He handed this weapon over to Baldr’s blind twin brother, Hodr. Thinking that it would bounce off his brother like usual, Hodr ended up killing his brother.

Heartbroken, Frigg called upon Hermod, another one of her sons and messenger of the gods, to go to Hel and retrieve Baldr.

In Hel, the goddess Hel (it is both a location and a person. Also not to be confused as Hell), said that Baldr could be revived if everyone (objects included, alive and dead) cried for him.

In Norse mythology, “Hel” is both a place and a goddess. Hel (the place) is the norse underworld. Hel (the goddess) is the one who reigns over the Underworld. When Hermod reached Hel and asked how Baldr could be revived, he was told that if every being in existence cried for his brother, then Baldr would return.

Everyone did, except one.

Loki, disguised as the giantess Þökk (pronounced Tokk), did not cry. As such, Baldr is set to stay in Hel until Ragnarok.

Now let’s look at Loki’s role in Norse Mythology.

He is often (or always) depicted as a shapeshifting trickster. In fact much of the trickster archetype in modern stories stems from Loki’s place in mythology. For a large part of the Mythos, Loki either aids the Aesir (the Norse Gods) or is malicious towards them. No matter what Loki eventually comes to be the enemy of the Norse gods at the end of Ragnarök.

So where am I going with this?

There are two major groups of people: Those who see Odin and the Master of Masters as being the same person, and those who see Odin and Luxu as the same people. But I think that people are focusing on the wrong deity. Instead, I think that shifting the focus onto Loki is the key. As a shapeshifter, Loki has gone by many names. Luxu parallels this, as he’s most likely taken on countless different names besides “Braig” or “Xigbar”.

In fact, let’s focus on the meaning behind Luxu’s name.

Like all of the Foretellers, Luxu’s name parallels one of the Seven Deadly Sins, that of Lust (Luxuria). Loki, in a myth where he insults all of the Aesir, is called a “Pervert God”. Loki has also been accused of doing perverse things. Luxu may not have a sexual lust, but rather a lust for power. There is also the fact that Luxu is associated with the goat, a Catholic symbol of lust.

Also to note in this conversation of Loki insulting the gods. This is the one that leads Loki to being bound to a rock with a snake dripping venom over his eyes until he is released from Ragnarök. The context is that Loki killed a servant, was kicked out of a party, and then came back to ruin the party but the Skaldic god Bragi says that Loki shouldn’t be allowed back in. Loki however called on blood bonds with Odin (because they are half-brothers) to be invited.

There is one other thing of note in the myth about Loki insulting the Aesir. After a certain point, he got kicked out, only to return to ruin the party even more. The god Bragi said that he shouldn’t be allowed in, but Loki calls his blood bond with his half-brother Odin, saying he has every right to be invited. As things continue, this leads to Loki’s capture and his near eternal punishment of being bound with poison dripping on his face. Then: “Loki declaims a toast to the gods, with a specific exception for Bragi. Bragi responds that he will give a horse, sword, and ring from his possessions so that he does not repay the gods "with hatred." Loki responds that Bragi will always be short of all of these things, accusing him of being "wary of war" and "shy of shooting." Bragi responds that, were they outside of Ægir's hall, Bragi would be holding Loki's head as a reward for his lies. Loki replies that Bragi is brave when seated, calling him a "bench-ornament," and that Bragi would run away when troubled by an angry, spirited man.”

And this is also remarkably interesting because I have seen the Bragi = Braig/Luxu theory, but this kind of contradicts it. It makes me think that Bragi and Odin are red herrings in all of this. Remember, we do not know what happened to the Master of Masters, except that he ‘faded from existence’ one day. Nor do we know why or how MoM showed himself to Young Xehanort in the Keyblade Graveyard. Only Luxu has been confirmed to have the ability to change bodies

Keep in mind, the No Name Keyblade was passed down from Luxu to his student. When the time came, that student passed on the keyblade as well, the cycle continuing into the present. This was all so MoM could see into the future and author the Book of Prophecies.

Now I wish to bring up another name of Loki, that of Lóðurr. It can be translated into Lodur.

Please understand that the context between these two names is still being debated by scholars, but I think this is important to bring up nonetheless.

Lodur is one of the gods that helped create the first two humans, the others being Odin and Hoenir. Let’s assume this is just another name for Loki. Remember how earlier I said that Loki is the main archetype for both the good and bad trickster in stories? Let’s go to something you may have noticed.

Lodur. Let’s add an ‘X’, reminiscent to the old Org XIII style. It becomes Luxord.

Now remember that scene in the beginning of Re:mind DLC? With Xigbar/Luxu and Luxord asking questions about each other’s identity?

My take is that Luxord is the other role of Loki, the more beneficially trickster. Now this may be more of a stretch if not for the fact that we kinda believe/see Luxord’s somebody in Yozora’s time. As of now, it is a major point of both curiosity and contention within the fandom.

One theory is that Yozora’s world is connected to the breaking of the One World before the end of the Keyblade World. This is inferred because Yozora seems to know what a keyblade is and knows how to fight the wielder of one.

Since Lodur (the Norse god) has a hand in the creation of the world in Norse mythology, which (going by the KHuX:DR lore about the worlds’ development) may have been one of the first worlds to develop from the Keyblade War thus tying Luxord to the legacy of the keyblade war stated by Xemnas.

To add a bit on the Luxu/Xigbar and Luxord to Loki parallels:

-      Both fights with them have misdirection, trickery with locations or indirect fighting styles when confronted by Sora. This fits a trickster archetype

-      Also Braig/Xigbar uses arrowguns. In myth, Baldr was killed by an arrow (That may be a bit of a stretch though so don’t take it too seriously.)

In the end, we have a lot to think about here.

I am less inclined to look at Master Odin from KHux:DR and would rather look out for someone we have not seen yet, a Loki or a Þökk. And keep an eye on Baldr whenever he shows up.

There are many other connections to tie ‘Bad’ Loki to Luxu. Loki heralding Ragnarok could parallel the fall of Scala Ad Caelum. Loki being a Johtun but being able to hang around the Norse gods could be a parallel to how Luxu may be among the students but actually being a foreteller.

If any reader has any details they want to share to clear up some details about the mythos, want to correct an inaccuracy, or wish to elaborate on the topics more, please share them. I am always up for fun, healthy, and well-reasoned discussions.

My next theory will be about the development of the worlds and the foretellers and how they came back.

Stay tuned, Blue

[Edited by @SourCherryBomb]

[nrth-wind-a]

"Isn't it silly that you always have to save Avius. He's a wizard. He should care for himself." Mordred sighs, "Why waste time on the pathetic man?" @mordredofcamelot

@mordredofcamelot

"Watch your words, Mordred. Our causes align but that does not make me quick to forgive insults, nor ignorance.

"Because, even if we pass over for a moment how utterly insulting you've just been to both Avius, and my own judgment, you have also spouted factual inaccuracies.

