#which means that conversations are kept kind of vague

[daydreamerdrew]

The Avengers (1963) #10

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Donkeys & Dragons [PART 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: It turns out that befriending a dragon is not as terrible or difficult as you would have thought. But people, unsurprisingly, will always still be awful.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [EPILOGUE]

The first week of your internment flew by shockingly fast.

Maybe because you were always at War—a perpetual cycle of making some demand or other (that usually centered around a desire for the barest levels of personal space or agency) only to be met persistently with the ancient, all-powerful, dragon equivolent of >:(

The clothes and toilet situation were already a lost cause. You knew this.

But there were so many other little things. And big things too, sure. But you can never fully realize how much you’re truly under someone’s thumb until you want to head off to do something utterly insignificant and cannot.

For example, your first morning in captivity you’d tried to boil a pot of water. It was nothing fancy, just a small kettle kit you kept in your travel bags for making warm drinks and reheating rations into something vaguely edible. You’d collected some bits of wood from the heaps of debris lying all over the place and gone about lighting a fire. You’d only just barely managed to get the little sticks smoking when a horrific screech sounded from overhead.

And then, WHUMP!

The spiked end of a black tail came crashing down, obliterating your little fire and sending bits of wood flying in all directions.

“What the fuck, man!”

Tsunotarou curled around you to hiss at the flattened sparks like some unholy snake.

“It’s just for my tea! My tea!” you howled. “I wasn’t going to burn your stupid house down!”

He’s shifted into his human form again not long after, and he looked down his nose at you like a fussy parent—arms crossed petulantly across his pale chest.

“Fire is dangerous for humans,” he snuffed, absolutely indignant. “If you find yourself requiring flames for anything at all, call for me and I will lend you some of mine.”

“I would have been fine,” you beseeched, looking at the shattered remains of your little campfire with a grumpy pout.

“Lilia says humans often overestimate their own constitutions,” Tsunotarou grouched, expression dour and stony. You were about to ask just who or what on Earth this ‘Lilia’ was supposed to be, when the dragon dipped his head in close to yours and nuzzled along your throat. You could feel the pinpricks of his fangs against the delicate skin over your pulse. “Which is why so many of your kind are massacred for their own foolishness. Or fall victim to plague and famine. Or wind up being burned alive. I would prefer that you not succumb to such a fate.”

You gulped, and that had been the end of that conversation.

Another time you’d tried to scale the banister to reach the bathroom on your own. It had been going pretty well, all things considered. There were plenty of nice footholds and it all had sort of settled at a slope, meaning you weren’t really climbing a wall so much as very slowly crawling up an incline like a determined slug.

You’d nearly made it to the top when you were scooped up by the back of your collar and promptly deposited at the other end of the room.

Of all the languages you half-spoke, Dragon was not one of them. But the snarling and snapping in your face certainly seemed like the rather universal ‘what do you think you’re doing?!’

“I was just trying to go the bathroom!” you argued. “No fires or anything!”

Tsunotarou’s large maw ducked down to growl into your much smaller one. He let out a series of exasperated clicks and chatter, the sharper or which were punctuated by sprays of green sparks from behind his teeth. His nostrils flared and the blast of dry heat that followed sent your head spinning and your hair gusting out behind you.

“I wasn’t going to fall,” you finally said, because you had a feeling that’s what you were being lectured about at the moment.

The rumbling growl that followed sounded like it had traveled all the way from the dark trenches of his bowels, or maybe even the very marrow of his bones. You could feel the ground vibrating under your feet.

“Fine,” you conceded. You weren’t exactly worried he was going to eat you anymore, but there were certainly… other things. Many dumb ways to die. “I won’t do it again.”

He harumphed at you, his head bobbing in what looked a bit like a nod. And then he turned and raked a gigantic claw across your little makeshift ladder of debris, flattening it into nothing with one, fell, swoop. You’d groaned and let yourself collapse listlessly back into the ensuing cloud dust.

There was also the time you’d nearly had a conniption because you were sick and tired of camping out on a frigid, stone, floor every night when you were trapped inside a literal castle.

“There are dozens—hundreds—of rooms in here,” you’d argued. “There’s got to be a bed in at least one of them.”

Tsunotarou had simply rolled over onto his side and arched a wing into the air, as if offering you the warm hollow beneath.

“You’re not comfortable,” you’d hissed, and he’d sulked ridiculously for the rest of the afternoon until you’d managed to finally come to a workable solution.

As in, dragging every goddamn mattress you could find into the cavernous ballroom that he’d long since seemed to claim as his Favorite Spot. You’d turned it into a game—see who could find the most comfy things and make the biggest squish pile. Being nearly a dozen times your size and having twice as many functional limbs that were capable of grabbing things, naturally Tsunotarou had come out as the winner. But now you had nearly endless pillows and blankets to snuggle into at night, so who’d really come out on top?

“I’ve never bothered to build a nest before,” he’d mumbled to himself, post victory. He patted gently at one of the thick duvets he’d swiped, expression almost whimsical. “It’s quite nice.”

“See,” you’d grinned, bouncing up and down on one of the springier mattresses. “I told you this was better.”

And so chuffed were you that you weren’t heading to sleep with a rock as your pillow for the first time all week, that you didn’t even complain when late into the evening he sneakily dragged you out of your plush pile and into his—tail wrapped snuggly around your waist and tucking you tightly against his ribs. I mean, his nest was much nicer than yours. It was only practical.

So, as anyone could see, your week had been far from easy.

But after those first days, once you had finally gotten a hand on all his nonsensical rules and you’d in turn concocted equally as many ways to try and circumvent them just enough to make yourself comfortable, things settled into a kind of domestic tranquility.  

And that was when time started to drag.

You’d read the handful of books in your pack a dozen times over. You’d counted the cracks in the ceiling (one-hundred-and-thirty-two of them). You’d counted the stones on the floor (six-hundred-and-five). You’d sorted those stones into piles by shape, size, color. You lolled back against your cozy pile of blankets and thunked your head miserably against your pillow. Once. Twice. Three times. Four—

“What do you normally do all day?” you complained.

Tsunotarou lazily blinked awake. He lifted his giant, serpentine, head and glanced pointedly around the cavernous room before settling back into his mountain of blankets with a contented huff.

“You just sleep?” you frowned, baffled. “All the time?”

He rumbled unintelligibly at you for a moment before digging his claws into his nest with a long, lithe, stretch. And then those scales began to melt away, and soon enough he was pale, and bare, and rolling his way into your lap with a contented little grumble.

“What would you have me do instead?” he asked, voice thick with the syrupy warmth of sleep. He stretched again, like a big cat, and settled his head more firmly against your thighs. “Raid cities? Burn villages?”

“…Ideally no,” you grumbled, hands falling habitually to start running your fingers through the silky soft hair pooling along your abdomen. “I mean, there have got to be other things dragons do. You live for thousands of years.”

He hummed, neon eyes slipping closed. He pressed his forehead demandingly up into your palm and you rolled your eyes before obligingly sliding your digits lower to scratch at his scalp and around the base of his horns. That seemed to be his favorite.  

“I am not wanted much of anywhere, I’m afraid,” he said finally with a defeated little sigh. It didn’t sound particularly self-deprecating, just… accepting. It made something sad and small curl in your gut. “So what else is there for me to do? Other than while away the hours.”

“There’s got to be something,” you pressed, that eking irritation born from boredom melting into something that was a bit too close to genuine concern for your liking. “Don’t dragons keep hoards? Treasures? That’s a thing, right?”

“Oh.” He blinked himself back into focus, as if only remembering in just that moment. “That is true. Would you like to see mine, then?”

“Aren’t hoards, like, private?” you asked, hesitant. Trying not to bring up the glaring elephant in the room that was ‘Hey. Yeah. So my friends and I totally broke in here in the first place to steal from said hoard. Not that we knew there was a dragon here. But like. I did, in fact, come here as an adventurer and a thief.’

“Naturally,” Tsunotarou hummed. You could feel it vibrate all the way up your hip. His lips quirked into a little, crooked, smile. “I’ll take you there now.”

The Treasure Room was as elaborate and expensive looking as the name implied, and it seemed to be the one area of the castle that had been spared the grey desolation that had seeped through the rest of it. It was enormous—certainly larger than even the grand, cavernous, room in which you’d recently been residing. And it was lined wall to ceiling with every variant of wealth you could imagine—precious metals, ancients tomes, paintings from every great master through history, magical weapons, the finest of spell scrolls. You could probably buy the world at least twice over with its contents.

But the thing that caught your eye amidst the endless sea of gold was not a pretty gemstone or a treasure of old, but a little, black and purple, doll—perched atop a looming pedestal of silks and finery like a crown jewel. It was small and plain with curling black horns made of felt. A chubby little dragon miniature that was as ugly as it was round.

Tsunotarou noticed your inquisitive gaze and walked over to pluck the little, cotton, creature from its throne. He held it delicately in his clawed fingers.

“Ah, yes. This is Drago. Lilia gifted him to me after one of his jaunts through the human world.” He turned the doll over in his palms, brow tugging down a bit as he did. “I hope he hasn’t been too terribly lonely. It has been a while since I’ve come down here to visit.”

The great and powerful dragon of the Castle Within The Lava Lake keeping a toy keepsake amongst his most prized possessions was so strikingly adorable that you couldn’t help but feel your heart melt at the sight.

You brightened and turned on your heel to start making your way back to the ballroom and what remained of your adventuring gear. Tsunotarou made a noise under his breath that was too dignified to be a splutter, but what you assumed was more or less his refined equivolent. And then he was tagging at your heels with a perplexed look on his face.

“Where are you going?”

“To get something!” you chirped, mentally running through the contents of your bag and little sewing kits. Yes, there should be more than plenty to—

“To get what?” Tsunotarou pouted, and you realized belatedly that running off in the middle of him showing off his life’s accumulation of precious artifacts and accomplishments was perhaps a bit rude.

“It’s a surprise,” you said. “Just give me like half an hour to put it together.”

In the end, it really only took you around fifteen minutes of fussing. Drago was hardly a complex little thing, and you’d originally learned to stitch in a panic. Trying to mend holes in pants and leather was a lot harder to accomplish when you were being actively chased by bandits, or a raging Ace. In comparison, sitting merrily on the floor of a collapsed ballroom and shoving stuffing into a little ball of cloth was hardly a challenge.

You held out your creation—equally as ragtag and ridiculous looking as its inspiration.

“There,” you beamed, and pressed it into Tsunotarou’s hands. “Now he has a friend.”

A teeny, flesh-colored, blob. With strips of soft fabric for a cloak and a hastily stitched smile. A miniature bard, perfectly (?) encapsulated in his palm.

