#the author is dead! hurrah!

[nostalgia-tblr]

i must admit i think fandom is far nicer to the jotuns than that thor movie they're in was. cos yeah they got their Magic Box stolen but the civilian applications of it are never specified (idk, Magic of some kind?) and we only ever see it used as a weapon, by a people who themselves only ever attack others unprovoked. the most sympathtic jotun we the audience ever meet is the main villain of the movie.

i think fandom's version of events is a much more nuanced one than what that film actually manages (or even attempts) to do on its own.

possibly my view of the Marvel American-Militarism-Is-Great Universe was jaded from the very start but... *gestures towards hollywood blockbusters in general*

[aurumacadicus]

We're not foolin', the next month of book club starts on April 1st! If you're interested in book club, feel free to send me a message or ask and I'll send you the Discord link. All the book summaries are under the cut. Happy voting!

The Inheritance Games by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

Avery Grambs has a plan for a better future: survive high school, win a scholarship, and get out. But her fortunes change in an instant when billionaire Tobias Hawthorne dies and leaves Avery virtually his entire fortune. The catch? Aver has no idea why – or even who Tobias Hawthorne even is.

To receive her inheritance, Avery must move into sprawling, secret passage-filled Hawthorne House, where every room bears the old man’s touch – and his love of puzzles, riddles, and codes. Unfortunately for Avery, Hawthorne House is also occupied by the family that Tobias Hawthorne just dispossessed. This includes the four Hawthorne grandsons: dangerous, magnetic, brilliant boys who grew up with every expectation that one day, they would inherit billions. Heir apparent Grayson Hawthorne is convinced that Avery must be a conwoman, and he’s determined to take her down. His brother, Jameson, views her as their grandfather’s last hurrah: a twisted riddle, a puzzle to be solved. Caught in a world of wealth and privilege, with danger around every turn, Avery will have to play the game herself just to survive.

Suitors and Sabotage by Cindy Anstey

Two young people must hide their true feelings for each other while figuring out who means them harm in this cheeky Regency romance from the author of Love, Lies, and Spies and Duels & Deception.

Shy aspiring artist Imogene Chively has just had a successful Season in London, complete with a suitor of her father’s approval. Imogene is ambivalent about the young gentleman until he comes to visit her at the Chively estate with his younger brother in tow. When her interest is piqued, however, it is for the wrong brother.

Charming Ben Steeple has a secret: despite being an architectural apprentice, he has no drawing aptitude. When Imogene offers to teach him, Ben is soon smitten by the young lady he considers his brother’s intended.

But hiding their true feelings becomes the least of their problems when, after a series of “accidents,” it becomes apparent that someone means Ben harm. And as their affection for each other grows—despite their efforts to remain just friends—so does the danger… The Spirit Bares Its Teeth by Andrew Joseph White

Mors vincit omnia. Death conquers all.

London, 1883. The Veil between the living and dead has thinned. Violet-eyed mediums commune with spirits under the watchful eye of the Royal Speaker Society, and sixteen-year-old Silas Bell would rather hip out his violet eyes than become an obedient Speaker wife. According to Mother, he’ll be married by the end of the year. It doesn’t matter that he’s needed a decade of tutors to hide his autism; that he practices surgery on slaughtered pigs; that he is a boy, not the girl the world insists on seeing.

After a failed attempt to escape an arranged marriage, Silas is diagnosed with Veil sickness—a mysterious disease sending violet-eyed women into madness—and shipped away to Braxton’s Sanitorium and Finishing School. The facility is cold, the instructors merciless, and the students either bloom into eligible wives or disappear. So when the ghosts of missing students start begging Silas for help, he decides to reach into Braxton’s innards and expose its rotten guts to the world—as long as the school doesn’t break him first.

Etiquette & Espionage by Gail Carriger

It’s one thing to learn to curtsy properly. It’s quite another to learn to curtsy and throw a knife at the same time. Welcome to Finishing School.

Fourteen-year-old Sophronia is a great trial to her poor mother. Sophronia is more interested in dismantling clocks and climbing trees than proper manners—and the family can only hope that company never sees her atrocious curtsy. Mrs. Temminnick is desperate for her daughter to become a proper lady. So she enrolls Sophronia in Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality.

But Sophronia soon realizes the school is not quite what her mother might have hoped. At Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, young ladies learn to finish…everything. Certainly, they learn the fine arts of dance, dress, and etiquette, but they also learn to deal out death, diversion, and espionage—in the politest possible ways, of course. Sophronia and her friends are in for a rousing first year’s education.

Rosemary and Rue by Seanan McGuire

October “Toby” Daye, a changeling who is half human and half fae, has been an outsider from birth. After getting burned by both sides of her heritage, Toby has denied the Faerie world, retreating to a “normal” life. Unfortunately for her, the Faerie world has other ideas…

The murder of Countess Evening Winterrose pulls Toby back into the fae world. Unable to resist Evening’s dying curse, which binds her to investigate, Toby must resume her former position as knight errand and renew old alliances. As she steps back into fae society, dealing with a cast of characters not entirely good or evil, she realizes that more than her own life will be forfeited if she cannot find Evening’s killer.

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin

On a bitter-cold day, in the December of his junior year at Harvard, Sam Masur exits a subway car and sees, amid the hordes of people waiting on the platform, Sadie Green. He calls her name. For a moment, she pretends she hasn’t heard him, but then, she turns, and a game begins; a legendary collaboration that will launch them to stardom. These friends, intimates since childhood, borrow money, beg favors, and, before even graduating college, they have created their first blockbuster, Ichigo. Overnight, they world is theirs. Not even twenty-five years old, Sam and Sadie are brilliant, successful, and rich, but these qualities won’t protect them from their own creative ambitions of the betrayals of their hearts.

Spanning thirty years, from Cambridge, Massachusetts, to Venice Beach, California, and lands in between and far beyond, Gabrielle Zeven’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is a dazzling and intricately imagined novel that examines the multifarious nature of identity, disability, failure, the redemptive possibilities in play, and above all, our need to connect: to be loved and to love. Yes, it is a love story, but it is not one you have read before.

Gwen & Art Are Not in Love by Lex Croucher

It’s been hundreds of years since King Arthur’s reign. His descendant, Arthur, a future Lord and general gadabout, has been betrothed to Gwendoline, the quick-witted, short-tempered princess of England, since birth. The only thing they can agree on is that they despise each other.

They’re forced to spend the summer together at Camelot in the run-up to their nuptials, and within 24 hours, Gwen has discovered Arthur kissing a boy, and Arthur has gone digging for Gwen’s childhood diary and found confessions about her crush on the kingdom’s only lady knight, Bridget Leclair.

Realizing they might make better allies than enemies, Gwen and Art make a reluctant pact to cover for each other, and as things heat up at the annual royal tournament, Gwen is swept off her feet by her knight, and Arthur takes an interest in Gwen’s royal brother. Lex Croucher’s Gwen & Art Are Not in Love is chock full of sword-fighting, found family, and romantic shenanigans destined to make readers fall in love.

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 31: Sally's Song

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: What’s so wrong with Kakuzu playing around? It’s not like her affection will last. Nothing ever does.

Author's Note: I have a very strong attachment to this song. I try not to be *super* 1-1 with my personal experiences to what the reader analog "Takara" is supposed to be, but this one can't be helped. I love this song, it's the first song outside of church that I memorized, first song I sang for the purpose of wanting it to sound good. If Sally's Song has no fans, that means I am dead.

I really, really admire the Fiona Apple cover of this song especially, but for whatever reason it was removed from Spotify, apparently a couple of years ago. The rendition added to the fic playlist will be a music box instrumental by Music Box Rockstar. (Forgive me if I change my mind later).

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And does he notice my feelings for him?

And will he see how much he means to me?

I think it's not to be

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dappling light is a lot more awe-striking when you’re relearning how to see the world, the way it blots over each thing like flecks on a watercolor painting and makes you reevaluate its shape. The sun isn’t visible right now where the performer is, instead diffusing its rays through the fading foliage in this magical way. It’s fascinating, really, how in autumn so many plants seem to give one last hurrah by bleeding out all their bright colors before it’s time to die. There’s a similar reason why the performer is now stuck with her once favorite dress and sweater.

She wears both now, of course, as there is nothing else in her wardrobe. In the springtime with Hidan and Kakuzu’s initial company, it was quite fitting! White with pink and blue detailings, sort of like flowers fresh from the melting snow. Summer managed to fit still, sweater removable and sunhat appropriate. But now in fall, the warming hues of crimson, orange, gold, and brown make her miss a scarf she used to have with matching colors. The fiery rainbow refracts in her eyes until a cool-toned finger gently brushes up and down her arm. Kisame always oozes with a strange, contagious sort of vibrancy even though he doesn’t bounce off the walls like Tobi nor raise his voice like Hidan. It’s subtle, and though his color is blue, it’s an attitude that suits red maple leaves and yellowing morning glory vines that climb up old, moss-sodden lattice.

“Told you it’d be nice to get out of the place,” he asserts, having figuratively dragged her from bed for this. And she beams up at him, as though the woman is bone-tired, he is still right.

“Hey!" 

…Someone shouts to get their attention. A head of spiked hair perks up with double the attentiveness for his ward who can hardly blink, shifting his shoulders to turn them both around. Once it's had, Hidan purses his lips and gives the fish a judging look; he lets it sink in before putting in his two cents. "You shouldn't be carrying her everywhere.”

The privacy is quickly shattered, the interrupting voice reminding the performer of how, exactly, she even managed to go outside: that Kisame only got her here by picking her up and taking the lady himself. He’s so strong that it became second nature for a few minutes, and the silly thing entirely forgot that she is a grown-ass woman that can suddenly be held like a toddler. Mute, she instantly shrinks closer to his cloak— which he now dons over his indigo tank top with the chiller weather— a redness on her cheeks. The taller man blinks with a frown at his sudden opponent with gray hair and righteous attitude. "It's better than her staying in one spot for too long, isn’t it?”

Hidan effectively scrunches one half of his face, corner of his mouth pulling up and the right eye squinting. He’s seen her move on her own; why not just let her? It doesn’t make sense! Will she forget how?! “Then have her walk!”

A whimper is all she’s got, hiding more into the dark cloth at the shark’s neck. Kisame defends, a snarl curling his upper lip: "She's enjoying it."

The shirtless grim reaper stares long and hard to verify this to no avail, rolling his eyes back up to the fellow Akatsuki. "She looks unhappy, asshole."

"Yeah, now that you're scolding her,” the swordsman parries, holding her just a little bit closer as if the arm of his cloak can shield the poor woman from misunderstanding cruelty. “Can you either get with the program or shut up?"

"What?!” Hidan, of course takes offense, redirecting his attention to the one he’s actually worried for. “Girlie, hey! Look over here!" To Kisame’s dismay, ever so slowly…she abides, and he notes the anxiety in her eyes. "You enjoying that?" A flush in her cheeks...but she nods. There is no way to deny that this is oh so very wonderful. The priest blinks twice in disbelief. “W—... really?”  

Hidan’s double down is about to knock her off her feet (metaphorically, too): 

"Then— then let me carry you, too!"

Kisame’s response is immediate: "...What the hell?" he blinks back with his own shock. His shaming doesn’t work on a man who has no shame to speak of.

"If you get to, so do I,” Hidan argues, folding his arms matter-of-fact. “Simple as that!"

...By technicality, that is true. The kiri-nin looks to her attached to his side for approval or lack thereof once more. "You don't have to say yes...” he reminds under his breath.

But the consideration is heavy, her soft eyes glancing over to the silver-haired man standing on this path outside their house. Is Hidan only asking because he's jealous? Does he even want to? They haven't really talked since they…you know. But the firmness there... Regardless of motive, it does seem to be a sincere want. But she has her own, in spite of how she misses him: "I don't...want to be a bother..."

To that he frowns, and his hands lower onto his waist in a sure, somewhat annoyed stance. "Yer not." His half-lidded stare alone dares anyone to ask why he wants this, including her.

Unable to formulate an acceptance as an apology...she just nods up to the shark to abide by the other man’s wishes. Kisame reluctantly, awkwardly passes her to him, muttering something about not fucking dropping her, and she’s unsure what to do with her own arms in this exchange—

"Come ‘ere."

So Hidan does the actions for her, careful fingers with a ring like dusty dry blood adjusting her hands to loop around his neck and the back of her knees to go over his cloaked arm. The way he looks at her...hooded eyes so close to her own... Geez, it's a bit more believable Kisame is so strong, being so very tall and less human looking. Hidan is just... a guy. But she gives him no problem whatsoever...!

She remembers abruptly how heavy his scythe was. Oh.

…

...

"Okay..." Hidan asks the swordsman after glancing her up and down, "Now what?"

It's Kisame's turn to raise an eyebrow this time. "...What do you mean,” he asks flatly.

"The fuck do you do next?"

Kisame squints so much harder that his actual eyes aren't visible, merely small black gills over a widening grimace. He is starting to regret this pass-off. "You...hold her...?"

"I'll do it, un."

Before Hidan can argue his place, a blonde takes her into his own sure, smooth grasp. Oh dear. He's even smaller than Hidan but picks her up like she's lighter than a kitten...! It shuts her up into pure, unadulterated silence with a stare as big as two dinner plates. "Hey, darling." The artist blinks, smiling still but brow curling, shy girl saying nothing to help alleviate tension. "...What are we carrying you for...?" Deidara inquires.

"That’s what I was asking! Now let her down, okay?"

"Why?” Deidara scoffs at Hidan, backing half a step away as the latter ninja approaches to grab her back. “You were the one holding her, un."

"You didn't ask!"

"...Did I need to?"

"Yes," both fish and Jashinist confirm in aggravated unison.

Ohhh my gosh. Her face hurts from blushing so much, eyes from being so wide. Kisame takes it as his cue and he tentatively steps up, reaching out to take her back from this problem he incidentally started. "Let me...just—...” he stammers, ready to rescue from a social faux pas. “Come here, Takara-hime—"

"Swoop!"

With a flash of black and orange, an unexpected fourth man slips between them and flees, pastel-dressed prize in his arms. He trots away with the speed of a child stealing from a candy store, reaction stagnated by shock just until his long, trailing scarf is out of sight:

“TOBI!”

“TOBI?!”

“TOBI, YOU GODDAMN COCKSUCKER!!!”

The chase begins, a whine at the back of the kidnappee’s throat that wavers with each bounce of his feet. “Heehee!” he laughs, “Takara-chan is mine, mine mine mine!” the jester teases, shit-eating grin surely behind the spiral he wears as he revels in the tight grip lovely fingers make into his clothes. The swift shinobi weaves around one corner of the house, speeding through a pile of leaves which scatter about like Tobi had stepped on coals of a fire, flying sparks and embers that crunch instead of crackle. “If—” he huffs an exaggerated breath, “—They can’t decide who has you—” Breath. Another corner of the house is rounded. “—Then—” Breath. He stomps through a couple-days-old puddle, water droplets splashing cold against her legs. “It’s gonna— be me!”

The thief twists around one more side of the ancient home lined in dead vines like a gold trim only to be caught by surprise. Abrutptly, he stops to a halt, seeing something before his dear Takara-chan can register the new danger.

“Oh?” One...Two...Three. Surrounded!

Kisame is grinning to the left, Hidan is frowning to the right, and a fuming Deidara is directly behind, sliding open the back door with Tobi’s name cursing from the back of the tongue within his head. She’s not even the one running and this is all making the traveler lose her breath. How the hell did they move so fast...?! It’s only been all of, what, ten fucking seconds?!

"Oh— guess you got me!” He's playing, the fellow performer can still tell. Something's up his sleeve. Okay...so what does that mean—? “Catch!"

It means she's not ready for what's next, not all.

“AAAAAAH-!”

The woman screams as she’s tossed unceremoniously up to the clouds, feeling the force of gravity first in the way that her body attempts to break it, climbing up and up and up with the power of his throw. A couple of times on roller coasters have prepared her instincts well: her stomach sinks in anticipation for the rest of her, just as the acceleration slows and the drop is about to begin.

“AAA—” … And she waits for a fall that does not come. “...Oh…?” The first thing in her vision is the bright blue sky in contrast to the vast forest. Wow...what a view. It’s open like she’s high above—

—Oh. Oh Jesus. Is she really two stories up in the air? TOBI?!

A heavy, heavy sigh is heard from an open window nearby, practically behind her ear. It wakes her up to look down, first at the guys staring up at her from the ground, then a bit closer to her own self. Black threads wrap around her body, around from her back and then loop over and over around her legs; it feels as secure as, well, if you somehow warped metal straight out of the flame to a custom fit just for you. The sight of herself is enough to swallow further shrieks, much to the relief of he who has rescued her from such reckless affairs.

Kakuzu leans down, open fist outside the threshold of the window pane with threads weaving out of rips in his skin that keep her in place. Menacingly, his glower rolls down to the ants below. "You...stupid motherfuckers."

"IT WAS TOBI, JACKASS!" Hidan quickly accuses, pointing to the culprit. A growl and a death glare is all it takes for the masked man to whine like a scared puppy. That’s good enough to appease Kakuzu. For now.

Ironically enough, it's his turn in this ridiculous game: "Come on, then..."

The three watch as the woman flies back into the house, a small eek on the back of her tongue and window promptly shut behind her with a slam. A moment of silence, all four men staring up to where she was spirited away.

…

…

“He’s going to kill you, you know,” Hidan states without any urgency, glancing over to the orange spiral. “He’s kind of famous for that.” And though Tobi fakes shaking in his boots very, very convincingly, everyone else still thinks he’d deserve it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What will become of my dear friend?

Where will his actions lead us then?

Although I'd like to join the crowd

In their enthusiastic cloud

Try as I may, it doesn't last

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What a mess, Kakuzu thinks. He exhales, fully undressed besides a pair of pants, no face covering nor shirt to cover his unnerving stitches. Thanks, Tobi. A small “oof” is muttered as the woman is set down on his bed without a second glance, man himself turning around to retain what little respect he has left. It's an opportunity for the performer to briefly gain her bearings. Kakuzu’s room, she vaguely recalls. Really has been inside it only once— no, not even inside . She’s only seen into it less than a handful of times. Frankly, it’s pretty...ordinary. It’s clean. It at first seems to lack hobbies. No piles of clay, no sword to polish (re-wrap??? Samehada is a stick of bandages, after all), no circle to pray in. But it becomes apparent that what he has instead of things to humor him is...finances. Receipts and bills are nicely organized or are in a pile waiting to be, a bingo book of wanted criminals open that perhaps may promise enough funds to keep this makeshift horrid fucking family alive another day. A couple of briefcases are neatly lined next to his desk, metal and heavy looking as if to transport valuables.

Her head shifts side to side. Grumbling, taking no heed, the treasurer has walked over to his closet in search of attire to make him better suited to be around a lady. He forgets so easily that the strangest thing about him isn't just the stitches but what they lead to on his backside…

"What...?"

Thinking this is about the metal threads, he looks over his shoulder as she finally looks to him and speaks. “They—” he begins. But, oh. Oh, no, it isn’t those her eyes are locked on; the threads have slunk back into his hollowed body already. What he sees, instead, is her pointing squarely at the masks. There's four of them, different animals and colors.

"Are those...attached to you?"

Ah. Right. Damn . He exhales yet again, not moving so she gets a good long look, ogles to her heart's content at the freak he is, get it out of the way. Guess it was inevitable she find out. "Yes." Then he reaches forward, a tank top chosen off the shelf with an open back for these creatures. It’s more comfortable, for one, and for another makes it easier to fight if they don’t have to pop through and ruin a perfectly good shirt. Never can be too prepared. Not too fast as to not scare, he turns his front back around despite his bare chest facing her. She looks so small, somehow, head hunched down and eyes angled up as she sits upon the edge of his own bed. How do they always get off the wrong foot when they don't even try?

