#so they word replaced the names with fandom names and they read that shit easily

[notedchampagne]

last thought before i sleep i Do fear that reading nothing but fanfiction for 4 years when i was 14-18 severely stunted my brain. this is not to say that fanfiction is bad: theres fanfics that are extremely well written, which are markers of any good authors out there- but since it relies so heavily on building off of a foundation and reforming the same work over and over they tend to follow a certain flow and pattern in plot, the way characters interact, the way dialogue and action intersect, etc etc. ive been trying to read more books now but i still find it easier to read through fanfic because instinctively, i know what to expect going forward because of my existing knowledge of the characters and the fanon. you have to wash out your brain and prepare to engage anew when youre reading a new book, which takes more effort the longer youre away from it. but thats just me and i can write a fucking paper on the ways fic marketing has its own popular checks and standards as well

[archived-kin]

local cashless god nearly loses you your job (but you’re okay with it)

note from kin: *throws this at you* please take it i’ ve been stuck on the blasted thing for hours (peepaw i promise i’ll write you something where you’re better characterised another day)

fandom: genshin impact

character(s): gn!reader, zhongli, xingqiu

pairing(s): zhongli/reader

warning(s): none! (though i do want to give a heads up for some out of character stuff since i started this when i still wasn’t too familiar with the liyue characters)

genre: fluff

“How many copies of Encyclopaedia of Liyue does one man need?”

You shush Xingqiu as the man just across the shop continues to browse at his leisure, golden eyes furrowed in concentration as he trails his gloved fingers across the books’ spines. “Maybe he’s here to buy something else this time! You never know.”

“He’s bought the exact same book seven times in a row now,” Your little brother insists, pulling his nose out of his novel for once to regard the tall figure drifting listlessly from one end of the shop to the other. “I doubt he’s going to break the cycle now.”

“He could be a collector,” You suggest, dropping your voice slightly when the man’s eyes flicker over to you briefly. “This shop’s older than us - maybe it has a bunch of different editions that he wants to get.”

“Well, wouldn’t it make sense for him to find all the different editions and then buy them all at once?” Xingqiu whispers in reply, tapping restlessly at the countertop with one hand. “Then he wouldn’t have to stop by every day and charm you into paying for him.”

You don’t have a reasonable argument for that, so you don’t reply. Xingqiu really is too smart for his own good sometimes.

The man - who you can see is now flicking curiously through a copy of The Founder of Diabolism - isn’t someone you know particularly well, but he’s visited the bookshop where you work enough times that you do know the essential facts: his name is Zhongli, he likes drinking tea, and he’s broke. In every sense of the word.

That last point is quite the source of exasperation on your part. No matter how many times you remind him as he leaves, he never fails to turn up with a completely empty Mora pouch the next time you see him. At first it hadn’t been so much of a problem - he’d just come in, browse the books, start a little small talk with you, then leave. But then he’d actually started wanting to buy the books, and buying usually involves money - something that Zhongli seems to forget exists.

If it had been any other ridiculously handsome guy, you might have sent them packing, but there’s something about the lost look on Zhongli’s face when you ask him for his payment and he realises that he has no way of giving you one that never fails to make you get out your own Mora pouch and suggest that you foot the bill for him instead. Zhongli always tries to refuse your offer, but, in kind, you always insist. You have no idea why he has such an affinity for that particular book, but the way he smiles at you as you as you drop your own coins into the payment pouch is more than enough to make up for the money you lose. It’s not like you actually need the funds, anyway, considering who your father is.

Today, however, Zhongli has neglected the shelf of encyclopaedias in favour of drifting over to the Xianxia section. You’re not sure what’s spurred this change in interest, but maybe it’s the little toy dragon you’ve set on top of the shelf? Zhongli seems rather enamoured by it - he keeps glancing up at it while he reads.

Speaking of the book that he’s skimmming through, it’s a rather odd choice on his behalf. You haven’t gotten the opportunity to read it yourself, busy as you usually are between your work shifts, adventurer’s guild commissions, and making sure your little brother doesn’t get himself into trouble by wandering directly into a gang of hilichurls in the middle of reading a book again. You’re pretty sure Xingqiu has read it at some point, though - to be honest, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already read every book in this shop several times over. (Part of you wonders if the only reason he’s so supportive of you venturing into the world and taking this job is because he gets to sit with you and read all the books he likes during your shifts.)

You don’t remember all the details he’d spewed off to you over the week or so he spent reading it, but you vaguely remember him crying into your sleeve about something to do with trees and lanterns and hugs. You’re also pretty sure that it got kind of… what’s the word? Risqué? Adult? Well, whatever word you use to describe it, it doesn’t really seem like the sort of thing that someone like Zhongli would read. Then again, you wouldn’t have ever expected your innocent gentleman of a little brother to read something like that, either.

“At least he seems to have good taste in fiction,” Xingqiu sighs as Zhongli continues to skim over the first few pages, looking rather intrigued. “I suppose that’s about as much as I can ask for…”

“He seems pretty invested,” You observe. “Reckon he’s going to buy it?”

Xingqiu shakes his head. “No. He’s going to come up here and realise he’s forgotten all his Mora again, and then you’re going to end up buying it for him again because you have a giant crush—”

You shove him in the shoulder so hard that he falls off his stool. “Oh, shut up.”

Xingqiu quickly catches himself on the side of the table and shoots you a glare, fumbling to retrieve the book that he’s accidentally dropped in the process. “Hey! This book doesn’t belong to us, you know.”

“It’s one book, A-Qiu,” You sigh as he turns away from you, clutching the book to his chest like it’s some precious child that you’re threatening to kidnap. “Mr Yao isn’t going to condemn you if it gets a little dusty.”

“Books should be treated with respect,” Xingqiu sniffs, turning up his nose at you like some nobleman - which he technically could be considered, now that you think about it. “You of all people should know that.”

“Just because I work at a bookshop doesn’t mean I think they’re Morax’s gift to man like you do,” You snort, noting in the corner of your eye that Zhongli’s eyes had flickered over to you briefly as you spoke. “Sure, books are neat, but they’re not holy.”

“‘Books are neat?’” Xingqiu repeats disbelievingly. “Of all the words to—”

“Excuse me.”

Both you and Xingqiu jump in startled surprise - neither of you had noticed Zhongli approach the front desk. You gather yourself quickly and smile at him as he quietly sets the book on top of the counter and pushes it towards you with a small nod.

“Will that be all?” You ask, reaching for one of the complimentary bamboo bookmarks that you’re obligated to give out with every purchase. You’re pretty sure that Zhongli has more than enough at this point, but you don’t want to risk getting into hot water with Mr Yao for not doing it.

Zhongli takes the bamboo bookmark with a small smile. “Yes, thank you.”

You nod and flick the book open to check the price label on the inside of the cover. “Alright, that’ll be… 5000 Mora, please.”

Xingqiu mutters something resignedly under his breath as Zhongli reaches into his pocket and fumbles about for a moment, clearly not particularly hopeful that the man has actually brought his money with him today. Your little brother, as usual, is perfectly correct in his intuition; after a second of slightly embarrassed silence, Zhongli pulls his hand out of his pocket with nothing in it.

“My apologies,” He sighs, bowing his head in shame. “I’ve forgotten my money pouch again.”

“I knew it,” Xingqiu whispers.

“A-Qiu, shut up,” You hiss back, then turn back to Zhongli, your smile back in place. “No worries, I’ll buy it for you.”

His brows pinch together slightly in the smallest of frowns. “No, no, you shouldn’t. You’ve already spent so much money on me…”

“It’s no big deal!” You assure him brightly, already reaching into your lapels to find your coin pouch. “You seemed to be really into it earlier, so it’d be a shame if you couldn’t keep it, right?”

Zhongli’s frown deepens. “Even so...”

“You could always pay back with something else,” Xingqiu chimes in, the exasperated look on his face replaced with a shit-eating grin that you know all too well. Before you can step in and shove him into the cabinet or something to shut him up, though, he continues, turning to you in a parody of innocence, “What do you say? Mr Zhongli clearly has some time on his hands…”

You narrow your eyes at him, not liking what he’s implying with that grin. “I’m still on shift, A-Qiu, I can’t just up and leave. Mr Yao would probably kill me.”

“You’ve been working shifts for two weeks straight,” He counters, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I can mind the shop for a long enough for you to take a walk. He won’t notice a thing.”

“You won’t ‘mind the shop’, you’ll just sit there and read,” You shake your head and tussle his hair with a flippant hand. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you eyeing up those antiques at the back.”

He looks affronted. “Are you accusing me of stealing intent?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” You explain patiently. “I’m just saying that your moral compass is very easily diverted when it comes to books.”

“If I may,” Zhongli begins, cutting off Xingqiu’s indignant spluttering. “I do not mind the idea.”

You turn to look at him in shock, only to see that his golden eyes are already fixed intently on you. He has the sort of gaze that makes you feel as if he’s seeing right through you, as if all of your faults and flaws and wishes and dreams are laid out bare for him to examine at his leisure - but Zhongli doesn’t look at you with any judgement. In fact, if you hope hard enough, you think that there might be some affection in his eyes.

“W-well, I—” You glance quickly back at Xingqiu, who pointedly refuses to help you, evidently offended by the moral compass comment. “I- I’d love to, honestly, but I need to finish my shift…”

“This young gentleman has already volunteered to take care of that for you,” Zhongli counters. There’s a strange intensity to the way he’s looking at you now - hope? Determination? “I know of a quiet spot just outside the harbour. If you would…?”

You glance at Xingqiu, who, despite still looking a little miffed, gives you a begrudging nod. After another moment of thought, you turn back to Zhongli, who gazes expectantly back at you.

“I’d love to go for a walk,” You say, standing up. “Lead the way.”

He smiles then, holding the door-curtain open for you to exit first. You pause briefly to wave a goodbye to Xingqiu, who pointedly sticks his nose in his book and pretends not to see it.

The two of you walk in silence for ten minutes or so, with him in the lead and you occasionally glancing behind you to make sure Xingqiu hasn’t already set the bookshop on fire or something. Zhongli walks rather more quickly than you’re used to, mostly because you usually walk with Xingqiu, who has refused to grow more than half an inch in the last three years and still has legs substantially shorter than yours. Zhongli seems to notice you lagging behind a little after a minute or so, slowing down his pace slightly so that the two of you can walk side by side properly.

“The breeze is pleasant this time of year,” Zhongli comments as the two of you cross the bridge to the mainland and begin to leave the harbour. “Particularly as the sun is going down.”

“I’ll have to get out to see the sunset more often, then,” You sigh. The amount of people milling about around you thins out the further the two of you walk from the harbour and along a grass-lined path, until the two of you are alone.

“I’d be happy to escort you,” He says, glancing quickly back at you, then snapping his head forward again. “...that is, if you’d like me to.”

You’re glad he isn’t looking at you, because you’re pretty sure that the look on your face is smitten to an absolutely ridiculous degree. It takes everything in you not to reach forward and grab Zhongli’s hand right then and there, but you restrain yourself just in time, knowing full well that initiating sudden physical contact with someone that you still don’t know all too well is incredibly rude.

“Of course I would,” You answer. “Just name a time and a place.”

He looks at you again, a gentle smile curving at his lips. “I’ll be sure to.”

The walk takes the two of you through a grove of trees dappled by the rich afternoon light. Zhongli speaks at length about the various different species that you pass; part of you is listening attentively, but the other part of you is far too distracted by the elegance of his quiet footsteps and the way the sunlight glows softly at the edges of his hair to register the information.

Leaves and branches crunch underfoot as Zhongli finally leads you out of the trees and out onto a quiet spot on the mountainside overlooking the harbour. He sits down on the ledge, legs dangling precariously over the edge, and you follow suit, quietly settling down beside him, leaving about two inches’ space between the two of you. Zhongli doesn’t say anything for a minute or so; he’s absorbed in watching the city below him, golden eyes darting back and forth as he watches the tiny figures of the people bustle about the streets.

You notice that he’s still holding the book you bought him earlier, keeping it set carefully in his lap with both hands placed firmly on top of it, as if he thinks it might slip out of his grasp and off the mountain if he isn’t careful.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” You begin, catching his attention. He turns to look at you, and the sudden sight of his content expression, framed by the sprawling fields and trees in the distance behind him and the light casting his features into sharp relief, knocks all the air from your lungs for a moment. You very nearly choke on your words, but manage to gather yourself in time to ask, “Why the sudden change in interest?”

He cocks his head ever so lightly to the side in confusion, then realises what you’re referring. “Ah - the book? I just wanted a change of pace, really.”

You nod in understanding. “I see. A-Qiu’s read that one. He says it’s one of his favourites.”

“Is A-Qiu the young gentleman accompanying you in the bookshop?”

“Yup.” You sigh, leaning back and kicking your legs slightly, noticing with some fascination that you can faintly see yourself reflected on the water far beneath you. “Xingqiu. He’s my little brother.”

If you squint hard enough, you can see Zhongli’s reflection in the water as well. He’s shifting slightly - is he moving closer to you? You can’t quite tell from the reflection alone, and you’re not about to risk looking at him. Zhongli is a little like the sun in that respect: warming you indirectly with his presence, but damn near blinding (and incredibly flustering) to look directly at or make eye contact with. He’s almost ethereal-looking - as if he isn’t quite of this world.

“He seems a well-intentioned boy,” Zhongli comments quietly.

You respond with a light-hearted scoff. “I’m not too sure about that. He’s good at hiding it behind a book and all those airs and graces, but he’s always annoying me.”

“Is that not what younger siblings are for?” He counters, eyes twinkling slightly as you laugh in reply.

“I guess they are, huh?” You shake your head, a grin continuing to play on your lips as you finally turn to look back at him. Somehow the blinding beauty of before feels as if it’s mellowed out, become softer around the edges - like a surging river calming to a trickling stream.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a while. The late afternoon breeze picks up a little, and Zhongli’s hair dances about on the air, twisting and curling in swirls as if the very wind is playing with it. You’re so occupied by (subtly) staring at him that the small movement of him lifting a hand to adjust his tie makes you jolt slightly on the spot.

You can tell that he’s noticed as well, so you hurry to start a conversation before he can bring it up. “So… what’s the fascination with Yi Xichen?”

“...ah.” You might be imagining it, but you think you can see a faint flush forming over his cheeks. “The encyclopaedias?”

“What else?” You swing your legs back and forth restlessly, leaning forward and resting your cheek in your hand. “You must have at least fifteen copies by now. Are you collecting them or something?”

“Well, no...” He glances away from you, intertwining his fingers. “I suppose I’m not particularly good at ‘acting natural’, am I?”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Zhongli fiddles slightly with the seam of his glove, looking uncharacteristically bashful. “I have no need for encyclopaedias, but after the first few days, I found that I had fallen into the routine of selecting one every time I visited.”

“Why did you visit, then?” You ask.

He glances quickly at you, then back down at the water. He doesn’t answer at first, as if mulling over what to say, until finally, he replies, “...I suppose I just wanted to see you.”

It takes you a good moment to fully process what he’s just said to you. Once you do, though, your entire body implode. Well, it feels it does, anyway.

“I— you— me— huh?” is all you manage to get out at first, hands dancing around in front of you like two birds trying to escape from a net, as if they’re trying to physically pluck some words to say from the air. It’s a bad habit you’ve always had, throwing your hands about when you’re stressed; it drives you mad sometimes, but you can’t stop yourself.

Zhongli closes his eyes and bows his head, and there’s no mistaking it - his cheeks are definitely pinker than usual. “Is that alright?”

You nearly choke on air, but you force yourself to take a deep breath instead, fanning yourself briefly with one hand. Getting flustered heats you up surprisingly quickly. “Y-yeah! Of course it’s okay.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles a little bashfully, leaning forward and tilting his head slightly to look at you. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but, if it’s alright… could I see you more often after today as well?

The sheer adrenaline rushing through you is so intense that you’re surprised that you haven’t busted a blood vessel yet. Actually, as far as you know, you might as well have - you’re far too focused on the man in front of you and his… confession? Is this a confession? You’ve read romance novels, sure, but is that how it works in real life as well? What are you supposed to do?

Your head is so filled with pure chaos that you just know that, if you speak, you’re going to say something completely inane and stupid. So, instead, you reach forward, and take his hand in your slightly shaky one.

He looks down at your intertwined fingers with mild surprise for a moment, then raises his gaze to you once more, eyes lighting up slightly. “...I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

You nod quietly, hesitantly shuffling closer to him. He squeezes your hand almost experimentally, then glances quickly back up at you as if trying to gauge your reaction. You offer him a smile; he returns it wholeheartedly.

You’re sure that you’ll have missed the rest of your shift by now, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care. Zhongli doesn’t let go of your hand, and you in turn do not move away from him - if anything, you move closer, leaning slightly into his side. He doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t object.

The sun is slowly beginning its descent, staining the sky a pale orange that reflects from the waters below you. It seems that the two of you will be seeing that sunset together a lot sooner than you had anticipated.

[fallen-gravity]

Intellectual Adequacy

Stan hates to start any unnecessary conflict, especially when there’s a very real chance that Ford will be moving to California next year, but he knows deep down that if they don’t talk about this now then he’ll never have the courage to bring it up again.

“Wait,” Stan shouts to Ford, and he stops dead in his tracks.

~~

Notes: In which one little plot bunny that was preventing me from getting any work done becomes its own rabbit hole.

I genuinely cannot believe that in the six-seven years I've been in this fandom, I've never tried my hand at the fix-it-fic where Stan and Ford just talk it out as teenagers, just like they should've in canon. I've seen a lot of different approaches, but I feel like I've yet to see one that tackles it from the perspective of Stan's own battle with his self-worth, rather than the actions he or Ford have already taken.

AO3

Stan hates the principal’s office more than anywhere else in the world.

He swears, he’s called down every other week for something that’s not even his fault. He punched Crampelter in the nose for harassing some poor freshman? Principal’s office. He talks back to a teacher calling his classmate stupid for forgetting an “obvious” geometry equation? Principal’s office. He accidentally drops his pencil during an exam and bends over to pick it up? He must be cheating. Principal’s office.

If you asked him, the whole idea of sending kids to the principal’s office is pointless to begin with. Oh, you did something bad, and now we’re gonna make the big man in charge tell your mommy and daddy? How old do these people think they are?

Stan wishes he could say that this time is okay because they’re not even talking to him. They’re talking up a storm to Ford in there about another college scholarship and all the reasons why he and he alone would be the perfect candidate for some random school all the way out in California

But it’s not okay, because the longer Stan sits in the dumb waiting room the more he’s starting to feel like chopped liver. They’ve been in there for at least five minutes with no sign of stopping anytime soon, but every time Stan asks the secretary if he can just go back to class already she dismisses him with a wave of her hand and it’ll be your turn soon, sit back down.

He’s thinking of just sneaking out the next time the secretary buries her nose back into her magazine. It’s simple: just wait for her to pull it out from her desk, sneak by as quick as he can, and slip out the door and back to class before she can even notice he’s gone.

He stands from his chair, pretending to stretch and preparing to execute, but freezes solid when he hears his name being spoken from within the principal’s office.

“…What about our little free spirit Stanley?”

It’s Ma, and whatever it is they’re talking about in there, she isn’t happy about it. Frowning, Stan glances over at the secretary to make sure that she isn’t staring at him, and presses his ear to the office door to listen to their conversation more carefully.

The principal laughs in response. “That clown? At this rate he’ll be lucky if he graduates high school”

Stan’s taken aback by the harsh choice of words, but if he knows Ford, then he won’t just sit there and let the principal talk about him like that. He presses his ear further into the door, waiting for Ford to interrupt the principal’s rambling about how he’s never going to amount to anything with you just don’t know him like I do, or something along those lines, but it never comes.

Not a single interjection that…anything he’s saying is wrong. Not from Pa, not from Ford….and not even from Ma.

They don’t…all really believe that, right?

There has to be something else he’s missing. He bets they’re defending his honor right now, and the reason they’re not making a big scene about it is because they’re in public.

Yeah.

He’s got nothing to worry about.

He peeks into the window, expecting to see Ma glaring daggers into the principal, or Ford silently cursing him out behind his back, but what he’s met with is so much worse. Ma and Pa are exchanging warm smiles, and Ford is frantically shaking hands with the principal, beaming brighter than Stan’s ever seen in his entire life.

Matter of fact, Stan’s not sure he’s ever seen any of them look so happy in his entire life.

He’s worthless, he’ll never go anywhere, and they’re all smiling about it.

Stan’s heart drops to his stomach, and he slides to the floor to join it.

Is this some kind of cruel joke? Were they expecting him to listen in on their conversation? Is this their cruel workaround of telling him he’ll never amount to shit?

He sighs.

He stays there on the cold tiled floor for what feels like hours, contemplating all the times he’s been called dumb, or stupid, or a terrible influence on his brother. All of those times when he could brush it off just because it was coming from someone he didn’t care about.

But worthless?

Behind his back, spoken directly to people he loves, and they won’t even bother to defend him?

That one’s new, and if Stan is going to be completely honest with himself, it’s much harder to brush off his shoulders than all those other times.

Stan doesn’t even notice the office door opening until it nearly smacks him in the back of his head. He quickly jumps to his feet and brushes himself off, pretending the best that he can that he wasn’t just eavesdropping on them for the past ten minutes.

“Stanley!” Ford comes bursting out of the room, his grin threatening to split his face in two. “I just received the most incredible news! The admissions team at West Coast Tech heard about my science fair project, and-”

The beam suddenly slips from his face, replaced with some sort of mix of confusion and concern. “Is...Something wrong?”

Stan rubs at his eyes to make sure he hadn’t started tearing up without realizing it, but no, his eyes are bone dry.

Curse Ford’s stupid ability to read his mind.

Stan covers up the gesture of rubbing at his eyes with a yawn, and stretches his arms in the air. “Nothing except you taking forever in there” he flashes a fake smile easily. “Talk about a blabbermouth, am I right?” Stan gestures towards the principal with his thumb.

Ford laughs, and returns his gaze to the pamphlet in his hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think he’s so bad”

Stan opens his mouth to quip back, but Ford doesn’t seem to be paying much attention anymore. He’s just staring at that dumb pamphlet, his grin slowly but surely returning to his face again.