The dragon stared down at your offering with wide, green, eyes. He looked positively startled—so caught off guard that he didn’t know what to do with himself, let alone the bewildered expression flitting across his otherwise regal face.

“You said he might be lonely,” you hummed, rocking self-consciously back and forth on your heels.

“Oh,” Tsunotarou mumbled, black-tipped claws flexing around his new gift. He observed it carefully, like an aging academic might study some ancient, arcane, relic. There was still that strange look about him—like he couldn’t quite believe the little trinket in his hand was real. “I did, didn’t I...?”

When he remained silent after that, still staring down at your homemade abomination in awe? Horror? you couldn’t tell, you began fidgeting in earnest.

“It is kind of awful looking,” you rattled off, picking nervously at the hem of your cloak. “You can get rid of it if you want—”

“No,” he barked, and then paused, clearly surprised at the ferocity of what had come out of his mouth. That at least seemed to startle him out of whatever fog had settled over his brain, and he clutched the teeny toy firmly to his chest. He cleared his throat and started again, noticeably gentling himself. “No. I think I’d like to keep this.”

You smiled. “Good! I’m glad you like it! No one deserves to feel lonely—even little, toy, dragons.”

Tsunotarou’s lips curled into an awkwardly lopsided smile—like the muscles there weren’t used to tugging so wide. It lit the entirety of his expression with something so heart wrenchingly warm that you couldn’t help but feel like none of that had really been about the little doll at all.

.

.

You really should have known better.

If someone as illiterate and ill connected as your wandering gang of idiots could stumble upon the location of a ‘secret castle overburdened with ancient treasures,’ surely anyone even marginally more competent would be able to do the same.

You’d been at the tail end of your supply of rations. And while you hadn’t entirely meant to imply that you might just wind-up starving to death, the comment had been more than enough to send your dragon into a tizzy.

“Well, what do you normally eat?” you asked, and Tsunotarou frowned as he considered.

“My guards bring me sustenance when I require it. Ice elementals, goblins, stone giants,” he listed, eyes tracking your expression in hopes that maybe any of that sounded appetizing. Which it certainly did not. His nose scrunched up in thought. “Perhaps I should seek counsel with Lilia. He would know what to do.”

You cleared your throat. “I mean, I know what humans can eat. I could just tell you.”

His face brightened. “Meat, yes?”

You nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Like that of a manticore?” he continued, excited at the prospect. “Those are particularly delicious. And there are quite a few nesting in the crags not far from here.”

His merry smile slowly slipped off his face at whatever pinched look had twisted up yours.

“Vegetation?” he tried. “There are ample bushes at the foot of the volcano. Most do have thorns, but I suppose you could pick around them.”

“…Maybe you should talk to Lilia,” you conceded.

So Tsunotarou had shifted into his scales with a promise to return post-haste and many fussy reminders that you should move as little as possible to avoid wasting any more precious nutrients. The great downbeats of his wings seemed to roll through the entire castle like a shudder, and then you were alone for the first time in nearly a fortnight.  

You lazed around in the echoing quiet, drumming bits of random tempos against your stomach and occasionally humming snatches of obnoxiously raunchy tavern tunes that you’d never really managed to bleach from your brain. How had Tsunotarou done this for decades? It’d barely been ten minutes and you were already bored out of your mind.

There was a flash of shadow near the grand entrance, and you sat up enthusiastically—ready to greet your returning host. But it wasn’t a dragon at the door.

“Who the hell are y—” the words died in your throat, and you spat a muted curse. The Silence Spell settled over your shoulders like a grungy cloak. You could feel its sticky film along the back of your tongue like a fine layer of moss.

“Who the fuck is that?” one of them hissed, and you fought the petulant ‘that’s just what I’d been about to ask you, jack ass!’ that wouldn’t have made it past your lips anyways.

There were six in total—a proper party from the looks of their ensembles. At least two people in full plate armor, a waify looking elf with a thick spell book in his hands, and three others in various getups that weren’t quite cookie cutter enough to tell you anything helpful. You rambled at them irritably, silently, gesturing rather impolitely all the while. You mimed teeth, and claws, and wings, and stomped around like a beast in a play.

‘There is a dragon here,’ you tried to say. Because maybe they were just unlucky adventurers like you and Tweedle Dee and Dum had been—not having any real idea what lay beyond these castle walls. You mimed a giant mouth, like a crocodile. ‘And he will eat you.’

“What the fuck?” Armored Dude gaped.

You pointed irritably at Mister Elf Wizard, who was still very obviously concentrating on keeping you encircled in a mesh of absolute silence.

The itchy sensation clogging your throat eased and you let out a breath, which echoed loudly in your ears. Elf-Guy looked at you with something that was perhaps a shade or two off of sympathy.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

“You need to leave,” you replied instead, firm. “There’s a dragon that lives in this castle.”

“Of course there’s a dragon,” Armored Lady scoffed. “Why do you think we’re here?”

You looked at their heavy, expensive, armor. At the giant, shining, magical, weapons hanging across their backs. At the thin wizard who proceeded catch you in a Hold Person spell that was so fast and strong you couldn’t have dispelled it if you tried. And of course you tried. What else could you do? These people weren’t like you and your loveable idiots who managed to occasionally stumble their way into an adventure. These guys were the real deal. Warriors. Heroes. Dragon Slayers.

“God-fucking-damn it.”

But of course you’d been caught in Silence once again, so you were left cursing nothing.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST] CLOSED

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[moongothic]

You know I was wondering if Crocodile ever did have any kind of involvement with the Revolutionary Army in secret (lest the Government finds out and revokes his Shichibukai status), what kind of involvement would that even have been

And now, with both the Vegapunk/Ohara flashback and Kuma's flashback, it's being made very clear to us that the Revolutionary Army was broke as hell 22 years ago. Like the fact that this has been brought up twice now in a relatively short span of time is interesting to me, that's usually a sign it's not an unimportant plotpoint

But you know who would have had money to help fund the Army

A funny little warlord who would eventually go and build a fucking casino to run for funsies. A warlord who had to give the Government some of his Pirating Income to keep his warlord-status

Like Crocodile hated the Government anyways so why not help fund the Revolutionary Army in secret, out of spite if for no other reason

Vaguely related, but I keep on remembering this scene (post-Enies Lobby), which at first glance just seems like a basic Lore Dump

But then there's the

"Yet..."

(Or "however", she says "no ni" in Japanese and you could translate that in many ways, I would probably have gone with "however" but that wouldn't have fit into the speechbubble)

Mind you, the conversation just kind of ends there, next we see Garp realize he probably shouldn't have mentioned Dragon infront of such a massive audience, so wherever that "yet" was going to lead to we will never find out, because Oda conveniently changed the subject before we got to it

And you know. Like yes, Robin could be just expressing her shock over finding out that the leader of the Revolutionary Army had a child with someone

But also, Robin was a part of an organization that was trying to overthrow one of the founding countries of the World Government in an explicit attempt to go against said Government (compared to like, Blackbeard, who currently wants to make Fullalead into a "pirate country" that's a part OF the World Government)

Like you don't have to be a genius to look at Crocodile's ultimate goals and compare that to what Dragon is doing and find a few similarities here and there maybe

(Also like, Crocodile's equivalent in Romancing SaGa 2 is meant to be Wagnas, the queer-coded leader of the Seven Heroes (whom the OG Shichibukai are based on) who "hoped to help the world". You know, an interesting detail and all.)

Not to mention, during the time Robin spent with Baroque Works, if Crocodile was ever in contact with the Revolutionary Army at all, considdering she has the ability to easily spy on people and that she didn't trust Crocodile one bit, it wouldn't be unsurprising if she ever spied on Crocodile and/or just overheard a phone call or knew about Crocodile having secret spending habits or something

(Mind you, I'm not saying "she knew" Crocodile was involved with the Revolutionaries, more that she might've been Suspecting Things, that "yet" being about her connecting the dots while unsure if her conclusion was right or not)

Of course Crocodile's plans can't have been Dragon Approved by any means, especially considdering the Army had been looking for Robin for over 10 years (pre-timeskip)

Four years of which were with Crocodile. Like if he was FULLY allied with the Army and KNEW they were looking for Robin, surely he would've called Dragon and been like "hey I found the kid from Ohara, wanna come hang out" or something. But no, he had bigger plans and kept Robin a secret from the Revolutionaries and the Government alike

Also like, I have seen people question why the Revolutionaries weren't involved with Alabasta's rebellion at all, and "Oda hadn't come up with the Revolutionaries yet at the time of writing" (/"OP was meant to end at Alabasta at one point so there would've been no reason to introduce the subplot at that point") aside Between Baroque Works being a secret organization working undercover (thus the Army might not have been aware of the civil war being manufactured), the framing of the King making him look bad and very much the type of monarch that deserved to be overthrown in the Army's eyes, and Crocodile maybe lying through his teeth about what was happening in the country... Yeah, the Army's lack of involvement with Alabasta suddenly makes sense

EDIT Minor addition: Just realized that because Crocodile was technically working for the Government, if the Revs ever did send forces to participate in Alabasta's civil army and taking down the throne, the Government could've easily ordered Crocodile to step in to stop the rebellion and take down the Revolutionaries, right? Because he was supposed to be on the Government's side, right? And surely the Army wouldn't have wanted to fight against Crocodile if they were secretly allied (Croc's secret betrayal aside), and if Crocodile refused to fight the Revs the Government could've seen that as a reason to revoke his Shichibukai rights (which wouldn't be great if they wanted to keep Crocodile in a position where he could fund the Army?). So it could've also been a case of it being for the best for everyone's sake to let this one play out "naturally"

But my point is

I'm just deeply intriqued by these little details and wonder if I'm Actually Masterfully Connecting The Dots Like a True Genius or just seeing a pattern where there's none. Like this is far from confirming the theory, I'm just saying, the pieces do kinda fit together do they not

[sleepiexx]

Love is a Battlefield (and I’m Nothing if Not a Soldier) Pt.2

Valeria Garza x fem!Reader

Link to Pt.1

Note: First smut I’ve ever written let’s goooo

Summary: Valeria breaks out of prison and immediately goes home to her gf to fuck

Warnings: reader is afab, smut, and everything that goes along with that

Word count: 1940

(Y/N) had been in a deep sleep for hours. It was the first time since Valeria was arrested that she had been off deployment and it seemed the exhaustion she’d been delaying had finally caught up with her. The second her head hit the pillow it was lights out, barely even changed into her pajamas before her eyes were closed and her heart rate slowed.

She tried not to worry about Valeria, like she’d promised, but it was hard. Especially when it was near impossible to keep tabs on the case, what with Alejandro heading it and (Y/N) not wanting to get outed as the cartel leader’s girlfriend, although, it was more so Valeria not wanting her to get caught in the crossfire but (Y/N) would follow her lead regardless.