"I'm sorry." Because of course she is. There’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

One thing is sure: "Don't be."

A thread drifts away from his bicep like an autonomous, thin tentacle, locking the door just in time to hear the nob shift futility and Hidan knock ever so impatiently to be let in. His head turns sharply, a snarl on his face. She notes how the way his eyes scrunch up is such a common expression above his usual mask; does he always frown like that when they do? "Give the girl ten damn minutes without your nonsense!"

Vague but clearly angry response muddles through the closed door, but Kakuzu's expression stays and so does his order. A moment of silence and gradually the arguing fades, something about promising to be back later. The hunter’s tense brow relaxes and so do the corners of his lips, and red and green eyes stop bulging. In. Out. He catches his breath and turns boiling rage to a simmer. For her sake. Calm down, for her sake.

The stitches on his face move with his cheeks, she can tell from where she grips the edge of the bed; they are, most certainly, not just burns or scars or face paint. His eyes catch hers, a challenge in them that regains a sliver of the anger he managed to beat back, daring her to call him a monster. Unnatural. Hideous. It’s all true, just get it over with. A flash of something else was before that, though, on his face. It's an emotion that feels familiar in her own chest.

Despite his expectations, she reaches out to him, slowly raising her wrist with a begging, upward-facing palm. He doesn't flinch, eyes starting at the woman’s fingertips, trailing up her arm and to her face.

"...What?"

How can she say it? Both palms, now, come back, gesturing together for him to come here. Out of pure confusion and desire to know what the hell she means, Kakuzu simply obeys.

Shaky hands go to the brown arm as he grunts with the unexpected contact, even as her touch is more gentle than he could have imagined. Maybe even especially so. As she sits on his bed, one hand goes under his palm to steady it in place while the other wanders up to explore, both visually and tactilly...

The bounty hunter…has two tattooed bands on his forearm. At first she assumed that's where they come from, but no, the actual stitches are higher up, unmistakable as the source of his eldritch-seeming threads. She traces up to the shoulder, then under his chin. There's even more of these lines on his torso, seen far, far too easily as he hasn’t yet slipped on his top in this unexpected intermission, and she can tell they all lead like train tracks to the masks embedded into his latissimus dorsi. Her eyes consume him, taste him, know him. She's far from the first to witness him like this, in battle or otherwise, and so he ignores the sense of novelty that washes over him and behaves with expectations that are tried and true. Something Kakuzu and his musician have in common is how they’ll insult themselves with the truth before you can turn it against them first.

"...I know. I know what I look like." But she acts like she hasn't . She's seen him before, though, the times she barged in at the peak of midnight...why is it different now?

Sometimes trauma heightens the senses, lets you take in things better than before. The quivering touch of the performer moves to reach further upon his skin, still. In awe, fingertips barely brush against his chest and most unbelievably, he doesn't stop her.

Tears well up on her eyes, which to his surprise turn up to his own instead of staying locked lower down on his ugly, deformed self.

"Does it hurt?"

...That’s not something he's been asked before. IF it hurt, yes, when “it” happened decades ago. If it does when hearts pump out of his back to attack and spew the elements at his enemies. Yes and yes, answers to both as well as if others have been so brave as to inquire directly to the bastard himself. But does he hurt now , merely existing with this curse? It's been so long with the aches stitched into him that he's forgotten, so he searches the numbness under his skin for what the answer may be.

"...Yes," he discovers, despite how it might make her cry. He knows she likes the truth. "...But it's better than before,” Kakuzu softens. In several ways. Better off with than without them. Better off than being fully human. Better off than being dead.

He sits down next to her and unbelievably, after rubbing the saltwater from her face, this woman shifts. Yes, yes, he is not mistaken; this woman now crawls onto his lap.

And he lets her. 

All hearts pounding in discordant, unmatched pulses, he lets her. Legs wrap around his side, thighs seated atop his own. She trusts him. Even after everything, even seeing him like this...—? Oh so delicately, with a hesitance that draws her away before curiosity pulls her back in, this soothing lady traces the metal woven into him. The way he is… It reminds her of something. Something distinct. A visceral sort of memory, one from long, long ago…

…Kakuzu notices before she does that his performer is humming.

It's a tune both sweet and melancholy, befitting a creature like her and somehow, too, the way she approaches a beast like him. His gaze softens, lips no longer a stern, stretched line, and he drinks her wonder in. Kakuzu missed the songs that used to always tinge her voice, and this is the first it’s come back since she has come back home to him, even if so, very small.

“...Oh…!” The woman pulls back, somehow both after too long and far too soon, and she...smiles up at him. This…who he is…makes her happy? “...You remind me of...a rag doll.”

…

Dark brown hair drifts past his face as he savors that nickname, elaborates to himself on the implications. He’s been called it before, yeah...usually just before deciding to detach the person by their arteries. How can it seem so... kind from those lips? So adoring…? She has an answer, and it’s silly just like her.

“When I was little…” the performer tries to explain with stilted words, as plainly as she can so as to not confuse, “...I loved a story. It had a rag doll...who...stuffed herself with leaves.”

The Frankenstein's Monster stays silent, does so regardless of if there’s more for her to add. The slightest, softest inhale and the humming begins again...this time closer to the singing the Akatsuki miss, just without words. Down, up, and up...down… Down, up, and up...down… Lovely indeed, whatever it is, even if simple and bouncy. It was, after all, one of the first melodies she memorized on her own volition. Idly, she traces him again, finding a spot just at his collarbone and right at her line of sight. The threads are stiffer than they look, less like woven fabric and more like surgical staples. How do they move with such lithe grace, so little effort?

As she ponderers this question, one of his own springs off Kakuzu's tongue like a diving board.

“...You never sang when you were alive?” To his relief, the humming doesn’t stop; it’s such a piece of her, this melody that she can do it without thinking. A free hand wipes her eye again, and despite the nature of everything, her tiny smile does not waver nor flinch away as she answers.

“...I wanted to,” she murmurs after a moment, voice light and wispy much the same way as she seems next to someone rough like himself. “I wanted to be a singer...a musician…” A guitarist, a keyboard player, a...star. A performer. “I...learned...to stop doing it...just because I felt I had to, and started doing it...for fun by myself.”

Eyes close, and she tries to identify these marks on him with touch alone, tries to narrow down exactly what he feels like skin on skin. Kakuzu wonders if she can feel how his pulse is stronger than one any normal person should have.

“You could have been.” And she is now, he reminds himself. Or at least she will be once this nonsense is said and done and she can get back to a nondescript civilian life. But...she shakes her head.

“Too scared,” the woman says, “Too shy.”

“How do you know that? Did you try?” Perhaps foolish to challenge; the thing she is surest in besides the persistent strength of humanity is the failures of her own making.

“I had the chance...I was offered...to be in a play…” The smile widens, showing teeth and hiding a grimace. “...I was too little and too scared. And I never…”

…

She doesn’t continue that thought.

“Why didn't you try again? You were just a child, right? Children are allowed to be wrong.” But as soon as he says it, he knows this isn’t true. He knows from experience. So does she. A long, painful silence...and then her eyes open. The humming continues, sweet and sad. She reaches up into his hair, delicately, to see if it feels as smooth as it looks.

"She falls in love with someone...who can't see his demise coming,” the woman explains of the rag doll with leaves. His brown hair is silky and soft. “She tries to help. In the end...it gets her in trouble. He realizes she's in danger and saves her." Kakuzu raises a brow, stitches at his mouth exaggerating a purse of his lips.

"What monster pairs with a living rag doll?" And to his surprise, she beams once more:

"A skeleton!"

...Oh. He grunts, his way of chuckling without being so vulnerable as to give off actual mirth, eyes hooding and smirk forming. "I know what you're going to say, Takara...that that’s like us."

The combing stops, big eyes blinking their befuddlement as the curled fingers pull away. "Excuse me?"

...Oh, dammit. She has never even seen Hidan's ritual form, and so Kakuzu feels his face flush at making the connection himself. Goddammit… As if Hidan could ever save him. It's always the other way around...

"Am...am I...a...a skeleton?" she stutters, not getting it.

"No,” he cuts in sharply. Too sharp, in fact— “I mean— ...never mind."

…

…

The now free hands of the woman fidget index fingers, pressing tip against tip. "There's another character...that's filled with bugs," she adds, as if this is helpful in any way whatsoever.

"…" Kakuzu answers, gaze narrowed and mouth in a straight line.

"I like bugs."

And so he exhales yet-fucking-again. "Takara, you're very fortunate I happen to be tolerant of the dumb shit you say." Hidan owes him for that, too, really.

"Oh." The woman on his lap doesn't need to say: she's sorry. She gets shy and withdrawn and her hands drift even further away. Exasperated, Kakuzu takes them into his own grasp.

"...But it's better than you never talking again."

He can't touch her with his own hands; surely he's too rough, both literally and figuratively. The threads come instead, strange and cold and inhuman. It only makes her remember what it was like to hold him by the fingers, though, as she did once when Kakuzu taught her how to read the stars.

"...Can I ask you something rude?"

What a weird thing to ask. He shrugs, just barely so not to shake her too much up and down as she sits on him. Is this fine? Is she safe so close to him? Is it proper for a man to let her do it? And yet he can’t bring himself to pull them apart. "Alright."

"Why is your skin... so...?"

It isn’t a sigh this time as he releases air from heavy lungs, but a chuckle. You can tell it comes from deep in his chest, even if quiet. "It'd be rude if you ignored it. That's just how I am now."

She blinks again, lashes fluttering. "You weren't... always...?"

"No. I was someone else a long time ago."

"Like me?"

…

He thinks about this, long and hard. This girl does, after all, remind him of who he used to be. So what does that mean of her before? He recalls her mentions of a life before a death, an existence riddled with agony, debt, and servitude. A broken loyalty to a system that felt nothing for her, and waking up to abandon it by any means necessary. …So, perhaps, they have switched lives. Silly boy to serious man. Serious woman to silly girl. Funny how life works out. They both had a death of sorts in between to make it happen, and here they are.

"Sure. Like you, I guess."

"Thank you," she responds inexplicably, despite the implications he sees, an emotion so bright dripping from her mouth like honey from a hive. There isn’t even a blush on her face; with the next action, it’s all whimsy and instinct and no thought whatsoever. It has to be, to be so silly.

The woman leans up and presses a kiss on his forehead, for once bare of the headband marked with his betrayal. A sensation tingles down his own cheeks, down his neck, into the depths of five dark hearts. Despite it all...he feels joy. It makes him tense up. Alas, this is so easy to pick up on with how close they are, and she jerks back immediately, crawling off his lap just as quickly as she got on. Now her face is red.

"Sorry…! I—... Sorry."

Sorry... That’s the right word for giving a guy like him the time of day, the warmth from a sixth blood-pumping organ somehow tied inseparably to his quintet. "It's fine,” he responds in calculation, choosing not to tell her how much he enjoyed it. “Just...be careful who you do that to. Alright?"

Instead of asking why, she simply says, unable to look him in the face: "I'm bad…" And calmly— oh so calmly compared to a moment ago— he retorts, his own voice murmured and already longing for her song.

"I didn't say that."

...

"I meant it,” the taki-nin elaborates, both as a comfort and an admonition. “We're all like this, Takara. ...If not outside like me then on the inside. Keep your wits about you. Save your affection for those who are deserving. It isn’t you that’s wrong, here. If someone has to be called 'bad'…" Childish worldview as it is, to be so black and white, the answer is undeniable. “...It’s us. They threw you, for god’s sake.”

"But...I...—"

"And if you can't," he adds selfishly, and the next is a whisper. "At least be tactful about it." The scariest part about what happens next is that he does, indeed, mull it over before it’s done. The outcomes are considered, the details poured over, and the fool still does exactly as he's warned her of.

A press of his world-weary lips comes from out of nowhere yet arrives so, so gently, just as soon pulling back before she can even tell what's happened. And though he isn’t brimming with sunshine like Takara can, this old man still can’t hide he’s making a silly, silly choice. "...Duckling."

And that’s it. There’s the slightest smirk on his face as he slinks backwards off the bed, visible until Kakuzu turns around and throws the signature cloak of his ilk over leathery-textured shoulders. The traveler gapes, what she thought as her mistake now his confirmation—

“Oi!” another guilty pleasure beckons impatiently behind Kakuzu’s locks. The bounty hunter huffs, allowing the woman one last opportunity to see a widening grin before the mask slips back on.

“Perfect timing.”

Before she knows it, another, paler set of arms come around the performer, Hidan complaining with his chin upon her head of her terrible, unforgivable absence for all of ten minutes. It really is over so very, very quickly. It has to be, lest the choices grow poorer and poorer between a half-naked man and a lady not even back to herself.

But he hums the lonely rag doll’s song back to himself all the same in private the rest of this day, up through dinner, in the bath, hell— maybe even in his sleep. It somehow sounds just fine on his old, gravely tongue as a mind re-walks the life it’s led just to work up to something as stupid and risky as this. Dead leaves fall down past the window where the zombie scooped her into his waiting lap, and he wonders what it would be like to stuff them underneath his patchwork skin.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And will we ever end up together?

No, I think not, it's never to become

For I am not the one

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[nonobadcat]

I’m not sure if this is a good idea, but AFO as a college professor. Imagine this: reader is a senior the top of her class, but she is really stressed and tired from all the pressure from her peers as well as her boyfriend cheating on her, and so when AFO finds reader sobbing her eyes out near the dorms, unable to stand up cause she’s as drunk as a skunk, he decides to sweep her away to *ahem* relive some of her tension.

Btw, I loved the merman AFO post, keep up the good work, your writing is amazing!!!

Hands-On Instruction

College Professor AFO X Graduating Senior Fem!Reader

Word count: 5.5k

(Masc!Reader Version - Available Here)

Rating: 18+ Readers only

Content Warnings: Dubcon (alcohol/manipulation), size kink, implied stalking, PnV with mild mating press, a metric ton of romanji Japanese dialogue, unsafe relations with creampie, unhealthy power dynamics between professor and former student

Please note: This story will contain numerous conversations in Japanese which has been phonetically spelled out using the Latin alphabet. The author does not have any formal education in Japanese. Resources used are listed in the end notes.

Translations of the Japanese language dialogue can be found here

Sometimes, dirty dishes are more clairvoyant than crystal balls.

In retrospect, your afternoon began to sour when your boyfriend brought his frat brothers over for a “little pre-gaming” before their “last hurrah” party. They swarmed your quiet apartment, draping themselves across the furniture like locusts over a wheat field. Though Caleb swore it would be a “casual thing”, the thirty-two pack in the fridge implied more human interaction than you could handle. Still, trying to be the “chill” girlfriend, you schooled your face in a mask of placid contentment. As the noise level climbed decibel by decibel, your eye began to twitch.

Biting back both your thoughts and your thumbnail, you didn't notice the splash of water in the cheap, stainless sink. Raw, exhausted eyes were too busy scanning your half written speech for the five hundredth time to catch his furrowed brow. Ringing ears ignored the low huff that pinched between his clenched teeth. What you did catch was Caleb’s snide jeer to his friends. 

"Yeah, sorry the place is such a mess. These dishes have been sitting here for weeks."

To his credit, he was correct about the flower vase. You'd bought yourself the roses three weeks ago when you'd been officially declared valedictorian of your university's graduating class. Using sugar, bleach and internet instructions, you helped them limp along as long as cut flowers could. When they molded beyond salvation, you’d thrown them away. Your boyfriend never asked what they were for.

Caleb was wrong about the coffee mugs. Five days ago, when you buckled down on your speech, they'd been whisked out of the cabinet and abused with cup after cup of liquid wakefulness. Fat lot of good it'd done you. Graduation was only four days away, the stupid thing was half written, and Caleb had teased you about your eye bags this morning.

…but really! The pancake batter bowl was only ten hours old. He should know. You got up early to make them so he could help “the brothers” with the party decorations. He had no right to complain about you using too many dishes. After all, pancakes were the first thing you'd eaten since Thursday night. Unfortunately, in your brain dead state, you forgot to add the sugar. Every last one of the flapjacks tasted like couch foam and frustration. Caleb had rolled his eyes and told you to pay more attention.

While all those little things hurt, these new words hit like a cannonball to the gut. Your mouth snapped open, but at the sight of his guests, bitter protests flailed on your tongue. The crack of your computer lid slamming shut out sounded any gunshot. You cringed and glanced at the group. Not one of them, including Caleb, turned your way.

Bile burned your throat. Head down, you excused yourself to the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind you. When your hands touched the computer keys, your saliva turned into cotton and your fingers into lead. The digital clock flicked from number to number. Tense shoulders locked into hard knots. Black text swam in and out of focus. Burning salt stung your eyes before blazing down your nose. As you stared at the blinking cursor, aluminum cans crinkled in the background.

It was only when the front door banged shut that you realized the party had moved on without you.

Caleb led the pack, swinging himself around with a raucous laugh. When one of his brothers pointed to your bedroom window, your boyfriend waved his hand. His words cut through the glass before slicing straight into your heart.

“Don’t bother talking to her. She’s too busy.”

Oh. It was on.

Furious and ferocious, you threw yourself into your closet. What to wear tonight? It needed to say “college party” but with that “I want attention” bite. Slutty co-ed? Nah… the pleats needed pressed and you weren’t feeling the iron. Kohl liner goth? Meh… If you were drinking, jacking around with fishnets in the toilet sounded like a hassle. Sweater puppy bimbo? Too humid for that much knit. Crack-my-glowstick ravecore? Not enough black lights. Bodycon babe? Please. It’s not like you were fundraising in the Ivy Leagues.

After three minutes of clawing through the nest of clothing, gossamer polyester slipped through your fingers.

Dark academia? Perfect. 

Wiggling into a belted black mini skirt, you smoothed the asymmetrical ruffle hem. Petite brass buttons lined your creamy chiffon blouse, trailing past the thin ribbon necktie to the top of a frilled mandarin collar. Golden hour slipped into twilight as purple haze painted the spring sky. Whistling at yourself in the mirror, you paused to snap a photo of waterproof war paint and flawless hair. With the snap of a deadbolt, glossy black heels clicked out the door.

Ten minutes later, you turned the corner of "Greek Street" with a swing to your hips. Strutting in time with the throbbing beat, you crunched down the crumbling cement walkway and climbed the freshly painted steps. Wrapping both columns of the Greek revival house, flashing LEDs in the college’s colors blinded passers by. Skunky smoke poured out an upper window. You clasped your bag to your hip and strolled inside. 

With a flawless smile, you slithered through the bodies step by step. On the left, beer pong players roared with satisfaction. To the right, some brunette barely legal sucked on her purple vape pen, fluttering her lashes at the wrestling team’s co-captain. The hot genderfluid punk in the corner gave you the up-down and licked their plush lips. You grinned but continued on your quest. Crawling past some lost girl desperately texting her friends, you raided the kitchen and snagged the most expensive beer you could find. It still tasted like yeasty squirrel piss.

“Have you seen Caleb?” you half-yelled over the music.

The booze tender shook his head.

Circulating through the sweaty crush, you stalked the room like a wolf on the hunt. A hand brushed past your skirt. You ignored it. With pursed lips and peeled eyes, you tip-toed up as tall as your aching calves would allow. Two sorority sisters shrieked to your left as a third heaved her dinner behind the sofa. A pair of co-eds snuck out the back door, tongues well past each other’s tonsils. Still no Caleb. You sighed and headed for the stairs.