"I do not always have to. Nor do I have to. I choose to, strictly when necessary, on the basis that he is kind, deserving, and that he and I have grown close, in a mutual respect, and a mutual decision to get to know each other as we carry on through our individual lives. He is perfectly independent, as am I.

"Additionally, he, too, has saved me before. I would not deign to claim that either of us is imbalanced in the care we give each other, because, as far as I am aware, both of our needs are met in that regard. We are perfectly balanced in all things, as we should be.

"Furthermore, the sheer idiocy of the idea that he is pathetic in any regard is so blatantly untrue that I believe you must be experiencing some sort of cognitive dissonance. What on earth could have made you believe such? Pathetic? Mordred, please. Do not speak hypocrisy blindly.

"Finally, the last thing I will say on this matter is to advise once more that you not insult my judgment. I could strike you down where you stand for that, and it wouldn't affect a single thing in my life. Frankly, I should. But, given that I seem to 'waste my time' on pathetic people, I suppose I will work to rectify that now, and not spare you a single second more."

[macaroonff]

Taste- Lee Minho (Part 2)

Genre: Undercover detective lee know x gang leader y/n; the roaring 20s Paring: Minho x fem! reader Content Warnings: Spice (no smut),mentions of alcohol, inaccurate historical representation, not intended to be factually correct, please forgive any inaccuracies. Word Count: 2.5k words Suggested Songs: Taste- Stray Kids Whatever Lola Wants- Ella Fitzgerald Fall in Love With Swing- Trio Manouche Smooth Operator- Sade

↪click here for part 1.

Refer to this for context regarding specific terms in bold

Lee Minho should've known better, that a woman so beautiful was also secretive. That a woman so wanted in this mysterious club would obviously play hard to get. Did it help that she was also the owner of this place? No it did not.

But what did help was that a set of the smoothest pearls had fallen into his lap, and either on purpose or by accident, you had left him your necklace. Lee Minho couldn't decipher your intent, but at the very least, he found himself an excuse. It was as though petty fate that stopped him before was helping him proceed in this mission.

He searches for you in the crowd with continuous effort, but you seem to have disappeared a long time ago, as though your conversation with him was just another of his delusions. Lee Minho also realises that he's a little tipsy. He's starting to sweat under the warm suit in the crowded room, and he feels his heart rate pick up rapidly. Unlike how he had become tolerant of the alcohol here in Chicago, he wasn't used to this club as an entity, he especially wasn't used to you. For a trained detective like Minho, two minutes was all it took for him to decipher what a person desires, what their intentions are, but you were so hard to read. He had never felt so incompetent, so out of it before. He looks back at the bartender, who had offered him another free drink.

"What do they call her, that flapper?"

"She isn't just any flapper," the man replies with a smirk, "she's the most famous in the city, her stage name is Estelle Vin."

"Is she always that... mysterious? I can't help be drawn to her," Minho confesses foolishly, wanting to gauge the bartender further.

"Hmm, you're not the only one. Do you want me to return those pearls you're holding," the bartender replies.

"Don't worry, I need these as an excuse, if you know what I mean," he flashes a wink, pretending to be a lovesick fool, thouh he wasn't really sure it was pretention on his part. "Thanks for the free drink, I quite enjoyed it."

Lee Minho leaves with a small stumble, feeling the blood rush to his ears, his entire body getting warm. His vision is somewhat blurry, as he pushes his way towards the door he was eyeing before, his hands clutching the pearls close to his chest in his breast-pocket, holding on as though his entire life depended on it, and maybe it did.

He had to duck through the entrance to the dressing rooms, where he found himself standing in a complex maze. There were doors to the right and left of him, and a long corridor leading down. The shabby exterior was deceptive of the space within the club, and he could barely believe that it was just a small, rundown club that it lured people in as. He walks further down the corridor, when a singer comes out of a door on the left. She looks at him, startled by his intrusion. "Who...?How did you enter? It's authorised personals only."

He quickly apologises, and in convoluted sentences that his brain pushed out, explained that he had something to return. "The door was unlocked, and I need to see Ms Vin."

The lights dimmed nearby, signalling that a new performance was about to start. The stranger looks rushed and tries to shoo him away.

"Get out, and stop acting like a stalker. This would ruin your reputation Mr Claude Landry."

Lee Minho's eyebrows furrow in confusion. Why did a singer working here know his surname? He had only disclosed it to Mr Brown and a few other aristocrats. He was sure that most of them were tight-lipped about it, but now he was somewhat alarmed. Of course, as a man of public curiosity, along with him being a foreigner, it may not be as alarming. Maybe a clerk saw him sign it as Landry, and he overruled his previous suspicions. Absorbed in his thoughts, he slowly back away from this new area shrouded in mystery, until he feels the floor under his feet vibrating, as though something heavy was moving below.

"There's no way what I'm feeling is an earthquake now ma'am?" he questions, his suspicions aroused for perhaps the hundredth time in the night.

"I think you've had too much of hooch Mr Landry," the stranger replies.

Sure, he was somewhat intoxicated but there's no way he'd be this gone. He also made sure that the bartender didn't have any chance to spike his drink, which makes him feel fluky. The feeling increases, and he swears he can hear glass shatter below him, although faint. The Whangdoodle from the stage increases their volume as this happens, and Minho finds his ears ringing.

It was at that moment you spring out of your dressing room, almost alarmed. "Why are they so lou-" you exclaim but stop when you notice Minho.

His eyes look into yours, and for a second he feels relieved to see someone he knows, though barely. At least the situation didn't seem as unfamiliar as it did before.

"It's loud isn't it Ms Vin?" he asks, back to his stoic self, as though examining your anxious demeanour.

You hold back a breath, unsure how to answer the question. A new shipment was supposed to arrive today, and they're usually stored in the basement, which unfortunately happened to be right below where you were standing. You'd usually ensure that the entrance to this area was secure, but most of the men had gone to help carry the shipment in, which happened to be in excess today, and you must have left it open when you came back with your head muddled with thoughts of Minho. The fate that usually favoured you, happened to be sabotaging you today.

"Yeah, the band is louder than usual, I should probably check on them."

You locked your door to stop him from entering, and nod at your colleague. She tries to usher Minho back to the main area, and you also try to leave past him. He grabs your hands instead, and you feel his eyes on the back of your head.

"This must be yours," you see your pearls drop from his hands, clinking against his watch.

You only now notice that your neck was bare, putting your hand against it. Another sound erupts from the basement, and you get frantic. You watch as your colleague runs down to the basement to make them aware of how conspicuously loud they were being. Minho is quick to follow her with his eyes, suspicion written all over his face.

In spontaneity, you pull him into the dressing room you had previously locked. It was a last resort to distract him, stupid as it was.