The house was silent apart from the buzzing of electricity coming from the home appliances and the whir of the overhead fan, both calming enough to continually sooth (Y/N) in her sleep. She dreamed a sweet dream of Valeria, of holding her, kissing her, talking to her. Nothing made her happier than the smooth sound of Valeria’s voice.

These last few weeks, she was happiest when she was asleep. It’s not like she could see Valeria any other way which killed her, but she kept going regardless. Going home was bittersweet. She was glad that she didn’t have to work for some time, less people to have to pretend to be perfectly fine around. Yet being home without Valeria was lonely.

It wasn’t like they ever lived together. (Y/N) lived in the U.S. and Valeria had many houses around the world that she would run cartel operations out of. (Y/N) hadn’t known, but all this time Valeria had been coordinating with (Y/N)’s schedule to fly out to (Y/N) every time she was set to go home. It would have been completely impractical had Valeria not been insanely rich with an assortment of military aircrafts at her disposal, and if (Y/N) ever knew she’d tell her as much.

But things were different now. Valeria was in prison, she couldn’t just call her up and have her come over at the drop of a hat. It was different, and (Y/N) didn’t like it.

Even at the base, she’d been miserable. It was noticeable, especially to her teammates who had known her as the usually cheery (Y/N) who rarely moped.

Ghost even followed up on their earlier conversation. He’d asked her a hesitant, “How are things with your girl? You patch it up yet?”

And she’d responded vague, but truthful. “Kind of, I mean, y’know she and I are good now but it’s hard being separated.”

He nodded and left it at that, not wanting to pry too much; yet still his eyes followed her every time her head dropped a little too low or her lips pressed into a frown.

She’d noticed, and while she appreciated it, she didn’t want him to worry too much so she tried to keep her head up. Being home felt almost like a weight lifted off her shoulders, no more reason to pretend to be okay.

As she slept away her sorrows, Valeria looked around in the dark outside for the spare key. She found it taped to the underside of the bench on the porch, hurrying to use it on the door. It’d been too long since she’d seen her lover and she wouldn’t waste another second.

She wondered if (Y/N) was awake. The house was quiet, quieter than she’d ever remembered it being. She worried about the state that (Y/N) would be in when she came back, how she coped with their separation. Memories of the last time they saw each other flashed in her brain, (Y/N) crying at her feet, utterly distraught.

She walked quietly into (Y/N)‘s room, finding her curled up in bed, asleep. She frowned at the bags under (Y/N)’s eyes, reaching out to caress her soft face. (Y/N) unconsciously cuddled up next to her fingertips, craving her warm touch.

“I’m here, amor.” She whispered.

(Y/N) stirred in her sleep, eyes opening to squint at Valeria.

“Val?” She asked in disbelief.

“Mhm.”

(Y/N) shot up, meeting Valeria in an embrace. The two held onto each other for what felt like hours, with no plans on letting go. Their lips pressed together in an open-mouthed kiss that felt like it lasted an eternity. Even when they parted, they stayed connected at the forehead.

“I missed you so much, my love.” Valeria muttered, pressing her palm to (Y/N)’s cheek and pushing some of her hair behind her ear.

“Oh yeah? You didn’t get yourself a girlfriend in prison to replace me with?” (Y/N) joked with a dopey smile.

Valeria pushed her down on her back, pinning her hands on either side of her head. She smashed their lips together once again and bit down on (Y/N)’s lower lip, causing a surprised yelp to leave her mouth as they parted once more.

“Don’t you even suggest that. You are the only woman I could ever love.” She growled, placing kisses leading from (Y/N)‘s lips to her jaw, and then to her ear. “Irreplaceable.”

(Y/N) soaked up every second of praise, basking in the loving kisses placed to almost every inch of bare skin on her upper half, body feeling jittery at the long awaited touch of her lover.

As much as (Y/N) hated to do so, she pushed Valeria up to make eye contact with her. Rubbing up and down her biceps. She looked at her with care in her eyes. “I have so many questions, how did you get out? Are you out legally, or am I about to get a call? Are you hungry? I can’t imagine that prison food is any good, I can go make you-“

Valeria cut her off with a kiss. It was firm and yearning, making (Y/N) almost completely forget her offer.

“You talk too much, cariño,” Valeria murmured into her lips, “and you don’t have to make me anything to eat, I already have something in mind.”

(Y/N) was about to ask what but the words fizzled out in her mouth as Valeria tugged her shirt over her head, leaving her upper half bare.

Valeria continued where she left off with kissing every accessible inch of skin, now having even more to work with. She made sure to leave marks along the way, their previous separation leading her to feel more possessive than usual.

Slowly but surely, Valeria’s lips found their way to (Y/N)’s nipples. She licked one and then blew on it, causing whimpers to spill out of (Y/N)’s throat. She smirked, taking the nipple into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it. She made sure the other wasn’t left out as she slowly teased it with her fingertips, drawing circles on it before grabbing and twisting it, raising the volume of (Y/N)’s moans.

Valeria pulled away, having her other hand take over where her mouth had left off. “I missed hearing you moan for me.” She whispered, “It’s my favorite sound.”

She kissed her way back down, this time to the other nipple. She sucked on it while caressing it gently with her tongue, all before nipping at it with her teeth so she could watch her lover squirm.

“Fuck, baby, you keep that up and I’m gonna cum in my shorts.” (Y/N) moaned, back arching ever so slightly into Valeria’s touch.

Valeria grinned, “You think so?”

“Mhm.”

Valeria once again replaced one of her hands with her mouth. With her hand now free, she used it to creep up (Y/N)’s inner thigh, making her muscles tighten in anticipation.

“Fuck, please.” (Y/N) begged, eyes meeting Valeria’s which had been adamantly watching her every expression.

Valeria’s eyes shone with false confusion, “Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

On a normal day, Valeria would have teased her more, kept her hand planted firmly on the inner thigh as she played dumb. ‘But I am touching you,’ she’d mutter, refusing to pull down her pants until she begged for it. Today, though, Valeria wasn’t in the teasing mood. She wanted (Y/N), and she wanted her now.

Lips never leaving her lover’s swollen nipple, Valeria hooked her fingers on either side of (Y/N)’s thin sleep shorts, pulling them down, leaving (Y/N) in only her underwear. She pressed one of her knuckles against (Y/N)’s clothed clit, running it back and forth, pulling moan after moan from her kiss-bitten lips.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing for (Y/N), Valeria slipped her hand into (Y/N)’s underwear. She slid her middle and ring finger up the seam of her cunt, lubing them with slick before reaching the clit. Valeria knew exactly how to play (Y/N)’s body like a fine tuned instrument, messing with the sensitive bud until (Y/N) was reduced to nothing but a vessel to receive pleasure.

Once she got her fill of merely touching her lover’s pussy, she pulled down (Y/N)’s underwear and pressed her tongue directly on her clit.

(Y/N) took in a sharp inhale, not expecting to feel Valeria’s tongue lapping at her clit so soon. Her hands gripped the sheets desperately attempting to ground herself, mostly ineffective as Valeria worked diligently to send her out of this world with pleasure.

Valeria’s name spilled out of her mouth like a prayer, whimpers of how good she made her feel, how much she loved the girl between her thighs.

“I love you so much, Valeria. Fuck, I- I’m so glad you’re home, I m- issed you so so so much.”

Valeria circled her opening with the middle and ring finger she’d previously wet. Once she felt there was a sufficient amount of slick gathered, she pushed her fingers into her lover’s vagina. (Y/N) clenched at the feeling, letting out more filthy remarks.

“M-missed that mouth of- of yours the most- oh god.” She whined.

Her legs began to shake as Valeria began to curl the fingers inside of her, hitting her g spot at the perfect angle.

“Oh god- oh fuck.. Valeria.”

Valeria didn’t falter for a second, not with (Y/N)’s distracting moans, nor the vigorous shaking of her legs, she knew that both were signs of her girlfriends on coming orgasm and she had no plan on stopping.

“Please- please, Val I’m gonna cum, can I please cum?” (Y/N) begged, desperation written all over her face.

Valeria parted from (Y/N)’s clit for a split second to tell her, “Let it out, my love, let it all out,” before swiftly kissing her thigh and returning to her dripping cunt.

With Valeria’s permission, (Y/N) finally let go. A ringing sounded in her ear as waves of pleasure washed over her, alternating between going limp and twitching vigorously.

As she calmed down, taking deep breaths, ringing sound fading away, Valeria began to kiss her way back up to (Y/N)’s lips.

“You did so good for me, (Y/N).” She praised, gently running her hands up and down the sides of (Y/N)’s naked body.

(Y/N) tried to sit up but Valeria pushed her right back down. “Please, wanna taste you.” She whined.

“Oh you sweet dumb thing,” Valeria coo’d, “You didn’t think I was done with you, did you?”

[oleanderscorner]

Fallen Sapphire Tears (Yandere!Sunday x Reader x Yandere!Aventurine)

My last little post got me thinking…who else would share?

Then I decided I can force people to share for the fun of it! I figured it’d be interesting to see the striking balance between Sunday and Aventurine—both so vastly different characters, and figured out they’d fit one soul quite nicely—so, enjoy!

Spoilers for the new 2.2 quest up ahead and general yandere content trigger warnings! Oh and pregnancy allusions.

Aventurine and Sunday would both enjoy a justice-oriented darling—not just any justice either, but lawful and distinct justice, the kind casts away nuance in favor of the black and white stance and hope.

Aventurine obviously notices you first in this sweet dream and wishes to indulge you in a wager—it only gets him more antsy when you decline on principle, a wager so large means either he’s an addict, or can surely win, right? So what point would there be in playing…

He stands still in that answer—certainly not the first time he’s heard a no or been called an addict but it’s the first he’s been called an addict while saying no. In your eyes, too, it seems like you vaguely care about the former. He laughs it off then.

But continues to think heavily.

When you come back—it only intrigues him more.

Too bad he has to take a quick curtain call.

Sunday met you after, much later once you and Aventurine become close acquaintances almost friends. He notices your looks first—beauty to him, not in how orderly you look per se but…in how your clothes all fit a distinct role and place, how the style of your hair even if not particularly styled balances out this order of roles. Even disheveled homeless men have a certain look to them determined by the roles of their clothes—and you encompass that to him.

It kept his eye on you enough so that when you chose your answers…when you spoke of justice behind your choice in every section. To save a bird is just, to let the law catch a man willing to send his own children whom we don’t even know exist, and to support his dear sister despite him not..it all was quite eye opening to him on the justice his order needed.

He wouldn’t kidnap you immediately only because he would take great care in making your cage—only to then find Aventurine having found you and offering you to leave this place.