While the base beat rattled the rickety floor, you trudged from room to room, looking for your boyfriend. Door one revealed a heated poker game complete with enough foul words to spontaneously combust a Southern Baptist. Door two hid the “horror movie and bake” crowd. They offered you a brownie. You declined. Door three led to the bathroom, which was occupied by two women cleaning yellow beer off a white dress. Door four smelled like stale pork rinds and dirty socks. You elected not to open it.

…and behind door five was Caleb, dick first down some red-head’s throat.

To your credit, you listened three full solo cups into Caleb’s flustered apologies. However, when he started to whine about how cold you’d been these past few weeks, drunk you decided that your relationship absenteeism should be permanent . Even the non-binary beauty in the back couldn’t keep you in the same house as your ex-boyfriend. Beer tender boy offered to put Caleb up for the night. You slurred your thank yous, ripped off your heels, and toddled out the door with as much dignity as you could muster. 

As you tipped and swayed towards your apartment, a cool night breeze brushed past your hot cheeks. The odor of flowery detergent from the girls' dorm itched your swollen nose. Head spinning, you let heels and purse fall to the grass before slumping onto the hideous green bench. Thermoplastic coated metal stamped diamond shaped indents in your bare thighs. Snorting back another string of thick snot, you rubbed at itchy, salt crusted lids. Black mascara smudged your wrist. You groaned. So much for waterproof! Pressing your head into the unforgiving surface, shaking hands gripped your flip-flopping stomach. Gas bubbled in your gut. Sweat beaded down your brow. You sniffled with misery.

“That looks like a rather uncomfortable place to spend the night.”

Reeling from the booze, you squinted into amber lamplight. Trailing thick arms up to broad shoulders, your eyes climbed higher and higher until they reached a familiar, toothy smile. With all the haste of a woman rising from the grave, you peeled your cheek off the rubberized coating and blinked to clear your head. Inspecting his long white lashes, images of a small, neat office off the side of the library swirled into clarity. Finally, those jarring crimson eyes pierced the veil, dragging you back to reality with a panicked hiccup.

“Shigaraki-sensei!” You shoved yourself upright. “W-whashoo doin’ here?!”

Your Japanese language instructor cocked his head. “You say that as if they lock me in a closet after I finish my lectures.”

Heat blazed up your neck. Your brain swam like a fish in an undersized bowl. With a groan, you gripped your head. “Sorry… mmm just not s-ho…” A sulfurous burp puffed your cheeks. Doubling over, you pressed your overheated forehead to the cold metal again. “Sorry…”

With a short chuckle, the tall, platinum blond shuffled out of his sport coat. Wrapping it around your shoulders, he placed his broad hand on your back. “Are you in the dorms?”

You shook your head and pointed to the squat, overpriced apartments on the far side of campus. All at once, the image of Caleb sneering at the dishes flashed across your mind. Puffy lips began to tremble.

Professor Shigaraki hoisted you onto wobbly feet. “What is the matter?”

You opened your mouth, heavy tongue poised to politely explain away your sorrows. It refused to budge. Body shaking in his hands, stinging tears welled at your lash line. Your teeth chattered as a raspy inhale preceded a choked sob. Clutching his coat tight to your chest, bloodless fingers ran cold. “S-sorry…” You repeated, smearing good make-up over bad memories. “Ish a really, really ba-hic-d night.”

With a curious hum he pressed his hand flat to your spine. The streetlamp’s light haloed around his spiky hair. His patient expression glowed with angelic calm as he waited for you to speak. 

All at once, everything all poured out. Sleepless nights pacing the apartment waiting for inspiration that wouldn’t come. Combing the thesaurus for words which sounded fresh, but unpretentious. Trembling nausea instead of hunger pangs. Caleb’s complaints about your absent mindedness. Demanding questions about your five year plan from nosey relatives. Laundry that wouldn’t hang itself. Food that tasted like sand. The way your jaw ached from gritting your teeth so much. Crappy beer. The red head’s lush lips cupping your boyfriend’s ex’s cock.

Through it all, Professor Shigaraki held you steady at his side. When your angsty rant devolved into ugly sobbing, he pulled you into his chest. His white button down wrinkled in your grip. He patted your head.

“Taihen desu ne?” he murmured in that low, rumbling voice you’d tried not to drool over during every lecture.

An exhausted giggle snorted from your stuffy nose. “Hai.” 

As you glanced at the eastern horizon, the city’s light pollution reminded you of the coming, lonely dawn. Memories of Caleb’s stupid apologies blending with imagined scenarios for the future. Having to stare at his face after seeing him deep throating some rando— Ugh ! You shivered just thinking about it. What if he tried to talk to you tomor— er… today when he was coming to get his crap?!? Oh man … You’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

Prickling despair crawled over your skin. “Apāto ni ikitakunai,” you admitted, nails clenching tight enough to prick your palm. “Kowaidesu.”

Shigaraki-sensei nodded to the green metal behind you. “Benchi wa dame desu.”

For the first time all night, you laughed openly. “Benchi ga suki,” you replied, pressing your forehead into his chest. 

Daaannnnnggg… It should be illegal to smell so good. Scented with something fresh and clean, his cologne had a hint of white tea and light, blond woods. However, underneath the cultured surface, it was musky in a very animal way. Hypnotic body heat sent your drunk brain reeling. 

With a knowing smirk, he playfully booped your head with the side of his hand. “Dame,” he repeated, steadying you on your bare feet. He leaned down, tossing your purse across his shoulder before scooping up your shoes.

“Doko ni iku— iie…” you groaned, trying to summon what you’d retained of the last four years lectures. “—ikimas..ka? Is that right?” 

Like something out of a late night fantasy, your professor slowly kneeled before you on the hard cement. Your heart skipped as he took your hands and placed them on his shoulders. All rational thought screeched to a halt when racy red eyes met yours. “I think your pronunciation is actually better drunk.”

Forcing an awkward laugh, you tried to fight the sappy smile that threatened to split your cheeks. “Are you sh-aying, I shoulda done shots before my final or somethin’?”

“Final grades were submitted four days ago”—he explained, tapping your ankle— “and you already got the highest score in the course.”

Following the wordless command, you lifted your foot. Smooth fingers slipped you into your shoe, fastening it behind your leg. They lingered for a moment, tickling down your achilles tendon before he nodded to the other foot. As his bristled hair brushed the thin fabric of your shirt, all those late night fantasies burst into vibrant color. Heat pooled in your stomach. The hairs on your arm stood upright. When he let go of your body, your thighs clenched.

Graceful as a cat, Professor Shigaraki rose to his feet and peered down at your dumbstruck expression. Eyes dark and pupils blown, you remained frozen exactly where he put you. He leaned over. “To answer your other question…” Warm breath fanned across your ear as he purred: “Kaerimashou, Sotsugyousei-san.”

Trying to ignore the seductive allure in his words, you fished for any topic to clear your head. Finally, you settled for a stupid question. "Sensei, whaz 'Sotsugyousei-san' mean?"

Leading you down the street, he hummed. "The closest translation is 'Miss Graduate'."

More intoxicating than liquor, the sound of your new nickname wrapped in his velvet baritone made your knees buckle.

Nestled between two ancient white oaks, Professor Shigaraki’s boxy Second Empire[1] home sat half a block from the end of campus, down a narrow, quiet side street. Remodeled in cornflower blue with ornate cream and black trimmings, the spacious two-story boasted a bronze plaque near the front door which read “Est. 1883 - Historical Home”. When you reached the end of the cement driveway, he pinched his chin and paused to contemplate the porch steps.

You hiccupped, half lidded eyes slipping shut as you nuzzled into his coat. “Didja know your roof ish kinda shloopy?”

He chucked, squatting beside you. One arm cupped the backs of your thighs as he hoisted you against his chest. “I think the stairs will be a bit much.”

You wrapped your hands around his thick neck. In a singsong tone, you slurred: “Mmmm~kay Sen~sei.❤”

“Well, you seem more relaxed at least,” he teased, ascending the stairs with barely a bounce. He placed you down on the landing like a porcelain doll. Shoving his keys into the lock, he held open the heavy wooden door before coaxing you across the threshold with a soft tug. Your teacher smiled, long fingers slipping between his heel and shoe. He peeled the leather wingtips off, before kneeling down to help you with your own footwear.

“Sussh a gentleman,” you declared, patting his shoulder.

Grasping your hand in his, he fixed you with a seductive smile. “You seem like you need a little extra care tonight.”

Welp, that pair of underwear was ruined.

Fanning your heated face, you turned away from his sensual stare. “Um… Otearai wa doko desu ka?”

Shigaraki pulled you towards the far hall. “Kokodesu,” he declared, twisting the brass knob. Beyond the doorway lay a full bathroom complete with a clawfoot soaking tub, smokey marble pedestal sink and a white porcelain throne. He braced you against the painted wood. One hand flat to the door, your professor leaned close. Crimson eyes glowed in the din. “Tetsudatte mashouka?” he whispered.

Your heart hammered against your ribs at the sultry tone in his words. “I dun remember dat one.”

“Really?” he purred, pulling away. “You used it correctly on the midterm.” As you stiffened, he smirked at you. “It's all right. We can review some new vocabulary later as a punishment.” Strolling across the checker tiled floor, he slid the storage closet open and tugged down a fluffy brown towel. “Though I find this new look of yours rather charming, there is some face wash in the medicine cabinet if you’d like.”

You cringed, rushing for the facet.

With a snicker, he pulled the bathroom door shut behind you.

One unsteady toilet trip and three face scrubbings later, you tugged at your cheeks and peered into the mirror. Rolling your head from side to side, you frowned at the patchy black debris still clinging to your under eye. Sure. Now the stupid make-up was waterproof! With a frustrated snarl, you buried your head in the towel.

A firm triplicate knock made you jump. “Genkika?” he called.

“H-hai!” you replied, bustling to the door. 

Beyond the bathroom lay a narrow hall with smooth, cherry stained floors. Your teacher leaned against the dark, rose studded wallpaper. He shoved himself to his feet, holding out his hand to you. “Gohan tabeta?”

You blinked at him. “Uh… iie… demo…”

“You must be sobering up some.” His massive palm swallowing your wrist. “You’re starting to overthink your replies again.”

Leading you down the hallway, he pulled you through a boxed archway and into a spacious dining room. Tall, tiger oak, board and batton walls reached past his shoulders. Above them lay rich scarlet and gold damask wallpaper that climbed to the smooth, white ceiling. In the center of the room, a plaster medallion made of coiling leaves circled the crystal chandelier. 

Your host tugged out a lyre-back chair and pushed you into the vintage mahogany table. You leaned back against the plush, creamy upholstery, staring up at the delicate rosettes that trimmed the corners of the room. By the time he reappeared with a small bowl of white rice, your head was spinning.

“Kirei desu ne?” he asked, pulling out a chair beside you.

You nodded, gaze falling to the steaming pile of carbs. Your stomach growled. An awkward laugh fluttered from your throat. “Gomenasai.”

“Iie, iie” he insisted, taking a pair of long, black chopsticks in hand. Lifting a clump of the rice, he raised it to your lips. “Tabete kudasai.”

“I-” your tongue stumbled on the word as his heated stare settled on your mouth. “Itadakimasu,” you mumbled.

“Jōzu,” he praised, feeding you the first bite. 

Fluffy and soft, the rice rolled across your tongue, bathing your mouth with its gentle flavor. You barely managed to swallow before the second bite appeared. With each clump, the nauseated churning of your stomach ebbed. About half way through the bowl, you stopped fumbling for the food long enough to meet his gaze. The fixed stare reminded you of a panther watching its prey through the underbrush.

“Ano… Gohan wa tari—” you paused, fishing for the conjugation. “—ta?”

He chuckled, never taking his focus off you. The ceramic bowl clinked against the varnish. All at once, Professor Shigaraki took your chin between his fingers. “Ja,” —smoldering scarlet eyes curled into a bedroom smirk— “itadakimasu, Sotsugyousei-san.”

In an instant, your teacher devoured your lips. His wet tongue thrust deep into your mouth as hard teeth nipped at soft skin. You pinwheeled, catching yourself on his chest. He groaned, dragging you into his lap. A firm lump rubbed against your soft thigh. When his knee brushed you crotch, what little sense you hadn’t drank to death shoved one question to the top of your thoughts: 

Should the valedictorian really be playing rebound tonsil hockey with her favorite professor?

“Matte kudasai!” you blurted, wriggling away. 

One hand caught your shoulder, clamping you against the chair. “Ochitsuite,” he shushed, the pad of his thumb tracing your lips.

“Shigaraki-sensei…” Nervous fingers curled tight into your seat. “Mmm kinda not ts-hinking straight right now an’ dis-ish probobly ah bad idea…”

“You are under a lot of stress” he agreed, letting his hand fall from your lips.

You sighed with relief, starting to rise from the chair.

All at once, thick arms scooped your legs out from under you. You yelped as your teacher pressed you against his chest. Long fingers traced the elastic hem below your skirt. Strolling towards the staircase, he hissed in your ear. “It’s all right. Sensei will help you relax.”

Your dizzy brain sloshed around inside your skull with each tread. At the end of your climb, he turned right down the long, dark hall. The nudge of his foot popped the bedroom door. Amongst plumb walls and heavy velvet drapes, you noted a neatly arranged collection of robust, walnut furniture. From the massive gothic armoire  to the king size sleigh bed and its hand carved headboard, the room stood as a time capsule to a bigone, gilded era. How a simple college professor ever afforded such luxurious antiques, you couldn’t fathom.

Peeling back the dark, gold trimmed duvet, Professor Shigaraki wrapped his hand around the back of your skull. With all the care of a man handling an heirloom crystal vase, he nestled you on soft, ivory sheets. 

“Shigaraki-sensei,” you pleaded, squirming under his dark stare. “Ah really dun think—”

“Then don’t think,” he commanded, smashing his lips to his.

You squeaked into the kiss. He climbed over top of you. Heavy hips pinned you to the mattress. Your ribbon necktie slid loose. Deft fingers plucked brass buttons one by one, until your heaving chest and lace trimmed bra lay bare to his hungry gaze. Tugging your shirt hem from your skirt, he peeled the crepe fabric from your shoulders. Large hands slipped below your back, snapping hooks and eyelets free. Before you could blink, your bra was under your chin.

Shigaraki broke the kiss, sitting up to admire his handwork. Face on fire, your swollen lips lay parted as small puffs of air rushed through. He cupped your ribs, molding long fingers around your soft breasts. The bulge in his pants twitched against your thigh. His right thumb tweaked across your taut nipple, making you jolt.

“Kanpeki,” he praised, reaching up to smooth a stray hair from your heated cheeks. “Saa, ressun wo hajimemashou ka?”

Lesson?! He was serious about giving you a vocab lesson?! 

“Itte kudasai.” He playfully tapped your breast with his pointer. “Oppai.”

You stared at him.

He flicked your forehead. “Kiite kudasai, Sotsugyousei-san.”

“Jodan desu ne?” you insisted, searching his searing stare for signs of a prank.

He sneered at you before rolling your nipple between his fingers. “Jodan ja nai.”

As your favorite professor’s warm hands kneaded your sensitive skin, sparks of pleasure shot across your brain. Shivering in his hold, you squeezed your eyes shut and turned your head into the pillow. He hummed. The sound of fabric sliding over fabric reached your ears. All at once, his hot breath puffed across your chest.

“Kimi-ga hoshii,” he murmured, taking you into his mouth.

Firm teeth grazed your pert tit. You yelped, writhing deep into the sheets. A grumble of approval rumbled from his chest as he pinched the other side. With a gasp, your back arched, driving you further into moist pleasure. His free hand circled behind your spine before cupping your backside. Long fingers dragged your underwear over your knees. 

Want pooled between your lower lips as you loosed a slutty moan. He shifted above you, peppering heating kisses from the curve of your breast to the point of your collarbone. Heavy panting drowned out the mattress’s protests. 

Pinning your hands above your head, your professor nibbled down your neck. The hand on your butt slid between your legs. “Ripīto shite kudasai:” —grinning teeth pricked your skin—“Anata ga hoshii.”

“Ah-Anata ga-” As his fingers slipped between your folds, you squealed the last word. “Hoshiii! ”

“Nureteru,” he remarked, swirling your arousal around your entrance. Pressing his palm firm against you, he pumped his pointer inside. It curled along the front of your walls, stroking the spongy spot that made your cunt clench. Tight thighs gripped his wrist as he began to grind along your sensitive clit. Pleasure tingled though your core. Your stomach flopped. Moving of their own accord, your hips rose to meet him. 

As he crushed his mouth to yours, a second finger stretched you open wide. Erotic, wet clicks spilled from your body. Polyester pleats pressed against your leg as he rubbed himself on your bare skin. You bucked in his grasp. The hand on your wrists drifted down to fiddle with your belt. With a tink and a woosh, it sprang free. As he stripped away the last of your clothes, a rough tongue stroked yours, barely leaving you room to breath. 

The clink of his own buckle was quickly followed by the rip of a zipper. He slipped out of you. Large hands groped down the front of his briefs, exposing stiff, weeping cock. Cheeks flushed, he trailed the slimey tip up your inner thigh. Coarse, silver-blond hairs provided delicious friction against your aching arousal.

“Ripīto shite kudasai,” he growled in your ear. “Irete hoshii.”

You gulped. “Irete hoshii…”

Face flushed, he rasped out: “Yabai.”

“Hey… Duzzit that mean ‘very bad’?” you demanded.

He fixed you with a coy smirk, wrapping one hand under your hips. “The meaning depends on the context,” he explained, rolling his pelvis into yours. When you shivered, he shuffled down and reached between his legs. “Ripīto shite kudasai: nama ga ii.”

You cocked your head. Well lubricated gears spun wildly. The meaning of the words was lost upon you. “Whazzat mean?”

A soft head prodded your wet hole. “Hmmm?” he taunted, pressing against your moist heat. “Why don’t you guess?”

You squirmed against him. “I dunno but ish sounds naughty.”

“Sotsugyousei-san,” he warned, flicking your nose. “Ripīto shite kudasai.”

Head lolling against the pillow, you sighed. “Nama ga ii.”

He leered at you. “Subarashii.”

The stretch of his thick cock tore a wanton yelp from your throat. He ceased your shoulder, shoving you hard into the springs as each thrust crept deeper. Your head swirled with the smell of his musky, clean cologne. All thought of right and wrong yielded as your pliant body spread before him. While he rocked his way into your core, his head stroked against the bundle of nerves just inside. Quivering lips loosed a husky mewl.

“Ripīto shite kudasai: Motto Fukaku.”

“Mo-motto— ngnn Sensei!” You wriggled underneath him, trying to accommodate his girth.

He tipped your chin up. “Machigatte imasu,” he taunted, tracing your lips. “Hakkiri hatsuon shite kudasai: Mo~tto Fukaku ❤.”

Pouting hard at his playful reprimand, you replied flatly: “Hidoi desu, Sensei.”

“Hai, Hai,” he agreed, sinking deeper inside. Patting your heated cheek, a mocking sneer curled on his lips. "Kawaisou."

Okay… even drunk, you were pretty sure that was insulting.

Still as uncomfortable fullness gave way to aching tension, your complaints died in a cloud of heavy breathing. When he hitched your thighs over his hips, the edges of your vision sparkled grey. Fully seated in your body, he leaned back and wiped the sweat from his brow. One hand wrapped behind your neck. “Mite kudasai.”

