#still learning his face... usually it is better when I have a reference :/

[chiropteracupola]

a week’s worth of scribble-scrabble (mostly sharpes and one temeraire)

[bluebellles]

"i'll take a quiet life"

gentle moments of reciprocating their affection

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, sfw

cw: varying relationship stages, brief callbacks to child experimentation (canon compliant), zayne’s describes a poor relationship with food, heavy on dragon sylus sorry i wish i could be different, ur down bad and a little embarrassing in Xavier’s but he’s worse, author is still settling into character analysis for these guys so pls forgive any ooc

Your hunting partner excelled in many ways. His skill in the field was both undeniable and terrifying, his ability to fall asleep anywhere concerned you as much as it impressed you, and his calm demeanor even in the face of the most stressful situations set your mind at ease whenever you fought alongside him.

The only area he truly lacked in, in your humble opinion, was in his ability to give a straight answer about anything to do with himself or his personal life.

He was, in many ways, a vault of information for everything from the history of wanderers to arbitrary and niche subjects that a normal person would have had to spend a lifetime studying to be able to reference as easily as him. If you had a question about nearly any subject, your walking encyclopedia of a partner likely had the answer ready to deliver to you accompanied by a yawn and that sleepy blink of his eyes. 

Answers about himself, however, were much harder to come by. He never declined your inquiries outright, but he had a litany of creative and mildly infuriating ways to dodge the question. He was very adept at distracting you, often with food or confusing questions of his own. You once asked him what he did over the weekend and he pulled a bag of your favorite candy out of his pocket to offer to you, waited until you started munching on it happily, and then just said “and what about you?” as if he had already answered your question. You were also highly suspicious about the timing of his naps on the train to get to missions – always falling asleep right after you try making small talk about where he grew up or his family. 

It's not like you didn’t want to respect his boundaries. He was probably just a very private person or a secret criminal and either way it was ultimately none of your business. It’s just that it was a little difficult to jump into battle alongside another person on a daily basis and trust them to have your back when you couldn’t even get him to tell you about his hobbies. Nothing to do with the way your heart sped up a little seeing him at his desk in the mornings at all. Completely sensible and utilitarian curiosity.

So, rather than continuing to pester him for answers you decided you would simply observe him to get to know him better. Admittedly, as far as subjects for study he was an interesting one. And very nice to look at.

You learned quite a bit about the sleepy man through your observations, jotting down everything you learned in a small, unassuming notebook you kept on hand during work hours. 

For example, he spends an hour in the break room every day eating concerning amounts of convenience store ramen and reading random books about obscure subjects like 101 Facts About Wooly Mammoths and Dating Advice for Older Men. Always a different book, and he always manages to finish it by the time his self-imposed break is over. If anyone tries to make conversation with him during that time period, he will pretend to fall asleep. You’re honestly starting to believe he has narcolepsy or something. Or just very selective hearing.

Contrary to your initial assumptions, he also does have a sense of humor. All of his jokes are told with his usual flat affectation and could easily be mistaken for serious comments, but once you start to look so closely at him it’s easier to pick up on the subtle, teasing drawl at the end of his quips or the way his nose twitches a little with the effort not to smile when he’s messing with you. 

You were in the middle of conducting a very serious investigation about his various micro expressions one night when the two of you stopped by a crepe stand on your way home from work. 

You had already been to the crepe stand a few times a few times with Tara. It was a cute little business run by an older man and his son who had recently graduated from university. You had rambled to Xavier enthusiastically about how they were the only place that had your favorite combination of fillings and how you were craving something sweet, and he had only nodded and said “mh”, which you had learned to translate as enthusiastic agreement.

The owner’s son happened to be running the stand that day and was just as friendly and outgoing with you as always, winking at you when he asked if you wanted your usual. His easygoing smile had faded, however, with a quick glance behind you before he busied himself with making your crepe.

You turned around in confusion, only finding Xavier with the same mild, spaced out expression as always looking innocently off to the side. 

A few minutes later, you dutifully hand over a delicious looking savory crepe filled with meat to the silver-haired man before looking over your own, practically salivating over the combination of fruits and cream. He stared it with what you had recently identified as confusion before looking to you imploringly.

“Not sweet?”

“Oh!” you flustered a little, realizing how presumptuous you had been in ordering for him, “Sorry, I just thought- you prefer savory to sweet right? I mean, when Jenna brings pastries in you always take a croissant instead of a donut-,”

You cut yourself off before you could start listing all the different ways you had been a total creep recently.

“I can get you a sweet one if you prefer,” you whispered out, trying your best to look completely unaffected.

A soft huff left Xavier’s lips, and you looked up to see that gentle half-smile he sometimes gave you and a very soft look in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he assured you, “I do prefer savory things.”

The second half of his sentence, oddly enough, was accompanied by a very smug glance at the owner’s son who looked rightfully confused and possibly a little nervous.

Armed with your contrasting crepes, the two of you chose to stroll and eat, enjoying the gentle spring breeze that blanketed the evening as you walked. Absentmindedly, you mentioned the owner’s son again in passing, praising him for his skill in creating the perfect ratio of fillings. Xavier suddenly made a face you hadn’t seen on him before.

A tiny twitch of his nose, similar to when he was trying not to laugh, but followed by a miniscule pout before he took a rather aggressive bite of his crepe as if it had done something to offend him personally.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to whip out your little notebook to record this breaking update in your investigation but refrained for the meantime, tilting your head to the side and studying him closely.

“Is something wrong with your crepe…?” 

He froze, glancing down at his food contemplatively.

“…Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m done,” he declared bluntly, turning to glare at your almost finished crepe with equal hostility, “Are you done?”

“I mean- I guess?” You blinked at him.

“Mh.”

Wordlessly, he took your crepe from you and ambled off to find a nearby trashcan. You took the opportunity to whip out your notebook to catalogue all the new data you had collected. 

The nose twitch was multipurpose – sometimes indicating amusement and sometimes indicating… irritation? And the tiny pout. Did he have a stomachache? More information was needed.

You were so wrapped up your excited theorizing that you failed to notice the presence of someone coming up right behind you, peering over your shoulder to read the words you were jotting down.

“I don’t have a stomachache,” a deep voice rumbled directly in your ear, causing you to shriek and fling the notebook further down the sidewalk. It scraped against the concrete before flopping pathetically next to a storm drain. 

You whipped around in abject horror only to find Xavier’s face two inches from yours, looking at you with an unreadable expression. 

“That was not at all what it looked like,” you lied blatantly, eyes darting between him and the notebook.

“What did it look like?” he asked mildly, his face betraying nothing of his current mood. He was still close enough to you that you could count all of his individual lashes and make out a few tiny scars along his jaw.  

“I’m not stalking you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Mh.”

Xavier didn’t press the subject, instead going over to retrieve the notebook. Mortification rolled over your entire being as he began rifling through the pages. You wished a car was driving by so you could throw yourself in front of it.

“It’s seriously not as creepy as it seems,” you sound delusional even to yourself, “I just wanted to get to know you better.”

While you were panicking and wondering how soon you could transfer departments, Xavier was staring down at the pages filled with your cute handwriting in contemplation.

It would seem that he had underestimated you once again. 

Finding you in this lifetime, as a dying star well past its expiration date, he hadn’t been expecting much in the way of your relationship with him. It was simply an impulse he could not ignore – the honor of being close to you. He sought out your brilliance and would always endeavor to orbit around you but it was hardly even a thought in his brain that you would be drawn to him in the same way. Not when he was so tired. Not when he could only offer you a beautiful afterimage of what he had once been.

He should not have doubted you. In every life, you were always the only one to really see him. The only one to even bother looking beyond his blinding light. After so many years of existence and so many different identities, he only ever really saw himself through the reflection of your gaze. He was a fool to have assumed your soul would falter even if he was scattered across the galaxy instead of whole as he once was. 

“Forgive me,” his voice was hoarser than his usually airy cadence, his gaze more focused than you were used to when he looked over at you.

Confusing as it may have been, you didn’t need your notebook to identify his current expression. When Xavier finally looked back at you, the way you had been looking at him all these weeks, it was impossible to mistake the devotion in his eyes.

Rafayel turned the conch shell over in his hands, letting out a thoughtful hum as he let his fingers dance across the spikes. The outside was a gradient of pretty blues that melted into a soft pink closer to the center. A small sticker with a price that had been hastily covered up with marker stuck to the side. The artist’s eye twitched minutely at the sight of it clashing against the otherwise pleasant color palette, already using a sharp nail to carefully peel it off.

“Isn’t it pretty?” you gushed a little, a self-satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you pointed at the shell as though couldn’t see it, “If you put your ear against it, you can hear the ocean!”

He let out a petulant scoff at this, eyes narrowing at the conch shell like it was guilty of scamming you and he was about to put it on trial.

“It’s lying to you, cutie,” he scowled a bit, as though the conch had advertised this gimmick itself, before pointing dramatically at the waves crashing right outside the glass of his windows, “and did you lose your vision or something? The ocean’s right outside if you want to listen to it so bad. …Maybe if you visited me more often you’d-,”

“No, shut up, I know,” you rolled your eyes and nudged him a little before brightening again, “but still – it really sounds like waves! Besides, I thought you could take it with you when you go on your trip for that client meeting. I looked it up. There aren’t any beaches nearby, the whole city is landlocked. I figured you might get homesick or something. Now you don’t have to!”

Rafayel stared at you. Things had been strange the whole morning, starting from when you showed up at his doorstep lacking any of your usual complaints about his antics and without any coercing on his part. 

You had come to visit him of your own accord? You had looked up the geography of his business trip because you were worried about him getting homesick? He mentally scanned through all the elaborate schemes to get your attention he had acted out recently, wondering which one of them had prompted such a reaction from you. He had been so busy with a new series for a very annoying client the past few weeks and he couldn’t think of anything he had done recently that would have warranted this. So why?

“Besides, it kinda looks like your eyes, right?” You said off-handedly, only half paying attention as you adjusted a setting on your watch, casual as if you hadn’t just said something that made his already rapid heartrate speed into overdrive and the tips of his ears flush a pretty red.

Just when he thought he was starting to get a handle on this version of you, that he had figured out the proper tune to draw you closer, you decided to change the rules of the game again. He supposed he should have been used to it by now. Every version of you always managed to shatter his expectations as easily as you breathed. As unpredictable as the ocean, and just as beautiful to him. But honestly, what was a fish to do? How was he supposed to ever prepare for you?

“Are you trying to win employee of the month or something?” he scrambled a little, whipping his head to the side and trying to keep the squeakiness out of his voice, “I won’t be giving you a bonus for it. Just so you know.”

You scowled at this, glancing away from your watch and trying to swipe the conch shell out of his hands.

“Whatever. If you don’t want it just say that,” you huffed as he held it out of your reach, still without looking at you.

“Be quiet,” he sniffed haughtily, holding the shell up to his ear and pushing you away gently by your forehead with his other hand, “I’m listening to the ocean.”

“I thought you said-”

Insufferably, he hushed you and closed his eyes under the guise of concentrating so you wouldn’t see the softness of his expression. All he could hear was random ambient sound, not even close to the vibrant complexities of the sea that encompassed his birthplace. Even still, as he pictured you carefully rummaging through different shells at the pier market and comparing their hues to his eyes, he had never felt closer to home. 

As much as he'd like to pretend he was the siren ensnaring you into his trap, he was well aware that that honor belonged to you. Regardless of the time or the place or the bodies you both inhabited, your song was a tune that could never be erased from the core of his being and one he would always walk towards willingly. How annoying.

For a man who lived his life with complete precision, who planned out every day with strict control and little room for superfluities, it was nearly impossible not to notice even the slightest changes in routine.

As such, every tiny alteration you made to his otherwise balanced life was meticulously documented and filed away. Not with annoyance or disapproval, as some might expect, but instead with the intention to figure out how to best accommodate for your whims without disrupting his own routines or, infinitely more abhorrent to consider, burdening your own carefree sensibility with his neuroses.

Pausing in the doorway to straighten out the shoes you had haphazardly kicked off on your way in. Making sure you had a glass of water next to your daily iced coffee so that you wouldn’t get dehydrated. Carefully holding onto your hand and keeping you steady as you insisted on walking across the side of a bridge rather than the sidewalk next to him. Despite the stoic expression and steadfast seriousness he exhibited while preforming these simple tasks for you, he did not consider them to be a burden. It was a privilege to bear witness the vivacity you brought into his world.

He was content, in this way, to watch you bulldoze through life with reckless abandon and dutifully reorganize the chaos you left in your wake. It was enough to feel the brilliance of your warm light soak into his cold skin. He would remain steady and controlled for the both of you.

You were, however, a little less content with this arrangement. Zayne was steady. Constant. A stone pillar for you to rest against when you couldn’t handle standing up on your own. You loved this about him, but he wasn’t infallible. Wasn’t impervious to desire and indulgence. You loved this about him too. You just wished he could learn to love it about himself.

You knew your boyfriend loved sweet things. It was something you often teased him about, mostly joking in every respect besides the potential cavities. To be honest, you found it endearing and loved to see evidence of the gentle, sweet man hidden beneath his frosty exterior. 

The only thing that really concerned you about the doctor’s habit was that despite his propensity for baked goods and sugary candy, he didn’t actually seem to enjoy the process of eating them very much at all.

It was often during times of stress that he’d make a detour by the local bakery after a long shift. He would eat pastries as quickly as possible, a stark contrast from his usual habits that left little time for savoring the flavor. It almost seemed like an uncontrollable urge, a shameful impulse that he wanted to push through as quickly as possible. As utilitarian as one could be while digging into a strawberry shortcake. 

Zayne was a tempered man, driven by the ideology that if he lost even an ounce of control, he wouldn’t be able to stop the spiral. He wasn’t someone who could integrate indulgence into his routine halfheartedly. There was no true enjoyment to be found from acquiescing to his desire, only a temporary slip that would be accompanied by unfulfilled resolutions to abstain in the future.

You disagreed.

The two of you had a nice, cozy dinner together every Friday after work. Usually consisting of takeout, often delayed due to both of your hectic schedules, and sometimes taking place on the uncomfortable wooden benches outside the hospital but you always made it happen without fail. 

One night after a good meal with lighthearted conversation about your respective days, you retreated to Zayne’s fridge and returned with a miniature cake and an excited smile.

Zayne stared. It was a pretty cake, artfully piped cream and strawberries between layers of sponge cake with a delicate dusting of powdered sugar on top. His brow twitched minutely, mentally scanning through significant dates or anomalous recent events that could have prompted such an extravagance as you carefully removed it from the plastic bakery box. 

“…What’s the occasion?” he finally asked with great reluctance, disappointed by his own inability to decipher what he was missing.

“Hm?” you blinked, setting out two dessert forks and keeping your countenance deliberately casual, “No occasion, it just looked good.”

He stared at the cake as if it held all the world’s secrets.

“Did something happen today?” he pressed on, carefully assessing your mental state as if expecting you to suddenly have a mental breakdown.

“I had a craving for cake, that’s what happened,” you shrugged, not waiting for him before digging your fork into the side of dessert.

He watched as you savored your bite of cake with simple contentedness, no hint of stress or shame about the enjoyment you took from a useless indulgence. Not giving in to any kind of uncontrollable urge or distracting from any kind of emotional need. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

“You aren’t going to make me eat this whole thing by myself, are you?” you pouted playfully at him, making the puppy dog expression that always got you an exasperated huff followed by the immediate entertainment of whatever you asked for, “It doesn’t taste as good if we aren’t both enjoying it.”

Zayne, as always, weighed out his options out. If it was for you, maybe it was okay. As always.

He picked up the fork and took a slow bite.

After that night you had decided this was now an inherent part of your weekly routine, showing up with brightly colored macarons, beautifully decorated tarts, and decadent chocolate creations depending on what caught your eye at the bakery. You started calling it your ‘mandatory sweet treat’ and continued the tradition without fail. Always eaten in tandem with a balanced meal and shared slowly over happy conversation. A celebration of your bond rather than a shameful impulse. 

Zayne continued to tell himself that he was just playing along with your whims as usual. After all, how could it be wrong when you smiled so sweetly at him as you handed him his fork? 

It wasn’t until one week, when you stumbled into his house flustered after an unusually difficult mission and no time to stop by the bakery before closing that he finally had to admit his own enjoyment for the activity.

There was a brief silence after dinner was finished that week. He stared at the cleared table as if expecting something delicious to appear out of thin air. When it didn’t, he cleared his throat and clasped his fingers together on the table with his usual sense of decorum. 

“…No sweet treat today?” he asked ruefully.

You couldn’t contain your grin, whipping out your phone immediately to scroll through bakeries and ice cream parlors that stayed open late for sugar fiends like your adorable boyfriend.

Something had shifted recently. A tiny change in your dynamic that pricked ever so slightly at the center of his chest. Like everything else with you in this new lifetime, he tried his best not to sink his teeth into it and drag it forcefully out into the open. Used all his self-control to let you tend to it on your own terms and pretended not to notice. 

In hindsight, maybe the first change had been after he showered in your apartment for the first time. He had taken a polite amount of your body wash, trying his best not to infringe on your hospitality like a normal, human house guest, but as the scent of it (the scent of you) rolled over him his pupils had dilated. Fingers clenching against the bottle with the minute tingle of claws that no longer existed trying to come to the surface.

Smelling like you, knowing if anyone else walked by they would associate him with you and you with him, fed that deeply hidden instinct he tried so hard not to bother you with. You had scarcely gotten over your disgustand he was going to do his very best to keep it that way, annoying and primal dragon brain be damned. 

But still, just this once. Just this little thing would be okay, right?

Before he knew it he was drenching himself in the scent. Indulgent and greedy and marked by you. 

When he confessed nonchalantly to having used your entire bottle of body wash, playing it off as a taunt and hoping you didn’t notice the faint flush of his cheeks, he expected your usual annoyance or scathing remark. Some sort of sly dig that he could latch onto and use to keep your attention on him. It was the game this version of you liked to play, and like every version of himself he was happy to indulge. 

Instead, you had just hummed thoughtfully. Eyes a little distant as though ruminating over something in your head. The switch up made him tense just a little. Wonder if you could see through to the most feral part of him and if you would scorn him for it.

“You’ll have to give me a bottle of yours, then,” you said instead, eye contact oddly intentional for the moment, “to make it even.”

He almost jolted in place, clenching his fists at his sides for just a moment before relaxing.

She doesn’t know what it means. How could she? Swallow it down. Keep pretending that you can be human.

“Your negotiation skills have improved, kitten,” he speaks mildly, instead of pinning you to the couch the way he wanted to, “I suppose fair is fair.”

The second shift came in the form of a necklace, elaborately encrusted with bloodred rubies and sparkling diamonds. It rested in its glass case at an underground auction, the gleam of it against black velvet activating that familiar desire to possess and hoard away treasures so that nobody else could have them. He pictured it laying delicately across your neck and had to stop the rumble that threatened to emit from his chest. 

He sprung it on you right before an undercover mission to gain intel about a powerful protocore, one of many he had sought out and curated to spend a little more time with you. Tried to feed you some line about how you needed to fit in with the wealthy crowd you were attempting to infiltrate that night.

He expected you to remark about the exorbitant tastes of the uber rich or fluster about the idea of accidentally damaging such an expensive item and try to force it back into his hands. Both reactions were equally endearing to him, as was everything about you.

Instead, you only looked at him with that same thoughtful expression, allowing him to gently drape it over you and fasten it while narrowly avoiding the urge to take a deep inhale of the back of your neck. 

You examined yourself in the mirror, fiddling with the stones delicately, but your gaze was on his reflection behind you when you spoke.

“It’s pretty,” you spoke simply, your tone of voice one he hadn’t heard from you before. Something more gentle, not quite complacent but almost approving.

As if you were praising his tastes. Praising his hoard. Accepting his courting gift.

It was more difficult than ever to swallow that rumble back down again. The reaction was new, but you couldn’t possibly have understood the delusions you were feeding. Stay human. Keep letting her come to you. You already used up all your luck the first time around, you have to be more careful now.

His eyes scarcely left your neck for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t until days later that the final thread of his self-control snapped. The intel mission had taken longer than expected, and you were staying in his house to avoid the tedious commute from Linkon. A practical solution, he insisted to both you and himself, nothing to do with the primal desire to keep you firmly in his territory. 