"I... I can wear the necklace here," you say, pulling him closer to you. "Or maybe you'd like to put it on me?" you try flirtatiously hoping to keep his attention on just you. You sit down on the red chair, and remove the makeup from the counter. Luckily for you, Minho seems to appreciate this opportunity just as much as you, walking closer until his hand rests on your naked shoulders. He carefully held your long bob in a fist, placing the cold pearls as delicately as he could around your neck, taking quite some time. As he moves in closer, you feel his warm breath fanning your ear, where you're taken aback by his rapid breathing. You could feel it travel down your spine as he bends to snap it in place. It felt like he was holding himself back, deliberate, careful. Once he's done clasping the necklace, you look at him through the mirror, his eyes focused on you. You see him take your appearance in, and a small gasp leaves his mouth.

"You look beautiful y/n," he says in a deeper voice, taking you by surprise. Because you weren't taken aback by the compliment but by the fact that you had never once given him your real name, and the only thing he could find out was your stage name. Even some of your closest workers were hidden from your real identity.

But you didn't want to confirm this with this stranger, deciding it would be best to feign innocence. You furrow your brows as though it was annoyance. "Who's y/n? Your wife? A lover? A tomato you fell in love with?"

He smirks, "Future wife, maybe. Lover, if we're looking to start from today" he counters, snarky, yet in a weird way seductive. At this point you were beyond alarmed and tried extremely hard to keep yourself grounded to this new predicament.

"What do you mean by we? Besides if you want to address me, then you can call me Estelle."

"Well, are you jealous Estelle? Cause to be honest I'd rather call out your name later instead of y/n. I really hope you aren't y/n."

Who was he? Why did he care so much? Maybe he was mistaken, your name might be popular in France, or wherever he's from. Because there's no way he was referring to you.

You wanted to change the conversation desperately, you absolutely had to. In so many years of hiding behind a façade, it was scary having it disintegrated by a mere stranger.

"I'm not jealous, and don't be creepy, Claude. I don't think you should be here, unless you have more to speculate?"

He says nothing, instead he reaches for his breast-pocket for the umpteenth time, removing his linen handkerchief engraved with C.L and a classic fountain pen with gold borders.

"Time and date, for our next meeting," he asks sweetly, a charming smile painted on his lips.

You take his pen and examine it carefully. "Looks expensive, must be a family heirloom," you ask carelessly.

Minho smiles, as though he had already won this game of deception. Did he actually know your name? No. But he made a somewhat educated guess. Like most of the women of the time, you had tattooed on your back your social security number. As a celebration of autonomy, it had become a popular trend, which you also seemed to have followed. Luckily, for him, he had access to the case of a few bootleggers who were hidden so well that the only thing that could be traced was the social security number on someone's back. The number belonged to y/n l/n. Did it help that the social security number had no pictures? No. But did it help that the numbers on your back were visible to him as he placed the necklace on you? Of course it did. He decided to take a dangerous bet, and observe your reaction.

Beyond your unperturbed expression, he could see a shift in your body language, your fingers clasped onto your necklace tighter for sometime, before you recovered, your confident face wavering and your beautiful eyes shifting away from him . All he had to do was catch you in the act.

"You're such a liar Claude." you say out of nowhere. "What are you? A cop? you say also catching him off-guard.

"A cop, those incompetent people with a meagre salary? Of course I'm not, don't be ridiculous darling." he replies slowly.

He watches you smile, a menacing one that pretended to be comforting. "It was a joke, of course you're not a cop, you're big cheese around here," he takes the handkerchief from you, where he sees all you've written on it is "today" with a red lipstick stain on it.

"Today?" he raises an eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah, unless your bank's closed?" you entice.

He smiles and pulls you in swiftly. His unexpectedly rough hand that you would not expect someone rich to have, is on your back, drawing circles as his lips are pushed against yours. You taste the same cheap wine you had offered him towards the back of his tongue, except that it tasted so much better this way. You could taste remnants of the fake plum flavouring, mixed with the scent of your Chanel no 5 parfum taking over all your senses. You feel as his cold fingers trace definitely around your back. "Three" he whispers, "Eight," he continues, moving leftwards, causing goosebumps where he'd left his impression. "One" he continues. You pause for a moment, confused at the numbers he was repeating, until it eventually dawns on you. You push him away worried, your pearls clinking as you move back. "Anything wrong?" he asks innocently. You knew you couldn't directly admit to being a criminal. He wouldn't know just by your social security number, unless he was working with someone important. But he also somehow knew your name.

At this point you knew he wasn't a French Casanova, observing how his supposed "heirloom" had different initials engraved on the pen, L.M., which you were sure didn't belong to a Claude Landry, or that of a real family. It must have been a stolen good bought illegally, or that L.M were his real initials. The only way you could find out was if you played along.

"Nothing, I just needed a breather, your kisses are quite intense," you make a stupid excuse. Despite realising that you weren't yourself around him, you go back to making out with this handsome stranger, his hands going back to where they were until he managed to trace your entire number. He removes his tweed suit, and lifts up your dress until it was hiked far above your thighs, and with every movement the tassels of your dress get tangled up near his zip. You unbutton his cotton shirt, holding the fabric close, revealing his chest which was so much warmer than your hands. A chill blows through the window, and you shiver in between his warm touches. He stops there for a minute, and eyes the bottle of rum on your counter. He lifts you with ease, and places you on the counter, where your social number was reflected in the mirror, as though everything about you had finally been revealed.

"We should make our last toast," he speaks up breathless, sipping out of the bottle, then holding it to your lips. You accept, and gulp down more than you usually do. Something tells you it would be the last time you'd be this delirious, yet so satisfied. It was like with every kiss, he meant to take you down, in more ways than one. His kisses travelled down your body, scattered, frenzied. He kissed as though this was the first and only time he'd be this close to you. Soon you also gave in to the delicate pressure with all your being, overruling your innate intuition, lost in his seduction.

You were so guilty of doing this. Of finding comfort in the way he moaned your name, your real name, in low whispers, something you'd never trust anyone to do. And it didn't matter what secrets he hid when he made you feel this good. Though you were always guilty of lying to others, so was he. In a weird way, for tonight both of you would be equals- equally guilty parties for betraying yourselves.

Similarly, no one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat, enjoying it despite knowing you were a criminal. It was as though he couldn't let go, and for a minute he felt like none of it mattered, and that you were as innocent as your kisses fluttering over his collarbones. For tonight, he'd become the sinner, not you.

The same Lee Minho who hated being drunk during work hours, was beyond pleased, convincing himself that it was just for tonight. For just this night, he'd given into this hedonistic urge, of wanting nothing but a taste of your body, of your attention and your entire world which he would eventually have to destroy tomorrow. But tomorrow was so many kisses, so many secrets and so many bottles of alcohol later. So he continued deluding himself with your moans and soft lips, until he could no longer despise himself for his new intoxication: you.

[whumpthisway]

Vulcan Whump!

(for anon - so sorry it’s so late) FYI: I've never seen Star Trek, so forgive any mistakes/let me know and i’ll correct any inaccuracies!

Biology-based whump ->

- Stronger than humans: an enslaved Vulcan made to work for longer or harder and denied rest.