Your breathing hitched at the erotic sight of his cock plundged deep into your cunt.

He chuckled at your wide eyed stare, laying your head back down. "Ripīto shite kudasai:” Rubbing his hips into yours, he savored the gasp he drew from your lips. “Motto hayaku."

Faster? Wasn't door to bed in half an hour fast enough?!

“C-chotto matte kudasai!” Your eyes scrunched closed as you pressed a hand to his chest. A tiny whimper pinched between your lips. “Ooki…”

Red eyes glowed with delight as he leaned in. “Oh? Ookii ka?” he teased.

“Course ish huge and you know it!” you fired back, slapping his bare shoulder. Crossing your arms, you turned your head and sniffed indignantly. “Yur like seven foot four or someshing.”

“I know you can say: ‘please, more slowly’. ” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Every time you told me that during our lessons, I wanted to take you on my desk.”

Steam poured from your ears. Hands covering your blazing face, you loosed an embarrassed whine. “Motto yukkuri onegai, Shigaraki-sensei…”

“Onegai?” He chuckled, hitching your hips higher. “Sugei kawaii.”

Following your request, Shigaraki pumped himself into your body at a controlled pace. Overstretched legs relaxed as he scraped your bundle of nerves with each stroke. You slumped into the mattress, eyes drifting shut. Tiny cries urged him on. He captured your mouth, coaxing you into an intoxicating kiss. Soft nibbles made your lips tingle. All sound faded aside from his sultry, shallow breaths.

“Yokatta?”

You squinted at him through watery eyes. Vague memories from watching late night hentai shoved an overused phrase onto swollen lips. “Sensei…” you whimpered. “Kimochi ii…”

He groaned as a full body shudder vibrated through you both. Pressing his forehead to yours, the smile on his face looked pained. “Gaman dekinai.”

With a giggle, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your lips to his ear. “Daijoubu. Chotto hayaku, onegai?”

“Chotto?” He snorted and threw your words back at you with a sneer. “Hidoi desu.”

“Hai. Hai. Gomensai,” you taunted. “Demo—”

A broad thumb plunged between your lips, pressing hard on your tongue. “Shizuka ni shite kudasai.”

You squeaked before letting out a small moan.

“Hen~tai,” he teased.

Wrapping one hand underneath, he pulled your hips hard into his. Each firm thrust dragged your clit against coarse hair. Lewd clicks made your body clench. He fell to his forearms. His spittle slick hand slipped to your breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Your back arched as his thick tongue lapped against yours. 

Little by little he sped his motions, keeping up the pressure on your clit. The kiss broke. A string of saliva dangled between you. Through watery eyes, you watched his playful smile become a wide, crazed grin. Blown pupils studied your expression, matching his movements to every twitch of your brow and each shuddered breath. Heat coiled deep inside your gut. Tingling need blazed down your skin. Your body quivered, clenching down around his cock.

“Sensei…” you moaned. “Ish good… ‘mmm gonna… gonna—!”

Swallowing your words with a greedy kiss, he clutched you to his sweaty chest. All at once, you stiffened, writhing on his cock. As sweet relief coursed through your veins, you slumped into his hold, gasping for air. When your breathing evened, you heard him in your ear.

“Ripīto shite kudasai:” he instructed. “Nakadashi wa ii da yo.”

“Na-naka-AH!” You choked as he leaned deep into your farthest walls. “Sensei!” you whined. “Dame!”

“Ripīto shiro!” he growled, grinding against your over sensitive clit.

Fingers digging into his back, you managed to stammer out: “Nakada-shi wa… ii da yo…”

At your words, something snapped. Gripping you tight enough to bruise, Shigaraki’s thrusts speed to brutal pace. You squirmed, trying to adjust. It was no good. With his massive size and your exhausted body, it was all you could do to hold on to him. His hips began to stutter. He buried his cheek in your neck. Between the ringing in your ears and his rapid fire Japanese, you only made out one solitary word: 

“—Iku!”

Three quick pumps were all it took to spill himself inside of you.

Your teacher hovered above for a moment, overheated and panting. When he finally opened his eyes, his hand cupped your cheek. “Ore no Sotsugyousei-san,” he murmured, stroking your skin. 

You sighed, leaning into his hand. “...shleepy…”

With a pleased hum, he reached down to grab his shirt. He pulled out, using the silky fabric to wipe the cum that dribbled from your body. You groaned and rolled onto your side, nuzzling into the pillow. With a fanged grin, he dragged the comforter over your shoulders and pressed a smug kiss to your temple. “Oyasumi,” he whispered.

Leaving you in his bed, Shigaraki carried the filthy shirt downstairs and dropped it in the washer. Stretching his broad back, he made his way to the kitchen. In the right corner of his phone, the notification alert blinked. He typed your birthday, stolen from the school’s data files, into the passcode slot. Blue light blazed from the screen. Opening his email, he spotted a picture of a slinky red-head, covertly posing with one hand around Caleb’s half-erect cock.

Deed’s done. Here’s your proof. Venmo me the rest.

Shigaraki chuckled, sending the stripper’s money with a fat tip on the side. Tugging a bottle of barley tea from the refrigerator, he replied to the email: Confirm payment when it arrives.

By the time he poured his glass, the answer came. Got the money. Didn’t take much. Kinda feel sorry for the girlfriend though.

Smirking, your professor sipped his tea. Don’t worry. She’s well taken care of.

*****************************************************************

The resources used to create the dialogue are:

Maggie-Sensei.com - School Related Vocab

SG Forums - JAPANESE HENTAI WORDS (2008)

sci.lang.japan

600 basic Japanese verbs : the essential reference guide - Author: Hiroo Japanese Center

The True Japan.com

Gaijin Pot.com

Youtube "RUDE Japanese Words You Use Without Knowing"- Japanese Ammo with Misa

**********************************

Taglist:

@chainsawmansheart @gentle-aesthetic-bby @nycmagi @deadpuppetboi @utena-akashiya @tomiesxworld @kitsunefyuu @themostdeviouspeach @purrfectluv @castershellwrites @anonlifeform @poopingrat @teachillvibes @trystin7 @ghostlychai @beaaarryy @alycat135 @rain-coat-killer @vizhi0n @bambicubie @weo0o @kermitthekrog-blog @shig-a-shig-ah

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Tuesday, December 26th

Buffy: Oh, I'll fight him. I'll kill him if I have to. But if I don't get there in time, or if I lose, then Willow might be our only hope. Willow: I don't *wanna* be our only hope! Uh, I crumble under pressure! Let's have another hope. Kendra: We have. (pulls a sword from her bag) Blessed by the knight who first slew the demon. If all else fails, this might stop it. I think.

~~Becoming part 1~~

There are a few December 25th links here, but our coverage of yesterday is sparser than usual, due to taking time off for the holidays. :) As always, if you’d like us to include a specific link that we missed, feel free to submit it!

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Christmas for Two by forsaken2003 (Xander/Spike, PG)

Take My Hand by veronyxk84 (Spike, Dawn, PG-13)

Follow to Temptation by SunflowerSpectre (Xander/Ethan, E)

best laid plans by voices_not_echoes (Kendra, T)

gifts and well-wishes, et cetera by The_Eclectic_Bookworm (Giles/Jenny, G)

Light Show by arcanedreamer (Buffy, Xander, T)

In Vino Veritas by HAL1500 (Giles/Jenny, G)

Seven more stories for Calendiles Secret Santa 2023 by various authors (Giles/Jenny, ratings range from G to M)

help calm down by specialagentlokitty (Giles x reader, not rated - worksafe)

On the Naughty List by Maxineeden (Buffy/Spike, R)

Mars & Summers Stars by DarkVoid116 (Veronica Mars crossover, Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

Unwrap me by the fireplace by Lilacsandorangeblossoms (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Or Maybe It Was Us by simmony (Buffy/Spike, R)

Story and drawing: Perfect Gift by JSBirsa (Buffy/Spike, R)

[Chaptered Fiction]

Forgiveness Doesn't Come Easy, Ch. 12 by slaymesoftly (Buffy/Spike, R)

Buffy the Vampire Slayer And Her Gay Foster Dads - Chapter 1 by Quordle (MASH crossover, Buffy, T)

Something Lost Something Found, Ch. 2 by Safire (Buffy/Spike, R)

Presumably Dead Arm, Ch. 27 by tragic (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

The Neighbor's Point of View, Ch. 70 by the_big_bad (Buffy/Spike, PG)

Out of Time: 1942, Ch. 53 by Jonayla (Harry Potter crossover, Buffy/Tom Riddle, FR18)

Friends of a Friend's Cousin, Ch. 4 by ClowniestLivEver (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

Closer, Ch. 9 by all_choseny (Buffy/Spike, R)

Last Hurrah, Ch. 12 by ClowniestLivEver (Buffy/Spike, R)

Forgiveness Doesn't Come Easy, Ch. 12 by Slaymesoftly (Buffy/Spike, R)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Vid: This Gift by red-and-black-forever (Quinn and Logan Fan) (Buffy/Angel)

Drawing and process video: Buffy by alecbdesign (worksafe)

Giles/Jenny drawing by yarboyandy (worksafe)

Drawing: Angel in a collar by fru1tb3tz (probably NSFW)

Home Sweet Home by artbykevinchua (Spike, worksafe)

[Reviews & Recaps]

BTVS 506 - Family | Another Buffy Podcast

[Recs & In Search Of]

Fic rec: Smutty Sunday at februaryfangfest (reccing lovelyorbent's Spangel story "i feel my temperature rising")

[Community Announcements]

Spike/Drusilla to be counted as a rarepair at btvscrackships (otherworldlychemistry)

[Fandom Discussions]

Re: the trans!Angel theory by spangelmybeloved

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

James Marsters to Attend For the Love of Fantasy in London 17-18 August 2024 via dontkillspike

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

[meanscarletdeceiver]

THE FLYING (gets shot

*stands up, throws table over, steps on top of the wreckage*

You know what? I don't normally like to be so definite but

"The Flying Kipper" is the best episode, okay?????

I mean the writing and cinematography of all of Seasons 1-4 has always fascinated me, long before I fell into The Lore; each episode just an incredible little piece of artistry. They're all mesmerizing in those respects...

... but "Kipper" is just on a whole 'nother level. In a tier of its own.

The emotional wind-up of "Coal" making it so easy to get invested?

The opening shot that pans in from a distance?

Henry and his driver's cosy little confidance at the beginning?

"Hurrah! That will be lovely"?

The sheer coolness, as a kid, at glimpsing all this work and activity in the middle of the night?

The harsh lighting?

THE HARBOR SET OMG????

Ringo's narration of the whole "quay" bit, leading up to "... the guard showed his green lamp, the Flying Kipper was ready to go!"

The close-up on the wheelslip?

The tinkling theme music to begin the journey?

Henry wearing the express goods headcode?

The snow-covered sets the train passes through?

Just... ALL THE ATMOSPHERE? Yes, the nighttime lighting is a huge factor, but it's not the only factor—"Wrong Road" and "Ghost Train" went to town with the glowy things in the night theme too, and they're lovely to look at, but once again, just the whole different level of artistry in the Kipper journey?

How cosy the brakevan cocoa break looks? How appropriately the fireman looks a friggin himbo?

The mood whiplash?

The crash is so much more dramatic in the TV adaptation than in the book? And it's great?? The drama really works here at this point in the arc, Awdry totally missed a trick??? (Probably because he really didn't care enough about Henry to notice????)

The fade-to-black? In Thomas the Tank Engine?? Seriously, the show peaked here!! The drama!!!

How awkward and painful the angle Henry is stranded in looks? The crane draped over his face? Holy crap, this stuff hits hard for TTTE, I just feel there was never a wreck ever again that was portrayed so seriously, without the comedic angle?

"The signal was down, sir"???? 😭😭😭😭

The wreckage and clean-up in the background of that scene, just always fascinating to peer at. I've been doing so for decades now, and only recently, thanks to FutureRust's WIP, did I look carefully and realize that James and Edward are both there on mop-up duty. You guys, I just... I just need more of the engines in the aftermath of this wreck.

The timeskip is done so beautifully; it would feel jarring, except for how uniquely spring the set looks here:

The "but everything was all right" shift forward feels so appropriate with this seasonal setting, the shift from winter to spring. I can't really remember a time the classic series ever looked so spring-y. Seems like usually it looks like dead of winter or beaming full-sun summer.

And then we just throw in Henry's beautiful new shape afterwards?? Just toss it in at the end??? In a lesser episode, it would be the highlight. Here it's just the cherry on top!

Final note, something very personal and important to me but content warning for religion and specifically Christianity here:

Henry's whole arc hit me like a brick a few years back when I viewed Season 1 in order and was struck by how I was seeing the experience of invisible disability represented (whether the author(s) intended that or not!)

And it also reminded me of a metaphor C.S. Lewis used once, and the "Kipper" arc still hits me exactly the same way.

Regarding the doctrine that it's for God and not humans to judge other humans, he pointed out that our bodies shape a good deal of our psychology and how impossible it is for other people to understand how someone else inhabits the world. His examples were "weak constitutions" or "jangled nerves" (oh, the 1940s-ness of it!) But in an afterlife where we lose our old bodies those effects would become more apparent. People who seemed strong of will or "nice" might be shown to have simply coasted on good health. People who seemed like snappish basketcases might prove to have been incredibly diligent and brave in their efforts to treat others as well as they could, even when it didn't always look like it. As he put it, "There will be surprises."

So he imagined that this life is very much like everyone is issued a car to drive. And some people get clankers, that are nearly impossible to keep under control. Someone who gets a sounder car would look at so-and-so's slipping, sliding, and spin-outs and assume the driver is incompetent... but if in fact their car is defective then they might be showing great skill in getting anywhere at all. Of heaven, he said, we'll see each other's moral self as it really is, stepping out from behind the wheel as it were.

Anyway I think of that every time I see Henry after Welsh coal or post-rebuild. We don't know what other people are dealing with. When the playing field is leveled... there will be surprises.

[aftout]

Curious how Juliette and Elizabeth first meet bc I am very curious and interest in their little first meeting shjdjsbvdd

HELP MEEE I will try my BEST to summarize it.

Ok. Imagine you’re Juliette Shaw, aspiring author and the only daughter of Dr. Elliot Hobbes. He throws a big ol party, as he usually does, and this time it just so happens to be a masquerade ball. Now, let’s say that after this event, it’s revealed that someone broke into his lab and stole a bunch of unlabelled powders and chemicals that he was meant to research; which would be completely illegal to own if it weren’t for his license. This is no good! They get London’s best detectives on the job, but when Inspector Holmes for some reason marks you as a potential culprit you’re like “Hey this sucks? I might as well take matters into my own hands and do MY OWN sleuthing. Out of spite. And also because I love my dad.”

You’re reaching just as many dead ends as everyone else, and then one afternoon while your dad is out and you’re in the garden, you notice that he’s left the one window to his basement study open. Immediately alarms sound off, because Dr. Hobbes NEVER leaves that window open when he’s gone. So naturally, you do what any sane woman would do and arm yourself with a kitchen knife and set off to check for any intruders yourself; without warning your mother OR the house staff beforehand. When you barge in, you do find an intruder! Hurrah!

… This intruder just so happens to also be a very attractive woman wearing a suit, who insists that she is a “freelance detective”. You are immediately intrigued.

[aimmyarrowshigh]

Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers (if you would like to)!

I also got tagged in this ages ago by @morethanonepage, whose own answers are very lovely and inspiring, so this is a response to that tag as well!

What They Don't Tell You About History - The Hunger Games, Matched Trilogy, Across the Universe/Godspeed Trilogy

This is the first of my fics that comes to mind whenever anyone asks what my favorite fic is that I've written, but basically no one has read it because it's a crossover with two nonexistent fandoms for mid-list books and because it's written in second-person POV slash collective-first person Greek chorus. It's OLD now, too; I wrote it in 2011, so the fact that I still like it speaks volumes to me. But it turned out exactly how I wanted it to turn out, and I think I still pull a lot of headcanon for all three series from this story -- that they're all in one continuum of dystopia, rather than three separate dystopias is way more interesting to me and, I think, much more reflective of how actual history works (cause/effect) than just like, pretending that dystopian systems rise out of nowhere.

I feel like this is also kind of a ~last hurrah for me of really experimental, weird, LiveJournally fic, in terms of it being in second-person and being a three-directional crossover. You don't really see that many fics these days that are just balls to the wall experimental weird fiction, you know? I think the isolation of locked communities on LJ, where you knew that the only people who were going to read your story were people who genuinely liked the thing you were writing about and, really, were people you knew on some level, made it a lot easier to say, "Fuck it, I'm going to write in second-person/in the style of House of Leaves/a crossover with this tiny fandom I wish more people liked/tentacles" than the Googleable public nature of AO3.

I also think this fic is interesting to go back to after more than a decade and see where my political fears were prior to the 2012 presidential election, and how much FUCKING NIGHTMARE WORSE things have gotten since then. Like, we didn't even really consider 11 years ago just how bad things could get so QUICKLY, even when we were writing about them BEING THIS BAD. The central villains of the fic are analogs of Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin, and I would never have fucking considered the existence of an Amy Coney Barrett or a Brett Kavanaugh actually making it onto SCOTUS, or that Tr*mp would ever have been more than a rabblerousing birther game-show host. But Matched is a trilogy about the loss of reproductive freedom and Godspeed is a trilogy about what happens to Earth when all of its capable leaders are gone and you're left with charlatans, and of course we all know the mixing of reality television and politics that created The Hunger Games.

It's just a fic that feels very, very old, and very, very new at the same time. And I am still proud of it.

Representative passage:

Permit us the luxury of telling you this story out of order. If the past has taught us anything, it’s that perhaps Order is wrong. Oh, it’s not capitalized anymore, is it. Order. It’s only order now.

Apologies, apologies. You’re the first to inquire about this story and it’s a little hard to tell. A little hard to hear.

What you need to understand is this: these people are not heroes. They are ordinary people – girls, mostly, and a few very good boys – who did what they needed to do to save their own lives, the lives of their families and friends and the children that they did not think they would ever have.

But there are villains in this story. There are very bad people – women, mostly, and a few very bad men – who will have no redemption. If you are looking for a tale of peace and understanding and conflict resolution, this story is not that one. This story is what happened to the United States of America, and it is not a pretty story. There is blood, and there are dead children, and there are words, so many words, such a horrific carnage of words that are lost.

So please, permit us the luxury of lingering over our own. We don’t know when they will be taken from us.

A Constraint That Makes It Possible to Fly - Star Wars

This is by far the best fic that I've written since like 2017, which is kind of sad, but also, see above, we have been living in a nightmare hellscape since 2016 and I think it's been hard, in general, to write. This fic is also FUN, and SCARY, and SWEET, and ALL THE THINGS, which is also very Star Wars, so I think that it fits the tone of its franchise well. It's marked as incomplete and I guess technically it is -- I can go back to it any time and add more, if I have the urge -- but it's not a cliffhanger or anything. It's also kind of weird and experimental, in terms of being a nonlinear drabble collection that follows a set storyline.

The premise was really fun to play with, too, because it can be spun so many ways: what if everyone in Star Wars had wings that displayed their Force-sensitivity?

Well, everyone would know that Padme was carrying a Jedi's children. Luke and Leia would both grow up knowing they were Force-sensitive. Vader would have known Leia felt the loss of Alderaan through the Force and relished in her pain. The Jedi who survived Order 66 would have to hide a visible, instead of invisible, part of themselves. FINN, wings bursting out of his 'trooper armor at Tuanul against all odds.

