#tiny inventor answers

[chibi-rui-kamishiro]

your chibi friend tsukasa is not doing very well. do you wanna go check up on him? i can join if needed or wanted!! :3

Oh, Tsukasa-kun?

I see... he was looking a bit worried these days, and recently he said he was feeling sick and couldn't perform, so it does add up...

I'll call him again today, then. I haven't found his account on here yet, did he say anything there?

[thewitchblue]

"Oh, lovely to see you Tim, here's a gift."

You smiled as you placed a small giftbox in his hand. You've been giving the Batfamily small gifts here and there every time you get a vision of their nightlife. It's always a gift of exactly what they need, and you always make sure to put it in their packs before they leave.

You never tell them why you give them gifts, and they've never noticed the pattern because they always open their gifts just before they leave.

You simply smile and give them a pat on the back before moving on to help the others with the usual outside perspective the family desperately needs.

Tim opened the gift with raised eyebrows to reveal a nail file with a hidden trigger that, when pressed, produces a serrated knife. You always were good at making gadgets with double meanings. An unassuming nail file would never be taken away from Tim on patrol, so he slipped it into his pouch without much thought.

Until he needed the nail file (which had a motorised sandpaper) specifically to saw through chains and then cut through the ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles. That got him thinking.

You always knew exactly what he needed and exactly how to make the gadget within 24 hours. You could probably finish most of your projects within 6 hours.

You were a genius inventor and actually made a lot of the gear they use every night. Tim began to question how you knew what he needed. He's never needed this nail file before, and why did you only give it to him? He wanted answers, and he was going to get it out of you one way or another.

You were sprawled on a couch, tinkering away with a table full of nuts, screws, and, interestingly, a bandaid. What could you possibly be doing to a bandaid? He has no idea, but he knows when you get engrossed that gaining your attention would be impossible.

He approached you with a frown. The things you make seem almost magical, but you will babble on and on if they ever ask you questions about engineering and how you made your project. You always had a mischievous gleam in your eyes as you explained the newest invention.

More recently, they have been mostly traps to bamboozle crooks and for very niche and incredibly specific situations, much to his delight. The most recent was an exploding toothpick to put inside locks and break them from the inside out.

"I have a question."

Tim cut right to the point. You looked up from your torn apart bandaid and gestured for him to continue before going back to your project. He shifted in place, uncertain of how to question you now that he's in front of you. How does he phrase his question?

"How do you... know when I need something? The nail file was extremely specific for the situation I was in."

You looked up once and took note of his determined expression. He really wanted to know, and you doubt you can shake the Bat-to-be. You shrugged non-committally as your gaze returns to your bandaid dissection.

"The idea came to mind."

Not a lie. You simply reverse-engineered the situation your vision told you would happen. However, Tim needed more answers. He asked,

"Why did you only give the file to me?"

You raised your eyebrows at him. He knows something. What he knows is unclear to you. Your visions couldn't have prepared you for this awkward conversation. You explained patiently,

"I only had time for one prototype. Why do you ask?"

Tim frowned at you. You looked so relaxed when you were focused on a project. He can't tell if you are lying when you work. What doesn't he know?

You are so specific in your inventions at times. It was as if you knew he could have died if he didn't have that nail file.

You reached for something on the table. Are you putting in a needle? Who would ever need a needle in a bandaid?

Well, the small needle had anti-venom in a tiny compartment you made that he will need when he accidentally steps on a snake tomorrow night. It's a baby snake, but he'd need the anti-venom fast. Someone was breeding super venomous snakes for Joker. It's unclear why, but he'll need the anti-venom faster than the others could appear.

Tim decided to try a different approach. He said,

"You seem to always know what we need when on patrol, and I want to know how."

You tried to appear casual. You've been doing this for years. You flew under the radar for too long to let him ruin it. Bruce pays you a lot for your inventions, but he hates metas in his city.

"I always think of a new problem. What if Jason trips into a vat of acid Joker-style? Well, I can make his patrol outfit acid-proof. What if Bruce needs fast-acting waterproof glue? I can make that easily. You, evidently, needed that nail file."

You cursed as the needle fell. You cleaned it while saying slyly,

"You're welcome, by the way."

You quirked your lips into a small smile while turning your gaze to Tim with amusement dancing in your eyes. He murmurs an embarrassed "thank you."

He moved to sit next to you on the couch you were sat on, so you make room and move all your supplies. He borderline whines,

"Who would think of waterproof glue for vigilante activities?"

You raised your hands smugly but lowered it when he lightly hit your arm with a smile on his face. You loved riling him up. He was often in the cave and became your companion in the quiet darkness. He said quietly,

"Whatever you are hiding, I won't tell the others."

You sighed. You loved Tim; you don't think your heart could handle being pushed away from him and out of the city. You told him quietly,

"There's nothing to admit."

He gently took your hand in his with a softened look. He loved you, too. You frowned and lightly squeezed his callused hand. It hurts to hide from him, but you can't tell him. He might even push you away if he found out you were a meta.

"You can tell me."

He told you softly. He wanted to know you better. You were always the kooky engineer to the family — someone in the background, but Tim saw you as you. Strong, kind, intelligent you. Someone who borderline lives in the Batcave at a table near the Batcomputer and spends all night and most of the day tinkering away and muttering questions too quiet for them to make out.

You wanted to tell him, but the fear kept your mouth glued shut. The words got clogged in your throat. You sighed and looked at your conjoined hands.

"I... It's not safe, for me here."

You said cryptically. Tim is smart. He can figure out what you mean if he is so inclined to know.

Those words, however, only set off alarm bells. Did someone threaten you? Who could sneak into the Batcave? Where was Alfred at the time? You rarely leave the cave, like some trapped oracle.

You looked at him like he should know what you mean, but his alarm wasn't allowing him to think. Did the League of Assassins come by? No, they would have kidnapped you or killed you before you even noticed. You barely noticed him until he said something, and even then, you went right back to your bandaid.

"Baby, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong and I can fix it."

Tim didn't even notice the term of endearment slipped out, but you did. Your head snapped in his direction.

You set the bandaid down in disbelief. Did he call you baby? What does that mean for your relationship going forward? You questioned,

"Baby?"

Tim responded like it was normal for you to call him that in return,

"Yes? Tell me what is wrong."

You blinked at him and waited for his words to sink in. When they refused to sink in, you sighed.

"Look, sweetheart, I'm trying to do my job. You will know what I mean when you start thinking with that BatBrain of yours."

You lightly tap his head with a wrench to signify for him to think before finishing your project and starting to wrap up your little gift.

Tim will think it's a joke, but he'll humour you. He'll put the bandage on as a last laugh and then be shocked when the anti-venom enters him. He'll give a disbelieving laugh, thank you millions of times, and hobble home when Jason showed up to handle things.

The thought struck Tim just before he went to sleep. You... you're a meta. A psychic meta. Oh, he's so screwed. If Bruce ever finds out... well, he'll just have to make sure nobody finds out. You were smart enough to know not to say it directly, which he was grateful for. If he can hide your powers nearly as well as you can, he can do this. He has to have faith in your ability to hide.

He also blushed as he remembered he called you baby. That is a can of worms he will have to deal with another time.

You handed Jason a rose with a mischievous smile while rolling a wrench between your fingers like a pencil in your opposite hand. You had turned it into a fidget toy, flicking and rolling the tool with familiarity.

The rose looked normal and unassuming. It looked so real that it would likely appear as if Red Hood was going on a date, and he's running late. You could imagine all the confused goons he beat up when they got a peak at the rose safely tucked away. The thought made you smile.

"What? Does it squirt water?"

He asked flatly. What's so special about it? He knows for a fact you aren't giving him a normal rose. You muttered,

"Tough crowd. What if I wanted to ask you on a date?"

When Jason continued to simply look at you instead of figuring it out for himself, you sighed and double tapped the centre of the rose.

A vast amount of cures for various poisons were displayed before him. He read each label carefully, then organised it how he liked it, and shut the compartment. He reluctantly tucked the rose in the pocket of his leather jacket. He simply said,

"Thanks, pipsqueak."

You only nodded in response as he walked away. Cluemaster was planning a "gameshow" type of trap tonight, but rigged the game. He will "forget" one of the cures Jason needs to complete the trial. You couldn't tell what cure was missing, so you crafted a bunch of them. You frowned in thought as you saw Tim out of the corner of your eye.

You were still a bit dazed about your recent development with Tim. You know for a fact he knows now, as he's been finding more and more excuses to hang out with you. The others assume it's because Tim is going to finally make a move on you, but he just... hovered. He looked awkward. He felt awkward. He wanted to tell you his feelings and get the rejection over with, but he's scared. He's never dated someone like you before and he had no idea how to ask you or even tell you how he feels. You're in every corner of his life. You are the one constant in his life. Your quiet companionship means the world to him. What if he ruins everything?

Dick gave him a brotherly thumbs up and walked away when he tried to ask for advice. Dick knew next to nothing about you, so he had no advice to give. Tim spends basically every day with you. He should know you best. He spends all day with you in the cave, and he asks for any input when he knows he's overlooking something.

In fact, the family was surprised it took Tim this long to notice his obvious fondness for you. It makes sense. The two introverts who can sit in silence with only the sound of typing and gears turning hanging in the air. He could smile as you murmured questions to yourself. You know Tim would be useless with any gadget, so the questions remain rhetorical. He finds it cute that you prefer to vocalise your thoughts instead of keeping it all locked in. It doesn't bother him one bit.

Nobody appreciated you like Tim did, so they didn't give you a second thought. Maybe that is part of your psychic abilities as well, he wasn't sure. He wished he could ask safely. He wanted to yell at Bruce for the paranoia, but it would reveal your ability if he did so. Instead, he settled for internally screaming at him.

You leaned down to grab a gear you had dropped the other day. When you stood up again, you said,

"Okay, I'll bite first then, why are you following me?"

Tim rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Well, now is as good a time as any to admit months' worth of feelings that morphed into something far more than a companionship in the darkness of the cave, no pressure.

"I..."

You tilted your head and gave him a knowing smile. You knew. You looked into the future of Tim out of curiosity and found his confession, but you needed him to play the part. He sighed in relief. All the pressure popped like a bubble.

"I love you."

He said it so fast that you would have missed it if you hadn't slowed it down. Your powers work kind of like a youtube video: you can pause it, slow it down, fast forward, reverse it, etc.

Now you felt a bit awkward. You had no idea what to say. You had been so shocked at night that you didn't think about what to actually say in response. You smiled nervously and awkwardly said,

"I, uh, I love you too. Thanks, by the way."

You gave him a kiss before shuffling back to work. You needed to do something with your hands. It's a form of stress relief, a small comfort to ease your nerves. Some turn to cigarettes, you turn to nuts and bolts.

Tim trailed you in a bit of a daze. He sat on a nearby chair and watched your hands fly through a project you had in your subconscious mind. It's more of a fidget project with no real purpose behind it yet.

You picked up a screw and screwed it as much as your fingers allowed. You clicked your tongue in irritation when you noticed none of your nearby screwdrivers would fit the small screw.

"Babe, can you hand me that screwdriver?"

You asked him. The small screwdriver had rolled right in front of him. Your gaze landed on him when he said and did nothing. He looked stunned.

He didn't hear a word past babe. He could only stare at you in shock. You called him babe like you've done it thousands of times. The casualness felt like you just slid right into the role of his life partner as easy as sliding your hand into his own. He didn't have to ask you to be his lover or ask you on a date. You did all that for him with one word.

You noticed his checked-out gaze and grabbed the screwdriver yourself with a quick cheek kiss which he leaned into happily.

You may be the meta, but he could have sworn he saw his future with you.

A/N I wanted to make this into a 2 part story, but decided against it and smooshed them together.

[chibi-rui-kamishiro]

Oh! That is... an interesting explanation...

Well, I see you are quite used to seeing other versions of yourself, even if they are... different than usual... I believe this mysterious barrier prevents me from being harmed, too...

Thank you for sharing your knowledge! I surely didn't expect a logical explanation to even exist... Though I hope you are able to understand why I prefer to be cautious... I'll take note of your advice.

And wouldn't you know it, I just got an idea for a show, fufu〜

Wait! "Another small one"..? I suppose you found my Tsukasa here as well... I am currently trying to find him... Mind describing his "blog" to me?

You seem to be another version of me, and more experienced with this dimensional phenomena... Judging by the fact that we're the same person, have you investigated this place? From someone that's also very curious, it would be quite helpful for my research if someone with more time on the field shared their knowledge... Although, I know, I am a complete stranger, and knowledge is power, so I understand if you do not wish to engage in any way with me...

I hope I'm able to get another point of view... I must be very careful, even if there are multiple "me"s out here...

-@chibi-rui-kamishiro

Oh, another small one...it's been this way for a while, yes, most of us have gotten used to it. You'll fit right in! Your height may be a bit of a hurdle to get around, though I'm sure you'll be alright~

No need to be so cautious, we're clones! Minor differences, truly. so, essentially- a few years back, at this point- someone, actually, the initial clone of...us, I suppose, created a cloning machine- he did it for purposes of cloning his existing candy, so he wouldn't have to buy more. anywho, for some reason even he could not report on, he gave it wheels. So, it went missing, it got modified, adapted...now we have clones running around. From alternate dimensions, from different points in time- I know it sounds intimidating, but quite honestly, we've just taken to treating one another like siblings. Everything seems to be working out quite well~ I promise, you can trust us.

[xoxomads2]

Imagine:Lab Partner Viktor.

Lab partner Viktor: who is already not delighted about the project but he’s definitely not excited about being paired up and sitting next to somebody he doesn’t even know.

Lab partner Viktor: when you first meet him and exchange numbers for then project proceeds to leave your message asking when you should meet up on read for hours. Only to respond at 2:37 am with, tomorrow.

Lab partner Viktor: who ignores your entry to the study hall and your wave until you are standing right next to him, Hi Viktor I’m happy we were able to work tod-, I think I should do the research and you should do the slides.

Lab partner Viktor: who looks at you so plainly as if he didn’t just basically call you stupid. Where does he find the nerve? Sure he may be top of the class but that doesn’t mean you’re an idiot! You almost wanted to slap him then and there but you kept your cool, deciding it wasn’t even worth it. Sure viktor, that sounds delightful.God he looked so smug.

Lab partner Viktor: who meets up with you several more times, not understanding why you were so interested in every tiny detail about him, you might as well being asking for his diet as well. He shuts you down of course giving short blunt responses

Lab partner Viktor: who can’t understand why his mind is plagued with the thought of you, of your smell, your hair, the swell of your hips as you walked, the arch of your back as you leaned over the table, and the curve of your smile when he said something you thought was funny. His mind was filled with thoughts of you, and his body was filled with reactions to these thoughts.

Lab partner Viktor: who thinks if he just throws himself into the project and ignores your presence, that it will all go away, so he does. He works and works and yet all he can think about is you.

Lab partner Viktor: who decides it’s time to finally own up to it, so he decides to text you and see what you’re doing.

Viktor stared at the phone in his hand, he had proof read the message multiple times; no spelling errors or grammar mistakes, and yet he struggled to press send. His lips held firm in a straight line, he was an inventor who had overcome so much in his life, he could message one pretty girl, so he did. As his finger finally pressed the send button he reread the message, Would you be able to meet up tomorrow? He clicked his phone off and set it down on his nightstand as he played back in bed when his phone started to ring. He picked it up to see it was your contact, he definitely wasn’t expecting you to answer immediately, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear,

Hello?, he was meet with a weird clapping noise until he heard a man’s voice

Why are you texting her? Are you her boyfriend or something? The unknown voice said.

No, I’m sorry who is this?

The voice chuckled, I’m the man that’s balls deep in your girl friend right now.

Viktor jaw dropped, balls deep? Were you being? It all made sense, the clapping noise. God, you were being fucked right now.

He heard a shuffling sound as the man spoke up.

Tell him how much you love it. A woman’s voice, you spoke up. I-I love it. A pornographic moan followed after which viktor quickly hung up.

He placed his phone on his bedside table as he tried to relax, his raging boner noticeable under his sheets. God, why did that turn him on so much. You sounded so blissed out he could imagine that your face was probably in the pillows as you arched up. His hand traveled to his pants as he continued to think.