- OR, on a team, being expected to more work than other non-Vulcans so that they drive themselves to exhaustion without the others realising because they believe it’s expected

- Faster than humans: multiple Vulcans captured by a whumper and used as hunting practice/prey, perhaps with elaborate parties held for the hunting down of the Vulcans.

OR a Vulcan being physically capable of outrunning their pursuers, but they hang back to stay with the team and get captured, too.

- Longer-lived than humans: Vulcans who have human mates/teammates who die long before they do (Vulcan may live up to 120)

- Survive without water longer than humans: a Vulcan prioritising their teammates drinking the last of the water and experiencing hallucinations, thirst, weakness, dizziness, etc. so as to save their teammates.

OR a scientist whumper wanting to test the Vulcan’s limits by denying water, or making them beg for it/lick it off their hand

- Go without sleep (for up to 2 weeks): a Vulcan with PTSD/nightmares/sleep phobia denying themself sleep until they physically can’t stop themself falling asleep, which might happen in a public place.

- OR a Vulcan working too hard to try to find another teammate/find a medical cure/fix a problem/travel a long way and denying themself sleep until they’re exhausted (bonus if they’re under pressure from their team to produce results, or their team doesn’t understand Vulcan physiology and thinks Vulcans just don’t need sleep)

Psychology-based whump ->

- A half-human, half-Vulcan whumpee being shamed/misunderstood by Vulcans for not acting as logical/emotionless as they’re supposed to be, especially if they were brought up with humans so find Vulcan society very confusing

- A Vulcan struggling to control their emotions (like Spock) and being terrified of losing control like past Vulcans apparently did (wiki says ‘T’Pol states that paranoia and homicidal rage were common’ before Vulcans went emotionless)

- Vulcan on their death-bed feeling unloved and alone because no other Vulcan ever expressed their affection/regard for them. Or, similarly, a Vulcan struggling to tell their dying friend/relative/lover how much they care for them.

Telepathy/mind-meld ->

- A forced mind-meld being very distressing (for Vulcan or non-Vulcan recipient), especially if memories are seen that the person wanted to keep hidden/if the person was just starting to trust the Vulcan that forced the mind-meld and their trust is now broken

- A Vulcan amongst humans unwilling to mind-meld feeling extremely alone/misunderstood, because they can’t share any of their true thoughts or experiences and is viewed by the others as closed off and emotionless

- A touch-repulsed Vulcan wanting to mind-meld but hating the contact needed to do it and struggling to master mind-melds without touch, possibly causing headaches/nose bleeds

- A scientist whumper wanting to push to find out how far two Vulcans can communicate over and torturing them into compliance

- A Vulcan getting a telepathic cry for help from their mate before going silent and being unable to find their mate or save them

- Memories being removed using the mind-meld, especially whumpy if its without the recipient’s consent. Even with consent, the person who lost memories may be disorientated, sick, weak, etc. afterwards

- Apparently some species can resist mind-melds – this may cause nose-bleeds, headaches, sickness, passing out, etc.

Diet ->

- As vegetarians, being forced to eat meat/fish by a whumper keeping them captive would be emotionally traumatic and may make them very sick. OR being mocked by their non-Vulcan team for being vegetarian and feeling misunderstood/alone. OR being forced to eat meat by necessity, due to being very short on food/it being the only food available

- As mostly teetotal, similarly being forced to drink alcohol/their drink being spiked, would be emotionally distressing and may make them very ill, disorientated, etc.

- Apparently chocolate may also make them inebriated – they might be accidentally given this by a teammate and made ill

 Pon farr (tw: sex and rape) ->

- Emotional and physical loss of control would be very distressing, especially if among strangers/a non-Vulcan whumper who doesn’t understand (or would it be worse if the whumper is Vulcan…?)

- Physical whump of ‘the chemical imbalance’ causing ‘insanity, loss of self-control, and death’ (from wiki) if they don’t have sex

- A Vulcan losing their mate and having to deal with their first pon farr since their mate’s death

- Similarly, a young Vulcan (perhaps without anyone to explain it to them), experiencing their first pon farr and not knowing what’s happening to them

- A Vulcan who doesn’t want sex feels compelled to during pon farr, or another Vulcan forcing themselves on an unwilling mate

- Fighting may be a way to end pon farr, leading to physical injuries and guilt afterwards, if the person the Vulcan was fighting was a friend and they’re badly hurt

 ~

This was fun! If anyone has any more ideas, please add them! I hope its useful for the anon who requested it, it was interesting to think about. Also there is a masterpost (posts 1- 22) for this series here!

(Mythical whump series 23 - continuations on request Feel free to send continuation ideas but at this point, I think I’ll finish up the requests I’ve got waiting (Nephilim and Aliens) and then probably finish up, unless any requests really catch my fancy~)

I hope this series has been useful to peeps~ :3

[thewhumperinwhite]

Café: Cottage 4/Car Ride

Pax reacts quickest. For better or worse.

Previous: Teaser 1 / Teaser 2 / Hospital/Squad Car / No More Squad Car / Empty Bar / Used Car Lot 1 / Used Car Lot 2 / Gas Station / Roadside 1 / Roadside 2 / Forest / Treetops / Cottage (1) / Cottage (2) / Interlude: Police Station / Cottage (3)

TW for: gun violence, blood/gore, guilt/self-loathing.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

Short update so I don’t get blocked. Also please note that Sol cares about cars but I don’t so please forgive any inaccuracies regarding Specific Models Of Jeep.

----

The worst thing in the world, Sol is discovering, is when you can see the disaster happening like it’s in slow motion, and you’re just too slow to stop it.

Kent’s face runs through the whole gamut of emotion when he lowers his bloody hand from his mouth: mild disgust into worry into realization and then he looks up at the little girl, Sam, who is maybe thirteen and doesn’t have time for any look on her face other than fear which is all it takes for her to dive for the shotgun and point it at Kent’s face.

Sol has been waiting tables for six months now. Before that he did some scurrying around the streets of the city, avoiding trouble, but that’s what he’s good at, avoiding; he’s never been in a gunfight before. The only guns he’s ever seen in real life are the two he’s seen in the past however many days since the real world ended.

So he sees the gun moving and he freezes. Just for a second.

Pax gets there much faster. Sol doesn’t even really see them move, because he’s frozen by the knowledge that he’s about to see Kent Graves die.

The shotgun going off is the actual loudest sound Sol has ever heard. Pax grabbed ahold of the barrel to yank it away from Kent’s face which means the shot hits their shoulder at absolutely point-blank range, and they spin backward onto the floor in an explosion of blood.

That’s what unsticks Sol’s muscles, finally. He runs forward, drops to his knees next to Paxon, who has curled into a ball, clutching the bloody mess of their shoulder, their eyes wide, their mouth opening and closing like a gutted fish.