He could scarcely pinpoint how it had happened, but sometime during your quiet evening routine of reading next to each other on the giant, plush couch in his living room you had ended up curled between the couch’s arm and him. You weren’t pinned down by any means, but you were entirely engulfed by his larger frame. If someone were to walk by they would not even be able to see you beyond him.

Completely covered on all sides. Protected from threats. Guarded by him. Nothing could touch you tucked so deeply into his territory, surrounded by him and his hoard and completely at ease.

Despite his most sincere efforts, he couldn’t stop the rumble from finally emitting from his chest. Couldn’t stop the deep purr that vibrated throughout him and rolled over you. 

He froze. Cut himself off from making any noise and, for a moment, even breathing. It was with great hesitation that he forced himself to meet your gaze. Fearful of the disgust and reproach that clouded your first meeting in this lifetime making a reappearance as you finally recognized the part of himself, he tried to keep buried for you.

Instead, that curious expression scanned over his face. Your head tilted to the side just a bit. Tentatively, you reached for his hair from where he was resting against your side and began running delicate fingers through it. His breath hitched. You glanced away from him, returning to your book but keeping up your gentle ministrations.

His purring started up again. A tiny smile twitched at the corners of your lips.

Caleb dutifully held the umbrella above your head as though he was getting paid for it, but you caught his gaze drifting to the puddles collecting near the sidewalk multiple times. Your mind drifted to rainy summer days when you were kids, sloshing around in puddles and competing to see who could slosh the most water at the other before Gran would poke her head out the front door to scold you both inside. Something twisted in your chest. Without thinking much further about it, you ducked out beneath the umbrella and took a flying leap into the nearest puddle, delighting in the small splash kicked up by your boots. 

“You trying to catch a cold, Pips?” Caleb’s tone was shrouded in playfulness, the way it always was around you, but underneath it was a brief waver, a sharpening of his gaze that revealed the true panic he felt at even the possibility of harm befalling you under his watch.

 The hypervigilance that couldn’t differentiate between a mild sickness and the sight of your battered, tiny body strapped to a white table. 

“So what if I do?” you challenged him then, hopping to an adjacent puddle and trying to keep the intention out of your voice. He flinched, as if you had just said something absurd. Opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again before trying to adjust to something more casual. Teasing and relaxed instead of the phrenetic and overbearing mess he tried so hard to hide from you.

“If you get sick you’ll have to skip the congressman’s dinner, and I’ll have to go alone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” 

Right. An annual, stuffy dinner party where a bunch of government officials got together to talk about boring politics and pretend it was necessary to use four different forks for one meal. Half of them actively held grudges against Caleb for his unprecedented skyrocket to authority within the fleet and the other half thought he could be manipulated into granting them favors because of his youth. None of them deserved his time, you thought petulantly, not in the way you did. 

“So come get a cold with me,” you rebutted, tilting your head to the side playfully, “Then we can just stay home and play video games all day instead.” 

Caleb paused at this. You could practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tried to reconcile his pathological need for your safety with the temptation of staying inside with you all day, just the two of you, maybe curled up together on the couch as you ate snacks he would carefully prepare for you as he nurses you back to health, maybe sick with the same germs. His head tilted to the side like a puppy who had just heard the words walk, treat, and good boy in succession. 

 “…I bet we could even knock out a whole Lego set before we get better,” you sweetened the deal. 

Caleb practically flung the umbrella onto the sidewalk at this, giving no warning before launching himself into the puddle next to you and causing a significantly larger splash. You shrieked in both offense and thrill and splashed him back, reveling in the delighted laugh the usually curated man let out. The grin on his face was a little more crooked and uncontrolled than his usual teasing smile, the shrewd look in his eyes when he looked anywhere besides you just the tiniest bit lighter. It wasn’t a lot, but you were grateful for any amount of levity you could offer to him. Listening to the sound of his unrestrained laughter, something in you settled just a bit. 

For all his intelligence and capability, Caleb’s perception of himself was skewed by his self-imposed reluctance to ever look in the mirror. Caleb believed he was a feral wolf, with teeth too sharp to be filed down and starved by his trauma in a way that meant he’d never feel full again. So instead, he tried his best to show you a puppy. Docile and obedient without any appetite for vengeance or destruction. Someone who could curl up at your feet without you getting scared he’d sink his teeth into you the way he wanted to. You were the only one that knew he was neither.

Caleb was not the perfect, golden boy he spent so much of his life curating for you. He also wasn’t the cold, unfeeling weapon of destruction he desperately tried to hide away from your sight. He was something in between, childlike in his rage and his joy in equal measure. Calculating, certainly, and more than a little manipulative, but the end goal had always been to protect the both of you from a world that had never been as kind as he deserved. Caleb was not a monster, as he thought, or a perfect shield, as he so desperately wanted you to think. He was just a man, and once just a very scared boy. Just yours. And you would spend the rest of your life trying to prove that to him.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Four's pet demon

Fanfic prompt : you know the joke where people refer to their cats as their roommates and you get sentences like my roommate ate my pet gold fish or my roommate bites me in the leg when he wants attention but it is just shadow and four and the chain just assumes that four has a cat because what sort of lunatic would eat a pet

Four : My roommate tried to suffocate me by laying on my face when I sleep

Twilight thinking that four is talking about a cat : your roommate just wants to be close to you mine does the same thing I just move him to my chest

Four : he can’t lie on my chest he is way too heavy for it and I am like the same size

Twilight still thinking that four has a cat : that sucks I suppose

Or

Four thinking that twilight also has a shadow living with him because of the dark magic he is involved with : does your roommate stare at you while you sleep from high places

Twilight still thinking about cats : definitely but they all do that because they can protect you better if they can see everything so they go to high places

Four thinking that twilight is a shadow expert: oh , that makes sense now thank you I guess I have to thank him now

Twilight still NOT getting it : mine likes head pats but everyone of them is different

Or

Four : should I get him a something to see him better t because he is as black as the void and during night I sometimes trip over him and then he gets offended because he thinks I do it on purpose

Twilight: you might be on to something here maybe I should do it to

Four : also he keeps running around when it gets dark and he also keeps breaking things because of that

Twilight : those are called getting the zoomies they happened mostly at night because they are nocturnal creatures and usually mean they are excited about something

This continues for weeks till four basically knows everything about cat behavior and what they mean

And when he gets home (the chain was forced to rent rooms at an inn because his grandpa's house isn’t big enough) the first thing he does is pet shadow and tell him that he is thankful for trying to protect him during the night

Shadow straight up melts about it because he never got any praise or attention for his hard work

Twilight who learned a ton about shadow expected a black cat that four found in a random ditch and then rescued from his past owner Vaati who treated him poorly

He did not expect an actual hylian looking demon who is currently getting head pats and melting under them (no literally he is liquified from them)

Maybe something was lost in translation but who cares about that now

Because he was off help at least

[deebris]

The Fractured Bonds

Nolan Grayson x daughter reader (platonic!)

Mark Grayson x sister reader (platonic!)

Synopsis: Mark finds himself facing an unexpected threat to his family when Angstrom Levy decides to hold his mother and sister hostage. Despite the family turmoil they've endured and Nolan's departure, he returns to rescue his daughter.

Warnings: Contains scenes of violence, emotional distress and it mentions that the reader was murdered in other realities. The reader is 5 years old. This is just an idea I had a long time ago and kept it stored. This scenario was inspired by Chapter 33 of the "Invincible" comics in portuguese.

Word count: 3.6k

As soon as Mark flew into the house through the window, his heart stopped when he saw you and his mother clinging to each other, as if your lives depended on that embrace. When Eve told him that Debbie had called, but the voice on the phone was a man's, he couldn't help but rush back to you two and imagine that something was wrong, and indeed it was.

At first, he ignored the hideous figure holding you both hostage, but made a point to glare at him with hatred now. His head was larger than that of an ordinary person and the shape of his brain was imprinted around the skull; moreover, the expression on the stranger's face was manic and as furious as Mark's, but there was a kind of excitement shining through.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Your brother's voice was deeper than usual; an attempt to sound more authoritative and intimidating.

"He wanted me to bring you here..." Debbie suddenly began to speak "I-I didn't know where you were. I remembered that Eve had called, I thought maybe she knew." Her voice was faltering, full of pauses between words due to nervousness. And it was while his mother was speaking that Mark noticed her bruised face, with a bleeding nose and purple patches on her arms as she held your small body as protected as possible.

You seemed to be in better physical condition than her, but your injured knee did not go unnoticed, as a thin trail of blood had formed around your calf. In an adult, the wound wouldn't have been a big deal, but your delicate skin stung with the cut, and he knew it hurt because of your sniffles. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what else to do. H-he hurt me, he was going to hurt my baby." She said the last part with regret, referring to you, while holding you closer and running her fingers through your hair.

"In fact, I think your son was talking to me." Interrupting his mother, finally that man had spoken, and his tone was cynical, too unconcerned for the taste of the furious Mark glaring at him. As if that weren't enough, he dared to touch Debbie's shoulder, acting as if he had every right to do so.

"Let them go now." Mark ordered him with dangerously calm voice, although the expression on his face was one of pure disgust.

"Not yet." He opened a diabolical smile as he began his ridiculous speech: "I've learned a lot about you, Mark Grayson. Many things. I know how violent you can get when you're angry, like now..." He paused dramatically, as if he needed to emphasize what he was about to say next, and it was only irritating Mark's impatient. "I know you got it from your father."

The scowl on Mark's face deepened as you tried to peek out from your mother's arms to try to understand what was going on, but she pulled you closer to her embrace. "Stay here with mommy, sweetheart."

Both she and your brother hadn't had the courage to tell you what had happened to Nolan; you were still too young, maybe you wouldn't even understand. They both spent the last few months avoiding mentioning your father at home, and when they did, it was in whispers so that you wouldn't start asking questions they wouldn't know how to answer. No child should know that their own father was a superhero killer, let alone that he had abandoned his own family out of sheer moral caprice.

"Did you know that your identity is public in almost forty percent of the realities where you exist, Mark?" The villain continued his taunts, wanting to get to some point. "That's almost half. And that means you're careless."

"Get to the point already." Mark asked, or rather demanded. If this continued, he was sure he would snap. This dialogue was irritating him, but as long as his mother and sister were witnessing everything, he would need to hold himself together until he found a way to get him away from here.

"You see this?" He pointed to himself, referring to his own appearance "I'm a freak... A deformed freak. So I guess it's understandable that you don't recognize me." Then he wrapped you and your mother around his arm in threat, and the grip was painful. "When you saw me before, when you did this to me, I looked much more normal!"

"Oh, god... You're that guy." Realization struck him, widening his eyes as he remembered the past.

"That guy? Is that all you remember of me? That I was that guy?" If that man's temperament was bad before, now it must have risen about twenty degrees with the lack of importance his sworn enemy had given him. "I'm Angstrom Levy! The next time you forget my name, it will be because you'll be dead!"

He was certainly furious, pouring out hatred and continuing to blame Mark for interrupting his inter-dimensional goals, blaming him for his current deformed appearance, repeating that he would always be a freak, even though he had sought out the best surgeons to reconstruct his shattered body.

"The greatest minds in a dozen realities couldn't find a way to fix my brain!" His hands clenched into heavy, tense fists, ready to crush something "And it's all because of you!"

After that, he exploded and everything happened too quickly for Debbie to stop him, and even if she were quick, she wouldn't have had the strength. In moments, you were ripped from your mother, who had taken a punch to the face. Levy held you and stretched one of your arms with the free hand. You hadn't acquired powers yet and were nothing but a child; you couldn't defend yourself alone.

Mark took a step forward, but Levy raised your arm in a strange position, ready to break it. You cried and sobbed desperately due to the intense pain. "Mommy, make him stop! Mark!" You pleaded as he twisted your arm, and irrationally shouted for your brother repeatedly, seeking someone who could come to your rescue.

"Let her go!" Mark was no longer the Invincible, even in his superhero costume. He was just a man trying to protect his family, and he felt so useless and powerless that it was agonizing. Without thinking, he lunged at the hideous villain in front of him, ready to confront him in physical combat at that very moment.

"That's right. I'm right here. Come get me!" And he did, but Mark was taken aback to find himself in a completely strange place. He was no longer in his home; Angstrom Levy had sent him through one of his portals to another dimension.

He watched in shock the weird jungle he found himself in, with mutant dinosaur-like creatures devouring the carcass of another beast as large as they were right beside him. The animals noticed Mark, and suddenly they... Spoke? He heard the beasts mention that it had been a long time since they had seen any Homo Sapiens, obsessed with devouring him. Apparently, he was in some apocalyptic dimension where humans had been extinct by these beasts. He could have ended these animals in seconds, but still couldn't help but feel fear, not for himself, but for you. How would he return to help you?

At home, Debbie had to plead with Levy to return you to her, and with some pity for your cries after he broke the arm, he returned you, allowing you to be comforted by your mother. But he kept you two close to him, with a firm grip on the older woman's shoulder, so he could use you against Mark at any moment.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay," she repeated comforting words as she wiped away your tears and rubbed your back gently. Debbie had seen and heard of many cruel villains thanks to her life as the wife of a "hero," but how insensitive would a human being need to be to break a 5-year-old's arm like this? Of course, she knew that even more horrendous things had happened to children in this world, but you were her daughter, and it hit her deeply.

Debbie felt you faint in her lap and panicked. She shouldn't have shaken you the way she did, but in the midst of desperation, the last thing she wanted was to see you silent, with your eyes closed. You passed out from the pain. It's normal, she's aware of that, but it was still terrifying. She was only taken out of her stupor when she heard his disgusting voice again:

"I can't believe you're going to lie to her like that." He drew attention to himself. "What kind of mother are you? How can you say that to her? You're not sure about that." Debbie ignored him, and he took it as a challenge. "I bet you're not even listening to me. Blocking me from your mind, aren't you?" He insisted. "Are you sure you don't want to talk? I could use your company."

He tried once more, but still received no response from the woman. Levy shifted his gaze from Debbie to carefully observe you. He knew the pain must be intense; he should have given up injuring you as soon as Mark passed through the portal, but he preferred to do it as a reminder. A warning for when his brother returned. If he returned. "Let's check on your son. Let's see how well Mark managed to survive this reality."

Extending his hands to summon a portal that glowed green, a figure in his yellow superhero uniform passed through the colorful circle.

"You were going to hurt my sister?" The boy shouted as soon as he saw he was back home, numb with a sense of vengeance.

"Not only was I going to, but I did." The statement made Mark's blood run cold.

"Mark?" Debbie called him desperately to show your state. She couldn't bear to see you suffer. Mark held his mother's gaze, interrupting only to finally notice you, who were motionless. Your arm was in such a unusual and swollen position. Your face, which was once red from crying, now had turned pale, and if it weren't for your shallow breathing, he would have thought you were dead.

"What have you done?" He asked furiously.

Levy made no move to respond, taking you from Debbie's arms once again. "No! Let go of my daughter!" She shouted angrily, completely abandoning her earlier fearful expression. She refused to allow that horrendous creature to take you away from her a second time. Debbie had felt how cold and clammy your skin was, and the more she looked at you, the paler your face became.

"Welcome back, Mark Grayson." Levy said after observing the hysterical scene of the woman beside him unfold with some indifference. "Your little sister here is really cute; I personally adore this chubby face of hers." Mark's throat tightened at the sight of you in the arms of that despicable man, scared with force, and seeing his broken mother in the corner of the bed only made his heart beat harder. "You know, I've encountered her in other realities." His tone was perverse, too cynical. "But unfortunately, those versions of her didn't get to advance much in age compared to this one. Isn't that interesting?"

"You bastard!" It didn't take much intelligence to understand what he meant, and it made Mark's nostrils flare with fury.

"That also makes me wonder what must have happened differently for her to survive longer in this dimension." Debbie moved from where she was on the bed and carefully reached for the bedside lampshade while Angstrom Levy was distracted, but a brief glance at her son made her abandon the idea. Mark discreetly shook his head negatively, implying that she shouldn't do that. "Or maybe I am the trigger for this event here," he pointed out with a smile.

"If you hurt her more, I swear-" Mark said with hatred and tense body, but he was interrupted.

"What? You'll kill me? Of course, you will." The villain stared at him seriously, with some skepticism. "Don't worry. However, her well-being really only depends on you. After all, it was you who let Anissa kill her once, and Conquest, and Thragg... Although the latter was more your father's fault," he stated matter-of-factly while scratching his chin.

He seemed like had finished speaking, but decided that the hero needed to hear more upon seeing the boy's shocked face at the mention of those peculiar names, yours assassins, curiously, all Viltrumites. Levy wasn't sure if Mark was already aware of these people, but what really mattered to him was to disturb the boy. "But it's you whom I want to hurt. I want to hurt you so, so much... Your little sister is very safe, as long as I determine that the only way to hurt you is by hurting her."

Then suddenly he lifted your unconscious body in his arms as he prepared to throw you into a portal. Debbie's heart was in combustion, beating faster than ever as she suppressed a scream. But your brother's temper finally snapped, completely determined to kill him once and for all.

Mark moved forward to stop him, but within seconds, the roof of the house was pierced and him felt something, or rather, someone push him away. He couldn't see much, but he followed his mother's pleas and embraced her, protecting her from the wreckage. His throat tightened at not seeing you, not knowing what was happening, but soon part of the dust began to settle.

Struggling a bit, the boy managed to see his father's back, apparently holding the man, who moments ago was about to send you away, in the air by the neck. He relaxed a little more when he saw traces of his hair resting on Nolan's broad shoulder, finally free from the dangerous clutches. Despite the disturbing events regarding his father, Mark knew he wouldn't let anyone harm you under his protection.

Levy felt himself losing breath, his brain throbbing from the blow he received from a piece of wood fallen from the ceiling. An intense pain hit him as Omni-Man began to bash his head repeatedly against the wall. His skull was now partly mashed into the concrete, and the red liquid that was his blood flowed to the ground.

"If my left fist weren't busy, I'd make you suffer much more," Nolan's thunderous and deep voice sounded intimidatingly throughout the room. "Despicable trash like you should keep your filthy hands to yourself."

Nolan struck one last time as he whispered in a chilling whisper the last words that man would hear before having his skull pushed against the wall slowly, until it crushed like gelatin: "I'll ensure that every version of you that dares to appear here on this Earth, or anywhere in this Universe, has a slow and painful death before laying a finger on my daughter again."

And as the Viltrumite increased the grip on Levy's neck and continued pressing his head against the wall, it seemed like his eyes were about to pop out. The skin that was once brown now split between purple and pink in some spots due to the continuous pressure while him was dying.

Observing the man coldly, Nolan withdrew his hand and took care not to stain you with the blood dripping from his fingers, portraying a much gentler grimace as he observed your sleeping figure. He always found it adorable to see how incredibly tiny you looked in his arms, It awakened an intense feeling of protection. But upon noticing that you were injured, his eyebrows furrowed, carefully examining your broken arm while wondering how Mark had let this happen.

"Father, what-" Mark broke free from his mother, finally finding words amidst the shock, but was interrupted.

"Your sister needs to go to the hospital." His voice was distant, almost emotionless, successfully masking the concern.

Debbie honestly wasn't ready to face the man she had been deceived by so soon, but she couldn't care less when the only thing she had wanted for hours was just to keep you safe and close to her. She avoided his eyes as she anxiously waited for an opportunity to have you back in her arms, and her ex-husband seemed to have noticed. As hesitant as he was, he walked over to her carefully, avoiding showing a more human side of himself to his family, but also not being hostile in his gestures. He surrendered to the act and pressed his lips to one of her temples before putting you in her arms.

"Take good care of her." He stared at his son with some severity. "I can't always be here, I'm entrusting her life to you, Mark."

The boy looked at him with some indignation, as if his father doubted that he would do everything to protect you, but he knew he had been too careless, as Angstrom Levy said he was. Even though he had the strength to defend his little sister, he still found himself vulnerable tonight, almost incapable.

"You don't need to ask for that." Mark was firm, and Nolan nodded satisfactorily. He thought about saying something more, even though he didn't understand why, the last thing he should want is to speak to his father again. Perhaps it was to unload the disgust he still felt, but the health of both of you was a more important matter to him now.

"Go away." Debbie's voice surprised them. She was obviously defeated, too tired for all this, but still found the energy to stand while holding you. "It was the necklace, wasn't it? Are you spying on us?"