Your lips were probably parted and your face tear stained. Your hair snarled from being tugged on and your ass read from being slapped. He could imagine the way your mewls and moans would get louder as the thrust got deeper and quicker , his strokes getting faster, and faster. Your little pleas the way you would say his name when you cum. He groaned as he imagined the way your body would convulse as your released wrecked through you, his own releases coming causing him to spill onto his hand with your name on his lips.

As he looked down at his cum stained hands his resolve hardened even more, he needed to talk to you tomorrow.

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.9. - All We Ever Wanted Was Everything

viktorxfemale!reader NSFW, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

author's note: Playlist here! @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! This is a penultimate chapter, we are almost at the end :') Inspo behind Viktor's bedroom.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

The door thunders into its frame, as your fingers remain threaded through Viktor’s, two pulses drumming inside a single clasp. For a breath the dark seems absolute, then a lone taper by the threshold sputters to life—Viktor striking the match with a trembling thumb. The light grows, stuttering, and the room yawns wide like the inside of some gentle leviathan: ribbed with beams, crowded with things that glitter, tick or sigh softly in their sleep.

Every surface hums with biography. On a low shelf: a tin toy-ship half the length of your forearm, sails stitched from medical gauze, hull scored by a child’s impatient engraving—V carved again and again until the tin buckled. Nearby, a brass orrery cranks without touch, planets spinning by invisible decree; tiny constellations blink on the spheres, then fade, as though the mechanism remembers the night sky only in fragments. An entire wall is given over to charms: fox teeth wired into crescents, sprigs of dried yarrow, a cracked church bell clapper tied with red thread, mosquitos trapped in resin, sea glass. Some talismans pulse faintly, like hearts caught in amber.

You exhale a soft wonder. “These… they’re beautiful, and a little terrifying.”

“Travel companions,” he answers, voice low. “Each tried to barter safety for me in its own language. None quite succeeded.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand, grounding himself. “I never trusted prayer, so I built my own.”

Your gaze drifts to the workbench where half-finished contraptions crowd each other for space: a pocket barometer weeping mercury tears; a wooden prosthetic leg whose hinges seem to breathe when the candle wavers; and, set apart beneath a dusty bell-jar, a miniature heliostat—sun of hammered brass, tiny clockwork planets whirring on copper arms whenever stray light touches a sliver of solar foil wired to its core. A smear of reddish oxidation rims the sun’s edges like dried blood.

“You built this?” you whisper, fingertip hovering a breath from the fragile orbit.

“Not by design,” he answers, voice low. “I think I hoped that if I could snare daylight and make it circle to my command, I might outpace what waits in the dark.” He attempts a laugh; it breaks small and boyish. “A child’s arithmetic: wires against eternity, now that I know where truth lies.”

Beyond the workbench stands the bed—blanket rumpled, pillows cratered from nights spent half-sitting, half-scheming. Above the headboard dangle paper charms inked with equations that coil into sigils mid-sentence, as though maths and prayer wrestled to a draw. Candlelight kisses the papers and numbers crawl for an instant—digits becoming ancient runes before settling again.

You step deeper, hand still clasping Viktor’s, and feel the floor pulse faintly, as if the room itself recognises new blood. “All these years,” you say, eyes everywhere at once, “you slept in a cathedral of unfinished miracles.”

He huffs, embarrassed. “Slept is generous. Mostly I drafted cures I never tested.” He gestures to the miscellany. “Toys to trick fear into thinking I was busy.”

Your hand drifts to the toy ship. “And this?”

His mouth lifts, half-smile, half-ache. “First thing I ever built that moved the way I asked it to. I thought if I could command oceans on tin, perhaps the world would grant me a harbour.”

You turn, facing him fully beneath the restless candle flame. “You’re a superstitious inventor,” you murmur. “A mad genius.” Your thumbs stroke the pulse at his wrists. “And somewhere in here—” you bend, touch your lips to the hollow of his throat, “—still the boy.”

Patchwork moonlight stripes the quilt; motes swirl through the beam as if suspended mid-prayer. You tilt your face into his palm, eyelids fluttering at the fragile steadiness of his touch. “Forgive me,” you whisper, breath stirring the fine hairs on his wrist. “For writing back so late.”

A dry laugh ghosts from him, equal parts scold and surrender. “So you did stall.”

“Foolishly.” Your fingers toy with the edge of his waistcoat, beneath them a frantic drum. “I would murder to reclaim those silent days—spend them all in your company, trade ink for heartbeat.”

The words slip a tremor through him; you feel it travel from chest to fingertips. Your name—soft, weighty—drops from his lips. A pause, then: “You pierce my soul,” he confesses, the line trembling like a violin string too finely drawn. “I am half agony, half hope.”

Silence follows, alive with everything left trapped within the prisons of mouth. Above the headboard, the paper sigils exhale; their numbers and runes subside into orderly stillness. The orrery slows, planets clicking into languid orbit. The toy ship stills its minute tides. It is as though the room itself, sensing two hearts locking into common cadence, chooses at last to rest—gears, ghosts, and guardian charms settling in one shared, dreaming rhythm.

The hush between you ripens, candleflame quivering as though it, too, anticipates touch. You meet in the half-light—mouths first, soft and searching, then hungry. His lips linger at the corner of yours, trace the sweet hollow beneath your ear; you answer by brushing fingertips along the delicate curve of his, learning the shape of intent. Every slow exhale fogs the small distance between your faces before you erase it again and again.

Buttons yield beneath your careful hands. Waistcoat first—wool sighing open—then the crisp lawn of his shirt. As you draw fabric free, the second brace emerges: polished steel and leather cinched close over his ribs, a hidden scaffold. Your breath stutters—not from pity but from fierce wonder. You lay a kiss where metal bends skin, then another, lips charting the borders where ingenuity has met endurance.

“You are the finest thing my eyes have ever been granted,” you murmur, voice trembling with resolve. “I have never desired another half so ardently.”

The words strike him like a hand to the sternum—his pupils dilate, colour sweeps high into his cheekbones. He fumbles at the buckles, breath catching on every clink, until you still his shaking fingers and guide the brace away, resting it gently on a trunk plastered with foreign stamps.

Freed, his torso is a pale map of healed incisions and determined muscle. You cannot resist: palms glide from his collarbones down the slope of solar plexus, exploring the subtle ladder of ribs, the dilemma of scar and skin. Each brush draws a low, involuntary sound from his throat; his abdomen tightens beneath your touch, as though the very act of being seen, being craved, is too intimate to bear. He sways toward you, every sinew strung between surrender and hunger, for he might melt into your hands were you to press harder—or disappear entirely if you ceased.

Then you rise on toes and cup his face, your foreheads resting together, breathing shared. The stroke of your thumbs along his jaw is soft yet unshakable—an oath sealed not in words but in quiet, relentless devotion.

Now he turns to you. His fingers—those same brilliant things that sketched sigils in candle-soot—slide beneath the edge of your bodice to find the hidden hooks. One by one they yield with crisp, metallic sighs. The tailored shell slips away, exposing the sheer chemisette that veils your stays. Next he unfastens the overskirt—tugs of precision guessed more than practices—so its heavy wool falls soundlessly to the floor, puddling over the petticoat’s starched hem.

When he moves behind you, breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. His knuckles brush the ribbons laced through your corset’s eyelets. For a heartbeat he pauses, as the memory of another night in this very house hits—your lungs tight with panic, his hands working the same knots in haste to grant relief. Then, urgency had been mercy. Now, it is worship. Fingers surer, slower, he loosens the laces, loop by loop. With each yielding pull, your torso unfurls; air rushes deeper, not from fear this time but from the gathering bloom of want.

The stays loosen; whalebone relaxes its grip. You feel your own heartbeat surge against liberated ribs. He exhales—as if the cords had cinched him as well—and presses a kiss between the knobs of your spine, right where the last ribbon slips free. Intention no longer questions itself; it has an answer and a name.

You step from the collapsed cage of skirts and petticoats, left in stockings, unlaced corset hanging open, and the thin lawn chemise that veils what lamplight longs to touch. He comes around to face you. Candleflame paints filigree across your collarbones. Passion darkens his eyes. They rise to yours—no plea this time, only the certainty of shared design. You nod, offering permission, and answer his slow-forming smile with a kiss—unhurried, claim and consent entwined like ink soaking deep into vellum.

When your fingers find his waistband, Viktor stills them, shakes his head, and falls to his knees—iron brace clicking like a muted bell. Half-prayer, half-claim, he slips both hands beneath your chemise, palms flat, drawing the linen north while his mouth charts the same ascent: knee, inner thigh, the place where pulse beats loudest. Silk garters surrender; stockings fall like shed skins.

He glances up—yearning already certain—then bows. Lips meet you, soft as first light, tongue follows, slow, tormenting. A second pass—hungrier; a third—borderline reckless. He eats at you the way a lost man studies a map: memorising every inlet, every tremor you give him as proof the world is real. Your hand knots in his hair, urging, begging.

His grip shifts to your hips, thumbs branding flesh. Low praises spill, half words, half grunts, vibrations sinking straight to bone. Nothing polite here—only black mass of the flesh, his mouth writing a name he fears to lose, sealing it in salt and heat while the room fades to oblivion.

It contracts to candleflame and the wet sound of worship. Somewhere a tiny clock surrenders, its mechanism halting mid-tick, as though even gears and springs bow to the fierce, time-stealing ritual unfolding at the centre of the chamber.

He works in widening spirals—slow drag, soft suck, sudden press—testing how breath catches, how your thighs falter. Each discovery earns a muffled hum from him, as though pleasure were a language he means to speak fluently before dawn. Your fingers tighten in his hair; he gives you more, sealing mouth and heat against you until the edges of the world smear.

He pauses only when your knees wobble. Lips slick, he lifts his gaze, voice sanded thin by exalt. “You taste like midnight absolution,” he murmurs, reverent and indecent. “Every pulse of you is cathedral music.” A kiss to your inner thigh marks the pause, then he returns—deeper, greedier—tongue flicking where you are tender, then flattening in a slow benediction that makes your throat expose, prayerless.

The room seems to tilt. Light scant; shadow rolls across his shoulders like spilled ink. You clutch them, riding the rhythm he sets—hips rolling, breath breaking, a low keen torn from somewhere uncharted. He encourages it, nails digging just enough to hold you to the altar of his mouth. Words tumble out, ragged blessings: Beautiful… fearless… mine.

Pressure winds tight—a bright flash, a brutal snap. You crest on his tongue, unburdened from shame, as he draws the world to a single, blinding point. Your throat nearly slits with a cry torn raw, flood spilling into his mouth. He drinks like a zealot, commandment fulfilled, steadying you through every quake, mouth easing only when your limbs slacken, crowned in candlelight like a blasphemous saint.

Beath short, you bend to him, palms skimming sweat and stubble, tracing the gleam down his neck, over shoulders and scars painted in pearl on his skin. Fingers lace with his; you draw him upright. He rises—solid, heavy with steel, bone and devotion—and melts into a kiss that is all wet consonants and desperate vowels, noses sliding, breath shared like contraband. Your hands map his chest, then skim his spine where pale skin still bears crimson ghosts from the brace.

You slip the last veil of linen from your hips while he unclasps the leg brace—metal sighing to the floor—then loosens his slacks, shoving them low, baring the heavy weight of him. The sight stalls your pulse.

You move to touch; he turns you instead. Pins tumble when your hair cascades by his hand. He noses the spill of it aside, inhales as though the scent might save him. Arms loop your waist, palms hot over belly, and together you step backward until the bed’s edge meets the backs of his thighs—two shadows poised at the brink of a night that no clock dares to measure.

He settles first, drawing you down onto his lap until your back melts against his chest. His knees part just enough to cradle your hips; the blunt heat of him presses against the well of your spine. He bends to the slope where neck meets shoulder—breath scalding a path—then tastes your skin, voice a low ribbon of velvet filth: “Do you feel it? All of me aches for the sanctuary of you.”

His hands roam upward, thumbs grazing the soft swell of your chest where breath lifts and falls. He squeezes—firm, coaxing—until a moan slips free. “Yes, sing for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And I will sing for you. I am yours to ruin,” he adds, voice fever-rough, need gnawing, all-consuming.

“And I—yours,” you vow, solemn as any oath. One palm crawls down to wrap around him and grip, guiding him to the molten ache, hard flesh meeting soft. Your arm rests on his shoulders, anchoring, hair slipping between your fingers as they tug—a challenge as much as plea.

A groan rumbles in his chest. He cups your jaw, devours your mouth—kiss deep, untidy, all heat—then slides home with one steady, claiming thrust. Your gasp pours straight into his throat; his lashes flutter, eyes half-closing at the welcome of you. “Gods above,” he whispers, wonder threading the grit of his voice. “You fit me as though you were cut to my measure.”

Both palms bracket your hips; he guides you—forward, rise, sink—each glide buries him to the hilt. “That’s it,” he mutters, breath hot at your hairline. “Ride me, my sweet torment. Take every inch—let me vanish inside you.”

The swell of your backside moulds to his stomach as though your bodies were drafted to the same blueprint; your spine bows, head tipping to his shoulder, a living arc. He answers with deeper strokes, unrelenting, lost to the cadence you make together. “Hold me tighter,” he pleads, thumbs pressing crescents into your flesh. “Keep me here—let me remember us like this.”

Candle-flame gutters; bed-timbers keen; the room lists on each gracious rhythm of flesh upon flesh. Viktor widens his stance, drawing your knees farther apart—offering you to the hush of night as though you were both shrine and sacrifice.

He attempts to end you right there. One hand slides down the silk of your thigh to the fevered source of the pulse; the other circles your throat in a tender manacle, thumb stroking the hollow where heartbeat hammers. Inside, around, upon—he is everywhere at once, until borders blur and you are single body, single breath.

“Yes—” the word is a tremor caught behind your teeth. Heat builds, bright and ruinous.

“Speak,” he urges, voice rough and silken all the same. “Tell me how to spend this life.”

A gasp, then the plea spills, ragged yet strangely proper: “Take me in earnest, Viktor—do not be gentle.”

His answering groan is gratitude turned feral. Grip tightening at your throat, he drives upward, strokes lengthening, force blooming. Tension coils sharp; your hands fly to his knees for purchase. Words tangle, dissolve into broken endearments as pleasure crests—his name, your ache, the hiss of more.

He follows every lift of your hips, every clench, until the world contracts to white heat. Your release slams through you—back arching, cry fracturing the stillness. He rides out your shudder, hands steady, until the last quake tapers into small, liquid flutters. Breath returns in ragged sips; the room slips back into focus—lamplight trembling, wood murmuring beneath the mattress.

Against your spine Viktor quakes, chest hitching, rhythm faltering. He is perilously close—every muscle drawn taut, jaw clenched, moans pressed between gritted teeth. And you know, it’s your turn to pray.

You ease off him, mourning the sudden hollow, palms sliding down his thighs as you sink to your knees. Kiss him fervently where he is warm and rigid and slick with you, tongue coaxing his undoing. And there, you take your profane communion—where Viktor breaks, a litany of worship spilled into your mouth, against your skin, joy near-violent in its clarity, as though the night itself has bent to listen and found salvation in the sound.

Viktor’s breathing calms by slow degrees, tremor melting to after-glow. He slips a shaking hand beneath your chin, guides you from your borrowed altar, and gathers you—knees, elbows, heart—into his lap. Fingers smooth the disarray from your cheeks, reverent as any priest with chrism.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice husked but certain. “Madly, recklessly—beyond sense or season.”

You draw your brow to his, lips brushing the confession back into him. “And I adore you—utterly, ardently,” you answer, words tasting of salt, the shared proof of your bodies’ prayer.

The bed receives you both in a slow collapse: limbs braided, skin cooling where sweat had clung. He curls around you, one arm draped heavy at your waist, the other beneath your head like a promised pillow. Your leg hooks over his, capturing him close. No distance remains—only the quiet thrum of joined breath and the ebb of candlelight sliding down the wall.

Outside, wind frets the eaves; inside, two heartbeats settle into a single, drowsy cadence. Wrapped in each other’s warmth—naked, sated, fragrant with mutual sin and solace—you drift beneath the linen, letting sleep claim you the way you claimed one another: slow, complete, unwilling to surrender a single inch of closeness.