Instead, Stan shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, turning his gaze to the floor. “Yeah, I guess you’re right”

~~~

Stan feels like he’s in a haze for the rest of the day. Even when he tries to focus on class to take his mind off of things and redirect it on anything else, he can’t get his mind to stick.  Not even final period gym class can save him, which is really saying something, because the gymnasium is usually the one place where he thrives.

Worthless.

The word won’t stop bouncing around in his skull, hitting him where he’s most sensitive.

It doesn’t help a thing that Ford is dead silent on their walk home from school. He’s usually chatting up a storm to Stan about stuff he doesn’t really understand, and under normal circumstances Stan can’t wait to get home so he can bury his head in his pillow and drown out the sound of Ford’s babbling.

But today he’s not even looking in Stan’s direction, just burying his nose in the West Coast Tech brochure with stars in his eyes, and now Stan wants nothing more than to hear Ford babbling on about his advanced physics classes.

It’s almost insulting.

Stan sighs, and lightly taps on Ford’s shoulder to catch his attention. “Can we talk?”

“Hmm?” Ford blinks, like he needs a few moments to readjust to reality. “Oh! Of course. I was actually planning on asking you the same thing” he places the brochure in his pocket. “Same place as always?”

Stan nods. “Same place as always”.

It’s a quick change of direction and a shortcut to the beach before they find themselves on their old swing set. By now they’re both too heavy to use it properly without a risk of snapping it, but they still find it’s a good place to go when they just need to get away and talk.

“You’re not really thinking of going to that stuffy old school, are you?” Stan asks as soon as Ford sits on the swing beside him. “They’ve gotta be crazy if they think four more years of essays and exams are better lookin’ than tanned babes and gold chains. We’re so close to finishing up the Stan-O-War. Soon as graduation rolls around we’re outta here, just like we always promised”.

Ford chuckles. “That is a nice thought, but…” he pulls the brochure out of his pocket again, and unfolds it for Stan to see. “You have to understand that I can’t just pass up an opportunity like this. Maybe I don’t need a degree from any old state school, but this is West Coast Tech we’re talking about!” he beams, the stars returning to his eyes. “They’ve got cutting edge technology and multidimensional paradigm theory”

Stan rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but admit to himself it’s nice to have his brother back again after an entire day of radio silence.

“Beep boop, giant nerd robot oncoming” Stan punches Ford in the arm.

Ford’s grin only widens. “I figured you’d say that, but it’s too late to change my mind. The head of admissions already flew in this morning, and with my go-ahead they’re going to check out my science fair project later tonight and let me know then and there if they want me at their school”

“Well that seems kind of harsh” Stan quips. “What if they say no?”

Ford shrugs. “Well, then it’s like you said. If they don’t want me, you and I sail off on the Stan-O War and never look back”.

Stan frowns at the strong emphasis on if. He really thinks he’s going to get this, doesn’t he? Stan can’t exactly blame him when he’s been the reigning valedictorian of their class every year since they were kids.

“And if they say yes?”

Ford grins. “Well, then you better visit me on the other side of the country” he punches Stan in the shoulder, and stands to his feet without saying another word.

Stan can’t bring himself to join him. He knows that Ford didn’t mean anything by it, but he can’t help feel wounded by his brother’s implication that while he’s off in California having the time of his life, Stan’s still gonna be stuck living with their parents in New Jersey.

It’s just like their principal said. He’ll never amount to anything anyway, so why wouldn’t he stay in New Jersey? Where else would a worthless piece of shit like him end up?

Stan shifts on his swing and watches as Ford walks away, and he can’t help but wonder just how much of the principal’s tangent that Ford believed.

All of it?

Some of it?

Had Ford even been listening to what he said at all?

As he continues to watch his brother walk away, he can’t help the feeling in his gut that he has to know. He hates to start any unnecessary conflict, especially when there’s a very real chance that Ford will be moving to California next year, but Stan knows deep down that if they don’t talk about this now then he’ll never have the courage to bring it up again.

“Wait,” Stan shouts to Ford, and he stops dead in his tracks.

“Yeah?” Ford says, turning around to face him. Stan suddenly finds himself very aware of his heart loudly pounding against his chest, but he forces himself to squash that down. He’s never felt shy or anxious about asking his brother anything, and he sure as hell isn’t letting that start now.

“You don’t…uh,” he swallows. “You don’t think I’m…worthless, do you?”

Ford looks appalled. He neatly folds the brochure back into his pocket and starts walking- no, jogging, almost sprinting back to the swing set. He pauses in front of the empty swing beside Stan for a moment, like he’s debating whether he should sit down or not, but eventually he shakes his head and sits down anyway.

“What on earth makes you say that?”  There’s a hint of anger to his tone, but Stan’s not entirely convinced it’s directed at him. “Why would I think you’re worthless? You’re my twin brother! What could’ve possibly put the idea in your head that I thought that?”

There’s a tiny voice in the back of his head screaming at him to back out, brush it off with a joke and have this conversation later, but there’s an even louder voice shouting at him that it needs to be had now.

Stan sighs. “I…overheard everything in the principal’s office today”

Ford blinks, like he doesn’t understand a word that Stan just said. “About…West Coast Tech? Is this because you’re afraid that I’ll get in, but you know you won’t because you’re not even interested in applying anyway, but you know you’re going to miss me, and you’re not sure if you can handle-”

“About me, Sixer!” Stan shouts, and tries his damn hardest to ignore the waver in his voice. “He practically called me a useless piece of shit directly to Ma and Pa and neither of them said a word about it!” He scrubs his hands down his face because he’s not choking up, not over something so pointless and stupid. “You’re going to travel the world and become the smartest person the scientific community has ever seen, or whatever, but me? Apparently I’ll always be stuck here in New Jersey to pick up after everyone else’s messes, because that’s all I’m ever good for”

Stan buries his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to blow up, and he certainly hadn’t meant to direct his anger at Ford, but he just feels so hopeless, and he’s the only one around who’s willing to listen. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ford returned with anger of his own, or told him off for being selfish, or even if he just decided to stand up and walk away from him for being such an embarrassment.

The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Stan is so convinced that he must’ve driven Ford away that when he feels a hand on his shoulder he nearly jumps a mile out of his skin. When he finally pulls his hands out of his face to meet Ford’s eyes, his face is flushed pink and he looks…embarrassed.

“Stan, I had no idea, I…” he awkwardly pulls his hand away and grips tightly to the chain of his swing. Stan can see Ford’s face shifting through about a dozen different emotions at once. “I…must’ve been too focused on everything else to realize he was saying those things about you.” He shakes his head. “I know it’s not an excuse, but…” he sighs. “I’m sorry”

There’s another bout of silence between them. Stan’s half-expecting that to be the end of it, and for Ford to walk away without another word.  

But Ford breaks the silence with a sigh, and when Stan glances over at him he’s staring down at the ground.

“If it’s any consolation...you’re much smarter than me in a lot more places than you realize”

Okay, now Stan has to laugh. “Okay, now you’re being too nice to me. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better”

“I’m serious!” Ford’s cheeks flush pink again, and he adjusts his glasses before returning his gaze towards Stan. “There’s actually been a fascinating number of studies about intelligence lately, and, well…” Ford’s face is turning redder by the minute, Stan swears. “It turns out that…there’s more than one type”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You’re losing me here, Sixer”

“Well, you see, I thrive in academic intelligence. Math, science, history, you know, school stuff. That’s the most commonly known type of intelligence because a lot of our formative years are based on it”

Stan doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrow even further.

“But,” Ford continues quickly, “They’ve also made discoveries about the existence of social intelligence”

“Social?” Stan blinks, suddenly finding himself significantly more interested. “You mean like talking to people and stuff?”

Ford nods. “Precisely. They say people with high social intelligence are much better at picking up on social cues, and can make friends with others much easier than those with lower social intelligence.” Ford kicks at the sand. “The reason social intelligence hasn’t been recognized is because it’s often mistaken for having a friendly personality”.  His face flushes pink again, like he’s afraid he said the wrong thing. “Not that a person can’t have both, but…”

Stan smirks, nudging at Ford with his elbow. “Stanford Pines, are you calling your good-for-nothing brother intelligent?” He teases, but can’t help the genuine smile creeping to his face.

“Think about it!” Ford throws an arm into the air, the other one tightly gripped on the swing to prevent himself from falling off. “Every time Ma and Pa leave us in charge of the shop so they can go to Atlantic City for the weekend, who’s the one bringing in all the customers? Who’s the one selling out our daily stock less than two hours after we’re open? You are, Stan, just by being yourself. You know how to persuade people into buying our stock at ten times the listed price.”

“You can’t learn that from twelve years of public school. They can try to teach you, but at the end of the day it’s all about your ability to connect with people” Ford rubs at his arm. “I’ve tried teaching myself those kinds of tricks for years, but at the end of the day…” he shakes his head. “I’ve never been able to catch up.” He smiles. “I raise my white flag to you, Stan. You’ve outsmarted the smartest brother in the world”

Stan chuckles. “Try telling that to Principal Comb-over. He hears you saying the so-called dumbest clown in the entire school system is smarter than you and he’s going to cart you away to the loony bin”

Ford laughs. “You know, now that I think about it, there may actually be a way to tell him off for what he said about you and get away with it scott-free”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? How so?”

Ford smirks. “I think you should try to graduate out of spite”

Stan’s not sure he follows. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean, think about it” Ford stands from his swing and begins to pace back and forth. “The principal called both of us down even though he only wanted to speak to me, and then he talked shit about you even though he knew you were sitting right outside his door?” he pauses in his pacing. “Stan, he knew that you could hear him. Maybe he didn’t intend for you to listen in when he was talking to Ma and Pa about my scholarship opportunity, but he knew you’d be listening the moment you were brought up in the conversation”

That’s…true. Stan was just about to sneak out before he heard them say his name.

“He’s expecting you to fail, and he wants to put it in everyone else’s head too. He thinks it’s the easy way out, because if you choose to fail out on your own than he doesn’t have to take responsibility for being such a shitty educator. It gives him the chance to say look how he didn’t even try instead of look at how we failed him.”

“But if you proved him wrong? Imagine the look on his face when he has to be the one to place that diploma in your hand. Imagine him having to look you dead in the eyes and tell you he’s proud of you. You’ll know he’s speaking bullshit, but he knows he can’t talk shit about you anymore without making himself look bad.” Ford smirks. “Matter of fact, imagine the looks on the faces of everyone who’s ever doubted you walking across that stage. Pa alone is gonna have a heart attack”

Ford’s smile softens. “I already know that you’re much smarter than you’re given credit for, and I think it’s about time that everyone else recognizes that too”.

Stan’s cheeks burn red, and he shyly kicks at the sand. “Heh, thanks. I appreciate it.” He says. “But even if I did manage to graduate, what am I supposed to do with a high school diploma? Every job application I’ve been skinning through recently says college, college, college”

“Well…” Ford taps at his chin. “Then why not go out for college?”

Okay, now he’s taking things too far.

“Pardon?” Stan mocks, because if Ford thinks that Stan’s going to willingly take four more years of classes than maybe he should be carted away to a loony bin.

“I’m serious!” Ford blushes. “Maybe not a high intensity school like West Coast Tech, but college is so much more freeing than high school, Stanley. It’s not class after class on subjects that other people tell you to take. It’s personalized. If you hate science class so much, you never have to take another science class again”

Ford’s blush darkens. “I know that school is a big drag and all, but if you asked me?” he averts his gaze. “I think you’d really benefit from business school. Charisma and social intelligence is the number one thing that big name businesses are looking for, and I know you’re filled to the brim with both. Ultimately it is your decision, but…” Ford fiddles with his thumbs. “Just…just consider it, okay?”

For a brief moment, Stan just wants to burst out into hysterical laughter. Ford’s been offered the opportunity of a lifetime at one of the best schools in the country, and he’s still taking the time to help out his good-for-nothing brother who’s been cheating off of his exams for the past ten years.

Instead he settles for a roll of his eyes. “Alright, Professor Poindexter, I’ll consider it”

Ford giggles at that, and for a few moments neither of them says anything, watching the waves gently lapping on the beach in the short distance. It’s a comfortable silence, a reassuring sort of feeling that Stan hasn’t felt in a long time.

The frantic beeping of Pa’s wristwatch interrupts them, and both boys flinch at the sound in unison. For a moment Stan is worried that Pa’s standing behind them having heard every word, but when he glances over at Ford, he sees him rolling up his shirt sleeve to reveal that he’s the one wearing the watch, and clicks the alarm off.

“Pa made me borrow it so I wouldn’t be late for the presentation with the school board” he rubs awkwardly at the back of his head. “I’ll probably give it back as soon as I get home tonight”

Stan smirks. “You still hate the sound of that thing too, huh?”

“I can still hear it in my nightmares,” Ford exaggerates, his eyes going wide, and the twins burst into laughter as they both stand from the swings and stretch their arms and legs to wake them up from sitting for so long.

Ford wipes at his eye as he fidgets with the wristwatch. “So…do you think you’re going to be okay?”

That in itself is a pretty loaded question that could take him all night to answer, but all things considering…

“Yeah,” Stan smiles. “I think I’ll be okay”

Ford smiles back, and gestures with his thumb towards the direction of the pawn shop. “Then I’m going to head home and get ready for my presentation. You coming?”

Stan shakes his head. “I think I’ll stay out here and just…watch the ocean for a little while longer”

Ford’s smile softens, but he doesn’t say anything else. He turns heel and walks back towards the house, and it feels as though a giant weight has just been lifted off of Stan’s chest. He glances back to watch Ford go, but finds comfort in the feeling that he feels nothing at all.

~~~

Nearly five hours later, Stan sits at home, watching television on the couch to pass the time. Just out of the corner of his eye he sees Ford slip into the kitchen and gently click the door closed. Stan shuts the TV off, and spins around on the couch to face his brother.

“Well?” Stan asks, though he knows he doesn’t even need to bother asking, given that Ford looks like he’s about to burst. With a shaking hand, Ford reaches into his pocket and pulls out a glinting white envelope.

If he’s trying to keep an air of mystery about it, he’s doing a really bad job, because all at once his composure breaks and the smile that spreads across his face looks as though it could burn out the sun.

“They loved me!” He shouts, excitedly pacing the floor. “They told me they’ve never seen anyone else like me!”

His smile is so contagious that it hurts.

Perhaps another day, in another timeline, Stan would take offense to Ford’s excitement to bounce off to the other end of the country without him. Perhaps he’d even lash out, or do something he would’ve immediately regretted.

But here and now, Stan couldn’t be happier for his brother if he tried.

[astralsweetness]

I can’t be honest (but neither can you) || Changkyun/Reader (m)

➣ I cannot believe this is my first contribution to Monsta X, this is really how I’m entering the writing side of this fandom OTL Also hello idk how to write short summaries?? I proof-read this at 4:30 AM so please tell me if I missed something lol. Fair warning I switch P.O.V.’s often in this and with absolutely no regard to any writing rules

➣ Changkyun/Reader | Angst[?] with a surprisingly happy ending that I didn’t mean to write | Showcases some bad coping mechanisms from both he and the reader | Mentioned Wonho/Reader, but it’s purely platonic in a sexual way | Smut warnings include: mentions of choking, pegging, fingering, mentions of a ruined sexual scene, sort of self-imposed edging if you squint, hair-pulling, facesitting

➣ It’s been almost a year since he called off the relationship and your name still tastes like a mixture between sugar and ash on his tongue when he says it, your picture is still saved in his camera roll, and he’s taken the plunge these last few months to reach out to you to be friends again. His hyungs tell him it’s a bad idea, and he tells them he knows, because he does, really, he swears he does. It’s just that his heart soars when he gets to talk to you and he can’t remember why he was ever scared of letting you in past that last wall he’d put up, and he’s going to your place and he hates himself because instead of “I love you” he says “please fuck me” and even now he can’t be honest to you about his feelings.

“I want you to fuck me.” He’s standing at your door, speaking in English with that deep voice of his, and you just blink blankly at him - he hadn’t called or texted to say he was coming over, and to be completely honest you hadn’t seen him in over a week. The silence is uncomfortable, but his eyes are intense, and he refuses to shift shyly under your blank stare.

“..well, come in I guess.” You invite him in with raised eyebrows - he goes easily, knowing your apartment like his own home. It’s been almost a year since you two broke up, but he hasn’t forgotten anything. That same stupid plant he hated was still on your table. He had no idea how it was still alive.

“So.. we aren’t together anymore, we haven’t hung out in a while, but you decided I’m the person you want to fuck you. Suddenly.” Your tone of voice conveys your lack of belief - this sort of feels like some very strange joke, but you have no idea who’d ever come up with one like this.

“You fuck Wonho-hyung all the time, and you aren’t dating him, so why can’t you fuck me?” His words are said in a rush, the first sign of nervousness, and you cross your arms and cock a hip. It’s your default power-pose, lets you feel like you’re in control when you have no idea what’s going on.

‘Is that really all it is?’ you want to ask, but you stay silent. He doesn’t seem aware that when you’re with Hoseok it’s more for the other man’s emotional well-being than it was just to get laid. Sometimes people needed to be broken apart and pieced back together lovingly just to feel okay. For Hoseok, you were a friend he trusted enough to let break him and then take care of the pieces that remained shattered on the floor.

“If you tell me why then maybe.”

“I’m not doing shit for a maybe.” He fires back instantly, gaze narrowing. His shoulders have tensed and he’s widened his stance, an unconscious reaction to the way your own body language had changed. Whether he actually felt it or not, at a subconscious level he believed he was being threatened.

You step forward and snag him by the forearm - the fight goes out of him instantly, replaced by pure innocent confusion as you lead him to your bed. He notices dully that you’ve redecorated your bedroom - though it makes sense considering he was the one who had helped you liven it up before.

“Sit - and try to relax. All the muscles in your shoulders are tensing up.” Your words have the opposite affect you wanted them to have - he tenses more, seemingly thrown off by your care, your notice of his minute actions.

You watch the way his gaze drifts over your room – it catches and lingers on a group picture of you and the rest of his group, tucked safely into the frame of your vanity mirror.

It’s a nice picture, though you really don’t remember taking it. You’re fairly certain everyone was drunk though, since you’ve got your arm thrown around Minhyuk’s shoulders in it, pressing your cheek against his.

It’s cute, even if looking at it is bittersweet. You can see the question on his face, the ‘why did you keep this?’.

“It’s not like I stopped being friends with them just because we broke up.” You feel defensive over your choice, face heating – you weren’t even near him in the picture, on completely opposite sides in it. He just murmurs a soft “oh” that sounds dejected, and you desperately don’t want to think about it.

“Anyway –“ You’re desperate to move on at this point, and he seems to feel the same because his attention snaps back to you. “You’re not really in a position here to argue and make demands, but fine -“ It was just sex, right? For you, anyway. “I can’t literally right now, I have a class in 30 minutes, but if you tell me why then we can negotiate.” You feel like some sort of fucking dealer.

He seems vaguely surprised you’ve agreed so easily, but he works his jaw and tries to figure out how to explain his reasoning to you - whatever it may be. You let him think and go in search of your computer bag. Online classes were a pain, especially those that required attendance in the form of a webcam. The bag has been thrown into a corner of your room, and you sigh and bend down to begin your annoying search.

“Well, we’re not together anymore, so..” You crane your neck to look at him, even as you continue to rummage through your backpack for your computer cord. Damn thing was in there somewhere, you knew. “I don’t have to worry about what you think of me anymore?”

He finishes his statement with an accidental upwards inflection that turns it into a question, and your hands pause before you turn back around and continue searching, mulling over your word choice carefully. ‘You never had to worry’ sits on your tongue, something that is desperate to be said, but you swallow it back down. He wouldn’t believe you and it’d cool the current mood.

“I see.” You finally settle on, standing and popping your vertebrae back into place as your prize - the fucking charging cord - dangles from your hands. Your two words could convey many meanings, and you can see from your peripheral that his brow has furrowed. It’s not the answer he was expecting, though you think he probably didn’t know what he’d been expecting in the first place. “Then - what is it you want?”

“For you to fuck me.” He answers again, and then swallows as he notices your blank stare has returned.

“I know that, you said that. I meant what specifically are you looking to get out of this?”

“I want it to hurt.” His words make your breath catch in your throat, emotions swinging between vaguely turned on and worried. Sure, he’d had some masochistic tendencies in bed before, but - “I mean - I don’t – not physically -“ He’s switched to Korean in the wake of your silence, a comfort language, and you wonder if he even realizes he’s done it.

“Okay.” You respond simply in Korean back and he stops his rambling, just blinks at you. You see the tension finally start to drain out of his shoulders and switch back to English purely for your own sake, because it was easier, definitely not because you wanted to be able to hear his voice speaking your native language. “So long as you promise to use safewords, I won’t ask. I’m not your therapist and I’m not -“

“My girlfriend.” He finishes your sentence quietly, back to English as well, and your mouth goes dry.

“And I’m not here to judge you.” You remedy - you weren’t going to mention anything about your past relationship, and he looks away quickly at that realization. “You mentioned Hoseok -“ His hand twitches at his side when you call his hyung by his real name, but you mercifully don’t call him on this. Maybe this was a bad idea, but you’ve gone this long purely on the denial that he regrets breaking up with you, and it’s too late to stop that now. “- so I’m going to treat this situation exactly like that.”

“Okay?” Changkyun has no idea what that means, his fingers curling into your bedspread. You check the time - 20 minutes until class.

“I’m your friend, and I want to help you. This doesn’t change anything between us, this doesn’t add some extra dynamic, some extra layer.” Your voice has gone business mode and he’s stiffened his back at it, an ingrained response from being in the music industry for so long. “I’m not doing this just because I want sex - if you are, that’s fine, but I’m just doing this to help you out. Is that clear?” He nods once, eyes wide. You think he’s cute. You’ve always thought he was cute, and it reminds you of how cute turned into smitten and smitten turned into perfection and perfection turned into love and love - well, he ended love. “Changkyun - do you promise this is just about sex or release of some kind and nothing else?”

Your tone had softened, and he’d been let out of whatever thrall your no-nonsense voice had put him into. The question hangs in the air heavily, dripping of a nectar so sweet it’s sickening.

“Yes. I promise.” His voice is hoarse, cracking and quiet - and you think he’s lying.

But you’ve held on to your denial for so long. He had said before that the spark was just gone - and what were you supposed to say to that? It wasn’t his fault; people fell out of love all the time. You could barely believe he’d ever been interested in you from the beginning and you refused to believe you were worth falling in love with for a second time. The fact that you had managed to remain friends is more than you could have ever hoped for.

“Okay.” You repeat his assurance, more for your own benefit than his. The room is quiet, and thunder rolls in the distance. Fuck - a storm meant spotty WiFi for your class.

You check the time again - 15 minutes.

“We can use the stoplight system -“ His gaze has blanked so you take the time to roughly translate it into Korean, explaining until his brow smooths out, and then you’re back to English. “Aside from that, though, I need to know what you’re interested in, what you want to happen or don’t want to happen. You can hang out here if you want during my class, or leave, I don’t care - but take the time to think over what it is you want in this session.” Your words are too clinical, you know this, but you can’t keep yourself from doing it that way. You know most of the things he’s into and not into, but if you don’t take this route then it all feels too intimate. Besides, he’d always kept a very careful hold of how much control he’d let go around you before, never wanting to slip too far into subspace, always wanting to seem in command, even when subbing for you. You wonder if that’s changed. You certainly don’t remember him ever blatantly asking outright to have something done to him before.

Memories flash across your mind eye, his back covered in your scratch marks, the way he moaned brokenly when you pulled on his hair, the way he came when you pressed your fingers to his throat. But he never asked for any of it - you had to ask if it was okay to do to him, and he always brushed off any of your attempts of aftercare.

You swallow again, feeling vaguely sick. Things had been broken in your relationship long before he called it off, but neither one of you wanted to admit it. Your heart hurts for multiple reasons, but when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye you know the biggest one: ‘I hope I didn’t hurt him by not talking about it’.

But he didn’t talk about it either. Did he care about whether it hurt you?

“Is that okay?” He’s been talking to you, and you startle out of your thoughts - a half-formed little smirk dances at the corners of his lips, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. He knows you well enough to know when you’ve been drifting. “I said, I’ll stay here if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, it’s fine - sorry, was just.. thinking.” It doesn’t really surprise you that he’s decided to stay - he’s confident to a fault, it’s true, but there’s a slash of shyness that strikes through his character, and you know that if he left he might not be able to come back. The thunder rumbles in agreement.

You half-watch him as you set up your computer on the coffee table – he’s looking around your apartment with thinly veiled curiosity, though you don’t really blame him. It didn’t really look anything like when you two had been together, and yet.. you felt it still had his subtle touch all over it. You wondered if he noticed that.

The class is boring, as it usually is – you’re watching the screen but your mind is far away, listening to your admittedly enthusiastic professor talk about the hyoid bone and articulations while your focus is on Changkyun. He lingers around you with a nervous type of energy, clearly not feeling allowed to roam around your apartment (it’d be kind of weird if he had, you admit) but also not feeling comfortable enough to sit on the couch next to you, even if he would have been off camera.

It’s almost like it was before, and you half expect him to sit down next to you anyway and throw his arm around your shoulder, always just off-screen, sitting next to you during your classes while he amused himself with his phone, just so he could be near you.

You’re just about to be able to feel the phantom warmth from the memory of his arm around you before he coughs and you startle, eyes snapping to him – he looks back wide-eyed, not understanding your surprise but murmuring a quiet apology anyway.

God you were so fucked.

.｡..｡.

“So?” The instant your class had ended you’d snapped the computer lid shut – you hadn’t retained a single thing said, what a complete waste. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d skipped and focused on Changkyun in the end after all. “Did you decide on what you wanted?”

You’re so flippant with your question that he feels like he’s being asked about what it is he wants to eat instead of how he wants to have sex – the entire hour of your class he’d been nervous, and those nerves had by now tightened into a very tight ball at the base of his spine that periodically sent white-hot flames licking along his muscles.

“I –“ His mouth is so fucking dry and he hates how small he suddenly feels – he’d never felt like this around you before, but usually it had always been you asking if you could do something to him, hadn’t it? “I said it earlier. I want you to fuck me.”

He watches your reaction with pin-point precision – the small widening of your eyes, the way your gaze darts to the side like it always did when you were thinking something over – it wasn’t like you hadn’t ever fucked him before, but he’d never asked you to do so, and you clearly hadn’t expected him to come out with something like that so easily.

Why the hell could he say something like that and not something as simple as ‘I love you’, or even ‘I miss you’?

“Okay.” You’ve wrested your thoughts back under control – it wasn’t fair of him to say something like that, looking so utterly and effortlessly attractive. “As long as there’s no kissing I’ll fuck you any way you like, Changkyun.” You were over him and he was over you and this was just sex.

If you said it enough you’d start to believe it, right?

Changkyun just nods at your terms, looking a bit despondent – you can’t help the strong surge within you that says to fix it, fix whatever upset him, but you have a feeling you knew already. He’d always been a bit fixated on kissing you, but you knew if you let him this time then it’d all be over.

“I don’t remember you ever falling this far into the ‘submissive’ side of things, Changkyun.” You’re desperate to regain the upper-hand, and he flushes a bright red at your comment, grumbling out a weak “shut up” that has you smiling.

“Have you been experimenting?” You’re still teasing him but he bristles at the insinuation that he would have been with anyone after you – you had no reason to think he hadn’t been but the mere thought of being with anyone other than you makes him ache deep in his chest, in his soul.

“No.” He tries to keep his voice calm, but it wavers still and he digs his fingernails into the soft leather of his belt, pausing. “I haven’t been with anyone since –“

He can’t say it, but you understand regardless – he doesn’t like how surprised you look, ducks his head and lets his hair obscure his view of you as he refocuses on undressing. It’s not that you’d been wrong to be surprised with his decision for today, either – before you, he’d never really definitively considered himself particularly dominant or submissive, happy with having the choice to be either at the drop of a hat. That changed with you though – you had been so uncompromising with your power, beautiful and self-assured, and he knew without a doubt that if you so much as even hinted at it he would be on his knees for you every single time.

Not that he had ever told you that, of course. He’d never told you anything he really wanted to. Even now, with you looking at him softly, trying to see if you’d crossed a line with your little teasing jabs, the words ‘I’m happy being this for you’ get stuck in his throat and all he can do is tug his shirt over his head wordlessly, fingernails clicking nervously at his belt as he undoes it. You pretend not to notice the way your heartrate accelerates as he reveals his body bit by bit to you, slender waist but powerful figure, beautiful skin, beautiful body.

“Well, then – lie down.” You gesture to your bed and he swallows down the stupid fucking butterflies he gets at the gesture – he’d been on your bed before, he’d been in this position before, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

And still, despite his nerves, a pleasurable chill runs down his spine when he hears the cap of the lube being clicked open, and he forces himself to exhale as he shifts and tries to get comfortable on a comforter he no longer recognized, in a room that had no trace of him in it anymore.

You look at him with a level gaze, always so calm, and he ignores the erratic beating of his heart and nods his assent for you to begin, immediately shifting his gaze to your ceiling.

Why the fuck was he so goddamn nervous?

(He tries to forget the way he instantly whimpers when he feels your finger, slick with lube, probing at his rim, tries to forget the way he gets hard in under a minute from your heavy gaze and one finger alone, and god he aches for more, aches for anything you’re willing to give him.)

“You’re taking this awfully well.” The teasing comes out unbidden, spilling past your lips before you can even think about the words – but it’s true, for someone who had claimed to not have been with anyone since you he was taking your fingers incredibly well.

“My own hands – fuck – exist..” His snarky response turns into a shaky moan halfway through when you decide to carefully – but quickly – add a third finger. There’s something erotic (and interesting) to you about that, thinking over the fact that Changkyun had been finger-fucking himself ever since you two broke up.

“You look good like this.” It’s an attempt to make up for the previous teasing but all it does is cause him to groan and throw a forearm over his eyes, legs spreading wider when you hit that spot deep inside.

“Fuck, jesus – fuck..” It’s a broken sob instead of an actual sentence (though he manages to stick with English), a familiar feeling already building deep in his gut. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s been so long since he’d been fingered by someone else or if it’s because it’s you doing it, complimenting him while doing so, or if it’s a combination of everything, but his back arches against his will and he knows he is seconds away from coming undone already.

“Stop – stop, oh my god –“ At his desperate plea you stop moving completely and he wants to sob as the pleasurable feeling slowly ebbs away, an almost painful drag as it settles back into a dull burn. He’s gasping, tiny whimpering sounds as he sucks breath back into his lungs, chest heaving – his eyes are wide, fingers curling into your comforter. He looks frantic, frightened almost, and even if it wasn’t your responsibility you knew you’d be desperate to fix it.

“Changkyun, ar –“

“I’m fine.” He bites it out angrily, doing his absolute best to look like he had been anything but moments away from an orgasm five minutes into.. whatever this was. He’s shutting you out again, before anything even begins, and it fills you with such an irrational anger that you have to suck in a breath of your own to keep from lashing out, taking gentle care to extract your fingers even as your blood boils.

“Stop fucking lying to me.” You can’t keep the ice from your words, even if you manage to control the volume and pitch – his dark eyes snap from the ceiling to you in surprise. There’s a panicked feeling bubbling up in his chest, because he really doesn’t know if he can handle you calling him on his true feelings for you right now, doesn’t want to have to admit he still loves you while he’s naked and so vulnerable.

“I’m not –“

“Stop it.” His mouth shuts with an audible click of his teeth, so sudden is your cut-in. Your brow has smoothed out, no longer angry, instead immensely sad, and he’s not sure this is any better. “You said you wanted to do this because you didn’t have to worry about my opinion. So why are you still doing it?”

He can’t breathe, and the lube is drying sticky on your fingers, and for a moment neither of you are aware of the position you’re in, the way the thunder has become your constant background music – he’s looking at you unblinkingly and you’re staring back, and it’s too intimate, too much, but neither of you look away.

“Please stop.” He speaks and it’s barely a whisper, the sound of someone’s heart breaking louder than his voice. You don’t know what to say but open your mouth anyway.

Lightning flickers outside your bedroom window and then your apartment is shaking from the resounding thunder, the power flickering and then plunging the two of you into darkness. Suddenly you can breathe again, and you’re quickly trying to slide out from in between his legs because he said ‘stop’ and he was fully coherent even if he hadn’t said ‘red’, because he said ‘stop’ and you have only ever wanted him comfortable.

“Wait –“ He is frantic, grabs your forearm with frigid fingers as he leans half off your bed to catch you from retreating too far. It’s hard to see him but you get flashes from the light outside your window, electricity reflecting off his dark eyes in starbursts.

“You said to stop.” Your voice is broken and you feel so powerless, sick inside because while you rarely manage to ruin a scene it still tears you up inside each time, and Changkyun wouldn’t let you try to fix it with aftercare and you don’t know what to do anymore.

“I meant –“ Stop talking, stop laying me bare and open, just fuck me and make me forget everything, stop being you so I can stop loving you. “I just want to be ruined.” He says instead, and his voice is so low but so weak that you barely recognize it.

“I can’t do that if you don’t let me.” Your clean fingers curl around his and gently pry them from your arm – but then you keep holding them, and you want to let go but you can’t remember how to tell your body to do so. “Will you let me, Changkyun?”

The air is still and silent aside from the rain slashing angrily at your windows – there is no thunder, your own heartbeat loud enough (or maybe it was his, you didn’t know anymore).

“I want to.” He answers instead, voice quiet but a bit stronger than before, and your eyes have adjusted so you can see the features of his face vaguely now, follow the line of his brow to his cheek to his lips, and you’re leaning in and you hate yourself because you had promised this was the one thing you wouldn’t do.

“Let me wreck you then, baby.” And oh that nickname was a mistake but you’d said it anyway, a ghost of a whisper against his lips, a proposition and a plea all in one. He moves forward the last centimeter and connects your lips as an answer, a sound that is almost one of pure relief being ripped from his throat.

It’s like he’s been waiting years for this moment, doesn’t even fight as you grip his jaw lightly and angle him into a better position so you can scope out the inside of his mouth with your tongue, relearning things you had known long ago but had thought were forgotten.