Nolan's gaze was hard, trying to hide how his ex-wife's contempt affected him. The months of bitterness he spent in space had changed his demeanor a bit, but he thought it would be less painful for both of them not to hear his regret after all the harm he had caused. He didn't consider himself worthy of his family's pity, although now they considered him a stranger. He knew that Mark and Debbie still harbored a monstrous image of the person he was, and perhaps he really was.

"Aren't you going to admit it?" She asked him again with indignation, seeing that the man didn't make a single move to leave.

The object she referred to was a gift from both of them to you, or rather, from Nolan. He was the one who had the idea of ​​putting the necklace around your neck with the excuse of keeping you safe. He wanted to know where you were and who you were talking to, and the way he found to do that was by projecting this piece with the help of his planet's technology. "I hope every time you hear this little girl mention your name, you wriggle with remorse and agony, if you still have any kind of heart. You were better off away."

She still remembers when he told you: 'Whenever you want to talk to me, just hold your necklace close. That way I'll always be with you.' At the time, it was something so beautiful, something they hadn't thought of doing with Mark, but now it could be different. In your childish mind, it was as if it were magical and a piece of your father would really be with you all the time. But now it stirred disgust in her, she wanted to destroy it.

"Don't take it off, Debbie. Please." Nolan's imposing voice had become softer, almost frightened, and he had finally shown some kind of weakness after so long. "Please." He repeated the plea.

"Mom, maybe it's a good idea to let her keep wearing it. At least sometimes." Mark interfered not for his father, but thinking of you. If Nolan had been able to appear today to save you, he could come to your rescue more often, although the idea of ​​you being in danger again gave him chills.

Debbie hesitated, giving up tearing the necklace off your neck. Knowing that Nolan would be able to experience their day-to-day life bothered her, but she would deal with it later, remembering that you needed medical care. She was very hurt, but her own condition didn't matter to herself as long as she saw you awake and well again. "Mark. Hospital." she announced hurriedly ignoring the fourth person in the room and the bloody scene beside her.

Nolan sighed in relief for a moment, looking one last time at you and Mark, ashamed, but adopting the stone-cold expression he had previously. "Mark, don't let her take it off." He didn't want to sound like that, but the tone of his voice carried a threat. The boy cared little about giving him any kind of response, returning a grim expression to his father as he departed at a thunderous speed through the now-open roof, just as he had come, raising the dust once again.

"Let's go," Mark said gently to his mother, lifting her delicately since you were in her arms.

[mscherub]

Clinging for (Emotional) Support

Prefect needs a bit of a break after a stressful day, so they seek out their favorite person…

Reader is gender neutral, referred to as Prefect or Y/N

Warnings!: The Leech Twins… :)

These are just my headcanons!

Tags: Fluff, romantic or platonic (perceive it whichever way you’d like to), hugs and cuddles, comfort

Heartslabyul; Savanaclaw; Octavinelle (you’re here :3), Scarabia; Pomefiore; Ignihyde; Diasomnia

Intro:

You’ve had a bad day, well, a worse one than usual, and you feel like you’re on the verge of crashing out. So, you go to one of your favorite people and you cling to them for some emotional support, not doing anything else besides holding on for dear life and nuzzling your face into their chest or shoulder, not providing one bit of information as to why you’re even doing this. But, don’t worry, they care for you a lot, maybe more so than they let on <3

Riddle 🌹:

He doesn’t take to well to it at first

When you come to him looking all stressed out, he’ll obviously offer you some support and offer to talk with him about whatever is bothering you, but when you shake your head and instead wrap your arms around him and burry your face in wherever it can reach, he freezes up

“Prefect! Why are you doing this? Th-this is unacceptable! This is improper!”

He’ll turn bright red, not out of anger but out of embarrassment of the whole situation

He still won’t be totally used to it even when you keep it up, genuinely confused as to why you chose him out of all people and more importantly, keep coming back to him, but he won’t admit to it, it also helps him calm down too when you hold on

On rare occasions when he’s not too busy with other things and you two are in a more secluded place, he’ll hug you back

“Agh- again, Prefect? A little warning next time before you get all handsy with me…are you alright, though? Don’t be stressed, you’re as lovely as a rose, don’t begin to wilt simply because of a setback.”

Trey ♣️:

People rely on him, yes, but you’ve brought it to a whole new level here, like, you’re physically leaning on him now

At first he just laughs out of being surprised, but when he sees you hugging him tighter, your brows furrowed in clear stress, he’ll stop and ask what’s going on

“Hah! What’s this— oh…hey, look at me, are you ok? Do you want a sweet treat?”

He’ll wrap his arms back around you without a second thought, gently rubbing your back as well to add that extra boost of comfort

He has younger siblings so of course he’s well off in a situation like this, basically second nature at this point for him

If he’s baking, he may not have time for you to cling to him like you’d want, so he’ll apologize when he’s done with one of the baked goods and by letting you stick by him as long as you want, but he’ll try and make the time for you always

“Prefect…it’ll be alright. Want a tart? They’re freshly made, as always…anything to help you feel better.”

Cater ♦️:

Heyyy! There you are! Oh…why are you looking at him like that…that’s not good, you don’t look to good, emotionally wise…

As soon as you wrap your arms around him he’ll tense up. He’ll awkwardly look down at you and quirk an eyebrow

He’s no stranger to the emotions of people around him so he can tell something is up fairly quickly with the people close around him

“What’s wrong? Do you need Cay-kun to come to the rescue— no jokes…ok, gotcha. Spill it, Prefect, what’s the matter?”

He’s gentle about it, this type of support he learned from his sisters

He’ll lead you off to a more quieter place and just chill out with you until you either tell him what’s wrong or let go of him

He’ll try and cheer you up with taking pictures with funny filters on, if that doesn’t work, he has other methods. Maybe see what’s the spiciest thing he can eat? If you laugh at him tearing and snotting up from it, it’s worth the pain

“Ahhh, what am I gonna do with you? Wanna see Cay-Kun looking all stupid with this filter? Did you smile finally? Aweee, you’re adorbs, Prefect, smile again for me, I need to celebrate you feeling better with a post on my page!”

Ace ❤️:

He’ll try and push you off at first, he didn’t exactly see your expression so he’ll try and pry your arms off of him, huffing while doing so

Like why are you clinging to him? Hello? Earth to Prefect, get off of him now!

once he realizes there’s something up he’ll stop with trying to push you away and he’ll go quiet, awkwardly standing there and mumbling before he finally asks if something’s up

“Aye! What’s this? Get off of meeeeeee, Prefect, let go, why are you doing this— oh…um…so…are you…ok?”

He’s going to try and tease you at first, it’s an Ace thing, so don’t take it to heart, but if you won’t let up he’ll try and be a little more considerate

He’ll pat your back in an unsure manner, not quite knowing what to do, but when you don’t ease up, he decides maybe it’s best to take some action

If you want to see some magic tricks to cheer you up he’ll do it, but you gotta let go— no? Ok…he can do something else to make you better then

Reassuring words are rare from him, but he cares a lot for you, so he’ll spare a few

“Hey, it’ll be alright. Whatever happened just know I’m always here, even if I may seem like an ass half the time— ok…of course I can be honest about myself from time to time. Oh hushhhhh…I’ve got you, I just want you to be happy, smile again, looks better on you.”

Deuce ♠️:

Cue confused noises coming from him, he won’t exactly question what you’re doing, but he will he going through a whole bunch of different scenarios through his head as to why you are doing this

When he sees you’re not your normal self, the lightbulb will go off in his head and he’ll ask how you’re doing

“Uh…prefect? Are you alright? Talk to me here, what’s up? Are you hurt? No? Answer me here…”

He’ll hug you back, albeit tentatively as hell, but he doesn’t want to do anything wrong and he doesn’t want to do something that’ll upset you more, which him not doing anything might actually upset you more— anyways

He’ll keep talking to you to try and get you to rant about whatever you’re finding particularly stressful at the moment. And no, he totally won’t threaten anybody if that’s the cause of your stress, don’t think like that—

“You sure you’re ok? You’re stressed because…of a person? Prefect, I can handle them— ok, never mind. Sorry…I’ll stay right here, don’t worry. By your side as long as you want me to be. Protecting you as long as you need me to…I’ll stop being cringey…”

Leona 🦁:

Glares at you because you’re in his personal space, like what are you doing?

He can sense something is off though, it’s not that hard to tell when you wrap your arms around him and cling on for dear life like he’s gonna slip away at any moment

He’ll make a small huff and his tail will flick a few times before he asks what’s up

“Herbivore…what’s this for? Never thought you were this bold to be glued to a predator like this…not in a laughing mood, huh? Tell me what’s wrong, then get off me, I’m trying to sleep…”

Sorry not sorry, but everyone knows Leona is a dick most times, just a given fact, but in all honesty, when it comes do you he does care, even though his words sound lacking of it, he only means good

He won’t push you off, he’ll let you stick to him…actually, you know what, why not just stay with him and take a nap? I think it’d better the both of you, and you’d have time to wind down while also being with him

Few words are shared between you, but you have a cuddly lion now, so…there’s that

Win win, no?

“Mmm, no, you don’t have to go…just stay here. I’m not a complete ass, I know when someone needs a little help. Relax…no literally relax you’re moving around too much, Herbivore…”

Ruggie 💰:

Boy is he confused

Honestly, at first, bro thought he was getting robbed by someone, but when he seen it was you, he got all happy and started teasing you like normal

Then when he watches you burry your face into his clothes he knows something is not right. He’s…worried but doesn’t really know how to convey it

“Hey! Oh, prefect! Miss me that much? Shyeheehee!! Hmmm? Heyyy, what’s up with that look? Huh?”

Now he’ll try and cheer you up

His methods are a little quirky, but he’ll offer to buy you something with Leona’s money, let me rephrase, get you both something to snack on with Leona’s money

You can still chill with him, he enjoys it

“Leona’s asleep, I can go snag his wallet and I can score us something at Sam’s shop…I’ll buy the more expensive one this time I guess if it’ll cheer you up…don’t make me use Laugh with Me on you just to see you smile again— Shyeheehee! I’m messing with ya!”

Jack 🐺:

Stiffens up quite quickly. He’ll look down at you and wonder what the hell you’re trying to do but then he’ll realize that you’re not exactly at your best in this moment, he can basically feel it radiating off of you

His ears will flatten against his head, betraying how he feels almost right away.

His words are simple and few, but he does mean well and has good intentions

“What’s wrong? Why are you…so are you ok? No? Ok…can I do something to help?”

He likes to help those he holds close to him, so of course he’ll try and comfort you to the best of his abilities. You want to pet his tail? That may be a little too far—

Fine…he can let you, just this once, but if anyone sees it’s over!

“Prefect…how can I help cheer you up? I don’t think my tail is a great option…it is? I…fine, just this once I guess, if it’ll help cheer you up.”

Azul 🐙:

This is…not what he intended to happen upon seeing you, yea, no…he already has Floyd to worry about now apparently you? Yea…he stiffens up and kinda just stands there, sputtering nonsense, and then trying to push you off of him

He’ll finally take the hint when you just hug him tighter after he fails to get you off. He still won’t calm down that much

Might try and pull the business move on you, especially since you’re in such an emotionally weakened state…he won’t he would

“Prefect! I— what is— no! Hey— you…what…I don’t condone this! You’re…not ok. What do you expect me to do? Wait…actually, why don’t you come back to my office and we can discuss what I could do to assuage your ailments— no then…”

He’s kinda flattered you chose him, but it’s not like he’s really…great at comforting, he’ll try his best. You’ll have to pay him back for it later on your own time

He’ll try and talk to you about it, I don’t really see him trying to touch you or comfort you in any other way. To him, words can go a long way to help someone

“You’re in need, and that’s what our dorm specializes in the best. Can you talk about what is bothering you? I won’t use it against you…I promise. I’m not that bad. Talk to me, it’ll help clear your mind”

(Be careful, blackmail is a good thing to have, he might use whatever you say against you…)

Jade 🫧:

He’ll eerily smile at you at first, he stated he gets overheated easily so…hugs are not really preferred, but he’ll entertain you

He’s not exactly confused, rather intrigued by the whole thing. Why are you clinging to him? Exactly, why him? It’s rather interesting, and almost pathetic in his eyes, but it makes the situation all the more sweet, in his own twisted way

He’ll notice you’re out of it and gently put one hand on the small of your back, that’s the furthest he’ll go

“Oya? Hmmm…fu fu fu, this is quite interesting, no? What is it you need, Prefect? You know the motto of our dorm. I’m willing to assist in whatever you’d need…”

Like I’ve mentioned before…he likes to be relied on. So he kinda likes the situation. He’ll stay with you as long as time permits him. His smile is…far from his normal polite one.

“Prefect? You may talk to me about whatever is troubling you, but I know some humans prefer not to. You can stay by me as long as you need, but just know I may have to get to work soon. For now, however, my time is yours…”

(Y’ALL WHAT DID U EXPECT ME TO SAY, THE TWINS, as much as I love my babies 😭, THEY ARE FAR FROM INNOCENT)

Floyd 🫧:

Oh boy…

Well, here’s the thing, Floyd loves to squeeze people, but the other way around? He doesn’t prefer it…but you are his Shrimpy, so he’ll give you a pass…maybe, depending on his mood

He’ll look at you and laugh. Damn you look almost desperate. He lets you cling to him for a bit before he squeezes you back. Maybe you needed one of his “hugs” anyways…let’s just say he’s in a good mood this time

“Heh! Shrimpy…what are you doing? Oh? You seem sad…don’t be sad Shrimpy~! I can squeeze ya back too! See?”

He’s all over you, hugging, squeezing, nuzzling his face against yours. He’s all giggles, his Shrimpy is squeezing him first. It’s funny! It’s like you’re challenging him or something…

You never fail to cause trouble or stir fun around him, so he’ll stick around for a bit until it gets boring for him. Which in all honesty, it won’t.

Never boring with you around!

“Shrimpy! Aweee, cheer up! I’ll just squeeze ya harder, yea? If it helps ya feel better I will…just don’t squeeze me back too hard, you might hurt me…”

I fear my favoritism for Octavinelle always shines through…<3

Master List

Please don’t steal or copy any of my work! You may, however, reblog if you’d want to!

Pictures belong to Disney Twisted Wonderland but are edited by me :)

[un-unavoidableanxiousball]

I'll Play With You

Masterlist²

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Squid Game

Pairing: platonic: Salesman x Reader,

Characters: Salesman, Reader, Frontman (briefly), Oh Il-nam (briefly),

Tags: gn!child!Reader, slightly anxious Reader, hurt/comfort, fluffy feelings, fatherly!Salesman, psychopatic Salesman(it's mostly implied), overall references to Salesman's job, some worldbuilding...?, ambiguous timeline, sus pacing,

Warnings: slight violence (slapping ;) ), slight manipulation (blink and you miss it), not so vague obssession, although Salesman should be his own warning

Summary: Once again when meeting Reader, Salesman finds them upset. But this time it's a diffrent reason than usual. He tries his best to lighten up their day. How fortunate he's well versed with games.

Word count: 5233

Acronyms: (y/n) - your name,

This is A CONTINUATION of my other fic >> "Excuse me, Mr. Loaf Man?"

A/N: how tf am i supposed to know how 1. school system works in korea; 2. how mature/childish a 10 year old is; 3. must I project that much ? T^T 4. ...how good are the security measures in korea??

2nd A/N: I got distracted at some point to see for myself how hard gonggi is... Holy shit, it's hard. I couldn't even progress to picking 2 at the same time. Tho I did play with paper stars... But still how?! I am hooked on perfecting it tho. shush-

A/N the 3rd: I did some ✨worldbuilding✨. Why? I couldn't possibly tell you. I don't know, it was just an itch I needed to scratch. =]

He has found peace with the constant obssession and protectiveness towards (y/n). Which might have factored on his job…

He doesn't neglect it. No. It's the opposite. He's better since meeting (y/n). Now, with their safety in mind, he completes his part swiftly and far more players are recruited by him. Mainly, to make sure he has time to spare for (y/n). Moreover, equally as important, to unload his negativity on those far more deserving of it. He doesn't know what he'd do if (y/n) was on the wrong side of his violence.

Even the entire mess with Seong Gi-hun doesn't matter at this point. The Salesman has found the perfect ground. No longer recruiting in subway stations, there's no chance at getting caught.

When his status report made it to Frontman, he was questioned as to the change of his recruitment results (read: improvement).

"Your effectiveness has raised spontaneously and spectacularly in the last 2 weeks. May I ask what inspired that?"

"No." Plastic smile unmoving. "Besides… I just pick up the necessary slack, sir."

Frontman stills. "…What slack?"

Pleased at successfully rufling his feathers, he answers: "Recent."

If he thinks that mask is doing anything to hide his expressions; he's solely mistaken. Emotions are far more a whole bodily reaction. "My reasons, had I any, wouldn't endanger the games any more than sir's latest intrests, sir."

Salesman has impecable control over himself, he can say anything with any expression he wants to get a desired effect. He learned early on that he needed to blend in, to act normal. Control was essential for restraining his impulses. Whole life to learn and master the art of persuasion.

While Frontman might be his boss, he's still a player he once recruited. They tolerate their faux dynamic. Salesman fakes respect toward him and Frontman deludes himself he isn't feeling inferior in his presence.

"…Excuse me?"

Salesman needs him to back off. As he indulges in player 456, he should leave Salesman's life and what happens in it alone. Salesman doesn't disrespect him more for it. Well… doesn't show disrespect. Even if he should. Frontman's position is far more important and demanding for Hwang In-ho to lose focus. Sloppy. Il-nam would be disappointed.

"Nothing, sir." An innocent smile on his face, meant to give off 'I-mean-no-disrespect' and disarm anyone. Although both know Frontman doesn't fall for it. "..I simply couldn't help but wonder why you, sir, entrusted me with observing officer Hwang Jun-ho. Nor do I understand the point of the social experiment with the homeless… Sir never took interest in that before." Because that's all you're interested in, right, sir? There's absolutely nothing at work that's pushing you to behave this way. It's not like I know anything about anything after all.

Seeing him tense with indignation was rewarding.

"It's not your place to question my orders or decisions. You'll do well to remember that."

He grinned internally. "Of course, apologies, sir. Won't happen again."

"As long as you're dedicated to your duties, I suppose. Dismissed." With that Salesman leaves, triumphant.

It's been a month since that fateful day in the park. The number of times you met can be counted on two hands. And he doesn't see either of you pulling away.

He has fallen into a routine, and this time, constructed around his meetings with (y/n). Ensuring he's a solid, reliable factor in their life.

In fact your trust in him has solidified. You don't shy away from him as much. You volunteered some little details he wouldn't learn otherwise. And you aren't afraid to share how your time was in school.

He knows you enjoy math, but the teacher is too frustrating. You feel lost when she explains something new in a way you don't understand; having to ask a classmate for help and not even receive it most of the times. You feel jealous and excluded seeing everyone being friends with everyone, but you don't know how they do that because making friends is hard.

You like to draw. Flowers and leaves are your favorite and they end up better than other things you make. But that's only because you're of the belief that girls should get flowers. So you draw them for your mother to cheer her up. You draw the tulip the best, but your favorite flower of all time is a sunflower.

These are the little things that make you you and he cherishes that knowledge.

Among those days you met on, 6 of them were when you were upset beforehand. To try and cheer you up, he resorts to ice-cream or eating in that one family diner you're so fond of, for whatever reason.

Mostly it's the fault of your parents the day before, one of your teachers or just a hard lesson.

So it didn't really surprise him when he saw you sitting on the bench with slumped shoulders. Your gaze locked down at your swinging legs. Seeing you like this will always twist his heart with unease.

He sits down next to you. "My little sunflower, you shouldn't waste such a sunny day glooming about." His thumb traces small circles on your shoulder. "Look at me?" You only slightly lean to his side, but don't loook up. "Please? I'll be very happy if you do."

That works. You slowly raise your eyes at his face.

"There they are;" he boops your nose, "My beautiful sunflower." He says with amplified excitement. You let out a quiet giggle at his antics.

His own smile widens at the sound. "See? Here's my favorite thing in the world; my flower beaming at me."

"You're silly. I'm not a flower."

He exaggerates his pout, "No?" then furrows his brows in concentration, "Are you a bird then? A dove?" he gasps and whispers, "…a canary?!"

"No!" You shake your head, but the grin on your face betrays you're having fun. "Not that!"

He widens his eyes in dramatic curiosity, "What else can you be?"