I also played with all of my favorite totally unsupported headcanons, like Rey being Han/Leia's kid LIKE SHE WAS WRITTEN IN TFA HARRUMPH and Cassian having spent time as Bail's page and Padme surviving the birth of the twins and, and, and. I just really enjoy(ed) writing this story.

The titles for each drabble are also my favorite titles that I've come up with, because they're each a line from a different poem or song about birds!

Representative passage:

#32: Each Separate Dying Ember Wrought Its Ghost Upon the Floor

Darth Vader sees the Princess of Alderaan for the first time unconscious, when she is carried onto the Death Star by stormtroopers.

Those wings—

Rage fills both Darth Vader and the last, dying kernel of Anakin Skywalker. Those wings look like the ones he used to have, before Obi-Wan Kenobi betrayed him. Before that woman betrayed him.

Before the Force itself betrayed him.

There is no way that this—this—this rebel scum could be a Jedi. The Emperor, in his wisdom, would know if any Jedi still lived. And that woman told him—

She had drowned Anakin Skywalker's children.

Valor, Valeria - The Hunger Games

Another oldie. You know what it is? I'm trying to answer this with five fics that I actually wrote without a co-writer and most of my favorites/the ones that I think hold up have been co-written, because the vast majority of my longfics have been co-written. But if I answered with those, all of the reasoning would be "I had a lot of fun writing it with _____" and that doesn't really get into why I like the FIC, it gets into why I liked the PROCESS. And that's a different question.

This fic was a challenge for me, because I really hadn't written Katniss/Gale before, but I was writing it as a present for Jill @poppypickle. I really like the way that I mirrored the two halves of the story (Katniss/Gale and Finnick/Annie), although some of that has been -- IMO -- lost on AO3 because you can't format things the same way as on LJ, where half of the story was left-aligned and half was right-aligned. Womp womp.

I also feel sad for my eleven-years-ago self when I read this, just because it's part of my THG "I haven't gone to therapy yet" oeuvre, but honestly, I don't think that I could have written any THG fic if I had been therapized. Or at least, I would have written such different THG fic that I don't know what it would have been -- like, the drabbles I write now are based on the headcanons and interps that I came up with back then, so they're still part of that version of myself's fic lineage.

I think that the Annie I wrote in this story is so different from every other Annie I've written that it makes the story really stand apart. She is an Annie who is unknowingly cruel in her quest for self-protection, and that's not how most people write Annie (or how I see canon!Annie fwiw), but it's a valid way for someone growing up in Panem to become, and I wanted to explore that.

Representative passage:

They didn’t bind her ankles, Finnick notices. Someday, they stop.

“You killed my Tributes,” she greets him, an easy grin on her face. She’s stunningly beautiful save the gory scar down one side of her face, through the eye and down to her jaw. If she hadn’t been Remade, she’d probably be blind.

Finnick wonders why she kept the scar at all. It doesn’t seem to have repulsed anyone in the Capitol. There are pink handprints all over her body and smears of different people all down her thighs and chest and Finnick is as scared and trapped as he was in the adobe caves of his Arena.

À La Vôtre - Anna and the French Kiss/Lola and the Boy Next Door

This fic is just Soft and Sweet and there's no big backstory behind it, I just like it. I was going through an OBVIOUSLY ABANDONED phase where I was going to try to write a fic of at least 1,000 words for every fandom on my tagslist (HA, HAHAHA, HA HA... HA) and I got about as far as Anna and the French Kiss rofl. Every once in a while I still get the urge to go back and MAKE A FANWORK FOR EVERY THING but then I remember that I... didn't, lol, and so I... don't. But maybe someday. I do really like how this turned out. Also, the only literary boy dreamier than Étienne St. Clair is Michael Motherfucking Moscovitz, so that is a HIGH COMPLIMENT to AATFK. Also also, St. Clair looks like Harry Styles in my headcanon, so there's that.

Representative passage:

The triplex looked like a pointed Dutch chalet tucked next to a palm tree. They had almost no yard, but water and trash collection were included in the rent, so no one complained. Lola mostly appreciated that they were right down the street from the MacArthur BART stop – she’d heard two very exuberant poets waxing haikus about fried fish sandwiches on the way in last night – and Anna couldn’t have been happier that they were within walking distance of UC’s Pacific Film Archive, where Cricket suspected The Couple would go watch weird French movies about les cousins dangereuses, or whatever French movies were about. Cricket had gotten a job at one of the four bike shops in the mile around their cottage, repairing fixies for hipsters and trying vehemently to deny his own inherent hipster lineage, but… he was an inventor whose girlfriend wore panniers to the winter dance; there was no denying anymore.

When Cricket first told Lola that he was moving in with Anna and Étienne at the end of the semester, she had thought he was insane.

“Are you insane?” were the first words out of her mouth. “Why would you move in with a couple? Especially Anna and St. Clair? They’re all over each other all the time! All. The time. Did I tell you that I walked in on them sucking face behind the popcorn butter bags in the supply room last weekend? Cricket, they even suck face when surrounded by bags of liquefied chemical butter.”

“They’re not that bad,” Cricket said, trailing his fingertips over the inside of Lola’s arm. “They keep their clothes on. And besides, none of us can afford to live alone, and you know how they’re always trying to save money. It’s easier if we all pool together for rent.”

Lola kissed the side of his neck in the warm, good-smelling place just beneath his ear. “Curse your financial sensibility.”

In Screaming Color - Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

I WILL FINISH THIS FIC SOMEDAY. THERE IS SO MUCH MORE WRITTEN IN ITS WORD DOCUMENT THAN EVER GOT POSTED, IT JUST NEEDS THE CONNECTIVE TISSUE.

Maybe in another 25 years when they reboot for the Sequel Sequel Trilogy, I will have another chapter ready. ::facepalm::

At any rate, I really love Poe Dameron and I love when characters go to therapy and I love BB-8 and I love prophetic Force dreams and I love Finn's mind-battling Snoke and I love Poe/Muran and I love Poe being a widow and I love sad Poe learning to love again and Rey learning to love at all. And I love Luke not being whatever the fuck he was in TLJ and instead being Luke Skywalker, and I love little younglings climbing all over Rey while she learns to fight with her lightsaber.

Someday I will finish this fic. I will. I'm gonna finish this fic someday.

Representative passage:

By the time most of the sunlight has fallen behind the canopy of leafy trees on Takodana, Poe is among the last beings left digging in the pit that used to Maz's castle. He has what he came here for: information about the black market bacta trade. He also found a new ally for the Resistance, albeit not the most useful of allies he's persuaded to their cause. Anyone willing to take a firm stand against the First Order matters, in his book.

His back and shoulders are sore from the heft of the shovel, but it's a pleasant soreness. It reminds him of peacetime back home.

All the same, he grunts when he heaves himself up and out of the pit to gather up Beebee and make the return flight back to base. His hair is probably a complete mess when he trudges up to Maz's chaise longue.

“So, my beautiful boyfriend, when are you bringing me beautiful Bey babies to cuddle?” Maz Kanata asks, still sipping blithely from her teal drink.

“That depends; when are you going to agree to marry me?” Poe asks, and he smiles down at Maz.

“Hmm!” Maz hums through her nose again. “In your dreams, you should be so lucky. I could never give up on my other boyfriends. No, Poe Dameron, I was being quite serious.”

Poe blinks. “I—don’t know. I’m not having any children in the near future, as far as I know, Maz.”

The teal drink is set on the ground near BB-8, who beeps at it curiously and tilts up as if to give it a sniff. Maz stands on the chaise and she’s nearly as tall as Poe that way, her hands adjusting the lenses of her goggles until her eyes are enormous, the size of faraway moons. “I think you are hiding something from me, Poe Dameron. There is a look about you.”

“I’m not hiding anything from you! Never you, Maz.” Poe holds up his hands—crusted in dirt though they are—and laughs. “You know you’re my best girl. My only girl.”

The goggles click. The eyes grow even bigger. “I disagree. The Force always glows bright around you, Poe Dameron, but now it is singing. You must hear it. Ever since you were a little child and Shara Bey first brought you to me to show you off, the Force has had a love affair with you. Why are you keeping it waiting?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Poe says, and swallows down the dream of the Force tree back home, of Muran fading away and Rey shining bright. “I don’t have the Force more than any other average human, Maz. Maybe just enough to be a little luckier shot.”

“Not when you were hitting my castle,” Maz snorts. “No, you are wrong, Poe Dameron. Or maybe misguided by the way the Force has hurt you in your life. But don’t you see the way those who command the Force are always drawn to you?” She touches his face again, palms against his cheeks grown stubbly over the long day. “Your good heart is like a well of the Light, my beautiful boyfriend. Your mother, Shara Bey, she was the same. It is why Luke Skywalker entrusted her, and you, with the Force tree. I think your role in the fight is to sow seeds of the Light in any way you can. Those to whom the Force calls find their way to you. It is inevitable.”

[albatris]

mornin. afternoon. evening. time is fake. it's nanowrimo day twelve!

today's word count is 22,593!

I didn't feel like writing today and I almost did not. but then I did. hurrah or whatever

today's excerpt is,

"Hey, welcome to The Author Hasn't Thought Of A Name For This Pizza Place Yet," the voice said, oozing with dead-inside customer service cheer. "I'm This Character Also Does Not Have A Name Yet Because The Author's Brain Is Fried And They've Only Had Four Hours Of Sleep. What can I get for you?"

today's mood is my brain is fried and I've only had four hours of sleep

today's jam is "golden jubilee" by boy & bear

hey! I love you. goodnight

also how are your nanowrimos going?

[aspiring-bl-writer]

This is a short story set in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, detailing a Death Guard attack on an Imperial world. The story is told from the perspective of an Imperial Guard lieutenant as his unit is saved by Adeptus Astartes from the Red Scorpions Chapter, who are obsessed with maintaining the purity of the Imperium and protecting humanity from any possible contamination.

They lurched forward in waves, unnatural and rancid figures, resembling the Adeptus Astartes, but their countenances blighted, sullied with the stench of decay. Swarms of flies clustered around them as the figures shuffled on deformed limbs. Their rusted suits of armor were greasy with a mucus oozing from pocked carapaces diffused with sores. They held oxidized, grime-coated weapons in twisted limbs disfigured by foul disease.

Despite their decomposing appearance, these disgusting parodies of Space Marines were formidable enemies. Wherever their weapons hit, the Imperial Guard fell, strains of crippling sickness spreading through their bodies. Weapons barely even fazed them, blasts and bolts absorbed into gnarled fusions of tissue and ceramite plate. Although the Guardsmen outnumbered them many times over, nothing seemed to interrupt the lethargic, scattered march of the Plague Marines. A discordant symphony of piercing shrieks, guttural death-rattles and the buzzing of warp-spawned pests followed them.

Lieutenant Selwyn Barras cursed the day he had ever set foot on Ephesos. His regiment had come to the feudal world in response to bombastic claims that the dead were rising and slaughtering the human population. Barras’ superiors had put down the preliminary reports to the superstitious hysteria of barely-civilized serfs toiling in dark lowlands, growing meager rice in paddy fields. Following their deployment, however, regimental commanders soon assessed the blunt reality. Epidemics had ravaged Ephesos for months, but rather than alerting Terra to the outbreaks, the planetary governor had remained doggedly focused on ensuring that the world supplied its regular tithe of rice bushels to the Imperium. The governor and his staff had been the only ones off-planet to know about the hastily-dug mass graves containing the hundreds of thousands of peasants claimed by the spreading pestilence. The governor had broken his silence only when reanimated corpses had clambered out of their crude, shared tombs, ravaging all living things discovered in their paths. Fortunately, the mindless undead could not hope to match the exceptional training and veteran leadership of an Imperial Guard regiment. Rot rendered once-human bodies into soft meat easily torn apart by laser fire. Defeating the zombie hordes had proved more time-consuming than challenging, and in a matter of weeks, most of Ephesos’ key cities had been reclaimed by the Astra Militarum.

Nature had not borne the plagues, nor their horrific creations. Unbeknownst to everyone, a Death Guard warband had instigated it all, and they were none too pleased at the disruption of their plans. They had attacked the Imperial forward positions overnight, hobbling across the horizon, a slow but thorough razing of all opposition. Regimental headquarters had instructed Barras to defend a dilapidated fortification along a stone wall running from a great river to a small inlet of a distant sea. The primitive masons who had constructed the barricade, with their limited knowledge of the larger universe in which they lived, would never have fathomed that their bulwark would someday be a citadel for the Imperial Guard against infernal demi-gods.

“Not much we can do without plasma weapons, much less armored support,” Barras murmured to himself, chewing on his lower lip. He let out a troubled sigh.

Commissar Aelia Tremelle, an ever-present face on the frontlines, could read the concern on Barras’ face as they observed the Plague Marines easily routing the forward positions. “The Emperor protects!” she yelled over the din of battle. What Tremelle lacked in persuasion she made up for in force of will. She was an ardent believer in the Imperium, and it was not hard to share her certainty, to emulate her zeal and unquestioning loyalty. Usually when Barras spied Tremelle’s peaked hat and fancily decorated coat, it bolstered his morale, reminded him that the all-powerful God Emperor safeguarded humanity, against enemies both material and immaterial.

This time was different. He reckoned by morning it was more probable he and the rest of the unit would be host to maggots rather than Tremelle’s unflappable passion.

He buried his pessimism, though, knowing he could not risk revealing it. Tremelle would have used it as an excuse for a summary execution, but that was not Barras’ main fear. He was more afraid that his despair would dishearten the rank-and-file, the men and women who depended on him for strength and guidance. Tremelle inspired them with moral purity, but it was from Barras they looked for leadership. If they saw him wavering, giving in to doubt and fear, they would resign themselves to annihilation. It was unlikely they could win against heretic Astartes, of course, but victory was not the goal now. Their objective was to offer the strongest resistance they could muster, to not give a single inch freely to the approaching traitors and their Chaos overlords.

He grabbed the Aquila necklace he wore and pressed it against his lips. Readying his bolt pistol, he turned from Tremelle to face the soldiers who had fixed their wide eyes upon him, their las-rifles primed. His heart thudded in his chest in anticipation as he searched for the words. “Have no fear! We will never surrender! We fight for humanity and the Emperor! All of you: die standing! Be ready to greet the Emperor with pride!” Tremelle cheered first as he finished, a booming hurrah, which the enlisted ranks copied with raucous shouting of their own. The speech, as brief as it was, had done its job.

Barras lifted himself up, aimed toward the Plague Marines, and fired. Lasers flashed past him, hitting their targets with great accuracy, but with minimal effect. The Death Guard traitors kept up their relentless march, cascades of shells spewing from their filth-encrusted weapons. Beside him, the side of Tremelle’s head exploded in a gory mess. Her corpse toppled over seconds later. A determined Guardsman took her place. Tremelle had often spoke of her demise in hallowed, sacred terms, promising it would be a noble sacrifice. In truth, Barras saw nothing poetic or dignified about it. Instead, he just wished that he would meet his death as quickly and unexpectedly as she had.

“Look!” Barras swung his head around and saw a trooper pointing heavenward. Following the upturned finger with his eyes, Barras noticed a trail of fire blazing across the sky. It looked as though a meteor storm had suddenly broken out over Ephesos, another ominous omen to go along with the dead rising and demonic corruption. He could not long take his gaze away from the oncoming scourge; their drumming bolters would not permit them to be ignored. Each concussive shot that landed sent dirt, blood and viscera flying. It took every ounce of willpower to take decent aim and fire, and every fiber of his courage not to lose his nerve when he saw a Plague Marine disregard the shot when it landed. The only weapon he possessed still serving its function was his faith, faith in the Emperor, for it was that alone that kept him rigid to where he stood.

Providence appeared to reward that faith. As the apparent meteoroids drew nearer, gaining ever more spectacular speed, it became clear they were something else entirely. They were drop pods of the Adeptus Astartes, and with ear-popping booms they plunged into the earth to the west of Barras’ position. Rocks and rubble sailed high in the air. Almost immediately pod doors whisked open, releasing their enormous occupants.

The head of every soldier in Barras’ unit, the lieutenant himself included, had turned to gawk at the Space Marines with awe. In their power armor, they stood just over eight feet tall. To call them colossuses would barely do them justice. Despite looking their human appearance, they were nevertheless alien and threatening, exuding auras of overwhelming violence. Their faces were hidden behind their helms, muzzle-mouthed and skull-faced, with piercing red lenses. Their armor was a pale tone of gray with yellow trim, and on their left pauldron a red scorpion raised its stinger menacingly against a white circle. In fluid motions, they smacked their bulky gauntlets on the stone eagle emblazoned over their breastplates before breaking out into sprints toward the Plague Marines. It seemed absurd that giants could move with such amazing celerity.

Barras’ eyes were fixed on the goliath leading the charge. While his brothers mostly fired bolters, he carried a two-handed maul with two heads, each swathed in a powerful disruptor field. Letting out a growl that sounded distorted and wolfish through his helmet speakers, the Marine swung his gigantic hammer and pounded an unsteady Plague Marine square in the chest. The sparking force field around the hammer’s head flashed on impact, amplifying the already inhuman strike to insane levels of strength. The Plague Marine flew backwards, landing and skidding around twenty yards away. Not dwelling on what he had just done, the maul-wielding Marine shouted to his comrades: “Let free the retribution of the Emperor, my brothers! Purge the unclean!”

Unbelievably, the fallen Plague Marine rose again, a crater on his chest, dazed but not nearly incapacitated. It took a few more steps before being engulfed in a searing fireball. Many of the Marines wearing the scorpion heraldry carried flamers, and were using them liberally to submerge their Death Guard foes in infernos. The consuming blazes did little to dismay their shambling targets, and most of the Plague Marines continued firing their bolters and swinging their blades even as the flames scorched their armor and burned away their fetid flesh. Rather than seek their survival, they seemed to welcome death once it was credibly offered to them, as if it were some cherished gift.

One of Barras’ soldiers let out a whoop of deliverance, sparking a chorus of additional supportive yells. With renewed dynamism, the Guardsmen resumed firing volleys, even if it was a weak supplement to the strength and firepower of their godlike saviors.

A small quantity of Plague Marines had died, but more were closing in on the attackers. Methodical salvos of bolter, flamer and plasma fire from the loyalist Marines thrashed the ranks of the Death Guard reinforcements, but few were stopped, and eventually the two forces met. A helmetless heretic, his head resembling a moldering shriveled prune, grappled with the Space Marine commander, a humming chainsword gripped in one tremendous fist. His dark moss-colored armor leaked with an unknown sludge. The Space Marine commander tried to shove him away, but his gauntlet slid clear due to the slimy gunk. The Death Guard warrior lunged, slashing his chainsword across the commander’s shoulder and blood sprayed where the chain found purchase. The commander did not cry out; instead, he slammed his elbow into his opponent’s belly and leapt backward, trouncing his maul onto neck and head. Like the rotted fruit it resembled, the Plague Marine’s head broke open, bone and brain obliterated in an eruption of sopping carnage. The decapitated body fell away as more enemies loomed.

The scene became a festival of massacres, a carnival of blood and brutality. Barras watched as a Space Marine died, an axe plunged into the space beneath his helm, and he fell to the sound of his own gurgling blood. One of his battle-brothers swept up his dead comrade’s bolt pistol and emptied the magazine into the killer. He was instantly set upon by a Traitor Marine carrying a combat knife, which in Barras’ much smaller hands would easily have been a broadsword. The Chaos-corrupted Marine drove the serrated blade into the gap between breastplate and helmet before wrenching it out. He stabbed repeatedly, laughing a sick wet giggle, until the Space Marine collapsed. The heretic was so caught up in his mania he did not even notice the Astartes commander swinging his maul until it landed on the Plague Marine’s back, shattering his spine. The hammer rose and fell over and over, quickly turning the soldier of Chaos into mere pulp and slush.