“Oh, god,” Sol hears Kent say, and the little girl says, “I— I— I— didn’t I— I wasn’t even— I wasn’t—”

Sol doesn’t dignify any of that with a response, doesn’t even really see the stricken expression on her face, just reaches forward to yanks the too-big gun out of her relaxing grip and without looking throw it over his shoulder toward the hallway as hard as he can.

“He’s not bit,” he snaps at her, already turning back to Pax and the blood pulsing out of his shoulder in a spreading pool on the dirty carpet. “He’s sick. He was sick before you pointed a gun at him.”

He leans over Pax, and knocks their hand out of the way to press his own over the wound. It’s— it’s bad, he can feel sharp things that must be bone, but it’s essentially a very terrible graze, not an actual hit, which he hopes is better.

“I didn’t,” the girl is muttering, still leaning against the door, doing absolutely nothing useful, “I, how was I supposed to know that, this isn’t—”

There’s a lot of blood, too much, squeezing through Sol’s fingers; he presses down harder on Pax’s shoulder, feels something shift under his hand. Pax makes a horrible wounded-animal noise; Sol feels very nauseous but muscles past it.

“I need— something to bandage it with,” he says. The hand he isn’t using to hold Pax’s arm on sort of hovers at the hem of his shirt; in a different world he’d take it off and use it, but—

“Here,” Kent says desperately, already tugging his borrowed shirt off over his head, sounding almost relieved. “Here, take this, here.” He presses it into Sol’s free hand; the cloth is warm from his still-too-high body temperature, and Sol feels a moment of complete panic; Kent is dying of fever and Pax has just had his arm blown off, and Sol is alone.

“Wait,” the little girl says, and she crawls forward into his space, taking the t-shirt from him. “Wait, I can— I know how to do this.” And she pushes Sol’s hand away from the wound, her lips pressing into a thin white line at the sight of it, and winds the shirt around their shoulder, tight, pulling it into a messy but serviceable knot.

“Fuck,” Pax says when she pulls it tight, with a full-body wince. They roll onto their back, slamming their opposite fist into the carpet, arching their spine. “Fuck that hurts!”

The little girl stares at them, then up at Sol, the set of her shoulders somewhere between defensive and expecting-a-slap.

“I,” she says, and then she takes a deep breath and meets Sol’s eyes firmly. “There’s—there’s a clinic a few miles up from here. I bet it’s not still open, but there might be— stuff to take. Real bandages at least.” She glares at Sol, and then at Kent, who is breathing hard, staring straight ahead like he’s on a different planet. “If you swear— If you swear to me you’re not bit. Hey.” She reaches forward, and shoves Kent once on the chest; it doesn’t look like a hard push, but he jumps like he’s been shot, his eyes refocusing with a truly worrying amount of effort. “If you killed my sister and now you’re hiding a bite, I’m going to kill you, all of you, I swear to god.”

Kent looks at her with his blue eyes reflective as glass, and then slowly shakes his head and croaks, “No. No, I haven’t been bitten.”

She nods, apparently satisfied. “Then you can use my dad’s car, I guess. I’ll get the keys.”

——

It’s a soft-top jeep, because of course it is; Sol’s always kind of liked the look of them, before zombies ripping through the roof and eating him was a concern.

Sam is thirteen, which Sol hates, but tall for her age and wiry, and Kent is apparently either too foolish or too Kent to protest her swinging his arm over her shoulder and supporting him on his way out to the car. Which leaves Sol half-carrying Pax, avoiding the mess of their shoulder as best he can; they’re already gray with pain that clearly gets worse with the slightest shift of their left arm. Who knows when they’ll be using their sword again.

“My duffle’s in the bedroom,” they mutter through gritted teeth as Sol supports them out to the carport. “Don’t— I’m not leaving it.”

Sol sighs. “Fine. Yeah.” Getting Pax in the backseat is a terrible operation; their shoulder shifts once and they make a noise Sol is going to remember until the day he dies, and Sol is almost grateful for the opportunity to scurry back and grab their duffle from the bedroom. He tosses their horrible pink jacket on top of the bag too and slings their sword over his shoulder, and on the way back he pauses and, hating every second, picks up the gun from the hallway floor, carrying it by the end of its stock like it’s a dirty diaper.

Sol didn’t have a strong opinion on guns one way or the other a week ago. Those were the fuckin days.

——

Pax has experienced many injuries in their life, but this is actually their first shotgun blast. 

It is not the most fun they have ever had.

The bright side is, it’s pretty clear none of their vital organs are involved; the downside is that as a result they are very much still awake by the time Sol has finished arranging them on the back seat with jittery hands, on their back with their useless arm dangerously close to the edge of the seat and their head in Kent’s lap.

“Sunshine,” they say, and Kent looks down at them, with an expression that makes it clear that he’s about to start saying very stupid things. “Don’t let my arm— fall off the seat, or it’ll strain the joint. And if you say ‘sorry’ one single time, I— will kill you.”

Kent blinks down at them, his pretty face even more tragic than usual, and rearranges Pax in his lap so he can hold their arm in place. He’s shaking, but not hard enough to jostle Pax too badly— if anything, it just feels like the car is already running.

“You didn’t— have to do that,” Kent says in a quiet, horrified voice.

Pax reaches up with the hand it doesn’t hurt to move, and then realizes they have no idea what to do with it. They grab a lock of Kent’s sweaty hair and give it a light tug.

“Shut up,” they say, and they stick their tongue out at him.

At this point the front passenger door opens, and the little girl who shot them climbs into the passenger seat. Pax meets her eyes in the mirror, and makes sure to give her an unimpressed look. She glares at them, and then looks away. 

“Wouldn’t mind— a sorry— from you,” they point out, and have time for her to look back in the mirror at them defensively before the sound of the trunk slamming shut startles them all and makes Pax jump in a way they immediately regret. “Fuck me,” they mutter, and Kent slides a shaky hand into their hair in a way that will fuck up the curl pattern but does, admittedly, feel pretty good.

“Okay,” Sol says, sliding into the driver’s seat and running his hands over the wheel with transparent nervousness. “Where the fuck are we going, kid?”

“I’ll give you directions,” the girl says tersely, and Sol starts the engine. Pax squeezes their eyes shut, and keeps it together.

——

Pax jolts in his arms every time the car hits a bump. By the end of the ride their teeth are visibly clenched together and they’re covered in sweat. 

Kent isn’t thinking very clearly. His skin feels tight across his face, and his hands feel like they’re— in a different room, or attached to someone else’s body. 

Which isn’t nearly enough. There isn’t— there just isn’t anything he can do that will make this right.

Kent almost wishes his father were here. He’s the only one who might be able to come up with a fair price for him to pay.

[crownonymous]

Harry Potter Analysis Essays: General Worldbuilding

Because we all fucking know Rowling didn’t create this world with any sense of nuance or deep thought so here we fucking are, doing the work ourselves. Do keep in mind, though, that I haven’t touched a single Harry Potter book in almost a decade; all of these are mostly inferences, headcanons, and references pulled from other magic systems and worldbuilding tools found in other media.