There’s a flighty feeling in his chest, one of nervousness and expectation – he doesn’t want to give you control so easily, he doesn’t want to be opened and laid bare in front of you, he doesn’t want you to see something you dislike in him – but more than anything he wants you to touch him and keep kissing him and god he fucking misses you, has missed this. He’d asked you to ruin him, you’d asked to wreck him, but he knew he was already both ruined and wrecked just from being near you again, from having your lips on his own.

You try to slide your hands back down his body but he stops you, continues to kiss you as his fingers curl around your own, and the act is so intimate it almost feels wrong.

“Just – hurry up, I’m ready enough.” He manages to say scattered between four different kisses, never apart from your lips for more than a few seconds. You hate yourself for not even trying to stop him, leaning into them each time.

“You can stretch yourself some more while I get ready.” You have to pull away from him completely to say this, and he follows you like you’ve got some magnetic pull on him before you’re off of the bed and the connection is broken.

Even with your eyes adjusted it’s hard to properly get the harness on, fingers fumbling with the straps but managing in the end. You can hear him breathing harsh, anticipating – you can tell from the sounds alone that he hadn’t taken your advice, but you’re not surprised. Always your little pain slut, even if he had never wanted to admit it.

When you approach him again his eyes are wide, brow furrowing as he notices you’re still fully clothed – he keeps his mouth shut tight though, gaze darting in the dark. The storm still rages on outside but neither of you even notice it anymore.

Your fingers on the inside of his thigh startle him – he jumps, trying to close his legs, but you force them back open again. Something about that simple action makes a moan trickle into his throat, but he swallows it back down stubbornly.

He can’t conceal the next sound he makes when you press the blunt tip of the strap-on to his opening, though, a rasping whine as you push in slowly, so fucking slowly. Even with all the lube he knew you’d slathered over the toy it still takes a bit of work to get it into him, and every slight stretch makes him grit his teeth in a masochistic type of pleasure, feeling so full by the end that it makes him so painfully hard his head spins. It hadn’t taken long to get him worked back up, but he’s not really thinking about that right now.

All he knows is that he wants to be close to you, wants to feel good, wants to make you happy – he wants so much that he doesn’t think he can even begin to put any of it into words. It always ends up at ‘I love you’ and he already knew that was a phrase that lodged in his throat like knives.

“Please.” This he can say – you don’t know what he’s begging for but he’s begging all the same, the word ‘please’ becoming a chant that slowly shifts back into his native tongue when teeth mark his throat, fingertips pressing insistently into his hips as you fuck him hard and rough. He hopes, distantly, that it bruises. He wants to be able to remember this for as long as possible.

If he was present enough in the moment he might have been embarrassed by the sounds he was making – his naturally deep voice has transformed completely into high breathy whines, all trace of his ‘savage rapper’ persona gone when you bite his lip hard enough it throbs before you’re flipping him, pushing his shoulders down into the bed with one hand.

The feeling of your palm, small but blindingly warm on his back, makes him weak enough that his thoughts stutter, head a chaotic mess of fractured thoughts and sensations. His eyes are open but unfocused – it’s dark in the room anyway, but he’s unaware of it, cognizant only of your presence and his, that warm fuzzy feeling in his chest competing with the white-hot fire you were stoking lower in his pelvis.

You want to cry at how beautiful and perfect he is for you, the way he arches his back instinctively, presents himself as your own personal plaything – but he wasn’t yours, you had to remember that, remind yourself over and over that this was just sex. (If you repeated it enough it started to stop sounding like real words, and that was equally as dangerous as forgetting them in the first place.)

The head of the strap-on teases his entrance and he groans, clenching his fists into your pillow – you’d taken it out when you’d flipped him and he was fighting against every fucking urge and want and need his body was screaming at him to just take the plunge and force himself backwards. (But another part of his brain is telling him to wait, to make you happy, to draw this out as long as fucking possible because he has no idea if he’ll ever get to experience it again.)

“Can you tell me what you want?” Your voice is soft as silk, quiet, and a fluttery feeling rises up in his stomach at the sound, at how you’ve modified an order to be a request. He doesn’t know how he feels at the realization that you were taking it ‘easier’ on him verbally, that you had at some point come to understand he was having trouble letting go completely.

“I –“ He tries, he really fucking does, but like always the words get stuck in his throat. He just can’t seem to bring himself to admit what he really wants out loud and it is destroying him. One of your hands smooths down his side, lingering at his hip, and he feels like you’ve left behind a line of pure fire on his skin, almost burning away the shame and hatred he feels at himself for his fucking inability to be vulnerable, his cowardice.

“Just fuck me.” He says instead, defeat coating his words – and he can feel you hesitating, because it was obvious he’d meant to say something else and hadn’t.

He opens his mouth to say something, though he has no idea what, at the same instant you decide to slide the strap-on back into him. Whatever he’d been planning to do is gone from his mind instantly, his world reduced to just the dull burn, the frustratingly slow drag against his innermost walls, the way you manage to somehow brush up against the spot that has him trembling and dropping to his forearms. He curses in a strange mixture of Korean and English and you laugh softly at the sound, even as you slide out and thrust back into him hard enough that he jolts forward.

He feels, in a sense, like he is being broken in all the best ways – all he can focus on is you, all he can feel is the way you’re fucking him, grabbing at his hips. His breath is caught in his throat and he just knows he is going to ache later, bone-deep and satisfying.

But it’s not enough, never enough – you’re not asking to do more to him like you had in the past and he can’t manage to tell you what he desires most (though, at this point, he’s not totally sure he could say anything coherent anyway). He reaches back with one hand, groping – your fingers wrap around his and he drags them up to his hair, a wordless plea. He hopes you understand what he’s asking for.

A broken moan is ripped from his throat when you fist your hand in dark strands and pull backward, forcing him into an arch – his mind has blanked into varying shades of white, electricity on his skin and molten lava running through his veins, your heat against his back overwhelming.

You know it’s a bad idea before you do it, but you lean down and press you lips to his shoulder anyway, teeth scraping over feverish skin – the hoarse whine he gives at the feeling makes wetness pool between your legs, uncomfortable and wrong because this was just sex, this was just supposed to be for him.

The urge to mark him up is so strong it’s almost distracting – your hips falter in the bruising pace you’d set as your mind drifts, Changkyun groaning at the sudden shift in speed.

“Let me –“ He’s gasping, feels like he’s been running a fucking marathon or drowning (and oh, he has, drowning in you, in his expansive and terrifying feelings for you) but he knows your hips have to be sore by now and to be completely honest he is just downright greedy, wanting to feel you deep inside, wanting to –

He just wants so much. He reaches back to press at you gently and you let him move you instantly, trying to figure out what had bothered him – as soon as you realize he just wants a change in position you’re grabbing at his hips again, tugging him over your legs. His cock drags against the fabric of your shorts and he nearly sucks in a breath, trying to focus on lining himself up instead of the way it throbbed (or the way you were looking at him, hair splayed out on the pillow and yet so in command still).

He thinks he should feel more in control like this, on top of you, hands braced on your shoulders – but he doesn’t, not at all, and he knows instantly that he isn’t when you snap your hips up to meet his and he falls onto you, moan vibrating against the skin of your neck. He can feel your fingers in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, can feel the infuriatingly teasing way his cock is rubbing up against your fucking shirt you never took off. It’s gone untouched for so long that it’s absolutely aching by now and he thinks he might actually be able to orgasm like this – but he doesn’t want to, not yet, even with how border-line painful its become. He doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to have to go back to a world without you in it.

His hips stutter on top of yours when you tug on his hair again, grinding hard against the strap-on, and you lift his face high enough you can press your lips to his, all hot breath and panted moans. He tastes of honey and heartbreak and you want nothing more than to make him cum and fall apart, trembling, on top of you.

“Am I ruining you properly, baby?” Your voice is dark red and sinful, and he trembles at the sound and tries to seek out your lips again, a whine lodged in his throat when you tighten your grip on his hair and keep him in place, rolling your hips languidly up to meet his frantic movements. “Tell me.”

“Fuck..” He responds instead, deep and rough in his chest – it cracks into a high moan when you punish him with a harsh upwards thrust, fingers curling into your shoulders. Your soft laugh, amused or delighted he’s not sure, makes a feeling like electric butterflies break out across his skin. If you had let go of his hair he’d have buried his face into your neck again to hide his expression – but you haven’t, and he knows you can see everything, every part of him, every expression he makes.

He thinks he must look stupid, embarrassing – but all you see is pure beauty. His brow has furrowed and sweat drips down to his collarbones, bruised lips parted slightly, glistening from where you’d kissed him earlier. Hazy eyes try to look anywhere but your face failingly, allowing you to see the foggy galaxy residing in their darkness. You’re not sure if what you’re seeing is his pupil or iris, but you find it gorgeous all the same, intoxicating.

“I’m going to make you cum, Kyunnie.” He shakes at your dangerous words, your knife-sharp gaze. You’re aware he never responded to your last question. “You’ll fall apart up there, ruined, just like you asked to be.”

Your words wrap around him, coiling tightly like chains – he feels caught, trapped, and he wants nothing more than for you to make good on your word, even if it sends a sharp trill of fear through his stomach.

The grip on his hair lets go suddenly and he sags forward, as if your pull on him had been all that was keeping him upright. He’s left a mess of pre-cum on your shirt, flushes a dark red when you drag your fingers through it thoughtfully.

“Messy boy..” You muse, heat spreading through you when you see the way his cock jerks at those two simple words, so red and aching, so fucking beautiful and desperate.

Fuck, you wanted so badly for him to be yours.

One of his hands flies to your wrist when you finally wrap your fingers around him – more of his weight is on you now but you can’t find it in yourself to mind, not with the way he’s breathing hot and wet against your neck, the way he doesn’t stop you when you move your hand, just clings to your arm desperately like he’s not totally sure he wants to be touched yet.

A choked sound leaves his mouth, lips bitten bloody, and you turn your head so you can breathe against his ear, let him press his face further into your neck. “Such a little whore..” You murmur, and he sobs open-mouthed against your skin and thrusts weakly into your fingers and then back onto the strap-on, unsure of which feeling he wanted more of. “So beautiful. So perfect.”

A part of him feels like he’s dying, unsure if he was really okay with being so vulnerable with you – but another part of him, the larger part, feels like he is fucking soaring, like this is all he had ever wanted and more. There are flames licking at his body, coiling tighter and tighter in his stomach, and he’s not sure how much longer he can last like this.

“You can fall, Changkyun.” Your voice is in his ear, like the sound of silk sliding over skin, fingernails tracing lightly along the back of his neck. He hates the way he reacts so viscerally to it, climax surging forward at the sound, at the way your fingers slide wetly over the head of his cock pinned in between the two of you. “It’ll be okay, you can fall to pieces. I’ll catch you.”

He orgasms with a wail that makes him flush a dark red, and he would have been mortified at the sound if every nerve ending in his body wasn’t currently sparking, his muscles spasming as he tries to keep thrusting into your fist even as the lightning bolt sensations turn from overwhelming to painful. He doesn’t even realize tears have slipped from his eyes until he feels your lips kissing them away, and he is hit with such a wave of emotion that he can’t breathe all over again (and it is just pure emotion, he couldn’t identify a single one of them if he tried).

After you slowly pulled out and settle him on the blankets he watches, distractedly, as you slide the straps down over your hips, leaving it on the floor to be dealt with later. Impulsively he reaches out to catch the edge of your shorts when you try to head to the bathroom, tongue sliding over chapped lips when you turn that powerful, beautiful gaze of yours on him. One of your eyebrows has raised, appraising him as he slowly tugs you back to the bed until you’re resting on your knees next to his waist. Sweat is drying sticky on his skin and he’s trying not to feel like he’d done something wrong, reacted in some undesirable way that you’d remember and relate to him for the rest of your life - but above all that, he wants to taste you. It’s the only consistent thought running through his mind, more prevalent than the lingering unease at having bared so much of himself to you.

“Please.” Again, it’s all he can say, eyes so dark and wide, pleading – his fingertips rest lightly on your hip, over the waistband of your shorts, lips parted ever so slightly. It’s so obvious what he’s asking for, and you want to say no. You’re pretty sure you need to say no. “Babe –“

You surge forward to cut him off mid-sentence with a brutal kiss and he gasps – you didn’t want to hear that, and you can tell from the way he’s frozen that he hadn’t meant to say it, even as his body returns the kiss on pure muscle memory alone. This entire experience had been a mess, a mistake, and yet –

“Okay.” It’s more a breath against his mouth than a word, but the way he smiles at your soft agreeance makes your heart hurt. You were in so deep, had fallen so far – how foolish of you to think you had been over him. How fucking stupid you’d been.

He wastes no time, pulling your shorts and underwear down like he’d done it hundreds of times before – because he had, you note dully – fingers wrapping around your thighs. When you sink down onto his face a tension drains out of his body that neither of you had even noticed was still lingering.

All he can smell is you, all he can taste is you – you surround him and this is all he’s ever fucking wanted, to be possessed by you, to be as close to you as possible. He’s not even totally sure what he’s doing aside from the fact that he’s putting his absolute all into it – he’s just trying to taste every inch of you he can, tongue delving as deep as possible before switching to suck on your clit. There’s no rhyme or reason to his method and it has you letting out a quiet sigh that borders on a gasp. He tries to memorize the sound instantly – any sound he could get out of you was a treasure in itself, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to hear them again after this.

There is no particular build-up to your orgasm – it’s at first lingering briefly bone-deep and then suddenly it is upon you in streaks of lightning, hips grinding against his face but mouth stubbornly shut. You can’t let this be any more intimate than it already was. (And yet you instinctively reach down and lace your fingers with his, and his thumb smooths across the back of your hand as he continues to mouth at your cunt, drink up your fluids. You are so utterly and completely stupid, your heart in your throat.)

There is a moment you want to carve out afterwards, a small bubble in time where the two of you could just bask in the afterglow and pretend like nothing had changed from a year ago – but you can’t let yourself do that, pushing yourself up off the bed even as every fiber of you begs to remain beside him for a moment longer. His fingers remain holding yours a moment too long before dropping to your bedspread, defeated.

Your heart suddenly felt like it was three sizes too big for your body, filled to the brim with love for a man you knew you’d have no second chance with, and you clench your teeth tightly to keep it from oozing out between your teeth like bittersweet sugar.

He’s still panting when you return with a damp cloth, reaches for it as if he really expects you to make him clean himself off. You scoff and catch his hand with your own, setting it back down on the bed as you begin to clean off his face first. Whether you wanted to avoid intimacy or not there were things you simply refused to throw to the wayside just because you wanted to remain distant, and one of those was taking care of him after sex. (He’s more receptive this time than he used to be, not fighting you and claiming he was fine, letting you dote on him with a sort of hesitant and soft acceptance. It makes your heart hurt all the more, the pure ache and want almost unbearable.)

“You’re always so messy..” It’s meant to be a light comment but the two of you accidentally lock gazes when you say it, your hand stalling in its motions. He looks like he wants to say something, lips parting – your breath catches in your throat, waiting, but he ultimately just shuts his mouth, gaze darting away from you. Your breath leaves you in a small burst. “Just relax, Kyun, I’ve got you.”

It’s the typical words you say to a sub after an intense session (with an accidental affectionate nickname that you bite the inside of your cheek for), but you mean them, and you don’t want to, but you do, irrevocably. You know that if he needed it, if he asked for it, you would let him stay here for as long as he wanted. You knew that tonight you wouldn’t be asking him to leave. And for that you are so, so incredibly fucked. (You wonder if he is too, judging from the way his eyes widen at the nickname and his breath stutters – but you crush that thought instantly, don’t dare to get your hopes up.)

He’s surprised that you take the time to clean him up, bring him water and a change in clothes – they aren’t his but they’re clearly a man’s, and he wonders if they belong to Hoseok considering the size. Something deep in his chest hurts at that thought. He’s even more surprised when you pull on an oversized shirt instead of telling him to leave – he faintly realizes that he recognizes it, a soft violet that hung down to your lower thighs and always felt soft against his chest when he’d hold you – crawling into bed next to him after changing into it, though he’s automatically moving to accommodate you, perfectly content to throw the thick comforter to the floor to be dealt with in the morning.

“Is.. this okay?” Your voice is quiet, so tentative and soft and hesitant, and all he wants to do is tell you yes, this was more than okay, this was everything he had ever wanted.

“Yeah – I mean, it’s your bed, so..” He hates himself for the way he responds, swallowing hard but taking the initiative to slide his arm over your side, nose in your hair. He can feel the way you tense, but you don’t say anything against it or try to pull away. “And.. this? It’s okay too?”

“…it’s okay.” It’s a small response but he inhales deeply in relief, drinking in your scent half by accident. It’s the same smell he had missed for so long, the one he’d dream of and wake up thinking there was a chance it still lingered on his pillow, heart dropping through his ribcage when he realized it wasn’t.

Despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach you fall asleep fast, mentally drained and physically exhausted - his fingers trace the line of your shoulder, head pillowed on his own arm as he watches you sleep. There is a purely warm and happy feeling trying to spread through his body, but it doesn’t make it very far before the remembrance that you still weren’t his and he still wasn’t yours freezes it in its tracks. He feels like his heart is melting, dripping through his ribs and oozing into his stomach and making him sick.

He’s shaking your shoulder before he even knows what he’s doing, and you’re half-awake and groggy but so fucking beautiful and every single one of his nerves feels like a live wire underneath his skin, buzzing and loud and painful, and he is so scared, but he is also tired. Tired of hurting, tired of missing you, tired of the way Kihyun will be talking about you but stop awkwardly when he notices Changkyun listening, tired of the way he smiles so big his cheeks hurt when the two of you talk on the phone, tired of how he swallows down the words “love you” every time you hang up – and he’s fucking tired of being scared most of all.

“Changkyun, you better be fucking dying..” You’re angry, always angry when woken suddenly, and he just wants to kiss you.

‘I love you, I’m stupid, I was scared, I always loved you, I never fucking stopped, did you know I would dream of you? Did you know that you were the only thing on my mind? On plane rides, in the vans, backstage, all I could think about was you and my hyungs all told me I was just hurting myself and I knew that but I still hoped that somehow you and I would end up happy together.’

Like always he can’t say any of it. It sits on his tongue and he just utters a quiet ‘fuck’ instead, throat tight. Why couldn’t he fucking do this?

“..Kyun?” He’s sitting up now, and you are too, side by side – your expression is open, sleepy but worried, and he has a sudden urge to take your face in his hands and kiss your eyelids.

The scariest part of telling the truth, of laying yourself bare for someone, of letting them in, was that they could take one look and never come back. And maybe he’s not afraid of loving you – maybe he’s never been afraid of loving you, with your eyes that hold the only stars he ever wants to look at. Maybe he’s been afraid of not being loved back.

He swallows hard, reaches for every bit of confidence and courage performing has ever given him, forces himself to be brave the way the industry has taught him to be. Moonlight filters in through the window and he thinks your eyes might actually house the milky way in them somehow.

“I love you, still – always. I never stopped.”

He can’t breathe because you’re just looking at him, stunned and disbelieving, tears collecting on your lash-line but not falling, never falling, and he feels like the fucking worst for telling you now, this way, this bluntly – but he knows if he didn’t say anything he would have never said anything, and he’s not sure he could have survived that, so the words had fallen from his lips hard and heavy and desperate to be said. (And a part of him is still surprised he even managed to say them at all, rushed and frantic as they were.)

“I –“ Your brow is furrowed and your voice is thick, but when he reaches to brush your tears away you let him and his lungs start to tentatively fill themselves with oxygen again.

When you smile it is watery and weak but it is there, and he feels like sunlight has reappeared in the lining of his skin, bright and blinding and warm.

[dallanebbia]

betsubara

title: betsubara fandom: bnha pariring: kacchako; bakugou katsuki x uraraka ochako word count: 3.9k (including text in posts) warnings: none synopsis: in which the u.a. test kitchen tries its hand at the whole youtube thing, and the internet collectively ships kacchako. bon appetit test kitchen au + socmed au notes: written for day 3 of kacchako week 2020, with the prompt ‘desserts & sweets.’ i know that BA has its share of problems, but i really wanted to write this after stumbling across ba test kitchen fanfics on ao3 and some social media aus on twitter… i have so much respect for people who make smau fics, i don’t know how you do it. ochako here is a bizarre mix of brad leone, solha el-waylly, liziqi and emmymadeinjapan, and bakguou…. is bakugou :’) ao3: [link]

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別腹 | betsubara (n.) – Japanese, second stomach for dessert

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Susan Anderson @susan.anderson – Jun 29, 2XXX My grandchildren said I would enjoy watching the UA test kitchen youtube channel, but I don’t know where to start. Can someone please give me some suggestions? Why do they change chefs in every video? 62 🗨️   133 ⭮   869k ♡

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↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX Replying to @susan.anderson Hi Susan! I’m the kitchen manager for @ua_testkitchen, and I’d be happy to help! We have playlists for each of our web series on our YouTube channel, but I’ll do my best to explain each series below. 23 🗨️   241 ⭮   3.2k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX Hot Takes – If you don’t mind some occasional foul language, this is a very popular series! Chef @bakugoukatsuki demonstrates techniques on how to make Japanese staples, from omurice to hand cut soba. It’s extremely educational! 123 🗨️   213 ⭮   3.5k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX Bon Appetit – This series is all about French food, with Japanese twist! Chef @foreversparkling breaks down intimidating recipes like souffles, gougeres, and quiches for the amateur cook to try at home! 89 🗨️   165 ⭮   2.8k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX Farm to Table – If you’re interested in where your food comes from, this is a great choice! Chef @u_ochako shows viewers what it takes to grow and cultivate ingredients. She also delves into the science behind making things like kombucha, natto, and beer! 155 🗨️   188 ⭮   3.9k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX From Scratch – This is our only series with two hosts! We ask our chefs @shouto and @yaomomo to tackle the challenge of recreating popular junk food and snack items entirely from scratch. These can be anything, from your favorite candy to foreign staples like Twinkies! 102 🗨️   288 ⭮   2.7k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX 10 Chefs – This series asks ten of our @ua_testkitchen chefs to undergo a series of culinary challenges of varying difficulties. These can range from cutting a durian to cooking a live lobster! 48 🗨️   85 ⭮   1.4k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX The Great U.A. Bake Off – These are special videos that showcase U.A.’s biannual dessert competition! We invite renowned chef and television star @AllMight to join as our host and judge. Our resident pastry chef @satousugarman has held the title for the past four years! 99 🗨️   174 ⭮   2.1k ♡

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jun 30, 2XXX We also film various instructional videos, which are not part of any particular series. These can be recipes or in-depth guides to various kitchen tools and appliances. Hopefully these give you a good place to start, and feel free to contact me if you have any other questions! 21 🗨️   98 ⭮   1.1k ♡

...

↳ Susan Anderson @susan.anderson – Jul 01, 2XXX Thank you, Mr. Midoriya. I started watching Farm to Table, and I’m enjoying it a lot. I do have a question – I’m reading the comments, and there’s a cooking term I’m not familiar with. What is a “kacchako?” Is it a cooking appliance? 721 🗨️   2.1k ⭮   8.9k ♡

...

↳ Just Call Me Midoriya (✓) @dekiru – Jul 02, 2XXX Replying to @susan.anderson … Um. 202 🗨️   4.3k ⭮   10.4k ♡

↳ jfc they’re actually clueless @hitoshinsou – Jul 02, 2XXX Replying to @susan.anderson and @dekiru yeah @dekiru, what is a kacchako? 180 🗨️   961 ⭮   2.9k ♡

… 331 more replies

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“Hey guys!” Uraraka waved cheerfully at the camera. “My name is Uraraka Ochako, and welcome back to Farm to Table, a show where we explore where our food comes from!” 

“For today’s episode, we’re going to be doing something a liiittle different.” On the counter was a pile of misshapen brown lumps, mottled with different black and brown spots. “On our cacao episode, a lot of you were a little… shall we say, disappointed with me, when I didn’t make chocolate out of a cacao pod.”

Uraraka’s smile turned icy, as a screenshot popped up on screen. She held up a little slip of paper from her hand and cleared her voice.

“ ‘Making chocolate isn’t easy,’ ” she read, widening her eyes for emphasis. “ ‘This girl has no idea what she’s talking about.’ ”

The dark, saccharine expression on her face never faltered as she ripped up the paper into tiny pieces, throwing bits over her shoulder.

“Now, I’m here to show you that actually, yes – making chocolate can be easy!” The hard smile was replaced by a warm grin. “My friends at Tokyo Cacao sent me some pods to work with, and lucky for us, they’re ripe and ready to go!” 

She beamed, picking up a pod and showing it off to the camera. “I’ll show you guys how to turn these bad boys into chocolate - and after that, I’m gonna share one of my favorite chocolate recipes with you!” 

Uraraka then grinned mischievously. “First things first – we gotta crack this little guy open.” Reaching under the countertop, she whipped out a gigantic chef’s knife. It was easily as long as Uraraka’s forearm, and the polished blade was engraved with two characters that clearly read, ‘Bakugou.’

A choking sound was heard off screen. 

“Holy shit Uraraka, you took it?!” A man popped into frame, gaping at the knife in Uraraka’s hand. “Dude, Bakugou’s been looking for that all morning - he’s going to kill you for real this time!” 

“Not if he doesn’t find out,” she said seriously, fixing the blonde man with a pointed look. “You’re not going to rat me out, are you, Kaminari?” 

“And get killed in his Baku-rage? No thanks.” He shivered, staring at the knife as if it was going to attack him. “At least you’ve got a chance of surviving.”

Uraraka laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re acting like he’s going to eat you or something.” 

“You don’t know about poor Mineta,” Kaminari looked grave as he closed his eyes in a moment of silence, before scurrying out of frame. He called out, “If anyone, especially Bakubro, asks – I was never here!”  

“O… kay?... ” Uraraka blinked at the camera for a few moments and then shook her head in amusement. “Anyways, back to the topic – opening the pod! The rind is pretty thick and slippery, so be careful where you’re cutting! The best way is to set the edge of the knife in one of the grooves and give it a good whack, like this - !” 

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

Pro Chef Makes Omurice | Hot Takes | U.A. Test Kitchen 3,439,062 views ･ August 29, 2XXX

To quote our favorite foul-mouthed chef: “Even a F***ing idiot can make omurice.” 

Join Bakugou Katsuki in the U.A. Test Kitchen as he makes a Japanese comfort food staple, omurice. This isn’t your average, amateur omurice omelette video - Bakugou breaks down the special tricks and techniques he uses to achieve the perfect taste, shape and texture. His recipe uses buttery chicken, fried… 

[SHOW MORE]

10,237 comments

hvf26 – 3 hours ago Japanese gordon ramsey 👍 2.7K   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 25 replies

TipTop – 2 hours ago new drinking game: take a shot every time you hear “fuck” EDIT: 13 shots in and 18 minutes left, i give up 👍 8.6K   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 93 replies

shroomaster3110 – 9 hours ago bakugou: “even a fucking idiot can make omurice” also bakugou: “veal stock, red wine, honey, tomato paste, reduce for 3 days” me: instant ramen it is 👍 749   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 8 replies

obsssd1992 – 6 hours ago hOoly fuck the sound uraraka made when she tasted it 👍 9.4K   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 155 replies

vulcanus – 3 hours ago 7:33 cracking two eggs at the same time with one hand he really be flexing on us huh 👍 233K   👎   REPLY

periperi – 10 hours ago 22:18 is it just me or does bakugou look like he’s blushing??? like, his ears are so so red 👍 5.1K   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 84 replies

dinovino44 – 7 hours ago “just fucking flip it” I blinked and that shit literally went from goo to an omelet HOW 👍 144   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 3 replies

Angela B – 8 hours ago I would love to try this but i dont want to waste 17 dozen eggs trying to make it properly 👍 3.7K   👎   REPLY ⯆ View 29 replies

─── ･ ｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

“Oh fuck, that’s good,” Bakugou groaned, mouth full as he chewed. The mango-coconut tart in front of him was dotted with swirls of candied orange peel as a garnish, but it did nothing to hide the fact that the entire thing was dusted with a liberal coating of violent red chili powder.

At his side, Uraraka beamed, sniffling a little from the pervasive scent of spice in the air. “I added some lime too, just to break up the richness – it’s not too sweet?”