Then the dream finds its seam and slides in.

You stand now in the fern-lit cavern, water seeping from stone like slow tears. Moonlight lances through a broken roof, silvering the air. The lone white fern blooms at the centre, but its petals are bruised now—edges darkening as though dipped in tar. You sense, rather than hear, a slow tread behind you.

Turn, and the darkness gathers itself—antlers of shadow, shoulders built of night mist, eyes hollow voids, deep as kilns. The god does not roar or whisper; it simply exists, and the cave shrinks to hold that existence. Cold laps your ankles, then your knees, as if the water were rising with his breath. You cannot move.

A hand—not flesh, but the idea of one—brushes your shoulder, and the skin there burns with frost. When the thing speaks, it is everywhere at once: in your ears, under your ribs, beneath your tongue.

Onъ jestь мой.

He is mine—it ripples through bone like struck glass. Around the cavern walls, echoes repeat—mine… mine… mine—until the syllables lose shape and become nothing but low thunder.

You open your mouth—whether to argue or beg you don’t know—but your voice is mud, heavy and silent. Behind the god, the fern petals blacken fully, curling inward like fists. You reach for them and your hands pass through smoke. The god’s ember gaze holds you, an unspoken ledger tallying debts.

мой —softer now, almost consoling. As if possession were mercy.

You lurch awake, heart battering ribs, breath rasping. Moonlight threads the curtains; Viktor jolts up beside you, instantly alert, palms flattening to your cheeks.

“Dream?” he whispers.

You can only nod, tears salty at the corners of your mouth. He gathers you close, his own heartbeat a frantic mirror. For a long while neither of you speaks, afraid any word might invite the dark back in. Slumber, shallow and restless, returns until morning pries your bodies apart.

It steals in shyly at first—a rinsed-grey dawn that dribbles through the uncurtained gap and strikes the heliostat on Viktor’s workbench. At once the brass sun stirs, copper planets creaking round their tiny orbits, scattering motes of green and rose across wall and sheet. Viktor wakes beneath that wobbling prism of light, limbs leaden yet warm, the curve of your body pressed along his front.

Your brow is still drawn, even in sleep. He folds you closer—arm snug over shoulders, thigh caging yours—until breath mingles. “Speak to me,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with night.

Lids lift; worry swims there. Your fingertips ghost over the planes of his chest, mapping the faint sling-scar of his brace. “He thinks he owns you,” you say, quiet as church dust.

“Does he not?” Viktor’s question is a pulse beneath the words. You stir, pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“No,” you insist. “You belong only to yourself.”

A grim smile cuts his mouth. “My name belongs to him. All that name touches follows: work, reputation—my very marrow.”

“You never asked for power or gold,” you argue. Flecks of shy sun dance over your shoulders, painting you holy. “Every discovery you made, you earned stitch by stitch.”

He shakes his head, dark hair shadowing cheekbones. “Without the name? No college would have opened its doors, no patron would have financed a crippled boy with a tin ship and a headful of theories.”

“You cannot be certain of that,” you press, frustration brightening your voice.

“And I would rather not find out,” he snaps, sudden and sharp, like steel catching on stone. He levers upright, reaching for the torso brace that glints mute by the bed. Leather cinches; buckles clack. Slacks and the leg brace follows, metal kissing wool with practiced mercy. He snatches his cane from where it leans against the nightstand, as though preparing for retreat.

Anger pricks your eyes. “If you perish you’ll learn nothing else. And I—”

He inhales to counter, words hitch on his tongue—then a brutal cough tears through him, pitching him forward. The cane clatters. Muscles knot under your hands as you steady him, feel heat roar through his chest. The heliostat’s light reels drunkenly round the room, planets juddering in their loops while trinkets flash russet and emerald. In that cacophony of spinning colour and ragged breath, there is silence; debate has been swallowed by the stark, wet rasp of his lungs and the thrum of a god’s claim pressing ever closer at the windowpanes.

“You are cold,” Viktor murmurs when the tremor of gooseflesh lifts along your shoulders. You’d slipped from the quilt, bare as birth, to aid him. He trails a knuckle along your collarbone—an absent sketch that sparks thought as much as heat.

“Always, without you,” you reply, tipping into his touch. Lips reach for his, but he tilts back, palm hovering before his mouth. “There is blood,” he warns—taste of iron still fresh from the coughing fit.

“Then anoint me,” you breathe, closing the distance. Fingers cradle his jaw; your mouth covers his. Iron tang blooms between tongues—sharp, vital. When you part, you whisper, “This—is life, Viktor. Not only books, not only findings.” Your hand settles over the bare plane of his chest, heartbeat hammering beneath. “Give yourself a chance. Give me a chance. I would go to my knees, beg, if that is the price.”

For a heartbeat he remains stunned, arms inert, as though the plea has cut every wire controlling him. Then a twitch—a decision—and his hands climb your thighs, sweep your waist, lock behind your back, crushing you to him. Skin to skin; the leather curve of his brace presses your breasts, cool and unyielding.

“You make me forget,” he murmurs into your hair. “Forget dark. Forget cold. You thaw the ice death sets in my marrow. But its shadow hasn’t fled.”

Your palms slide up the ridged terrain of his ribs. “I am not asking you to cast your world to ruin,” you say, steady, earnest. “Help the Černoglavs first—see how the night shifts. Then decide if the name is worth its chain.”

His breath shudders; you feel it through every inch of contact. Outside, weak sun flares on tiny planets, painting the walls in orbiting gold. Inside, he clutches you tighter—caught between dread and dawning possibility—and in the hush that follows, you feel the faintest tilt of the balance: the weight of fear easing, if only by a feather’s breadth.

“We should make haste, then,” Viktor says, voice still husky against your hair. “If we are to reach them by Forefathers’ Eve.”

You lift your head, brows rising. His mouth curves—equal parts resignation and dare. “I will try.”

Gratitude surges; you claim his lips again, quick and ardent. When breath parts you, mischief sparks. “Would you care to practise lacing up, sir?”

“I shall see what skill I can muster,” he answers, rubbing his nose along your cheek, soft as a promise.

Once made presentable, you move to the study. Algernon delivers the tray there with the wary precision of a man serving wolves. Porridge, ham, a stubborn pot of tea—set between inkpots and scattered journals. His disapproval lingers in the doorway like cold draft, but Viktor barely spares a nod before unfurling fresh parchment.

Together you draft possibilities: salt circles, candle grids, sigils of severance. Pages fill—ink splattering constellations across margins—until Viktor sits back, fingers steepled.

“They must part with every gain the bargain afforded,” he decides. “Land deeds, ledgers, jewelry, even titles carved on stone. Burn it to ash, witnessed by one who bears the name.”

“Mr. Černoglav,” you murmur, “or the boy.”

He inclines his head, begins the letter in his slanted scholar’s hand:

On the night of Forefathers’ Eve, when the veil thins and ancestry stands watch, gather all documents and tokens of your ill-won estate. Fire will speak what blood once lied. I shall attend with my associate to oversee the rite.

He passes it to you for approval; you scan the lines, then ask the question lodging beneath your ribs. “And your own unbinding, Viktor? Should that not claim the same night?”

He dips the quill, thoughtful. “The Černoglav bond endured centuries; they lack the luxury of returning to the seed of their sin. We take the night for them. As for me—” a thin, fierce smile “—I possess the craft to summon without borrowed moonlight, and I know precisely where my thread began, should I wish to proceed.”

A hush settles—ink drying, clocks ticking. “You are brilliant at this,” you say, awe loosening every syllable.

Colour floods his cheeks; his chest lifts as though the words themselves grant breath. “Then let us be worthy of the praise,” he murmurs, pressing your hand—ink-smudged fingers against ink-smudged fingers—ready to wager knowledge and name against the dark. Wax seals the envelope like a heartbeat stilled, the elegant V pressed into it.

Time slides quieter than either of you expected: rainy dawns spent shoulder to shoulder over brass gears; afternoons prowling the winter garden where Rio accompanies you on warm stone, tail twitching at ghosts; nights when clouds shear open and the two of you tilt your heads to count bruised constellations, his arm a steady bar across your back. It is the smallest taste of an ordinary future—tea spoons, half-laughed experiments, your nightgown brushing his brace—and Viktor hoards each glimpse like coin.

Those hushed hours weave themselves into a fragile tapestry: letters dispatched, ritual diagrams inked and drying, travel satchels half-packed beneath the library window. On one night, after you drift upstairs with a candle and a smile that lingers in the hallway, Viktor stays behind to double-check the materials, douse lamps, and lock the door on every stray fear he can corral. It is in that pause—plans stacked, future balanced like a blade—that Algernon’s soft step intrudes, stitching the quiet domestic grace of the past two days to the darker current that still runs beneath the floorboards.

“Need anything further, sir?” he asks, pensive, posture rigid as ever, an empty silver tray tucked beneath his armpit.

“No, thank you.” Viktor pockets the key. The butler lingers, gaze unfocused. “Speak, man—what troubles you?”

Algernon’s voice drifts, oddly hushed. “I would dislike seeing you harmed, my lord. This venture smells of peril.”

“I have lived inside peril most of my life,” Viktor answers. “This venture might be the first scent of salvation.” He steps closer, cane tip ticking on the floor. “Tell me, Algernon—would you prefer me dead?”

The question lands like broken porcelain. Algernon blanches, words tumbling. “Never, sir—never. Forgive my presumption.”

He retreats, footsteps swallowed by the corridor, leaving Viktor with the hush of wavering candlelight and the uneasy sense that even loyalty can fray. Shaking off the chill, he climbs to the bedchamber where you wait, promising himself that if the nights are numbered, he will spend every last one inside the warmth of your borrowed forever.

Morning is pale and wind-sharp when Viktor offers his hand to help you into the carriage. Kid-glove lies forgotten in his coat pocket; your bare fingers slide against his, pulse to pulse.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Are you?” A small dare. He answers with a single, steady nod.

You sit close from the first jolt of wheels, speaking only through skin. His thumb roams the back of your hand, tracing nerves like poet’s ink. Outside, the October landscape unspools—fields leeched of colour, birches rattling their bones. Breath plumes in the shared space between your mouths, warm argot against the window’s chill pane. Neither of you remarks on the way time seems to fold; it is enough to feel the fold together.

By mid-afternoon the Černoglav estate rises out of the haze: brick dark as dried blood, windows blind. Mrs. Samkova meets you at the steps, skirts snapping in the wind. Worry has thinned her mouth to a thread.

“Welcome back,” she says, voice rough but civil. “And thank you for your haste, Mr. Velesny. We shall repay the debt you are owed—”

“You will do no such thing.” Viktor bows, brushing his lips to her gloved knuckles. “If this works, you will have no coin left for recompense. Keep what remains.” His gaze flicks to her husband, grey as smoke behind her shoulder.

She ushers you inside, words tumbling faster than her feet. “That—exactly—that is what troubles me.” Crossing the threshold, she lowers her voice. “Every Černoglav is buried on these grounds. Their name is scratched into lintels, etched on hearthstones. The house itself breathes the bargain.”

Viktor’s cane taps once on the parquet, a metronome for thought. “You believe we must burn it,” he murmurs, tasting the solidity of the idea.

Silence swells; the long corridor seems to listen. Dust motes drift like hesitant snow. At last he asks, soft but iron-edged, “Have you somewhere to go?”

Mrs. Samkova’s fingers find her husband’s and clasp hard. “We do,” she says, voice quaking. She peers up at Viktor, eyes bright with both terror and relief. “If fire is the price, so be it. You … you have our permission.”

The word hangs heavy, flammable. Somewhere deep in the walls, a beam creaks—as though the old house understands the sentence just pronounced. Between your joined hands Viktor’s pulse kicks, and you feel the future tip, cinder-bright, into the waiting night.

Preparations spool through the day like black thread: wardrobes emptied, heirlooms judged. You and Viktor become archivists of loss—deciding what burns, what may yet travel. By dusk, only framed silhouettes remain, pale ancestors staring from ovals of cardboard: memory without coin.

The sparse staff depart first, bundled into the carriage with the young heir; Samkova’s husband drives them toward safer roofs. Evening settles. For the last time Viktor wheels Mr. Černoglav into the drawing-room; lamplight trembles against stripped walls. Steam curls from porcelain cups, the smell of chicory and smoke already mingling.

“This inquiry has unknotted my own curse,” Viktor confesses, hands wrapped round the cup for warmth. “It seems the same god dogs us both.”

The old man’s eyes gleam, lucid despite lungs that rasp like worn bellows. “Perhaps I am mad—letting a stranger erase what centuries built. Yet you do not walk the path of madness, Mr. Velesny, I believe.”

“Please—call me Viktor.” A wry breath. “Soon our surnames may be ash.”

The elder smiles and lifts one trembling hand. “Then we meet as Radomír and Viktor, nothing more. I doubt I’ll linger long enough to learn your next name.” A pause—soft as the click of a clock reaching the hour. “Whatever comes, call me friend. Thank you for giving my family a chance.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Viktor says, the smile brittle. “I may burn your house and leave you with nothing.”

“And still I choose faith, Viktor. At the threshold of breath, hope is lighter to carry than regret.”

Hope—a word he has seldom trusted—drops hot in Viktor’s chest. It seems as if his soul has made the decision before the mind could intrude. Just then, like a confirmation fleshed out, you appear in the doorway, lantern in hand. “Forgive the interruption. It is time.”

So, the two of you begin the unmaking. Oil sloshes across boards, trickles down balustrades, pools in the cellar like black water. Fumes sting throat and eye; every footstep echoes finality. Near the front doors you lower the empty canister, chest hitching. “Harrowing business,” you manage, fabric covering mouth.

Viktor sets his canister aside, clasps your shaking hands. “Are you frightened?”

“All of that and more, beloved,” you admit with a wry smile.

“So am I.” His grip tightens. “Bravery is fear that refuses retreat, you once told me. We refuse together.” With that, your heart settles, if only for a moment.

Outside, night yawns starless, wind raw from the east. The final trail of oil is drawn across the lawn, joining house to its edge where Radomír sits bundled in blankets beside his daughter, holding a single lantern. The air stings raw and tasting of snow. The manor crouches behind you—windows dark, rooms hollowed of voice and souls.

“It is nearly midnight,” Viktor says. “Let us finish before sainted dawn.”

Radomír strikes a match. Flame trembles, then leaps to the oil path, racing toward the door like a summoned serpent. All four step back. Heat blooms; shingles pop; glass weeps molten tears. The house becomes a torch against the void—timber bones cracking, smoke billowing up like a black crown.

Viktor lifts his cane, the silver tip glinting like a star against the roaring dark. Smoke stings his lungs, but his voice rises clear, rolling through the firelit void:

“Černobog, keeper of root and grave, we return that which was never ours.

This name, once stolen for favour, we cast to embers.

These lands, these ledgers, this pride—ash for ash.

By witness of blood and breath, we break the chain.

Leave the line of Radomír Černoglav.

Claim them no longer—claim us no more.”

The wind’s answer is immediate and savage. A gale unlatches the heavens, driving sparks into spirals that hiss and writhe like fire-serpents drinking their own tails. The inferno rears higher, and in its molten heart matter curdles into shape: a vast silhouette rack-crowned with antlers, eyes the colour of furnace iron, cloak a negative of light—pure, smokeless dark. Heat buckles the air, yet a sudden chill nests in the marrow of every witness.

From that void-throat issues a voice that is less sound than verdict:

Do you spurn my gifts, House Černoglav? Will you trade inheritance for dust?

Radomír pulls the blankets from his knees, the wool scraping bone. He stands—barely—leaning on the iron arms of the wheelchair, each breath a rattle in a cracked flute. “We do,” he declares. The syllables are thin yet unwavering. “Your bounty has been our yoke.”

The god regards him—ember gaze narrowing. A pulse rolls underfoot, as if some vast heart has thudded in the deep soil. Flames along the eaves flare sickly green, licking skyward, then gutter inward, as though the blaze itself inhales. Soot-snow begins to fall: delicate, black-feathered motes that sting where they land.

Radomír’s chest lifts once more. In that breath you see him younger—lord of a house granted by unnatural means—then older again, every theft tolling through his ribs. He looks to Viktor and manages a faint, rueful smile. “Victory, my friend,” he murmurs, so low the crackle of fire nearly swallows it. “Hold fast to yours.”