This post will detail basic worldbuilding with the intent of fleshing out the Harry Potter universe. List of topics for easy navigation: Technology, Commerce, Education, Religion. Warnings for: gun mention (technology); death mention (religion)

The term “witch” will be used to describe practitioners of magic in this analysis regardless of sex or gender, because witch has always been a gender neutral term and I will never forgive Rowling for pulling the whole witch and wizard bullshit. Now. The analysis.

TECHNOLOGY

There are no phones in Hogwarts. There are no computers in Hogwarts. There are no guns in Hogwarts. And considering that witches from other schools (Durmstrang, Beauxbatons) don’t have these as well, it’s safe to assume that this is the norm for the witch community. There HAS to be a reason for this. Instead of a plot hole, let’s think of this as an obstacle for the magic world. There are no guns, no computers, no phones in Hogwarts not because of lack of thought, but of actual impossibility.

One way or another, complicated electronics and technology don’t work. The most complicated piece of technology that I can think of in canon are the train, the Weasley’s car, and the bus. I might be missing a few things, but that’s all that stands out to me. That’s how little magical technology plays a part in the canon storyline. That’s how little technology is talked about in the universe. Which, to me, is a fucking tragedy.

Address the kind of elitist view witches have in regards to their magic, especially in comparison to muggles. We, as actual people living in the real world, have seen this kind of behaviour many times before. Refusing to acknowledge the advancements made by other countries and cultures because we perceive our own to be superior, or we view that advancement as petty and useless. Remember the people who dunked on the first photograph of a black hole because it was blurry? It’s like that, but with a bigger population who all basically have the same “muggle technology? big pass” attitude. Arthur fucking Weasley didn’t understand how a train terminal worked and part of that is ignorance and the witchy upbringing.

Witches aren’t taught to appreciate muggle technology. Or really, muggle anything. And this lack of understanding and knowledge kind of drove home the superiority complex thing which again, further discourages muggle understanding, and the cycle continues on.

That’s the ideological reason for why there’s practically no muggle technology found in the magical world. Now, what about a different reason? What if the magical world does, indeed, have technology, but in a different way than how muggles perceive technology.

Take the internet for example. We have a wide collection of knowledge that we can access with a phone and wifi. What’s the witch equivalent of that? There are printed books of course, but what about something else? The pensieve is magical technology that can store memories, which is basically home videos and photos. What about several different pensieves connected to each other? Witches can store their memories inside their pensieves, connect it to other witches, and form a network of knowledge so that anyone can essentially dunk their heads in water and live through a step-by-step process on how to make a fucking cake. That counts as technology that intrinsically ties to magic.

So in theory, witches can invent technology tailored to and for them. Medicine that seeks out magical energy to ease the pain of curses and hexes. Bottles that can be filled up with raw, unfiltered magic to be used as bombs or accelerants for other forms of magic. Blank portraits hung in witch homes, where inhabitants can magic a picture of someone onto each other’s canvases to serve as video calls. So many fucking opportunities that weren’t taken.

But why not use muggle technology? It’s already been invented. Is elitism really so prevalent that witches would rather look like fucking idiots using quills and inkwells instead of a fucking pencil? Maybe there’s a reason for that too.

Forgive me for scientific inaccuracies but let’s suppose that witch magic can materialise as energy, able to be detected on the electro-magnetic spectrum. Basically, magic has the same effect on electronics as an EMP would. It shorts out wiring, makes electronic lights flicker, fucks up complicated pieces of technology just by being in magical presence. So, by that logic, if a witch holds a phone, their magical energy would make that goddamn phone go bust. Or worse, explode. And can you imagine what that kind of energy would do to firearms? There have been cases of firearms accidentally discharging because they were dropped. What will happen if the nature and construction of firearms react negatively to fucking magic? Yeah. There’s your reason as to why people didn’t just shoot each other in the head. Complicated technology and magic don’t mix.

But the Weasley car has fairly complicated technology. So, how does that work? In comes witch inventors whose passion and job is basically finding ways to make muggle technology work with the natural witch portable always-on EMP aura. In the PJO universe, Demigods don’t use phones very often because the waves make them more easily detectable. Same concept, but a little more violent. Arthur works for the Ministry which explains why he would have access to a car that doesn’t explode to fiery bits when it comes in contact with a witch’s magic. In fact, that car probably does what muggles did when inventing guns that can fire continuously. In the gun’s case, the recoil from the first shot is used to create energy for the second shot. Not a gun person so I don’t know how to explain it in more detail, but that’s basically it.

That “harnessing recoil” thing can be applied to the car as well. Instead of being shot dead with the all natural witch EMP, the car uses that constant discharge as fuel. Which presents a different challenge for magical inventors: create technology that doesn’t clash with natural magic. One way is to use pre-existing magical tools like the pensieve and improve upon it. Another is the recoil thing, which is finding ways where the constant ambient magic doesn’t disrupt the technology in question.

This is the same reason I use for every fantasy AU I have to explain why characters don’t just shoot each other. And it works for the Harry Potter universe as well.

COMMERCE

You expect me to believe that the ONLY jobs are magical-related? Fuck that noise. There are bakers and architects and taxi drivers and teachers and authors and inventors and clerks and construction workers and hairdressers historians. Remember kids, the job itself doesn’t have to be magic, you just have to be creative with the application. There’s nothing magical about being a taxi driver. You have a vehicle, you pick people up, and you drop them off. The magic comes from how you do it.

Instead of trying to make the job magical (like Aurors, which are basically magic police officers) how about we focus instead on finding ways to apply magic to the job? Back to the taxi driver, how does a taxi driver compete with magical methods like apparition, the floo network, and straight up flight? Please remember that apparating is dangerous and that the floo network has to be connected with the Ministry to work (at least in Britain) and flight is, well, flight.

Taxi drivers in the magical world have to compete with that, so how do they do it? They can take the knight bus route, which is make travel speedy so witches can go from point a to point b relatively quick. Another is to make the ride as comfortable as possible. You have magic, pull a Tardis in the cab and make it so passengers open the door and find themselves in a goddamn hotel suite so they can relax during their commute.

Have your bakers make figures out of fondant and marshmallows that come to live as the candles are blown out. Imagine those little birthday cakes with cars and mermaids and other stuff on top. Now imagine those things coming to life as you blow out the candles. They’re like chocolate frogs without the stupid nonsensical time constraint. Can you imagine what it’ll be like if you have a cake topper that’s a car that can actually move around? Maybe zip through the air around you? Dunno bout y’all but I want that.

And how would trade between witch communities go? No matter how much you try to convince me, I refuse to fucking believe that the sickle/galleon thing is universal across ALL witching communities. Fucking impossible. So there has to be different witch currencies out there with their own exchange rate compared to the sickle/galleon system as well as their respective muggle currency in relation to where they are.