“S’fucking perfect.” Bakugou scarfed down the last bite of the piece in his hand. He let out another long moan, the sound of it deep and guttural, and Uraraka’s eyes widened as she stared, her cheeks turning red. “Screw it, I’m eating this for lunch.”

“Eh?” Uraraka blinked, snapping out of her daze just as the tray was snatched from her workbench. “Wait, wait – Bakugou! Give it back, I haven’t even tasted it yet!”

“Pft, like you wouldn’t down a carton of milk after one bite,” he scoffed, holding the tart above his head and trying to fend off Uraraka with his free hand as she pulled at his arm. “Fucking get off, Uraraka, I – !”

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Aug 17, 2XXX alright since some of y’all are fucking BLIND here’s a list of every bakugou x uraraka moment on the u.a. test kitchen youtube channel (a thread) 184 🗨️   5.3k ⭮   12.6k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Aug 17, 2XXX [01] the great u.a. Baking show, cheesecake: during taste tests bakugou hated every single person’s cheesecake EXCEPT uraraka’s peach and plum one. He said it was acceptable BUT THEN HE GOES BACK FOR ANOTHER PIECE 2 🗨️   229 ⭮   10.4k ♡

…

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Oct 28, 2XXX [33] farm to table, jicama/watermelon: bakugou says there isn’t enough heat in the dipping sauce during taste tests, uraraka then pulls out the extra spicy version she made just for him and bakugou looks flabbergasted when he tries it and then HE TAKES THE SAUCE HOME 10 🗨️   121 ⭮   2.4k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Nov 01, 2XXX [34] from scratch, shrimp chips: at 14:53 you can see bakugou and uraraka in the background working on something together and when aoyama comes in waving around a whisk like a madman bakugou PUTS HIS ARM AROUND HER WAIST AND PULLS HER OUT OF THE WAY 15 🗨️   146 ⭮   2k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Nov 01, 2XXX [35] from scratch, shrimp chips: when uraraka’s taste testing the final versions, she tells bakugou to come and try them. Bakugou grabs the chip she’s eating out of her hand and takes a bite AND THEN STUFFS IT BACK IN HER MOUTH BEFORE WALKING AWAY 29 🗨️   132 ⭮   2.4k ♡

…

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Jan 11, 2XXX [69] hot takes, udon: bakugou says he’s only doing this video because someone said he had to, and uraraka mouths at the camera “he can’t say no to me” and bakugou sees her doing it but just rolls his eyes HE DOESN’T DENY IT 34 🗨️   204 ⭮   1.8k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Jan 11, 2XXX [70] hot takes, udon: bakugou’s testing the dough consistency and yells at uraraka to come over so he can compare it TO HER CHEEKS and the man no cap says “not soft enough, it needs more pounding” and the blush on her face AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH 119 🗨️   451 ⭮   3.6k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Jan 24, 2XXX [71] the great u.a. bake off, pavlovas: honestly just take this entire episode as proof you can FEEL the tension through the screen my god. the way they’re play-fighting/flirting throughout the episode jesus fucking christ the flavor is immaculate 85 🗨️   154 ⭮   2.1k ♡

…

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Mar 01, 2XXX [82] bon appetit, coq au vin: aoyama asks uraraka for help and bakugou literally spends the entire video glaring at aoyama from the background and ochako mouths “I’m almost done katsuki” at 15:43 SHE USES HIS FIRST NAME 26 🗨️   98 ⭮   1.9k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Mar 09, 2XXX [83] hot takes, takoyaki: uraraka asks bakugou to taste test a smoothie for her and he goes, “the one you made yesterday was better” but later he says something about hating Mondays WHICH MEANS HE AND URARAKA WERE TOGETHER OVER THE WEEKEND 37 🗨️   159 ⭮   2k ♡

… 13 more replies

↳ teatime @kabedondon – 6h Replying to @retrograade the detail in this thread is scary but even more concerning is the fact that you’ve somehow managed to convince me, at the very minimum, that they’re fucking 13 🗨️   1.1k ⭮   4k ♡

↳ SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – 4h Replying to @kabedondon welcome to the club, hope you enjoy your stay 21 🗨️   59 ⭮   573 ♡

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

Todoroki stared down at the gooey, green-streaked mess of chocolate in front of him mournfully. At his side, Yaoyorozu looked equally despondent, poking at the dull sheen of dark chocolate covering the biscuit in her hand. 

“Should we…?” Todoroki glanced over hesitantly, and Yaoyorozu bit her lip. 

“I was really hoping we’d get it this time.” She sighed heavily, before turning around. The camera zoomed out, the frame widening to show a few people milling around in the background. “Uraraka! Do you have a moment?” 

A chirpy voice replied, “Sure!” Todoroki visibly sighed in relief, quickly dumping his mixing bowl into the sink of dirty dishes as Uraraka came into the shot. 

“Huh, that’s definitely not right…” The brunette poked Yaoyorozu’s chocolate mixture with a frown. “What temperature did you heat this to?” 

“45 degrees?” Uraraka hummed, scooping up a bit of the mixture and dumping it into her hand. She rubbed at it, frowning. “What did you use as your seeded chocolate?” 

Todoroki slid the half-empty bag of chocolate chips across the counter, and Uraraka dumped a pile of them out. Little disks spilled across the marble, and she tested one piece between her clean fingers. “Uh, you know that you’re supposed to use tempered chocolate to seed, right?” 

Todoroki opened his mouth, paused, then closed it abruptly. Yaoyorozu buried her face in her hands and audibly groaned.

“Hey, the good news is that you can totally reuse this!” Uraraka tried to smile encouragingly. “Did the matcha chocolate come out weird too, or –?”

“Oi, what the fuck is this?” The camera panned to the side, where Bakugou was holding up Todoroki’s abandoned mixing bowl in a fist, features twisted into a grimace. “Did all those e-cigs fry your brain, Half-and-half? Who the fuck doesn’t sift matcha before –” 

“Hey, lay off of him, Bakugou.” Uraraka stomped over and snatched the bowl away. “Tempering is hard! And you know white chocolate is tricky.” 

“Tch, please.” He scoffed. “What kind of idiot can’t temper chocolate?” 

Uraraka’s eyes flashed, and she planted her arms on her waist. “Have you ever tempered chocolate before?” 

“What kind of dumbass question is that?” Bakugou growled. “Course I have, I didn’t live under a fucking rock like these two morons.” 

Yaoyorozu bristled indignantly, but Uraraka held up her hand. Todoroki just looked tired, and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again…”

“Then you wouldn’t mind giving us a demonstration, would you?” Bakugou looked at her sweet, smiling face suspiciously. “Or are you too chicken to prove it?”

Red eyes flashed dangerously. “... the fuck did you just say?”

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

The video cut to a shot of lumpy, melted white goo, before zooming out to show Bakugou’s scowl. “What the fuck is wrong with this shitty chocolate?” He kept stirring, even more vigorously this time, and looked down at the mixture as if he was trying to set it on fire with his glare.

Todoroki and Yaoyorozu were tucked a little ways away, snickering quietly as they watched from a safe distance away. Across from Bakugou, leaning casually against the counter, Uraraka smiled gleefully.

“Hur-dur, ‘what kind of idiot can’t temper chocolate?’ ” she mimicked, her voice lowered in an approximation of the blonde’s low growl. Uraraka laughed, and then ducked as a chocolate-covered spatula sailed over her head.

“FUCK OFF, ROUND FACE!” 

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

smolbean678 reblogged kryssalys ochaakou:

reasons you should stan uraraka ochako, u.a.’s farming goddess and resident bakugou whisperer:

- has probably saved about half of the “from scratch” episodes by virtue of being the only person in the entire u.a. test kitchen who can consistently temper chocolate

- speaking of chocolate, this woman pulled the hardest flex by making her own chocolate from a raw cacao pod, and then proceeded to make chocolate chicken mole with it just to prove to the haters that she could 

- is the acting president of the musutafu ninniclub, a japanese club for lovers of garlic. she also openly admits to sleeping with a ninnikyun plushie, aka the club mascot which is apparently a giant garlic clove (seriously, you can’t make this shit up guys)

- vocal advocate of Feeding Japan, a hunger relief organization that works to combat food insecurity, and is frequently seen volunteering at food banks and soup kitchens (1) (2) (3) (4)

- a lot of the ingredients she features in the “farm to table” series come from her parent’s farm! (pics) she grew up working at her parents’ stall at her hometown farmer’s market and promotes buying locally to support regional farms and businesses.

- this masterpiece of a tweet: “I love food and I love to eat. If someone wants to shame me for my body then they can go fuck themselves.”

- creates recipes that not only taste good but are also healthy, quick, easy and beginner friendly – yes, I’m looking at you, mr. bakugou “just fucking flip it and reduce for 3 days” katsuki – see the archive of her recipes here (x)

- has a tiktok dedicated entirely to trolling todoroki’s reactions with weird flavors of soba, these are my favorites (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7)

- she’s a self-taught chef who started as a dishwasher and worked up to being the sous chef at ryuko tatsuma’s restaurant dragoon before coming to the u.a. test kitchen and was regularly praised by food critics (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

- has single-handedly saved u.a. millions of yen from that one time she stopped bakugou from ‘accidentally’ exploding an air fryer

- speaks fluent baku-rage, not to mention their chemistry is off the charts hoO BOY the slow burn is fucking real y’all

alright there’s so much more stuff but I fucking hate formatting links, so watch farm to table and follow uraraka on social media (twitter / instagram / tiktok) because this queen deserves our love. thanks for coming to my ted talk.

hoooooot-hoot:

[link] to the twitter thread for my fellow kacchako shippers, i gotchu

54,230 notes #ua test kitchen #kacchako #stan uraraka #bakugou better worship our queen or im gonna throw hands

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

“Ugh.” Uraraka glared down at the sad, deflated lumps sitting in the middle of her ramekins. “Where is Aoyama when you need him?” 

“That looks pathetic,” a blunt voice said, and Uraraka sighed as Bakugou came into the camera frame, leaning over the counter to peer into one cup with a skeptical look. “What the hell are you making?” 

“Well, it’s supposed to be a pistachio-strawberry souffle.” She huffed, rubbing at her neck in frustration. “I can’t figure out how to get the nuts to distribute evenly… and it’s just not rising? I don’t get it – I remade my pastry cream like, three times, I know it’s fine, and I buttered my molds but it just…”

“You try freezing the molds after you butter them?” A frown came over Uraraka’s face as she shook her head. Bakugou grabbed one of the little cups, prodding the contents with a finger, and made a face. “Keeps it from contaminating your mixture and fucking up the rise.”

“When I make them at home, they’re usually fine at room temp,” she said dejectedly. “I don’t know why I can’t get it right today.” 

The camera zoomed in a little, focusing on Bakugou’s expression as he glanced towards Uraraka. He looked a little concerned, and after a beat of silence, he came around the counter to stand beside her.

“Oi, don’t get all mopey on me, Cheeks.” He nudged her shoulder lightly, settling a hand across the back of Uraraka’s neck. “You good?” 

She sighed heavily, leaning a little into his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I just… I don’t know. My brain isn’t working right now.” 

“Tch.” Bakugou looked over the mess of bowls spread across the counter, eyes settling on the deflated looking egg-whites on one side. “Look – I’ll help ya out, just this once. Don’t quit on me now, yeah?

She blinked, looking up at him with furrowed brows. “But I thought… don’t you have that thing, with –”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. This is more important,” he said, shrugging off his leather jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Uraraka just looked back at him in confusion. 

“But…” She bit her lip hesitantly. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” Bakugou smirked back at her as he tied on his apron. “I got you, Cheeks.” 

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

[Video: Todoroki, frozen in place with blank eyes and noodles falling out of his mouth as someone shakes his unresponsive body]

u_ochako: i… may have made chocolate flavored soba. PLEASE DON’T CRY TODOROKI #imsorry ♡ 137.4K   🗨️ 3251 

trololoki: holy shit he actually looks like he’s about to cry View replies (157) ⯆ 

augusttine: can we all agree that what makes this 10x funnier is bakugou’s hyena cackling in the background View replies (209) ⯆ 

u_24: this is soba-sphemous View replies (54) ⯆ 

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

Uraraka rubbed her eyes, blinking as she gaped.

“You…” She looked up at him, chin trembling. “Did you really…?”

“Tch.” Bakugou huffed, trying to hide a smile. “What, your eyes don’t work now, Cheeks?” he teased. 

“I just - ” Uraraka pinched herself, yelping at the pain, before a huge, toothy smile broke out across her face. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you actually did it.” 

“You did get on your knees and beg, so…” He shrugged, snickering as Uraraka approached the counter reverently, her face glowing in sheer joy. “Ten kinds of mochi, as fuckin’ promised.”

She turned to him pleadingly. “Can I…?” 

“I already took the photos.” He nodded at the spread, a rainbow of different colors delicately arranged with a pot of tea, ready to be eaten. “Go for it, babygirl.”

Uraraka already had a daifuku mochi halfway to her mouth, lips open as she got ready to take a bite, when an unfamiliar voice cut into the video. 

“Wait a second.” Both of them paused to look at the camera in confusion. “Did he just call you babygirl?” 

There was a beat of silence, before Uraraka’s face exploded into a bright red blush. Next to her, Bakugou quietly muttered, “Fuck.”

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

[Photo: an image featuring white sheets and pillows, a woman’s bare upper back, and messy brown hair with a woman’s face half-buried in a pillow]

Liked by dekiru, redkiri, and 541,803 others bakugoukatsuki: delicious u_ochako: UM bakugoukatsuki: @u_ochako did i lie though shouto: thank god fucking finally View all 6,248 comments

3 HOURS AGO

─── ･｡ﾟ❁ﾟ｡･ ───

SHIP KACCHAKO @retrograade – Jun 04, 2XXX RT @marsali: I. FUCKING. CALLED. IT. 

THIS IS WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF @marsali – 21m @retrograade THE SHIP HAS SAILED I REPEAT THE SHIP HAS SAILED #kacchako [media attached]

42 🗨️   3.8k ⭮   8.7k ♡

[iezzern-ao3]

Something Like Love

Read on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas

Relationship: Aedion Ashryver/Dorian Havilliard

Characters: Aedion Ashryver, Dorian Havilliard

Additional Tags: Dirty Talk, Loss of Virginity, First Time, Coming of Age, smut in chapter 2, Feminization

Language: English

At the very adult age of nine, Dorian considered himself poised and clever. He was mature and proper, able to look at things with an objective view and did not let his emotions get the better of him. That was until he’d met Prince Aedion Ashryver.

(Smut doesn't start before Dorian is 17)

Chapter 1 under the cut

Dorian always told himself he was a sensible child.

At the very adult age of nine, Dorian considered himself poised and clever; far above the expertise of other nine-year-olds. He was mature and proper, able to look at things with an objective view and did not let his emotions get the better of him. That was until he’d met Prince Aedion Ashryver.

The Prince was an infuriating piece of work, teasing and taunting at every turn, as if he’d never learned proper manners. He was thirteen, the same age as Chaol, and that was even more infuriating. Mainly due to the fact that Aedion liked to lord his age over Dorian like Dorian was less proper because of his young age.

The worst part of it was the fact that Dorian never could think straight when Aedion teased him. He’d have a sarcastic reply on his tongue and then his voice would die, a furious blush replacing it. Usually, Chaol would be around to throw an insult back, but when Dorian was on his own, he usually got treated to Aedion’s smug smirk.

Even with all of Aedion’s bad points, Dorian could never stop himself from anticipating every visit he would have. There was a certain feeling he got whenever the Prince was close by, a kind of rush through his head and a burning through his body.

It was what made it impossible to answer the arrogant prick.

“You lost your tongue, Princeling?” Aedion would laugh and Dorian would blush and stutter until Chaol came to rescue him. Aedion would throw a smile over his shoulder when he left, stirring something in Dorian’s chest.

And then there’s one month until Aedion is coming to Rifthold next and Dorian has set himself a goal to actually talk to him without stuttering, He’s paced his room for hours now, practicing comebacks and lines. He’d outgrown the embarrassment of talking to himself days ago.

Then the maid had opened the door, carefully, and told him that his father was preparing to go out on a campaign. Two weeks later the news had come. Terrasen had fallen to Adarlan forces. The King and Queen were dead, along with their young daughter Aelin. Dorian felt a short flash of pain at that. Even if she’d been borderline annoying, the young princess had taken a special place in his heart.

Instead of expressing this, though, he just asks “What about Aedion?”

The maid draws her lips in a thin line, and Dorian shrinks at her disapproval. “Lost on the front lines, they say,” she answers, short and clipped. Dorian blinks, wringing his hands. “Oh,” he says, voice weak. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so heavy. He quickly puts on a mask, knows that the maid will report to his father.

“Fetch me Chaol,” he says, “I want to go out riding”

Chaol doesn’t comment as they ride across the fields but puts his hand on Dorian’s shoulder when they come back from the stables. Dorian doesn’t understand why he feels so comforted by it; why he’s so upset.

Three years pass. Dorian grows up as much as he can.

He’s twelve when he witnesses his first execution. His mother had protested it loudly enough that Father had sent her away for the last few days. Dorian tries to not make up his thoughts about it; knows that his father will act if he shows any distaste. Dorian lowers his eyes as fast as he can, tries to show respect to the woman’s sobbing husband.

“Drag the filth away,” his father’s rough voice echoes through the hall. The man is dragged away, crying out for his wife. Dorian starts to forge a plan, doesn’t want to stand on the side and watch while is father commits cruelties.

“Is there anyone else who wants to bring matters to the king?” Chaol asks, and Dorian knows he’s the only one who can hear the strain in his voice. To present the King’s matters is a huge honour, of course, but Chaol sounds more like he doesn’t even want that honour.

The Captain of Adarlan’s main army steps forward, cloak dragging on the floor behind him. Callum Selrion, Dorian remembers after a few seconds, that’s his name. He’s greying, his body lagging with age. Father will replace him soon, Dorian knows.

“The raids up North have been more successful, my King,” the old man says, “And we have a few men to thank for it, I would like for them to get the acknowledgment”

Some of the Court people laugh and titter at that. In their opinion, lowly men of the army don’t deserve acknowledgment from the King himself. Why should the King bother with men who haven’t washed in days and will live the rest of their lives surrounded by stinking tents and horse-shit?

None of them have seen even a glimpse of war.

And yet they brag about its profits.

Dorian wants to tell the Guard to shut them up. Father needs to please them, however, and can’t shoot them down. Dorian opens his mouth before Father can even think of what to say.

“Of course, Captain Selrion,” he says, and almost cringes at how thin and plain young his voice sounds compared to the men’s, “My father would love to acknowledge the brave men who fight to keep us proud and safe”

The court grows silent and ashamed at Dorian’s words. Captain Selrion smiles, tipping his head in thanks. Dorian’s father rights himself in his throne, clearing his throat. “Bring forth the soldiers then,” he says, voice hard. Dorian’s blood runs cold. Father never gives in this easily and when he does, it's with an air of amusement. There’s something he’s not seeing. Something Father is holding over him. Dorian’s actions might just backfire on him.

The Captain flicks his hand and some soldiers step forward. Dorian’s breath stops in his throat. His hand tightens in the material of the cape it’s resting on. Father is looking at him, searching for a reaction. Dorian tries to stay passive.

He’s gotten taller, and bigger; his muscles grown larger. His hair is still a glowing golden, windswept down to his shoulders, stark against his winter-sun-darkened skin. His eyes scan over Dorian and his father with such intensity, such confidence. Dorian rakes his brain. Aedion is about sixteen now.

And now, with his slightly older body and mind, Dorian suddenly understands his previous reactions to Aedion. He squirms slightly, blush dusting his cheeks. Father snorts, leaning back in his throne. Dorian shifts and averts his eyes, trying to ignore Father.

Dorian’s eyes connect with Chaol and his friend arches an eyebrow, nodding towards Aedion. Dorian blushes even harder. It’s a relief that only Chaol knows him well enough to understand what his reaction means. He’s been around Dorian enough when he’s stuttered flatterings to pretty girls.

Aedion catches his eye again. He’s knelt down, bowing his head to Father, hair tumbling over his shoulder and catching shine from the light. Dorian wants to run his fingers through it.

The Court murmurs around them and Dorian just hopes it’s not about him and his embarrassing display. Father gives his acknowledgments and the soldiers accept them, Aedion a bit more forced than the others, Dorian notes. “Son, would you be so kind and show the soldiers to their chambers?” Father asks. Payback for making him give them acknowledgments.

Dorian gives him a curt nod, masking his anger, and rises from his throne. One of the young ladies leans over and whispers something to her friends behind her hand as he passes. Captain Selrion shakes his hand as he approaches. It makes Dorian beam with pride until he hears his father’s half-concealed laughter behind him.

Dorian lowers his head, tears burning in his eyes, and quickly walks out of the hall, the soldiers rising to follow him.

Halfway out the door, Chaol catches up with him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let it affect you,” he murmurs, and Dorian takes what little comfort he can find in it. His hand, however, is knocked away by Aedion’s—as the soldier wraps his arm around Dorian’s shoulder. Chaol’s eyes immediately go cold.

“How’s life at court been treating you, Princeling?”

Aedion’s voice hits his eardrum hard and sends a ringing noise echoing through his head. Dorian jerks back, glaring. He begs the gods that Aedion hadn’t seen the tears. He never would’ve been able to live down the shame of it.

“Certainly better than those years in war camps has treated you,” he answers with a hiss. Aedion looks shocked for a small, euphoric moment and then he throws his head back and laughs. His friends follow. Dorian’s cheeks redden again.

“You’ve built quite the spine then, Princeling?” Aedion teases, arching an eyebrow at his friends and inviting them to tease. Dorian quickly shrugs him off, but his boot catches in Aedion’s cape and he, with as much grace as he can muster, stumbles backwards into Chaol’s chest.

Chaol’s hands immediately come out to steady him, but the damage is already done. Aedion and his friends are laughing and Dorian’s cheeks are flaring. Dorian turns on his heels and drags Chaol with him, steps as determined as he can get them. The bastards can find their rooms on their own.

Aedion calls out his name from behind, but Dorian can’t bring himself to turn around. Chaol’s hand slips to the small of his back, comforting. Dorian leans back into it, fisting his hands. It takes him three turns and two flights of stairs to finally calm down. His cheeks return to their normal colour and heat. The tremors stop going through his hands.

He breathes out.

And in.

And out

again.

“That,” Chaol comments, “was a disaster”

Dorian breathes a laugh but doesn’t comment on it further. He leans heavily against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

Father is going to be furious with him, but he can’t bring himself to actually care. It wasn’t only the complete and utter humiliation at embarrassing himself in front of the Terrasen prince, it was the fact that it was the Terrasen prince. Dorian knew, deep down, that his thundering heart wasn’t only due to the embarrassment, either, but he was willing to keep that knowledge to the utter bottom as long as it was required.

Chaol quirks an eyebrow but stays mercifully silent. That stare, though, is enough to make Dorian squirm. “Shut up,” he hisses, without any true malice. “Didn’t say anything,” Chaol teases, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Dorian groans and readies himself to slide down along the wall and curl up into a ball on the floor. Chaol grabs him by the waist and pulls him up again. Dorian immediately slumps forward to rest his head on Chaol’s shoulder. Chaol stiffens for two seconds while he checks if anyone is there to see.

It’s only Dorian that is allowed to act like this towards Chaol. Anyone else gets turned away with either a snarl or mild distaste. Dorian cherishes the fact, even though he really shouldn’t.

“We can’t just leave them to their own devices,” Chaol sighs after a considerable amount of time. Dorian whines low in his throat. “I know,” Chaol answers, a hand coming up to stroke through Dorian’s windswept curls, “But you have to”

Only Chaol.

With a determined huff, Dorian shoves himself off his friend and starts a confident walk down the hallway. “Good luck,” Chaol calls out from behind him.

The gods know he’ll need it.

Read Chapter 2 HERE

[woodrokiro]

Hollowed (fic) Part Two

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: They call her a miracle, but he looks at her as if she’s normal. It scares her. Fantasy/Futuristic/Zombie kinda?AU. Read Part One here.

The bunch of them find work pretty easily, she hears from Renji. 

Ever the gossip, Renji tells it all as he whiddles wood with a knife from behind the screen in her room, and she can tell he is annoyed. He's about as secret about his true feelings as General Shunsui's snores from a few halls down, she told him once a long time ago. It made him laugh, and she remembers it wistfully as she watches him blabber. That was when he was allowed directly in her room, before the Incident happened. When he still trusted her. 

"... The kid with the glasses has been placed at gate guard for his archery skills, but he's been observing the hospital segment quite a bit. Apparently his father was a big time doctor in the mainland, so you might be seeing more of him. The bigger guy--god, what is he, a giant? Well, not the craziest thing we've all seen--he's training with Hitsugaya in masonry. Heh, hilarious to see, if you ask me: this humongous guy being bossed around by that kid--but he melds pretty well, a lot more strength and craft than Hitsugaya can manage, the little rodent he is. Weapons they make together should be pretty cool. The girls were placed in kitchen and mending, obviously... No offense," he adds quickly, to which Rukia shrugs. He winces. "Sorry, it's not like you're doing much more... Shit. Anyway. The two girls with the lighter hair fit right in, though the older babe makes... Questionable experiments in the kitchen, if you ask me. The scrawny, darker one's having some trouble. More used to men's stuff, I guess. She'll find her place soon enough though..." He trails off, grinding his teeth. Rukia waits before prodding.

"And the leader? The one with the orange hair?"

He glances over her and snorts. "Wouldn't you like to know, he's become Yamamoto's new military pet project. Been training with some of us and looking over all and every soldier position. I don't like him. Too arrogant, doesn't know how lucky he is to just be let in like he was." Renji's fists tighten, and Rukia understands why he's really annoyed. He had to earn his place here, growing up in ranks according to the rules--comparatively, this stranger screamed at the gate and got to bypass all of that. The entire structure Renji supported his ambition on, it turns out, was a lie. 

“Perhaps he’s just getting basic training, before moving elsewhere?” she offers sympathetically, pulling her thread through the cloth. She’s embroidering blossoms for Brother, for his upcoming birthday… That is, if he’ll ever come visit her, let alone accept a gift from her.

 Renji snorts in response.

“Nah, Yamamoto’s been having him holed up in his quarters too, and the old man never bothers with new trainees. Something’s up. And as much as I hate it, the kid’s got a pretty damned good swing.”

She raíses her eyes at him, and she can tell he’s avoiding telling her something. “You’ve sparred with him?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I mean, yeah… And it was a lucky shot, and I tripped, and… Rukia c’mon.” 

Renji’s rolling his eyes at her barely contained smile, but he’s grinning. The rare lack of honorific isn’t lost on her, and she thinks this is nice, it’s almost like they’re back to normal--

The door behind him slams open. He scampers up, wiping the smile from his face as if they weren’t just talking as old friends. 

She’s not surprised, but she can’t help but mourn the moment lost. 

One of the wall guards, Ikkaku, nods at Rukia before shifting his attention to Renji. “Yo. Old Man told Boss to tell me to tell you you need to report to your captain, immediately. Change of duty.”

Renji stares at him, before scoffing. “Are you joking? I’ve been here since Kaien--” 

(Neither notice the way her hands stiffen on her embroidery at the name.)

“--And both Captain Byakuya and Old Man know that I’m the one most comfortable with Lady Rukia, as she is with me. Who’s supposed to replace me? You got your information wrong, my man.Try playing telephone more.”

“Nah, I don’t. Old Man gave Boss a note that specifically had your name on it. Paperwork, and all that jazz.” Ikkaku shrugged. “As for who’s replacing you, I don’t know for sure. But Vice Cap’n spilled that she heard that the new kid will be her guard. The one with the orange hair.”

She can’t see Renji’s face, but she sees his hands tighten into fist. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Look, I don’t make the rules, pal. But I’d scurry to Byakuya ASAP, you’ve told me enough how that tightwad is with tardiness. I’m to stay put here with her until Old Man comes with whoever.” 

Ikkaku strides over to sit against the screen, looking up at Renji pointedly. Her friend glares back, gritting his teeth before stomping out and slamming the door behind him.