The antlered shadow steps forward—no footfall, just a folding of space—and Radomír’s words cut off like a candle pinched. A column of air implodes around him; his body arches, spine bowing as if drawn to invisible hooks. Light pours from his mouth—a pale, fluttering thread—and streaks toward the god’s outstretched hand. For one shuddering instant Radomír’s eyes blaze white; then the thread snaps into the dark palm, and the man’s frame collapses to ash-grey stillness. Blankets settle over an empty cage of bone.

A wail breaks from his daughter, raw and shattering, but the wind whips it aside. Viktor lunges as though he could catch what has already flown, and the cane lands uselessly in the dirt. The god turns its gaze on him now—on you—smoke-cloak furling like storm surf. The air tastes of pennies and grave mould; every heartbeat feels counted.

I know you. You still belong to me.

A moment frozen in resin. It laughs briefly, yet the figure’s ember eyes dim, pupil-red shrinking to pinpricks. Around its antlers the fire gutters back to natural orange, as if the claim of one life has sated it for now. It speaks once more, and the words crack the air like iron gates closing:

So be it. Nameless, you shall wander. Dust for dust.

A final gust scatters the soot-snow, and the silhouette tears apart into black petals that whirl upward and vanish among the sparks.

Silence tunnels in around you. The manor’s spine caves with a groan; beams tumble in a storm of embers. Mrs. Samkova kneels beside the wheel-chair frame, pressing hands to a chest that no longer rises. Viktor stands rigid, eyes reflecting the pyre, lips moving soundlessly—some prayer or curse you cannot tell. You touch his arm; his skin is ice beneath sweat.

Above the ruins, smoke columns twist into the night like twin adders, and the smell is of pine pitch and old blood. Whatever bargain held for centuries is broken, but the cost glows hot on the ground before you, radiating grief. Flames snap and roar on, lighting a path of cinder into the darkness where tomorrow waits, stripped and raw.

Ash drifts sideways through the first sifting of real snow, grey tangling with white until sky and ground share one colour of forgetting. The hour has slipped past midnight—Forefathers’ Eve already fled into All Saints’ morning—yet no birds announce the change, and the fire’s roar seems kneaded down to a hoarse murmur. In that hush, time stalls: three living figures shoulder-to-shoulder about a fourth that has folded inward on itself, blankets still warm, bones cooling.

Viktor’s coat flaps in the wind, stiff with soot, his cane lost in the rutted grass. He watches the house collapse in slow stages—beam after beam bowing like penitents—until each fall feels less like ruin, more like punctuation. Mrs. Samkova kneels, veil of ash weaving through her loosened hair, one hand fisted round a rosary that no longer clicks. You hover beside them both, palm pressed to Viktor’s back, feeling the staccato of his heart through brace, cotton and wool. None of you speak; even grief seems hushed, afraid of echo.

Somewhere far along the frost-black lane, the small shape of the returning carriage appears, lantern bobbing like a wayward star. Its wheels whisper over gravel, slow but inevitable, drawing the living toward whatever scant future can be salvaged from this pyre. Around you the snow thickens; flakes kiss sparks, hiss, and vanish. The night exhales, and the world, lighter by one haunted name, begins—quietly—to turn again.

[valeisaslut]

just read the beef post..in my eyes they made a burn book after the grammys 🙏🙏

oh my god MIA MY LOVE. YES. after the grammys they got drunk on hotel minibar tequila, sat on the floor in matching robes, and made a fucking burn book like it was mean girls but even meaner. like—full names. full crimes. full hate.

but because they’re both chaotic bitches, half the people in there are so random and so petty it’s almost impressive.

some of the people who made it into the burn book:

camila cabello — reader once caught her saying something slightly shady about her vocals at an afterparty. she’s on the list. caption: “vocal fry but make it MID.”

david dobrik — reader didn’t even explain. she just wrote "no" and ellie added “worst vibe ever” under it.

post malone — for absolutely no reason. they just think he looks like he smells weird. reader wrote "NO" and ellie added "valid."

adam levine — still there, still underlined in red. ellie added "eat shit and die (respectfully)." reader drew a sad little stickman with a dumb tattoo sleeve.

a random tiktok astrology girl who said libras and sagittariuses are a terrible match. reader printed out the tiktok, glued it in, and wrote "BLOCKED AND REPORTED" underneath it.

the british royal family..? — collective entry. ellie just put "colonizer energy" and moved on. reader drew crowns on all of them but replaced the jewels with tiny middle fingers.

jared leto — ellie wrote "cult leader energy why are you in EVERY movie" and drew an X over his forehead. reader said he once bumped into her at a met gala and didn’t say sorry. unforgivable.

elon musk — glued a picture of his face and wrote "looks like he smells like printer ink and misogyny." ellie added “blocked for my own mental health.”

a woman at the airport check-in desk who asked if you were sisters. reader was like 😐 and ellie just whispered "put her in the book."

that random youtuber who said "women can’t play guitar" — printed the tweet, drew flames around it, and wrote: "meet me in the pit, fucking PUSSY."

the inventor of skinny jeans — no pic. just that. ellie wrote "you will answer to god for your crimes."

the random new yorker who said “this isn’t a sidewalk concert, girls” when they were drunk and singing on the street at 3 am. reader drew a stick figure slipping on a banana peel.

julia - no further comments.

it’s pure unfiltered rage and pettiness. sometimes they sit on the floor with wine and go "who pissed us off today?" like it’s a religious ritual. i love my little collide au lesbians so much is insane.

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 2: Makalaurë

for @feanorianweek, also available on Ao3

Fëanáro was many things; inventor, craftsman, master smith, and he was also a linguist. He felt strongly about the preservation of proper speech, had revolutionised the writing system with his tengwar, and had even studied Valarin, something only the most devoted Vanyar bothered to do. 

So, when he became a father for the first time, it was no surprise that he made a study of observing the developmental stages of language learning in elflings. Maitimo was the first of his many research subjects to come, and he filled notebook after notebook listening to his son's babblings slowly turn into recognisable words. 

When Makalaurë came around, Fëanáro armed himself with paper and quill, and decided to run a little experiment with his second born. How would his tiny elfling mind adapt to being subjected to two languages in his everyday life? 

Thus, Fëanáro made sure to switch between Quenya and Valarin frequently whenever he spoke to Makalaurë, and he watched with fascination as his baby mind soaked all that passive knowledge up like a sponge. 

There was only one thing he did not account for: that when Makalaurë finally started making his first attempts at forming words, it was not just one language being incomprehensibly butchered, but two. The child’s penchant for imbuing his voice with Power didn’t help clear things up either. It posed the young parents a great challenge to not only do their best at deciphering what their baby was trying to say, but also to identify which language he was saying it in the first place. 

"Zik! Zeek!" Makalaurë demanded of his parents with a gradually mounting frustration. If only they knew what it was that he asked for so they could give it before the incoming Power filled tantrum broke out. 

"Is it Valarin?" Nerdanel questioned while she tried to placate the elfling with cuddles. "Náro, do you recognise what he's saying?" 

"No, and neither does 'zik' resemble any word in Quenya either. He must be missing a part of the original word," Fëanáro frantically flipped through his notes in search for answers. 

The issue did not resolve itself that day. In the end Makalaurë cried himself to sleep, exhausted and beyond miffed that his parents could not understand him. 

It was much later when they finally got the answer to the riddle that was 'zik'. A leisurely walk to the markets of Tirion was interrupted by a visiting bard one flowering of Laurelin, playing a jaunty tune in the streets that had Makalaurë shrieking in delight. 

"Zik!" he pointed his chubby finger towards the bard, making the family halt. 

Fëanáro looked between his youngest son and the elf playing his lute for the crowd, baffled. "That's zik?" 

"Zik!" Makalaurë nodded and happily hummed along to the tune drifting around the market square. 

Maitimo's eyes lit up in recognition. "It's music, Atya!" 

Then he turned to his little brother. "You wanted to hear some music, didn't you Káno?" 

"Music?" Nerdanel asked. "All that fuss because he wanted one of us to sing for him?" 

Fëanáro was just as stunned as her as he watched Maitimo encourage Makalaurë to properly pronounce all the sounds and syllables of the simple word while listening to the melody. 

"Well then... Mystery solved! It was Quenya all this time," he concluded, reaching for his notes stashed in his pocket. He was rewarded with a gentle shove and Nerdanel looking towards the heavens like someone praying to the Valar for strength. 

[scarlett-ggv]

Little daily flirtations

Wheeljack x reader

(I'm sorry if there is something that is not understood, the translator was never my friend.)

When you arrived at the Autobots' base, Wheeljack wasn’t the first to catch your attention. Not because he was easy to overlook, but because he was always buried in his lab, lost among tools, sparks, and projects only he understood. From a distance, you observed him with a mix of curiosity and caution. He seemed absorbed in his own world, his visor glowing as his large, skillful hands assembled parts with astonishing speed.

You thought he was the typical isolated scientist, the genius who preferred talking to circuits rather than people. But it only took watching him interact with others to know that wasn’t true. Wheeljack had a peculiar charisma, a spark of excitement in his voice whenever he talked about his inventions. He was kind and playful, yet he knew when to be serious. Even if his explosive experiments got him into trouble more times than he could count.

You didn’t have a real conversation with him until you were asked to oversee the progress of a crucial device for the Autobots' mission. When you entered his lab, he greeted you with a casual, "Hey," barely looking up from his project. His tone was relaxed, free of unnecessary formalities. Just a simple greeting, yet something in his voice carried the warmth of someone who, without truly knowing you yet, was already letting you into his world.

You smiled and glanced around before stepping closer to the large table where the half-built device rested. Its exposed wires and intricate mechanisms piqued your curiosity immediately. You leaned in slightly to examine it without touching, but just enough for Wheeljack to notice your interest.

What happened next caught you off guard. Instead of being annoyed or ignoring you, he started explaining. His voice brimmed with enthusiasm, his excitement tangible in every word. He didn’t look at you, but he spoke about its function, the materials, the improvements he still had in mind. And you listened. Without realizing it, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and from that day on, moments with Wheeljack became part of your routine. You enjoyed watching him work, the way his metal fingers handled tiny components with impeccable precision. Sometimes you helped by handing him tools; other times, you just sat nearby, absorbing the contagious energy with which he spoke about his projects. The image of the solitary scientist faded quickly when you discovered that, in reality, he loved sharing his knowledge especially with you.

It didn’t take long for you to realize Wheeljack wasn’t just brilliant in his lab. He was also a warrior. You had seen him in battle quick, cunning, using his intellect as much as his strength. He wasn’t just a defenseless inventor; he was a fighter with a spark of determination burning inside him.

And so, without planning it, without even seeking it, he became a part of your life. Someone you laughed with, spent long hours in the lab with, someone with whom the connection formed so naturally that no one at the base took long to notice the obvious.

By the end of the day, everyone knew Wheeljack already had his own human. As they liked to say.

You were no longer the newcomer at the base. You knew everyone, you had found your place, and if someone asked where you were, the answer was almost always the same: with Wheeljack.

You walked through the hallways with a lively step, already accustomed to the sparks and hums coming from his lab. You entered without announcing yourself, as always, with the confidence of someone who already belonged in that space. Wheeljack stood with his back to you, engrossed in a floating hologram filled with symbols and codes you couldn’t understand.

He barely turned when he heard the door close behind you.

—Oh, you’re here. Look at this —he said, his voice brimming with that endless excitement.

Without waiting for a response, he moved toward a corner of the lab, pushing tools and tangled cables aside with the ease of someone who worked in chaos as if it were order. He grabbed a stool and dragged it next to you. A silent invitation for you to sit.

He turned off the hologram and replaced it with another projection, this time focused on an object resting on the table. His movements were excited yet measured, his energy contagious as he arranged everything to show you his latest creation.

You sat down, watching him with curiosity. He placed the object in front of you, as if offering you a secret, then moved behind you. You smiled, slightly furrowing your brows. He wasn’t one to invade others' personal space, but this time, he didn’t seem to notice—too focused on his demonstration.

Without touching you, he leaned in and placed a glass box over the device. Instinctively, you looked up and found his face closer than expected. A blue glow flickered in his visor.

Then, with a light touch on your shoulder to get your attention, he gestured toward the device. He pressed a button connected to a tangled wire, and immediately, the small object released a cloud of purple smoke.

Your frown deepened as you tilted your head.

The smoke didn’t escape the glass box, contained in its transparent prison until, with a quiet mechanical hiss, a hidden vacuum in the table sucked it away entirely.

For safety, you assumed.

—What is it? —you asked, not taking your eyes off the strange device.

He looked proud. A lopsided smile appeared on his face as he took a few steps, picking up the object with the ease of someone who knew every piece as if it were part of him.

It wasn’t arrogant pride, but that vibrant spark that came when he talked about his creations, when he held something new in his hands with the certainty that it would work. His smirk, almost challenging, came naturally as he lifted the device, holding it with the delicacy of someone who knew all its secrets.

He tilted his head slightly to look at you, a mischievous glint in his optics.

—It doesn’t have a name yet —he said with a calmness that contrasted with the excitement in his voice.

His long, metal fingers slid over the circuits as he dismantled a piece with precise movements. He wasn’t looking at you, but his presence surrounded you, a palpable energy in the air, charged with the faint metallic scent of his lab.

—Its function is to release a smoke that can disable enemies —he continued, expertly turning a tiny mechanism as if it were part of him.

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrowed your eyes fondly.

—The mechanism already regulates the amount of smoke it releases in set rounds —he murmured while grabbing a screwdriver and adjusting a valve with a swift motion—. Now I just need to test its quality and effectiveness.

You watched him in silence, but he already knew. With every slight tilt of his head, with the way he moved around you without invading your space but still staying close, Wheeljack made it clear how comfortable he felt with you there.

—Tell me, Wheeljack… can you really make someone weak and unable to move with just one round of that?

Wheeljack nodded, focused on adjusting a component.

—Yeah, if the energy is calibrated right and applied at the right moment, I can make sure they don’t get up for a good while.

You smirked, your gaze trailing up and down his frame as you arched an eyebrow. He was still leaning over the table, completely oblivious.

—Mmh… and can the device do that too?

Wheeljack froze for a second. You could see the exact moment his processor made the connection, when the subtle trap in your words caught him. His optics flickered, his gaze shifting between you and the device in his hands. You smiled with the purest innocence.

He let out a brief, nervous laugh but tried to compose himself immediately. A failed attempt. His body language betrayed him—the slight stiffness in his servos, the way his fingers gripped the device a little too tightly.

—Yes, uh… well, also… —he muttered, looking away, suddenly very interested in anything else.

He tried to regain control, to pretend your comment hadn’t affected him. He pointed randomly toward a table cluttered with tools.

—Pass me that.

He didn’t specify what. A desperate attempt to change the subject.

You followed his gesture and saw a screwdriver. Narrowing your eyes in amusement, you moved with deliberate slowness, smiling even more.

—Of course.

<-------------------------------------------------->

The Y/N in his mind:

When I learn the verb to be I won't say anything but there will be signs JAJAJAJAJ I LOVE U WHEELJACK - EL TRADUCTOR ME TIENE HARTA MALPARID,

SHOULD I PLACE ORDERS!??!?!??!!?!?

[wangxianficfinder]

In the mood for...

Oct 18th

~*~

1. itmf fics where jiang yanli becomes the yunmeng jiang sect leader?

the focus doesn’t necessarily have to be on that aspect but i would love to see how that would turn out

thanks!

Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don’t look here for bashing)

Sail Away Sweet Sister by sami (M, 73k, WangXian, YZY/CSSR/MDM Lan, MingLi, Time Travel, EXTREME Canon Divergence, Wide Focus Narrative, Some People Live/Not Everyone Dies, Most Named/Canon Characters Live, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Families of Choice, Parenthood, this work contains a major tonal shift, Fluff, Angst, Underage Sex, not particularly explicit, but not at all ambiguous, PTSD, Only a tiny bit, Unforeseeable consequences, The butterfly effect, Slightly Dark JYL, Asexual Characters, but that’s not really the focus, Canon-Typical Violence, [Podfic] Cold read of Sail Away Sweet Sister by kisahawklin)

picking up the pieces by KouriArashi (M, 111k, JYL & LWJ, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Alternate Canon, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Regret, Family, Kid Fic, Families of Choice, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, canon typical political bullshit, Eventual Happy Ending)

I Have Arranged to Tie You to Me by xxxMiaHikarixxx (G, 82k, WIP, WangXian, Lan protective team, Time Travel, Past, LWJ oriented, Arranged Marriage, Boys In Love, Soulmates, Fix-It, Jiang siblings, not jiang parents friendly, JC is slowly becoming a good sibling, Soft LWJ, Protective LWJ, Genius WWX) If the requester doesn't mind a WIP, plans for Jiang Yanli taking over as sect leader begin in chapter 18 of I Have Arranged to Tie You to Me

~*~

2. hi hi! any fics which have the song WangXian as the main focus or play a big part?

hi this is the person who sent the WangXian song ask I forgot to mention that I'd prefer if it was modern au but canon is fine too!

synesthesia by uchiuchi (T, 28k, WangXian, Modern, College/University, Strangers to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining)

A Wish I Can't Stop Making by Tirielle (T, 51k, XuanLi, WangXian, Memory Loss, Slow Burn, Mystery, Secret Identity, Wishes, Magic, Canon, JYL Lives, JZX Lives, JGY Redemption, Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Hairpins as a metaphor for love, Idiots in Love)

🔒Closer Than Eternity by Netrixie (T, 26k, WangXian, Modern AU, Reincarnation, an unhealthy addiction to starbucks, Immortals, cultivation is -kinda- commonplace, Self-Doubt, POV Alternating, Minor Original Character(s), Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death, Angst with a Happy Ending, not for jc fans, This is not a reconciliation fic)

every love story is a ghost story by aisthuu (M, 59k, WangXian, Modern Era, Reincarnation, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Post-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mixed Canon)

~*~

3. Hello, I’m not sure if you’ve answered this before but do you have any fics where Wei Ying dies in the burial mounds and resurrects or ends up puppeting his body with resentful energy? Thanks so much!

🔒 A Heart Undying by NonsensicalRambling (M, 114k, WangXian, Undead WWX, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Eventual WangXian, No Yīn Tiger Seal, Morally Gray WWX, Animals Eating People, WWX’s questionable choices, Morally conflicted LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei, YLLZ WWX, Sect Leader WWX, LWJ & WQ have an Understanding) link in #6B Not sure if this counts because WWX is technically dead but also not?

~*~

4. Hello! I was wondering if anyone has seen any fanfic with canon wwx exchanging places with a wwx that had parents? With canon I just mean orphan and preferably without any good/nice yzy, I just really want to see everyone's reactions to how different he would be of he had parents and wwx's reaction to how his parents are but I haven't been able to find anything like that 😞

I would specially love if it's during the crsa but if it's not that's fine!

Thank you! @menimimimeni

in a dream, i was home by thelastdboy (M, 25k, WangXian, POV LWJ, Canon Divergence, Post-First Siege of the Burial Mounds, Time Travel Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Different First Meeting, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Sentient Burial Mounds, CSSR and WCZ Live, Families of Choice, Protective LWJ, Everybody Lives, Temporary Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, WWX Leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, Golden Core Reveal, Fluff, Developing Relationship, Wen Remnants Live, WQ Lives, WN Lives, No Sunshot Campaign, BAMF WWX)

🔒the world wags on by justdoityoufucker (orphan_account) (T, 5k, WCZ & WWX, WCZ/LQR, Canon Divergence, Pre-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Not Jiang Clan Friendly, Past Child Abuse, Canon Jiang Family Relationships, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Relationship, Not for Madam Yu fans)

~*~

5. Hi! Thanks for the work you do. I’ve found so many great fics! I’m in the mood for fics where Wei Wuxian comes back in his original body. Thank you 😊

Tripped at Every Step by brooklinegirl (E, 28k, WangXian)

Always Light My Way by cqlorphan (E, 27k, wangxian, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Friends With Benefits, to lovers, wherein dual cultivation may be counted as a benefit, Jealous WWX, a little bit, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining while fucking, angsty sex, Switch WangXian, Bottom LWJ, Service Top LWJ, Topping from the Bottom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, the angsty sex happens in the beginning but they get past it dw, Oblivious LWJ, archer wwx, Smart WWX, Porn with Feelings, probably at least half of this fic is just that, Panic Attacks, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dual Cultivation)

the hidden source is the watchful heart by o_honeybees (E, 10k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Domesticity, Touch-Starved, Grief/Mourning, Misunderstandings, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Unresolved Sexual Tension,Eventual Smut, reflections on selfishness and selflessness)

This House of Ill Repute by Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle) (M, 13k, WangXian, First Time, Post-Canon, Getting Together)

蓝色生死恋; a blue love (to live and to die for) by yiqie (M, 24k, WangXian, Post-Canon, wedding fic, Psychological Trauma, Empathy)

Life before you was tragic by covalentbonds (Not rated, 4k, wangxian, Fluff and Humor)

~*~

6. Hi!! I’m in the mood for fics where people believe A) Wei Wuxian actually birthed A-Yuan (when he didn’t) and B) fics where WWX is inhuman. I prefer fics set in the canon timeline (i’ll accept modern fics if it’s WWX as a zombie or something though lol). It’s been surprisingly hard to find good fics with these premises.

6A)

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious) WWX makes a joke about giving birth to A-Yuan & a couple of Lan disciples believe it

Wei Wuxian, God of Fertility by tired (T, 19k, WangXian, Family Feels, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack, the juniors get REAL drunk, Gossip, POV Multiple, surprisingly not an mpreg fic, Kissing, Self-Esteem Issues, Discussion of Porn and Sex, Post-Canon, SOFT SOFT SOFT, married wangxian, Fluff and Humor, PSA: touching forehead ribbons gets you pregnant) focus on people believing Wei Wuxian gave birth to Yuan.

The Grandmaster of Demonic Reproduction by likeafox (E, 7k, WangXian, Kid Fic, not mpreg, but not-not mpreg?, Pregnancy Kink, Come play, LSZ deserves a sibling) focus on people believing Wei Wuxian gave birth to Yuan.

🔒Light of Stars (and the Destroyer) by Sanguis (T, 22k, WangXian, Legends, Arranged Marriage, Pining, Pining for your spouse, Adoption, Canon Divergence, Married Couple) has Lan Wangji believing Wei Wuxian when he says he birthed Yuan himself.

6B)

🔒 A Heart Undying by NonsensicalRambling (M, 114k, WangXian, Undead WWX, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Eventual WangXian, No Yīn Tiger Seal, Morally Gray WWX, Animals Eating People, WWX’s questionable choices, Morally conflicted LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei, YLLZ WWX, Sect Leader WWX, LWJ & WQ have an Understanding)

❤️ A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun (Not rated, 60k, WangXian, Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Horror, Zombie WWX, Eventual Happy Ending, yunmeng trio, Eventual WangXian, WWX is dad material even in death, Humor, YLLZ but make him dead, A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun [Podfic] by Miss Appellation (Lizeth)) if the modern setting is okay then A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun, featuring some angst and a very cute Zombie Wei Wuxian, it's amazing!

~*~

7. Hello! Are there any Wen Qing centered fics? Both modern and canon?

Meet you at a different place by tawaen (M, 57k, WQ & WN, WN & MXY & WQ, WQ & WWX & WN, Eventual WangXian, Ghost General WN, Ghost WQ, Canon Divergence, WQ comes back to haunt the cultivation world, Bad idea to kill the one person who didn’t kill anyone, Cultivation World Critical, Not JC Friendly, Wen Remnants Deserve Better, Sīsī Deserves Better, MXY Deserves Better, POV WQ) Post-siege Ghost!WQ hunts down the scattered remains of WWX's spirit

💖 With Surgical Precision by metisket (T, 20k, WQ & WN, WQ & WWX, WangXian, Time Travel, Families of Choice, sibling bonding through murder) WQ time travels & goes on a murder spree

The Needle and the Nail by littledust (E, 119k, ChengQing, WQ Lives, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Memory Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Golden Core Reveal, First Time, Explicit Rating Earned 14 Chapters In Because Slow Burn)

🔒 Meat by captain_apostrophe (E, 5k, NMJ/WQ, Modern, PWP, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism (Referenced), Hook-Up, himbo NMJ, horny WQ) set during a power outage

🔒 The Hand is a Voice (that can sing what the voice will not) by captain_apostrophe (E, 124k, NMJ/WQ, NHS & NMJ, WQ & WN, NHS & WN, Fix-It, Canon Divergence, Non-Canon Relationship, WQ Lives, and is awesome, it's not Beauty & The Beast okay, NHS Being A Little Shit, Marriage of Convenience, arguing as a love language, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Minor Original Character(s), Everybody Lives, Slow Burn, only a little bit of smut, Childbirth) in which the Wens find a new home

~*~

8. Hello~

It's me again, I just love this blog! I'm in the mood for fics where the Lan recognizes Wei Wuxian's geniuses and the Jiang doesn't, so the Lan plot to steal him or something. Could be arranged marriage or anything, really! I just really want the Lan appreciating his mind! @lostandmessedup

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious) link in #6B

Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don’t look here for bashing) link in #1

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 828k, WangXian, WIP, Fix-it of sorts, Talisman master WWX, Not JFM Friendly, Study Arc, Getting together, Fluff and Angst, Engagement)

Lessons relearned by Iamnotawriter (T, 44k, WangXian, LQR & WWX, Not Madam Yu Friendly, Time Travel Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inventor WWX, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, No Golden Core Transfer, YZY Bashing)

golden when the day met the night by glitteringmoonlight (Not rated, 95k, slow burn, sugar daddy LWJ, light, angst, fluff, developing relationship, eventual smut, WIP)

~*~

9. ITMF: fanfics that take Madam Yu's abuse toward Wei Wuxian seriously, no Jiang Yanli bashing and without Wei Wuxian being mad immediately but instead needing time to realize that what happened was wrong. Thank you!!!!! :D

All Things Belong by kuroi_atropos (M, 93k, WRH & WWX, WangXian, WN & WWX, WWX is a Wen, Abuse, Whipping, Manipulations, Warning: WRH, Smart WWX, Possessive Behavior, Warning: JGS, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Society Level Victim Blaming, Victim Blaming) If they don't mind an AU for 9, the very recently completed All Things Belong fits the request nearly perfectly.

~*~

10. hii could u recommend some office aus, slightly longer and complete ones?

thank you

Work-Life Balance is Not A Thing by catbrainedschemes (E, 17k, WangXian, Modern AU, Workplace Relationship, Romantic Comedy, Idiots in Love, Oblivious WWX, Oblivious LWJ, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, but not that eventual, Pining, Dirty Talk)

🔒WangXian Office AU: What's the Tea... ? by Blackbeads461, Ladycroft4evr (M, 23k, WangXian, Modern Era - no cultivation, CEO WWX, Secretary LWJ, Office Romance, Rollercoaster ride of new love and angst and pining, office gossip, OYZZ is So Done, SS Bashing, more like pulling his leg, Awesome WQ, NHS is a Little Shit, no nsfw in this work but it is there in the next ones)

whether i’m gonna flip you off or pull you into the closet, i haven’t decided yet by livinginaworldofnoise (G, 14k, WangXian, Modern AU, Epistolary, Workplace Relationship, hostile coworkers to lovers who have not disclosed their relationship to hr, Human Resources, hr director!lwj, unknown corporate job!wwx, ft the junior squad as interns, told entirely thru emails and slack messages, Crack, Social Media, if you consider slack social media which is highly questionable, Enemies to Lovers)

~*~

11. hi!! for the itmf, can i get anything where yllz!wwx get’s transported to the 13 years he’s dead (not him coming back to life, but specifically yllz!wwx being back in a world where he’s dead). bonus points if he’s been redeemed already. this may be weird and overly specific but i figured i’d try T_T

~*~

12. ITMF: a fic where people found out it was LWJ who done corrupting. Not WWX

Bonus if the one that found out is LQR

Prefer if it was a humorous fic. But im okay if its not. Thanks!

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious) (link in 6A) assuming they mean "shameless behavior" by "corrupting," Chapter 45 onward of Dispersing Clouds

🔒Something is wrong with A-Zhan! by HeloSoph (M, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Sort Of, Dark LWJ, Morally Gray WWX, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiangs, WWX is a Lan, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, JC Bashing, Smitten LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Engaged WangXian, Blood and Violence, a lot of people die, LQR Metaphorically Qi-Deviates, because of, Shameless LWJ, LQR Tries, to fit into the following tag, Good Uncle LQR, Semi-Public Sex, or at least wangxian's version of it, Scheming NHS, POV NHS) would also work but note that it starts off very lightheartedly and then gets very dark in chapter 4.

~*~

13. heyyy for the next itmf can i request something lsz-centric that shows his relationship with wwx and/or lwj? Growing up with them or when he's already grown up, anything works. Preferably canonverse, but I can also do aus. Thank you!!!

your name, safe in their mouth by astrolesbian (G, 10k, LSZ & WWX, WangXian, Father-Son Relationship, Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, More aligned with CQL than novel canon, Miscommunication, Eventual Positive Communication, Trying to be a family, how to tell your dad you want him to be your dad in 6 easy steps!)

Gathered Herbs & Sweet Grasses by hansbekhart (Not Rated, 19k, LSZ & LWJ, WangXian, dad wangji, LWJ’s Questionable Parenting Skills, Grief/Mourning, Recovery, Injury Recovery, Hopeful Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gathered Herbs & Sweet Grasses [podfic] by someplacelikebolivia)

Inquiry by incendir (G, 10k, LSZ & LWJ, WangXian)

🔒 Not Yet (There As Needed) by sunrise_and_death (T, 13k, LSZ & WWX, JL & WWX, JL & LSZ, WangXian, Post-Canon, Family Feels, Family Bonding, POV LSZ, This Fic Has Everything, even more yearning, WWX & LSZ figuring out wtf their relationship is, Dramatic Revelations)

let the yoke fall from our shoulders by occultings (microcomets) (G, LSZ & LWJ, LSZ & WWX, wangxian, LWJ & LSZ & WWX, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Character Study, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Gusu Lan Juniors Dynamics, let capricorns cathart agenda, Happy Ending, Family Feels, Established Relationship)

to the act of making noise by words-writ-in-starlight (WordsWritInStarlight) (G, 19k, LSZ & LWJ, LSZ & WWX, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Father-Son Relationship, inquiry, LSZ is the best of boys and I will not hear debate, Music, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, [Podfic] to the act of making noise by Ceewelsh, flamingwell, kisahawklin, Rionaa)

~*~

14. It's spook month and that means our fave disaster necromancer birthday!! How about some recs of everyone's favorite fics celebrating Wwx's birthday? Any and all the birthday fics!!!

when I look over my shoulder by cafecliche (T, 10k, WangXian, Modern AU, exorcist LWJ, medium wwx, vague The Conjuring AU, some horror elements, Pre-Relationship, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort)

On a night just like this one ... by DizziDreams (G, 3k, WangXian, WWX & The Juniors, The Junior Quartet, Ghost Stories, Comedy)

autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place by gusucloudbunny (dykebytrade) (G, 5k, WangXian, Modern AU, Autumn, Halloween, Fluff, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Haunted Houses, Pouty baby lwj, Mutual Pining)

💖 Regrets by antebunny (G, 37k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Time Travel, Fix-It, Temporary Character Death, Angst, Explicit Descriptions of Love, and other squishy feelings, Angst with a Happy Ending)

an hour of sunshine by astrolesbian (G, 2k, WangXian, Modern AU, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Mindless Fluff, halloween party)

In love with a ghost by Bookish_penguin (T, 14k, WangXian, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, junior shenanigans, Necromancy, Talking to Ghosts, Or in general spooky things, Post-Canon, references to death, where wwx is an expert on all things dead and dusted, because he’s one of them too, big yiling laozu vibes, wwx can be kinda creepy sometimes but everyone still loves him)

why'd the chicken jump over the fence by yellowcarnations (G, 1k, WangXian, Modern AU, Fluff, Drunk LWJ)

~*~

15. Itmf a fic where wwx adopts himself a younger sibling oc (basically he's being a parent but age gap between them isn't wide enough) like an orphaned shidi, street kid, or child of Jiang servant. And wwx has to provide for them out of his own stipend (which madam yu insists on remaining the amount for 1 person). How would that change plot? Distance him from Jiang sibs cause he eats with sib instead jaings? Better behaved at leactures or doesn't attend? Work hard & creative to care for them

~*~

16. Itmf wwx and lz ghost marry while one is dead/believed to be dead and the other is later resurrected. Esp if it's while wwx is dead and his name is cleared prior to or after the marriage, but while he's still dead. And how people react to their relationship/lz's affections because of this

Ghost Wedding by nirejseki (G, 4k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Ghost wedding, Introspection, Crack Treated Seriously, mostly seriously anyway, Good Uncle LQR)

lovers be lost (but love shall not) by la_muerta (T, 13k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, 1910s, Case Fic, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Ghost Marriage)

~*~

17. Itmf any fics where wwx's name is cleared while he is dead/believed to be dead

🔒Confusion by Vrishchika (Not rated, 4k, wangxian, time travel)

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

[astairo]

The Baker and the Chocolatier

Wonka(2023) x Reader

Warnings: fluff, tiny angst

Y/n L/n was one for sweets and pastries. Her beloved goods were too irresistible to a mouth. She would bake day and night, day after day, if she could. She was beloved by many, with hundreds lining up to greet her a good day at the counter as they asked for a good or two.