You burst out laughing, "You're so silly! Silly, silly, silly! I'm a human child. Human!"

"Is that so? It was really silly of me not to think of that." He shakes his head in mock disbelief.

Inside he rejoices, he made the smile come back on your pretty face. He refuses to consider himself soft. Prefers not to think about it in fact. He's just as dangerous as he's always been.

"So what do you want to do today (y/n), hm?"

You shrug your shoulders, "Don't know.."

He hums thoughtful. He looks at you in closer detail. There's still a slump about you, although not as pronounced as before. The smile from minute ago is a little faint but still wide enough not to disappear for your face. "Did you do your homework?" You nod with a quiet "yeah".

He purses his lips, "So are we heading somewhere to eat or do you want to just walk around?"

"Eat?"

"Okay, come on. Anything in particular?" You shake your head, "Your favorite then?" You nod in agreement.

He stands up, not without taking your backpack beforehand. "Do you feel like carrying it or do you want me to?" He asks to gauge how you're feeling.

On one of the earlier meetings, overeager and still drunk in his obssessive mood, he offered to carry the backpack for you.

Although by the time he spoke he already had a grip on your backpack. Why it felt like something of a need or instinct he had to fulfill, he didn't know.

But you were quick to tell him no. When he asked why, you just stated you like having the weight. That there are times when you were restless without your hands occupied.

Who is he to take a chance of comfort away from you?

"Today's a 'Me' day."

So he just holds it up at your height and helps you put it on. With you settled, you head out of the park. Him holding your smaller hand in his.

A couple of minutes pass.

Salesman finds the unusual silence from your side unnerving. Before, you weren't unwilling to share if it was parents or school. So he tries to gently ask you for explanation to your sadness.

"…what happened this time, hmm?" He gives a little swing to your occupied hands. He feels your hold tighten.

He has to strain to hear your answer. "It's stupid…"

"(y/n), it's not stupid if it's upsetting you. I won't laugh. Promise." He squeezes his hand, reassuring.

He glances at you to see you fidgeting with the straps, a subtle thinking frown. But you don't speak up the rest of the way.

What kind of thing could be so upsetting? He thought he already shown he can be trusted. What did he fail to provide then that you're hesitant?

You come inside the small diner, he tells you to choose a seat. Meanwhile he goes to order Dak Galbi for you and Tteokbokki for himself.

He smiles politely at the counter server who, at this point, recognizes him. "Let me guess… Dak Galbi?" He hums. "…and what do you feel like today?"

"Tteokbokki."

"Alright," she inputs the total cost to the register, "you know, you two… are such a heartwarming sight. We don't get many families in here."

His smile never wavers and he just pays with his card, "Thank you." But inwardly, a dizzying delight twists in his chest. To be perceived as (y/n)'s family already… It's addicting.

He knows how he behaves. He's possessively protective, he looks forward to the day you'll be his alone. He's been helping you with anything and everything that caused you some problems. How quickly he, against all odds, took to a fatherly role. To imagine seeing you grow up and mature…

He sighs.

Soon he'll become your only parent, he'll make sure of it. But not yet. You're not ready. It'll taste far sweeter when you'll be seeing him like that.

He takes in a deep breath and walks to the table you chose today. Which is to say, the booth in the far back but next to the window. Your backpack rests next to you on your right, that way you're closer to the window.

If the booth was touching the glass, you'd definitely be resting your head against it. As it is, you're looking out onto the street. The same thinking expression evident on your small face but less intense.

Did you decide to tell him? Is that why you chose this table?

If so, then you don't want to be overheard but don't care if you're seen. It's embarrassing but not as shameful. You won't get any judgement nor pity nor anything bad from him. Never.

He joins opposite of you. His eyes never leaving your face, but ears are alert to your order being called out.

You quietly speak, "You're not gonna laugh at me?" and shortly glance at him to watch for truthfulness behind his reply.

Never at you. You will learn and trust it by heart. "No."

You nod and breathe in deeply, "There's this… event thing… at school." your voice slow, soft and quiet.

"I don't get why they're doing it, also it's mostly mandatory anyway… But my parents expect me take part in it." You take a short pause, "…actively…" You look away from the window and down at your lap. You nibble at your lips for a moment.

"And I don't—"

"Teokbokki! Dak Galbi!" You flinch at the interruption. It wasn't particularly loud but you didn't expect it. Lost as you were in your mind and worries.

Hopefully you won't close up… Salesman stands up to collect their meals.

He comes back with the tray as swiftly as he can. He puts your respective dishes on the table then the tray aside.

He has to try and pick up where you left off. "Is that what your worried about? Active participation?"

You shrug, "Kinda..? It's not like mom and dad will see if I do or not. Even if family has permission to join in with us. I heard a teacher even encourage others to bring them along." If it's not the possibility of your dad's attention that upsets you about participating, what is?

"You're not telling me something." He raises a brow seeing you shift in place, "What's the event about?"

"Something about appreciation for tradition, but like I said, I don't really get it…"

"Go on.."

"We're supposed to play games, like Gonu or Gonggi… but I didn't really play games much. Especially those team ones…" A blush spread across your cheeks. "I didn't know some of them even existed until the teacher explained."

How sweet of you. To be so embarrassed of inexperience. You not having opportunity to play simple games, lays if not on your parents then on other kids. Fortunately for you, he's very familiar with them.

He'll be the one to teach you how to play each and every game. It delights him.

"…I tried gonggi before but.. I always failed to pick up three." You fiddle with your chopsticks for a moment and then take a bite to keep your mouth occupied.

He tilts his head slightly in curiosity, "Besides gonggi, do you know how to play other games?" You shake your head.

He inhales sharply. Of course, you don't. Better for him then.

"Gonggi looked the easiest and I can't even reach the end." Your voice trembles.

"And when is this school event happening?" How long does he have?

"I think two weeks? I'm not sure…" Good enough.

"Then I'll play with you. I'll teach you. Every game there is." You look at him in clear surprise.

"What? Now?" Your gaping mouth stirs as much bemusement as endearment.

"We can start today. But perhaps we should finish eating, no?"

The cute blush comes back to adorn your face. You look down at your plate, "Are you sure you want to play with me?" then at him, searching, "Aren't games for kids?"

He can feel and see the slight frown that flashes on his face hearing that. It's wrong. A falsehood that grew to diminish that childish spark, to teach, far more early in life, that the world judges and does so harshly. He'll begin teaching you from this point. You must know, will know, the most important fact. "Listen to me, I want you to remember this and take it to heart." he leans forward as far as he can, "Are you listening?"

You mimic him and also lean forward slightly, boping your head in answer.

"Games aren't sentient. They don't discriminate. Everyone can play, young, old, girls and boys, teachers, students… Anyone." His eyes scan your reaction, the parted lips, the sheer wonder and astonishment swirling in your eyes. Although a second later a sliver of confusion or doubt slips in them.

"But then why does nobody really play after growing up?" True marvel… Asking great questions.

"People choose not to. They try to blame the lack of time. Though most adults use said time… unwisely. At some point society decided playing games is immature or unbecoming. So adults conformed to that opinion. And as kids grow they follow, and imitate, their own parents. And circle begins anew." He straightens up, "Besides… These days, you don't really see younger kids playing outside either. Do you?"

You purse your lips, brows furrowed, thinking, maybe deciding for yourself if you trust his judgment. Whatever it was, you've come to a conclusion.

"…and anyway. Why wouldn't I want to play with you? I play ddakji regularly enough anyway… Playing with my darling sunflower won't be a chore. I will play with you and you can't change my mind. And anyway, didn't you call me silly earlier? Maybe the rules don't apply to me, hm?" He smiles in amusement. "Now let's finally eat."

Both of you made the way to his house.

He has a little over an hour and a half until you have to get home. He'd have to choose a simple game for today.

Two of you take off your shoes, him first and you following his example. He leads you to the main area then tells you to sit and wait for him to come back. Although he wouldn't care if you, in curiosity, got more closely aquientenced with the the space.

After all, he lead you through a path that's easy to navigate and remember. If he gets his way, you will be fully familiarised with his house; and soon.

Next meetings will focus on teaching you how to play games and let you improve, perhaps even perfect them. But his goal is to make sure you're comfortable near him and in his house. To signal to you that belong here and will always be welcomed by him. You memorising the path leading to his house will be a sweet, sweet bonus.

He plans on dedicating a guest room as your bedroom. He'd let you decorate it however you want. And he'd make sure the quality of everything you'll wish for is the best.

But he can't let himself get carried away.

First he has to choose which game to start with. He enters the study room. He approaches the closet, one which he doesn't use all that often anymore and where he stores things needed for multiple games.

As the recruiter for the Game, he has a certain type of freedom. He can choose with which game he wants to recruit the trash. The only requirement is that the punishment for failing has to be humiliating. Slapping them wasn't really the go-to choice before, he caused it to be so.

After he's been promoted to a recruiter, he has mastered many, if not most, of the games. It was simple training for the role.

His first recruits might've been successful, but hadn't been as satisfying. However the day he chose to play ddakji with the potential player - an annoying and distasteful boy - he struck him. A solid slap across the cheek. Seeing that shock, disbelief in his eyes, that delightful splash of pain on his face; it calmed and lit up excitement in his psychopathic brain and body. From there on he stuck to that method only.

Apparently, since then, he had far better results of recruitment than any other coworker of his. He gained the attention of the Host. In fact, he received summons to Host's quarters. He heeded it. They held a conversation which impacted Salesman to a degree.

The elevator opens with a delicate ding.

Recruiter #27 steps forward toward the Host's quarters. He wonders what's this about.

Apparently it's abnormal to be invited- no, summoned by Him, and moreover, meet in His quarters nonetheless. When the Host has a duty to uphold, an order to give or simply supervises, He comes out.

Nobody goes to Him.

Why is he here?

The Host had His back turned toward him. His eyes catch the top of the mask Host wears, barely registering His grey hair. But he feels a brief spark of intrigue at Host's suit choice, a shade of crimson pops out in the room. His spine is straight. Posture unbothered and relaxed.

Clearly, He's very confident.

No matter his thoughts, his own outer image is undisturbed, calm and confident. He steps out from the corridor and halts.

"You've summoned me, Host, and so I'm here, Sir."

The Host turns around.

His breath faltered. It might've been for a second but it felt longer.

An Owl. Symbol of wisdom and fortune. The Mask is made of gold, by far the most obvious attribute about the wealth part of owl symbolism. An ageing rich man… Do You consider Yourself 'old and wise'? Is that why You've chosen an owl?

Masked head beckons to the seat on His left. And Recruiter #27 swiflty listens to the quiet command. He sits down. And stays there for minutes in silence, patient and unmoving. All the while the Host keeps standing. He doesn't feel bothered by this. Such a simple and delightful way for a little power play — he doesn't mind.

The Host is openly staring at him so he returns the favor. Perhaps He's even analyzing? Are You looking for something specific Sir? What is it, I wonder?

Then He spoke, breaking the silence, "Do you wish to know why you're here?"

Recruiter didn't really have to think about this one. "If You wish to share Your reasons, Sir, I'd gladly accept the knowledge."

Silence falls between them again. Both of them scrutenizing each other unabashedly. The stand off comes to an end when Host speaks again.

"You've impressed me." He takes a few steps toward him. "This year we got more calls from possible participants than for any of the past Games. Most of which had your identifying number."

Recruiter has to slightly tilt his head upwards to look through Host's owl mask and into His dark eyes. "Thank you, Sir. I'm glad to be of service."

"So you are." He takes a step back, "You've been assigned to recruit because your potential was evident. Now, you'll get to be on a higher position. Your type of dedication will be of use to me."

The thought of having more power around here should've spark some kind of desire, delight and satisfaction within him; however he only felt a dull pang of passivity. "Higher, Sir?" He doesn't strive for power, or powerful positions, he's quite satisfied where he is. Actually — correction, it's not the kind of power he wants nor needs.

"You'll gain access to things and places only I have access to. Don't worry, you're a recruiter and that won't change; your number and rank will. Think of it as a discreet promotion."

Recruiter tilts his head at that, "May I ask why discreet, Sir?"

"It will be discreet because no one will be informed of your higher status. Not anytime soon, anyway. Moreover — you won't receive it until next year. See…

My fellow sponsors have been voicing complains. 'It's repetetive' and 'Not as exciting as it was in the beggining', 'Bit too short, don't you think?' or my personal favourite: 'Time might fly or crawl by but they die off just like flies. Where's the fun? The excitement? You're growing lazy, my friend'." Every complain was voiced in impeccable english. Host's voice did a weird inflection at 'flies', He sounded mocking the entire time. "Then you came in, and to my amazement, managed to attract more potential players." Recruiter hears smugness and satisfaction drip from Host's words. "So, I decided to increase the amount of players in the next year's Game, consequently I plan to extend the duration to six days.

Expressing my… gratitude for you creating this opportunity, seemed in order." The Host finally sits down facing Recruiter #27, "I'm not blind though. I can see you're not jumping with joy at getting a chance to climb higher among the ranks. So to make this a little more engaging for you, I propose a wager. If the amount of calls we receive — curtesy of your coworkers, yours won't count — reaches over 80% of the number I decided on; you win. If they don't manage to, you lose. I think it's rather simple, no?"

Recruiter #27 is intrigued, this surely would make things more interesting. "Can Host explain what number Sir is reffering to? Overall amount of players or just the added amount?"

Host nods, "I had the final amount in mind, It's higher and harder to reach. If the raised value was 132, overall being 404, your coworkers would have to reach 323 calls."

"May I ask what's the number Sir chose?"

"No, you may not. That's what will make it exciting for you. Wheather you get your promotion or not depends on the results of our little wager. Of course, you can't influence other recruiters nor interfere in any other way. Do you accept, Recruiter #27?"

"Yes."

And that was that. That year passed by and Salesman got more access and became Recruiter #10 (which did imply an advancement of rank since every recruiter had a number from 20 to 29). The Host wasn't surprised when he won. Were you truly clairvoyant, Owlish Host?

After that they exchanged words on occasion, Salesman usually kept to himself. Every conversation of theirs was enlightning. The Host was one of the only people Salesman truly respects — even to this day. But there was a mutual understanding, if you will, between them.

Then He was diagnosed with cancer and asked Salesman for a favor. To recruit Him. He wished to experience the Game as a player before he died. He wished for the whole experience — therefore, he had to be recruited. So the Host chose him, Recruiter #10 and Salesman agreed.

He was handed a file, unassuming, looking identical to any other file on potential players. But he knew what it was. He opened it and for the first time, since being summoned to Host's quarters that day, saw His whole face.

Unobstructed by the mask.

He did his job as promised, approached Him in a train station; offered a round of ddakji. Everything was the same, money for winning and slaps for losing. It felt… fulfilling of sorts. There wasn't that sadistic satisfaction at other's pain, but he didn't feel pity or apologetic either. It was simply a task, but it didn't feel as simple.

Perhaps he should've asked, maybe, just maybe, Il-nam would've stirred him in the right direction again…

An Owl truly reflected His personality. A Creator of a Game where the unfortunate get a fair chance at prosperity, gaining life-changing amount of money. A guiding Owl trapped in a human body, trying to point out society's obvious self-deceptions to said society.

Seems rather pointless. Did You feel cursed, I wonder?

Salesman catches himself from reminiscing further and realises he was standing before this open closet the entire time he was lost in thought.

Something simple...

He reaches for a jegi and a vase with chopsticks — Jegichagi and Tuho.

It's something, they can play by themself if they wanted…

He returns to the main area and isn't surprised to see you standing by the counter looking enticed by the fruit bowl. "Sorry for making you wait, (y/n)." You visibly startle and quickly turn to face him, "Help yourself, if you want one." He gestures toward the fruit. He sees you hesitantly pick some grapes.

He goes to put down the vase on the floor near the couch, that way, when playing, you won't have the sun blind you.

"I settled on jegichagi and tuho. Both are pretty easy to understand and play. Which do you want to try first?"

"What's tuho about?"

He leaves the jegi on the arm chair and approaches the vase again. "A game of tuho needs arrows or sticks, in our case chopsticks," He shakes the hand holding said chopsticks to emphasize, "and a vase. The height of the vase is relative to the length of what you're throwing. And it can't be too wide or it wouldn't be as fun. You take a few paces," he demonstrates by taking four steps back, "maybe ten, away from the vase; and you throw chopsticks." He makes a gesture as if he's about to throw but doesn't. "The objective is to not miss. The person that has the most chopsticks in that vase, wins."

"I want to try it then!" You excitedly jog over to stand next to him.

"Be my guest, you'll go first." He hands you half of the chopsticks (eight), and steps aside to give you some room.

You take a stand, feet hip-width apart, your right leg more to the front. So far so good. You make your throw. But it lands slightly to the right of the vase.

Your next throws also miss but each time they are less and less off. Over all not bad for a first timer.

"Not bad (y/n). But now's my turn." Salesman takes his own stance with some idea how to scew his throws to not score. But you pull on his jacket, "No. You go farther."

He's not going to complain, extra distance does nothing to his accuracy but it'll be helpful in not advertising his skills. "Why?"

"You're taller than me. From here you'll score easier. Back away." You speak with confidence, assured.

Keen on the idea he nods his head in agreement and backs away until he basically touches the TV with his right shoulder. He makes his throws, which one of them went in. You were equally entralled by him playing, you didn't seem upset at him scoring. You happily collect the chopsticks and come back to the same spot after giving him back his share of chopsticks.

The process was repeated. You improved, each time coming close to scoring, your chopsticks bouncing off every time. There was a point where one of your chopsticks went in but bounced back out; much to your frustration. However you get a hang of it after that, scoring one in eight at a time.

But soon your arms grew a little tired so tuho came to an end. Since Salesman kept track of the score, he shares it with you. At the end it was 17:21 for him. Apparently you're not a competetive type as you didn't look upset. You had fun and that's all that counts for you.

There's still some time left so you move to jegichagi. If before your arms were essential then now it's your legs turn.

He also shows you how it's done, this time, doesn't downplay his skill as much. He stops at 12 kicks. After that you kept looking at him with awe, as if what he did was something miraculous. You try to kick the jegi. You take rather well to it. In no time you managed to keep it in air by kicking it three times before it fell to the ground.

Time seems to fly by around you. So while Salesman was aware of the passage of time, it still surprised him how short it seems.

When the clock struck a little too close to 4:30PM, he had to put a stop to your fun. His heart clenched at your shattered expression. Disappointment clear in your eyes.

You have to return home. He dislikes the idea far more than you. He'd rather keep you in his house, his space, comfortable and happy than there where he knows you're mistreated.

He assures you that next time you can go straight to his house to play. That would give more time to play and he'll introduce you to other games; Ddakji or Gonu perhaps?

He walks you back the same way you arrived. And leaves you mere minutes before your mother arrives.

He watches the car drive off. He wonders what the mother thinks (y/n) does when they have to wait around for her arrival.

If she thinks at all…

The lack of interest in (y/n)'s time at school certainly opens a door for him. He doesn't ignore such deliciously laid out opportunities. The key is to prepare as well as he can in those 2 weeks.

Let's hope you'll like the surprise…

GOD, it's finally done, I'm really sorry if this felt rushed TwT or weird

(who cares?!)

[yesimwriting]

Would Armand subtly pull a book devils minion move and gift bestie a vail of his blood to ward off any vamps and Louis is like wtf this is my human to look after not yours

oh i love this. i've been thinking about this ask for a MINUTE, armand giving daniel his blood to scare off other vampires is genuine poetry.

also louis taking offense feels so him. like, yes, he asked armand to get along with bestie better, but that is still very much his human and he's perfectly capable of taking care of her himself.

----

The guest room--if one can even refer to it as that anymore--has been bleached of its color.

It's an illusion, a warping of reality caused by personal perspective, but self awareness isn't enough to dislodge whatever's wedged itself between his ribs out of place.

Your suitcase is out, lying in the space between your bed and the closet you're currently looking through. He straightens slightly, eyes focusing on your open luggage. It's nowhere near capacity. Armand wonders if it's going to stay that way.

He squeezes the small box between his fingers, the lid of it pressing into his palm. Before Armand can dwell on his potential sentiments, he breaks the silence. "So you're leaving?"

The sound of his voice surprises you, pulling you away from your passive thoughts. You turn towards the door, eyes a little wider than usual, but you're nowhere near as startled by his sudden appearances as you used to be.