The two sit in silence, and Rukia doesn’t quite know what to say to this man she’s barely spoken two words to before. 

She’s about to return to her stitching when he speaks up. 

“If it’s true that the new guy will replace Renji, you better be careful around this kid, my lady,” he says, not looking back at her. “He’s pretty fucking good at combat. Strong and fast, too. He’ll be great as your guard, but… I don’t wanna see what he’d be like as a Hollowed One.”

Neither did she, she almost protests--but instead she inclines her head, promising she’ll be careful.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Chapter 16: Exsanguinate

Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn  A03 Story Link Author: @wordywarriorwrites​ Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other. A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky. For: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration with the prompt, “Why did you do it?” & @sherrybaby14 Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge with the prompt, “Show me. Prove that you can handle me.” Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities. *Re-blogs are welcome. Plagiarism isn’t. *

It had been five months since the sit down in Bermuda.

Twenty-three uneventful weeks since Fury said his goodbyes. 155 days since the leadership restructure was cemented. 3,720 profitable, peaceful hours, and Steve hadn’t been required to do anything more than provide status updates to Natasha.  

But the respite ended via a hand-delivered missive he’d hoped -- in vain -- not to receive.

An envelope made from heavy paper stock; his name etched in calligraphy across the front; a wax seal with a bygone coat of arms for the Families on the back; and inside, a hand-carved announcement that displayed birthday celebration details for James Buchanan “JB” Barnes. As a standing member of the Families, Steve was required to make an appearance and pay homage. He couldn’t ignore or decline it, because if he did, it would be an insult, and he had no desire to deal with the fallout or consequences of issuing a mere -- albeit well-deserved -- snub.

All arrangements had been made in advance, and the only thing Steve had to do was arrive on time, and comport himself appropriately. Seventy-two hours later, he was off to New York, and during the five-hour flight, he meticulously planned and timed everything. Get there at nine; shake hands and make nice with the appropriate people; appear in a few photos to prove he’d been in attendance; duck out before they cut the cake; and be back in the West Indies before anyone noticed he’d left.

It should’ve been that simple, but as with all things concerning the Families, it wasn’t.

Thor hemmed-and-hawed and attempted to push one of his less-than-stellar newbies off on him. Tony wanted his opinion about the cops they had on their payroll and whether or not they should be compensated even more because of the additional heat the expansion brought on. Clint needed to know if there was a more expedient and cost-efficient route for shipments, and if he had a preferred contact at the Port Authority out his way. Wanda insisted on going over the quarterly financials, and wanted to introduce him to a man she guaranteed would be a perfect match for him professionally and personally.  

By the time he’d extracted himself from the Families and their nonsense, Rhodey, Carol, and Scott had arrived. They weren’t obligated to make an appearance, but they’d surprisingly showed up, which meant his escape timeline got thrown off even more. It was his duty to make appropriate introductions on their behalf, and those presentations had to be finessed and unhurried. Sam had also tracked him down, and though Steve enjoyed catching up with him, he really just wanted to leave.

“He wants to see you,” Natasha informed as they posed for the photographer. “Privately.”

“Not going to happen,” Steve bit out through his faux-smile.

As soon as the camera stopped flashing, Steve dropped his arm from around Natasha’s waist, and placed his untouched champagne flute on a nearby table. He eyeballed the nearest exit and checked the time on his phone; it was fifteen-minutes to midnight, which meant the guest of honor would arrive soon, and he needed to get gone.

“Don’t even think about it,” Natasha warned.

Her veiled threat was easily ignored, but he wasn’t able to disregard the arrival of two, fully-armed security guards. Whether Steve liked it or not, they would fulfill their orders, and he knew they had no qualms about using force. Since it was neither the time nor the place to cause a scene, Steve chose to go quietly, and followed them to the elevator. The three of them flanked him all the way up to the penthouse suite and announced their arrival by two-way radio. Another bodyguard opened the door and patted him down before they were ushered inside.  

The entryway opened up to an expansive room with tasteful artwork, expensive furnishings, and floor-to-ceiling windows. A flat-screen television was mounted above the fireplace with a built-in wet bar on one side and a chaise lounge on the other. A glass-top desk was situated to the left of the sofa. To the right was a set of stairs, tucked behind a half-wall that separated the bedroom from the rest of the space.

A muffled rush of water; a turn of a doorknob; a heavy footfall. Bucky was heard before he was seen, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, Steve pointedly kept his eyes focused on the skyline view.  

“Anything else you need, Boss?” one of the guards asked.

The dismissal must’ve been a silent one, because a few moments later, all three hired guns left the room. Natasha stayed behind only long enough to remark that she’d left the paperwork on the desk, and then, promptly departed. As soon as the door was closed and they were alone, Bucky poured himself a drink, took a seat, and picked up the folder.  

“I want you to take a look at this,” he ordered.  

Steve sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, “What is it?”

Bucky’s clipped response of, “Take a seat and see for yourself,” set off all sorts of warning bells in his head. The glare he received when he impolitely snatched the file out of Bucky’s hands didn’t bode well, either, and Steve barely got through the first two pages of the dossier before his knocking knees forced him to sit down hard in a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

With the death of the betrayers and Fury’s departure, the entire matter should’ve been put to rest, but Bucky apparently had an axe to grind, and hadn’t let it go. Based on what Steve had reviewed, he knew the additional skeletons in the closet had been uncovered on Bucky’s order, and as he continued to read, he learned the Families had been exceptionally and dangerously thorough.

They’d found Steve’s connection to Phil and paid both him and Bruce to go down the rabbit hole. The two of them had pulled on every, single thread until the entire web unraveled. Every misdeed and act of duplicity had been unearthed, and it showed that at one time or another, each member of his own crew had either sold out, overthrown, or was somehow indirectly or even outright directly responsible for the death of their previous Bosses.

The only person Rhodey, Carol, and Scott hadn’t betrayed was Fury, but that didn’t matter, because their past transgressions were being seen as a preview of things to come. They’d been in the game awhile, but didn’t have generations upon generations of history and convention and blood keeping them loyal. And the Families – well, they believed one bad apple could spoil the whole bunch, and given what Maria had done, they weren’t going to allow anyone else the chance to stab one of their own in the back again.

It was the reason for the pre-arranged travel. It explained why Thor, Tony, Clint, Wanda, and Sam had monopolized him from the moment he’d arrived. It clarified why everyone Steve had introduced his people to had been curt or downright indifferent. Natasha had purposefully extracted him so he couldn’t save them, and under the guise of protecting the Families interests, Bucky had them wiped out.

People had been informed. Funds had been re-distributed. Contracts had been drawn up. Sam, Bruce, and Natasha would be sent to the West Indies as replacements. The only thing left to do was ensure Steve signed off on the already-completed execution orders.

He couldn’t say he was surprised by the turn of events, but the last few pages did shock him, and the formal verbiage in the declaration was clear. Should Steve wish it, he could vacate his seat without penalty, keep what he’d amassed, and receive an even better retirement package than what Fury had been given. If he didn’t fight it – if he kept his mouth shut and put ink to paper – he would be free.

“You’re going to let me go?” Steve wondered incredulously.  

Bucky retrieved a pen from his pocket and placed it on the desk, “Don’t mistake this for anything other than what it is.”

“Then, why?” Steve demanded lowly. “Why did you do it?”

“Because you’re mine,” Bucky asserted as he polished off his drink. “And I don’t let people fuck with what’s mine.”

Steve closed his eyes and shook his head. Those words would have made him drop to his knees five years ago, but now? Now, those words didn’t mean shit to him, because they didn’t come from a place where statements like that should come from. It wasn’t primal instinct, passion, or hell, even affection that made him say it.

The man sitting across from him wasn’t Bucky anymore – he was JB – Boss of bosses.

And this was just business.

He nodded his head toward the contract, “You said you were ready. So, show me. Prove that you can handle me.”

“No,” Steve bit out as he tossed the paperwork down on the desk and got to his feet. “Not this way. Not like this – not now, not ever.”

Bucky stood up, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he retorted. “And on top of that – go fuck yourself.”

When the gun was unholstered, Steve didn’t even flinch; instead, he made himself an easy target, extended his arms, and tauntingly jutted his chin.

“We’re not friends and I sure as hell do not belong to you. So, come on, JB, do it – pull the trigger.”

Bucky’s three-piece suit, Steve’s faded jeans, and two pairs of unflinching, narrowed blue eyes. An opus of bitterness; a symphony of raging regret; a sonata of past sorrows; a melody of carnality atop silk sheets. The tick, tick, tick of the miniature grandfather clock on the desk and a hiss as the air conditioner kicked on. The faint scent of cigars from a previous sit down mixed with a hint of bourbon.

“I think you should reconsider the offer,” Bucky equivocated. “And how you speak to me. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

“If you were any kind of man at all, you wouldn’t have even put that piece of shit contract in front of me,” he fumed. “It’s an insult and you know it.”

“You never could separate business from pleasure.”

Steve pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. It was a sucker punch and he refused to react to it. With nothing more to say, he headed for the door, but before he left, he paused at the threshold. If he walked out, there would be no turning back, but before he resigned himself to that cold fate, Steve looked over his shoulder at Bucky one, final time.

“You’re right, I never could separate it,” he acknowledged quietly. “But at least I would’ve put you first.”

What the slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression on Bucky’s face meant, Steve would never know, because with those parting words, he opened the door, and walked out.

Chapter 17: Deliverance 

Everything: @jennmurawski13​​​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​

Steve Rogers: @patzammit @hearttoearth​ The Boss of Brooklyn: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety​ @captain-rogers-beard​ @lilliannaansalla @captain-s-rogers​

[vydante]

Trust Me | Natasha Romanoff x Stark! GN! Reader

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: GN! Reader x Natasha Romanoff - Platonic/ Romantic, up for interpretation...

Plot: There was no way around it. It was either you or Natasha. She didn’t want you to go, and obviously, you didn’t want her to go either. You knew she was as hard-headed as you, so you came up with a plan to get the soul stone, even if you had to lie to Natasha about it.

A/N: (shitty) Angst. Endgame spoilers, but if you haven’t seen it yet by now... Then don’t... Don’t read this... I Guess lmfaoo... Inspired by this post on Instagram. I wanted to show Natasha some love, and since she Did Not Deserve To Die (not to say that Clint does), might as well Kill Someone Else ;) And this was originally a male reader fic, but it was vague enough so that it can be gender neutral.

“... It’s going to have to be one of us.”

Your jaw clenched as you were sat on the ground next to Natasha, who held her head in her palms.

You were silent as you peeked through your lashes to look at the bastard who was already up here. He’s also silent as he looks at you, almost through your soul as your guts clench with anxiety.

“... What if he’s bullshitting us?”

Your voice was quiet.

She didn’t answer you, though you didn’t really need an answer to that question. It was inevitable. Neither of you could ever go back from this- you had only one chance to get the soul stone, no matter what it took.

Your lips were pressed in a fine line.

You thought about it logistically, trying to find some way to justify you being the one to jump.

Family?

You winced.

No, that wasn’t really a great one to start off with. Biologically speaking, you had your father, Tony. You’d know he’d miss you beyond words, after all you saw him grieving for Peter first hand. And Pepper would be devastated from losing you, her first- if not technical- child...

As for Natasha...

As far as you and the team knew, she doesn’t even know her own family members or if they were even alive. Hell, she didn’t even know her own father’s name when the red skull guy said his name.

But, either way, the team would miss her... And besides, Tony would still have 2 kids left- Morgan and Harley-, and if this whole thing works, 3 since Peter would come back. 

And chances are if it does work, then they could just... Use the Infinity Stones to resurrect you, right?

It was a gamble to take, but if it meant that you were to be the one who jumped, then so be it.

But... How were you going to convince her to let you be the one to jump? There was no real guarantee that you could be resurrected, and even then, she’d argue that she should be the one to jump since she’s older than you. 

She always used that to her advantage, saying that her age came with more wisdom than you’d ever have. Even if the age gap wasn’t all that big, she’d still say that.

You sighed quietly.

Either way, there was no real way of going around the argument that she should be the one to jump. All of the logistics point to her being the one to do it, even if you didn’t want to admit the facts.

Your head buzzed with ideas until one hit you. 

“(Name)?”

You stood up abruptly.

Was this going to work? What if she doesn’t agree with your plan? How are you going to convince her to go through with it with you?

You held your hands out to her and she took it with a curious but grim expression. Chances are, she’s probably thought of a million ways to get you to stay behind. 

“Follow me...”

You held her hands with a tight grip as you walked towards the edge of the cliff. You were a few feet away from it as you stopped and turned around to look at her in her eyes.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you spoke in a low, quiet voice, trying to make it seem like you didn’t want the red skull guy to hear. Either way, it didn’t matter if he heard you or not, but it would at least give some sense of slyness that should spark some hope in her.

“I have a plan, Nat.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Care to tell?”

She kept her voice at a soothing calm tone, but you knew better than that. Her palms were getting a tad bit sweaty. You really didn’t know who she was trying to calm down- you, or her.

“I know this might sound really stupid, but most of my plans are stupid but they work. You just... Please, just trust me, okay?”

You weren’t lying. Whenever you used to suggest plans to the team when you were all in your prime time, it sounded absolutely bonkers. But never had they failed you, so no matter how ridiculous it was, the team always trusted you and your plans.

“Okay. I trust you.”

She nearly whispered that her warm breath momentarily heating you up as you both stood on the cold clifftop. You searched in her eyes for any hesitation. Any reluctance, any doubt. 

There wasn’t any of them in her eyes. Just trust and mutual understanding.

Your heart ached.

She trusted you.

You were thankful that you kept up that little tidbit of yours up until the bitter end. You were thankful that she trusted you. Just so you could use it to your advantage.

“To keep it all short... We jump off together.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. She tried forming words, looking into the windows of your eyes, searching for humor in them. Only seriousness.

“... What...?”

You squeezed her hand and felt your heart swell when she squeezed right back.

“Look, Nat, both of us are stubborn as a mule. You won’t let me jump, I won’t let you jump.”

You shook your head as you pulled her in for a hug. She didn’t hesitate to wrap her hands around you as you murmured quietly.

“But... I have a plan, and that plan needs us both to jump.”

She leaned back, but not enough to separate herself from your embrace. Her lips quivered as she tried to smile at you.

“(Name)... I don’t...” She shook her head as she cast her eyes down. She rested her forehead against yours.

“... I don’t know, (Name)...”

You strained a smile as you closed your eyes.

“Natasha, do you trust me? Yes or no?”

You prayed that she said yes. There was a lingering doubt in the back of your head. What if she said no? What would happen then?

Knowing Natasha, she... Oh God, she wouldn’t hesitate to try and beat you into the ground, just to prevent you from jumping off. 

You both knew in your heart, even if she was more skilled than you, you had an iron suit for god’s sake. You could easily overpower her into the ground, even if that meant having to do the worst just so she could stay down.

You opened your eyes and stared right into hers. Emotions were swimming through her eyes as they were illuminated by the dim sky.

“... Yeah... I trust you...”

Relief flooded your system. You were glad. If she had said no, you two would eventually have to brawl for the cliff.

But as quick as the relief came, it left and was replaced with anxiety.

If your plan worked, then...

You stepped back and faced the cliff. You held her hands with a vice grip as you both approached the edge. You swallowed the lump lodged in your throat as you teetered over the edge. You take a quick glance down as your stomach dropped to the floor.

It... You were so high...

You snapped out of it when you felt Natasha squeeze your hand. She’s smiling at you, which makes your throat clench up. She thinks it’s a good plan.

She thinks it’s a good plan.

She thinks it’s a good plan.

She thinks it’s a good plan.

You clenched your other fist behind your back, trying to get rid of tears threatening to come out. You looked away and down at the bottom of the cliff before glancing back at her with half-lidded eyes. You chewed on the inside of your mouth as you sent her a smile.

“Trust me, Nat. I have a plan.”

You prayed that she didn’t hear the uncertainty in your voice.

You two stood there for what seems to be an eternity before you nodded at her, and leaned forwards together and off the cliff.

The cold wind hit you with more force than you were expecting.

You felt like you were flying in your suit, freefalling as you always did in your free time.

Only this time, your suit wasn’t going to save you.

You still held hands with Natasha as you were both falling. Blood rushed to your ears as you pulled Natasha close for a hug. She returned it back and you saw her lips moving, but you couldn’t really tell what she was trying to say.

You glanced up- or down, since you both went head first, and saw the ground near. You couldn’t see the ground from the cliff, but now, you saw it clearly.

Strangely, it was rather clean. Just rubble.

You swallowed as you heard F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice in your earpiece.

“7 seconds until impact.”

Shit, you had to act quick.

You glanced back at Natasha, and you could tell she was getting extremely nervous as the ground got closer and closer as each millisecond passes.

“5 seconds until impact.”

You snaked your hands over to your nano-tech storage center- it was conveniently on your chest, just like your fathers. You tapped it and felt the nano-tech forming rapidly. Only this time, it wasn’t wrapping around you.

It was latching itself onto Natasha.

‘Take her to the top.’

The suit commanded your last order. You pressed your lips firm on her forehead and pulled back, mouthing her your last words. 

‘Trust me.’

Her eyes widened as you pushed away from you and watch as the suit form at light speed over her body. She’s trying to struggle out of it, but the suit simply holds her in one place as she screams at you.

“(Name)!”

You sighed quietly and watched with a smile as the suit completely forms over her. The suit immediately flings itself upright and uses the leg thrusters to stop her from descending with you. 

Quickly, her figure fades away from your view until the fog takes over. You couldn’t really see the cliff top from here, but you closed your eyes.

It wouldn’t really matter now.

All that you could do was pray that the next time you saw her, she’d forgive you for using her trust in you to your advantage.

“... Where’s (Name)?”

Tony asked Natasha. She avoided his gaze and stood there silently. 

Steve frowned and put his hand on her shoulder. 

“Romanoff...?”

His voice was gentle but firm. Natasha’s lips quivered as she lifted her head up to reveal her glassy eyes. Tears gently slid down her face as she locked eyes with Tony.

Realization passed Tony’s eyes as his hands trembled. Fear rushed through his palms as he furrowed his eyebrows. He clenched his hands as the shook.

“No...”

“Tony...”

Thor approached him from behind and placed his hand on Tony’s back. He turned around to look Thor in his eyes, and all Thor saw was immediate grief.

“My baby...”

Tony’s voice trembled as he gripped Thor’s bicep. Clint and Scott hung their heads as they didn’t know what to say. Bruce shook his head as he clenched his jaw, tears already slipping down his face.

Natasha’s voice was caught in her throat. She wanted to say so many things to Tony right now. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg for his forgiveness. She wanted to cry and yell and scream and punch the ground for letting you- letting you trick her into jumping with you.

She wanted to do a lot of things, but she could only say one last thing before she tasted her tears streaming down her face.

“... It should’ve been me...”

[kdtheghostwriter]

New Blade Runner Fic

And I mean Brand New!

Yes, this is one of the ideas I’ve had slamming around in my head lately. And before we go further I must must MUST give a shoutout to the righteous @future-geometries for being a source of inspiration.

You see, we both have an on-off, intermittent fascination with the 2017 film Blade Runner 2049. It has a tiny but passionate fandom that still produces content to this day. (That includes a great fic written by J.)

We were in the midst of one of our convos about this flick when they pointed out how tragic K’s arc was and how disappointed they were that we haven’t had a “satisfying, low-stakes AU” yet. Now, this was over a year ago at least and perhaps I underestimated how much people love putting K on the Whump Train because we still haven’t seen it. So, what else is the guy who rewrote Dawn of Justice to do?

This is a rare look into my process as you get to see a very skeletal first draft. The final version will be three chapters with much more detail about the characters and the issues they face in a modern-adjacent setting.

I had to get this out into the Ether because I know it will be ages before I can get back to finishing this. I still have to finish The Batman. I still have to write JL3. Between those I’ll be writing my [REDACTED] rework. And a neat idea I have for Atomic Blonde. Then maybe I can finish this.

Until that fateful day, join me under the cut if you will...

Title: Dead Slow Ahead Word Count: 2415 Category: Gen Fandom: Blade Runner Characters: K, Rick Deckard, Ana Stelline Rating: T+ (some thematic elements and Deckard’s salty language) Summary: A tragedy in the life of Officer K begins a slow spiral that leads to his resignation from the LAPD. He now finds himself in the home of another former officer named Deckard, as he begins the slow march back to stability. A snapshot of a recovery in progress.

He drops the badge and gun on her desk without a word. She doesn’t look up at first, until she notices him still standing there. He stands there in silence for several seconds longer before he takes the seat in front of her. He’s looking down and away, then up and to the left. Anywhere but ahead into her sight.

“Is that it?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Think what? I don’t read minds.”

“I think I’m done.”

She pauses at that. Not out of surprise.

“Kinda figured. Life’s put you through the shit stain recently.”

“…Yeah.”

Another pause and she opens up a drawer to drop the badge and gun into. She snaps twice to get his attention. He maintains eye contact for the first time.

“I don’t have to tell you but…this isn’t normal protocol. It’s usually a two-week notice. Two weeks that you’re still expected to show up and do your job. But I like you. We’re not friends but I like you. You’ve done good work for this department. So, I’m going to do you a favor.”

She holds up two fingers. One from each hand.

“Two days. Forty-eight hours. However you wanna think of it, I don’t care. You get two days leave to figure out whatever this is. You come back in two days and I give you your gear back. If you don’t, I clear out your desk and I don’t see you in this building again. That’s fair, right?”

“Very fair. Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiles very slightly. “You were always so polite. I know I’m a smartass constantly but I do appreciate that.”

“I know.”

“Hey.” She sits up straighter to cross her legs. “Before you go.”

“My baseline?”

“If it’s not any trouble.”

“Not at all.”

He’s been in her office for meetings before. He doesn’t have to see behind her desk to know her finger is hovering above a silent call button. Whether he left the precinct under his own power or under restraint depended on his performance.

He closes his eyes, swallows the emotion and looks forward to recite the words.

“And a blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked within cells interlinked within cells interlinked within one stem. And dreadfully distinct, against the dark, a tall white fountain played. But in the case of my white fountain what it did replace? Perceptually was something that, I felt, could be grasped only by whoever dwelt in the strange world where I was a mere stray.”

She places both of her hands flat on her desk. She visibly relaxes. He does not.

“Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Constant K like always.”

“Always a pleasure, Madam.”

 -------------------------

 K jolts awake to slam on his brake, throwing his arm out to the seat space next to him. He expects the paper grocery bags to go flying. What he finds instead is his front bumper flush against the garage door. Asleep in the driveway. Embarrassing but not dangerous. He backs up slightly and kills the engine.

Almost a year removed from his last day finds him in the Silver Lake neighborhood of Los Angeles. He’s staying in a house for the first time since finishing high school. It shows as he drops his keys while fishing from his pockets. He grumbles as he bends down to retrieve them, hearing the door open.

“Deckard,” he says. “I know I’m late but I got some extra-“

The face in front of him isn’t who he expects. It’s much younger and the smile is still visible from behind the clinical mask.

“I suppose you aren’t wrong.”

“Ana. Hello.”

She answers with a wave. “I’m making my weekly visit. May I?”

K without protest hands over one bag and pockets his keys. Once inside, he slips both shoes off and drops into the near recliner with the bag still in his lap.

“About time, boy.” Deckard speaks gruffly while scrolling his phone.

“Kept you waiting, huh?”

“Not me.”

A scruffy Shepard mix brushes up against K’s leg and he repositions the bag to give it a petting.

“Ten years I’ve had Bo, he’s hardly ever that friendly. Good-looking stranger walks in and he acts brand new.” Deckard places his phone down and takes the bag Ana is holding. “You get everything?”

K answers non-verbally through a yawn.

“Feels that way. Oh! Look at this. Four whole bell peppers? I think Miss Consuela likes you, Joe. Joe?”

The latter man is asleep with the second bag still upright in his hold.

Deckard claps once. “Joe! Huh. New gig is doing a number on him.”

Ana pads quietly across the room and stops near the chair before reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“K?”

This perks him up. He looks back at Ana and down to the dog.

“Was I asleep just now?”

“Out cold,” Deckard responds. “You’ve got a bed, you know.”

K hands the bag to Ana. “You don’t need help with dinner?”

“I do, but that can wait until you’re rested. A stiff in the kitchen won’t do me any good. Get.”

K gives Bo another head pat, then shuffles down the hall to his room. While holding the bag, Ana joins Deckard on the sofa to help him with the groceries.

“What’s that you called him?”

“K.”

“Like the letter?”

“Like his badge number. KD6-3.7.”

Deckard scoffs, putting his reading glasses on. “The hell kind of serial is that?”

“It’s his.” Ana says this while inspecting a pack of tomato seeds. “Was his.”

“I’m not calling him by his damn serial.”

“You don’t have to, Deckard.”

“Oh yeah?” Deckard is out of his chair and she follows him into the kitchen. “Why do you?”

“He asked. And I feel like K is a bit more interesting than Joe. Don’t you?”

“Eh. Seems like a lateral move, to me.”

Deckard sits at the table with both bags before him. Ana remains standing, drawing her hands into the sleeves of her pullover.

“Will he be alright?”

“You’ve got three degrees. You tell me.”

This is meant to be a joke, but if the frown outlined by her mask is an indication, Ana does not find this funny. Deckard frowns back to remind her where she got it from.

“Don’t give me that. Physically he’s fine. Beat up maybe but fine. Mentally? Emotionally?” Deckard removes his glasses and his gaze softens slightly. “He won’t be ‘alright’ for a long time. You know that like I do.”

Ana circles the chair to embrace her father. She isn’t taller than him but while he’s sitting, she can rest her temple on his.

“It was nice of you to help him.”

“It was necessary. Kid has no family and I know what the force does to people. Wasn’t gonna let him go back there.”

Ana stands up straight when her phone sounds from the other room. She’s reading the message silently as she walks back in. Deckard is busy separating the canned goods from the perishables.

“Oh,” she says.

“Gotta go?”

“I do.”

“Fair enough. Scoot, then.”

“Very well, Detective.”

“I told you I’m not-”

Deckard is cut off by a quick peck to his cheek. He fights a smirk as she slips away.

“Hey! Mask on, you hear?”

 -------------------------

 When K wakes up his room is dark. Several hours have passed since he left Ana and Deckard in the living room. This is about when dinner gets prepped, but Deckard hasn’t come looking for him. K walks past a napping Bo in the hallway to see what the status is. Deckard is at the table, peeling potatoes.

“You started.”

“You were sleep.”

“Could have woke me up.”

“Could have. But that would be rude. You’re here now, so get started.”

He tosses a peeler in his direction that K catches easily.

“Yes, sir.”

They stay like this for several minutes, peeling in silence. K is a great help with menial tasks like this. He doesn’t complain, nor does he get distracted. After a time, though, even Deckard gets a bit antsy.

“Talked with Ana earlier today. Before you got here.”

“How is she? She usually stays to eat with us.”

“Busy, Joe. It’s always around springtime her workload gets heavy. She can manage but for a few weeks it’ll be tough.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, she told me you had your eye on a place?”

“Found one, actually. Studio in Los Feliz. I move in next month.”

“Not bad, kid. You know there wasn’t a cutoff date on this arrangement.”

“I know.”

“I mean I get it. Shacking up with an old man ain’t exactly exhilarating.”

Deckard’s teasing works as K holds up his peeler in protest.

“No, no! It’s not you. I like being here. I’ve…honestly needed to talk to you about this for a while.”

“I got nothing but time, Joe. Just keep peeling, huh?”

“Right.”

K doesn’t speak again until he’s finished peeling his current potato. He also doesn’t see Deckard roll his eyes.

“I never lost the place. I put all my stuff in storage. Been subletting for months. I just couldn’t stay there any longer. I only went back today because the office called me.”

“Is that what this is about?” Deckard reaches into the seat of a neighboring chair and pulls out a copy of the Vladimir Nabokov novel Pale Fire. “Found this under the eggs.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You mentioned this before. Your girlfriend. What was her name?”

“Joy.”

“She was a reader, huh?”

“No, she hated that book. She liked to hear me read.”

“How long you stay after?”

“Too long but it’s not like I was ever there.”

K closes his eyes and counts before he continues.