They should have killed eachother right then and there—but somehow, a word became a conversation and they came to an agreement.

Of course, they would keep you in the cage together—Aventurine could find and exploit every weakness in the cage crafted to before you had the chance to, and hide information about you from anyone else who would ask. Sunday keeps the cage crafted and gives instruction as needed. Even if it means a bitter false defeat to keep a hidden you.

Aventurine spends most days with you—when he isn’t working you two play games, even if you don’t want to he still tries to play with you, and he often orders take out—can even do a little cooking if you ask. He’s almost moldable—doing as you ask as long as it isn’t escaping related or not keeping an eye on you.

Sunday spends nights with you—sometimes there’s idle chatter with a dinner or late night snack and conversation of the world—but oftentimes it’s silent cuddling as he holds you. Perhaps even Aventurine too if that’s what it took to hold you.

Everything quickly becomes boring and mundane with them—and they know how to keep it that way.

You have a list of small chores while housekeeping does the rest, which is a light dust in some areas and tidying up basic things. It’s so domestic that it almost feels like you’re a rich housewife without a care to actually clean…

Funnily enough, being the last of a kind is gettting to Aventurine and of course Sunday is rather…family-oriented.

Perhaps it is time for another discussion.

AN: Ik it’s short and scattered but I’m thinking of writing like an actual fic for this one so it’s going to stay like this for now.

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Something There (Chapter 2)

7.1k words Roy Kent x Reader Warnings: Language, enemies-to-lovers, some sexual references, Roy still not being excited about women's sports, childish arguments between adults who clearly want each other

Series Masterlist

Roy threw his bag over his shoulder with a loud groan. Much to his annoyance, he had to start his day by parking on the far side of the lot; there were way more cars than he was used to, especially this early, and he didn’t recognize any of them. Whatever. Maybe Rebecca had some publicity event he’d forgotten about. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He walked into the Dog Track, only vaguely aware of the palatable excitement buzzing in the air as he went down the hall. It wasn’t unusual for him to only nod to people as he passed by instead of stopping to say hello, so that’s what he did, a bit creeped out by the wide smiles on people’s faces as they chattered in hushed tones. Weird.

The reason for the cars and the excitement finally smacked him in the face when he walked opened the door the changing room and found it full of women in sports bras, most of whom only offered him passing glances as they chattered animatedly to one another.

“Oh shit.”

Roy picked up his pace and hurried into his office, noticing its closed blinds and Nate very intentionally focusing on the white board by Roy’s desk. Without quite knowing why, Roy kept walking until he found himself standing in the Whippets’ office.

The American manager, dressed today in leggings and a Whippets jacket (still looking stupidly pretty, which Roy did his best to ignore), looked up from her heavy conversation with Lucas, eyebrow arched. “What’s up with you?”

Roy made a face, not enjoying the mocking tone in her voice. Or the fact that she was speaking to him at all. “Fuck d’you mean?”

Clearly stifling a giggle, she shrugged. “Well, you just charged into my office looking so red in the face it’s almost concerning. Do I need to call you a doctor or something?”

His eyebrows furrowed further. “There’s women changing in the- in the-”

“Changing room,” she finished for him, nodding emphatically. “That’s kind of what it’s for.”

“But it’s women.” Roy knew he sounded stupid as soon as the words left his mouth.

Her amused eyes darted to Lucas before refocusing on Roy. “Well, yeah. I manage a women’s team. Sorry if that wasn’t clear,” she snarked.

He blinked a few times, the warmth in his face growing from annoyance. “Well, you guys should fucking tell us when your team is using shit. Make a schedule or some shit. That way we know what the fuck’s going on.”

She stared at him coolly. “There is a schedule. Coach Beard made it.” Condescension dripped from her voice, letting Roy know she really didn’t have the patience for him.

Right. Roy had gotten a group email from Beard and had, of course, ignored it. He really needed to get his shit together.

When Roy didn’t respond, she continued, her expression completely icy now. “Huh. Every coach I’ve ever known has always made sure they knew what was going on in their club.” She turned to Lucas. “Is this a British thing?”

The assistant coach shrugged and pretended to start typing on his computer. He was staying the fuck out of whatever this was. Smart man.

Roy cleared his throat, feeling like he was losing a game he hadn’t signed up for. ““Well, I mean, I don’t want them to be uncom-”

 “Coach Kent, I have had mostly male coaches for most of my career. Wearing a sports bra in front of men is not a big deal to any of these women. Just like being shirtless in front of me isn’t a big deal to your guys.” She spoke slowly, as if to a child.

He fucking hated it. “Just don’t want my guys making them uncomfortable,” he mumbled, no longer able to look her in the eye.

Her eyes narrowed as she brought herself to her full height and closed the space between them, bringing her face close to his, so close that if he leaned forward just a centimeter their noses would touch. “If they’re planning on making my team uncomfortable, then that’s a Roy Kent problem. If you can’t keep your team in check and make sure they act right, then you need to figure your shit out. Lucas, you’ve shared changing rooms with women’s teams before. Ever seen it be a problem?”

The coach, who was clearly listening with great interest, kept his eyes on the computer screen. “Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” She turned back to Roy. “I’ll go ahead and assume you weren’t the one who left the lovely little notes in the lockers for us then.”

“That was Isaac’s idea.” Coach Beard appeared in the door that led out to the hall. The door Roy wished he’d used that morning.

“Good morning, Coach,” she greeted, her voice suddenly pleasant. “Isaac… McAdoo, right? He’s your captain?”

Beard nodded. “He thought it would be nice to leave a little something, let the ladies know they’re very welcome here at Nelson Road.” He gave Roy a pointed look before continuing. “They stayed after practice yesterday to write the notes and tidy up the lockers. It was Sam’s idea to get the water bottles.”

The way her face lit up made Roy’s stupid heart skip a beat. “Oh! Those are great. Make sure to thank the guys for us.” She turned to Roy, all friendliness gone. “Your players got these for us.” She pointed to the blue water bottle on her desk, the Whippets’ logo prominent. “They’re pretty nice guys. Must’ve learned from Nate and Beard.”

Ouch. With a scoff, Roy rolled his eyes. “Well-”

She looked at the nonexistent watch on her wrist. “Oop, would you look at that. Time for the W.F.C. Richmond’s first ever practice.” She glared at Roy. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Roy had to forcibly stop himself from watching her as she sauntered out of the offices, calling for her team to head out to the pitch.

Coach Lucas patted Roy on the shoulder as he followed suit. “There’s no winning against her once she gets going. Trust me,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

Roy grunted, mouth in a straight line, pretending like he wasn’t focusing on getting his heartrate back to normal. Coach Beard looked thoroughly amused as Roy stayed still as a statue, waiting to hear total silence from the changing room before sulking back to his own office, where Nate quickly pretended to look busy and not like he’d been eavesdropping.

Beard’s eyes remained on Roy. “Boy, she knows how to push your buttons,” he mused.

“Does not,” Roy grumbled, feeling a bit like a schoolboy being badgered by his friends. He dropped into his chair, giving it a little spin from side to side, arms crossed stubbornly. “I don’t have fucking buttons.”

~

Lucas and I stood shoulder to shoulder as we watched the Whippets scrimmage. Under my sunglasses, my eyes were wide with joy. They were good, so good. When we signed these women, we knew there was going to be a lot of talent on this squad. But we could only dream of the chemistry we were already seeing on day one.

“Shit, can you imagine once they’re actually used to each other?” As always, Lucas was reading my mind.

I nodded. “Un. Fucking. Stoppable.” We bumped fists and knocked our hips into each other, a gesture we’d started doing when he was my coach in college. A gesture I knew we’d be making a lot this season.

“Oi!”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was shouting and who they were shouting at. With a groan, I turned around. Sure enough, Roy Kent was heading towards Lucas and I, looking ready for a fight. At this point, I wasn’t sure his face was capable of any other expression.

“Yeah, Coach Kent?” I pulled down my sunglasses, glaring at him from over the top, not giving a shit about professionalism or sharing or any of the other things I had promised Rebecca I’d be totally capable of.

Now standing in front of us, he nodded towards my scrimmage. “We need the pitch.”                                   

I glanced at my phone. Sure enough, it was just past time for us to give up the field so the men could use it. Dammit.

Now, if it was Beard or Nate who had come out and asked us to give up the pitch, I would have gladly done so, and would have easily apologized. But because it was Roy Kent who was demanding that we move, my heels dug in all on their own.

“We’re almost done,” I answered breezily, as if he really didn’t matter to me. Which he didn’t.

“Oh no.” He stared at me indignantly. “You made a big fucking deal about there being a fucking schedule. I’m just following it.” He turned to the pitch, where my players continued their scrimmage. “Whistle!” A few women stopped, their faces perplexed. “Get off the fucking pitch!”

My vision went red. “Hey!” I grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face me. “You don’t fucking tell my team what to do!” I blew my whistle. “Keep going!” When play resumed, I looked back at Roy, whose face was nearly purple. “Roy Kent, don’t you ever tell my squad what to do, you fucking hear me?” My hands were balled into fists at my side. “If I were a man-”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck that. You and I both know that this has nothing to do with you being a woman and has everything to do with us needing the fucking pitch. So, knock off with your feminism for a fucking minute.”

He was right. I knew deep down that he was right. But something about the way he looked at me just lit a fire that I didn’t know if I could control. There was no way I could let him win.

I folded my arms and blew some loose hair out of my face. “You could try please,” I grumbled, knowing I looked like a pouting teenager and not a professional soccer coach.

His eyebrows flew up. “I’m sorry? You want me to say please? When it’s my turn on the pitch? Are you fucking joking?”

“Beard and Nate would have said please.”

His eyes narrowed, an unwilling acknowledgement that I was completely correct. “Fine.” He gritted his teeth. “Please.”

Every ounce of coldness returned to my body. “There, was that so hard?” I purred mockingly.

Before Roy could respond- probably something involving the word fuck- Lucas brought his whistle to his lips and blew it hard. “Alright ladies, let’s go! Bring it in!” He looked at the two of us, eyebrows raised. “If you two are still flirting, I’m going to take these gals to the weight room, cool?”

“Fuck off,” Roy and I scoffed in unison.

Once Lucas stopped laughing his ass off, we headed to the weight room and got our players started on their workouts. Finally, I turned to Lucas, who was still grinning.

“We weren’t flirting.” My tone was flat, blunt.

Lucas snorted. “Oh, you were totally flirting. So was he, to be fair.” He shrugged. “You could definitely do worse than Roy Kent, I’ll give you that. Man’s a legend. And still pretty hot.”

“Can’t stand that man,” I mumbled, wondering if I was trying to convince Lucas or myself. “He’s the fucking worst.”