Therefore, Y/n was happy. Almost.

Despite being the beloved baker, she longed for a different love, a love her lousy husband failed to give. She wanted to feel her heart pound and flutter, to feel the butterflies erupt and conquer her stomach, to feel the adrenaline rush of a hand in hers.

She wanted that love like no other.

It was rare for Y/n to get quiet days. It was so quiet that you could hear the soft breeze through the windows of the empty bakery. Y/n was enjoying the silence when a man in a ridiculous magenta coat and old-looking hat walked through the doors.

“Bonjour!” Y/n smiled at him. “Anything particularly in mind yet, sir?” she spoke as she gestured to the display of European goods. The man smiled and nodded, “A croissant and a hot chocolate, please!” Y/n nodded and got to work. “I haven’t seen you before,” she spoke as she prepared his hot beverage, “You must be new, then.”

The man chuckled in response, “I guess you can say that, but I don’t plan on staying long.” Y/n frowned, “Why not? It’s a lovely town.” It was true; the town had the loveliest people you’d meet.

The man chuckled again, “You see, I’m somewhat of a magician, inventor, and chocolate maker.” he boasted, “Which leads me to believe a person like me belongs within the streets of Gallery Gourmet.”

Y/n chuckled and shook her head, “What big ambitions you have,” she placed his order on the counter, “But it’s not as easy as you think it is, either.” The man quirked a brow at her statement, “You don’t think I can do it?” Y/n quickly responded, “I’m sure you can, just not as easy as you make it seem.” she spoke, taking the cash he had handed her and stuffing it into the register.

The man leaned in, intrigued by her words, “Paint me a picture.” Y/n sighed, looking him dead seriously, “You want to sell chocolate, right?” The man nodded, “In simplest terms, please.”

Y/n chuckled, “You can’t get a shop if you don’t sell chocolate, and you can’t sell chocolate without a shop.” The man frowned, “Then how would I get the shop and sell chocolates?”

Y/n smiled, his change in her hand, “Hard work and dedication; be persistent.” The man nodded in appreciation before smiling, “Keep the change.” She smiled, "Thank you, sir.” He flashed her a grin as he picked up his order and left.

Y/n was sure that that was the last time she'd ever see the man until one night, only a few days later.

Y/n was finishing up behind the counter when the door opened. “We’re closed.” She stopped when she heard the familiar chuckle, looking to see the man again. “I’m not here for your pastries.” he smiled, “I’m here to ask you a question.”

Y/n nodded and leaned onto the counter patiently. The man sighed and looked at her, “I want you to come to Gallery Gourmet with me.” Y/n’s eyes widened at his sudden request. “Gallery Gourmet with you?” she stood perplexed. The man nodded in desperation, “Yes, please.” She chuckled nervously, running a hand through her hair, “I barely know you.”

The man removed his hat, bowing dramatically, “Willy, Willy Wonka.” Y/n giggled and curtsied, “Y/n L/n.” Willy grinned and kissed her hand, “Pleased to meet you, Y/n.” He stood straight and adjusted his coat, “So what do you say? Will you accompany me to Gallery Gourmet?”

Y/n couldn’t shake off the lingering feeling on her hand. The adrenaline pumped through her veins as her heart pounded against her chest, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She blushed for the first time.

“Y/n?” Willy snapped his fingers in front of her face, pulling her from the daze. He looked at her for her answer. Y/n took a breath.

“I’ll think about it.”

—

Part II

Please participate in this poll 💖 it’ll help me know what to do with this story.

[rinadragomir]

Cassie's reply to "height difference" question and my attempts to justify this sketch and comfort you all🌿🌱

(she answered me on inst)

1 fear: "Why does Ty look....the way he looks? Comparing to other arts this thing is kinda upsetting"

My explanation: 1) It's something Cassandra Jean drew very quickly so Cassie could tease us, nothing more, it's a quick sketch. On her other works Ty is drawn... much more detailed? Ugh idk english. It's not an official thing, it's something they put in a newsletter just to say "we can't tell you anything, stop asking".

Arts for future books:

Arts for fun:

2 fear: "Does Ty grow shorter each year? They're trying to make a little soft uwu boy out of him and it's a stereotypical portrayal of autistic people"

My explanation: KIT SITS ON HIS LAP. HE JUMPED ON HIM AND REFUSES TO LEAVE. That would explain why his head is so much higher🩷 I'm also afraid of him being turned into a tiny fragile helpless boy, but let's not lose hope, cause SOBH Ty was great!

Listen, not so long ago Cassandra Jean made an art for SOBH featuring both of them in the same room. They're about the same height. Even if Kit ends up being taller in TWP, he won't be AS TALL AS A STREET LAMP comparing to Ty. All official arts featuring more...grown up Ty?... look fine.

Or maybe sobh art is some kind of visual illusion and it turns out that Ty and Anush are like "kitchen counter tall". They'll be badass inventors that you can put in a pocket and carry around.

Anyway! Don't trust quick sketches made for fun, trust official illustrations and 🌿don't worry🌿! Ty is a big boy, confident enough to go around with many unbuttoned buttons on his shirt👁️👄👁️And SOBH showed him as a determined smart guy he is! It's going to be okay🫶

I asked Cassie about it on Instagram and here's her reply!

[chibi-rui-kamishiro]

me when. me when im a wiggly eel

〜〜〜

[o-hora-o]

do you have thoughts about any other researchers/scientists who the NA branch scientists might have known? such as Ford, Bohr, etc? I know you've mentioned them before and I was wondernig if you had thoughts about them.

I'm so thankful for this top-tier question 😭❤️ tho I'm not sure that you expected such delulu answer but I'm a nerd so here we go. To understand who the NA branch/42 lab might have known, we should dive into the world of science lore and go through connections between scientists who lived mostly in the late 19th-first half of the 20th century (hello, Hans Bethe, you 100-year-old cheater).

So, we have these 4 major groups: physicists, inventors/electrical engineers, chemists and mathematicians (yes, some of them can be put into several groups, but don’t mind it pls).  

Of course, this map can be expanded even further but it’d be too much. The main idea here is that all of them kinda knew each other one way or another.

Let's start with the biggest group: Physics

Niels Bohr is undoubtedly one of the biggest figures along with Einstein and Planck. They were like 3 holy spirits who became guiding lights for many other scientists. As a fun fact, Niels was in this Indian mythology fan club too.

For example Albert was fascinated by Hinduism and Buddhism, philosophical and cosmological concepts (the Upanishads text to be precise) and the idea of unity of all existence. So was Carl Jung btw, but he was more into the mythology part itself. Schrödinger, being a sucker for philosophy, was deeply influenced by Upanishads and Vedanta (It can be seen in his What is Life? book where he explored the idea of unity of the self with the universe and the existence of two souls: individual and universal, which was a parallel to how particles behave in the observer's presence). And in Bohr’s case, he was influenced by Hindu cosmology. Just as Erwin, he found parallels to his ideas in Indian philosophy. 

So, as I said, Niels Bohr was one of the most influential physicists and a central figure in the history of quantum mechanics and atomic theory. He was a life-long friend of Einstein but they had a silly relationship: they often debated on the interpretation of quantum mechanics. For example, Bohr was rooting for Copenhagen Interpretation.

The main idea of the Copenhagen Interpretation was that until you look at a particle, it doesn't have a certain position or speed, therefore it exists in different places all at once. But the moment you look at it, it chooses its place and speed. It's as if until you open your eyes, all things around you exist in different states. Feel paranoid now? You can thank Bohr and Heisenberg for that. "It’s not the particles' fault for acting weird, it’s just how the universe works at this super tiny level". But Einstein was skeptical of the view "How can particles be in two places at once? That’s just crazy!" and commented it as “God does not play dice with the universe”. 

So despite different views Einstein and Bohr kept being bff with mutual respect and admiration for each other. Imma just leave it here:

Max Planck, being not only one of the founding fathers of quantum theory but also a father figure to the science world itself, was both Einstein and Bohr’s mentor (Planck’s biography aka driven by vision broken by war is still my angst roman empire help, that was the saddest thing you can read). And Bohr, just like Planck, played a key role in mentoring the following generation of physicists too. 

And this is where we meet Werner Heisenberg, one of Bohr’s most gifted students. Heisenberg aka Uncertainty Principle guy, Heisenberg aka one of the main Architects of Quantum Mechanics guy, Heisenberg aka Schrödinger’s pain in the ass guy.

Friendship between Heisenberg and Bohr was truly a legendary one, Bohr treated Werner like a family member, like a son, but unfortunately this friendship was shattered when Heisenberg took part in the German nuclear project. 

There’s this mysterious story about Heisenberg’s visit to Niels Bohr in nazi-occupied Denmark in September 1941 and the story about unsent letters which were significant episodes in the history of quantum physics. “Mysterious” because it is unknown what exactly they talked about but it is said that during their conversation, Heisenberg seemed to avoid direct discussion about the atomic bomb and its consequences. That meeting was emotionally tense, with Bohr feeling betrayed by Heisenberg. 

It is also said that after the 1941 visit Heisenberg wrote an unsent letter to Bohr. The content of this letter remains unknown but it is known that Heisenberg was deeply upset and troubled by their tense conversation and relationship. Heisenberg had likely tried to express his confusion, regret, or desire to explain himself to Bohr. Some historians say that Heisenberg may have been trying to signal to Bohr that he had not been fully loyal to the German nuclear project or even that he had deliberately slowed its progress. 

In 1943 Bohr fled Denmark to escape the occupation. Before leaving, Bohr wrote an unsent letter to Heisenberg. He wrote how disappointed he was with Heisenberg, Bohr believed that the pursuit of knowledge could not be divorced from the responsibility of how that knowledge was applied. There was also the “Copenhagen” play written by Michael Frayn about this story between the two. Angst fic right there. 

Nevertheless, Werner interacted with many many greatest minds. Planck influenced him deeply and supported his work, Werner’s father was a friend of Sommerfeld, then he studied with Wolfgang Pauli and Max Born was another mentor of his and they both worked on Matrix Mechanics.

Schrödinger aka "I don't like it, and I'm sorry I ever had anything to do with it" guy, Schrödinger aka “I insist upon the view that all is waves” guy, being inspired by Louis de Broglie, had a totally different approach and contrary to Matrix Mechanics he developed Wave Mechanics. Bohr was more of a philosophical mentor-debater to Erwin and even then their relationship was far more distant than the one between Bohr and Heisenberg. Just like Einstein, Erwin was wary of Copenhagen Interpretation. Unlike Einstein, this classical vs modern approaches disagreement became a rift that didn’t let Erwin build a strong bond with Heisenberg or Bohr.

And the funniest part is that Schrödinger’s “cat experiment” was created to prove Copenhagen Interpretation wrong and absurd (though it didn’t contradict Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle).

Once Bohr invited Schrödinger to be his house guest and then started a debate about the Copenhagen Interpretation. He tried to convince Erwin that it was right for several days after which Erwin fell ill and Niel’s wife had to nurse him.

“There was Bohr, the indefatigable debater that he was, sitting on the edge of the bed continuing the debate, oblivious to the late hour, as though he were engaged in the most serious of scientific discussions, while I, in my bed, could hardly keep my eyes open".

Btw De Broglie's theory was inspired by Einstein AND became publicly known because of Einstein. De Broglie's work could have gone unnoticed for years, if Einstein had not paid attention to it. Einstein told Born about this idea and therefore triggered a chain of new theories in the world of quantum mechanics. At that time, physicists listened to every word of Einstein, and as soon as he mentioned de Broglie's ideas in an article, Schrödinger was immediately inspired.

Speaking of Max Born, he was also one of the central figures in the quantum mechanics field and a part of Copenhagen Interpretation club. He first studied mathematics and turned to physics only after finishing his doctorate. Because of that Born wrote his works with exceptional mathematical precision which was very different from Bohr's intricate theoretical sketches, which contained brilliant ideas and physical intuition, but often required refinement in the mathematical part (the curse of many physicists). However, both geniuses were important to a new understanding of atoms. And of course Born knew everyone I mentioned previously and even more since he mentored not only Heisenberg or Oppenheimer but he had many assistants who were also well known physicists.

But let’s go back to the one who had the most connections, Einstein, and look at his relationship with the Curie family (of course Chemistry group can be expanded way more but we’re trying to not go far away from the ae cast here). Even though Albert didn’t have such a strong bond with Curie as he had with Bohr and Planck, he and Marie were great friends who built their friendship on shared experience of being outcasts. In his letter Einstein expressed admiration for her work on radioactivity while Marie was deeply impressed by special theory of relativity. Their friendship is mostly known for Einstein's support during Curie’s scandal in 1911 (Einstein was one of a few who defended her). And in return Marie supported and encouraged Albert’s work that at that time was seen as absurd and outrageous. Moreover they both played important roles in the Solvay Conferences (another science world crossover aside from Manhattan Project). 

Yes, they didn’t work together on scientific projects but instead they just preferred sending letters to each other discussing either work or personal matters like families, concerns about too much public attention or Sklodowska expressing how difficult it was for her to be a woman in the male-scientific world. 

By "concerns about too much public attention" I also mean that Einstein disliked giving interviews. As he once said:

But I can give you this silly anecdote instead:

Since I mentioned how Einstein’s work challenged the science world shaped by Newton, we need to meet a certain astrophysicist in this story. To many, Einstein’s ideas seemed to rock the foundations of classical mechanics which was a true blasphemy. But most importantly, everyone thought that it was unprovable. How to measure the bending of space-time?

And this is where Sir Arthur Eddington appeared on stage, a British astronomer and mathematician.

In 1915 Einstein published his general theory of relativity, which proposed that massive objects like stars and planets could bend space-time. This theory, even more radical than his special theory of relativity, predicted that light could be bent by gravity - a phenomenon that could be tested by observing stars near the Sun during a total solar eclipse. Eddington saw an opportunity. For years, astronomers had speculated about Einstein's theory and the coming eclipse of 1919 would offer Eddington the perfect opportunity to put Einstein’s prediction to the test.

As the moon passed in front of the Sun, they observed stars near the Sun's edge. According to Einstein’s theory, the light from those stars should’ve appeared to shift, bending as it passed near the Sun’s massive gravitational field. Eddington’s results confirmed the prediction. The light had indeed bent, just as Einstein had said it would.

The news sent shockwaves through the scientific community. Einstein’s theory of general relativity had been validated by experiment. The very fabric of space-time, once a mathematical abstraction, became a proven reality. Eddington’s observations were seen as a triumph for the world of physics and for the first time Einstein’s name became known to the wider world. 

In the following years the friendship between Eddington and Einstein deepened. Eddington explained and defended Einstein’s work to the English-speaking world. Their correspondence, filled with mutual respect and admiration, continued until Eddington’s death in 1944.

Of course I also should mention Marcel Grossmann. He was a Swiss mathematician and also Einstein’s friend and a classmate. They had a close work relationship regarding development of General Relativity theory. 