“After Joy died… You’d think my work would suffer while I was bereaved but it was the opposite. I was more driven than I’d ever been. I was sleeping in the station barracks. I found a lot of people that didn’t wanna be found. Destroyed them. Got destroyed myself. In my storage unit, there’s a box of awards with my name on them that I got for running and fighting and kicking ass.”

K grabs another potato. He isn’t done and Deckard knows so he doesn’t interject.

“This sounds crazy now but I didn’t even consider leaving.” K drops his peeler and wipes his hand to pull out his phone. “Not until I found this up on my door.”

He passes the phone as Deckard slips on his glasses. Once he sees, he whips them off and returns the device.

“Fucking hell,” he spits out.

“Didn’t matter that my life partner was dead,” K started. “Didn’t matter to them that she was Spanish and not Mexican. It didn’t matter that she was a legal US citizen. Only thing that mattered to them was my badge and my gun, when I knocked on their door and told them exactly what would happen if they bothered me again. That is when I knew.”

“This sounds familiar.”

K exhales. “Bet it is.”

“Well, you were nice enough to share so I’ll do the same. I was with LAPD way longer than I was supposed to be.”

“I thought you quit.”

“I did! Life has a funny way of happening.”

“You too?”

“Rachel was her name. I was already one foot out the door when I met her, so there wasn’t really a decision to be made. And with the ink dry on the previous marriage I felt like the stars were lining up for once.”

“What happened?”

Deckard lays down his peeler to ruffle the fur of Bo who has joined the pair at the table.

“The good news, if you can call it that, is that we weren’t taken by surprise. I was never interested in kids. Rachel wanted one so I wanted one for her. We tried and failed and on the way to failing, we were told in fairly explicit terms that a pregnancy, should we succeed, would likely be fatal. We traveled the country after that. Maybe it was my youth but I was damn prepared to live in that RV in Vegas forever.”

“Until you weren’t.”

“She was with child, Joe. It was every fucking emotion all at once. The happiness, the relief, the fear. I took her home and was back working full time within the week. I took as many cases as I could. Maybe deep down I knew, but I never stopped long enough to think about it.”

There are three potatoes left to peel at this point. K will finish the job, of course; before that, there’s something hanging in the air between them. K goes ahead without looking up from his work.

“Did Rachel get to see her?”

If Deckard doesn’t appreciate this question, he doesn’t let it show. “You never know with that kind of thing. The nurse said she did. Could you blame her? You’re facing down a widower holding a newborn in his arms. You’d say the sky was turning pink.”

K isn’t sure how he should react to this, so he stays quiet for a long time.

“Feel better?” Deckard asks.

“Sorta.”

“Did any of that make sense?”

“Some of it.”

“Good, cause I’m not repeating it.”

The older man rises from his seat and lifts a harness off the wall. Bo takes this as the cue to follow his lead.

“Taking Bo for his night walk. When you’re done there you can get dinner started.”

“Are these for dinner?”

“Nope. They’re for tomorrow. Dinner’s in the oven. All you gotta do is press the ‘Start’ button, big guy.”

K is alone again. He had been rather sluggish and heavy for days up to that point. Moving into his own place once again obviously wouldn’t be the end of his relationship with Deckard or Ana. What it would be is the first extended time he’s had alone with his thoughts. Is he ready for that? Does he have a choice? What is his relationship with these people exactly? He feels better than he was, but there are still more questions than he’d like.

K picks up one last potato from the container. With no one to hear him, he begins to recite the lines he knows so well.

“And a blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells. Interlinked within cells. Interlinked within cells. Interlinked within one stem. And dreadfully distinct, against the dark, a tall white fountain played…”

[mintgator]

MDZS fic ideas

Things I’d love to see in Mo Doa Zu Shi fanfiction. These are my notes for things I have told myself I am not allowed to write. I’ve read...so many fics for this fandom, like most of the archive, and I’m sad that I’m pretty much at the point of rereading/waiting for updates. These ideas have been swimming around in my head that I have no time to write, so PLEASE someone take them and gimme some new words to read, I beg you.  Of course, end goal should be wangxian in some way, because otherwise WHAT IS THE POINT, but I don’t have time to write these, so...here you go. Please let me know if you use them. I wanna read these, but I don’t have time to write them, so maybe someone else will want to.

*Time Travel AU in which WWX goes back and for some reason tells Madame Yu all the bullshit that’s gonna happen, so they team up and fix all the things. I just...really want Mama Yu to like WWX thanks. And dear god, LET JC BE HAPPY! I need so much more resolution on that front. Even the book did not satisfy me. I WANT MY BOYS TO GET ALONG! And I want Mama Yu to not be awful and abusive to WWX! I mean she had reasons for being salty but uh that is NOT good justification for the shit she pulled with WWX. Also, hell, let Jiang Fengmian get his core melted and have Madame Yu run the sect. WE NEED FEMALE REP.

*Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze live so WWX gets to grow up with his parents. He meets LWJ as a rogue cultivator or something idk. This would make a fun oneshot.

*LWJ’s mother lives! Honestly, I just want happy Lan-fam. Can I get that please? Just how much would it change the dynamic of the story if LWJ’s father led the sect properly and his mother wasn’t locked away in a goddamn building and actually got to spend more time with her kids? I am forever salty that we’ll never know why Mama Lan killed her hubby’s teacher or w/e. Somebody GIVE ME SOME REASONING.

*WWX gets taken in and claimed as heir by Wen Ruohan...and WWX doesn’t learn that their ways are wrong until he’s at least a teen (perhaps when sent to train at the Cloud Recesses?) and realizes how the other Sects really feel about them. Give him some convoluted morals that he has to unlearn. Make Wen Xu and Wen Chao hate him for being chosen over them. Change Wei Wuxian/Wei Ying into Wen Ying/Wen Wuxian and have it be a secret that he’s not actually a Wen. Have WWX actually not want the Wen Sect destroyed because despite how messed up its people are, not all of them are bad--mostly just those in power (it still baffles me that the other clans just DESTROYED an entire sect, like I know the Wens burned Lotus Pier but DAMN that’s cold!) Even some kind of variation where WWX influences Wen Ruohan and his children’s evil mindset would be really interesting. Otherwise, can you imagine WWX with Chenqing on the Wen side? Ouch. Also, this sticks WWX with Wen Ning and Wen Qing early on and I LOVE THEM, so there’s that.

*WWX doesn’t come back after his first death, and LWJ achieves immortality because he’s stubbornly still looking/waiting for WWX. Two centuries pass (we’re going to ignore any technological advancements and replace them with cultivation advancements or something) and LWJ ends up befriending a nice lady cultivator who falls for him, and even though he only considers her a friend, he agrees to marry her. They have 1 very stubborn gay daughter (only from consummation sex which brings up a boatload of other problems) who somehow stumbles across a reborn!WWX with all his memories--daughter is hella bitter that her father clearly does not return her mother’s affections and that he is apparently pining for someone who is so long dead that people don’t actually remember his name (ie - people remember Yiling Laozu but not that his name was Wei Wuxian). But without knowing who he is, the daughter ends up liking WWX until she finds out the truth about who he is and drama ensues. Can you tell I’ve wanted to write this one so badly? I mean I could just about draft an outline, but I HAVE TO FOCUS ON MY ORIGINAL NOVEL I’M SORRY.

*Time Travel AU in which Yanli alone gets a do-over with all the future knowledge and fixes everything just by being her amazing self. I feel like she’d be a really keen manipulator.

*The story from NHS’s pov. I wanna read all his manipulations and him putting them into place. Is there anything like this out there? Because oh my GOD I wanna know what’s going through his head sometimes. I really, really do!

*Jiang Cheng/Wen Ning - AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO THINKS THIS WOULD BE AN ENTERTAINING SHIP? Just...I sort of tolerate the JC/LXC and JC/NHS pairings because they’re commonly used, but honestly, I’m not crazy about either one. However, WN is such a sweetheart and JC is such a hothead and there is so much opportunity for drama there. Also, in some cases depending on timeline...WN is, yunno, a corpse--a fixable thing if you weave in WWX’s involvement and make him and JC get along again. GIVE ME THAT. Like I don’t read much other than wangxian focused fic, but I would read the hell out of this (also you could easily balance those two pairings).

*Somewhere in the waiting gap, LWJ is given three tasks by a deity of some sort who promises to bring WWX back if he completes him...but these tasks have to UTTERLY go against LWJ’s character and completely destroy his reputation as Hanguang Jun. Honestly, this could go cracky or painfully dark.

*No idea how, but Mo Xuanyu manages to bring WWX back fully in-tact and they both get to live. WWX of course takes MXY under his wing, and together they avoid the notice of even LWJ for a lot longer than WWX did in canon. I would love to see them figuring out the whole JGY plot in the background and LWJ tailing them around just a little too late to the party each time a major event goes down until finding out in some kind of dramatic finale that WWX has been back for a while. I have yet to see characterization for MXY that I really like. Most people make him either ridiculously whiny or so much like WWX that they may as well be the same character. :/ So, uh, maybe a different approach? I mean MXY is allowed some complaints, he’s had a rough time of things, but come ON.

*Lan Wanji never finds Wen Yuan and poor widdle Shizui manages to survive into adolescence living on his own in the burial mounds...accompanied by the fragmented ghost of his Xian-gege who very slowly is pieced back together by A-Yuan, who has sort of naturally started using demonic cultivation and somehow develops a heroic reputation as a rogue cultivator. Why? Because he’s Shizui, and Shizui is SO PURE OK? Maybe he has a fascination with LWJ, even though his memories of Rich Gege are kind of fuzzy. Shizui matchmakes his two ridiculous dads. Oh and inquiry doesn’t work on WWX cuz his soul is shrouded by the resentful energy in the burial mounds.

*The Wen clan burns the Cloud Recesses to the ground around the same time WWX has lost his parents, but LWJ somehow escapes. Reportedly, everyone in GusuLan is now dead, but he somehow ends up in the same town as WWX. They meet and bond immediately. Maybe LWJ saves WWX from the dogs. Anyway, JFM never finds WWX, so he and LWJ grow up together in poverty, eventually teaching themselves cultivation and night hunting, until their fame grows so much that they catch the attention of the Wen clan (or something). Have them ridiculously dedicated to each other, already in love and thinking of themselves as cultivation partners. I want their bond to straight-up shock people. LET THEM BE SHAMELESS. LWJ would have to have a fake name and wear something other than white.

*LWJ and WWX figure out their relationship stuff a lot sooner and end up building a proper sect in the burial mounds. I want LWJ wearing WWX’s colors. I want demonic cultivation to work hand-in-hand with regular cultivation. I want them to find artifacts or books or something in the burial mounds indicating a civilization used to be there that also studied demonic cultivation, or maybe they actually find some long forgotten god/dess of demonic cultivation who empowers them in exchange for worship.

*LWJ was not whipped for protecting WWX, he was imprisoned for life, not in GusuLan, but in some godforsaken prison that is so intense no one in the clans really likes to talk about it. I want him flung into some hellprison with ghosts and demons, where only his cultivation keeps him alive (and relatively sane) for that decade-ish gap until WWX’s fragmented ghost somehow finds him. Of course, WWX realizes LWJ loves him, which triggers in WWX a want to finally come back to life. He finds a way back to the living world and rains hell upon the people who decided it was a good idea to imprison LWJ until someone finally tells him how to get to the prison. He frees LWJ and helps him recover while all the JGY stuff is going on the background. Wangxian returns to the cultivation world in time to stop that catastrophe. (Before LWJ is imprisoned, he makes LXC promise to take care of A-Yuan of course!)

*WWX gets flung into the burial mounds and embraces demonic cultivation, but realizes he has somehow bound himself to the awful place and can’t leave. Over time, he lures stragglers and refugees to the mounds, where he welcomes them to stay and live safely. Outside, the Sunshot Campaign is a failure and what remains of the sects bow in subservience to the Wen clan. Inflicted with some permanent disabilities from the war and left to run GusuLan now that his brother and uncle are dead (sorry Xichen), Lan Wanji never gets the chance to go looking for WWX. Thirteen years pass and WWX has absorbed so much resentful energy from the burial mounds that he is practically a part of it. Finally, he is able to leave, but the world he finds is much different from the one he remembers, and his health fades fast when he is outside of the mounds. Somehow, WWX figures out that demonic cultivation doesn’t damage the body/soul/temperament if somehow counterbalanced properly with a golden core--and since he doesn’t have one, he and LWJ do a soulbond thing so that their cores (WWX: demonic and LWJ: golden) balance each other. Then he can take on the Wens.

I could literally whip out ideas nonstop, but these are the big ones that have been just...beating on the walls of skull trying to get out. Of course, they don’t always account for everything, so more thought is needed. Anyway, if you write any of these, please let me know so I can read them, and of course a shoutout would be nice. c: My username on ao3 is the same as here. Enjoy~!

[tcrmommabear]

The Weight of Debts Unpaid

Hi, I’m a terrible fandom mom and best friend, but I’m crawling out of the hell-hole work has buried me in to toss this very late birthday present into the wild, wild world.

So, my lovely @catsafarithewriter, I promised Emara AU, my favorite creation of yours besides the lovely face you maintain (and everything else you’ve written), and by god was I going to give you Emara AU

A few months late.

You can expect your Christmas present on Valentine’s Day XD

Threw in my own theories and slight headcanons, but I’m still excited for when we get the official version of the AU. You know I’ll be screaming and cheering from the stands XD

Let us begin!

He was heavy in her arms.

Not a surprise when his body is half wood and all dead weight. She’s feeling it in her legs as well, the feeling of something viciously sucking at her soul, but really, she’s done this well without legs. Who needs them with arms like these?

He’s still heavy.

The hallways stretch for miles, barely different from one to the next. Swathed in red and carrying the heavy pinging blare of alarms miles ahead of where they started. She doesn’t feel like she’s made any difference running through these halls, finding no relief, no sanctuary, just a million different eyes and guns trained on her limping form.

He’s so god damn heavy.

There’s a door cracked open from fleeing cats who couldn’t be bothered to follow evacuation protocol. She crashes into it and through it, pulling it full shut until the locking mechanism clicked louder than the alarms.

Silence reigned in the small room, the alarms cut off mid dutiful shriek, but the world remained red, flashing through the unnecessary window watching the hallway.

She sets him down as gently as she can spare, sinking a bit more harshly onto her knees before him. He’s still lifeless, torn between two wholes until they couldn’t even form a half. Skin, fur, and wood melted and warred together, fighting for the right to be called “horror”.

In theory, she knew this was what Macavity had planned. Pushing, pulling, twisting, breaking in the name of thoughtless science. Experimenting until every idle curiosity had been fulfilled. Seeing the product of such twisted ideas made her stomach recoil.

His chest rose in sections, eyes startling real glass, and all the rest of him was the exact shade of wrong she wanted to believe the real one was gone, and this was just a fake. She could maybe walk out of here, leaving behind all of this, this world, this fake doll, and go see her real one-.

He is real. He is her real one.

She wasn’t going to abandon him. Not again.

She raised a hand, pressing them against his “scarred” lips, sinking the tips past the teeth and opens his mouth wide. She spares a second for the squeamish and violating feeling, then pulls out the bottle she’d managed to save from the chaos known as Macavity.

She steals a swig of the formula before making his wooden throat choke the rest of it. Her taste gives her enough energy to unlock her legs from their crouch, falling back against the opposite wall. As fast as it came, it tore through her system and flare uselessly out her damaged, mechanical right knee.

For him, it started slow. Chest rising together section by section until it was a whole, left hand shuddering to replace the claws, the right side of his chin shifting between furry and flesh. His chest became more hurried as magic revitalized itself, fireworks beneath his skin until burning out his eyes, green and blue and yellow.

He hacked the formula onto her lap, the blue liquid hitting her legs and sparking up into her chest. She grunted, knee jerking as the black hole was fed, and as quickly as they hit her system, the flared out again, unable to hold much of a charge.

At least the blue left no stain on her clothes. No clean up necessary, mind-numbing sparks guaranteed or your money back. Legs sold separately.

The process of watching him shift, cat, man, wood, was enough of a show she felt an odd motion sickness surge in her gut. Drenched in guilt and expired Creation juice, but she’d really prefer to blame everything on the flashing red lights, cutting streaks across his face like prison bars.

He got his glare back before his words, though she could read “I will eviscerate you” through the context clues. She had told herself a million things as she stalked through the building towards the highest level lab they locked him in.

That she was righting a wrong. That she’d get revenge against the ones who took both sets of legs. That she was helping a friend.

That he wouldn’t be heavy in her arms.

She doesn’t know what to tell herself now. Not when he’s fully back and glaring at her. She never knew the weight of his glare felt like until now.

“Why?” he hisses out, eyes slit in the human face he fluctuates to. His question is followed by a cough, wheeze, and the cat form fully takes over, the human disguise melting away. Less magic being used now that he’s in his more natural state, doing a terribly accurate impression of a badly animated doll. He looks as terrible as she feels, though she’s sure his slightly wrinkled suit would have some words to exchange with her torn and dirty jeans and shirt.

Her heart constricts.

Why indeed.

She's prepared herself for all scenarios. This one scared her the most. She hadn’t the faintest clue for why she did any of this. Maybe because their partnership wasn’t “just a job” anymore? Maybe because of the way he kissed her hand during tea? Maybe because, despite knowing intimately well the soulless depravity, seeing the results up close had been the final straw?

“Why not?” she supplies, going for nonchalant and falling somewhere between robot and blubbering. The answer isn’t an answer, the exact opposite of an answer, a nonanswer that left both of them dissatisfied and hurt.

But was there really any better one to give?

She sold him out. Let him be experimented on and drained of his magic- his very essence, the equivalent of a soul and blood pumping through your veins- until he was catatonic.

His glare doesn’t drop, and a childish impulse tells her to return it. She didn’t want to be an adult when the he, the world, and all the little regrets were being unfair to her. She knows she fucked up. She gave up her partner, her friend, her confusing source of feelings she did not need to identify right now, for…

Hunks of cogs. Scrap metal. Parasites made of the equivalent of an atomic bomb and lighter fluid sucking at whatever scraps of magic a human could contain. All loving connected to the ends of her thighs and twice as shiny.

She focused too hard on distracting herself, a tear slipping through her “brave” facade. She saw him shift, out of the corner of her eye, from murderous to agonizingly sympathetic.

“Haru…” he begins cautiously, eyeing her legs, “Why haven’t you moved your legs?”

“I didn’t want to do it,” she blurts out, instead of answering, “Turning you in. I didn’t even really want to do the whole “Demeter” thing, but hey, who can say no to Macavity?”

She laughs. He doesn’t. She wishes she hadn’t.

“I knew if I turned myself in, let Macavity know I wasn’t going to do this anymore… He’d just send someone else. Someone not me. And where would I be? Locked in a room with no way to get out.”

She takes in a shuddering breath, “No way to rescue you.”

There’s more life to his appearance, more flesh than bark, but he’s just as stoic as when she began. She sits before him, waiting for something to snake across his face so she can get a read, an idea. But nothing. Green eyes, still faintly glowing, remained fixed on lead, and cogs, and betrayal, and a haphazard reason she could barely stand on.

Hardy har har.

“Okay.”

That’s it?

“That’s it,” he echoes back, just as she realizes she’d said the thought out loud.

“But-” she sputters, attempting to lurch up before remembering her body had taken a democratic vote to be everything but useful and complying, “After every- How could you- Do you have- Do you not realize what betrayal is, Humbert?!”

They both paused at the sound of his name, a moment of red light flashing between that’d been all but forgotten. She wonders, dimly, and not for the first or last time, if that was his real name or one he’d picked up over the years.

“You’ve saved my life countless times, Haru, as yourself and as my partner, Demeter. The betrayal was unexpected, and it hurt, but…”

He looks at her, made up of hope and magic, and she realizes how badly she’d read the moments leading here. How easily fear can come across as anger, confusion as hurt.

Oh.

‘Do you trust me?’

Didn’t know the play, but still willing to play the part.

“I think, Haru, I can afford to put a little trust in you.”

Well, now she’s a goddamn fool.

“Humbert,” she chokes out between tears, “I liked you better when you were emotionally constipated. I can’t handle this emotional rollercoaster.”

The laughter bubbles up unwillingly, shared between the two for a second as the whole situation registered into their minds. For a moment, though, she could almost believe they were just back at the tea shop.

If only the “red alert” alarm could be so kind.

The shrieking beeping stops, the flashing red light pinging on and glowing ominously steady.

Lockdown.

“Shit.”

“We’re trapped, aren’t we?”

“Lesson learned, heart-to-hearts saved for after great escapes.”

“With the state your legs are in, we can’t make it much farther, can we?”

Right, those appendages.

They’re busted from the 9th Hell and back, and can’t hold on to much of a charge. At least not the fake magic solutions usually put into the machine. She knows she can’t move. She knows she can’t stay.

She knows she’s too valuable to kill.

“Baron, you need to-!”

She feels a surge starting in her calves where he’d dug his fingers into the grinding gears, frozen lightning blazing through her veins. It shifts, feels like leaves stretching to sunlight, water running through roots, worms churning in the earth, and she’s back.

The light fades, but her legs click before whirring back to life, lowly humming with an abundance of energy. She catches her breath and watches the mirage of flesh melts away until he’s back to the animated wood form that tells her he’s barely got any magic running through him.

He gave her as much as he could.

She’s furious he gave her so much.

She can’t deny that having her legs devour something other than her own energy isn’t a nice feeling, though. She tests it, bends a knee, and watches it move like magic and machine and a normal human limb. It’s foreign and familiar and she wishes it was neither.

Humbert presses against the door, glancing down each end of the hallway through the window.

“We better get moving. I’m not letting either of us get left behind.”

He offers her a hand to stand up, one of many. But this feels different.

Her legs are heavy on her body.

The magic Humbert poured into her is nothing but crumbs for a black hole.

There’s still a dozen more floors before they’re even close to ground level.

She’s pretty sure her foot isn’t supposed to feel itchy.

“Ready, Haru?” he asks.

Well, they’ve had worse days.

Her hand clasps his.

“Ready.”

[pocket-luv101]

The Angel and The Witch || Chapter 6

Fandom: Servamp Relationships: KuroMahi, LawLicht Characters: Kuro, Mahiru, Hyde, Licht

Summary: Licht was a noble angel. Mahiru was a penniless witch. Their lives were different but they both longed for freedom. After circumstances, they switched places and found freedom where they least expect it.

Ch.1 || Ch.2 || Ch.3 || Ch.4 || Ch.5 || (Ch.6) ||

Hyde and Licht stopped in an apple farm that sat on the edge of the kingdom. He collected a few apples for them to eat. It was far from the meals Licht was accustomed to and Hyde would’ve preferred to take him to a restaurant. He couldn’t risk someone discovering them though. He didn’t know who arranged the kidnapping or why. The only thing he was certain of was that he would protect Licht with his life.

“The fruit bat infestation has improved slightly. I don’t know how sweet these will be though.” Hyde thought that it was amusing that a man like Licht had such a sweet tooth. They sat next to a small river and washed the apples he stole from the farm. He was careful not to mention to Licht that they were stolen since he would likely force him to return them.

He dipped the apple into the water and it turned into a melon as he lifted it up. Licht’s eyes widened and he immediately held out his hand to take the melon. He never bothered to learn magic but he enjoyed watching him cast spells. A part of him didn’t think he needed to learn spells because Hyde was always nearby. “This is my new favourite spell of yours. Why haven’t you shown it to me earlier?”

“Because you would ask me to turn fruits to melons twenty times a day. I have a limited amount of magic I can spend in a day.” He reminded him. He cut open the melon and handed a slice to him. Licht happily bit into the fruit and its juice dripped down his chin. His tongue chased it and licked his lips. Hyde couldn’t help but think about the night they shared together and smiled sadly.

“What’s with that expression, Shit Rat? Do I have something on my face?” Licht asked when he noticed that Hyde was staring at him. Hyde didn’t immediately answer but he was able to read the emotions in his eyes. A mixture of longing and love filled them. The sight squeezed his heart and he could easily guess what he was thinking of. Despite how they were thinking the same thing, Hyde changed the topic.

“You have some melon juice on your face. Hold still, Angel Cakes.” He took the corner of his scarf and wiped his mouth lightly. He dropped the fabric but his fingers lingered over his lips. Licht wrapped his hand around his wrist and kissed his fingertips. He didn’t regret that night even if they could never be together. Hyde whispered, “We’re an angel and his advisor again.”

“I know but—” Licht wasn’t able to finish before a raven’s cry interrupted them. They turned towards the sound and Hyde gripped his knife. Animals were often familiars to witches and wizards. He didn’t know if it could be a spy searching for them. He spotted the bird sitting on a low branch and he loosened his grip on his knife when he recognized it.

“That’s my brother’s familiar. Stay here, Lichtan, but call me if someone comes.” Hyde didn’t know why Kuro’s raven would be in the farm. His brother should be in the kingdom to negotiate Licht’s future engagement. It was rare he sent his familiar far from him. He hoped they hadn’t discovered that Mahiru was pretending to be Licht.

He stopped in front of the raven and took the scroll from the raven’s pouch. Hyde unfurled and message and found a blank sheet of paper. He whispered a spell and blew onto the parchment. A mirror replaced the paper and Kuro’s reflection appeared. He leaned against a tree and said, “Hey, Nii-san. I haven’t heard from you in a long time. You’ve been busy lately.”

“I thought I would see you again once I got here. Where are you now?” Hyde hesitated to answer and glanced towards Licht eating a melon nearby. He debated if he should tell his brother the truth or if that would endanger both Licht and Mahiru. Kuro spoke before he could decide. “Mahiru told me everything. Licht is worried because you haven’t returned yet.”

Something Kuro said caught his attention though and he asked, “You said Licht was worried about me? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Licht is different from how you described him in your letters. I can see why you like him though. He’s different from a lot of the other nobles we met in the past. He cares about helping people before himself.” Kuro thought of the trip they took to the farm. “He’s open with his emotions and he couldn’t hide how worried he was for you. Apologize when you get back.”

“It sounds like you’re growing to like him, Nii-san.” Hyde would tease him more but he was a little worried. It was clear that Kuro didn’t know that the Licht he knew was Mahiru in disguise. If they became closer, his brother could be hurt by their lie. “I got sidetracked but I should be back tonight. I’ll explain everything in detail once I get back. Is there anyone nearby right now?”

He shook his head and Hyde relaxed slightly. He trusted his brother so he decided to tell Kuro as much as he could without endangering Mahiru. “I went to the bar that I thought would have information. A man offered some of the workers a lot of money for a dangerous job. They didn’t tell me much about what it was for. The person wore a unique cape that members of the court are given. The only distinct about it is this brooch.”

Hyde took out the napkin with the drawing. “I’ll look for someone wearing that brooch when I can. Don’t worry about Licht, I’ll protect him until you return home.”

“Guarding an angel is more work than you would think, Nii-san. You might not be ready. He’s stubborn and he won’t listen to any advice you try to give him. Once he decided on something, it’s impossible to change his mind.” He glanced back to Licht who was walking through the water. Hyde smiled and said, “I love my job though. It lets me stay beside an angel.”

“Have you thought about my offer to return home, Hyde? You can still be close with Licht even after the wedding.” Kuro suggested and Hyde shook his head in response. Even though he didn’t speak a word, Kuro knew how he felt. He loved Licht and it would be painful to see him with someone else. “Hyde, I’ll reject this engagement. Family is more important than politics to me.”

“Licht loves his kingdom and he accepted the engagement out of a sense of duty. He also loves the sky, flying and his freedom. Please, give him those things after the wedding and I’ll be fine. The only thing I want is for Licht to be happy.” Hyde said but he knew he would miss Licht. “I have to go now. I’ll be back by dinner tonight and I’ll tell you everything I’ve found in detail.”

“Okay, stay safe.” He nodded and rolled the scroll closed.

He replaced it in the raven’s pouch and it flew back to the Kuro. Hyde returned to Licht’s side and lightly splashed water onto him to get his attention. In retaliation, Licht kicked the water to make a large splash. They were both soaked by his actions and Hyde laughed. He casted a spell to help dry them. Licht asked, “Did the castle or Mahiru send Mr. Raven?”