“Then have some really passionate hate sex,” Lucas suggested, waggling his eyebrows. “Do something to take care of that tension between you two.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, in some cultures, this is sexual harassment.”

“And in some cultures,” Lucas countered, “the way you look at Roy Kent would mean you have to marry him.”

~

Roy sighed as he leaned back in the chair in Doctor Sharon’s office. It had been a full week of sharing Nelson Road with the fucking Whippets. Of sharing it with her. And Roy felt like he’d aged an entire decade in that time.

They glared at each other in place of a greeting. They had shouting matches on the pitch. They muttered swear words at each other in the weight room. They rolled their eyes whenever the other was mentioned. And on more than one occasion, they got in each other’s faces, noses almost touching, lips way too close for Roy’s comfort.

He knew better. He fucking knew better. He hadn’t spent all that time with Ronald fucking McDonald for nothing. He’d grown and changed and become a better man. He’d learned to control the rage that thundered in his chest and to use it constructively. He’d become friends with Jamie Tartt of all people. Fuck, he even met with Dr. Sharon once a month. And yet here was this Yank, with her leggings and red lipstick and cocky grin, coming in and undoing all of it.

Roy closed his eyes as he listened to Doctor Sharon settle at her desk after closing the door. There was no way she hadn’t heard about what was going on between the two managers; everyone at the Dog Track knew what was happening, despite the assistant coaches’ combined efforts to keep things under control. He was surprised they hadn’t gotten called into Rebecca’s office to be properly shouted at like the children they were.

“You seem tired, Roy.” Doctor Sharon’s gentle voice made his eyes snap open. “Everything alright?”

He grunted, crossing his arms. No use dancing around things. “It’s the new women’s team,” he grumbled. “Their manager and I….” He glanced up at the ceiling, as if it held the right words to describe the white-hot rage he felt every time he looked at her. “…. Don’t get along.”

Doctor Sharon nodded. “I’ve heard.”

She didn’t say anything else, so Roy went on. “She’s just really fucking infuriating, y’know? All cocky and full of herself. Acts entitled to the pitch and the weight room and the changing room. And of course, Beard and fucking Nate like her and the fellas all act like she’s God’s gift to football. Just because she’s won a couple of trophies.”

“Was all of this your first impression of her?” Doctor Sharon asked after a moment.

Roy squirmed a little. “Well, I mean I met her at a club actually,” he admitted. “Right before she started working here. And I didn’t know who she was. And I made a comment implying that she wanted to flirt with me for attention, because I’m, well, me.” Fuck, he felt insufferable saying that part out loud. “And then I came into work and- fuck- there she is. Fucking stuck up as hell.” He shrugged. “And she’s shit at sharing,” he mumbled.

“Hmm.” Doctor Sharon looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you thought about what it’s like for her right now?”

Her voice always calmed him down. “How d’you mean?”

She looked him straight in the eye. He liked that about her. “Well, she’s just given up her entire life to move here, where she knows literally one person, and she’s got a lot of responsibility on her shoulders to lead a football team that doesn’t know her yet. Sounds a bit like someone else we know, hmm?”

Roy shook his head. “No. She’s nothing like him. She’s arrogant and conceited and cocky and-”

“That sounds like the way you describe yourself at that age,” Doctor Sharon mused. Roy simply grunted, so she continued. “And, like her, you know what it’s like to suddenly be away from home and everyone you love, don’t you?”

He thought way back, to when he was a child, his grandad dropping him off with his blankie. “I was a fucking kid,” he argued. “That was different.”

Doctor Sharon shook her head. “We don’t compare baggage, remember?”

Roy nodded in defeat. “Fuck. Sorry. I know.” He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. “’m just really fucking annoyed about sharing Nelson Road,” he mumbled, hoping to change the topic a little.

Apparently, Doctor Sharon was going to let him. “Why is that?”

“Because it’s ours,” he said simply. “We finally got into a rhythm, you know? Lasso came in and turned everything upside down, turns me upside down, then he fucking left. And then Rebecca decides to put me in charge.” Roy shook his head. “And I get one fucking year to figure out how to be a manager before she brings in an entirely new team? It’s just a lot.”

Doctor Sharon nodded sympathetically. “That is a lot of change in a short time,” she affirmed. “How can we deal with that?”

Roy felt good as he walked out of Doctor Sharon’s office at the end of their hour. They’d discussed how Roy could cope with all the stress, about the things he could control to feel like he wasn’t helpless against all this change, and even some conflict resolution strategies she wanted him to try. Maybe he didn’t have to be an absolute prick about all this.

Of course, those thoughts went out the window when Roy turned a corner and saw George Willows. Everyone thought Roy had hated Trent Crimm, but George Willows was a whole other story. He was Roy’s least favorite journalist, to the point where the man didn’t even come to the Greyhounds’ press conferences due to the high chances of being screamed at.

And who should Willows be chatting with in a particularly friendly-looking manner, looking more like two flirting teenagers than professionals?

“Oi.” Roy furrowed his brow, keeping his eye on George, avoiding looking at a certain pretty American. “Fuck are you doing here?”

“We have an interview,” Coach Buck pipped up, scowling at Roy. “Did you need something, Coach Kent?”

She always sounded like she was spitting out his name.

Roy nodded. “Yeah. I need this prick-” He pointed to George. “-to get the fuck out of here before I escort him out myself.”

Before she could retort, George put his hands in front of himself defensively. “Hey, I’m not here for the Greyhounds, Roy. Just a little fluff piece on the Whippets and their new coach.” He smiled down at the manager when he mentioned her. “Help the people of Richmond know just how lucky they are to have her.”

The beaming smile on her face, aimed completely at George Willows, made Roy’s chest go painfully tight.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh fuck off,” he groaned. “Honestly, they couldn’t have sent literally anyone else? What, it’s so hard to find someone to yammer off questions and hold a fucking tape recorder?”

“They use phones now, Grandad,” Jamie Tartt teased as he passed by, hair still damp from his shower. He saluted. “G’night, Coach Buck.”

“Night, Jamie!” she called, smiling at the striker. Apparently, she had a smile for everyone but Roy. Indeed, it disappeared when she glared at him. “Coach Kent, can I help you with something?”

Roy’s mouth went dry. Why the fuck did he let this woman get to him?

Since Roy wasn’t talking, she turned to George Willows. “Why don’t you head on into my office? I’ll be there in a moment.” She pointed the way to her office, all friendliness. Her frown reappeared once he was gone. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“That guy fucking sucks,” Roy said plainly. “Seriously. All of the press sucks, that guy might actually be the fucking devil.”

Her eyeroll rivalled the ones Roy was known for. “Well, if Roy Kent hates him, he must be a lovely person. Maybe even the second coming of Jesus Christ. If there’s nothing else you need to bitch about, I’d love it if you kindly fucked off, Coach Kent. I have an interview.” With that, she turned and swaggered off, with Roy trying his best to avoid watching her receding figure and ignoring the warmth in his cheeks when he failed.

~

We were coming close to the start of the season, and I felt multitudes calmer than I thought I would. My team was fantastic, and they seemed to like me as much as I liked them. Lucas and I had been working hard on our plays and were constantly trying to figure out who our captain would be; with so many strong leaders, it was a fun problem to have.

“Excellent job today, ladies!” I called out as I strolled through the locker room. “See you all in the morning!”

The players called out their goodnights as they headed to their lockers or to the showers. I smiled when I walked into the offices and saw Nate and Beard at their desks.

Coach Beard had done a good job with the schedule, no matter how much Roy Kent bitched about it; each day, the teams rotated between either starting practice an hour early or ending an hour later, so we didn’t have too much overlap in the showers and locker room. Today was our day to end late. Rebecca had said this was temporary, that hopefully she’d eventually build us our own training facility and just use Nelson Road for games, but I didn’t mind the sharing. Not with the Greyhounds, who were gracious and kind and made sure my team felt welcome. Not with Beard and Nate, who were friendly and always offering help with anything we needed as our first match quickly approached. The only problem was- well, I didn’t need to think about him right now.

“Hello, Greyhounds,” I greeted politely. “You guys all done for the day?”

Nate smiled. “Yes, all done. And you guys? Er, gals?” He paused for a moment, his face scrunched in thought. “Ladies?”

I laughed. “Gals and ladies both work just fine,” I assured him. “And yeah, we’re wrapped up.” I paused, looking at Nate thoughtfully. “Hey, could I have Lucas run some plays by you? I’ve heard you’re something of a whiz with plays and strategy.” I shot a wink in Beard’s direction. “Some people told me you’re a real wonder kid.”

Nate’s smile widened. “Oh, yes, absolutely, I’d love to help.”

Beard gave me a nod of approval as Nate jumped up to go find Lucas in our office. “That was very nice of you.”

I shrugged, taking Roy’s empty chair, not caring if he walked in and saw me in it. “Nice has nothing to do with it. We’ll take any help we can get. If Nate’s as good as you’ve said- which I’m sure he is- I hope you all don’t mind sharing that brain of his from time to time.”

“I’m fine with it. And Nate would be thrilled to help you out. Just don’t let Roy hear about it,” Beard teased. “He’s not one for sharing.”

“Especially not with me,” I hummed with an eyeroll. I wondered if I was damaging my eyesight from doing that so much lately. “Has he always been like this?”

Coach Beard looked thoughtful for a moment. “Roy… is a tough cookie,” he said carefully. “He didn’t exactly love Ted and me when we first got here. But we broke through those walls, and honestly, we’re pretty close now. He was the best man at my wedding.” He tapped his pen against his desk. “I actually thought he’d have an easier time with this whole women’s team thing, if I’m being honest.”

“Great, so it’s me he hates, not women’s sports,” I joked, earning a sympathetic half-smile from Beard. My eyes landed on a photo hanging on the wall, one of the three Greyhound coaches and another mustached man, one I knew immediately even if we’d never met. “Bet you all miss him a lot,” I mused.

A small sigh escaped Beard’s lips. “You have no idea.” His voice was the softest I’d heard it. “He’d get you and Roy all sorted out, that’s for sure.”

The tip of my nose went warm, thinking about all the shit the other coaches had dealt with over the past few weeks. “I’m really sorry about-”

Beard shook his head. “Growing pains,” he said simply. “You’re both good coaches. Both passionate about the sport. Which makes you both a little hardheaded. You’ll figure it out.” He paused. “Or Rebecca’ll fire you both.”

Despite his serious face, I laughed. “Guess that’s a good motivation to stop calling him a fucking asshole in the hallways, huh?”

Coach Beard’s smile matched mine. “Whatever works.” His phone pinged, calling his attention to it. “Gotta head out. My wife made sushi for dinner for the first time so I should probably grab some stomach medicine.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “We’ll have you over sometime. If we invite Roy, we can have a four-way screaming contest.”