You see, despite the stereotype, Einstein was good in mathematics, but he was more about physical intuition. And since he didn’t have this intuition in mathematics like, for example, Ramanujan, he encountered mathematical problems that were beyond his own skills while developing his theory of General Relativity. Therefore, he needed help from mathematicians like Marcel Grossmann. 

Grossmann was well-versed in the mathematics needed for the theory of General Relativity. He introduced Einstein to mathematical concepts such as Riemannian geometry and Ricci calculus which was much needed for the equations that describe the bending of spacetime in General Relativity. Without Grossmann's help, finding mathematical language to express physical ideas of the theory would’ve been Einstein’s huge headache.  

Aside from Grossmann there was also Hermann Minkowski – another great mathematician and a former professor of Einstein. Instead of assisting in the theory of General Relativity, he helped with the development of Special Relativity theory. Minkowski realized that Einstein's theory could be elegantly expressed in terms of a four-dimensional spacetime through the mathematical language.

While we’re in this Mathematics group, let me introduce you to one of the big heads - John von Neumann. A true legend of many fields and thanks to that he had vast connections (and thanks to participating in the Manhattan Project too).  

One anecdote about the relationship between Einstein and von Neumann comes from von Neumann’s colleague and Einstein’s friend, mathematician Kurt Gödel. According to Gödel, one day, while Einstein was talking with von Neumann, the topic turned to the nature of space and time. Einstein was very passionate about this and more philosophical while von Neumann took a more practical mathematical approach.

"You are thinking about space and time as something fundamental. But we can make it all a product of the way we approach the equations".

Einstein chuckled and remarked:

"Well, John, you have a way of turning the most beautiful ideas into something utterly cold and mechanical".

And of course, Bohr had intense debates about the Interpretation with John too.  But, despite their differences, they respected each other’s intellects, and Bohr even referred to von Neumann as “the cleverest man in the world”.

Von Neumann’s relationship with Enrico Fermi was a close one. Fermi and von Neumann could converse about everything, be it nuclear physics or latest developments in quantum mechanics. Yeah, they shared many interests. Together, their abilities led to some interesting collaborations during the Manhattan Project and in nuclear physics.

My boy, my proud and joy, Richard Feynman, the charismatic and playful physicist (no, really, he was the legendary childish rascal, Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman was a chef’s kiss) who would later become famous for his work in quantum electrodynamics and his ability to dumb down complex ideas (no, really, The Feynman Lectures on Physics -), had a deep admiration for von Neumann and was influenced by von Neumann’s ability to make tough problems elegantly simple.

Yeah, one of the most famous stories about von Neumann is that he was a child prodigy. When he was just six years old, he could divide large numbers in his head. Then, his parents had to hire a tutor to teach him mathematics but the tutor quickly realized that von Neumann was far beyond him. One day, von Neumann’s father gave him a large number and the young John immediately calculated the square root. The father asked him how he could do that and Von Neumann simply replied with "I memorized the tables of square roots".

The reason why it was important to add him here was that not only that he knew mostly everyone but also he knew Alan Turing and Alan Turing is someone lab 42 might have worked with.

Enrico Fermi, usually known for his paradox (shout-out to Remembrance of Earth's Past fans) was also a huge figure in physics, a brilliant man with dry humor who created the first nuclear reactor and took part in the Manhattan Project. 

Fermi and Niels Bohr were two of the central figures in the development of nuclear physics, and their collaboration during the Manhattan Project was essential to the creation of the first atomic bomb. 

Oppenheimer described Fermi’s ability to get to the core of a problem saying:

"When I have a difficult problem, I go to Fermi. He just looks at it, and then, within minutes, tells me what’s wrong and what I should do"

Another Fermi’s famous collaboration was with physicist Leo Szilard, with whom he developed the concept of the first nuclear reactor. 

Szilard and Fermi had this funny interaction during the construction of the reactor:

Szilard: Enrico, are you sure this will work? 

Fermi: *smiles* We’ll know in a few minutes 

Now, the inventors. Let’s talk about Ford and Edison~

They were THE besties. The story of how Ford and Edison met is just dhsdfhfjgh it’s the story of two pioneers who first met in the early 1890s and formed a strong friendship that lasted till the end. 

Ford was kinda an unknown engineer with a huge passion for machinery and innovations who worked at the Edison Illuminating Company in Detroit. One day, Ford got a chance to meet Edison, and according to Ford himself, the encounter was nothing short of life-changing.

"I was just a boy, and when I met Edison for the first time, I had the feeling that I had met the right man at the right time. He was a great influence on me. I was keen to learn how things were done, and he had a way of seeing things that made you want to follow him". 

Ford admired Edison’s vision of using technology to improve everyday life. Ford saw in Edison a kindred spirit, someone who was not afraid of failure and who constantly looked for ways to change the world through innovations (no, fr, the man couldn’t live a day without coming up with new ideas). In return, Edison was impressed with Ford's enthusiasm and his skills in the engineering field.

Ford's dream to build a car and his persistent drive to make things work even when others doubted him resonated deeply with Edison’s own mantra: “Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration”. 

It is said that once Edison told Ford:

"I’ve never met a man who knew so much about engines as you do. I think you’re going to make a lot of progress, young man. You have something inside you." 

These words meant the world to Ford (At that time he was working on his Model T and established his Ford Motor Company which, of course, Edison used to visit). In the 1900s Ford and Edison began to form a deep personal friendship. The two often spent time together at Ford's estate or in Edison's laboratory. 

"Ford is one of the great men of the modern age. He has an instinctive ability to build things, and he's not afraid of taking risks. I think he will be remembered as the man who revolutionized the way people live".

"He taught me to never be afraid of making mistakes. Edison was a man who would look at a failure as nothing more than a step in the direction of success. He always kept moving forward".

In later years, the friendship between Ford and Edison continued to flourish. Moreover, Edison and Ford (+ Harvey Firestone and John Burroughs) had camping trips which became a cherished tradition, they called themselves "Vagabonds" who annually embarked on a journey to reflect on life. Ford became a revolutionary figure of the automobile industry while Edison’s inventions changed the world in ways that Ford could hardly have imagined when they first met.

Edison’s health worsened during the 1920s, he had been suffering from many illnesses but still continued to work in his West Orange laboratory. Ford offered financial and emotional support and was one of the last people to visit Edison before Thomas died in 1931.

Ford wrote:

"It is a great loss, not only to us, but to the whole world. Edison was a man who believed in progress and the power of human imagination. I have always thought of him as one of the greatest minds America has ever known."

Yes, Edison was a world-changing man who was interested in many things, including wireless telegraphy. He even received a patent for the early version of wireless telegraph before Guglielmo Marconi’s breakthrough in the history of radio. But Edison was more focused on the DC (direct current) and even though he was highly competitive, Thomas never fought with Marconi about radio patents. Instead of competing with Marconi, Edison chose war with George Westinghouse. 

In the meantime Tesla was involved both in the radio patents war and AC/DC war. Tesla felt as if Marconi stole his ideas or copied his patents about wireless transmission through radio frequency. Marconi was awarded in 1904 which Tesla felt bitter about, especially since he had the curse of not being recognised by the public. But then in 1943 it was acknowledged that many of Marconi’s innovations were based on Tesla’s earlier work. Unfortunately Tesla died earlier that year. 

And if we talk about the AC/DC war, Tesla was rooting for AC (alternative current), so was Westinghouse. Westinghouse hired Tesla in the 1880s to work on improving the AC and together they successfully competed against Edison. 

"War of Currents" is the most famous rivalry in the history of science and technology.

Edison thought that DC was safer and easier to control. “We will make electricity so cheap that only the rich will burn candles” he said. But Edison’s success was limited by the nature of DC itself, it required power stations to be built very close to where the electricity was used. Tesla, on the other hand, created the AC system that could transmit electricity over long distances, unlike DC.

"I don’t believe that the electric current will ever be the one to be destroyed, I am confident that my system will triumph". And Tesla was right about it.

If you've read this far, you likely share a similar reaction:

------------------The AE hcs------------------

Planck took Ein, Schrödinger, and Bohr (let’s change Niels name to Ellen) under her wing. Emma corresponded with her colleagues, mathematicians and astrophysicists, to help Lieserl prove her theory. It was decided to send Lieserl to London where she studied under Eddington and greatest mathematicians of the time. She eventually stayed at the College, continuing her research there. Meanwhile, Schrödinger and Bohr stayed in the NA branch. At some point Schrodinger escaped Bohr to rehab to finish her work in peace and quiet and Bohr, being bohr-ed out of her mind, entered her mentor era and met Heisenberg. Together, they developed the Copenhagen Interpretation - unfortunately for Schrödinger who returned around then and immediately regretted it. Ellen and Lieserl had a deep passion for cosmology that Emma had introduced them to during the early years of mentoring them. Ellen would often engage in long passionate debates with Ein about the nature of the universe. Her fascination with the cosmos wasn’t the only strong forte of hers for she also loved discussing Indian mythology with Tesla, and at times, Schrödinger would get dragged into these discussions as well. On the other hand, Nancy’s father had been a lifelong friend of Ford and not only her family owned Ford cars but also, after Thomas’s passing, Ford supported Nancy both financially and emotionally. This was crucial as Nancy had inherited the biggest influential company of the country. With Ford’s mentorship, she was able to step into her new role with confidence.

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

If someone has more hcs, please be welcome

[peydawgz]

saw your requests are open and i was wondering if you could do a lil thing where reader is like a inventor and makes a star projector for siebren?? romantic ofc :] hope u have a wonderful day!! !

You Gave Me The Universe || Siebren de Kuiper (Sigma) x Reader

Thank you for your request!!! I hope you like this!! It’s a little angsty, but wholesome ending :3

You and Siebren were tasked to work on a project together, your brilliant minds pairing perfectly. He came up with the ideas and physics, and you brought it to life. He was for the most part quiet, but he would go on rambles when the inspiration sparked.

You understood the trauma behind his mask. You took notice to the way he’d get lost in thoughts, the fear and anxiety, the shaking anger and frustrations. You were the only peaceful thing to come about his sad life. When the black hole appeared around him, and the gravity began to rise, he thought before there was no way to stop him. The thought of hurting the only one who could understand, oh it was like you had a sweet control over him.

Was it fear? Was it anxiety keeping him from you? You hadn’t seen him in a few days, you assumed he was recovering from his outburst. In the meantime, you worked on your own side project. It was just something small, something to keep his mind occupied and make the music fade for once. You cultivated a tiny machine, interpreting his interest in astronomy to create a holographic star projector. It would follow each moon phase, and could zoom in and out of each part of the known galaxy. You’d put so much work into it, you just hoped he would show up eventually so you could give it to him.

After waiting through your usually workday hours with no sign of him, you decided to pay Siebren a visit and see what was up. You tried to call but he would not answer, you still showed up anyways. You knocked on his door, expecting no answer but it only took two seconds before the door creaked open and the tall man stood before you. He wore a comfortable attire, black long pants and a plain white shirt. He looked defeated and uneasy, making you think perhaps he didn’t want you here. It was refreshing just to see him, though, you were worried of the disaster he could cause.

Without exchanging a hello, you lunged into Siebren’s chest, throwing your arms around him as to heal his saddened heart. He was tense, but completely relaxed at your touch. He sighed and invited you in for tea, happy to see your face as well. He didn’t want you to remember him for the monster he showed you he could be. You sat together and talked, mostly you catching him up a bit before getting to your point.

“I made something for you, to help you rest and strengthen your focus.” You told him. He looked shocked, he must not often receive gifts. Before he could say any mess about you didn’t have to get him anything- you told him to close his eyes. You carefully set up the projector out on the table, and shut off the lights. He had a smile creeping over his face, his demeanor changing into excitement.

“Okay you can open them up now.” You take your seat back next to him. He peeks at first, then opens his eyes and mouth in awe as he stares upon the illuminated ceiling. “You made this,, for me??” His voice is almost childlike in bewilderment, and the stars reflect on his glassy eyes. “Yeah! This way, you can relax, when your mind gets fogged up or if you need to fall asleep.” You responded.

“Fascinating…” he mumbled as he lifted a hand, controlling the coordinates with his gravity powers. As you watched him inspect your handmade device, you admired his happiness in this moment. In a state where all chaotic forces do not control him, his intelligence beams. He names each constellation out loud, like checking off a list he knows all too well. He pulled back so far out of the known universe you were staring into the purple clouds and star pools of your own galaxy, suddenly feeling small.

“You are extraordinary. I can’t thank you enough for this… you know me so well.” He said as he faced you. He pulled you in for another hug, his hands holding the fabric of your clothing like something might steal you away from him. He made a mental decision to keep you away from danger, to protect you at all costs and to also cherish your gift to him. No more running and hiding- he would have to fight with his mind to get it under more control, and was thankful for your help to allow him to see this path.

You were taken back by suddenly his whole body covering you in his craving grasp, not understanding the amount of emotion behind it. He was shaking a little, giving you the impression he may cry or his thoughts were becoming too much. You gently caress his back, and slowly moved up to pet his soft, greying hairs as if to soothe him.

His convulsions were that of being overloaded with affection aggression, his desire making him want to nearly crush you, with how sweet and caring you treated him. All signs in his head were pointing to yes, and he could no longer doubt those emotions any longer. He pulls away slowly, his gaze looking among the beautiful swirling colors around you, your own eyes moving around the room as well. He caught your chin with his fingers, crashing his lips into yours very passionately, like letting go of all that held him back. Your face felt hot, a blush showing over your cheeks as you moved closer for more. Once the kiss was over, Siebren slouched over and tucked his face into your neck, scared to look you in the eye for what he’d done. You thought he was so cute, trying to reassure him with more petting and caressing. He moved back, still looking away shyly, you were supposed to be just a coworker, how could he let himself be so inconsiderate to your profession. He looked sad with what he’d done, guilty even.

“It’s okay! I feel the same. There’s no need to worry about later, we should just enjoy now.” You assured him, always being the bright light in his black hole thoughts. He chuckled, reminding himself to relax again, and he leaned back into your touch to enjoy being in the moment with you.

“I can’t thank you enough for all that you do for me. My affection for you goes deeper than the universe.”

[doofus-and-dragons]

As promised, I'm back on my httyd bullshit. Here's a list of things that don't make sense unless you watch the shows (idgaf if they're cannon or not, they should be for the background of small details!!!)

1. Grump.

Grump is Gobber's Hotburple in Httyd 2 and 3. But not in httyd 1. So this begs the question: Where and when did Gobber get Grump? The answer? Race to the Edge S3 E12, "Last Auction heros." Gobber and Snotlout go to Viggo's dragon auction undercover, and Grump is one of the dragons for sale. Without that episode, Grump is just a dragon they shoved into the second movie for shots and giggles.

2. Inferno

Inferno is a blade that Hiccup created himself that lights itself on fire using monstrous nightmare gel and can eject and ignite zippleback gas. To the casual watcher, he just showed up with it in the second movie. But Inferno is ALSO from rtte! Inferno's first form comes from S3 E9, "Tone Death." Hiccup then works further on it, but Inferno as we know it is actually based on a version of the blade that VIGGO GRIMBORN, the villain for most of RTTE, made.

3. The Deadly Nadder(? Looks like a nadder) plushie

Although this is a small detail that is only seen in the background of the later Httyd movies, it is still a detail that first appears within the SHOW'S cannon lore. According to S1 E17 of Riders of Berk, the toy was made by Valka when Hiccup was a baby. However, tiny Hiccup was so scared of the toy that he threw it in the ocean. Trader Johann managed to get ahold of it, and the episode was about the riders trying to save with mystery item because something happened to Johann's ship. I don't remember what. Something about smoldering smoke breaths, I think.

4. Skull Crusher

Skull Crush is Stoick the Vast's Rumblehorn in Httyd 2 and 3, who is later inherited by Eret, son of Eret upon Soick's death in Httyd 2. But again, where and when did Stoick get Shullcrusher? Because it seems like he just appeared. Well, I have that answer! Skull Crusher first appears in S1 E8, "Crushing It." In the episode, the gang is tormented by a Rumblehorn who keeps destroying their camp. Hiccup asks his Dad for help, and his Dad is able to train and befriend the wild dragon.