Because of the fact that muggle exchange rates will ALWAYS be present because of the numerous muggleborn and half-blood witches who don’t want to yeet an entire part of their life away just because they can levi someone’s corpus, there IS muggle trade. I refuse to fucking believe that the extent of witch and muggle commerce begins and ends with the exchange of currency. There HAS to be goods and/or services exchanged. Otherwise, how would witch banks even acquire muggle currency in the first place? Do they fucking steal it from the unsuspecting public? No, they gain muggle currency through trade.

Just because witches can make chocolate frogs and moving pictures on cards, doesn’t mean that it’s what they HAVE to make. Witches can easily make things that they can sell in the muggle world that have no magic. Notebooks, kitchen implements, etc. With magic, manufacturing these will be incredibly easy and could break the muggle economy. So I think only banks have clearance to sell witch-made mundane objects to muggles for the purpose of getting muggle currency so they can exchange that with magic currency. There are plenty of muggleborn and half-blood witches that may need muggle currency when they return to the muggle world, so the demand is reasonably high.

Basically, my point is, witch communities trade with each other because that’s what we as humans do. We find something we’re good at, find someone else who’s good at what we suck shit at doing, and we fucking trade. If, for example, British witches are good at making magical confectionery, they can then trade those confectioneries for things like self-writing quills or magical blankets that keep you at your preferred temperature. My point is that there is trade and communication between different witch communities that allow them to better their respective communities whilst simultaneously learning from others.

EDUCATION

Put aside the Hogwarts sorting thing because THAT shitshow deserves its own post. For now, we’ll just take a look at the education system itself. Particularly how the magic education system mirrors our own real world “muggle” system. We will ask and answer this question: Why do these schools exist?

To teach children how to use and control magic, obviously. But why? Why is it so important to enroll every magic user into a witching school and why is it important for these children to get their magic under control? And if learning how to control magic is so important, is tuition still necessary? While we’re at it, we also have to ask: What happens to the children who don’t get taught? Rowling can try to convince me that every witch child was brought under a magic school like Hogwarts as soon as their magic manifested all she wants but that’s fucking impossible.

You mean to tell me that there are no children who were homeschooled? You mean to tell me that there weren’t witch children who bounced from foster home to foster home so often that no matter how much they tried to be located, these children were never picked up? You mean to tell me that there weren’t any children who didn’t want to go to a strange magical boarding school? The fuck are they going to do? Arrest children for non-compliance with magic laws of a magic world that the child wants nothing to do with?

If the answer to that question is “no”, then what do they do with children who have no wish to learn anything about their magical powers? Are they excommunicated from the witch community? Do they send a witch guardian to follow the child around like an underpaid bodyguard with the added difficulty modifier of having to stay undetected? I think that in order to use magic, one must have either focus, or an extreme emotional reaction. The magic we see in Hogwarts is controlled; the students want to cast the spells they’re casting and are in the right headspace to do so. The magic we see Harry do when he traps Dudley behind glass is emotional; his magic reacts to his current mental space and altered reality because of Harry. So an untrained witch who suddenly experiences an emotional outburst could potentially cause trouble, which is why it is best to at least inform them about their situation so they can be aware.

If the answer is “yes” however, that begets the question of WHY untrained witches need to be found and contained if they can’t (or won’t) control their powers. Thankfully, canon answers this one for us with the introduction of Obscurials. Obscurials (or Obscuros but I like Obscurial better so that’s what we’ll use) are the manifestation of a witch’s energy when they repress it, whether by their own volition or by the coercion of their environment. And as we all know, Obscurials are dangerous if left unchecked, because their magic is wild and untamed and capable of causing mass destruction not only to muggles, but to witches as well. So in the interest of protecting both muggles and witches from rogue Obscurials in unfavourable environments, it’s more practical to yeet as many students into witch schools as possible. Or at least get them to a mentor who can teach them if they don’t want to go to magic boarding school.

I really, really, want to talk more about Obscurials and how/why trauma does and doesn’t make Obscurials but we’re not focusing on that today.

We’re focusing on the magic education system.

We’ve now understood and established why education young witches on their powers and the practical applications of it is so important. In order to avoid damage to both witch and muggle society, people with magical talents should be taught how to control their powers so they aren’t a danger to themselves and to others. That’s all fine and dandy. But what do the schools actually teach?

Hogwarts has a fucking crisis every damn year so it isn’t the best example but it’s all we’ve got, so let’s look at it.

We have classes about the magical creatures that exist in the world, some benign and some actively malicious. We have classes on different kinds of magic and their applications (more on this in a different essay) in day-to-day witch life. We have self-defense classes against potentially harmful entities, whether they be another witch or something else. We have classes about different forms of magical practise including but not limited to: arithmancy, divination and herbology.

With this in mind, we can infer that there are multiple kinds of magical practise that range from potion-making to cursing someone to speak only in riddles for a week. We can also infer that the magical world is fucking dangerous. There are animals that can rip you apart without a moment’s notice, and there is an actual literal fucking spell that is a straight up fucking insta-kill if it hits you. If a young witch is caught unawares and unprepared, they will likely die.

And as we’ve learned, if a witch with uncontrolled powers experiences extreme duress, their magic reacts and lashes out at anything and everything. If the witch is powerful enough, they could straight up nuke several buildings (and everyone in em) out of existence.

So, the reason magical schools exist, and the reason why young witches are pressured to attend them, is to protect both the muggle world and the magic world.

But again, Hogwarts has a fucking goddamn crisis every year so other witching cultures might handle wayward witches differently. But we’ll never know because the canon worldbuilding fucking su-

RELIGION

To be fair, witches can be a part of many religions around the world. Some might be Jewish, others Catholic, maybe there are witches who are even Wiccan or Pagan or polytheistic. All of these options are possible and plausible. We also have a few canon examples of real life and “muggle” religions practised by the characters. Fat Friar was Roman Catholic during his lifetime, and because Christmas is celebrated in canon, it’s safe to assume that there are witches who are Christian and that the magic world has at least a passing knowledge of these religions.

All of these religions are also, coincidentally, religions that normal people, that MUGGLES, are a part of. Why is that important? There are half-blood and muggleborn witches, and they might worship the same God(s) their muggle parent(s) do. But there are also pureblood witches who very likely don’t know a lick about most of these religions. There are also pureblood families who might worship their own God(s) and thus, would shun away religions that muggles also participate in. Witches have also existed for as long as humans existed. And witch history (real life witch history) is brimming with hatred and violence and distrust towards witches from normal people. From muggles. So it would make sense for witches (especially pureblood witches) to have their own religion.

The problem now, is that we literally have nothing about that supposed religion. Coupled with the fact that there are literally witches everywhere, a universal religion to witches cannot be applied. We must also consider other cultures removed from Britain where the canon takes place. There are cultures all over the world whose magical practises tie in closely with their religion. I am not an expert on theology. So for the purposes of this analysis, we will focus on the supposed “non-muggle” religion likely practised by pureblood old-timey British witches.