A little perplexed by what he meant by that, I nodded. “Sure, Coach. Enjoy your food poisoning. Maybe tell the missus that you had some weird English food for lunch so you can blame that.”

He tapped his head. “Smart. Love it.” With a wave, he turned and went through my office, offering quick goodbyes to Nate and Lucas.

After heaving myself out of Roy’s chair, I peeked into my office. Nate and Lucas were poring over our playbook, discussing how to adjust a particular play we’d been struggling with. Both men looked up at me expectantly.

“Hey Luke, I’m going to do some running before I head home. Need to start forming good habits again. Don’t worry about me if you guys finish, I’ll just take a cab home if you’re gone.”

Lucas nodded. “No problem. See you tomorrow, Bucky.”

“Goodnight, Coach!” Nate added, his smile wide.

I walked across the room to grab my workout bag. “Later, guys!” I hollered, waving over my shoulder as I left the office.

Once I’d changed into some shorts and sports bra, I whistled as I walked to the weight room. It was well past quitting time, with most offices empty and closed up, my remaining players straggling out of the locker room to head home for the night. As I approached the weight room, I grabbed my keys to unlock it, something Rebecca had assured me I was more than welcome to do anytime, but I found the door was already cracked open.

My eyes instinctively narrowed as I looked inside. The universe was truly cruel; a shirtless Roy Kent was on one of the two treadmills, gazing at the television on the wall above him, watching… Lust Conquers All? Jamie had mentioned the show to me, bashfully explaining that he’d been on it a few seasons back. Not what I expected to see the Greyhound’s manager watching as he jogged.

Deciding not to use my voice to alert him to my presence, I let the door close loudly behind me. Roy glanced over his shoulder, grunting when he saw me. Taking that as his way of saying he wasn’t interested in a fight, I continued into the room, heading towards the lone treadmill next to his. I quickly dropped my Whippets water bottle into the cupholder and jumped onto the treadmill, setting it to a light pace.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were our feet on the treadmills and the obnoxious voices of the Lust Conquers All contestants onscreen. Not knowing what came over me, I glanced to my left at Roy. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that he had kept in shape post-retirement; after all, wasn’t I on the treadmill trying to do the same thing? But wow, the man looked good. My eyes couldn’t resist lingering on the thick hair covering his chest. It reminded me a bit of Sean Connery in the old James Bond movies my parents used watch; those movies had given me a great appreciation for views like the one before me. Some quiet voice in the back of my head considered that, if this man didn’t drive me crazy, I’d probably be into him.

Shaking my head to clear out the ridiculous intrusive thoughts that were quickly becoming steamy, I turned my eyes back to the screen, trying to figure out which contestant was trying to sleep with which. It was weirdly comforting to see that, even across an ocean, reality trash still remained. Over the past weeks, I had clung to anything that reminded me of home; maybe I’d have to start watching Lust Conquers All as a weird way to cope with homesickness. Lucas would surely get a kick out of that. Heck, I could probably get him to join me.

When the show went to commercial break, I felt the hair on my neck prickle, as if I were being watched. Sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Roy’s gaze on me, trailing slowly down my body as I jogged on the treadmill. A flush covered every inch of my skin where his eyes dawdled, my heart going faster than it normally did when I ran. There was something eerily familiar about the way he shook his head and looked back up at the television, as if a phone commercial was the most interesting thing in the world.

We ran in silence until the show ended. Once the trailer for the next episode began, Roy turned off his treadmill and climbed down. Our eyes met for a brief moment, the contact taking place of any cheerful “goodnights” most people would have exchanged. After he grabbed his own things, he silently placed the television remote on my treadmill, not quite looking at me.

The only other thing I heard was the sound of the door clicking closed behind him as he left.

~

“Hi Roy!”

Roy paused and turned around, hand poised to open the driver’s side door. “Keeley,” he greeted, letting his hand drop to his side.

The blonde practically skipped over to him looking particularly happy. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.” He frowned. He liked Keeley; they were friends, he’d venture to say good friends, bordering on best friends. But something glinted in her eye that made Roy uneasy. “You?”

“Great, great.” She paused a moment, swaying from side to side. “I have something really fun that I’ve been working on,” Keeley hummed.

Roy felt his antenna go up in suspicion. “Uh huh.”

Keeley’s expression was that of someone who was up to something. “And I could really use your help with it, Roy.”

There it was.

“Keeley,” he growled, raising his eyebrows at her. “Can you just tell me what you need?”

She offered Roy her best don’t-you-love-me smile, as if trying to remind him that they were friends. “A photoshoot. Featuring our fabulous Richmond coaches!”

Roy threw his head back. Keeley knew better. Roy hated this kind of shit. There was no way she’d ever ask if he wanted to- oh.

“I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?” he groaned.

Wrinkling her nose, Keeley shook her head. “D’you really think I’d ask you if you didn’t have to do it?” She shrugged. “Sorry, Roy. Rebecca’s orders. So come in tomorrow looking camera-ready, alright?”

Roy took “camera-ready” pretty loosely. He came in the next morning looking like himself, just a bit dressier: black button-down shirt, black slacks, beard, scowl. Keeley didn’t look too surprised when she saw him, just smiled and dragged him to the makeup artist. As he sat in the chair, begrudgingly letting the girl put exactly one layer of mascara on him, he coughed to get Keeley’s attention.

“Where’s Nate? Beard? Or are they pretty enough without makeup?”

“What?” Keeley looked up from her phone and shook her head. “Oh, no, they’re not doing this.” She bit her lip, the fear in her eyes telling Roy she did not want to say the next words that came out of her mouth. “It’s, er, just the managers.” Her voice became itty bitty. “So, you know, just you and Coach Bucky.”

Roy threw his head back so quickly he almost got poked in the eye with the mascara. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” he hissed. “So not only am I missing training, not only do I have to do a fucking photoshoot, but I have to do it with her?”

As if summoned like the demon she was, the American bounded into the office Keeley had commandeered as a staging room. Roy’s breath caught in his throat; he’d been working his ass off to get so many images out of his head: the little black dress she’d been wearing at the club, the red smirk she sported in her first press conference, the shorts she wore on the treadmill. But this had to be the fucking worst.

Not only was she wearing that red lipstick that he realized was probably her signature look at this point, but her hair was down- something he’d yet to see- and wavy and framing her face in that way Roy thought only models could accomplish. She was wearing full makeup, a natural look that accentuated her attractive features. Worse, she was wearing a fucking dress, one that hugged her curves and showed off her athletic figure. Roy hated the way his heart was pounding at the sight of her.

“Fuck you look sexy as hell!” Keeley squealed, giving the coach a once-over. “Doesn’t she look great, Roy?”

Before Roy could figure out an evasive response, laughter hit his ears.

“Oh, trust me. Coach Kent probably thinks I look like some young thing trying to trick him into dancing with me. Isn’t that right, Coach?”

Giggling, Keeley shoved the far-too-pretty manager. “Oh, leave him alone. Today’s rough enough for Roy. He doesn’t love this kind of thing.”

“Is it because vampires don’t show up on camera?”

“Oi!” Roy stood up, teeth bared. “Just because you love being the center of attention and having cameras on you and getting prickish journalists to giggle at your stupid jokes doesn’t mean everyone does. Not all of us have your fucking ego that needs to be fed constantly.”

Keeley cleared her throat. “Alright you two, why don’t we take this energy out to the pitch, hmm? Time to take some pretty pictures.”

The two managers grumbled in agreement and followed Keeley out of the room, avoiding looking at each other until they were outside. In the back of his head, Roy wondered if this was Buck’s first time on the main pitch; of course, he didn’t ask. That would require actually giving a shit.

Instead, he did his best to listen as Keeley introduced to two managers to the photographer, explaining that she and Rebecca thought these promo photos would be a great way to garner more interest in the Whippets and show the Greyhounds’ support for the women’s team, and that, if these came out well, they’d do photos of both teams as well.

“Right.” The photographer, an older man Roy had met against his will a handful of times, snapped his gum and studied the managers. “Let’s do this.”

Under Keeley’s anxious supervision, the photographer directed the two gaffers onto the grass, posing them as if they were dolls and clicking away before shifting poses, a pattern Roy knew well and hated. Roy’s stomach was in knots when the photographer instructed him to look down at the pretty, pretty coach.

“Like you admire her,” he suggested.

The American snorted. “Good luck with that one,” she mumbled.

Roy sucked in a breath through his teeth. This was already a long fucking day. This wasn’t the kind of shit he’d signed up for when he came back to Richmond after his retirement. But he reminded himself that this was for Keeley and Rebecca; he’d have to do his fucking best.

So, for once, he did as he was told. Roy knew the photographer meant admiration in a professional way, as a fellow coach. But instead, Roy let himself look at her the way he’d been avoiding since her first day at Nelson Road. He took in the sight of her unabashedly, resentfully admitting to himself that the view from up close was fucking nice when he wasn’t being screamed at.

When her eyes met his, Roy felt his brain fizz out and shut down. She was too close, too pretty, too annoying, too perfect.

“Great,” the photographer called, his camera clicking away. “Think you could get a smidge closer?”

Hating the stupid knots in his stupid stomach, Roy took a step away. “Really? Want me to hold her like we’re going to a fucking dance?” he barked.

“Roy,” Keeley warned gently, eyebrows raised.

“Just take the fucking photos, Kent,” came a grumbling voice from next to him.

Roy scoffed. “Yeah, you’d love that wouldn’t you?”

A sigh escaped those red lips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He dug himself deeper, desperate to just be done with this shit already. “Just that you must be really fucking excited to have your pretty picture taken, yeah?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is the second time you’ve said shit like that to me today. Tell me what the fuck you mean by that.”

Their voices were rising as Keeley watched in utter frustration. She’d told Rebecca that this wasn’t the best idea. But the Amazon of a woman had insisted that the two would be able to put their issues aside for something as simple as a fucking photoshoot.

“Oi!” Keeley shook her head at the two red-faced managers. “Go to Rebecca’s office. I’m done with you two and whatever weird sexual thing you’ve got happening here.” She turned to the photographer. “I’m so sorry. Let me to grab a couple players, we can get some shots for the website or something.” She looked at the frozen coaches. “Fucking go!”

~

I’d been sent to the principal’s office plenty of times as a kid. Mostly for fighting with the boys when they refused to let me play with them, or when told me I played “like a girl” (as if it were an insult), or the time a particularly stupid classmate threw mud all over my Mia Hamm jersey and I decided to give him a bloody nose. Getting in trouble for fighting with idiots was nothing new to me.

But Rebecca Welton wasn’t going to give me a detention and call my parents.