“That was my brother’s familiar.” He answered and sat back down on the ground. When Licht sat next to him, he placed his hand beside him and their fingers brushed slightly. Hyde wished he could hold his hand but he didn’t. Instead, he said: “His name’s Kuro. He’s visiting the castle as an advisor.”

“You told me that you don’t get to see your family often. Are you excited to see him again?” They’ve known each other for years but Hyde rarely talked about his family. His past was a difficult topic for him to talk about. He was surprised that Licht remembered what he said so long ago.

“You both love cats so you might get along. ” Hyde said but he couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. He wished that he could continue to be by Licht’s side. “I’m going to miss you once you move to the neighbouring kingdom but it’s good to know he’ll be there for you. I trust Kuro.”

Licht was reminded of his engagement and frowned. “Please don’t say the cliché of ‘You’ll grow to love Sleepy Ash and his kingdom’. I’m going to leave everything I’m already in love with.”

“The morning we sneaked out of the castle, you told me you loved the wind, the birds and your piano.” Hyde looked up at the sky. Licht wanted to add that he loved Hyde as well but he couldn’t.

“I can try to make another tracker spell to find Licht and Hyde myself. But I don’t have something that belongs to either of them to cast it. I need to reserve my magic as much as I can for my illusion too. Kuro said that he would send a familiar after them.” Mahiru poured over the books he took from the library. He hoped that he would find something more he could do.

Last night, he was uncertain about what he should do in his dangerous situation. If he continued to be Licht, he might be caught and thrown into jail. Leaving would throw the castle into confusion again. He was certain that he would regret running away too. Mahiru thought of the conversation he overheard last night. Hyde’s suspicion that someone in the castle was responsible for Licht’s kidnapping was true.

Kuro appeared in his mind and Mahiru felt calmer. He helped him find another option last night. Mahiru wanted to find the person who abducted Licht. With that thought, Mahiru decided to stay another day. He wondered if Kuro had spoken with Hyde yet so he could know when they would be returning. He hoped that neither of them was hurt.

Ash jumped off the bed and walked directly to the door. The cat scratched on the wood and Mahiru reasoned that it wanted to go out and explore. He also felt anxious after being restrained inside the castle for so long. He walked to its side and he lightly scratched its head. It purred happily and knocked its paw against the door a few times.

Mahiru heard footsteps on the other side. He realized that the reason Ash was knocking on the door was because he heard someone approaching them. He could also guess that it was Kuro because Ash appeared excited. A soft knock confirmed what he thought. “Licht, are you awake? It’s Kuro. I would like to talk to you about something.”

“Just give me a minute.” He cast the illusion and changed his voice before he answered. Mahiru pushed aside the vanity he set in front of the door. He smiled at Kuro when he opened the door and gestured for him to enter the room. Ash immediately greeted him with a purr and nestled against his leg. Kuro knelt on the floor to pet the cat.

In the corner of his eyes, Kuro noticed the vanity he had pushed him in front of the door. He thought he barred the door with furniture because the kidnapping scared him. Kuro felt a little protective of him. He had gotten to know him and thought that he was a good man. He sat on a chair and said, “Mahiru and I overheard two people discussing your kidnapping.”

“Yes, Mahiru told me as well.” He sat down on his bed. Ash jumped onto his lap and Mahiru stroked it lightly. He chose his words carefully so Kuro wouldn’t know who he truly was. “Mahiru also said that you offered to help us. Thank you. With Hyde gone and Mahiru working all the time, I don’t have many people I can talk to about this.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Licht.” Kuro promised. He didn’t understand the sadness that passed over his face. His words made Mahiru happy until he spoke Licht’s name. The moment he did, Mahiru was reminded that Kuro didn’t know who he truly was. He felt guilty for lying to him since Kuro seemed like an honest person. “Can you tell me anything more about that night?”

“Everything was a blur and it happened so fast so I didn’t see who they were. Hyde left to find… clues. Were you able to contact Hyde yet?” Mahiru couldn’t meet his red eyes as he spoke. Kuro continued to call him Licht so Hyde hadn’t told him the truth. He needed to continue his act. Mahiru found that lying to Kuro was becoming more difficult. He seemed to believe him because he nodded in answer.

“Hyde visited a bar that was outside of the kingdom for information and that’s why he’s late.” He said and Mahiru relaxed for a moment. He placed his hand over his heart to calm it. If Kuro was able to speak with him, Hyde was likely safe. There were a lot more questions he had though. Was he able to rescue Licht and how far were they from the castle? When would they return?

“I don’t know if it’s safe to talk here. The kidnapper was able to break in.” When he returned to his room last night, Mahiru thought of what to do. He stood and picked up a picnic basket that he borrowed from the kitchen staff. “I told my mother that I wanted to have a private lunch with you to discuss the farm. Everyone thinks we’ll be in the rose garden but we’re going to the roof to talk.”

“You probably know the best place in the castle to talk in private.” It was a fair assumption since Licht lived in the castle all his life. Mahiru didn’t know how Licht found a moment of privacy outside of his room. Everywhere he went in the castle, his actions were scrutinized by the royal advisors. He could only imagine how difficult it was for Licht when he was a child.

He reminded himself that he needed to focus on finding the kidnappers. Mahiru took out two paper dolls from his basket and said, “I found a spell that can make imitations of us. The puppets can only do simple tasks but that should be enough. They’ll go to the picnic for us while we talk on the roof. The spell is a little difficult for me though. Can you try to cast it for me?”

“I’ll try,” He read the spell book Mahiru held out to him. He skimmed over the notes he wrote next to the spell. Kuro thought of how devoted he was to studying magic. Hyde said that Licht tended to avoid his magic lessons yet Kuro’s time with him told him differently. He didn’t dwell on the contradiction though.

He cast the spell and paper dolls came to life. Kuro also slipped off his cloak and draped it over Mahiru’s shoulders. As he pulled the hood over his head, he chanted another spell to make them invisible. Mahiru lifted the cape slightly so Kuro could be covered by the fabric and be invisible as well. “This spell would work better if you were the one wearing the cloak. You’re taller than me.”

“I thought you should wear it since you’re the one leading the way.” Kuro pointed out and Mahiru nodded in agreement. They closely followed their puppets outside the room so the staff wouldn’t question that the doors were seemingly opening on their own. Mahiru took his hand and guided him down the hall. Hyde had given him a map of the castle so he knew where to go well enough.

They had to stand close to each other for both of them to be protected by the invisibility spell. Mahiru would whisper an apology to Kuro each time he accidentally stepped onto his feet. His warm breath brushed over his cheek and Kuro leaned closer to him. He quickly remembered he shouldn’t and stood up straighter. The simple scent of parchment and books that clung to his hair was entrancing.

Mahiru was careful to avoid the staff in the hall as he led Kuro to a staircase he found while exploring the castle. He brought him into a storage closet and scanned the room. Once he was certain that they were alone, he pushed aside a shelf. There was a set of stairs hidden behind it. “I accidentally found this when I was gathering ingredients to make sandwiches for our fake picnic.”

“Where do these stairs lead?” He asked and created a flame in his hand to light the dark stairway. He almost tripped over Ash because the staircase was narrow. Mahiru held out his hand to him to help him. “There’s a lot of steps.”

“This is a secret passage to the roof of the tallest tower. Thinking simply, no one should be there so we don’t need to worry about someone overhearing us. Endure this climb for a little bit. After we finish talking, we can share the picnic basket I made. I did make it for us, after all.” Mahiru promised him.

They reached the top and Mahiru slid open the loose panel. He climbed onto the inclined roof and Kuro followed him. Mahiru sat down and pulled his cloak tighter around him when a cool breeze passed them. He could see for miles beyond the kingdom. His eyes fell onto the apple farm and thought of what he would do after Licht returned. He needed to find the conspirators first.

“We’re too high up for anyone to notice us up here.” Mahiru pulled off the hood so he could feel the sun on his face. “Did Hyde tell you what he found so far?”

“Just a brooch. Someone was going around looking for mages to hire for a dangerous job. They wore a cape that resembled those given to members of the royal court. They also wore this brooch.” Kuro took out the sketch Hyde showed him. “Does it look familiar? I don’t know how accurate this is though.”

“I wouldn’t be able to recognize it easily even if it is accurate.” Mahiru sighed. “At breakfast, I talked with a few advisors so I can secretly find information. They brushed me off though. The castle staff are more distant towards me.”

Kuro recalled the first breakfast they had and how kind he was to the kitchen staff. He was far different from the other noblemen he knew. He had a sincere warmth that drew him to him. It was a shame that his openness reciprocated by the staff. Then again, he understood the strict social roles they were put into and they were likely afraid to step out of place.

“I will see if anyone is wearing it at dinner tonight. Will you be joining us as well?” Kuro nodded and a smile of relief pass his face. His presence made Mahiru feel more comfortable and safer. “Maybe we can steer the conversation towards my kidnapping. We can’t bring it up directly so we will have to be subtle. If anyone responds suspiciously, we should focus on them.”

“I’m not much of a talker. I can observe everyone for you though.” Kuro offered. “I’ll leave the conversation to you. You’re down to earth and easy to talk to. Mahiru’s also like that. That must be the reason you two are friends even thought you’ve only known each other for a few days now.”

“Do you think Mahiru and I are similar? A noble angel and a poor witch… Not many would say those two things have anything in common.” He laughed nervously. He hugged his legs and looked down at the ground. “We came here to discuss how to find the kidnappers so we should focus on that.”

[dramaqueeenamby]

35. You make me feel safe. Summer x Chris if it’s not too late 😊

A/N: CLEARLY, I do not know how to do these prompts because this thing....is two....thousand....words.

I hate myself.

I really hope you see and like this, anon! 

"I think I’m going to be sick."

Summer gripped the counter of the face board in her townhouse, looking over at her manager. "Is it too late to back out?"

Mercedes rolled her hazel eyes. "A little, yeah."

"Shit," Summer cursed, closing her eyes and waving off the woman. "I’ll be fine. Just-give me a few minutes."

"Summer, we’re already-"

"Please."

She sighed and nodded. "Of course."

When Summer realized Mercedes was out of the bedroom and out of hearing distance, she started to do deep breathing.

"You can do this, Summer," she reminded herself. "You made it through Comic-Con. You can do anything. You a boss ass bitch, bitch, bit…..” Her thoughts drifted to the anxiety that accompanied her first Comic-Con appearance. "Shit."

She started to pace back and forth, holding her dress up so that it didn’t brush against the floor.

"And why the hell did I not wear pants?" She groaned with frustration. "Now I have to worry about tripping on my own damn two feet."

She looked over at her phone, grabbing and unlocking it as she read over the last few texts she had with Evans.

"I should have agreed," she murmured, reading the one where he asked for the eighteenth time if she wanted to arrive with him so that she wasn’t alone.

Like an idiot, she’d declined, citing that he couldn’t hold her hand everywhere, and she’d be fine.

Clearly, that was not the case because she was seconds away from ditching the whole thing altogether, contractual obligations be damned.

Tonight was the L.A. Premiere for Age of Ultron, the night where the world would finally see the MCU’s introduction of her character, Storm. Not only was she worried about fandom and critical reactions, but she was experiencing moderate anxiety just thinking about having to walk the red carpet.

They were far from her favorite. She’d started to hyperventilate at the New York premiere of 4AM, and skipped out entirely on the red carpet at the Oscar’s that year.

If not for the alcohol she’d drank during the pre-party, she probably would have hurled or fainted during her acceptance speech that night.

So yeah, Summer didn’t have the best track record when it came to that damn knockoff Aladdin carpet.

She just wished she’d thought more about how stressful this would be for her prior to the premiere.

Even if she wanted to call or text Evans, it was too late. He was already there, probably giving a drunk interview to some poor reporter.

He’d been smart to get drunk a couple hours before so that he wouldn’t be completely buzzed.

"Fuck it," she murmured, gripping her phone and hitting the light switch as she walked out. "Cedes, is it too late to-" Summer stopped in the middle of the hallway and in her sentence.

"Christopher?" He was talking to Mercedes who turned around and stepped to the side, not wanting to get in the way of the two. "What? Did you and Evans decide to do the whole twinning thing?" She joked weakly. His suit was a light gray, sharp, the blue tie a nice contrast to the designer ensemble, and a compliment to his beautiful blue eyes. His hair was short, and he was growing out his facial hair again, something she’d expressed she liked on him. Bottom line, the man looked good.

"Never mind.” She walked over to him, craning her head up and crossing her arms. "What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on your way?" Again, before he could say anything. "Shit, I guess I should be too. I’m coming. I swear. I just….my brows!" She gestured to them. "They out here looking like second cousins twice removed. The ghetto."

She shook her head. "Something happened to my first outfit, so we had to go with my backup, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I feel like it doesn’t flatter my shape, and my boobs! Dude, it’s suffocating them. I couldn’t even wear a bra." Her eyes widened. "Shit, can you tell? You can. Can’t you?" She pressed her fingers against her temple and turned away to head back in her room. "That’s it. I have to chan-"

"Summer." He spoke firmly, reaching for her arm and slowly spinning her back around. Summer finally took note of how he was looking at her, like he was in a trance, like he couldn’t take his eyes off of her even if he wanted to.

She frowned, suddenly uncomfortable with his lingering gaze. "What? Why are you looking at me like that? Stop being weird. I’ll call the SWAT team."

He ignored her remark and moved closer, grasping her hands in his. "Summer-"

"I know my name, Christopher." She rolled her eyes. "Tell me something that I don’t know."

"I don’t think I’ve ever been rendered speechless by a woman, but I honestly cannot tell you what the fuck you just said in the last five minutes because I can’t get over how beautiful you look."

Her jaw dropped before she faltered with a quiet reply. "I was just insulting you and…babbling, I suppose."

"So nothing important," he said plainly. She glared and hit him in his chest before he moved his hands to her hips and pulled her into him. "Sweetheart, do you want to go tonight?"

She shrugged and looked away. "I’d like to not get arrested by the Marvel police."

"That’s not what I asked you." There wasn’t an ounce of humor in his voice or face, a rarity. She didn’t really know how to respond to that, which is why she stayed quiet. "If you don’t want to go, we won’t go."

She looked up at him. "We?" Summer sighed. "Are you crazy, Chris? Can you imagine what kind of trouble you’d be in-"

"Don’t worry about me, Summer," he quickly dismissed, moving his hand to cup the back of her neck. "So again, I ask you, what do you want to do? And I want the truth, Summer."

Summer processed his question. A part of her wanted to go. She’d worked so hard for almost two years, and she deserved to see the product of all her hard work. It was just…she may have underestimated what that product would involve.

Comic-Con was very different from the red carpet where she’d been under constant scrutiny, cameras flashing, being bombarded with questions.

"Hey. Look at me." Summer blinked a few times as she realized she was crying and starting to hyperventilate. He pressed his lips to her forehead and wiped her tears. "Focus on me."

"Don’t tell me what to do, Aussie," she murmured as he kissed her temple one last time before pulling away.

"Get undressed," he instructed, starting to loosen his tie. "God that thing was tight."

"Christopher-"

"I’m sorry, why don’t I see clothes dropping?"

"That’s it. I’m calling Chris Hansen."

————

"Does this count as bestiality?"

"Wh-what the hell kind of porn do you watch to even know about that?"

"I’d much rather participate." She quipped a brow. "Okay, that’s not what I meant."

Summer laughed and shook her head, further burying herself in his chest, his arm tightening around her. "And stop talking. It’s about to get good.“

"That’s what you said three episodes ago, and-Jesus, are they about to fuck in the morgue?" Summer’s smile widened as she looked up at his mortified expression. "What kind of sick show is this?"

While almost all of LA was at the premiere where she and Chris should have been, they were lying in bed in her place as she forced him to watch one of her favorite shows, Beauty and the Beast.

At first, she couldn’t take her mind off how much trouble they were going to be in. She was as good as fired, and he was going to be replaced with Liam. That was one of her theories. There were many, all of which Christopher only laughed off, kissing her forehead and rubbing her back as he assured her that he’d take care of everything.

It was….strange. How easily they meshed, how comfortable he made her feel. All of the medications in the world couldn’t do for her anxiety what one smile or warm embrace from the Australian could do.

“You know, most of the guys I’ve dated couldn’t understand why I can’t just “get over” this “anxiety shit.” She admitted with a sad chuckle as Chris bit back a cruel remark, replacing it with one not as harsh but equally appropriate.

“Fucking dumbass.”

“That’s what I said,” she smiled and shrugged. “Among…other…crude… and especially cruel things.”

“They deserved it.”

“Agreed, Mr. Hemsworth.” she laughed before licking her lips and taking a deep breath. "Christopher."

"We can finally watch Game of Thrones?"

"Don’t make me stab you."

"Such violence," he sighed, watching how she kept trying to inch closer to him, her body practically on top of his as she laid her head on his shoulder. "Don’t tell me you’re getting soft on me, July."

"It’s so different with you," she whispered, absentmindedly walking her fingers across his defined chest. "You…you make me feel safe." Summer looked up at him with a crooked smile. "Must be an Australian thing."

She gasped as he flipped them, hovering over her, gently kissing her neck. "Or something else."

She chewed on her bottom lip. "Now who’s getting soft?"

He chuckled. "Is that the American word for it?"

"Punk, sucker, loser, sap, chump, pushover,” She listed, taking a shaky breath as he grabbed her wrists, placing them above her head. "Shall I continue?"

"If you wish," he agreed, his eyes softening. "All of them and more….I’ll gladly be for you. Always." She smiled warmly as he ghosted his lips over hers.

"Always is a long time."

"Not when I’m with you."

She lifted her leg, brushing her thigh against his hip. "I am a bit greedy."

He smiled wryly. "Among other things."

Summer felt her stomach knot as she finally found the courage to stop beating around the bush. "And yet you still love me." Chris’s eyes widened slightly. He wasn’t expecting her to directly address his admission so soon. "You better, Hemsworth. I don’t fall in love so easily, especially with Australians."

"Have you been with any other Aussies?" He dropped his elbow to the bed, going to brush his fingers against her forehead.

She pretended to think, flipping them so that she was on top. "I only have eyes for one." He smirked. "God, he was so good in The Hunger Games."

Chris growled, lifting his hand to the back of her neck. "You know I’ll only take but a few more of these references to my brother."

"Do they bother you?" She teased. "Would you like me to stop?" Summer dropped her mouth to his ear. "Make me."

In a second, they’d switched positions again, but this time, he had her on her stomach before he roughly pulled her onto her knees. Summer braced her hands against the mattress when she felt his hand wrap around her throat and moaned as his hand came down hard on her ass.

She smiled.

"Gladly."

[ghostyprince]

title: black eyes (find you almost at once)

word count: 2.156 rating: T fandom: BuzzF. Uns. relationship: Ryan B./Shane M. summary:  Ryan disappears in the forest during their hunt for Bigfoot, and Shane freaks out a little too much.

author’s note:  well, I'm really not happy with my writing lately, but i hope some of you can find joy in this little thing i started a few weeks ago and thought i could might as well finish it. the prompt is from @shyanlibrary

[READ ON AO3]

or read more here

Shane knew they shouldn’t have gone out there alone.

"This forest is pretty spooky, don't you think? Maybe Bigfoot will really give us a visit." Shane laughed quietly, cold air coming out of his mouth in white puffs.

It's fairly chilly too, he mused, and then looked up from his phone when no answer came from his friend. He’s been aimlessly scrolling on social media while waiting for Ryan to finish shooting the scenes he wanted. Shane pocketed the phone, glancing around, searching for Ryan. His whole body gone cold when he realized he was alone, that he probably had been alone for minutes by then. Shane called out, panic bubbling up in his chest, knocking the wind out of him. "Ryan?"

Shane knew they shouldn’t have gone out there alone, but Ryan insisted. ‘We can shoot a few cool nature clips on our own, it’s fine’. They promised Devon they wouldn’t wander too far into the woods, and they didn’t. He could’ve easily found his way back from where they were in like five minutes.

Shane should’ve paid more attention to Ryan though, he let his guard down because they were in a forest, not an old prison, or a rural house with harmless ghosts and demons he can intimidate to not even dare as much as glancing at Ryan's way. He didn’t feel any presence in the parts of the forest they explored for the video, so he let his guard down and now Ryan was missing and Shane didn’t know what the fuck to do.

No answer came, just the quiet sounds of the forest around him. The sun was still out, some birds were happily chirping, it was a beautiful day, really. And Ryan was fucking missing.

Shane took a ragged breath, his insides were doing flips, the demon in him going wild. He needed to find Ryan. He could’ve been attacked, or taken by another demon, or a wild animal, or a serial killer or–

Shane didn't realize he was moving, frantically pushing his way through bushes and trying to keep the branches out of his face.

"Ryan, goddammit, where are you?!"

He stopped for a second, trying to think rationally, but his mind was buzzing numbly, repeating the words "have to find him". Maybe he should call TJ. But what if it's a demon who has Ryan? No, he has to do this alone. It’s been only a few minutes, if Ryan wandered off on his own, he could’ve been too far away. On the other hand, if it was some demon who knows where Ryan was at that point.

It was so so dumb, going out there, just the two of them. It was only supposed to be a few minutes. But now Ryan is missing and Shane is freaking the fuck out. How could he be so careless? He always had Ryan in his sight, in every single location they visited, Shane's main focus was protecting Ryan. From nasty demons, and spirits to fucking Bigfoot if he must.

Defeated and worried, he walked back to where they started filming, so maybe if Ryan finds his way back they can meet up. Shane yelled some more, until his voice was hoarse and raw, never getting any response back, nothing. The forest was just as warm and peaceful and still.

And Ryan was fucking gone. That's it, he won't ever see him again.

Scenarios played in his head, Ryan laying on the forest ground, bleeding out, getting mauled to death by a bear or a demon.

Shane only noticed he wasn't breathing properly when actually started choking, throat closing off, and heart hammering in his chest. It felt like he was underwater, gallons and gallons of ocean water pressing down on his lungs. The chirping of the birds and the soft rustling of leaves was replaced by the sound of blood rushing in his ear. He had to find him.

"Shane?" It was faint, just barely picked up by Shane’s delicate senses, but it was Ryan. His Ryan.

"Ryan!" He tried shouting again, long legs already carrying him the direction Ryan's voice came from. He heard his name again, closer this time. Shane broke into a run. It wasn’t graceful, he almost slipped twice, but he didn’t even register it.

And finally, he saw Ryan. He was grinning at him like Shane hadn't just almost died at the thought of losing him.

Shane closed the distance between them with quick, long strides, and slammed into Ryan, arms wrapping around him like an octopus. He nearly knocked them straight on their asses.

"Whoa, easy there buddy." Ryan wheezed, face squished into Shane's chest. "I'm fine, it's okay."

Shane buried his face into Ryan's curls, breathing in his scent, his lungs working properly again. Absolute relief flooded him, rendering his whole body numb. Ryan was safe. With him.

"I was so worried. You were just gone and I-" His voice cracked and his eyes were stinging a little. He wasn’t tired, a little running around in the woods is nothing to a demon, but mentally, he was exhausted.

He just wanted to go back to the hotel and lay on the bed for a few hours. Possibly do all of that without letting go of Ryan at all.

"Shane, look at me." Ryan gently pushed him away, and Shane had to resist the urge to pull him right back. His skin was prickling just to touch Ryan, to know for sure that he's there and it’s not some cruel hallucination.

Ryan stopped talking abruptly, whatever he was about to say flew out the window apparently. His eyes widened, staring into Shane’s own.

He was staring at Shane like he saw a ghost, literally. Shane could sense the fear rolling off of him in waves, and oh it was so delicious, but it horrified him at the same time, putting him on edge. "What? What's wrong?"

And then he realized.

His eyes were black, he must’ve forgotten to get rid of them after searching for Ryan.

Fuck.

"Listen, I can expl–"

Shane was cut off by blinding pain radiating from his nose, spreading onto his cheeks and jaw. He saw white for a moment. His human body could only take so much and Ryan was pretty damn strong. The punch landed just the right way, with a sickening crunch. Fight or flight kicked in, and boy did Ryan fight. It hurt like a motherfucker too.

"Ow, Ryan what the hell?!" He blinked away the tears welling up in his eyes to glare at Ryan, whose expression was a mix between confused, regretful and terrified. Well, Shane could hardly blame him. There he was, one of Ryan's biggest fears standing right in front of him.

Shane was oddly proud of him, even when he tasted blood in his mouth, dripping down his lips and chin in a steady flow.

"Are you– are you possessed? I have holy water, I'm not scared to use it!"

"Yeah, I fucking noticed you're not scared." And he was laughing now, spitting out blood, because this was ridiculous. He never would've thought that Ryan Bergara, when faced with an actual demon, would just deck it in the nose. Shane lifted his hands in front of him, to show he's harmless.

"No, I'm not possessed. I'm a demon. I hadn’t meant to tell you this way, I wanted to ease you into it." His voice sounded stupid, but he did his best to remain serious as he continued.

"I understand that you're scared, and you might hate my guts now, but I'm still the same, Ryan. I promise. I still love doing Unsolved, and I still adore our movie nights, and the Disneyland trips. I would never cause you harm intentionally."

Shane sounded desperate, but he didn’t even care. Ryan was one of the best things in his life, and he wasn’t about to lose him. He was stubbornly staring at his shoes throughout his whole speech, dripping a few drops of blood on it. Aw, shit.

Ryan said nothing for a torturously long minute until Shane finally looked up at him. He was the one feeling terrified himself, of the possibility fucking up their friendship, and the hope of something more, that they danced around for months by then, neither of them brave enough to take the first step.

"Let me see your nose." Is the first thing Ryan said, and for the second time that day, Shane was so relieved. Ryan shuffled closer, already digging through his pockets for some tissue paper.

They sat next to each other on a moss covered fallen tree, and Ryan wiped off the blood from Shane’s face, with shaky hands. He was tense and clearly not comfortable with even just sitting next to him. Shane fucked up so bad, and it hurt more than his nose ever could.

"'M not gonna hurt you, Ry, I promise," Shane muttered, softly. It made Ryan's chest ache. It was just Shane, the guy who yells at ghosts to rip out his spine, and who makes Ryan laugh in the most ridiculous situations. He's tall and gangly, and when they found each other earlier, he was clinging to Ryan like his life depended on it.

"Yeah, I know, big guy." Ryan cleans his face off as best as he can, some of the blood already dried on his chin. Shane stuffed two rolled up tissue paper into his nostrils. It hurt and it was uncomfortable, but soaked up the blood.

"I think I broke your nose, I'm so sorry," Ryan said with a pained expression.

"You know, I can't believe the first thing you do when you face a demon is to punch him in the face. Who are you?" Shane laughed.

"I panicked!" Ryan flushed, embarrassed. "I thought you were going to kill me."

"Well, the jig is up." Shane laughed, there was no humor in it. "I'm gonna be real with you, if you want to be as far away from me as possible, I can do that."

Ryan looked ready to cut him off, but Shane put up his hand.

"Just, let me-- I don't think I can do this again if you interrupt me now."

He wasn't looking at Ryan while he took a shaky breath, desperately scrambling for coherent thoughts.

"I like you." He paused. "No, fuck that, I love you. People don't say that enough, you know. Actually, what do I know? I'm a demon." Shane said, wheezing, but it came out more like a strangled choke, the weight of Ryan knowing his so carefully hidden secret sat heavy on his chest.

"Shane."

"I'm really just rambling now, do you want to go back to the hotel? I wonder what-"

"Shane." It was more assertive this time, and Shane shut up immediately, lifting his gaze to meet Ryan's.

"Listen, big guy, calm down." Both of Ryan's hands came up to frame Shane’s face, who was just staring at him, a little dazed. From the blood loss and Ryan himself too. Ryan was grinning, looking like the entire sun, and Shane thought it was so fucking unfair.

"You're an idiot. I'm gonna kiss you, alright?" Shane took three whole seconds to process the question, nodding eventually. One of his hands found its way to Ryan's wrist, Shane felt his pulse going wild. And then Ryan was pulling him down, pressing their lips together.

It wasn’t how he imagined at all.

He thought about it a lot, actually, much more than anyone else would think about kissing their best friend. Sometimes, when he was bored at their desks, just watching Ryan work. He imagined grabbing Ryan's chair and spinning him towards himself, kissing the surprise off of his face. He imagined holding Ryan close, when they slept at some haunted place, and kissing him until he stopped worrying over the creaks and noises.