The battle was even, with the Space Marines winning slightly, but Barras wondered how long that would go on. The Death Guard Marines, though few in number, were only stoppable by extreme use of firepower or overwhelming brute force. In a conflict of pure attrition, the advantage lay with the nigh-invulnerable plague-bearing juggernauts. They were, Barras thought to himself, avatars of the inevitable entropy in the universe, the unpleasant but nevertheless harsh truth that all things, no matter how glorious or precious, would someday collapse and congeal, falling to ruin. Even the Imperium of Man, for all its splendors and righteousness, would at some point vanish from the universe, just as the brightest suns in the galaxy would someday be extinguished….

He was shaken from these heretical thoughts by the rumbling sound of Thunderhawks howling above him, their wing mounted guns blasting away. As the shells landed, the Plague Marines exploded in a series of detonations. With almost stoic passivity, the more distant Death Guard survivors were also torn apart by over-sized battle cannons spewing high-explosive rounds, others shredded by the shrapnel created by the rounds’ shell casings. The aircrafts banked around as they passed overhead, coming in low to the ground. When they landed, they unloaded streams of Space Marines, around twenty in each. From one, an enormous war machine strode clumsily down an exit ramp, roughly thirteen feet tall and just as wide. It moved in thumping, lazy steps, and its arms were weapons: the left was a steel arm capped by a wide chainsaw fist the size of an adult human, and the right was a long cannon with coils along its length that glowed dull blue.

The battle ended soon thereafter. Barras’ men, exhausted and mortified by their brush with certain death, relaxed their discipline and slouched against the walls, some leaning on their firearms. The only thing keeping them warm and energized was the relief of surviving, of having won a gamble with fate and come out the victor. They had earned their rest. Barras felt the urge to join them but stopped when he spotted the Space Marine commander with the maul moving towards him. He snapped to attention, as nervously as he had done in the officers’ academy. He did his best to remain composed, but reflexively blanched at the noisy bluster of servos from the Marine’s armor joints.

The Astartes set aside his maul and with gauntleted hands removed his helm. Beneath it, his head was bald and leathery tan, marred with crisscrossed scars. His eyes were a light and watery blue, blank, unfocused. Barras smiled softly, hoping a relaxed and warm expression would obscure his uneasiness before one of the God-Emperor’s chosen. Of course, he knew the galaxy contained more futile tasks. “I’m Lieutenant Selywn Barras, my lord,” he managed, “and we’re extremely glad to see you…”

“I am Brother-Captain Creon Mindarus,” the Astartes interrupted, “of the Red Scorpions’ Fourth Company. My orders are to purge this quadrant of the planet. Inquisitor Xanthus of the Ordo Malleus informed us that the traitors of the Fourteenth Legion were attempting to summon a powerful daemon, a harbinger of rot and ruin.”

Barras nodded. “Well, it would appear your mission was accomplished.”

“Not yet,” Creon said quickly. “Our orders were to cleanse this planet of Chaos taint, Lieutenant, and for us, that means all who were exposed to the corruption on Ephesos. Your unit has been deployed on the planet for several months, has it not?”

Barras arched an eyebrow. “Y-Yes, my lord, to wipe out the walking dead…”

“A task you did satisfactorily,” Creon replied with a cold monotone. “Yet, it was an error sending your regiment here. Despite its many commendations, you have one inherent flaw: you are mere humans.” He titled his head to one side briefly and clicked his tongue. “Well, most of you, at least. Your regiment has squads of abuhumans, yes?”

“Y-You mean the Ogryns?” Barras stammered. The Imperium of Man believed in the supremacy of humanity over the universe, but it nevertheless utilized near-human creatures in parts of the Imperial Guard. This included the gigantic mutants known as the Ogryns, as loyal as they were big and stupid. They made excellent shock troops, even if their very existence suggested tolerance of genetic mutation, which in turn may have invited spiritual corruption. “My lord, I have nothing to do with…”

The Astartes captain raised a hand to halt the protest. “It is irrelevant. Even without the presence of abhumans among your units, your regiment has been exposed to plagues and poxes your unmodified immune systems could not resist with guaranteed success. Rather than risk allowing you to leave Ephesos and potentially infect others, spreading the Chaos taint, we will have to liquidate your regiment as part of our operations.”

Barras went ashen as the blood drained from his face. His jaw dropped several centimeters and his eyes grew wide. “T-This is wrong! We did our duty!”

“As was appropriate,” Creon responded with indifference. “Nevertheless, you cannot claim direct descent from the Emperor himself, as we can. Even few Astartes chapters truly do.” There was no pride on his lips; he spoke matter-of-factly. “To protect the Emperor’s faithful, we must cull those susceptible to the insidious corruption of Chaos. You have always been told you may give your life for the Emperor; today, you will.”

On instinct, Barras moved to run. Obviously the Astartes was faster. He reached out and clutched Barras’ neck in his gauntleted fingers. The Guardsman struggled in the grip, choking for air. Creon tightened his hold, crunching bone and cartilage with barely a tensing of his muscles. Lifted off the ground, Barras’ feet kicked for solid contact, but soon went limp. The Astartes dropped him to the ground, where he fell with a thud.

By this time, the worn and weakened soldiers of Barras’ unit had noticed the execution of their commander. As they struggled to process what they had witnessed, they failed to notice that the charcoal-clad Space Marines had encircled them–and were now pointing their bolters, flamers, and plasma guns in their direction. Creon made a small motion with his hand. The Marines fired, cutting down the surviving Guardsmen with no mercy.

As las-fire and flame reflected in his blank blue eyes, Creon said: “Purge the unclean.”

[senjutobiirama]

BokuAka fic recs

@lnsouke asked for some BokuAka recs, so here’s a list of some of my favorite BokuAka fics!

♥ = personal favorite

First of all, literally anything by norio, who’s like THE BokuAka author, but my favorites so far are:

if kisses were fishes, then i'd be an ocean (G | 4.600)

notice me kouhai (G | 4.400)

nine hundred lies (G | 8.400)

the volleyball is beautiful tonight (G | 2.400)

one in a hundred (G | 4.000)

apowlogize (G | 2.300)

Fight! The Exciting Adventures of a High School Girl! The Fire Will Never Die! (G | 1.900 | Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun AU)

i put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight by carafin G | 3.700

In which Bokuto Kotarou is woefully inept at conveying his feelings, and Akaashi Keiji has a sort-of superpower. Sort of. Next to him, Komi is chewing his cupcake dutifully, albeit with obvious effort. Washio has assumed a completely neutral expression on his face, although Akaashi thinks that his eyes might be watering. Sarukui, having seemingly demolished the entire thing out of sheer willpower alone, looks like he deeply regrets every single choice that has led to this precise moment in his life. ‘It isn’t too bad, huh?’ Bokuto says, grinning. ‘I made them in our school colours, so they’re like, marbled black and white chocolate swirls! Do you guys want more?’ Sarukui looks like he might pass out at the thought alone. Komi pauses mid-chew to shake his head weakly. ‘I’ll have more,’ Akaashi says, to the general astonishment of everyone.

From the text logs of Bokuto Koutarou by koikawa T | 2.800

(To: Keiji) akaashi!!!!! I got a new phone!!! (From: Keiji) Who is this (To: Keiji) it’s your best friend in the whole world!!!! (From: Keiji) Konoha-san?

legs killed the owl by dalyeau T | 1.900

He's not smiling anymore an hour later, after he's fucked up four perfect spikes that Akaashi tossed carefully for him because he's too distracted by the lean, elegant line of Akaashi's legs, kneepads dark against the white of Fukurodani's gym.

third wheel by arsenicjay T | 4.500

"So you and Bokuto, huh?" Akaashi's attention snaps back to Kuroo and he gives the other boy a blank stare. "What about us?" Or, Kuroo figures out that Bokuto is interested in Akaashi long before Bokuto does himself and being the kind friend that he is, tries to help them along.

pink roses for the couple at the back by orphan_account T | 4.800

The first-year, who Kuroo assumed to be Akaashi, seemed to grow more dead inside as the two approached them, and Kuroo couldn’t help the smirk on his face as Fukurodani’s setter patted Akaashi’s shoulder and departed with a pitying, “Good luck, Akaashi-kun.” Akaashi barely looked at him as he dryly said, “Thank you, Uchido-san.” “AGHASHEE!” Kuroo briefly wondered if that was how Bokuto always pronounced his name, then snorted when he saw the first-year close his eyes and mutter a bitter, “Fuck you, Uchido-san.” alternatively: bokuaka is in love but in kuroo's point of view.

our destiny, in ourselves by drifloon G | 6.600

Akaashi was probably thinking about how stupid he was for having said yes to this, a day at the zoo when it wasn’t even that warm yet, March air keeping everyone on their toes. But the sun was out and shining, and for a first date, the weather was good. Not that this was a date, Koutarou quickly corrected himself. Just a last hurrah while they were still teammates. A last chance to see each other before it was all over.

5 tips to get your guy by Mizaaistom G | 5.900 | ♥

Second-year Bokuto gets fantastic dating advice from his sister’s magazines.

Something good can work by choir T | 3.700

“Do you want to date, Akaashi?” The serve that Keiji is about to hit curves and hits Konoha in the back of the head.

idyll by mutterandmumble T | 6.600

In which a risk is taken, a list is made, there’s a piano, and somehow Akaashi gets a boyfriend out of all of it.

Victory Will Be Mine by spadebrigade T | 4.000

"Bokuto-san," Akaashi found himself saying, sweat dripping down his forehead. "If we win this match, I’ll give you a kiss."

Sphoeroides maculatus by himbokuto (hibouu) G | 1.100

Akaashi's plan to boost Bokuto's confidence has unexpected results, but he's not complaining.

desire as your holy fire by blushytobio (blanketkicks) G | 4.900

The five times Bokuto calls Akaashi by his first name. (alternate description: Akaashi’s weaknesses are Bokuto, Bokuto, and Bokuto.)

Red Reed by yuuki T | 5.200

It's Aka-ashi, Keiji wants to say every time Bokuto says his name wrong, not Ah-kashi. He never corrects him. It's easier to study if you don't talk and actually study, Keiji wants to tell Bokuto every time he fails a test. He never tells him. Everything Bokuto does makes Keiji fall in love with him, and there's a lot that Keiji doesn't tell him.

Something to Look Forward To by mousapelli T | 500

Bokuto's a bit clingy, which makes Akaashi curious what he did the whole of his first year.

Right Outside Your Window by hokshi G | 2.100

Akaashi has a frequent visitor in his classroom.

Principles by timkons G | 2.800

Akaashi has a list of Bokuto's weaknesses. Bokuto has a list of Akaashi's principles.

Observing You Observing Me by undercovermartian G | 2.700

Bokuto realizes that he doesn't know Akaashi as much as Akaashi knows him. Bokuto comes to the conclusion that this will not do so he vows to learn everything about Akaashi that he can, using his powers of observation alone. Akaashi is a weirdo and a worrywart.

soft blue by groaninlynch G | 6.000

Koutarou finds a sketchbook that he's never seen before.

Owl Notes by orphan_account T | 8.800 | Bullying and implied self-harm

Bokuto has brought an owl plushie with him to school every day since junior high. One day, while running down the hall, he crashes into someone, and loses it. It makes its way back with a note under its wing, and prompts him to search for the owl's rescuer.

Flaws Upon Your Sleeve by downtownfishies G | 9.400

First Akaashi fell hard for volleyball, which was fine. Then he made the questionable decision of falling for his team's ace.

Lumos of my Life by DeathBelle T | 6.700 | Hogwarts AU

Bokuto knows who Akaashi Keiji is. Everyone knows who Akaashi Keiji is. Bokuto has never spoken to him, but that's by personal choice. He doesn't fancy making a fool of himself. When he and Kuroo get caught sneaking out past curfew by Akaashi himself, who is a fifth-year prefect, Bokuto has no choice but to speak to him. As expected, he kind of makes a fool of himself.

Thermodynamic by Telenovela G | 5.000 | ♥

Heat can be transferred from place to place in three ways: conduction, convection and radiation.

Noctua by Telenovela G | 2.200

Every night before official matches, Bokuto and Akaashi lie side by side on the roof of Akaashi's apartment building and watch the stars together.

Maybe We're Airborne, Baby by fathomfive T | 3.100

Realizing he's got it bad for his setter is the easy part. Getting his feelings across might be the hardest thing Bokuto's ever done, not counting his literature final or putting out the flames on that birthday cake he tried to bake for Akaashi last year, or—or a lot of things, actually. But the point still stands. Reaching out to Akaashi is a leap in the dark, and he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything. He's an expert at seizing his perfect moment, at bringing victory home against the odds. So he's got this, right? It's gonna go great, right? Right? (After all, it's what you attempt with your own two hands that matters.)

wonders that remain by shizuoh T | 2.900

The door swings right open, like Akaashi had been standing there, waiting for him. He hasn't even knocked yet. Oh, jeez. He's going to die. (or: bokuto goes on his first date with the one and only akaashi keiji.)

bitter by silvercistern G | 14.000 | ♥

He accepted his classmate's chocolates gracefully, then declared his lack of interest with as much dignity as he could muster. She deserved the courtesy. At least she'd acknowledged that Valentine's Day was all about her, and not about him in the slightest. Because if any of these girls had taken the time to actually get to know him, they’d quickly realize something even more important than his lack of interest in girls. And that was that Akaashi hated sweets.

Kissing Ace by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor) G | 2.400

It happens right after training camp. Akaashi Keiji has a secret he has guarded since he was a child. He won’t go so far as to call it a fear, but more of an aspect of himself of which he is horribly mortified. No one on the team knows about it, and Akaashi does his best to keep it that way. But years of dodging hugs and casual contact come to naught in the blink of an eye and the swipe of a hand.

A Lesson In Anatomy by Zillyhoo T | 830

Bokuto gets his hands on a label maker, and after filling the dorm with them, he decides to get a little creative with where he starts to place them.

Notes: Bokuto Koutarou by dgalerab T | 8.700 | ♥

Bokuto knows he's a hassle, but he likes to think that Akaashi likes him. Sometimes, he even shows it. Or: 5 times Akaashi showed that he thought highly of Bokuto and 1 time that Bokuto proved he thought just as highly of Akaashi.

Karma by dgalerab T | 9.000

Akaashi pulls a muscle and Bokuto offers to help him with yoga. Akaashi knows a bad idea when he sees it, and he really only agrees because he's suddenly acquired a deeply rooted desire to see Bokuto do yoga. For multiple reasons.

[jeongyunhoed]

Past-Present-Future Black Dahlia

Two major tragedies bring Lee Mirae closer to the edge as she goes through the stages of grief in a more violent manner that would affect not only her relationships with her boyfriend Jeong Yunho and her half-brother Choi San, but also has her becoming closer with the immortal mutant Kang Yeosang. Fueled by rage, grief, and pain, along with a very rude awakening that has Mirae spiraling out of control and questioning everything she holds dear.

Group: ATEEZ Member: Yunho Pairing: Jeong Yunho / OC Genre: Action, adventure, angst, fantasy

Watch Out! : Violence, blood, death, grief and loss, major character deaths, use of weapons, some jealousy (but no cheating ofc), implied smut (not sure if there is any but i’m putting it out there nonetheless), mental illness (probably?), gambling and alcohol

Anything else? : Mentions of other idols of course as well as other characters. SuperM, Dean, Chanyeol, Zelo, soloist Park Jihoon to name a few.

Author’s Note: Sorry for taking so long to update! Oh, and I thought since it’s my birthday, I’d treat everyone (at least everyone who reads this anyway) with another chapter! Hurrah! Things are happening!

Masterlist

Chapter 8

“So, it seems like one of us is dead,” Ten broke the silence between the rest of them as they looked over the city from where they stood. They were back in the real world, in the conference room of the skyscraper that Mark owned under his own enterprise.

“And one is being held hostage,” Lucas pointed to his temple. “That same one owns this building that we are staying in. Why didn’t we stay in your building? You own the tech company in the first place,” He glanced over at Taemin. 

“It won’t be long before Yunho comes here,” Ino said, seeing Taemin furiously disintegrate the vacant chairs in front of him. “He’s bound to come here since he’s got Mark. Taeyong proved to be a lot more expendable than we thought he was.” 

“How dare you say that!” Taemin disintegrated the chair the elder was sitting on and the table that had their drinks. 

“Taemin, it’s true. Taeyong clearly forgot he was up against someone whose mind he can’t read,” Baekhyun pointed out. “Mirae and San both have a shield. No one can get into their heads. You placed San in the mountains where he stayed with a woman for a while,” He glanced at Ten, who shrugged. “Wrong move.” 

“It was an attempt to get him to soften up,” Ten replied. “I figured if I brought San back to a place he would remember fondly, like that place, where he had quite a...sexually explicit affair with the wife of his mercenary group leader, he would be vulnerable. Apparently not. That was the reason why he fled to look for his sister in the first place.” 

“And what about Yunho?” Jongin asked. 

“Yunho, to the place where his immortality took effect,” Ten glanced at them. “Where he was vulnerable.” 

“So what is our next move?” Taemin fumed. 

Ino looked at the tablet at his feet, laying on top of the piles of dust that was once the conference room table. The tablet unlocked itself and showed the interface of the controls. “This is our next move. We go live,” He replied, some of the features on the interface tapping themselves. “Project Apocalypse is now live.” 

“You know, Yunho made a good point earlier when we visited him,” Ten glanced at them. “We go like this without any leadership, if we need any. Our think-tank will need a face.” 

“Wouldn’t it be obvious by now? I have been looking for mutants under the directions of my father back in the center for paranormal research. I am also far more powerful than any of you in this room,” Ino said. “I’ve waited for a long time to take my place among our kind. I realize that my place is above.” 

“It was my plan to track down Jihoon, Hyuk, and Chanyeol that led us to come up with this think tank in the first place,” Baekhyun interjected. “You only knew of that when you went away after the tall dope and the telekinetic were killed.” 

“But my powers are far more superior than yours, Baekhyun,” Ino repeated. “Are you really going to question my very obvious authority over you?”

“No, you are right,” Baekhyun got up from his chair. “You have a very obvious authority over all of us. Maybe not Mark as he is significantly older than you, but for the rest of us?” He kicked down the wooden floor lamp, making the base snap in two. Baekhyun picked up the two pieces and before he could strike, the two pieces disintegrated and Baekhyun was floating in the air. 

Ino stared at him, shaking his head slightly. “Tsk, tsk, Baekhyun. Even my powers surpass that of Mark’s. You ought to know better than to fight me.” 

“Yeah, because Mirae’s the only one here that can actually do damage to you,” Jongin chimed in. “Don’t think we didn’t see what happened to you. Put Baekhyun hyung down.” 

Ino’s expression stiffened and Baekhyun dropped to the floor. “You’re a fool if you even consider opposing me.” 

“You’re also a fool for assuming you can defeat everybody here, if I do say so myself,” Taemin pointed out, glaring at him. “You just tagged along when you found out what we were planning.” 

“And now I am changing the plans,” Ino countered. “Project Apocalypse won’t just be a think tank anymore, it’s going to be more than that.” 

Particles of dust and metal were floating in mid-air in front of Ino, suddenly taking the form of robots that towered over all of them. “Project Apocalypse will remake the world into our image.” 