Not that non-pureblood witches can’t practise it, but the world moves on and the stigma against muggles is slowly dwindling. With the rise of half-blood and muggle-born witches, it’s likely that more modern religions are adopted by these new witches. So it’s safe to say that these religions practised by pure-blood families are slowly phasing out. Which would also lead to the whole “blood purity” plot point. The old, traditionalist witches want to be more selective with newer witches so they can preserve their own culture and religion. *cough* parallels *cough*

Onto possible religions that would make sense with the barebone canon universe.

How about the Deathly Hallows?

It’s a story about three brothers, the personification of Death, and the cycle of life. It’s also a story about the values represented by the different Hallows, and a warning about the importance of temperance and how easily these values could be corrupted. In the context of the magic world, temperance is something that is SORELY needed, but unfortunately never fucking seen. Let’s review.

The Elder Wand: asked for by the oldest brother, the strongest wand in existence, a symbol of power. it is strength, it is action, it is decisiveness. In relation to a real-life religion, the Elder Wand is like the flaming sword in the Bible, used as a deterrent to ward away any who would dare try to step inside Paradise. In the HP universe, the Elder Wand can easily be seen as protection from evil, as a way for a witch to protect themselves and the people they hold dear to their hearts. As the strongest wand in existence, the wielder would have immeasurable power and of course, with great power comes great temptation. Temptation which the First Brother in the story succumbed to, and is thus met an untimely and gruesome end. It is a moral about how power in the wrong hands leads to an unfortunate end, and how witches should be proud of their gifts, but they should never be arrogant about it. Homeboi would have lived if he kept his mouth shut about having the most powerful wand in existence.

The Resurrection Stone: asked for by the second brother, a way to bring the dead from their graves, a memory and love for the past. it is grief, it is remembrance, it is guidance. There are several religions around the world that place emphasis on respecting and honouring the dead like Dia de Los Muertos. When we lose someone, especially someone important to us, we mourn, we grieve, we feel as though the world is ending. We are lost. The Stone offers consolation, an opportunity to see those we have lost so that we might move on. It’s a way for us to look back at the past, at the people we have lost, parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors, and ask for their guidance and wisdom. But it’s also a call for us not to stare, not to linger, and not to miss the past so much that we lose sight of the present. The second brother did not understand that moral, and so he misused the stone, preferring to live in the past rather than cherish the life he has which led to his demise.

The Invisibility Cloak: asked for by the third brother, something that could elude Death yet was ultimately surrendered, a reminder that life is short and fleeting. it is longevity, it is acceptance, it is sacrifice. Again, I’m not a theological expert and thus, failed to find a fitting real world religion to compare this particular section, but maybe we can look to nature instead. Death comes for all of us. It’s an unfortunate truth. It takes our family, it takes our friends, and it will inevitably take us. As the third and final brother, the story of the Cloak teaches us to accept that inevitability, and to live life to the fullest because of it. The third brother did not keep the Cloak for himself, he gave it to his son, so that his son may also live a long and fulfilling life. The third brother tried to pave the way for those that will come after him, and that’s ultimately what the Cloak tries to teach. One must try to live life with as few regrets as possible, so that when the time comes, one can pass the Cloak to someone else, pass down knowledge and experience and love, and greet Death as an old friend.

The three stories of the Deathly Hallows are fundamentally good. When you have Power, don’t abuse it. It is important to love and cherish the past, but you must live in the present. Death is inevitable, so make the most out of your time while you have it. At its core, the Deathly Hallows would make a good religion, especially for witches.

And of course, the bit about how one becomes the Master of Death should they come into possession of all three Hallows. In a sense, becoming the Master of Death is finally and wholeheartedly understanding the meaning and lessons the Three Hallows are trying to teach. Accepting responsibility for one’s powers and not abusing it, learning from and cherishing the past but living in the present, and of course doing your best to pave the road for those that will come after you. Understanding these three fundamental things preserves the values exemplified by the Three Witch Brothers and is basically Enlightenment for this supposed religion. All of this essentially boils down to “appreciate life and don’t be a dick” which is a good code to live by.

But, like any other religion, these tenets and values can easily be corrupted and perverted. Ancient pureblood families can so easily twist these morals to benefit them and their agenda. The First story can be interpreted as the Brother being too weak to be worthy of the Wand. The love shown in the Second story can be viewed as weakness. The Third Brother giving the cloak to his son in the third story can be used to dissuade altruism.

Religion in real life is complicated. Religion in a fictional universe can be complicated too. And this is only one small region of the universe. Who knows what kind of stories and lore and possible religions other parts of the world may have.

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In conclusion, I spent four (almost five) goddamn hours of my one human life tilling at land that isn’t fucking arable, but I have a fucking shovel and I’m prepared to dig deeper into this godsforsaken fandom. I was given a skeleton made of wet tissue paper and I turned that shit into a skeleton made of sturdier materials that will support the weight of heavier ideas. Ideas like what actual combat between two witches who can mold reality like fucking play-doh would look like. You think it’s the boring glorified laser tag team battle we get in the movies? Fuck that, I’m going to give you more. Want an analysis on the Hogwarts Houses that isn’t “good, bad, smart, miscellaneous”? It’s on its fucking way.

This is just bare fucking bones. I’ll be writing more essays in the future and I’m bringing in the heavy shit. So go get comfortable because I’m not done picking this world apart yet.

[darksiders-scenarios]

Hc about Azrael and the horsemen having a human who is albino? (The purple eyes are gorgeous but the red ones are cool as hell)

(sweats profusely) My answer is similar to the Heterochromia one - how boring! Please forgive any inaccuracies. 

At first, the Horsemen would be curious about your condition- but they would be quickly informed about albinism, if not already. With regards to your appearance as a whole, I wouldn't think that the Horsemen or Azrael would linger on it as much as the risks associated with albinism.

The Horsemen might initially prefer if you didn't accompany them during their missions. They would be concerned about your well-being and likely leave you with the Makers or Azrael himself for safeguarding. You would be appropriately disgruntled. You will be given protector gear even though they would still be reluctant to take you to places with high exposure to sunlight (let alone travel anywhere with them)- anything to protect you from the merest exposure to radiation.

Fury might consider your condition a weakness at first, a liability that would stall her, however, she would eventually warm up to you and treat you as the respected companion and friend that you would no doubt be, 

Azrael would be the most knowledgeable in the arts of healing and protective spells, and you would feel significantly less restricted in his company. He would be most informed about your lifestyle adjustments and support you accordingly, followed by Death. 

Their attitudes would alter the deeper they bond with you, noticing your features as beautiful and to be cherished - how your alabaster skin glows almost ethereal ivory under the midsummer skies, the way your eyes brim like precious ruby gems when softened with warmth or blazing a fierce crimson when passionate. Your eyes, searing as the lethal purple of the evening skies heralding an incoming hurricane, or the gentle softness of Lavandula when speaking in affectionate tones reserved only for them. 

Azrael would likely be the most open in his affection for you soonest, followed by Strife, War, then Death, and Fury (in my most humble merchant opinion)