"Don't get too excited." You step away from the closet's open door to better face him, "It's only for three days."

"Three days without Louis." He pulls himself away from the doorframe. "I didn't think you two were still capable of that."

You cross your arms, letting out a small breath that feels like a poor attempt at masking a scoff. "It's not like I live here."

A technicality that only you seem to care to hold onto these days. "And yet each day that seems to matter less."

You roll your eyes, turning your attention back to the closet. "You are less than 24-hours away from a 72-hour break." Your brief pause is filled by the sound of clothing hangers being pushed out of place. "I'm not even taking Louis with me."

In some ways, Armand thinks this might've been a little easier if Louis was traveling with you. "Which is something he's heartsick about."

Even though the reasons behind your solo trip and Louis's feelings about them have been discussed at length, the comment is still enough to make you pause. "Louis's fine, and you know it. We all talked about it--I'm going to the wedding, I'm in the bridal party--"

"Louis loves your family."

You pull an item off of its hanger before angling yourself in his direction again. "I also told you guys that it's a beach wedding in the Hamptons." You squeeze the fabric between your fingers. "He'd be trapped in some hotel room, with the curtains drawn shut, for hours at a time, alone, for no reason."

Armand sighs. There's so much your mind is capable of grasping, and yet what it means for a being of perpetual solitude to care for you always seems just beyond your reach. "Perhaps that'd be preferable."

You let out another breath, your lips briefly pressing together into an expression that he's learned to interpret as your attempt at masking a pout. "It is a three day weekend." You pronounce each syllable carefully, taking your time expanding the words the way you usually do when you're irritated. "In the Hamptons, during the summer, the most dangerous thing there is going to be the traffic from an influx of people leaving New York."

When his expression gives no implication of easing, you continue, "I'm not even staying in a hotel, my grandfather has a house there."

A family home in the Hamptons. Armand makes a mental note to look into that during a less complicated time. "My concerns have nothing to do with humanity."

Something about the response forces you to still. "What?"

He takes a few steps forward, fully abandoning the neutrality of the door way. "Sometimes, a mortal's awareness can draw a certain kind of attention."

You're silent for a moment, allowing the implications of his response to fully settle. "You mean vampires?" You squeeze the material of the shirt you're holding again, nails pressing into fabric in a way that almost implies nervousness. "It's nice of you to warn me, but I've been visiting that house my entire life, it's--"

"Things aren't that simple," he counters, taking another step in your direction, "You know details about things you were never meant to be aware of."

This version of his caution seems to reach you a little better. You still, eyebrows pinching together at that. "Okay." The word is cautious, almost guarded.

Armand allows his attention to move away from you and onto the wall behind you. Before he can overthink his actions any further, he extends his arm, holding out the box. "Here."

Your gaze shifts between him and his offering. When your surprise doesn't progress into action, he finally lets himself look at you again. "Staring at it won't provide more clarity than taking the box."

You blink, blood dragging itself up your neck. "It has been like...a second." The defense is weak and poorly thought out. Instead of pointing it out, he lets you walk forward at your own pace. You take the box from his hand, your fingertips briefly brushing against his.

He watches you pull the lid off of the box. Your eyebrows draw together as you take in what you'll perceive as a small pendant and the gold chain its attached to. You're careful as you pull the necklace out of its box. "It's pretty." You take your time studying the pendant's shape, turning the cylinder. He can tell when you finally find the letters carved into its side. "What is it?"

"It--" You're staring at him with wide, expectant eyes. There's always so much warmth in your expression, so much unjustifiable trust. "It's a precaution."

The answer isn't enough for you. "A precaution in what way?"

Armand frowns. Maybe it was a mistake to be as upfront about this as he has been. It would have been simpler to sneak the vial into your suitcase, or into one of your favorite purses. "It will mean something to those that need a warning."

Your expression softens, morphing away from curiosity and towards something much more sentimental. You recover quickly, the corner of your mouth tugging itself into what's almost a smile. "So it's a warning?"

"I don't want to hear about the tragedy of your untimely demise for 200 years."

The comment isn't enough to ward off your smugness. You tilt your head slightly, "Do you really think Louis would talk about me for 200 years?"

It's difficult to imagine you as less than a problem that lasts for eternity. He frowns. "Longer."

A part of you seems eased by the response. You hold his gaze for a moment, permitting a heavy silence to briefly settle over the two of you. After another second of silence, you break it, "How unfortunate for you."

"My every thought since Louis first brought you home."

You give him a pointed look, but before you have a chance to answer, he begins to walk towards you. When you don't correctly interpret his actions quickly enough, Armand sighs. He takes the necklace's chain from between your fingers. "Turn around."

It takes you a second to listen, and once you finally do, Armand's uncertainty is only amplified. Even though you've never once flinched at his touch, he's careful as he allows his fingertips to brush against the skin just beneath your neck.

He moves your hair out of place before bringing the chain around your neck. Armand fastens the clasp. Instead of releasing you as immediately as he should, he sets his palm against your shoulder.

"Don't take it off." A demand, or maybe something else.

You shift slightly, the movement too casual to imply discomfort. "I wasn't going to."

He squeezes your shoulder once in a silent acknowledgement of your response before stepping away from you. Armand approaches your bed. He sits near the mattress's edge, keeping his expression as neutrally disinterested as he can manage.

Your thoughts are briefly clouded by a surprise you won't act on. It doesn't take long for you to dismiss your confusion and return to looking through your closet.

You take a moment to push around a few hangers. When you turn to face him again, you're holding two dresses out in front of you. "Red or black?"

It's difficult enough to accept your departure and the solemness that always clings to Louis for the first few days after you leave. Armand is no mood to help you with the process. "That seems like a question Louis would love to answer."

You frown. "The sun won't fully set for like another hour."

He lets out a flat sigh, his gaze flitting between the options. "Black..." Armand keeps his expression as neutral as possible as his attention shifts back onto you. "With your gold Manolos."

You nod slowly, as if taking in some deeply profound statement. "That works so well."

You pull the black dress's straps off of the hanger before turning towards the closet. Armand's quiet for a moment. Remaining aware of the distracting nature of your focus is a much simpler thing when you're not looking at him.

He shifts, straightening slightly before shattering the easy silence, "This is a family wedding?"

"Yeah." Even though this is information that's already been discussed, you don't seem to mind re-confirming it. "My cousin, Evie." You push aside a few hangers. "She's on my dad's side, so Louis hasn't met her yet, but I think he'd like her." You turn around again, the black dress and a thin sweater hanging over your arm. "She's...fun."

"You make that trait sound like something that isn't compatible with marriage."

The comment seems to take you by surprise. You still, head tilting slightly as your lips part in mock offense. "You have become such a gossip." Despite your chastising tone, you make no attempt at changing the topic of conversation, "I'll admit, it's a little hard to visualize the girl that snuck me into a club for the first time as a wife, but it's the natural progression of things."

Armand tilts his chin downwards, his focus shifting onto the comforter beneath him. The prospect of you finding some nice enough boy to settle down with is much more consuming than it should be. At least the sentiment was delivered flatly enough to imply heavy reservation.

"You make it sound like an inevitability." He lifts his head enough to meet your gaze. "One you're not particularly fond of."

After a beat, you lift a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "It seems to be inevitable for some people."

You're rarely so intentionally vague. Perhaps he's stumbled onto something. "And for you?"

The question seems to startles you. Armand watches your attention shift between the fabric you're holding and him. "I don't know." The admission is small, almost fragile.

Your mind almost alludes to a clearer response, a few surface level thoughts of familial expectations and reiterated stories. But for the most part, your verbal response is honest enough.

He accepts the answer with a subtle nod nod. You're happy enough to let the topic go, your focus returning to your clothing. You finish folding your dress and sweater before placing them in your suitcase.

Armand turns his head, his gaze shifting onto the few outfits you have laid out on your bed. Your favorite oversized T-shirt is closest to him. He relaxes his arm slightly, allowing his hand to fall away from his lap and onto your shirt. The well-loved fabric is soft against his palm.

You straighten, stepping away from your suitcase in favor of approaching the room's dresser.

"I've never met your father."

You're not overly shocked by the suddenness of the question. He guesses he shouldn't seem surprised, you and Louis change topics at a pace that's difficult to keep up with.

You pull the drawer open before responding, "Uh...no, Louis hasn't either." You continue to search through the dresser. "He's only met my mom, who I think you'd like because most people do." You turn away from the drawer, dropping a matching pajama set onto your bed. "I know likability is generally a trait that repulses you, but she's not obnoxious or anything."

He bends his fingers together slightly, his fingertips pinching the material. "Unlike her daughter, then."

You roll your eyes, leaning forward as you reach for your T-shirt's collar. "Very funny."

Armand moves his hand back onto his lap as you pull the fabric away. He turns his head in time to watch you put the shirt back into its drawer.

Strange. You love that shirt. "You're not taking the pajama shirt?"

"My cousins are more into pajama sets than oversized shirts." Instead of giving him a chance to dwell on the response, you're quick to move past your comment. "I need a packing break, do you want to watch trashy TV until Louis wakes up?"

He lets out a sigh before moving to stand. "I remember a time before I regularly had to answer that question."

You halfheartedly glare at him. "Yes, I know, you used to be so much more interesting before me."

There's no real malice in your sarcasm. There's rarely any real malice in anything that comes from you.

----

Armand hasn't often considered himself a particularly noble, but your television preferences have made him realize that he's capable of greater sacrifice than he was aware of.

His tolerance, however, has brought him something akin to benefit. You sit closer to him than you used to. The proximity is nowhere near as casual as you are with Louis, but it is more comfortable than you'd be with an acquaintance.

You're relaxed, spine pressed into the couch's cushioning and your forearm so close to his he'd only need to shift his position slightly to reach you. Before he can dwell on the thought, a low groan pulls him out of it. A second, more certain sound follows.

You straighten, pulling away from him as you turn towards the source of the sound. "Louis."

Louis, who's just appeared at the living room's entrance, offers you both a tired smile. "What are you guys up to?"

You sit up further, your hands coming together on your lap. "Watching trashy TV, further damaging Armand's views on humanity."

"So the usual." Louis takes a few steps forward. "Has he been good company?" The question is delivered with a teasing smile.

"Don't worry about the poor fawn, I've been well behaved."

You pull your hands apart, tapping your nails against your knee. "It's true, his only passive aggressive comments have been directed towards reality TV villains."

Louis's expression softens at that, an easy smile tugging at his lips. He's always so eased by the thought of Armand accepting you. "Maybe your trip has him feeling sentimental."

You return Louis's smile, but there's something sharp beneath your version of the look. "I've always had a feeling that he's secretly attached to me."

Armand glares. "Yes, as attached as a snake is to a rabbit."

"What an original metaphor."

He straightens, turning his head to better look at you, "We can't all be as creative as the artist in front of us."

"You always--"

"Can the bickering wait until I've had a chance to fully wake up?"

Your gaze flits between the two of them in a silent struggle that Armand's accustomed to witnessing. You hate the feeling of retreat, but you love Louis enough to bear the weight of it.

Instead of continuing the argument, you let it go with a sigh. "Fine." You straighten slightly, turning to better look at Louis, "I picked up my bachelorette party dress today. I left it out so you could see it."

Louis smiles, "Let's see it."

You push yourself to stand, leaving Armand behind on the couch. "The beading is so much prettier in person." Before turning away, you turn your head enough to look at Armand. "You can come, if--"

"What--" The interruption, though brief, is enough to force your focus to return to Louis. "What's around your neck?"

The question leaves Armand incapable of movement.

You're confused by Louis's skepticism, but not particularly startled by it. You don't even think to consider the reaction as anything other than curiosity when Louis reaches for the necklace's cylinder pendent.

"Armand gave it to me." The response is delivered innocently enough, but Louis doesn't seem particularly eased. "It's supposed to be some kind of vampire repellent thing." Your expression pinches, eyebrows pulling together uncomfortably. "Does it--bother you?"

Louis continues to study the vial, his thumb dragging against the metal's engravings. He releases the necklace with a sigh. "Really?"

Armand keeps his expression blank as he meets Louis's stare. "You become heartsick every time she leaves you side, by protecting her I'm protecting you."

"If she needs someone to look out for her, I'll do it." Armand resists the urge to scoff. Louis's commitment to shielding you from others like him may stem from some genuine desire to save your soul, but there's also an underlying over-attachment there. "If she needs to wear vampire blood around her neck--"

"What?" At the sound of your voice, Armand turns his head in time to avoid watching your wide-eyed stare. "Your blood is in this?"

"It's nothing to be sentimental about," he says, voice flat, "It's a precaution."

Louis lets out a low scoff. "A precaution that I should have been a part of."

Armand forces himself to ease enough to will himself to meet Louis's gaze. "Please, it's nowhere near the statement that ring on her finger is." A relatively unfair defense, but it's the only thing he can currently graft on. "Should I be more offended by my companion buying some girl a multi-carat diamond that she wears on her ring finger?"

"So when I get her something she's 'some girl' I have to be betraying you with, but when you give her your blood to wear around your neck like some kind of marking, it's completely innocent?"

"Guys." Your voice is firm despite the uncertainty of your tone. It takes Louis a second to look at you again. "He was trying to be nice." You then turn to look at Armand, "And you obviously know the ring doesn't mean anything, or you would have killed me by now."

A tense wave of silence follows your outburst. Armand decides to end it, "At least you're self aware."

"I try." While your attempt at ending a budding argument felt confident, your posture implies your uncertainty. You slowly lift a hand, your fingertips brushing against the vial before reaching for a loose strand of hair to tuck behind your ear. "Do you guys want to see my dress?"

Armand's not exactly in the mood to think any further about your impending trip or the implications of what he's given you. "I'll see it in the photos." You frown. "I feel like feeding earlier than usual." You're studying him with wide, overly knowing eyes. "You and Louis should go look what you're bringing on your trip, I'll bring you your tea a little later."

"Okay." It takes you another moment to look away from him, and when you finally do, it's only because Louis reaches for your hand.

[sprytesukii]

hazy dreams

sero hanta x shinsou hitoshi x reader

rating : 18+, explicit, MDNI

wc : 4.7k

tags : trans!masc!!reader (he/him pronouns, good boy used to refer to reader), afab anatomy (clit, cock, pussy, cunt, hole, all used to refer to genitalia), mmm!threesome, hanta & hitoshi are also into each other (they kiss among other things), drugs! (only weed), oral (reader!receiving), squirting, reader makes suicidal jokes, piercings mentioned, other horny stuff >.<

an : i wrote the first half of this like . a year ago and i don’t remember even doing that but it was fun & sexy so i decided to finish it . it’s deeply self indulgent , i literally wrote this For Me so i will be so geeked if you enjoy it <3

Your living room, however cozy it usually is, currently reeks of weed. 

Usually, you’d grimace at the scent, worried about the pungent yet familiar smell seeping into your thrifted furniture and deceptively inexpensive throw pillows, but it is indicative of the presence of your two favorite people on the planet (excluding your cat Doorknob, of course). 

Hanta and Hitoshi don’t come over to your place that often anymore — something about your neuroticism ruining the vibe or some other, equally pretentious shit — so when they do choose to grace you with their presence, it’s a real treat. 

The last time you’d hung out with them had been over a fortnight ago. The last time you smoked with one another was even longer than that, and you find yourself brimming with childlike anticipation. 

You’d already cleaned the modest apartment top to bottom (not that it’s hard - a studio in the heart of the city only really guarantees a place to sleep and not much else) when the two come knocking, a lazy smirk playing on Hanta’s lips while Hitoshi offers you a small nod, his tongue toying with the piercings adorning his bottom lip. 

The fact that you don’t immediately heat up and squirm in aroused embarrassment is really a testament to how much you and your composure have steeled over the years. 

When you’d first met them in college, you couldn’t look in their direction without feeling that swoop of something tugging at your gut, making you stutter, gape, or, once, spill the contents of an entire tray of food all down your front. 

It still shocks you they even befriended you after that, the awkward boy who only wore oversized hoodies and couldn’t make eye contact, but you’ve learned not to question your good fortune. 

Of course, they aren’t just pretty faces — but, oh, pretty faces they are, with Hanta’s smooth, tan skin, mischievous, straight toothed smile, and shiny black hair, and Hitoshi’s perpetually tired, kind gaze, various tattoos and piercings creeping over his pale skin, and ringed, long fingers. No, they also have the gall, the audacity, to be good people and even better friends. 

It makes you a little sick to think about, how sweet they are to you and how attracted to them you are, but you put it out of your mind as often as you can. 

Even if they were interested, which they most certainly are not, you’re terrified of being another one of their groupies that follow them around, begging, vying for their attention and a chance to bed one of them. 

These people are rarely, if ever, successful, instead kindly rebuffed by the always smiling Sero or the soft spoken Shinsou, a fact you would feel good about if not for the reality that you’d be met with the same fate if you tried anything near what you’ve secretly fantasized about. 

So, instead, you get pleasantly high with the two of them every once in a while, soaking up their friendship like a sponge, knowing it’s all you’re likely to get. Despite your gratefulness that you get anything at all, you can’t help the hunger. 

The want.

“Yo, you good? Where’d you go?” Hanta calls out to you playfully, nudging your pajama pants-clad leg with his where he sits beside you on your mattress. 

You blink rapidly, bullying your want back into a more feasible, ignorable shape in your chest, shooting him a half smile that feels fake, even to you. 

“Nowhere, sorry! I was just thinking about work,” you lie, shrugging. You don’t miss the way Hanta glances at Hitoshi where he sits on a beanbag, your face heating in embarrassment in response to their blatant attention. 

Are you really this transparent? Mortifying.

You wave off their concern while trying to smooth your grin out into something more real, reaching for your cart where it lies lost in your sheets. 

“Who cares! Weed! Let’s get high, yes?” Your overly exaggerated enthusiasm works, at least a little, Hanta whooping in excitement and Hitoshi’s expression smoothing out into something less troubled. 

“That’s what I’m fuckin’ talking about,” Hanta laughs while pulling out his pipe, slender fingers plucking two small baggies from his bag, before tossing the other to Hitoshi. “You finally gonna smoke with us, babe?”

The term of endearment makes your stomach roll, but you manage to shake your head, pouting. “Hell no, not unless you want to bury me when I inevitably choke on the smoke and die in this shithole. Lowkey, would rather kill myself.”

Hitoshi makes a face — he’s never liked your fatalistic way of speech, but it’s a habit you just can’t kick (kind of like the two of them).

“Don’t say shit like that.” He says your name, low but firm, even as he rolls himself a frankly beautiful looking joint, tattooed digits handling the weed gracefully. “You know we wouldn’t let that happen.”

Hanta nods emphatically and you have to look away, lest your face give away everything, choosing to take a hit from your pen instead, shrugging. 

“Yeah, you guys are my knights in shining fuckin’ armor,” you say on the exhale, a puff of flavored smoke filling the air by your face. You can already feel it, the high settling in your bones (you’ve always been a bit of a lightweight), and you sigh, tilting your head back. “Ah, there we fucking go.”

This time, you do miss them looking, but not at each other — at you. At your bared neck, your pursed lips. The barely there peek at your pink tongue. 

You take another hit and then another, your brain filling with the fog, making it a lot harder to think about why you’re so on guard around the two, about why you don’t do this shit every day. 

“Slow down, baby,” Hanta chides, but you know it’s mostly for show. You crack open an eye to watch him light his pipe, taking a steady, deep inhale before exhaling with a low sound that sends a bolt of heat to your gut. 

You ignore it to switch your focus to Hitoshi who catches the lighter Hanta tosses him and lights his joint before taking a drag. The only sign it affects him at all is the way he slumps further into your beanbag, his eyes falling even further to half mast where they rest on you. 

A part of you preens under the way they both seem to give you their undivided attention every time you do this, but the rest of you cringes and fights to run and hide — this time, like most times, the latter wins out. 

You pat around your sheets, searching for the remote to your tiny television at the end of your bed to toss it at Hitoshi’s chest, successfully ridding yourself of the weight of his purple gaze. 

“Pick something easy to watch. Nothing scary, I'll shit my pants.”

Hanta huffs out a laugh while blowing smoke through his nostrils, something that shouldn’t be hot, but absolutely is. 

“Try that again. Nicely, this time.” Hitoshi raises a pierced eyebrow at you, the action and the order making you throb. 