Shane thought about their half serious, half banter fights, and how he'd ache to push Ryan against the closest wall, kissing him senseless just so he shuts up about ghosts for once.

No, when they finally kissed, his nose smashed against Ryan's cheek, sending a jolt of pain through his face. He still tasted copper in his mouth and Shane was sure Ryan could taste it too. When the pain in his nose became truly uncomfortable, he just had to pull away. It was possibly the worst kiss Shane ever had. Ryan was wheezing into his shoulder as soon as they broke apart, and he found himself laughing with him, because, despite all of that, it was perfect, it was so painfully them. Later they’d have to explain to the rest of the crew how Shane tripped, but he’s fine and no, he doesn’t need to go to the ER, it’s okay, while heading to their shared room. And if anyone noticed them holding hands, no one said anything.

[alternativewinxcontinuity]

Don't mind me, just losing my mental sh*t

Has anyone else ever noticed it always seems to be the people who’ve never written/posted anything that leave the most unnecessary (and often meanest) comments?

Or the people who themselves write like they haven’t hit puberty yet but feel like they can comment like a professional editor by giving advice that is exactly the opposite of what they were just saying needs to be fixed?!

Not Winx Related, I just really needed to vent. I got a shit review on a non-Winx Story and as I bitch a little about that I'm finally taking the time to address a review I got on my GOT fic, which turned nasty that I want to pick apart, but not to his face because he is not the kind of reviewer who should be interacted with, so I'mma dump it here. (Rant un-beta'd.)

Like? You really want to leave a comment on chapter 2 of a part 30 chapter fic that you haven’t read saying shit like:

“I don’t see the point its basically a rewrite”

When, had you read even one chapter on, you would have begun to see the divergence that is about to slowly snowball out of control while the universe does its best to stay on track. (yes the 'its' typo is review accurate.)

Like buddy, I get it, you've never written anything in your life and you think this is okay to say to someone because, and this may surprise you: you're an asshole.

"The point" was that it was a fun idea, "the point" was that I was enjoying the crossover and figuring out how everything could go wrong by replacing a single major part, "the point" was many, many other people found it hilarious and so did I. Not "the point" but it was also a version of Harry Potter not written by a fcking TERF.

Or:

'This Character is just really out of character, you're doing a bad job of writing him.'

Okay *goes to check their fics to see how they wrote him to see if she can figure out where reviewer is coming from. they have no fics in the fandom.* 'hey reviewer, you say he's out of character, how would you go about fix him so he's more in character?'

'Oh well, he's just not very *season 1 characterisation despite the fact he's explicitly stated to be season 3 end of his character growth story arc*, you should have him do *a thing that is something he would never have done even in season 1*'

-

Or shit like (and this is a long one from 'Richard' who hid behind the Anon function):

"This is a great fic. It's surprisingly difficult for me to optimize the protagonist. So first,"

Like? excuse you? why would you need to optimize my character?

"I really hope Sansa chooses to mine the metric tonnes of valuable honey and wax from that beehive once she gets her inventory."

So I hate to admit that the honey and wax would be a good idea, and she will be getting a boon of that, but it will be because she'll be getting Bee Hives later, not because she'll think to strip mine a people in dire straights.

"Also, she has valyrian steel claws, which she now knows can dig into the rock very easily. Those crumbling ledges? She can dig new ones, she can dig a staircase. She can widen the entrance so that her soldiers come in to help mine the liquid gold. Especially since she appreciates the difference between currency and goods. Of course, maybe she'll establish diplomatic relations instead."

So I am going to look so fcking petty when I finally get the next chapter out, because I actually addressed this idea with reality. Trust me, I did some research, and while there's almost nothing easily found on how long it would take to do this sort of work by hand, what I found supported the idea that it's stupid. It takes (and I shit you not) literal days with a team of men using hand tools to carve through even a few metres of rock (the exact time depends on how hard the rock is and how large they make the opening/area).

Sansa would be literally clawing at the walls with her nails which, while yes they are Valyrian steel, are still attached to very human fingers and arms. and here's where my first hand knowledge kicks back in: I went on a mock archaeological dig when I was in high school, I spent several hours scrapping layers of compact sand to uncover artefacts, resistance levels aside, the repeated action is hell on your muscles, Sansa would spend as much time recovering as she would digging. to get all the way to the entrance would take her literal years with Richard's suggested method.

PLUS: the point of the adventures is for SANSA (and Arya) to have the spot light, to be forced to think and find ways to use the new Abilities they've been given, or to come up with new ones. It's part of my whole "Power is Earned, or it is Corrupted" mentality, if you don't work for it, you will sooner rather than later abuse it.

AND: of course she's going to use diplomatic solutions, she's Sansa, and that's what the clue of foreshadowing was saying! Literally everything you need to know to solve the Dungeons is in their individual clues!!!

"Secondly, medieval people already had long-lasting torches which burned for hours and hours instead of 5-10 minutes. Each torch looked like a pillar or stupidly elongated torch that was carried with the tip lit and burning down like a candle. They also didn't use candles as those were too expensive. They used rushes soaked in fat which could be made by the dozens to hundreds with a few hours' work. There's a youtube video on this subject entitled medieval misconceptions: torches and candles."

Oh. My. God. Such. Valuable. Information. If . Only. I had. Known. This. When. I wrote. about. reed candles. in this. very fic.

Literally of the four times I used the word candle, twice it was explicitly 'reed candles' (and guess what other name rushes go by?) and once it was a metaphor specifically about the smoke and not the candle.

As for the pillar candles, the ones that burn for hours are too heavy for someone of Sansa's size and arm strength and the hour candles, (if you've ever seen Avatar Last Airbender, the candles they used in the Secret Tunnel) are unwieldy and aren't so good for putting down in a way that doesn't risk them going out. (Putting them far enough into a wall sconce that it won't topple back out makes it very tricky to remove it.)

Which, why even bother with torches that are more effort to obtain when Sansa's powers make the 'advantage' obsolete anyway!? Not to mention: Displayed Content! If a show uses something even in the background, it exists in that world. Wax candles aren't that rare. (Also side note, because I do my fcking research: the majority of hives which supply the honey and wax to Westeros are owned by the Maesters of old town.)

"I don't really care about those things though. The latter is a mistake literally everyone makes and I didn't know was a mistake until a month ago. Which goes into my third point, how Sansa could optimize things."

Then why bring it up, especially since I didn't technically make said mistake??

"At this point she knows she needs people and she's already given her powers to someone trustworthy. She also knows that healing is a power she can give. And she knows they're going to need this at least as much as medics. And there are indeed people she trusts whom she hasn't approached with an offer of power. Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark, Lyra Mormont of Bear Island, and Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion Lannister can wait but not forever. Lyra should be approached as soon as possible."

NO. Arya was the exception, not the rule, Sansa isn't going to just go off and give her god-blessed powers to anyone else. I was hesitant to give it to Arya as it was, and only let myself because I could use the 'Arya's God is Death, there's more stakes than you thought' to fully justify it.

Tyrion as he is can't be trusted, and future Tyrion chose Dany over Sansa, neither Sansa nor Arya know how his story ended, so as far as they are concerned he's a good ally, but not actually trust worthy enough for this.

For those of you confused, Lyra Mormont is one of the daughters of the Lady Maege Mormont, and one of Lyanna's sisters. Lyra got maybe two mentions in the books and nothing in the tv series so I can only assume Richard meant Lyanna, who is currently 2 years old! But we'll come back to this, because Richard sure did!!!

As for the medic thing, I really hope Richard meant he was fcking off for good in his final word, because if he comes back, I really don't want him to think he's responsible for the medic corps that I've been planning and attempting to foreshadow with Sansa approaching Luwin, and Beth and Jeyne following Sansa's lead with archery.

Like, oh hey, guess which unfortunate field medic bride of a Stark might find her way to Winterfell if she hears about young women being trained in some basic healing to help Maester Luwin deal with any cases of over flow of patients. That's right, I'm planning for triage nurses! No magical powers required. 

"I assume she's going to get glass from Lys through the Tapestry of Doors. For that she's going to need tokens. She's going to need tokens for everything, and she already knows it. So collecting and hoarding tokens should be a big priority for her. And that means going places where there are tokens to be got. Places she hasn't gone to yet, like The Wall and Bear Island. Just to get tokens."

No. Again, just NO! Sansa already stated that Tokens and relying on them were a thing that would come back to bite her, she'll horde them as she finds them, but she's not going out of her way to find them because she has things to do! Also: the Tapestry of Doors was a piece of Flavour text for way late in the fic if it ever came back, and like a Stargate, requires one at each end, so someone would have to travel to Lys anyway, which is dumb when Sansa now has a Loom which can copy any 'raw' material, and the ability to convert that 'raw' material' into any object she has the blueprint for, which she can get by 'scanning' with her console.

She just has to put 2 and 2 together!!

"She also knows there are dungeons in each place, and that she needs to get to them. And that it's better if she gets in with people. Like people Lyra trusts to whatever dungeon is in Bear Island."

The thing about the Dungeons is that the whole thing is for Sansa, some of them will have special requirements, but very few of them are crucial, they're just there so Sansa has a place and a trial to obtain Unique Items of game breaking power or ability.

"The last way to optimise her powers is one I don't think she'll take even though it has a lot of benefits. Going with a squad of soldiers into the Dreadfort's dungeon in order to confront the walking dead, with hit and run tactics slowly draining the population there. The main benefit and reason to do this is to harden and blood the soldiers to prepare them for the Long Night, so she should have the soldiers on rotation in order to expose as many as possible to the horrors to come."

Problem is the undead in the Dreadfort Dungeon aren't the same as the Wights and White Walkers, they can just be killed in the same ways. The idea of these kinds of fics is that by the time the Long Night Comes, Sansa and Arya can do most if the heavy lifting. You are right that Sansa wouldn't risk her people for some EXP though.

Sansa will be going back though, there's a pair of Shears and Needle in there.

"Also, the loot should be great. Perhaps another loom. But I would do it even for more bobbins. Or nothing at all."

Literally the Loom is a one off item. It is super powerful with what it can do in the context, so having more than one would ruin the power balance I've been trying to keep between Power Fantasy and OP Bullshit.

-

Someone of course pointed out that (Richard said Lyra, but responder said Lynna) Lyanna was currently literally 2 or 3 years old, she can't do shit. (they also brought up that 2 (actually 3) characters had already declined the super powers, because it included bad timeline memory downloads.) Guess how Richard took that?!

If you guessed "not well" you get a cookie!

Seriously, I was kind of annoyed at his review because^^^ reasons he was wrong about stuff, but also the arrogance of 'telling me how to optimize my character' was just, icky, so I was just going to ignore him.

But then he went (in response to the other reviewer):

"(snort) I think you need to recall what Lyanna Mormont is like at 10 years of age. She is a force and she is in charge. And what exactly is your objection, that Sansa needs consent or is preserving innocence?"

No moron, the objection is that she's literally 2 or 3 years old, what the fck is she going to do in her tiny little body? But yes, now that you mention it, Sansa (was assaulted and lost her bodily autonomy, she) would place a huge amount of importance on consent, it's one of the reasons she was so upset by Arya taking advantage of her sleepy state to get her to agree.

"Lyanna Mormont wouldn't care. Jon and Robb care, that's why their sister cares. Lyanna would never thank Sansa for trying to preserve her innocence, keep her ignorant, or keep her weak. She would be insulted."

Lyanna is literally 2 or 3 years old, she doesn't know enough to care or be insulted by not being told that she's lost the chance to remember several years of horrific shit before being violently murdered.

Also I notice you didn't say anything about the name correction. Got it wrong the first time did you?

"Which leaves only respecting Lyanna's will. Or her mother's will maybe. Or at least informing them of what she's decided to do before she does it so they can prepare. But Sansa gains nothing by not asking."

And what would she gain by asking? also nothing. Lyanna is 2 or 3 years old. Also the fic isn't about her. Why would Sansa even trust her? The child who thought she could judge Sansa for being unable to stab her way out of some horrible places? who scorned Sansa because she was femme? Because Sansa's strength isn't the same as hers so Lynna decided Sansa didn't have any?

Lynna chose Jon to lead the North over Sansa who had a better claim to the throne, Jon, who spent the entire 8th season saying how much he doesn't want to be king, Jon who legit just tried to walk away from the Command of the Nights Watch.

"And this brings up another issue, the fact Sansa never decided FOR Jon and Robb cuts both ways. She informed them of their choice and she let them make it."

"Sansa didn't keep them in the dark without informing them of the decision she was making for them, as you seem to want to do, since that definitely isn't the right thing to do. Mushroom management is a shit heap."

The boys were already aware that something was up, Sansa had nothing to gain by lying, and she made the offer before she realised the memories were a thing.

"The question to ask a toddler is "do you want to grow up?" it's not a difficult question to ask and it does have a meaningful answer. And that's the problem you have, because you already know Lyanna Mormont would say yes and you want her to say no. That's why you want the question never asked."

"You want to pretend that Lyanna Mormont, DEFINITELY in charge of bear island at 10 years of age, is a gormless wimp like 25 year old Jon Snow who refused to be king and refused to even THINK whether or not Daenerys would be a good queen by constantly uttering the refrain "she is my queen"."

Laynna was in charge because she was the last of her family, everyone else was lost fighting someone else's war. More importantly: she's not even part of the equation? Why would Sansa travel to Bear Island to ask a 2 or 3 year old if she wants to become an angry and traumatised 10 year old in a 2 or 3 year old body which will feel like a prison because she's not as tall or fast as she used to be, because she can't lift or climb or jump or ride or fight like she used to.

And for what? a few super powers she has to ask Sansa for? For mental trauma her family and friends cannot comprehend?

But no, have a look at the part where Richard really started to cross the line:

"No, Lyanna Mormont wants power, wants to grow up, that is obvious. And you're an obstacle in her way. She would hurt you for standing in her way, probably smashing a mace in your knees. And you're so weak that yes you would in fact be hurt by a 2 or 3 year old toddler. She killed a giant and she would have no problem killing you for daring to think you're a giant."

"Stand aside little man and let Lyanna Mormont have her glory."

Now I don't know what this guy's obsession is with Lyanna, but that sounded like a threat to me. Like, who tells people that a fiction character would physically maim or murder a real person just for pointing out said fictional character is 2 or 3 years old?

Lyanna doesn't want power? She's not that kind of person, even if she is fictional? More importantly:

Neither I nor the reviewer were 'standing in her way' because she's a fictional character who's not even in this fic!!!

But his behaviour was pretty shit, so I told him to knock it off or I was going to turn the review filters on.

That went about as well as you might expect.

So I was All:

[I don't know what you think you mean by 'optimize the character' but half of your assumptions are wrong, the rest run counter to my pre-existing plans and I don't care for your overall demeanour. I was prepared to leave your post be, but your recent reply is inappropriate and uses language which runs VERY close to sounding like a death threat, which I DO NOT APPRECIATE. I don't want to be 'that bitch', but I am going to ask you to please be respectful, or I will be turning on the comment filters.]

Because I don't Know if you know this but AO3 has three filters in the privacy tab of every story posted:

1] “Only show your work to registered users”

this means that you MUST be logged in to an AO3 account to even find it let alone read it

2] Disable Anonymous Comments

you Must be logged in to leave a comment

3] Enable Comment Moderation

doesn't matter what you say, with out Author OK, your review will not be showing up in the comment section.

(… tumblr just did that thing again where it refreshes in the middle of my thousands of words of text and loses all my stuff, it is literally making me want to kill myself. Because I have to retype all the responses from the next fcking section. It's my own fault for not just using a word document, but also: fck tumblr? For being stupid?)

So, from here Richard had three options:

1- Apologise and move one

2- say nothing and pretend it hadn't happened and move on

3- He went with this:

“Your Sansa Stark is weaker than canon Sansa Stark. It's true your Sansa Stark has a strictly higher level of ambition than Sansa Stark. But what she uses in order to achieve her goals, her resources, is weaker.”

“She uses actions, capabilities and skills. She uses embroidery, archery, learning (archery), she uses the people she already knows but not strangers. She uses and manipulates the people she can interact with, learn from, act upon. The level of people that is directly equal to skills.”“

She doesn't use language, nor does she use strangers. Strangers are the level of people that don't require interaction but DO require language to deal with. And your Sansa Stark's language is too weak. When she manipulates the maid in the Dreadfort, it's entirely accidentally and unintentionally.”

Sansa has seen what power does to people, she's seen what lies ahead for the manipulators of the world, she's been taught at the side of Cersei and Petyr, and she does not want to become them. For all the horrific things she's gone through, Sansa came out the other side with her compassion intact, possibly even stronger than before.

“She talks to Domeric only because she's already interacted with him, she's been healing him for days by that point. She fakes Green Dreaming to her father because she knows her language is inadequate and will achieve nothing. The way her father and mother treat her, they know mere words would be inadequate. And they would dismiss any words she said. "Haven't we told our children dreams can't hurt you?"”

She doesn't want to interact with Domeric, he looks like the man who violated her repeatedly, killed her brother and sacked her home. She wants to be as far away from him as possible. When she does end up interacting with him, despite being so sleep deprived it's a wonder she hadn't started hallucinating, she manages to win him over pretty easily.

She fakes Green Dreaming because “a god made me time travel” is not only a ridiculous concept but a foreign one as well. Why would Sansa tell her parents that when it would mean admitting to going through some horrific shit, to letting her family down and being let down by her family when Green Dreams are a known thing which explains her knowledge. It's not inadequacy, it's efficiency and an attempt to hide horrible things.

I need to point out that “Haven't we told our children that dreams can't hurt you?” is said by Catelyn in self-recrimination afterwards, and is said specifically to reference the reason Sansa might not have felt she could go to them with her problem was because it was based on dreams. Because what parent would take dreams as a serious threat unless they were a Nightmare on Elm Street survivor, especially since Green Seers have become so rare they've been relegated back to myths and stories by the time Jojen and Bran show up.

“Language requires actions such as mouthing, shouting, tonguing, but actions will never add up to language. Actions are necessary but NOT SUFFICIENT for language. This is why you can't write a single damned sentence with only actions. Try it, you won't be able to.”

I can't take this paragraph seriously if only because of the use of the word 'tonguing'. FFS, he sounds like a small child trying to convince people he's got a PhD. 'If I throw out some big words and phrase them right they'll sound 'academic' and I'll look smarter!

'I know this probably isn't what Richard meant but: Sign Language? Is literally all actions?

(Obviously real language requires thoughts and concepts to be communicated to be a language, but even the most primitive of body movements can express something: I'm hot, I'm hungry, I'm angry, etc. It might not be true language, but it is communication, which is the basis of language, the reason we made language in the first place.)

“Canon Sansa Stark had dreams, plans, and designs on what others have. She wanted to wed a prince, she had designs on the princess position. She wanted out of King's Landing. She wanted Winterfell. She wanted the Knights of the Vale to fight ... FOR HER.”

“People who had never met canon Sansa Stark in their entire lives fought and died for canon Sansa Stark's benefit. For the designs of a (her words) stupid girl. And sure, her initial designs were stupid. And they only rose up to being pathetic. But they were designs, they were dreams, they were plans.”

I need to talk about my interpretation of Sansa for a minute, because that's what I've been writing: my interpretation of Sansa.

Sansa was raised with an idea of how the world should be, not how it was. She was raised loved and protected and surrounded by men of honour. Fed stories of heroes, brave knights and valiant princes, where good always triumphed, or was romantically defeated and beautifully tragic.

She wasn't raised to expect dishonourable men and hidden motives, she wasn't raised expecting a (metaphorical) dagger in her back.

She didn't want the crown, she didn't want the throne, she wanted “the prince” from her stories, who would cherish her and care for her and give her a family filled with love. And yes the pretty dresses and the shiny jewels and the adoration and praise. But she never wanted power, that came later.

Later after she'd seen the cracks in the world and the grime beneath the gilding, when she'd learned friend and foe were often the same, that people with power would hurt her, use her, that she was nothing but a trophy to them.

Sansa wanted power because “if I'm the one with the power, then they can't hurt me any more, if I have the power I'll be safe, if I have the power then I can protect people, if I have the power I can stop people like that.”

But Sansa has never had power, it was always borrowed, an illusion that could vanish at one misstep. She had no money of her own, her blood made her valuable to others as a trade commodity, but gave her no personal power.

When people fought for her, it was never really about her.

Petyr gave her armies so he could win favour so he could use her as a proxy for her dead mother. Brienne fought to fulfil an oath to Sansa's dead mother.

The Men of the North fought for Winterfell, to get revenge on the Boltons. The Wildings followed Jon Snow. And when it was over, it was Jon who was crowned king, not Sansa the one who had to talk him into getting back their home in the first place.

Her parents and Robb fought for her, but their armies fought for House Stark, for the insult Sansa and Arya's capture and Ned's death presented.

“Your Sansa Stark has no plans, has no dreams, and certainly has no designs. She doesn't use language, because her language is too weak and has no power. She doesn't use her emotions or feelings because they are brittle and far too weak to be used. Weaker even than the emotions and feelings of a stupid girl. She doesn't use her mind or intellect because she doesn't cogitate. She uses skills and ONLY skills. To try to fake everything else.”

It's odd that he says this when he started off this response by saying my Sansa was more ambitious than canon Sansa.

First of all: I thought I was making it fairly clear that her goals were: save her family, save the North, stop the White Walkers.

Her dreams are to never be beholden to another man ever again.

Sansa wants her family alive, she wants to be safe and she wants to be free of all the political manipulations she had to sit through in the first timeline.

Second of all: Richard has clearly never been assaulted in his life in any way and I am so fcking happy for him. Really.

Look, people who suffer long term trauma, (or short term, it doesn't matter how long really) are not magically okay afterwards. The idea that sexual assault makes femme women strong is disgusting and so toxically prevalent in movies and shows and books these days its... horrific. You'll notice butch women like Arya aren't typically assaulted to be strong, because they're already so 'manly'. It was a genuine surprise when they tried to have Brienne assaulted, but that was more about showing how much of a 'good guy' Jaime was than Brienne.

You can really tell in several places that the tv series had non-con fetishists on staff.

Sansa is so brittle now, because she feels safe enough to let herself feel the fear she wasn't able to earlier, to work through the panic and the anger and all the emotions she couldn't before.

“Your Sansa Stark plans to use skills in order to change the world. And since it's obvious the world isn't run by woodcutters or farmers or archers or anyone else defined by their SKILLS, she will fail. She will fail abysmally, totally and catastrophically. She hasn't got the slightest sliver of a chance.”

Quick tally: Sansa has managed to convince her parents she had knowledge of the future, put them on track to realising Petyr Baelish was stealing from the Crown, got Stannis curious in Dragonstone, came up with a plan to gain favour for the North by helping to pay of part of the Crown's debt and has begun working on a plan to ensure more food is available for the Northerners when Winter arrives.

Not to mention, (and you'd easily miss this): Sansa has begun influencing a shift in the young women of the North who had previously been influenced by the South.

The thing is, Richard seems convinced its about the looting and the grinding, 'kill enough stuff and you become a God!' but it's not.

“So you stacked the deck in her favor. You put a high tier deity on her side. Now Sansa has a slim chance to squeak out a win, using the power she's borrowing. But here's the thing, it will never be HER win because it isn't HER power, it isn't HER plans. Your Sansa Stark has no plans, but her deity does, even if they're stupid plans of puerile amusement-seeking. So IF there is a victory at the end, it will never be Sansa Stark's victory, it will be her deity's. Because she is only a pawn, a tool, a peon, a minion.”

Richard doesn't seem to understand what the introduction of Arya's God means for the lore. The amount of death from the wars is causing Bad Things in the back ground of the original timeline.

Sansa isn't the Being's pawn, she's their start player, the Being is a sponsor who's giving Sansa the chance and resources to be greater than she was. It's not about 'puerile amusement-seeking', but how do you tell a young woman who's gone through what Sansa's gone through that the fate of the entire human race is in her hands, that if she fails it won't just be her family that falls.

If Sansa thinks the Being just wants amusement, then Sansa will act as she pleases and hope it's good enough, which puts her closer in line with saving the world than if she's actually trying to save the world, because that is a much bigger task than 'stop the issues that got my family killed'.

The Being is only victorious if Sansa is, it's their shared victory.

Now up until this point Richard has been an arrogant tool, but it might almost seem like he's being reasonable. This is where he loses the plot and just starts back on his favourite fall back: threatening people with violence.

“Now generally, when an author writes a protagonist who is a pawn, a tool, a peon and a minion of a higher power, when they write a protagonist who is WEAK, it's because they themselves are weak. Generally doesn't mean universally however, so I had to know. And now I do. You are weak Jasper.”

“You want to convince me of something Jasper. You want to convince me that I'm wrong, that my opinion is wrong, that my position is wrong, you want me to change my mind, you want me to know my plans and judgment are wrong. Because they're in conflict with yours. But how do you achieve this? By threatening me with your borrowed power. Exactly like your Sansa Stark.”

Did he have to google the list of synonyms there?

I don't know what it is about being referred to by name, but it bugs me that he chose to use only a portion of my pen-name like we were somehow familiar, rather than not using my name or referring to me as OP or something along those lines.

Also I really have to disagree that only weak people write about people being weak, but I don't think his opinions of weak and strong match with mine either. 

He is wrong, but more importantly: he threatened someone with violence for daring to correct him.

I wasn't threatening him, I was warning him to stop being an asshole or I would disable anonymous commenting.

“You do this because you're weak. And what do we call weak people who complain about strong people's actions when they are the bitches of higher powers? We call them exactly what you "don't want to be", we call them bitches. You are a bitch to higher powers and you bitch about higher powers like me. You bitch about people who can use their intellects. And for a good reason too.”

“You fear my attitude because I am the bitch slapper. I slap little bitches like you all fucking day long every single day. It doesn't matter to me who it is, whether it's my own friends who are bitching, I slap them for it. And you will never ever convince me that you're right. Because you're weak. And because I don't respect bitches.”

Look, I've seen enough therapists of different varieties to pull off some impressive psych 101 bullshit so I can tell you right now: Richard is a man who has never held any real authority in his life, he has mediocre skills at best and often feels talked down to because he feels more entitled than he is and no one treats him like a god for breathing. He refuses to back down when wrong even in the face of evidence and then he pouts because the world didn't shift to match his delusions.

The worst part is I know this, and I know I shouldn't let this bother me. But it does. But it shouldn't and I can tell him to his 'face' via review reply why he's wrong, or he'll know it bothers me, then he'll feel validated, even though he's wrong. And he'll probably threaten someone with more violence and then I really will have to disable anon comments and effectively punish some readers who did nothing wrong.

“So what are you going to do to me that I care about? Stop me from reading your fic? You don't have that power. Stop writing it so that I can no longer learn how your mind works, my ulterior motive? That would be cutting your nose to spite your face. You would suffer far out of proportion to me. I would just move on to some other author. Report me? Go ahead, I don't care. Really, we're done here, so have a nice life.”

Yes I do, literally the first of the privacy filters would stop you from reading, but that would hurt my other readers who don't have an account.

'Ulterior motive'? Buddy, you apparently don't understand how any mind works.

Again: if you don't care why bring it up?

Are you really leaving though? Do you promise?!

“The only thing you could ever do to me is surprise me by ceasing to be a weak little bitch. Or even resolving to not be one. This would invalidate all of my predictions by rising to my implied challenge. That's what I like, win-win. (lol) I'm not holding my breath though.”

I don't have anything to prove to this douche tool and it bothers me that this is bothering me so much!!!! The worst part is, this review came at a time when my attention for the fic was flagging, so I'll never know if it was really this review or not that made me stop writing for the past few months?

Those of you with an AO3 account who drop by my profile to see if I wrote anything interesting may have noticed my recent 'for archive users only' locked fic. I can confirm that yes: to mental detox this review I went and watched a Chinese Xianxia drama that has become my new hyper-focus. Almost 100 plot bunnies are being posted into the locked fic in an effort to purge it rom my brain so I can get back to what I was doing. It seems to be working. I wrote about 1000 words for Episode: Sisterhood this week, so the chapter is almost done. At last!