Jongin stared at him. “We killed the goblins years ago when they were looking to do the same thing, Jang Ino. You should know this most of all.” 

“I’m not talking about the goblins,” Ino said. “Mutant supremacy at its finest. The diamond of the tree of life will power these robots,” the gem appeared in his hand out of thin air. 

Jongin and Baekhyun stared at the gem. “...You kept the diamond all this time?” said the older of the two. 

“Yes, all this time, the diamond was with me. It made itself known to me shortly after the explosion from the Center,” Ino said. “Have you already forgotten? This is a sentient gem. It could never be destroyed, it simply disappears and reappears to anyone it wants to appear to.” 

“You will need material for that, whatever you are planning on building,” Taemin said, now intrigued by his proposal. “Where do you suppose you’re going to get that?” 

“From you, of course. Your company also specializes in metals, don’t they? The same alloy Junhong uses to fit the cars at the Center come from your company,” Ino pointed out. “They will be indestructible, and they will usher in a new era in the world.” 

Lucas approached the window, staring down at the busy streets below them. “So your droids are going to act as the horsemen of the apocalypse, won’t they?” He asked. 

“Why yes, they will. The horsemen of Project Apocalypse.”

~ 

Mirae looked up at the sky. In the midst of the calm, she still felt some frustration, the seeping feeling of regret that she didn’t finish Baekhyun or Jongin off while she had the chance, Ino even more so. Her eyes began to glow as well as her fingertips. “We’re not where we should be,” She said. “Project Apocalypse is being activated in the city, our real city.” 

“You mean they went back?” Mingi said. 

“I got it from Yunho. Mark told him, he’s telling him everything,” Mirae replied. “If my instincts are right, you should stand behind me,” She was still looking up. 

“What are you thinking of doing?” Hongjoong asked. 

“Don’t ask, just stand behind her,” Yeosang said. 

Mirae channeled everything she was feeling, the glow in her eyes and fingertips growing brighter and brighter as she concentrated on the sky. The more she stared at the sky and at the clouds swirling above them, the more the sky began to turn red, as red as the glow in her eyes and fingertips. “For Hyuk and Chanyeol,” She muttered. “For Jihoon, for Yunho, and for San.” 

The more she concentrated, they started to see that Mirae’s form was beginning to glow as well, and a powerful wave of energy shot up into the skies, causing what looked like cracks in a forcefield. Another wave of energy shot up, but this time, they saw that it was much more powerful than before, breaking out of the cracks and shattering what was above them completely. 

As the sky broke down completely, it seemed to reveal where they really were and to Mirae, it was another familiar place. It was the deserted compound with the empty, partly demolished houses. One of those houses had the passage that led to the goblin kingdom court. 

“Wow, I knew she was powerful, but I never thought she was this powerful,” Jongho muttered, the rest of them looked at her in amazement. The glow in her eyes was fading. 

They saw Junhong get out of the van nearby, looking around in disbelief and almost stumbling as he ran up to them. “What happened? Where are we?” He called out. 

“She broke down the dimension Ten put us in,” Yeosang replied. “Which means Yunho and San would be very close by.” 

Junhong gaped at her. “Now we need to look for them,” He took out the thin sliver of metal that was their communicator and turned it on. “Yunho? San? Where are you?” He called out, hoping for an answer. 

“Hey! Hey!” They looked at a figure running from a distance, and Mirae broke into a run as well when she realized who it was. 

“San!” She called out, the two of them capturing each other in a tight hug. “San, I’m sorry,” Mirae said softly. 

“For what?” He said. 

“For how I’ve been acting these past few weeks,” Mirae said quietly. “I was acting like you weren’t my brother, like you didn’t exist or something.” 

San shook his head. “It’s okay, sis. Are you back now?” He asked. 

“I-I don’t know,” Mirae said. “For some reason I don’t know.” 

They heard a commotion come from one of the partly demolished houses. “That must be where Yunho is,” Hongjoong said, and ran to the house, speeding up to the second floor. 

The rest of them ran to the house as well to catch up. Wooyoung transformed into his shadow form and slithered along the ground and into the house as well. “Junhong, you better stay close to us,” Mirae said. 

“I already am,” Junhong nodded, as they stepped inside the house. “Oh, this is the same place from-” 

“Yeah, where we dealt with the goblins,” Mirae replied, seeing the blood stains on the floors and on the walls. “We always tend to end up in this place.” 

“We’re in a small country, we’re bound to always end up in places we’ve been to before,” Junhong replied. 

“Seonghwa, when I say go, control it,” Mirae said. “I have a feeling that’s how it’s going to go.” 

They heard several thuds coming from the second floor, until the figures of Yunho and Mark appeared and disappeared, both of them engaged in a tussle in front of them. 

The rest of them tried to surround the two that kept teleporting in and out. “Go!” Mirae said the moment she sensed the two would reappear. Seonghwa’s eyes and fingertips glowed green as he broke the two teleporters apart, the two of them floating in mid-air as they were surrounded by the rest. 

When Mark tried to teleport away, Mingi kicked him back, followed by a strike from Hongjoong then Jongho, Wooyoung, Mirae, and San. Yeosang cast another hex towards the immortal, keeping him frozen as Seonghwa dropped him and Yunho to the floor. “I guess this is what happens when we don’t have much of our weapons left,” Mingi said. 

“Excellent, Hwa,” Mirae patted him on the shoulder. 

“Hyuk taught me that,” He said. 

“He taught you well,” She patted his shoulder again. 

Yunho quickly got to his feet, seeing Mark bruised and incapacitated on the floor. “One moment, we were in a village in Casablanca, the next moment, we’re in this...place, whatever this is,” He said. 

“Mirae broke down the dimension Ten put us in,” Yeosang pointed out, Yunho looking even more surprised at the change in his appearance. 

Yunho turned to Mirae, who was still staring at Mark’s frozen form. “Mirae?” He said. 

She looked up at the mention of her name. “Yunho?” Mirae went up to him in a tight hug, Yunho almost lifting her off her feet. “I’m so sorry,” She said. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been.” 

Yunho shook his head. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” He kissed her cheek as he held her close. “I know how much they meant to you, and for a moment I thought I was going to lose you.” 

“Me too. I was so consumed by how I was feeling, I thought I was going out of control,” Mirae pulled back, staring into his eyes. “I couldn’t stop myself, I was just so angry and hurt and-” 

Yunho shook his head and kissed her. “What matters is that you’re back now,” He whispered. Back to me, he thought. 

“What do we do with him? Any ideas?” Hongjoong asked them, making Yunho and Mirae pull away to look over at Mark. 

“We could prolong the hex, if I may suggest,” Yeosang spoke. “Any other ideas?” 

“Skin him?” Jongho asked. 

“Burn him alive?” Mingi chimed in. 

“Make an example out of him,” Mirae said, her expression falling. She bent down to look closely at Mark. “Where in the city would they activate Project Apocalypse?” She asked. 

“Taemin and Taeyong’s company. It’s a tech enterprise,” Mark replied, seemingly defeated. “I must admit, I have underestimated each and every one of you.” 

“Don’t make that mistake again,” Mirae pointed out. 

“I killed one of yours,” San said, holding up a fragment of a diamond that was in his pocket. “Look familiar?” He said. 

Mark stared at him in horror. “...That’s impossible.” 

“It is, when you’re someone like me,” San replied. “What else can you tell us about Project Apocalypse?” 

“It’s too late,” Mark said. “Ino has activated the project, and it appears that he’s got more tricks up his sleeve, if I can hear his thoughts correctly.” 

“What tricks? What kind of tricks?” Yunho asked. 

Wooyoung stared at him, and then turned to the rest of them, blinking a few times as to what he was seeing. “Robots. Like the ones in the Danger room. Ino’s making robots that can kill,” He said. “Just like the robots you fought.” 

“Then let’s go. Yeosang can take care of Mark,” Mirae said, giving the vampiric mutant a nod. “Tough luck, Mr. Lee. You’ve weakened Yeosang enough to make him hungry.” 

“Should I call you an old friend? You’re not as invincible as you make yourself out to be. Then again, you’re now dealing with me,” Yeosang then bent down as the rest of them moved out of the house. Mark stared at him. “You can read my mind to know how much I need to feed, and unfortunately for you, your time is up,” He pressed his hand to Mark’s heart, shuddering as he absorbed the life out of him. 

~ 

“They got Mark too. This vendetta you have is becoming even more risky,” Taemin glared at Baekhyun. “And now they’re on their way here.” 

“We’re becoming outnumbered, it’s nine of them against how many of us?” Ten raised a brow, also looking at Baekhyun. 

“If they got Mark and Taeyong, that just means they were outsmarted, outmatched, and they’re not as strong as they make themselves out to be. Yeah, I said what I said,” Baekhyun shot back at Taemin. 

“It doesn’t matter if they were expendable or not,” Ino said. “All that matters is,” He gestured to the windows. They could hear a thud followed by the sounds of people screaming in the streets. The robot that Ino had built was walking out in the open. “Action must be taken now. If I were all of you, I’d make sure Mirae and the others don’t stand in the way.” 

“We should go then,” Lucas said, Ten getting up from his seat, followed by Taemin. “They’ve taken two from us, we should return the favor.” 

Baekhyun and Jongin got up, the younger of the two limping as he joined their colleagues. “Mutant supremacy,” Baekhyun said as if to remind them of their resolve. Ten and Taemin held on to Lucas’ shoulders while Baekhyun put his hand on Jongin’s and in an instant, they vanished. 

Ino closed his eyes and vanished as well. 

~ 

“If we’re here, then it means we’re getting close to home,” Mirae said as they approached another familiar dilapidated apartment building that revealed some of the floors. Yeosang quickly reappeared with them, his appearance returning to normal. She glanced at San and Yunho, “I mean, we’re getting literally close to home, the store is a bus ride away.” 

They entered the building, Mirae and Junhong seeing the familiar blood splatters on the doors and on the walls that had peeling wallpaper. Wooyoung gaped at what he was seeing. “Jongin got attacked here, didn’t he? During that time with all of you? He was with another guy,” He said. 

“Sehun, yeah,” Mirae replied as they climbed up the staircase, seeing even more blood spatters, some might even have looked fresh from how red it was. “Looks like some creatures come out to feed here then,” She muttered. 

“Creatures?!” Hongjoong stared at her. 

“Creatures. Non-humans, goblins most likely,” Junhong nodded. “Mirae, you still know the way, right?” He asked. 

“Vividly,” Mirae answered, leading them down the hall to the door at the very end. “You all know what to do in case something happens.” 

“I wonder why this area hasn’t been developed? I could’ve made the way to where we’re going a lot...nicer looking,” Yeosang frowned at the sight of the deteriorating interiors. 

Mirae opened the door, revealing a staircase going down to a dark tunnel ahead. The passage was barely lit, and they could hear the sounds of something scurrying and squeaking. “Oh my god,” Seonghwa muttered, gripping the strap of his quiver tightly while Mingi took out his lighter to light the way from his place, the flames rising up high enough to make it bright for everyone to see. 

“Watch your steps,” Mirae looked over at them, holding Yunho’s hand tightly as they walked through the passageway, seeing rats scurry around them, and making Jongho and Wooyoung squeal in their places, Mingi holding onto Hongjoong who leaned away from the flame in his lighter. 

San gave them a look, shaking his head. “All of you realize we need to be quiet in case someone else is in here, right?” He said. 

More rats were scurrying, making the rest of them, including Yeosang, stick to Mirae and Yunho. “I think we were a lot braver against those rodents while we were under the trance,” Hongjoong said. 

“Clearly,” Mirae nodded as they walked on, seeing the familiar old-fashioned elevator at the end of the tunnel. There were still bits of dried blood on the buttons going up and down as the iron doors opened. “Not all of us are going to fit in here,” she said. “San, Yunho, Junhong, Yeosang, Wooyoung, and I will go in first, the rest of you will be next. We’ll wait for you.” 

“Got it,” Hongjoong said. 

“If something goes wrong, Hongjoong, you better run,” Mirae eyed him, and he nodded again. 

“How about we don’t do that? I’d like to try something, my dear,” Yeosang cast a spell, and the elevator in front of them expanded in size. “It can fit up to ten people now. We cannot afford to separate now, they will take advantage of us being split up.” 

All of them got inside, and Mirae pressed the button, the doors closing as the elevator began to go down. They could feel a cold draft coming from below as they were further lowered down into the dark shaft. “We haven’t been here in a while,” Junhong looked around. “I wonder what’s going to happen to us now after all of this is over.” 

“I suggest we still stick together after this,” Hongjoong said. “It’s clear that we all work well together, including executive Kang.” 

“Aside from that, I mean,” Junhong said. “Mirae’s got the store, Yeosang’s got his company, now that it’s clear that Ino is no longer willing to keep us going, the rest of us are on our own.” 

“What is that smell?” Jongho suddenly spoke, cringing and frowning the further they went down, the rest of them wrinkling their noses at the stench that was getting stronger. “It smells like something died.” 

“Something did die. A lot of somethings,” Mirae said. “I didn’t think it would still stink this bad years later.” 

“Goblins decay slower than humans,” Junhong said.

“Is that what it is? This smells even worse than the camel poop in Morocco,” Yunho said, glancing at her. 

The elevator stopped and Mirae opened the doors, all of them suddenly greeted by the rotting goblin corpses strewn on the floor in what looked like a library with one bookcase pushed to the side, revealing another passageway. “I know I should be used to seeing dead bodies by now, but I’m not used to this,” Seonghwa said as they stepped over the bodies, noticing the glinting gold armor that the creatures wore. 

“Come to think about it, this place seems like a good spot for all of us to stay in, kind of like a headquarters,” San glanced at his sister. “There’s all these cool passageways, we just need to uh, get rid of all the bodies and the blood.” 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Junhong nodded. “This place just needs a lot of cleaning up, an updated security system, and we’d have our own headquarters instead of that safehouse. Where we could really be hidden away.” 

They went inside the passageway into a torch-lit chamber that had a set of two giant doors in front of them, the wood that acted as a barricade had long broken, and some parts of the doors had already been busted through. Wooyoung could feel his senses go into overdrive with all the memories he kept seeing the more they walked on. “So much has happened here,” He said, blinking a few times, as if trying to organize what he was seeing.

Mirae led them down the marble aisle in the middle of the room, the water on both sides of the aisle also littered with rotting goblin corpses and the marble that was once white, had stains of blood. It somehow made sense that they were brought back here, that this place was where she would end up at some point or another. The grudge Baekhyun had on her started here and in what was the Center for Paranormal Research. It only made sense that the way to stop Baekhyun was to go through some of the old ways, whatever it might be. But given how things had turned out, Mirae knew she had to do the same with Ino, which seemed like a battle she knew she was going to lose. 

Mirae led them through the hole on the left, revealing what seemed like a newly built tunnel illuminated with white lights. “This was where Chanyeol passed through when we dealt with the Utopian cult,” She muttered, making Junhong glance at her. 

“Oh right,” Junhong noticed their surroundings the further they went into the tunnel. “Where does this lead to again?” 

Mirae looked up at the tall male. “Where my foster parents kept the bodies of the people they would turn into their followers. And the training room, what was once the training room anyway.”

Yunho squeezed her hand as they kept walking. “You know, I kind of feel naked without having anything to kill or wound something with,” He said. 

“Sooner or later, we would have to rely on our powers alone,” Mirae muttered, opening the door at the end of the tunnel, the red tapestries bearing the symbol of the Utopian cult hanging on the door and on the walls of the warehouse they now found themselves in. 

“And all this time, I had no idea a place like this existed,” Yeosang looked around. 

They soon heard a thud coming from a closed off part of the warehouse. The thud grew louder, almost making the ground tremble beneath their feet. Out from the closed off part, a giant robot appeared in front of them, and alongside the machine appeared Lucas, Ten, Taemin, Baekhyun, and Jongin. 

“Split them up,” Baekhyun said to the rest of them. 

“Junhong, can you protect yourself?” Mirae glanced at the taller male. 

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine, they probably wouldn’t. Remember what Hyuk and Chanyeol taught the rest of you,” Junhong muttered to them. 

“You know, I’m kind of glad Hyuk and that tall dope have now left this earth,” Baekhyun spoke. “All this sentiment, it just makes you weak.” 

“They were mutants too, Baekhyun, you knew them just as well,” Mirae said through gritted teeth. 

Baekhyun smirked. “No, they were nothing to me, and I knew they were everything to you. To the extent that you neglected those people around you right now.” 

“Releasing that robot into the city isn’t going to make you any more or less powerful, you know,” San blurted out, eyeing the rest of them. 

“One is already out in the open, this is just another one,” Ten pointed out. 

Mirae glanced at the males behind her. “Get the rest of them, but leave Baekhyun and Jongin to me,” She muttered. She turned back to the rest. “I’ve got a bone to pick with two of you.” 

“No matter how much we fight, there’s nothing that you can do to stop Project Apocalypse from happening. It’ll start from Seoul, and then to the rest of the world,” Taemin said. 

Mirae shook her head. “There’s always something.” Her eyes began to glow along with her fingertips. San’s and Seonghwa’s eyes and fingertips began to glow with their power signatures as well. 

[stillunusual]

The Sun Shines Here (issue #1) YEAR: 1985 CREATED BY: Matt Haynes LOCATION: Bristol SIZE: somewhere between A4 and A5 WHAT'S INSIDE.... Like his future partner Clare Wadd, Matt Haynes moved to Bristol to study, and also published his own fanzine before they co-founded indie label Sarah Records in 1987. The Sun Shines Here (named after the debut single by Hurrah!) was actually Matt's second attempt at a zine and came out in between the first two issues of his more famous creation Are You Scared To Get Happy (the name of which was inspired by the lyrics of the second single by Hurrah!).... During the punk and immediate post-punk years the term "indie" was generally used in reference to independent record labels and distribution networks, but by the mid-1980s it had turned into a fully fledged musical genre epitomised by skinny white kids playing jangly guitars, and was accompanied by a fanzine boom spearheaded by Wadd, Haynes and others who dedicated themselves to documenting what is now regarded as the golden age of indie rock and pop. While affirming that punk was definitely dead, Matt wrote the contents of The Sun Shines Here with the same kind of passion as the original punkzine pioneers:

...."fanzines, fanzines, written in anger written in love, should be written in pure fucking adrenaline or you might as well not bother, should burn a hole in your pocket with the sheer INTENSITY of the writing, of the belief, should scream LOVE scream HATE from every page every line every fucking WORD, that inexpressible gut feeling slashed incoherently onto paper, one great ROAR of disapproval of everything that isn't RIGHT, a sprint along a tight-rope with only momentum preventing a fall....move onto the offensive - in BOTH meanings of the word, YEAH!! - "vehement expression aiming to annoy" - YES!....a fanzine should leave you TREMBLING when you put it down, trembling with RAGE and FRUSTRATION and DESIRE, the desire to do something, anything, if only to write to the author saying "yes yes YES" or "NO NO NO".... He namechecks a few mid-80s fanzines that managed to live up to his high standards of what a zine should aspire to be (Hungry Beat, Surfin' Swordfish, Pure Popcorn and Adventure In Bereznik) and oozes with positivity about the indie bands that excited him the most - principally Hurrah! (naturally), The Jasmine Minks and June Brides. Just as interesting is Matt's opinionated disapproval of the bands he didn't like, such as The Membranes (although what he says about them is mainly bollocks). He also had a general dislike for mixing up music and politics, but made an exception for the excellent Big Flame, because even though they took their name from "a revolutionary socialist feminist organisation with a working-class orientation", they managed to include political themes in their songs without resorting to sloganeering. Matt also makes it clear that singles are better than albums (which is true in the world of indie rock and pop) and that he was no fan of compact discs, which were launched in 1983 and had already started to seriously compete with vinyl records and cassettes by the mid-1980s. CDs were heavily promoted by the music industry with exaggerated claims of better sound quality and the inclusion of extra tracks. They also cost less to manufacture than vinyl records and cassettes but were much more expensive (which was the main reason I didn't get around to buying my first CD player until 1988).... However, Matt's supreme confidence that the likes of Hurrah! were making the greatest music ever - and that he'd still be listening to it with the same degree of excitement decades later, when the music he didn't like had all been forgotten - does seem a little wide of the mark. That's not to say that I wasn't partial to some 1980s indie rock and pop myself (for example, I also bought Hurrah!'s first two singles and the second one is still very listenable) but even at the time, it was a bit shite compared to punk and post-punk, and a lot of it sounds pretty lame today. Not to mention the fact that there were more interesting musical developments going on in the mid-1980s - like electro, hip hop, world music and the rise of DJ and club culture - all of which were virtually ignored by fanzines (it wasn't until the end of the 1980s that a significant number of indie kids finally learned to dance). In retrospect, the most interesting band featured in The Sun Shines Here is Blue Orchids, formed in 1979 by ex-Fall members Martin Bramah, Una Baines and Rick Goldstraw (AKA Eric McGann or Eric The Ferret). Their long forgotten album "The Greatest Hit" is well worth tracking down.... Click on the title above to see scans of all the zine's pages.... my box of 1980s fanzines flickr

[vampiremotif]

the reason this is shaking me to my core is because in if we were villains if he is dead. its going to make me rethink the entire POINT of it. to me it was about the author taking all of these stories that have been loved and reverred over the centuries and say, okay MINE NOW. and take two characters that are supposed to represent the APOTHEOSIS of every subtextual homoerotic relationship in existence and take you down this road of analysis, and reading between the lines, and taking you by the hand to say: you were right. proceeds to confirm, they were INDEED in love. have oliver sacrifice EVERYTHING for james. and then take you down the road of a story queer audiences know All too well which is... the lover dies. but finally, within its final hurrah and stroke of subversion you’re left with a grain of hope. i feel like that overall just makes for a more compelling story than james dying after all.