You can hear a soft ‘oh shit, okay’ off to the side of you, but you ignore it, that heavy focus you thought you’d deflected hitting you at full force. You don’t shudder, but it’s a near thing, his tone seeping through your defenses and warming you down to your marrow. 

“Can you put on something easy to watch, please?” You want to sound more careless, more jokey, but your voice comes out breathy. A little thready. Hanta exhales harder out your periphery and self consciousness creeps back in like a well worn coat. 

You shrink back into yourself, curling up against your pillows, further away from Hanta at your side and Hitoshi on the other side of the room, your eyes trained on the television. 

Thankfully, Hitoshi doesn’t push, instead turning on the TV like you’d asked. 

Later, you’ll blame the weed for fucking with your senses because you remember just a beat too late what exactly the last thing you were watching was. 

“Wait, fuck, wait-" you scramble, but you’re too slow, too syrupy from the substances coursing through your body, and all you really manage to do is get even more tangled up in your sheets. 

A soft whine emanates from the tinny speakers, followed by a series of moans, gasps, groans, and slick sounds. You clench your eyes shut, hoping that, somehow, if you don’t open your eyes, there won’t be graphic porn playing in front of the two men you’ve been attracted to for years. 

Unfortunately, the childish notion does not work and when you gather the strength to crack an eye open, both Hanta and Hitoshi’s eyes are trained on the images of a woman being tongue fucked within an inch of her life. 

“Oh my god,” Hanta breathes, his fingers clenching the sheets beside him, “I had no idea you even knew what porn was. This is the best day of my life.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna kill myself. I’m gonna step into the next room and you will find me swinging from the rafters, fuck.”

The embarrassment is practically pouring off of you, even as the noises coming from the screen make your hole clench in arousal. 

Hitoshi says your name in slight reprimand which does the opposite of help, an anguished whine escaping your throat. 

“Please turn it off, please,” you beg quietly, pressing your palms to your eyes. Not even the floaty feeling the weed is giving you is enough to spare you the full brunt of shame you feel in this moment.

Hanta doesn’t seem to get the memo, making a noise of protest. “Hell no! As a fellow munch, I love watching someone eat box, especially if you can tell they’re an aficionado, much like myself. Game recognizes game.”

Another wounded animal sound slips through your lips and you collapse, burying your burning face in your pillow while your libido attempts to conjure up images of the two of them eating you out and getting off on it.

“Stop it, Hanta,” you can hear the smile in Hitoshi’s voice even as he turns the volume down a little. “You’re embarrassing him.”

“Aw fuck, sorry dude. Was I pushing it too far?” The genuine apology has you sitting up, despite the molten lava in your veins, shooting him a half smile. 

“N-nah, it’s chill—“

“No, he’s horny.” Hitoshi’s blunt words stop you in your tracks, your eyes widening and mouth dropping open to protest - to say anything, really - but the weed slows your thoughts and you just end up gaping. 

Hanta’s worry morphs quickly into something predatory, something wolfish as he stares you down, eyes flitting over your form as if to find whatever clue Hitoshi picked up on so quickly. 

You press your thighs together, head spinning. “What, I — no! I mean, what?” Not your best work, but what could be done? You tried!

Your sputtering only seems to confirm it to the pair, Hitoshi’s already heavy gaze growing more heated. 

“You imagining the best head you’ve ever gotten? ‘s that what’s got you so hot and bothered?” He almost sounds casual, like he’s asking about the goddamn weather and damn, if that doesn’t get you, a choked sound creeping up your throat, unbidden. 

You barely manage to shake your head, shaking it again soon after in attempts to clear it, but between the high and your arousal, it’s impossible. 

“Uh, I — no. I’ve never — no one has ever done that to me. I just — I like to think about it.” Fuck, your tongue is loose, and you watch as your words hit the pair. 

Hanta’s eyes widen, his pupils blooming in real time while Hitoshi’s tongue slips out to nudge his piercings, his gaze darkening. 

“You hear that ‘Toshi?” Hanta’s usually bright voice is gravelly, and even though he’s talking to Hitoshi, his eyes are on you. “He just likes to think about it.”

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to die. A soft gasp falls free without your consent, much to Hitoshi’s delight. 

“I wonder who he thinks about. A celebrity, maybe? Or maybe it’s someone we know?”

“Ooh!” Hanta eats it up, cocking his head at you in mock thoughtfulness. “Who could it be? Shoto is pretty hot, but he’s probably too soft for our baby.”

Our baby. The words nearly stop you from breathing, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before you get a hold of yourself, but it’s too late. Hitoshi and Hanta are looking at you like they want to consume you, like keeping up your walls for all these years were for naught. 

They could always see through you. They know you. 

“Please,” The word slips out, soft and thin. “Please, don’t fuckin’ tease me.”

Both of them soften at that, Hanta moving across the bed to be closer to you, one of his hands pulling your head to rest in the crook of his neck, rubbing soothing circles on your nape. 

Against your better judgement, you melt against him, the weed in your system urging you closer, melding you to his side. 

“Aw, don’t worry,” Hanta hums, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We won’t let Shoto have you. You’re already ours.”

You blink at that, eyes wide as you attempt to extricate yourself from his grasp, to get a look at his face and judge what he’s saying, but he doesn’t let you get far, instead grasping your jaw and kissing you. 

His lips are softer than you thought they'd be and you melt into it, the chaste pecks, just a pressing of lips.

It deepens quickly though and you feel heady, having never been kissed with such intention, with such skill, with such desire.

His tongue probes your mouth, the kiss getting messy as he maps out the wet cavern, before sucking your tongue in past his lips, the action drawing a wanton moan from you. 

The sound permeates the space between you and Hanta groans in response, his other head cupping your face and holding you still so he can continue to ravage your mouth. 

“Slow down, Hanta, we don’t wanna kill him,” Hitoshi’s voice sounds from behind you and you jolt, pulling away from Hanta with a string of spit connecting your lips. 

Hanta makes a petulant noise, but doesn’t argue. Instead, his big hands come up to rest at your waist and pull you into his lap, giving Hitoshi room to slide onto the bed behind you.

Anticipation thrums beneath your skin and you feel yourself soaking the seat of your boxers as you hold painfully still, thighs quivering with the strain of keeping your crotch away from Hanta's.

You're expecting Hitoshi to start grabbing and groping at you with the same hunger Hanta displayed, but you should know better. Quick and dirty isn't really his style.

This is made quickly evident by the way he presses himself against your back, effectively sandwiching you between their two broad bodies, pushing his face into crook of your neck, and inhaling.

You feel embarrassed for some reason — you didn't shower before they came over, having spent most of your day agonizing and cleaning in equal parts, so the idea that all he's doing right now is smelling you is unnerving.

"'Toshi," your voice comes out quieter than you'd like as you try and pull away from him, only to be stopped by one of Hanta's hands back on your jaw, holding you still.

"Be good," Hitoshi whispers, his breath heating the skin of your nape while his hands creep towards the waistband of your pajama pants, your hips twitching instinctively, both towards and away from his questing hands.

It's not even that you don't want this — no one in the room is under that impression, least of all you — but you're so overwhelmed. You're more turned on than you've ever been in your life, slick almost certainly seeping through all your layers, and the idea that these two men who you've been pining after for ages are about to see you at your most stripped bare is staggering.

Hanta seems to notice your internal struggle, the hand on your jaw tilting your head down so he can look you in the eye.

"You okay, baby? Need us to slow down?" He's earnest, red-rimmed, dark eyes flitting across your expression for any indication of true discomfort. It makes your heart kick in your chest and you shake your head slowly.

"It's just -" you pause, voice catching as Hitoshi noses up to your earlobe, cold piercings meeting heated skin, "- it's embarrassing. I want you guys so much."

The latter part of your sentence comes out akin to a whisper. Admittance, no matter how obvious the statement is, is a leap. One you'd have to be hard-pressed to make, if it ever happened at all.

Both men pause completely at the quiet confession and urge to flee comes back at full force. You almost launch yourself out of Hanta's lap, a half-formed excuse blaming the weed for your comment already at the tip of your tongue, but before you can do anything at all, the world spins and you're on your back.

The movement rumples your clothes, your hoodie now exposing your navel and the wet spot at the crotch of your bottoms to the cool air coming from your open window.

Hanta and Hitoshi's glassy eyes trail over your newly dishevled appearance and you try to bury your face into the pillow beneath your head, your face heating up quickly. You can't look at them, not when they look at you like that.

Like you're more than a fuck or a fling or a friend. Like you're something.

Like you're everything.

"Is our baby stupid, Hanta?" Hitoshi speaks first, tone like gravel, and though he's addressing the man at his side, he can't look away from you.

Shame rockets through your body and you shake your head vehemently before Hanta can respond. You know you're a lot of things — awkward, pathetic, soggy — but you aren't stupid.

The corners of Hitoshi's lips tick up at your reaction. He looks amused by you, almost like one looks at a pet who's just completed a simple trick. It makes you want to hide again, but when Hanta chuckles, soft and dark, reaching down to toy with the drawstring on your pants, you freeze, caught.

"He's not stupid," he replies, tugging the knot loose. The bottoms slacken around your waist.

Hitoshi hums in what you assume (hope) is agreement, one of his hands carefully pushing your hoodie further up, exposing you more. "If he's not stupid, why doesn't he know how much we want him? How much we care?"

Your mouth opens, shocked, then snaps shut. Hanta hooks his fingers into the waistbands of your boxers and pants, tugging them down until they get caught between your ass and the bed. They can't be removed unless you help, but you're stunned into inaction.

"You didn't know? We're not very subtle, sweetheart."

Of course you didn't know. You never would've assumed two of the sweetest and sexiest people you've ever had the pleasure of meeting would be into you, but now that you're faced with the brunt of their attention and attraction, you feel a little foolish.

"You can't blame me." You glance up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the swimming of your head and the heat pooling in your gut. "I mean, it's - it's you guys. People proposition you all the time and you always turn them down. Kinda thought you were dating each other at one point."

Hanta snorts at that, bumping shoulders with Hitoshi who rolls his eyes, before curling his fingers in the hair at the base of Hanta's mullet and kissing him, hard. Your eyes widen, cunt clenching at the display.

They aren't shy or unfamiliar with one another — no, Hitoshi is easily pushing his tongue past Hanta's lips and dragging it across every surface inside, drool collecting at the corners of his mouth. They've done this before, it's obvious, and you can't help but imagine what it looks like when they're alone. How far they've gone together.

Your fantasies are cut short, Hitoshi pulling away from Hanta with a soft groan, thumbing Hanta's plump, pink lower lip, before turning his attention back to you. "We like each other just fine, but we also like you. Let us take care of you."

There's nothing you can do but nod at this point, tired of fighting the force that's pulling the three of you together. If they end up tossing you away after they sober up, you'll deal with it. It might take anywhere between a few years and the rest of your life, but you'll recover. For now, you want to be greedy.

You want to take.

Hanta watches your expression change and he smiles, wide and horny. "There he is. C'mon, 'Toshi, help me take his pants off. Wanna get a good look at his cock. Bet he's hard, huh?"

You shiver at his words, but lift your hips obediently when Hitoshi tugs them down. He exhales hard at the string of slick connecting your puffy folds to the soaked fabric, his hand clenching in the clothing before he tosses it aside.

"Fuck." Hanta leans down, eye-level with your pussy, his warm breath wafting over you, making you spasm. "He's so goddamn wet."

He sounds reverent, worshipful almost. Two long digits run up your seam, fingertips coming away drenched and you whimper at the contact. He lifts them to Hitoshi's lips, surpassing the pierced flesh to press your essence directly against his tongue.

His eyes flutter shut on a breathless hum, sucking Hanta's fingers like he's sucking dick. You watch his jaw work and cheeks hollow as Hanta pinkens, before pulling them free with a wet 'pop'.

"You're gonna make me cum in my sweats, dude." His words, while jokey, come out breathy and strained. Hitoshi looks delighted.

"Not before our baby does." He nods down at you, biting his lip. "Go on. I want to watch."

Hanta lets out a disbeliving laugh, but follows Hitoshi's instructions, laying on his stomach so that he's inches away from your core. Your cock is swollen and throbbing, twitching at Hanta's proximity. He takes the same two fingers, now wet with Hitoshi's spit, and spreads you open, watching you with an eagerness akin to that of a wild animal faced with its prime choice of prey.

Embarrassment creeps back in and you reach up to cover your face, only to have your hands taken into Hitoshi's own as he moves to sit behind you, pulling your upper body against his.

"None of that." He chastizes. It's not mean, but it is forceful, and so is the grip he has on your wrists.

The tightness of his grasp is distracting enough, but everything flies out of your mind at the first lick Hanta gives to your cunt.

The weed enhances everything, makes you feel like you can discern the texture of every tastebud as they drag against your sensitive nub. It's electric, so much so that your eyes immediately clench shut and you moan. Loudly.

Hitoshi kisses your temple, the cool piercings resting against your warm skin, before he tilts your head up so he can kiss you on the lips instead.

He doesn't kiss you like he kissed Hanta. This is so much more possessive — wet, sloppy, and controlling. Wrenches your mouth open and sucks on your tongue like it's his to do so with. All you can do is grip his arm, trying to stay grounded. It's nearly impossible, though, between the sex and the high that's still lingering.

Hanta sucks your cock into his mouth, his tongue rubbing circles into the underside, pleasure zinging up and down your spine in a way you've never experienced before. You gasp into Hitoshi's mouth, tears leaking out the corners of your closed eyes, while Hitoshi threads his fingers into Hanta's hair, pulling him further against you.

The action makes Hanta moan, the sounds vibrating around your clit. Your hips jerk, grinding against his tongue, and you pull away from Hitoshi to apologize. "S-shit, 'm sorry, 'm sorry -" you stutter out, whines underscoring every word.

Instead of stopping you, Hanta looks up at you through his thick lashes and opens his mouth wide, his tongue flat against the nub. The bed shakes as he thrusts against it, hazy, leisurely. You feel Hitoshi shudder at his display, at the way your cum coats his tongue, at the way he waits to be used.

"Go on, baby." Hitoshi whispers against the shell of your ear, grinding his hard cock against your lower back which effectively pushes your own further against Hanta. You don't know why you're surprised to feel evidence of Hitoshi's arousal, but you are, your head falling back against his shoulder.

Hanta hums in encouragement and you whine, rolling your hips towards his face, dragging your sex along his tongue again and again and again. You don't know how to keep a rhythm, but you chase your high, the weed making it feel like it's coming quicker than it usually does when you're alone.

As your pleasure mounts, your noises increase. You're whimpering and cursing every other word, torn between pushing back against Hitoshi's dick and Hanta's mouth.

"So fucking good, baby, you're being such a good fucking boy," Hitoshi growls against the shell of your ear, his rutting losing rhythm as his cock leaves trails of precum against the small of your back where he's soaked through his sweats. His tattooed fingers tighten in Hanta's hair. Hanta's eyes roll back at the feeling and you can relate.

You feel like you can't breathe. Your cunt is spasming beneath Hanta's ministrations, the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening until its a hairsbreadth away from snapping.

"'Toshi, Hanta, 'm gonna - fuck - somethin's gonna come out -"

You can literally feel Hitoshi pulse, dick kicking, at your slurred words. He holds Hanta down, hot mouth enveloping your cock completely while two of those long fingers press inside you and curl up.

They hit your spot with expert precision, massaging it until that razor thin wire snaps.

You cum harder than you ever have at your own hands, your stomach dropping into a freefall. You absolutely soak the sheets and Hanta's face, bucking and jerking as clear liquid sprays with an intensity that forces his fingers free from your cunt. He continues to suck your cock, moaning all the while, prolonging your orgasm until you're openly crying against Hitoshi's shoulder.

Through the haze of pleasure-bordering-on-overstimulation, you just barely register a choked groan leaving Hitoshi as his hips stutter and warmth blooms against your back. He slumps back into your pillows, loosening his grip in Hanta's hair to tug him gently away from your pulsing core.

Hanta goes easily, detaching himself from you with such a graphic, wet, suction sound, you visibly wince. He's absolutely covered in you, but he doesn't seem to mind, sucking his fingers clean with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm good, huh?" He's smug as fuck, but you can't blame him. That was the best thing that's ever happened to you, you think, and you say that, filter utterly demolished.

To your surprise, the tips of Hanta's ears pinken. He's embarrassed. Flattered. You would tease him for this if it wasn't for the fact you're about to fall asleep, wrung dry (literally and figuratively), nestled into Hitoshi's side.

"Yeah, you are." Hitoshi answers for you, reaching for Hanta's hand to pull him to your other side, the two of them lifting the sheets to cover your bare lower half. "So are you."

He presses a kiss to your temple before leaning over you to kiss Hanta, gentle and chaste. You want to say something, anything, but the world is slipping away from you like handfuls of sand, and all you can manage is tiny grunt of dissatisfaction.

Hanta laughs softly, pecking your slack lips. "Sleep, baby. We'll be here when you wake up."

As you give into the sweet release of sleep, eyes falling shut, Hanta's words reverberate in your mind.

We'll be here.

You choose to believe them.

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Time cast a spell on you˖ ִֶָ𐀔꩜

SAM WINCHESTER X TIME-TRAVELER!READER (meet her!)

SUMMARY: while Sam and Dean are dealing with some monsters, reader can't stop herself from rewinding every time they get hurt. 1.9k

WARNINGS: fem!reader. friends to lovers (not lovers yet). fluff. They are adorable pls.

NOTES: Bambi is here!! and she has a heart of gold. I love her so much, there is so much more I wanna do with her. There is a Life Is Strange reference, whoever recognizes it gets a gold star. English is not my first language! Enjoy<3

You are starting to feel lightheaded already.

You usually knew better than to go back in time too much. It wasn’t only because it exhausted you physically, but because you just hated it. 

No one understood what it was like to have memories no one else remembers. No one else had to live with the memory of that little girl’s face as she ran down the street and stepped over a manhole cover that was not sealed properly, and she fell. No one else had to live with the memory of that puppy as he laid dead on the street after a careless driver ran him over. No one else had to live with the horror, and the pain, and the images burning in the back of their mind every time they closed their eyes.

Because every time, you went back and saved them. You stopped the little girl from stepping over the manhole and you caught the puppy before it went into the street. 

But the worst part, you think, is the conversations. The moments that happened but not really. That last conversation with your friend before you tried to tell her about your powers and had to go back in time after she called you crazy. The sweet words you shared with a waitress before the diner got robbed and you had to rewind to stop it. The sweet looks Sam sent your way before something went wrong and you had to go back.

It was hell, to have memories no one else had. That is why you had your journal, and why you took so many pictures of everything. It helped you remember what was real and what was not. What had actually happened and what you had changed. 

So, you went out of your way to avoid going back. You could ignore awkward moments, missed opportunities, and small mistakes. But one thing you cannot ignore is Sam or Dean getting hurt.

You had found Sam again a few months ago in that small town in Oregon. A few months since you started hunting and traveling around with them, a new case and a new town every week. 

Your excuse? You wanted to learn more about the supernatural to find a way to reverse your curse.

The truth? You had missed Sam so hard it caused you physical pain.

You love to be around him again. To watch him chuckle at your nerdy jokes. To sit next to him, writing in your journal while he reads. To watch indie movies that he pretended to find boring but actually loved. To see him smiling softly at something Dean said and to sneak a little picture of it for your next journal entry.

Because yes, you were hopelessly in love with Sam Winchester.

You had been when you two used to take walks around the Stanford campus, and you still are now as you watch him covered in Vetala blood, fighting for his life.

You really, really are trying not to rewind, but the look on Sam’s face when the Vetala used a broken piece of glass to make a cut on his arm was too much. And when she punched him in the face, making him spit blood. And when her fans were a little too close to his neck for your comfort. And when she so much as reached for a metal rod on the floor. 

Okay, maybe you were being a little dramatic.

But seeing Sam, your sweet, dorky Sam getting hurt was too much for your heart.

And Dean too, with all his cocky jokes and tendency to flirt with anything with cleavage. He was loyal, and caring, and for all his tough exterior, he was sweeter than the pies he loved so much. You couldn’t let him get hurt.

So you rewinded time once, and then again, and again, and again. And then one more time.

You were watching everything happen from the safety of the second floor of the abandoned warehouse the Vetalas were using as a kidnap center, silver dagger gripped tightly in your fist just in case. Everytime something slightly bad happens, you go back and warn the boys with a scream.

“Dean, she’s going to push you down that hole in the floor!”