“I am not losing this job because of you,” I informed Roy as we trudged through the hallways. “I was just trying to get things over with. But oh no, you with your fucking comments about me and pictures.” I shook my head. “It’s part of the job, Kent. You might not know this, what with playing for fucking Chelsea, but publicity matters for a new club. Especially a women’s club.”I stopped and faced Roy, who mirrored my pause. “So yeah, I had more to gain from that shoot than you did. But don’t you dare fucking judge me for that. You will never understand-”

“Oi!” Rebecca’s presence filled the hallway. “Lovebirds. In my office, now.”

Hoping Roy felt as childish as I did, I looked down as I walked into Rebecca’s office. She towered over her desk and pointed silently to the chairs, ordering us to sit down without a word. We did as we were told, both of us looking defeated with our shoulders slumped and heads down.

Roy tried first. “Rebecca, I-”

“Nope.” Rebecca crossed her arms, staring firmly at the two of us.

My turn. “We are so sor-”

Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t want to hear that either.” She rubbed her temples gingerly. “I don’t want to hear sorry, or it’s not my fault, or we’ll be better, or any of it.” She sighed. “I knew it would be an adjustment, starting a new team and having to share the Dog Track, but what the actual fuck, you two?” She threw her arms in the air. “What? Do we need to throw you in a boxing ring? Or get you a fucking hotel room?” She pointed at me. “You are a fucking Olympic champion. You think Mia fucking Hamm acts like this? You think this is what I hired you for? To set this example to the team and all the little girls who’ll be watching you?” She turned on Roy. “And you? Jesus Christ, Roy. I am trusting you with the most important thing in my life, with my family.” Her voice cracked. “Do not make me lose another manager,” she whispered.

Roy and I exchanged shamed glances, neither of us sure what to say.

Rebecca went on. “You are both incredible coaches. I see you on that pitch. When you’re not biting each other’s heads off, you’re doing great things with your teams. Your assistant coaches adore you when they’re not having to manage whatever-” She gestured between us in exasperation. “-this is. And I really think both of our teams can have a successful season, if we can get the two of you focused.”

We both nodded earnestly; fuck, I’d marry Roy Kent if it meant making Rebecca happy.

“So, pack your bags, make sure your pets are fed, because next weekend we are all going on a team-building retreat. Whippets and Greyhounds, first annual weekend of figuring out how to fucking get along and act like adults.”

There was panic in Roy Kent’s eyes as he leaned forward. “Rebecca, we are this fucking close to the start of the season, if we’re going to win our first match-”

Rebecca raised a cool eyebrow at him. “Roy Kent, you full well this team’s philosophy about where winning lands on our list of priorities.” Roy sat back, grumbling something about Ronald McDonald. “Your teams will have opportunities to train while we’re there. I do like having a winning team, after all,” she added quickly. Rebecca raised an eyebrow, waiting for us to protest some more. “Any more questions?”

We both shook our heads like obedient children.

“Right. I’ll have Higgins send you the details and you can let your teams know.” She put on a mocking smile. “It’ll be a grand old time. You, me, the teams, the woods, and conflict-resolution training.”

“I don’t think the Greyhounds and Whippets need much of that,” I found myself saying. “They get along great.”

Rebecca’s tight grin remained. “Oh, I know. I’m hoping the two of you can learn something from them.” She gestured towards the door. “Off with you then.”

Dismissed, Roy and I stood and made our way out the door, away from Rebecca’s scrutinizing gaze. Once we were far enough away that Rebecca wouldn’t hear us, we looked at each other, all anger gone for once.

“Going to be a miserable fucking weekend,” Roy mumbled.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Taglist: @callmecasey81 @ladygrey03 @puckyou-forpuckssake @royalestrellas @optimisticsandwichgladiator @reading-blogs @shineforever19 @rae4725 @burnafter-reading @her-fandom-sanctum @infinetlyforgotten @giggling-sewer-ginger @whataloadofmalarkey @agentstarkid @kingleahhh @tortilla-maria1 @geekgirl1996 @amatswimming @meg-ro @spicyraccoonlordking @spaghetti-dad187 @needlesthreadandbuttons @elissaaa @imsoluckyeverythingworksoutforme @reverieisaway @djskakakaksjsj-blog @thatonedogwithablog @allthetroubleiveseen @sunderland-6 @netflix-addict @paranormal-is-my-life @jill2629-blog @itsbuzzfeedbitch @pretzelactivist @amieinghigh @kashee-h

[dmwrites]

What came with the New Life smp was a lot of milling around, talking and showing off the powers of the various origins people were given. The spawn waystone pavilion quickly became the place to hang out, old friends reacquainted and new friends made. And, of course, many, many pranks.

“You know how Martyn has his whole human ice cube thing?” Fwip asked, leaning against a pillar of the pavilion.

Scott nodded. “Yeah, he keeps saying he’s a ‘cool guy’, which is almost as bad as all of Ken’s bad guy jokes.”

“Oi!” Jimmy lightly smacked Scott on the arm. “I am not a Ken doll, thank you very much!”

“Martyn said it happened when he gets scared or excited or any other heightened emotion… do you think he’d freeze if someone flirted with him?” Fwip mused, gazing out towards the lumpy shape of Martyn in his big winter coat, chatting with CPK.

Scott and Jimmy snorted at the thought.

“I bet he would.” Jimmy said. “That would be a sight, that would.”

“Why don’t you give it a shot then, bad boy?” Scott drawled, wiggling his eyebrows at Jimmy.

Jimmy stuttered. “What? No, no, not my thing… why don’t you go do it, Scott, since you’re…” he gestured to Scott in a vague kind of way.

“Since I’m what?” Scott asked, eyebrows raised.

“Well, you know you…”

“Hm?”

“You’re a flirt.” Jimmy finally said, scowling.

“How would you know that Scott’s a flirt?” Fwip asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I- I’ve just heard… Don’t be dragging me into this, Fwip. Scott, go flirt with that man, for the love of everything!” Jimmy was bright red.

“Gladly.” Scott adjusted his hair, blew Jimmy a kiss, and he sauntered over to Martyn, just as CPK was walking away.

“Heyyyyyyyy, Martyn.” Scott said, batting his eyelashes

“Damn, that sounded like eight y’s in that hey- what’s all this about, then?” Martyn asked, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

“Just wanted to say how cute your outfit is. Makes you look super buff.” Scott reached over and played with the edge of Martyn’s scarf.

“Well, thank you, it’s an absolute chore, I’ll tell you, keeping this hot bod of mine warm… hey, wait, what do you mean by ‘look super buff’? You saying I don’t look buff normally?” Martyn had that annoying twinkle in his eye that told Scott that this may be harder then he thought. But Scott couldn’t give up now- he did have a reputation to uphold, after all.

“You always look buff, Martyn, don’t be silly.” Scott replied. “And if you need something to keep you warm, I can think of a way I could help you out.” Scott winked, laying on the flirty intonations in his voice as thick as the ice Martyn kept dropping on people by accident.

“What, like another coat or something? Gonna knit me a sweater, Scott?” Martyn spoke as causally as he had been the entire conversation, but Scott noticed that his nose was turning blue and white. Martyn may be playing dumb, but Scott was determined now. He stared at Martyn, thinking hard, before speaking again.

“You know, the snow on your mountaintop gets blown pretty hard. That’s not the only top that could get blown.”

“Wa- Scott!” Martyn became a Martyn-shaped ice block at once, and Scott could hear Jimmy and Fwip cheering and jeering from behind him.

“Ah… thanks for playing along, Martyn.” Scott said to the still-frozen Martyn. “Good game.” He high-fived the ice block that was Martyn’s hand, and walked back over to the pavilion.

“I can’t believe that worked.” Jimmy said in awe.

“Never underestimate my skills, boys.” Scott replied.

“So is Martyn just… frozen for a while, or what?” Fwip asked.

“Yeah, he’s giving me the cold shoulder.” Scoff said. Fwip and Jimmy booed him for such a bad pun.

[pancakeke]

I made a customer so mad on a call today that he muted and turned his camera off lol.

I did it on purpose though.

We needed to create a process but this dude always dominates the convo to give long pointless monologues about how *something* needs to be done in relation to vague nonspecific things (like "I don't like what I'm seeing here" ok then WHAT are you seeing??) He absolutely refuses to give concrete details or make actionable requests, plus he's always extremely disrespectful, accusatory, and lies about things. So I kept cutting off his unhelpful monologues to ask for specifics and when he didn't give them I gave options for what we could do rather than letting him continue to make the same whiny statements over and over but with different wording each time.

Then he tried to derail by doing this needlessly dramatic arm waving and wandering away from the camera thing, then wandering back with his head in his hands while saying weird phrases I assume were some kind of worthless business speak phrases? (Example, the last one he said was "Just take the weekend off". Maybe this means like "we need to take a break and regroup"? I legit do not know the intent. I directly asked "What do you mean by that?", no paraphrasing, but he ignored me so maybe he was telling me to go fuck myself. idk).

Anyway I kept being direct and trying to sort out a plan of action with our salesperson meanwhile this dude kept interjecting with absolutely asinine statements like "YOU need to figure this out" referring to my company, not me specifically. But like that was literally what we were doing at that moment?? So I asked him "Are you asking us to create new procedures without your company's input? Ideally need to know specifically where you're having issues to know how I should create reporting." Then he shut his webcam and mic off.

Progress was made at this point since he wasn't interrupting anymore but that didn't last long cause he jumped back in to make a big deal about how he couldn't stay on the call longer because he had another meeting soon. But if he has just explained that in one sentence rather than monologuing about his time we could have made more actual plans.

idk if this guy is purposely trying to stop us from creating a process though cause he blew up at us when we had extra inventory on hand (that he told us to buy) which then led him to tell us that we weren't allowed to make any purchases for them without approval. After this we sent a purchase request over to them for approval and they didn't approve it (we were ghosted, not denied), which made this guy is blow up at us again for not just buying the components immediately without asking.

I think he just wants us to do whatever benefits him in the moment and also he doesn't ever want us to hold his company accountable (per our contract...) for any unused components. and since documentation and processes creates accountability, they're bad for someone who wants instant gratification and no responsibility.

This call was so fucking bewildering though. It was like this guy had a book of business speak phrases and thought that if he kept reading them off he would look smart and important and then we would just flagellate ourselves at his feet. Even though the problem is pretty much his fault for not managing his side of the business. These guys have turned derailing conversation into a goal so I went robot mode and wouldn't let myself say a word that wasn't data-focused. I really hoped this would force their side to speak in numbers and facts so I could get info and ideas from them that we could actually use to build a new procedure.

But now I see that my plan was doomed from the start cause this guy will just disappear if I don't let him spend the whole meeting listening to himself talk while not actually saying anything.