[s-creations]

Return the Flames - Chapter 11

All at Dead Bird Studios knew of Amos' (The  Conductor's) ability. How the owl could suddenly erupt into flames if  angered enough. When the studio first opened, Dominic (DJ Grooves) was  told that Amos had his ability under control. Nothing to worry about. No  possible loss of anything from an open flame.

A few years later however, and that control seems to have lessened to a dangerous degree.

It should have just been a simple, week long drive to fix the problem. It really should have been.

Dominic should have asked a lot more questions and should have been prepared for a twist ending.

_________________

Fandom: A Hat in Time         Rating: General Audience         Relationships/Pairings: The ConductorXDJ Grooves       Warnings: Eventual depictions of violence, slow burn relationship, named characters, attempt of an accent, being hunted down, a race against time (sort of).

Author's Note: This was the chapter I've been waiting forever to write. This is what got me to write this story. This deals with backstories for both characters, so I hope you enjoy it! 

Amos was not happy with the pounding headache he woke up. Sure, he was honestly used to it. Still doesn’t mean he liked it.  He let out a groan, silently berating himself for drinking so much once again, and moved to get up. Only to have something hold him in place. It took a while for his mind to put together that he was pressed against Dominic. The penguin snoring softly, hair a bit of a mess and his sunglasses askew on his face. An arm wrapped around the other director, Amos unable to move away. The owl felt his cheek becoming warmer. Realizing he felt the familiar warmth in his chest growing once again. 

 “And how are we feeling this morning?”

 Further awake and startled into action, Amos was able to break free. Feathers puffing up in embarrassment upon seeing the Elder in the doorway. 

 “...What happened last night?”

 “Ah ah, I asked a question first.”

 Amos really did not like this goat.

 “I have a peckin’ headache. But ‘m honestly used to that. The flame is back. So, whatever was put in me is gone. And ‘m ready for this whole thin’ ta be over with.”

 “That’s a fair assessment. As per your question, you became drunk last night after which you shared a rather… ‘intense’ dance with Dominic. And when you couldn’t support your own weight, you both retreated here. Where I’m going to assume you two just went to sleep.”

 Amos groaned, rubbing his forehead. Why did he feel like a teenager being caught by their parents? “Sounds like it was quite the party.” 

 “You certainly made it one. Now, you made mention that the flame has returned.”

 “Aye.”

 “Then you two will need to finish the rest of your journey. It will only be a one to two day treck. I would recommend you leave as soon as possible. Your car will remain here and you can retrieve it after you’ve returned to the village. But walking would be best in order for you to avoid unwanted attention.”

 Amos sat up further at that. “Do you think they’re here? The agents?”

 “I doubt a pursuer who’s done what they have so far would give up at the end of the line. While the jungle will provide coverage, you two will need to move carefully.”

 “Right...right…”

 “I will have a few packs put together for you. Wake Dominic, you will need to leave soon.”

 Amos merely nodded at that. He attempted to wake his companion as soon as they were left alone. The penguin seemed unconcerned at sharing a bed with the owl when he woke up. More upset about supporting his own headache than anything else. It took awhile for them to collect themselves and join the outside world. Bags waiting for them when they finally emerged.

 “Just head straight for the mountain. You can’t miss it and there are no natural obstacles in your way. Be careful you two.”

 Those were the Elder’s final words before they departed.

 The trek was quiet. Amos caught up in his own head to think about conversing with Dominic. It was both a joy and a strange sorrow in the thought that this ordeal was almost over. 

 He was tired of being chased, being hunted down, being in constant pain. To think it was almost over raised his spirits slightly. Only for it to be stomped back down in fear of what was going to come after. Was he going to survive this? Were he and Dominic an ‘item’, as his daughter liked to say. Were these emotions only being created because of the situation? Did he want it to be real? Was he willing to let someone get close again?

 “It’s getting dark.” Dominic’s voice cut through the buzz in Amos’ mind. The owl looked up to see the sky painted in that familiar colors of sunset. 

 “Uh...yeah, it is…”

 “I’m not a huge fan of tromping through the jungle in the dark. We should set up camp.”

 The owl’s ears twitched. Looking between the sinking sun and the mountain. It was a lot closer than before, they could honestly make it there before tonight fully arrived if they wanted to. But if Dominic wanted to sleep, Amos wasn’t going to argue.

 “Sure… One more night of peace?”

 “Yeah, something like that.”

 They fell quiet after that. A small, smokeless fire was soon burning away between the two. The sky a deep purple with stars starting to dot the night sky. With how wide and ever expanding space seemed to be out here, Amos was becoming nervous. There was no coverage of a hotel or a hut to keep the night sky away. The constant reminder just hanging over his head.

 Letting out a sigh, Amos reached over and dug further into his bag. Another sigh, this time of relief, sounded as he pulled out a familiar fermented fruit. “Maybe the old goat wasn’t too bad. Heads up Dominic.”

 The penguin fumbled slightly as he caught the said fruit, voicing his frustration with a deadpan, “Really.”

  “One final hurrah.”

 Dominic frowned as he watched Amos take a large bite of his own fruit. The penguin let out a soft sigh, deciding the owl may have a point, and took a bite as well. While he was able to hold his own and cut himself off when he needed to, Dominic was soon supporting a flushed face and a drunken owl. Laughing and beaming as he joined the other in singing shanties that they both only knew a few words to. Or that their drunken mind was making them forget the words. 

 As they belted out the final note, they collapsed onto the ground. Lying head to head as they laughed, slowly calming down as they stared up at the sky. Even with what felt like impending doom was on the horizon, Dominic was happy at that moment. He wasn’t sure how this was going to end. But, at the moment, he just wanted to enjoy the atmosphere. The calm, the quiet, the false peace with the possibly threat being mere steps away from where they lied. 

 He let out a yawn, feeling himself starting to drift off…

 “Ma couldn’t have kids.”

 Dominic flinched slightly. He rolled his head to the side to look at Amos. “Pardon?”

 “She couldn’t have kids,” Amos repeated, “No matter how many times she tried. Or how badly she wanted it. Nothin’ worked. Married three times. Got the reputation as a bed hopper. ...I think she thought that havin’ a kid would brin’ her some kind of happiness in her life…”

 “In a final desperation, she prayed for a higher power to help. And the Celestial Phoenix appeared… She was pregnant the next day. Ostracized the day after. Who ever heard of a God appearing before a divorced and ‘bed warmer’? She told me she didn’t care because she was so happy ta be carryin’ me. Then I was born and… I honestly think I made everythin’ so much worse.” 

 “Amos…” Dominic frowned, unsure of what he could say.

 “Ya can’t look at this ugly mug and tell me this is a solver of problems. I honestly believe I made things worse. I was the demon child created from wedlock with a mother who’s insane. We had to leave the backwash of a town when our house was burnt down. Ma was mentally broken when I was a teenager and only became worse with her age. ‘M pretty sure she was gone before she finally passed away.”

 “My wife left when Amelia was born. She...the wife...married me in a sort of novelty. A stab at her stuffy family by havin’ a monstrous thing be her husband instead of nobility. But when Amelia held more of my features then was ‘acceptable’, the wife had to leave. She couldn’t handle it. I raised Amelia the best I could. I was hopeful she could have a happier, easier life than what my childhood was.” 

 “Only for her husband to leave. Because Amelia fell ill after givin’ birth to all the kids. It was too much responsibility for him. ...She’s always smilin’. I do wonder sometimes how she turned out so perfectly. When she has a...a curse of a father. Because that’s what I am. ‘M a curse. I shouldn’t even be here! Only divine intervention brought this monster into reality. So the laws of nature themselves had to be broken. And all it produced was a cursed, hideous creature that is me. My own body is even tryin’ to tear itself apart. I’ve been tryin’ to destroy myself since I was born and no one is safe. ‘M a walkin’, tickin’ bomb of destruction.”

 Dominic swallowed weakly, feeling sick as he watched Amos breakdown. What was he supposed to say? What could he say?

 “My father is an ice tycoon.”

 Amos slowly looked over to the flushed penguin. 

 “What?”

 “Ah, so… That largest commodity from the Moon is ice.”

 “I know that.”

 “Right, well, it only comes from three different families. Mine being the top company, run by my father. We’re the typical high brow, snooty people you’d think of. Appearance is everything to us. We have to be as clean as the ice we produce.”

 Amos sat up slowly, swaying slightly. “Ya can’t control the creation of ice that closely. It’s ice.”

 Letting out a small huff and sitting up as well, Dominic laid his hand out flat, palm up. The owl let out a chirp of shock as a chunk of ice was formed. Resting directly in the center of Dominic’s hand. “We can make our own ice. Quite literally.”

 “No peckin’ way… Wait, did ye make that wall of ice before? When those government goons were chasin’ after us?”

 “Uh...yeah. I really only intended to make the road slick and trip them up. I was a little on edge at the moment.”

 “That was peckin’ amazin’.”

 Dominic laughed softly. “It...just comes naturally.”

 Amos laughed this time, almost falling back onto the ground if Dominic hadn’t kept him upright. “Peckin’ amazin’... So, yer loaded right? Ice companies make a lot.”

 “No… I’m disowned,” Dominic’s feathers puffed at the owl’s raised brow, “Parents weren’t happy that I wanted to become a movie director. I’m the oldest of four and the only male. I was supposed to take over the business. But I made it very clear how I wasn’t interested with it in any way. So, I was given a choice. Join the business or never talk to them again. And...here I am…”

 It fell quiet for a moment. Dominic had never told anyone this before. Not even his Moon Penguins knew his full story. They were just aware that the director wasn’t on good terms with his family. But, if Amos was sharing the sacred life’s story, why shouldn’t Dominic?

 “I didn’t know ya had siblings.” Amos eventually voiced. 

 “Well, I didn’t know you were part mystical fire being. So I guess we’re even.” Dominic teased, smiling hearing Amos laugh at that.

 “That’s fair. Ta be fair to myself, however, I never thought I would be in a situation like this.”

 “We were also never on good speaking terms with each other before either.”

 “Aye, another fair point. Did ya ever think how weird it was that we both were given the same studio?”

 “Oh absolutely! We really should have gone to the main office to complain about that.”

 “But then we would have argued about who would be kicked out first.”

 “It would have been you for sure.”

 “As peckin’ if!” They shared another laugh at that. Amos eventually leaned over to rest himself against Dominic. The penguin welcomed the contact. “...Tell me about your siblings.”

 “Three sisters.”

 “Oh, fun.” 

 “Hey, how do you think I came across this amazing sense of fashion?”

 “Thought you were color blind to be honest.”

 “How rude.”

 Amos chuckled before pushing Dominic gently. “Anyway, three sisters?”

 “Abigail is only one year younger than me. We were very close growing up. She had a backbone sturdier than I could ever hope for and stuck up for me when our parents started their ‘talks’. As far as I can tell, she’ll be taking over the business… I hope she’s okay with that.”

 “She sounds like a business woman.”

 “I think you’d get along with her. Shila’s next. If you think I’m a diva, you need to meet her. If attention wasn’t on her at all times, she would throw an absolute fit. She was actually one of my first actresses. Gave me my first headache too.”

 Dominic paused to listen to Amos laugh softly. He really loved that sound. “Last is Bethany. I don’t really remember much of her. She was only two when I left. I do remember she was very quiet. With wide curious eyes. I really hope she was able to keep that curiosity…”

 “Abigail made sure to do so, no doubt in my mind. If she was as determined to keep ya safe, ‘m sure that focus went to Bethany as well.”

 “I hope so… I hope they’re all okay…”

 “‘M sure they are.”

 The penguin hummed softly, attention on the large, luminous sphere that was above them. Amos shuffled closer, his chin resting on Dominic’s shoulder. His attention going to the same place. “...Do you miss them?”

 “Every day.”

 “Have you tried to find them? Talk to them?”

 “I think they’re on the Moon still...and I’m not overly fond with contacting that place.”

 “Honestly, that’s fair.”

 Giving another hum, Dominic reached up and scratched behind Amos’ ear. The owl let out a small chirp as he pressed closer. “...Did you ever think your life would end up like this?”

 “I knew I would eventually have to travel here. Another burden to carry because of my birth right. But I wasn’t expected to be hunted down…or the company… I know I don’t say it. In fact, I’ve said the opposite a lot. But…’m glad you came.”

 “More of I berated you to let me come because you’re so stubborn.”

 Amos laughed. “Ya got me there…”

 “...I’m glad I came along as well. I would have been worrying the entire time.”

 “I’d probably be dead at this point if you hadn’t come.”

 “That’s frightening to think about,” Dominic frowned, wrapping his arm around the other. “Do you think we could call this feud over? I’m...honestly so tired of it.”

 “Yeah… ‘m too. It should have ended a long time ago…”

 “We’re both just two, old, stubborn fools.”

 “Oi, easy on those adjectives.”

 “I’m describing both of us. Calm down… How do you think the crew will react?”

 “Shocked but absolutely thrilled. I think everyone's more over this than we are.”

 Dominic laughed at that. “Yeah, probably. We should make a movie together. After all of this.”

 “Ah...kind of a big step.”

 “But I think it’s an appropriate one.”

 “...Yeah...yeah, I think it is too.”

 They fell quiet once more. A warm, happy buzz falling over them. Dominic’s eyes on the dancing fire while Amos’ remained on the Moon. Both falling asleep curled next to each other as the luminous orb traveled over them.

[searchingforproofsthatimwrong]

what are your favourite historical romance novels? i'd like to get into romance novels as well, but it feels so vast a sea, i would trust your reviews

I would need more Infos on what you would like anon because my tastes run toward the angsty character driven story aka stories where people are assholes to each other. Some people can't stand it lmao

So in different vibes we got :

My absolute fav historical novel : The Luckiest Lady in London by Sherry Thomas. Sherry Thomas in general is my absolute favourite author, she is litteraly head and shoulders above the rest what a queen except for "not quite a husband" but I'll just forget that happened . This one is about a mercenary girl who need to marry because she hasn't got money or brothers and need to help her unmarriageable sick sister. I love gold diggers sorry. Anyway she go about it in a very organised cold blooded way until she met the Perfect Gentleman(tm) a marquess with an absolute spotless reputation and a shit ton of money. She falls in love at first sight. And then promptly fall out of love (in the next minute lmao) because she can sense that he is an asshole. This intrigues the marquess very much (he very much knows he is an asshole, it's just the first time someone else notices lmao) so he tries to make her his mistress - remember he is an asshole. Very good grovelling on the part of the male character (and actual character development hurrah!) which makes all of it worthwhile + a out of this world chemistry between the leads + a very horny math loving schemer of a main female character makes this my favorite. There is rather a lot of sex idk if you're into that anon ? I mean it's the case in approximately all of my fav historical romance but they are not really skippable here.

The funniest one : the viscount who loved me by Julia Quinn. It's the second book in the Bridgerton series which is being adapted in a TV show. Miles better than the first one, which you don't need to read. Anyway in this one we got Anthony, Viscount Bridgerton looking for a wife, he wants one quickly because he has some trauma issues regarding bees, his father and dying young. Anyway, he found one he would like but her sister (our héroïne) thinks he is way too shitty to marry her lovely sister and tries to stop it. There's a lot of funny dialogue, an incredibly funny game of pall mall, good siblings relationship and the funniest scene I have ever seen in a romance books. Very light hearted if that's what you're looking for.

Just a delight : The Heiress Effect by Courtney Milan. Our main female character is a fabulously rich heiress but to stay close to her sick sister she has to do her best not to marry( the opposite of the first book lmao). Not to receive a single proposal actually. Which is hard thing to achieve when you're fucking rich. She manages with terrible fashion sense and a good acting skill to appear completely feather brained, of the insulting kind. Unfortunately she made a few ennemies that way, one of which asks our main male character, an ambitious politician bastard (as in, his father was not married to his mother, he is actually the best male on this list) to get close to her to humiliate her, they fall in love instead. The best part of it is the main female character I am absolutely in love with her but the whole story is rather amazing and the characters are not assholes to each other ! Rare but true !

The more action-y : Her Beautiful Ennemy by Sherry Thomas (she is the best after all so she gets to be there twice). A Chinese woman martial artist's quest for revenge bring her to England where she find her ex lover that she thought dead. Because she tried to kill him. 100% totally seriously honest to god cold blooded murder attempt on her part. Romance. Anyway we get the story of their reunion with flashback of their first meeting /falling in love, this is not for the faint of heart but God do I love this. The male character is absolutely the sweetest (although he did get that murder attempt coming, it was still understandable. Also a very rare male virgin. Istg that's a fucking unicorn in those kinda novels) the female main character is such a badass and the love story is pretty strong. The whole vengeance thing could have used a better antagonist but all in all solid romance with wuxia element.

I have more (much, much more) if you want but any of those would be a good start.

Sherry Thomas actually is Chinese (born in China, Chinese is her first language but she moved in the US when the was a kid) btw so idk how accurate or anything the Chinese portrayal is but I trust her. Courtney Milan is a tra I think but it doesn't get brought up in her books (not in this one at least) and she got some shit after standing up against racism (she also is Chinese ? I think ? At least has some Chinese ancestors) in the American society of romance books or something so I Stan anyway.

If you read any one of those pls pls DM me or send another anon I would love to hear your thoughts.

Also if you need more recs ;)