“Sammy, the brick next to her head!”

“She’s not unconscious, she will try to bite you!”

“No, Dean. The one on your right, dumbass!”

You start to feel lightheaded ten minutes into the fight, and by the time the first Vetala is defeated, your nose is already bleeding. 

It wasn’t unusual for this to happen when you went back one too many times, but it still wasn’t pleasant. Your mouth tasted like metal, and your vision was splotchy and blurry as you rewinded one last time after the last Vetala tried to escape through a broken window.

You warn the brothers about it right before you collapse, back leaning against a rusty old beam as you fall on the floor. You close your eyes and lean your head back, hearing Dean finally kill the last Vetala. You sigh, letting the exhaustion take over your body now that it is over. 

Your head hurt, like it was imploding. Your eyes felt like they were going to explode, and your nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. 

Less than a second later, Sam is screaming your name. 

You blink your eyes open, trying to get rid of the black spots still all around you.

Sam screams your name again, and then there he is, kneeling right in front of you. He had somehow managed to get one or two scratches on his face, but he looked mostly okay. 

“What happened?” He asks immediately, puppy eyes watching as blood kept dripping down your face. “Did something attack you? Are you hurt badly?”

You are too exhausted to talk, so you try shaking your head, which only makes your headache worse. You whine softly, and Sam looks physically pained by the small sound. 

“You know,” Dean intervenes, looking down at you with suspicious eyes. “Vetalas are usually pretty tough, very unpredictable and violent, but you seemed to know exactly each of their next moves.”

You sigh, vision getting less and less blurry. Sam is still looking at you with worry, and you wipe the blood off your mouth before talking.

“I might have… rewinded time once or twice.” You murmur, and Sam’s hand carefully moves to brush a strand of hair out of your face.

“Bambi…” He whispers with reproach. “You know you can’t overexert yourself. We are just figuring out how your powers even work.”

You knew he was right, but you still sigh and look down at your hands, playing with the silver dagger that you were still holding onto. 

“I know.” Your voice is small, your gentle soul still too new to the world of hunting. “But I- I can’t let you two get hurt.”

The brothers stay in silence for a long moment, and you don’t have the courage to look up and see their expressions.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Dean chuckles, but his voice is extra soft. “We’re hunters, we’re gonna get hurt.” You open your mouth to argue, but suddenly Sam is cupping your cheek, and the words die on your tongue.

“If you rewind every time we get hurt, you’ll end up making yourself pass out.” His voice is soft but his eyes are decisive, and you immediately know that arguing would be useless. “We are used to getting hurt, don’t you worry your little head about it.”

That makes something deep in your chest break. 

We are used to getting hurt.

Oh, but they shouldn’t be. Not them, the best people you had even met. Not Sammy. 

You try to hide the ache in your heart and instead simply sigh defeatedly, looking back and forth between Sam and Dean.

“Why don’t we agree that you won’t rewind time unless one of us is literally about to die?” Sam proposes, which makes you let out a low chuckle.

“Which is, what? Five times a week?” That makes both brothers laugh, and it melts the frown out of Sam’s pretty face. Good. 

“Just- promise you won’t keep doing this to yourself, and that you will only go back if strictly necessary.” Sam’s big hand was still cupping your cheek, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft skin of your face. His touch was warm, and soft, and safe. And as if that wasn’t enough to convince you of anything, he also looks at you with those big, hazel puppy eyes. 

“I promise.” You agree, knowing that it was for the best. Sam gives you one of those cute little proud smiles, and the ache on your body fades away.

After a few more minutes, all the black spots on your vision are gone and you don’t feel like your head is going to explode. You quickly get up from the floor, brushing the dust off your pants. 

All three of you walk back to the Impala, Dean and you arguing about some movie you had both watched late at night in the motel while Sam did research. 

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t fight seven evil exes for some chick.”

“It is not ‘some chick”, Dean. It is Ramona freaking Flowers.”

“You just like chicks with blue hair.”

“Shut up.”

In the backseat of Dean’s baby, your baby was waiting for you. That polaroid camera you had gotten at thirteen and still kept until today. She feels like an extension of you, the only thing that has stayed with you through anything. 

Only when you’re there, sitting in the Impala as Sam and Dean argue about what to have for dinner, do you notice there is still blood in your face. Your nose wasn't actively bleeding anymore, but a small stream of blood had half-dried under it. 

You quickly grab the polaroid and point it towards you, snapping a pic of the lower half of your face. 

“Really?” Sam asks, turning to look at you with amusement after hearing the familiar shutter of your camera. 

“What? It is a good shot.” You shrug, softly shaking the polaroid picture as it develops. 

Sam simply shakes his head, way too used to you taking pictures even in the worst moments. Of your bloody knees that day you fell while roller-skating in the park, of Sam’s ice cream after he accidentally dropped it, of the tear-stained pillow in Sam’s dorm after he had to watch Ordinary People for his psych class and you decided to tag along, and ended up sobbing all throughout the last half of the film.

You look down at the picture once it finishes developing, smiling proudly. Yeah, this was definitely what you were put on earth for. And rewinding time, apparently.

You look up at Sam, who by now turned back around and is now looking forward. As if the photography gods were on your side, it was exactly the golden hour. Warm light washes all over Sam, making his hazel eyes look almost golden and his hair a lighter, softer brown. You carefully point the lens of your camera at him, waiting for the exact moment in which Dean’s voice raises as he makes a joke and Sam’s laugh rumbles around the car to snap a pic.

The sound goes unnoticed by the two brothers, and you quickly put away your camera, carefully placing the pictures inside your journal that you always kept nearby. 

Yes, photography was definitively your calling, and you loved taking pictures of anything. But there was nothing quite as satisfying as capturing the beauty of Sam Winchester, especially when it was for your eyes only.

NOTES: I am still figuring this whole Tumblr thing out, but comment or inbox me if you wanna be on my taglist! (did I do that right?).

[ninjago-clippies]

oh yeah. It's drabble time.

Hello again peoples I know I have been missing from here. I've been making a lot a lot a lot of other stuff so I've been distracted. I am back though with a drabble I made for @asooffa's Chinese Opera Tiger Demon Cole AU which is currently giving me LIFE in every way possible. I hope this goes over well.

[No ship present] Cole Focused

Characters present include: Cole Brookstone, Jay Walker, Lloyd Garmadon

Phantom Tags: I do my best to be good at knowing Chinese cultural references, Cole has kitty feet, this idea isn't mine I just love it

NOTES:

So this AU is still somewhat unestablished, and Soof did say we could ask questions but I got nervous about flooding their inbox so. here's a list of things I wasn't 100% sure about that I improvised which Soof may not necessarily agree with WHICH IS FINE

-The exact state of the theater (i know for sure it’s in disrepair but i don’t know how bad, so I based it on the theater I currently work in haha. it may not be messed up that bad in this AU)

-what style of theater cole is based off of/where this AU takes place (Says Chinese Opera and his makeup is based on Peking Opera painted faces so i went with Peking opera and made vague references to chinese culture every now and then)

-What type of demon Cole is (Chinese Yaoguai tigers i hope??? So I’m basing some of his behaviors on them guys. I think based on what I have read that this is correct. Crossing my fingers.)

-The state of Cole’s clothes (Since I know that Cole's life force is tied to the theater i thought it would be cute if his outfit/costumes starts to degrade slightly along with the building. Nothing aggressive like sleeves falling off or anything but just a little bit of distressing, a couple loose threads, maybe some lingering dirt yknow. But i didn't ask permission for that AAAA)

-FOOT PAWS??? (Are his feet paws. Are. are his feet paws i. They are to me im so sorry if im wrong but sometimes its okay to be wrong i hope.)

-the water thing (for the record i know in ninjago water is bad for ghosts but jay throwing water around has nothing to do with that. I just wanted to throw water at someone so)

-Cole having the ability to make music and things (okay in my yaoguai research i’ve discovered that yaoguai in general tend to be masters of like. illusions/shapeshifting/clairvoyance things like that. And i thought it would be funny and cool if Cole could do a little theater magic. So he can make spooky music play or create illusions of shows he’s performed in or something. I HAVE NO IDEA IF THATS ALLOWED but I have used the concept briefly. Also love the idea of cole sitting in the seats and replaying shows hes seen before as his power slowly drains. That could be so sad too if he’s recreating scenes his parents performed together… im here for memes and pain and i love this AU please forgive me soof if i have overstepped. 

ALRIGHT LET'S GET TO THE DRABBLE PART 1

Dust flew in the air as jay blew at the years worth of mess on the desk of the control booth. He wiped his hand across it, lifting his pale palm to examine it and immediately gagging. There was a distinct grey palm print plastered on it just from the mess on the surface. 

“Gross…”

This whole theater was practically a dump. It wasn’t necessarily the worst criticism, dumps were usually filled with treasures people just never learned how to appreciate. Jay could understand that better than most people, and he’d been one of the most vocal in their group about buying the theater. Thinking back, he could even remember seeing a show or two here with his parents when he was very young. It might have been trash to the general public, but not to them. The group of friends could totally handle it, no matter what! 

And then they’d slipped the keys in the door and gotten a good look… and smell of everything.

A failing ceiling, gutted appliances, shattered lights, backstage rooms with walls covered in scribbled drawings… the list was nearly endless. Every door they opened had more challenges hidden behind it. And then, of course, there were the rumors…

Jay shivered, dusting off his hand and shaking his head. Best not to dwell on those. 

At first he didn’t really understand why there was so much dust, debris and wood rot in the place, since before they’d scooped up the property it had been owned as recently as six months ago. Once they’d gotten inside they’d realized that the roof had been in a condemnable condition for a lot longer than the owner had let on. Weak spots were letting in air and causing issues with the late-installed cooling and heating systems, and the recent string of monsoons in their area had brought a lot of the outside to the inside. You couldn’t see light through the weak spots just yet, but you could definitely smell when it was about to rain when standing on the stage. 

The list of things they needed to fix was already 26 pages long, and even after a week it was still growing longer. 

One of the good things about having such a project-level place to work with was that a lot of the tech and wiring was missing or not overly complex, which meant there wasn’t much tech stuff for Jay to remove before he started putting in his own stuff. He pulled open some cabinets and found empty wiring pathways through the wood, giving him ample space and easy access to the wall plugs. 

First, though, he really needed to clean stuff up. 

He bent down and dug around in the box he’d brought for a rag and a bottle of water. He started wetting it to wipe down the main table, whistling to himself. There was a layer of baked-in dust under the light dust, so he had to really put some elbow grease in it, his humming turning to an irritated little mutter. He wrung out the cloth once and wet it again as he looked around again. 

The glass allowing him a view of the audience and stage was dirty, (probably a combination of rain runoff and dust) but he could still vaguely see the stage since the center wasn’t as bad at the edges. He shook out the rag and stepped closer when he noticed someone standing on it, squinting. 

Was that… Kai? 

The figure on the stage was standing upright and still right in the center, their hands at their sides. Whoever it was was watching him so closely Jay felt like they were looking right into his eyes, even from that distance. He felt goosebumps pop up along his arms as he leaned in to get a better look. They were partially obscured by the shadows, but they seemed to be wearing one of the old costumes and masks they’d found backstage the other day. Shaggy hair, the vague shape of a painted grin, some kind of orange and black changshan that he didn’t remember seeing…

He scoffed, rubbing his nose and leaning back. There were so many costumes in that room. Someone probably dug one out of the way way back just to intimidate him.

Jay took a trembling sip from his water bottle. His eyes didn’t leave that figure for a second. “Haha, nice try, Kai. Very funny...” 

The figure on stage tipped it’s head to the side like it could hear him. Behind it, a shape very much like a tail swished out from one side and then back and forth. Jay got a strange, sinking feeling in his gut the more he looked at it. Wasn’t it a little too tall to be Kai? Or Lloyd, or Nya? And why would Zane play a prank on him, he wasn’t even supposed to be here today. He and Pixal were downtown filing final paperwork on the sale…

“Trying to freak me out.” He muttered, wiping his mouth with his arm and finally tearing his eyes away from the stage. He tried to laugh it off with a couple forced chuckles as he started scrubbing the table of the really baked-on dust, ignoring the way his skin was starting to crawl. The squeaking of the table legs got faster and faster as he scrubbed. He only lasted about thirty seconds before he looked up again to squint through the glass at the stage. 

The figure was gone. 

Jay’s heart crawled right out of his mouth. He scrambled to the glass, desperately trying to wipe the surface clean to scan the audience area. He pressed his face up against it, his breaths getting shorter and more panicked. “NOT FUNNY, GUYS!” He pushed away from the glass and spun around, holding his water bottle out like a weapon. “Whoever’s messing with me better cut it out! I-I mean it! I’ll return the pranking tenfold when I catch you!”

He kept spinning in circles, shaking and looking around himself. His fear tripled when the silence was broken by a very faint, very distant strum from a guqin. Jay felt like he’d just jumped into an ice cold lake, and the feeling doubled when he heard the soft somber whine of a flute join it. The song was deep, slow and sorrowful. Jay didn’t recognize it, but he didn’t need to know the song title to recognize what part of an old Chinese horror movie he was in. It seemed like the ghostly song was coming from backstage, or maybe somewhere in the house. Hard to say, and Jay didn’t even want the answer. Every second it seemed to come from the left, then the right, then above, close, then far.

“Oh no. oh no oh no oh no oh no-”

“Jay?”

“AAAAHA!” Jay whipped around, swinging his water bottle and sending most of what was left of it’s contents and his dirty wet dust rag hurtling at the newcomer. The fabric blanketed to the intruder’s face with a wet slap, and the music came to an immediate stop. Jay swore in that second he heard a quiet little snicker coming from somewhere, but it only lasted a second or two before the theater was silent again.

Dripping and obviously aggrieved, Lloyd pulled the rag off his face and spit out some dust. He held it out to him with two fingers and a frown. “Jay, it’s just me.”

“There’s a ghost!” He took the rag back, swinging it as he pointed and spraying water across the window. “I saw it! On the stage, I swear!”

Lloyd pushed past Jay’s pointing hand and walked up to the window. .He rubbed off some of the dirt and peered out, looking all around. “I don't see anything, Jay.”

“It was there! It was!” Jay squeaked, backing into a corner of the room and crunching the plastic of his nearly empty water bottle. “And I heard creepy music! And laughter!” He gasped. “He’s going to slowly SCARE us to death!” 

Lloyd turned around with a deadpan look, shaking his hair to get rid of some of the dripping water. “Jay, cmon. I know you’re a little superstitious but we really can’t afford for rumors of hauntings to be getting any worse than they already have. Nobody will come here if they do.” He crossed the room towards him, dusting off his hands. “I need you to take a few deep breaths and… rationalize.” He put a hand on his shoulder, trying for a sympathetic smile. “Remember what we said about rationalizing your superstitions?”

Jay looked from Lloyd to the stage, gesturing as his mouth opened and closed like a fish. He started to second guess himself. Maybe he really hadn’t seen anything after all. It probably could have been a shadow. Or Kai. or his own nervous brain making things up…

“Right. You’re right, haha… just uh… just my brain.” He knocked on his own head, brushing his arm off and moving back over to continue to wipe the table. He was still shaking a little, looking around the room at the ceiling and the floor. He glanced up at the stage again, but there was still nothing there, and no creepy music or anything either.

“I’m gonna go see if Kai and Nya are back with lunch.” lloyd said, brushing some more of the water out of his hair and heading for the door. “Just yell if you need us, okay? Or… come backstage. We might not be able to hear you.”

Jay continued to scrub and wipe things down alone as he thought over what he’d seen. The longer he processed, the less he felt like he’d actually heard something. His anxiety was getting worse and worse lately. If he was hallucinating now, he’d really have to go talk to someone.

 He chewed on his bottom lip as he pulled things off an old shelf to dust under them. He looked over the covers to distract himself, reading them as his hand slowly wiped the shelf clean. There were instruction manuals, old playbills stuffed in a shoe box, and a couple of scripts for plays he’d never heard of. He dusted off the cover of one particularly thick script and opened it to flip through. Since it had been slouched on the shelf and the pages had been slightly separated, jay thumbing the script immediately shot a cloud of dust around his whole head.

He dropped the book and coughed, waving his hand around to clear it. “Oh geez, what the heck…”

“Here.” An unfamiliar voice sounded next to Jay, a hand extended towards him with the script in it. 

“Thanks.” Jay was still coughing and wiping his eyes as he took the book back. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, squinting in the direction of his help. “I thought you were going backstage to-”

Standing right next to Jay was… something. The air around him seemed a little too cold,and his shape seemed to shift in and out of the shadows a little around the edges. His clothes were ornate silks, delicately embroidered and looking in desperate need of a wash and some mending. Jay was looking down at his feet at first, and immediately noticed a lot of fur. 

He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, but the tiger feet seemed to stay there. He slowly turned his gaze up his legs, all the way to the creature’s face, which was inches away from his own. It was painted in the style of some kind of yao beast, a perfect match for those feet, and the makeup seemed so real that Jay thought that toothy Maw was about to open up and swallow him whole. He stopped breathing, his whole body stiffening up. The tiger-boy didn’t move either, just stared at him and slowly released his grip on the script. 

And then Jay swung the script as hard as he could. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!” 

“AAAAAAAAH!” The figure stumbled back, bumping into the wall and hitting his head. The tail behind him fluffed up to nearly double it’s size, standing straight up. He rubbed the back of his head and shot a glare towards Jay. The aura of haze around him darkened in a second, and some kind of ferocious growl seemed to come from his throat as his eyes started to glow. 

Jay pointed at him again with a now visibly trembling arm. “AAAAAAAAAAH!” 

At Jay’s panicked reaction the demon’s demeanor changed, softening from rage to irritation. The dark void around him seemed to suck back into him a little bit and his eyes dimmed. He held his arms out and gave jay a “what the fuck” kind of expression. He seemed to think about something, then held up his hands. “AAAAAH!” 

Jay stumbled back, gasping and tripping over a folding chair. He went clattering to the ground with one leg tangled in it, getting the same treatment he’d given Lloyd a half hour before as the rag smacked into his face. He yanked it off through his hyperventilation as the figure lifted off the ground and floated above him, arms crossed. 

“What are we screaming for?”

Jay clutched his chest, staring wide eyed up at him as he struggled to make words come out in a sentence. He took a couple deep breaths, watching as the tiger-ghost slow blinked above him and waited for his answer.

Jay swallowed, finally squeaking out. “... I have no idea!”

The tiger-man nodded, scratching the underside of his own chin and shrugging. “Okay.” He turned his head and floated a little closer to him. His eyes flashed again and his makeup seemed to move just slightly as he made some kind of a roaring scream at him just for the fun of it. 

“AAAAAAAaaaaAAAAA HAHA what is WRONG with you??” Jay untangled his leg and kicked the half-collapsed chair at him, watching as it scooted uselessly under his floating legs and missed him completely. Tiger man tipped his head down, looking under himself at it curiously. 

Jay struggled back to his feet and scooted back, nearly climbing on top of the table as the Tiger-man lowered his legs and set his big paw feet back on the floor. His movements seemed practiced, smooth and easy. It kind of reminded Jay of the way Kai moved, like he was always dancing, always performing. 

Tiger man’s ears twitched, his head tipping to one side as he looked jay over. “Who are you?” 

“Who are YOU?” Jay waved his hand at all of him wildly. “WHAT are you?? What is happening right now?!” When the man tried to take another step closer Jay swung his rag around in the space between them to fend him off. “I knew this place was cursed! I am NOT crazy!”

The demon nodded, leaning back and lifting his pawed feet off the floor again. His tail swished back and forth behind him. “Oh yeah. I mean, kind of. It's complicated.” He held his hand out towards him, that painted grin adding a sinister air to the whole interaction. “I’m Cole. What’s your name?”

Jay stared at the offered hand, looking it over like it was covered in acid or crawling with poisonous bugs. “I am not shaking your hand. You’ll probably drag me straight to Meng Po or enslave me forever… or steal my firstborn or something!”

“... okaaaay.” Cole put his hand back behind his head, his tail and ears flicking at the same time. “Do I at least get your name?”

“No, you do not get my name!” Jay scooted around him, trying to get to the door. “I’m not falling for that either!”

“Falling for what?”

“Your tricks!” 

Cole tipped his head to the side, his tail whipping back and forth twice behind him as he snorted. “I’m not trying to-”

“Don’t come any closer!” Jay warned, brandishing his crushed empty water bottle as he backed towards the hallway door. “You better let me leave or I’m gonna do… something!”