5. Hiccup's flight suit

In Httyd 2 and 3, Hiccup has/is trying to perfect a flight suit attached to his armor. Now, this could just be seen as Hiccup being a silly inventor off-screen, but it ACTUALLY shows up in Race to the Edge! S1 E12 "The Next Big Sting" actually opens with Hiccup trying out his first design for the flight suit. He does it many times, each time having to be saved by Toothless before he crashes into some form of rock/sea stack (much like in Httyd 2).

6. Hiccup's aging

I saw a post either on here or on tiktok the other day where someone was complaining about how different hiccup looked between 1 and 2. In 1, he's like...what...13?15? Where as He's about 20-21 ish by Httyd 2. To fans who don't obsess over something and consume all the media like I do, this would be a bit of a shock. I mean, you go from this:

Immediately to this:

Where as fans of the shows had this progression:

Much easier to swallow.

7. The Bewilderbeast

This is, again, something that could be choked up to the writers wanting more than just 7 species of dragons. HOWEVER, this dragon is actually the center point of the last few episodes of Race to the Edge. We learn a little bit about the dragon over the corse of the last season, which takes place just a year or two before Httyd 2.

9. VALKA HERSELF

I watched Race to the Edge long before I watched Httyd 2, so I had 0 clue the Hiccup's mom was still alive or what her mask looked like. But in the last bit of the last episode of race to the edge, guess what we see?

VALKA TAKING THE BEWILDERBEAST EGG.

In conclusion, these show's should be considered cannon to the HTTYD universe just as much as fucking Homecoming should or what ever. These are amazing and fill in so many continuity

[sir-walton-goggins]

The Golden Prison

2,885 words

Arthur Morgan x fem OC

Summary: Arthur and Kris are invited to the party at the Mayor's house, where she finds some interesting secrets about Bronte and his entourage...

Warnings: strong language

The smell of raw vegetables and the vapor from the boiling water prickled at Kris’s nose, her eyes burning and watering as she split another large onion in half. She wiped her eye on her sleeve and kept chopping diligently, turning it horizontally and dicing it into tiny cubes for Pearson’s stew.

She was so absorbed in her kitchen duties, she didn’t hear the heavy footsteps parting the grass behind her and jumped out of her skin as two large hands cupped her waist.

“A-Arthur!” she protested, turning around to see her husband’s usual self-satisfied grin.

He chuckled softly. “A bit jumpy today, are we?” he buried his face in the crook of his wife’s neck and planted a few soft kisses on her naked skin. It was so hot and humid in the swamps, Kris had taken to wearing just her night chemise and a pair of roughed-up jeans around camp, leaving most of her neck and shoulders exposed to the open air. Arthur was as drawn to them as a mosquito to its next, bloody meal, biting the soft flesh gently.

The outlaw awkwardly stepped away from her as he noticed Pearson poking out of the corner, a savvy smile under his long mustache. Arthur blushed and turned his head away, fidgeting with his gun belt.

“Ah, love” the cook sighed dreamily, taking Kris’s cutting board from under her hands and walking to the boiling pot. “You’re free to go, miss. Thanks for the help.” He winked at her, making her smile.

She took her embarrassed husband’s hand, guiding him under the porch of the large plantation house that shielded them from the cruel rays of the midday sun.

“Where were you yesterday? You came in pretty late,” Kris inquired, vaguely remembering Arthur slipping in bed with her as she was deep into her sleep, his reassuring embrace enveloping her as he spooned her, smelling of grass and wet dirt.

Arthur leaned on the outer wall. “I was helping this creepy feller in town build his strange machine” he recounted, mildly amused. Kris exhaled. Somehow this wasn’t the weirdest sentence out of her partner’s mouth. He was always meeting the weirdest people on his journeys.

“What kind of machine?” she wondered, curious to hear yet another one of Arthur’s wacky stories.

“I dunno, some kind of electric… thing” he shook his head. “It apparently requires a whole lot of moonshine” he told Kris about the coach he stole and drove back into Saint Denis to this peculiar inventor.

She didn’t even have the time to process the information, when Dutch marched out of the front door with the most annoying pep in his step. That was always a tell-tale sign there was a scheme afoot.

“Arthur!” he exclaimed theatrically, decisively ignoring Kris. Morgan sighed, already foreseeing the next tedious task he was gonna assign him. Hosea walked over to them, holding the newspaper.

“Folks, ready to mingle with high society?” the older man asked with a malicious smile. Kris and Arthur felt the blood drain from their veins.

“So we’re really doing this?” Arthur asked dejectedly.

“Of course we are!” Dutch ordered, adjusting the collar of his coat as to mimic a rich, wide-bellied oil magnate. “Bronte so kindly invited us, we can’t be impolite guests in his town!” the man highlighted the word “his” with the most contemptuous emphasis, dripping sarcasm from every pore.

“Right, this is a perfect opportunity for us” Hosea echoed, putting a hand on Kris’s shoulder. “You coming with us?

Kris glanced at Arthur to gauge his stance. Usually, he was never too happy to have her out on dangerous missions, but this one seemed tranquil enough. Her husband nodded slightly, a thinly veiled melancholy in his gaze revealing he’d rather do anything than to participate in the Mayor’s party.

“Yeah, why not” Kris locked in her final answer, prompting the two gang leaders to walk to the stagecoach.

“Let’s get you both into your gowns then, Cinderellas!” Dutch laughed, gesturing towards Lenny, who jumped up and on the driving seat of the vehicle. Arthur sighed loudly as he followed along.

Hours later they were bathed, perfumed and dressed to the nines, making their grand entrance at the Mayor’s garden ball. Kris waved at Lenny, who tipped his hat to her. She was already bothered by the many layers of her blue dress, rustling and crinkling loudly in her ears and largely limiting her movements to the point she almost face planted on the cobbled road getting out of the ride. She felt like a stuffed doll.

“Hey, I know you’re miserable” Arthur whispered in her ear, “but you look beautiful tonight”.

Kris smiled. She examined his suit, which was tailor-made just for the occasion and fit him perfectly. “You too. You clean up well, Morgan” she murmured in his direction. Arthur bowed his head, a coy smile on his lips. Kris walked towards him and straightened his tilted bow tie, stealing a quick kiss.

“Hey, lovebirds” Bill’s mocking tone put a huge damper on their mood, “get your asses over here”.

They scrambled to reach the others to the front entrance, where a man named Luca asked them to deposit their weapons. One after the other, the men handed in their guns, while Kris stared at the servant seraphically, envisioning the backup knife safely tucked in her garter, underneath her dress. When she had shown it to Arthur, he had almost passed out from sheer arousal. She felt safer with it.

Once inside the house, they all revised their plan for the night: no stealing nor scheming, just keeping their eyes peeled for new contacts and job opportunities.

The crowd spread out in front of them like a baroque bouquet of expensive, exotic flowers: the women’s elegant gowns sparkled under the fairy lights, bright and colorful and evenly distributed as the dames quietly chatted next to their male companions.

“Lots of chickens to pluck here,” Kris remarked, already overwhelmed. Her ears filled up with classical music as they walked around the musicians playing in the small gazebo, plucking at the cords of their instruments masterfully. Noticing her stress signals, Arthur offered Kris his arm, reminding her he was there for her. She took it and stroked his forearm, grateful, grounding herself in her husband’s warmth and by feeling the fabric of his suit under her fingertips. It was soft and velvety to the touch.

She hated crowds. And gatherings. But she loved her husband more. Besides, the crook was a fellow expatriate from the Mediterranean, so her knowledge of Italian might’ve come in handy.

A butler guided the group to meet Bronte upstairs. The married couple looked around the place in total awe: everywhere there were lush plants from all over the globe, with big, weird shaped flowers and stems, electrical lighting powering the wall sconces, interiors enriched with exquisite decor, arches, paintings and winding corridors all over. That mansion could fit a whole small town in it, with its absurdly tall ceilings and field-wide halls. A faint smell of greenery and perfume lingered in the seemingly empty stairway.

“There they are, the angry cowboys!” the Italian greeted the small group, gesturing at them enthusiastically. Kris cringed internally, her stomach tightening in front of his serpentine smile. He immediately turned to his henchmen and made a demeaning comment on them in Italian, giving Kris the feeling she did good to come along.

The men all shook Bronte’s hand. When it was her turn, Bronte bowed slightly and kissed the back of her hand, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

Kris did her best to appear flattered, but inside she was screaming her head off at the unpleasantness of that snake’s wet lips on her skin. Arthur stood behind her, clenching his fists and biting his lip so hard it almost started bleeding.

The men were each handed a fine cigar, and one of Angelo’s goons offered her one of his premiums cigarettes, which she promptly accepted, desperately needing something to take the edge off. She slipped the cig between her lips, waiting for the feller to light it up in complete silence. The last thing she wanted was to blow her cover by exposing her very Italian accent.

Kris stood in the back side of the balcony, smoking and paying close attention to how Bronte addressed her partners in crime. While the men were talking business, she kept tally of every micro expression, look, gesture and movement that could give her a hint about Bronte’s real intentions. She believed he gave up Jack way too easily and welcomed a gang of country outlaws with a bit more warmth than you would expect from a local boss. The whole affair seemed suspicious.

Kris listened to him insulting the rest of the guests, loudly wishing they would die as he spoke freely and confident that nobody else would understand him, except for his lackeys, who roared in laughter at his every provocation. But when he turned his thinly veiled insults to Dutch, Arthur, Hosea and Bill, every muscle in Kris’s body tensed up, the effort to resist clapping back unbearable. Who the fuck did he think he was?! A goddamned reptile in an Italian suit, that’s what he was.

“So, what was your plan here?” Bronte asked them, a dark cloud falling over his features. Every trace of irony had been wiped from his face. The sudden shift in tone made even the silver-tongued Van Der Linde hesitate.

‘He’s showing his true colors’ Kris noted, witnessing her enemy’s mask slip off momentarily as a cold chill climbed up her spine, making her tremble. Angelo Bronte was a scary man.

Dutch confessed they needed more money. Bronte magnanimously pointed them towards the trolley station, which he said stored ‘tons of money, just what you need’. Kris didn’t like the way a couple of his lapdogs snickered between themselves.

Completely absorbed in their conversation, Kris didn’t notice her cigarette burning out. She winced in pain as it stung her fingers, emitting a hissing sound which made a couple of heads turn towards her. She threw the cigarette butt to the side and acted innocently. Arthur approached her, gently guiding her inside with a hand on the small of her back as the rest of the gang followed. Mocking comments in Italian erupted from the balcony.

“Okay people, time for the mingling” Dutch whispered, giving directions and specific tasks to each and everyone of them, except for Kris. She scoffed as he ignored her for the second time that day, and begrudgingly proposed to guard the second floor and spy on Bronte and his men.

“Sure, it’ll be good to keep an eye on them” he remarked, uninterested, as Arthur brushed his lips on her cheek, telling her to be careful.

“Always” Kris reassured her beau, making her way upstairs as silently as she could with those pesky heels on, while the men scattered and blended into the crowd, each with his own fake name (Albert Danielson? Really, Bill?) and task (Arthur went to chat with Henri Lemieux).

By some divine luck, the second floor hall was still unguarded. Kris shuffled next to the glass door, her back to the wall, peeking outside carefully. Loud screaming and coarse laughter dampened by the reinforced glass: they were still out there.

“Ma li avete visti, quei quattro buffoni!1” a tall, dark skinned man readjusted the many rings on his fingers, all of them made of gold and gemstones. “Quegli zotici non riconoscerebbero le buone maniere se li colpissero in faccia2” followed another one, a bald man as pale as sheet of paper.

‘I’m lucky Italians are so damn loud, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hear anything through this glass’ Kris remarked, grateful that her evening was going according to plan.

“Bella trovata boss, quella di mandarli alla stazione del tram!3” one of Bronte’s personal guards sneered, patting him on the back. Kris’s heart skipped a beat and she froze against the wall.

Bronte shook his head, waving the comment off. “Ah, non ci vuole nulla con questi idioti. Ho preso in giro uomini ben più pericolosi…4 ” he snobbishly sipped his glass of red wine, unperturbed. He gestured for one of his lackeys to come closer and murmured something Kris couldn’t quite catch. She just about managed to make out “police” and “station”, but that was enough.

She needed to go downstairs. Now. Unfortunately, two sets of footsteps approached the glass door very fast and the staircase was way too far to make it.

‘Oh god, what do I do?’

The men entered the hall before she could finish the thought, footsteps booming in Kris’s ears to match her speeding heartbeat, a torturous cacophony of beating drums. She prayed to every god on earth that the curtain was covering her gown, or that they wouldn’t glance at it.

She peeked through the heavy, red fabric and when she saw the back of Bronte and his guard’s heads disappearing down the staircase, Kris exhaled in relief.

‘That was too damn close’ she reprimanded herself, trying to calm down. But it wasn’t over.

“Quella ragazza con loro… che ne pensate?5”

“Sembrava familiare, aveva tratti mediterranei...6”

Every muscle chained her into place and panic started seeping back into her soul.

Sounds of glasses clinking. Matches striking, cigars sizzling.

“Come mi piacerebbe farmela…7” said one of them who hadn’t spoken before, voice so putridly filled with lust it made Kris recoil in disgust. The remark was followed by a heap of obscene laughter.

“No davvero, secondo voi è italiana?8” asked baldy. A general buzz took ahold of the group.

“Diciamo a Bronte di rapirla? Potrebbe farci comodo una donna nella famiglia.9”

Horrified, Kris stumbled towards the stairs, tripping over her dress, losing her balance on the heels and almost falling over. God, why couldn’t she had worn a suit?

By some devilish misfortune, a guard was happening to come upstairs just as Kris was coming down, and he caught her right at the top of the stairs.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” the guard inquired, suspicious.

“I-I…” she stuttered, desperately thinking of a plan. She then loosened her legs and brought a hand to her forehead. “I’m not feeling well…” she mustered the weakest, girliest pitch of voice she could, and fell straight into the confused guard’s arms, pretending to faint.

The man called the servants, shouting for them to bring smelling salts and water as Kris bounced limply in his arms. She really hoped the gown hadn’t lifted to reveal her stashed knife, but her heart was completely stable, her pulse weak as a testament to what a good actress she was.

They laid her down on a sofa, putting a few cushions under her legs and the salts underneath her nose. She slowly opened her eyes, feigning disorientation.

“Oh, where am I?” she whined, touching her forehead.

“How are you feeling, ma’am?” the young girl servant asked her, scared beyond her mind and almost shaking. She must’ve been new there.

Kris slowly rose up, sitting on the fancy velvet couch, blinking lazily. “A bit better I think, thank you.”

“Marco went to fetch you some water, please stay seated, ma’am” she replied weakly, taking the pillows and scrambling back to the chambers.

As she waited for this Marco, the words she last heard the Bronte boys say made her head spin so violently, she thought she might faint for real this time. She had to warn Dutch and Arthur she could be in danger, and the gang was too. They had to act fast and, luckily, because of her, they now had the advantage.

“Here you go, ma’am” the guard handed her a glass of water. She thanked him warmly, and then threw the liquid behind the couch when he wasn’t looking. She wasn’t as stupid as to risk being drugged after what she had heard. Assuring Marco she was fine now, she marched outside searching for her companions.

She found them at the buffet table, quietly chatting about what they found. Arthur lit up when he saw her. Kris could see the worry in his eyes gradually dissipate as she came closer.

“Kris! We was about to start looking for you…” he hugged his wife tight, a weight lifted off his chest.

“You look so pale” he noticed, cupping her cheek and examining her from head to toe.

“I’m fine, Arthur” Kris brushed him off, still rattled by the last events. She turned towards Dutch:

“We need to talk.”

Dutch caught wind of the gravity in the young woman’s voice and nodded severely.

“We’re leaving, we’ll talk on the ride home.”

Notes (translation)

1 Get a load of those four buffoons!

2 Those oafs wouldn’t know good manners if they slapped them in the face.

3 Great idea boss, to send them over to the trolley station!

4 Ah, it’s too easy with these fools. I tricked much more dangerous men…

5 That girl with them… what do you think?

6 She looked familiar, she had Mediterranean traits…

7 How I would love to fuck her…

8 No really, do you think she’s Italian?

9 Should we ask Bronte to kidnap her? It could be useful to have a woman in our family.