Cole followed after him. He swayed back and forth like he was doing some kind of taunting dance as it cornered its prey. “Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do?’

Jay threw the bottle at him, then turned and ran. It hit Cole in the face and then clattered to the floor, making him flinch. Cole rubbed his nose, staring blankly at the now empty doorway.

“... well, that went well.”

I hope you enjoyed stay tuned for part two which will just be little snippets of things I like

[junimojo]

More Bob headcanons because you guys really seemed to like the first one

(+ some SentryAgent if you squint)

TW: suicidal thoughts/attempt, & mentions of past addiction

I’m genuinely floored that my first Thunderbolts headcanon post got so much positive feedback and I didn’t think anyone would see it or care, so I really appreciate all of the kind comments! Doing this is helping me get back into the groove of writing again and it’s turning into a nice coping mechanism as someone with GAD and PTSD. It’s nice to finally have a character like Bob to relate to. I’m glad other people like these as much as I do!

Headcanons start under the cut. Please refer to the trigger warnings at the top of the post and in the tags. Movie spoilers are also ahead!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Growing up, Bob was always told that he looked just like his dad. A spitting image of him, even. From the time he was old enough, he kept his hair longer and always shaved his face clean. He would rather not have the face that hated him stare back at him in the mirror.

The first time the team heard Bob laugh out loud was during a trust exercise in training when Alexei suggested a trust fall. Ava didn’t catch Walker. The thud of Walker’s body hitting the floor and the much too long silence that followed made Bob double over and laugh so hard he lost his balance and fell. Not a giggle or a chuckle– a genuine, loud, belly laugh and a smile so wide that his cheeks hurt. (Bonus: Bob snorts when he laughs really hard. He hates it, but it’s how everyone knows he’s enjoying himself. Walker denies his heart skipped a beat when he watched Bob fall down laughing. Bisexual awakening has officially begun.)

Solo or group grocery shopping trips usually end with Bob coming back to the tower with snacks, sugary drinks and/or candy. Walker teases him for having the diet of a teenager whenever they go together, but he learns Bob rarely got to try these things as a teenager due to his addiction, so he lets him throw whatever he wants into the cart. He likes sour and gummy candy the best.

Bob’s the type of person to complain about his stomach hurting after drinking milkshakes, but he still does it anyways because they’re good. He missed out on a lot of things during his addiction and he isn’t going to let a stomachache ruin it, no matter how much he’ll hate himself for it later. “That’s a problem for me 2 hours from now.” He says. And then he whines about how his stomach hurts and he thinks he’s gonna throw up. He never learns.

Quality time, acts of service and physical touch are Bob’s love languages. He doesn’t need to be doing the same activity the team is doing. Just as long as they’re nearby or he’s in the same room as them, he’s fine with being a fly on the wall or in the corner doing his own thing. He keeps his mind busy by doing chores or other small deeds around the tower, like cleaning, laundry, the dishes, or (attempting to) cook dinner. The way Bob physically relaxes when he’s hugged or has his face cupped in someone’s hands is both adorable and sad seeing how touch starved he is. The smallest touch can bring him comfort, even if it’s linking pinky fingers, letting a hand rest on his lower back, or the gentle scratch of a beard brushing against his cheek.

There are some nights where Bob will have an occasional nightmare or two. He doesn’t know he talks and cries in his sleep, or sometimes he cries out to his mom. Yelena once went to check on Bob in the middle of the night when she heard him crying, but she found somebody had beat her to him, listening to quiet shushing and hushed comforts. Bob woke up confused that morning wondering why Walker was in his room, snoring away next to him.

Bob is afraid of heights, but he found himself at the top of the tower one day. He’s afraid to die, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about how the team would be better off without him. He’s basically a walking nuke that needs constant monitoring or else Manhattan will disappear again, or worse. He wasn’t able to control himself yet. He didn’t want to put the team through that responsibility and to him, simply leaving wasn’t the best option. Bob did almost fall, if it wasn’t for his shaky legs, tripping over himself and falling flat on his back onto the roof. He laid there, staring at the sky and cried his heart out. He’s grateful to be afraid of heights.

[drvscarlett]

Let him cook pt 2

Charles Leclerc x Masterchef!reader

Series Part: 1

taglist: @bookstore-of-dreams @barcelonaloverf1life

CharlesLeclercUpdates posted a photo.

CharlesLeclercUpdates Charles Leclerc appeared in MasterChef Australia episode "Cooking to Survive"

User1 Ariana what are you doing hereeeee??

User2 I thought only f2 drivers were allowed for that, why was Charles wandering around

User7 In his defense, Ollie was with him. Maybe Ollie got invited and Charles tagged along.

User3 Okay but did anyone notice how his eyes lit up when Y/N talked to him. The boy was whipped!

User8 Charles can't get Y/N, he can't even cook User9 Agree User8! Besides Y/N has a long-time boyfriend, they are super cute. Do you all not watch the different challenges she dedicated to him?

Y/NCooks posted a photo.

Liked by Charles_Leclerc, friend1, and 255,000 others.

YNCooks what a stunning day! We won today as the captain of the red team and coincidentally there was a red team 1-2 as well??? #AlwaysBetOnRed

User1 Mother you slayed!!! I was so surprised to see you at the GP!

YNCooks me too!! This is one of the best team challenges ever.

User2 Charles is on the likes. Charles is on the likes.

Charles_Leclerc Congrats on your win!!!

Y/NCooks Thank you! You too, you did great!!!

User3 The collab of this masterchef and f1 community is not on my bingo list.

User4 Y/N's boyfriend how are you feeling that Charles is stealing your girl away??

"Are you seeing this right now? They thought that I am stealing you away" Charles grumbles over the phone. You can't see him right now but you can actually visualize the frown lines forming and the soft scowl that he has on his face "Why would I steal my own girlfriend?"

"Oh mon ami"

"And did they even watch the episodes? Like couldn't they piece it together that I'm the one that you are referring to I mean the cake and then the adopted italian narrative" Charles continued to rant on

It was adorable to hear Charles like this. How you wish that you weren't just conversing over the phone, how you wish that you could be there for him right now.

"Y/N you still there?" Charles' voice brought you out of your musings.

"Yep, I'm still here. Just a little bit tired" you explained

"You had a really long day mon amour."He says "I'm really so proud of you. You are slowly achieving your dreams"

"As I am very proud of you Charles. You always shine the brightest when you are up on that podium. I wish I could be there on the front lines cheering for you"

"One day you will be"

There is a peaceful silence shared between the two of you. The thing about you and Charles was that you both understand that this is a better situation than being under scrutiny by everyone. Charles had his fair share of public relationship and he learned a lot from it. He just wanted to keep this as his for a little while longer.

"I love you, I'll see you soon" "Love you more honey"

Risotto challenge

You were not always having a good day in the kitchen and this is one of those episodes that you did not do well hence the elimination challenge. The judges commented that there was no problem with the dish that you made but it was simply not as risky as what the others did. So you are really driven to show them creativeness.

Charles was watching the episode with so much dread as he hears that the elimination dish is a reinvention of a risotto. He watched enough MasterChef season with you to know that this dish is the death dish aka the dish that usually sends people home.

He understands the dilemma that you are facing right now, play it safe and stick to the classic which means it won't stand out or play it risky and be booted for elimination.

"I'm making Quinoa risotto" that was your bold decision and Charles couldn't believe his ears.

"Mon amour, risotto is rice. Quinoa is not rice" Charles mumbled to himself

"I know its a big risk but I have to show them that I am a risk taker and that I am a MasterChef winner material"you confidently state in the interview.

It was a stressful few minutes to Charles as he watched how the judges has already decided that the idea of a quinoa risotto would be an utter disaster. Nevertheless, he saw the determination in your eyes and how you defended why you opted to go for a risotto.

"Do you often cook quinoa at home?" Matt asked as he and Jean Pierre White scrutinize your table.

"I don't really" you replied with a shy smile "Well truthfully I don't even know what quinoa is before my boyfriend introduced me to it. It was a part of his diet so I went ahead and learn how to cook quinoa so he could eat"

This was new information for Charles and he felt warm with this new fact. He remembers how every time he visits you, there will be a variation of his diet meals that will ensure that he won't get bored of food and still be on track with his diet. He takes note that he will be grateful for that when she comes back.

"We're looking forward to taste that risotto" Matt says

Time went by and Charles let out a small sigh of relief after knowing that you completed your dish. Charles have full confidence with the dish that you made and he hopes that the judges will take a new perspective with this quinoa risotto.

"Quinoa is not a risotto" Marco Pierre White stated. It was all so menacing how he said it with flat emotions and a monotone voice. Charles could feel himself sweating as they tasted the dish.

"But this is another take that I will welcome" Another sigh of relief for Charles. He knows that you got this in the bag.

Cooking for a special someone

"We're now down to a challenge for the top two spots in the MasterChef kitchen, are you excited?"

Everything was so surreal. Starting from 20 and now they are down to the last 4 contestant. You were so grateful that you are another step closer to your dream of being a MasterChef winner.

"For this week, we will be bringing in some important guests who you will need to impress in order to secure a spot as a MasterChef finalist."

The contestants were asked to step one by one. You started to notice that they brought in their loved ones and you were fidgeting a bit because you don't know who they will bring out.

"Last but definitely not the least, Y/N step forward" Gary says "Are we gonna meet the boyfriend?"

"Oooh the boyfriend. We have been hearing about him for ages now" Matt teased

"The boyfriend is very busy" you replied as you remembered that he is probably in America right now.

"Oh cmon, cant he miss out a day or two"

"Its a job hazard to miss out a few days" you answered. It's all about the points so you really can't fault Charles not wanting to miss a single day at work.

"Okay in that case, our mystery guest for Y/N is............."

The MasterChef door opens and you were surprised to see not one but two Leclercs.

"What are you doing here down under?" you asked as you gave them a hug

"We're going to support you obviously!" Arthur grinned

It was weird because this was the first time that you will be with Arthur and Lorenzo with cameras rolling. You were nearly in tears when you hugged the two of them. Without even asking, you knew right away that Charles sent them since he will be busy with the races.

"And who are they to your life Y/N?" the judges asked

"This is Arthur and Lorenzo, they are very close friends. They treat me as if I'm one of their own" you smiled.

"I'm sure you are going to be inspired to cook now that you have them around"

The pressure was definitely on especially when you were told that there is a need to present 2 dishes, one sweet and another savory in 75 minutes. However, you were pumped to hear the cheers coming from the balcony as Arthur enthusiastically showers you with compliment while Lorenzo takes photos.

Charles, on the other hand, has been constantly checking his phone, now that he is done with free practice. He felt quite jealous that his brothers were able to see you and support you in person. Although, he was quite happy that they are having the time of life supporting you.

Lorenzo texted him about 30 minutes ago that they will be judging and eating the food that the contestants made. He was slowly getting impatient of the results, he wanted to know what's going on.

1 new text message.

Lorenzo: She got in! She's a finalist!!!

[qoldenskies]

i have like. such mixed feelings on the medic leo headcanon, coming from someone that has used it in pretty much all of his work so far. me and the medic leo headcanon are in an off-and-on relationship and every time i think we're done for good its outside my door with a boombox in the pouring rain and i feel like i hate myself a little when i take it back. it fucks like a champ though which makes it KIND OF worth it

cause like. i really think its an implementation thing that frustrates me more than anything else. to give leo a special THING feels like it disregards such a core facet of his character, that being that he doesn't have one and he feels like the others do. "face man" feels like overcompensating. initially, "leader" feels like too much, and it feels like something he TOOK from raph. there's really an implication that he feels like his brothers are SOMETHING without him, but he's NOTHING without them, and he directly states the second part. (so he overcompensates and acts like they do need him)

i think to make this an early-in-his-life practice kind of throws that out the window. leo taking this up when he's young doesnt fit him, i dont think, especially because i see him as a very.... high wisdom low intelligence kind of character. good street smarts terrible book smarts, and that's kind of apparent by him being so clever and intuitive while also taking stupid dares and making actively reckless decisions to look cool lmao. he would swallow a whole bottle of shampoo because mikey told him to and then be confused why he's in the medbay and raph is yelling at him like ten minutes later

HOWEVER. i think it is a very good way to explore some of the nuances of him that actually MAKE him a good leader, once he steps into that role. leo is a people person. he knows his family, he pays attention to them, he knows how to manipulate them and it would make him a diligent eye in the field. things dont get past him and it makes it hard to hide when theyre in pain from him. he's the most likely to be like "cool, i dont give a fuck" when they try to dismiss injuries. he'll happily make it an argument if he has to; he'd be as stubborn as a mule when it comes to their well-being, and he's more calculative than he looks, which means raph and donnie's usual tactics of dismissal and deflection hit a wall when he puts his foot down on something.

so really i just go out of my way to not make it something EXCLUSIVE to him when its included (and i always go out of my way to make it recent, because why would they have a designated medic who they already know to go to when the concept of crime-fighting was NEVER something they thought would really happen?). it makes the most sense to be something that STARTED with donnie, considering he refers to resuscitating piebald as "my science"; medicine is included in the field of what he enjoys and invests in. donnie is a jack of all trades in anything he can get his grubby little hands on, but ive always seen him as squeamish, which gives a good reason for leo to get involved.

but i think leo would always underestimate his capability despite lots of hands-on experience, even though hands-on is literally how he learns instead of reading books and studying like donnie does. no matter how diligent and practiced he is in the field, he's still not exclusive in it, and it doesnt feel like something that IS a big thing to him. so he can do a few stitches, big deal. donnie and splinter can already do that! who cares? raph and mikey probably could too if they actually paid attention to any of donnie's yap-sessions. no matter how much he boasts about how much they need their cool brother to patch them up, he doesn't believe it, even as he gets better and better and better.

it also gives him the opportunity to really come to face how meaningful it actually is, and to be appreciated for that, especially if donnie is out of commission and he actually gets to utilize that strength. doomed timeline angst potential right there.

[saturnville]

centavito, jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x she (black fem oc/reader) warning: none. just short. content: he wants her back and the chance is small, but he bets on his lucky coin that it'll work in his favor. song reference: centavito by romeo santos. an: it's been over 6 years since I wrote a football-related fic, so please give me some grace lol. and ofc, when I saw that there weren't many jude fics with a black reader/oc, I had slide one in there.

“I learned my lesson and I have been miserable without you. Please…one more chance.” 

The coin he twirled in his pocket was warm. His hands had fisted it tightly the entire walk to her front door. When he spoke, he turned it between his index finger and thumb over and over. There was only one way that it could go and that was up. So he hoped. 

She heard the voice of her grandmother in her ears as he took in his words. “If he fools you once, that’s on him! But, if he fools you again, he can’t be solely responsible. So, some people do change and I’m not gonna tell you he hasn’t, but it’s up to you to discern that for yourself, baby.” 

He didn’t cheat on her. He wasn’t mean, conniving, or deceitful. He simply didn’t appreciate her. When his life turned upside down and he became the wonder boy of the world, he forgot about her. She was pushed into the shadows when he promised she’d always be in the light. 

Suddenly, her rants about university exams and assignments weren’t interesting. Her love for the arts wasn’t fascinating. Long nights watching La Casa de Papel in her living room weren’t fun. Their nights in the kitchen trying new recipes were no longer a priority. She was no longer a priority. 

So, she left. She slid the promise ring off her middle finger, dropped it on his nightstand, and with tears in her eyes (and her head held high), she gathered her purse and went back to her apartment. She gathered all he’d gifted her and placed it in the box meticulously. Clothes and jerseys, books and letters--all prepared to be put into storage until she figured out where she truly wanted them to go. 

And just as she prepared to move the boxes into the storage unit after they’d sat in her bedroom corner for 17 days (yes, she counted), he was on the other side of the door, stopping her in her tracks. 

He looked fatigued, which could be credited to being a high-profile professional athlete, or as he put it, “Sleepless nights without you.” 

At that moment, he appeared so small. Not physically, per se, but emotionally. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, were dull and glossy with an emotion she couldn’t quite identify. Regret?

And when he spoke, he sounded like a chile who was trying not to choke over his words as he fought back tears. 

“Jude…” she said quietly, blinking back tears. Her hand was still tight around the door knob. “I don’t know.” She wanted him, sure, but she wasn’t willing to put herself in the position through an even worse heartbreak. But, at the same time, she believed what she’d said. 

“I’ll be better for you. I can’t lose you forever. One more chance, darling…please.” She’s never heard him beg in such a way. It made her insides stir.

Her jaw shifted as her eyes darted across his face, searching for any hint of dishonesty. Nothing or the sort. His eyes spoke what his mouth didn’t and it overwhelmed her greatly. I’m sorry, darling. 

“You love me?” she questioned after some time, her thick eyebrows furrowing. She wiped away the fallen tear that sped down her cheek. 

Jude nodded quickly. “I do. More than you know and more than I’ve shown you.” 

Her eyes moved quickly—she was thinking. He continued to fiddle with the coin in his pocket. Except his movements grew quicker as the anticipation grew.

“One chance,” she said after some time. “And you earn it.” 

Jude released the breath he was unaware he held and thanked the heavens above. Slowly, she moved out of the way to allow his entrance into her apartment. He closed the door behind him and pulled the coin from his pocket. Heads. 

 He smiled small. Little cent. The odds were finally in his favor. 

[blanceyblance]

On Lance and Keith, and the water/fire and sun/moon dynamics

Saw a post talking about how Lance and Keith are actually more like the other's element and is a really interesting but I found myself disagreeing though I didn't want to argue in OPs post.

I remember there was a part that said that Keith had to mold himself for survival, and, for what I remember, Keith very much does NOT do that.

Someone who molds himself to fit better would have gone into the Garrison to become a model of a perfect cadet, instead Keith is rebellious, and is not afraid of confrontation. He challenges Iverson and fights James and doesn't care if he makes an enemy out of the rest of the other cadets. They don't like it? sucks to suck because he is that good and he knows he is good.

In that same Garrison flashback, Lance actually tells Keith that if Keith keeps messing around he will be stuck as a cargo pilot, Lance tries to follow instructions, molds himself to be a good cadet because that's what is expected for him to be a fighter pilot, only that, things don't go that way, Keith is the one becoming a fighter pilot instead.

Even in his role as Black Paladin, Keith doesn't mold himself as much as he grows into it, like a flame growing to consume space.

Keith is a very straight forward guy, and rarely if ever, tries to hide his feelings, he is very sincere in what he does and means and he does things because he thinks is the best for everyone.

Take leaving the team for the Blades, while I do think he also did it so Lance didn't have to feel left out, I think he also did it so he could go and find more about his origins and himself, making what he thought was the best decision for both the team and himself.

What i'm trying to say is that t I never got the impression that Keith was afraid of showing himself. Just like a fire that doesn't change itself to fit in one place. He can be abrasive and powerful and hurtful like a wildfire and can also be warm and comforting and protective from the harsh circumstances like a fireplace. The presentation is the same, he just needed to learn to channel it better.

And that's why I think Lance had a bone to pick with him, or at least one of the reasons.

The previous description fits Lance to a tee, he can be downright mean and bitchy when he wants but also will give you friendly words and comfort when needed. Just like water can be overpowering and traitorous like the ocean while also bringing life and cleansing.

The thing is that while Keith didn't feel the need to mold for others, Lance does it with a lot of ease.

Being either a friendly welcoming face for the aliens they encounter, an emotional support for his team, a goodball to lift spirits for his friends, or a right hand man to two different leaders.

There is a reason he was usually referred as a jack of all trades just like Blue, not the tankiest or the fastest but it will be hard to find a place he won't be able to fill.

That's also while I support the sun Keith/moon Lance dynamic.

No matter how emo or mysterious he is, Keith shines bright not caring who may end up burning on his path, he is powerful and brilliant and good luck trying to ignore that. He burns but knowing he exists gives you hope for a new day. "He is the future" just like Lance said.

While Lance is the moon, who is always the same but will take on different faces depending the situation, the fact that you can stare directly at him doesn't mean he is letting you see the full picture. He shines in the dark offering guide in hard times but also caring for his team from afar as the resident sniper. Nurturing and kind, always tied to the waters and Earth.

They are still very similar, that's why they are a duo but I still think Keith at his core is fire just like Lance's is water.

And also to spread the Sun Keith/Moon Lance agenda.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.