I have some kind of brain problem where I always think that if I can figure out how to communicate with people in juuust the right way they'll stop being cunts and cooperate with me. Cause I'm working for their benefit so they should want to work together, right? :)

Wrong. People are fucking bonkers. They do not care about problem solving. It's all about ego. And somehow their egos do not recognise how purposely creating problems leads to failures that might reflect poorly on them.

[k0nstanta]

✨ ❤️ ✂️ for Kotya please 🥺

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

some of kotya's best memories are from middle school, when she and shurik would constantly hang out and play together. she's made a lot of good memories since then, but these are the ones she treasures the most

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

conversely, most of kotya's bad memories are of her high school years. she also vaguely remembers when her parents died when she was in kindergarten & she got taken in by her grandma (which is a part of her story that somehow never got mentioned on this blog because it was never relevant. lol)

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

okay this one is actually kind of hilarious. hiding it under the cut because it made the post too long

you see, kotya was origianlly created as a joke fusion of 2 different characters (same for shurik) so her initial name was just those characters' names smashed together, and it sounded very stupid. as i began to flesh her out more the joke name inevitably started driving me insane so i decided to come up with something a little more like a real name.

her og design was something along the lines of "gruff looking mercenary / henchman guy", and i wanted to pick a name that would fit the vibe.

since i'm russian, i circled through some slavic names i personally thought sounded good, including but not limited to: mikhail, viktor, alexey, dmitri, and konstantin.

dmitri, viktor & konstantin were my top 3 picks and i was really leaning toward viktor but my wife pointed out that some random "baby names meaning" website listed "kotya" among nicknames for konstantin, and i instantly lost my mind, because how stupidly cute is that?

to clarify, the "kot" part of kotya is also the russian word for cat, and "kotya" is one of those silly affectionate words you can use to refer to a cat lovingly, just like "kotik" or "kotenok" (kitten). it just sounded so funny. konstantin is such a serious name, and it fit her so well, but she was also kotya. little kitty. i was obsessed.

as for her last name (beliy), it's just the russian word for "white", and i'll be completely honest with you. it's a breaking bad joke. my wife kept spamming me with tweets from this account:

and the rest of it went like this:

and there you have it. the story behind konstantin beliy, localised as constantine white, and also basically meaning "white kitty" when written down as kotya beliy. she's been a silly little kitty since day one.

[underratedmurder]

Richie Jerimovich/Reader "I Would Like a Blanket Please" Part 2/2

Reader and Richie are at his apartment, sweet stuff ensues...

_________

(genuinely don't know who the other man in this photo is but yess they ate)

Here it is! Five days late and good as hell, I promise.

Sorry though, that it's late, but trust I believe you will not be disappointed.

I hope ya'll like it, and thank you for the support on part one, you guys are sick! <3

Stuff in this: Chicken nuggets, the movie Rounders, Pull out couches, Cuddling, blankets, human blankets???, kissing/making out :3, no smut, sweet people being sweet

Please like/leave a comment/reblog if you like this! Thank you :)

_____________

Richie opened the door to his apartment, 

“Sorry for the mess, I didn’t expect to see Eva for a couple more days,”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, and you slid through the door by his side.

“It’s good you’re here though, gives me an excuse to clean,” he sighed, placing his keys on the kitchen island.

“Right,”

“Go ahead and make yourself at home, bathroom is down the hall,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of a very small hallway, beside its entrance, a book shelf toppling over with dvd’s and an assortment of random house items.

It caught your eye, and you dropped your bag by his kitchen island, walking over to get a closer look. Behind you, Richie threw his leather jacket over a stool.

Sitting on the shelf was a pile of old bills, receipts, crayons, and peaking out from beneath an imaginative illustration of what you assumed was a dinosaur, was a picture of a distinct young Richie.

Your fingers found it immediately, ignoring the guilt of touching his things, overwhelmed with curiosity and disbelief. 

Young Richie had long hair, light brown curls that sprawled out every which way, and a beard that covered the soft line of his chin. Young Richie, most wondrously, wore baggy ripped jeans, a Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt and converse. You smiled, imagining Richie in the past was always a fun thought exercise, but the reality was even more amusing.

Shuffling footsteps stopped beside you, “Oh, you uh, found little Richard,” Richie placed a hand on his hip, and scratched his eyebrow.

“That’s you?” you barely asked the question, simply wanting to know more.

“Oh yeah, sophomore year of college. I was kind of into that grunge stuff,”

“I can see that,” you smiled, eyeing him, but he kept his gaze on the photo.

“I didn’t cut my hair very often, it was a hot mes-”

“It’s nice,” you note, and his hand finds his chin.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda cute. You look good,”

He hummed, as he looked longer at the image, then his gaze shifted to you, his lips kind of pouting.

“Why’d you cut it all off?” you teased, honest and almost mournful of the haircut you never had the pleasure of knowing.

“Uh, hah, well. Mickey definitely convinced me to, but I think I just wanted something different,”

You nodded, eyes scanning his face and hair, you wondered how it would feel to run your hands over it now, if you could coax him into letting it grow out again.

“Makes me look more intimidating right?” he bit the inside of his lip, eyes softer than they should have been. He was not intimidating, not in that moment at least.

“Oh yeah, very scary,” you barely let the corner of your mouth curl into a smile. 

But he wasn’t, not scary at all. It took all your strength and fear to not reach out and hold his face and touch his hair and kiss his lips. All that fear amounted into an uncomfortable sigh and a shake of your shoulders, as he let his hands fall from his hips and he swung around to move into the kitchen.

“You hungry?”

“Oh- I mean you don’t have to-” the words came out haphazardly, and you quickly realized how ridiculous the refusal sounded.

“What? No of course I do, you seriously thought I was gonna invite you into my home and not feed you a delicious homemade Jerimovich dinner?” Richie eyed you from behind the fridge door, his arm extended to prop it open.

“Right, yeah. That’s… silly. Food is important,”

“Turns out,” his brows raised and he gave you an amused smirk.

“I am hungry,”

“What da’ you want?”

You paused, as you lost your answer in Richies gaze. His eyes were droopy, and somewhat apprehensive, as if hanging on your next words. 

You blinked, and breathed in, “Something savory,” then exhaled. The tension in your body desperate to escape, inching its way out with “Something savory,”.

He smiled, then twisted his mouth, lips closed as his tongue pushed the inside of his cheek.

“Ya know, whenever I ask that question, the answer is usually chicken nuggets, so…”

You smiled wide, eyes brightened at the sight of Richies red cheeks.

“Is that the usual delicious homemade Jerimovich dinner?”

“Would it be bad if it was?”

You shook your head, “No, I’ll eat some chicken nuggets,”

“Aright,” 

_________

You swiped at the ketchup on your plate, dipping the nugget and taking a quick bite.

“These didn’t disappoint,”

“Of course not, they're chicken nuggets,” Richie remarked with a mouth full of food, he quickly took a drink from his water, swallowing and gesturing towards the living room.

“You wanna watch a movie? I got one hell of a collection,” he smiled proudly, and you clasped your hands in your lap.

“Sure, whatcha got?”

Richie smiles and leaves the kitchen, going over to the tv stand. He crouches, eyes scanning the dvds, before he looks back and calls you over.

“Come here,” he gestures with his fingers, you hop down off the island stool, and meet him on the living room carpet.

“I got… Casino, The Sting, Ocean’s Eleven. Rounders,” he lets the last one hang open like a question, as if it was the only one he wanted to watch and he was trying to pique your interest.

“What’s that?” you ask, indulging him but also curious.

“You’ve never seen Rounders before?” he asks, incredulous.

“Can’t say I have,”

“Oh babe… it’s amazing. It’s a casino drama starring mother fucking Matt Damon, and the G.O.A.T. Edward Norton, we gotta watch it,”

“That definitely sounds…”

“Perfect?”

“Yeah, yeah. Lets watch it,”

“Aright, sick,” he lets his fingers graze the rows of films, and plucks the dvd from the shelf.

While he pops the case open, you make yourself comfortable on the couch.

“Did you eat enough?”

“Yeah,”

“Good,”

He slides the dvd into the player, and plops himself on the couch next to you, enough room that if you were to adjust, your arms may touch. Though, it wouldn’t be a new sensation.

_______

The movie goes by fast, and you're pleasantly surprised. It’s actually pretty good, and Richie surely seems to enjoy it. You caught him mouthing some of the lines every once in a while.

Eventually, the topic of sleeping comes up.

“I was uh, thinking I could pull the couch out, get some pillows, a blanket, and you could sleep on there,” he sighs, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh,” you were surprised he didn’t offer his bed.

“I know, it doesn’t look like much. But, trust me you don’t want my bed, it’s small… and old,” he remarked, embarrassed but sincere. 

You took his word for it, and took his offer, as well.

You quickly got ready in his bathroom, changing and doing your nighttime routine, constantly checking to see if he was walking by. You were somewhat curious what the man looked like in pajamas anyways.

Leaning back into the couch on your elbow, you lifted your chin to get a glimpse of Richie through his bedroom door. It was dark, save for the dim light that radiated out from a lamp in the corner. You saw a clear view of his silhouette, as he pulled the t-shirt off his back, his tank top pulling up slightly with the fabric. He faced the doorway, pulling the tank top over his stomach, and you shot down from his sight.

Clutching your blanket, you settled down into the plush sofa, legs sprawling out on its pull out function. Cool air from the vent just feet away blew over your body, and you were quickly aware just how thin the blanket that barely covered your ankles was.

“Richie?” you called out in a hushed yell. 

“I would like another blanket please” 

“Yeah, sure hun,” he calls back, and the sound of shuffling blankets and feet on cold tile follows.

He lays a blanket over you, tucking it lightly at your side, and you smile lightly.

“Thank you,”

He smiled back, and nodded, clearly groggy.

Maybe a minute passed, as you tried to settle in again, and it was still cold.

You call out again.

“Rich, hey,”

“Hm?”

“I think I, I think I need another blanket, it’s just a little cold,” you mumble, gritting your teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” 

He brings the blanket, he stops.

“You know, I can turn the heat up, might solve some of our problems,”

“No, no, don’t worry about that. I don’t want you to change that it’s fine, I just needed another blanket is all,” words spilled out like water from a swirling bucket.

“Whatever you say,” he hummed, amused but still exhausted.

“Thanks,”

Maybe five minutes pass, and It’s still cold, chilly even. And you want another blanket.

Against all reason and courtesy, you call out again, daring to bring him back.

“Richard…”

“Yeah babe?”

“It’s freezing in here, can I have another blanket?”

He sighs very loudly, and makes his way over, slower this time.

He stops in front of you, no blanket in hand, and looks down.

His fingers graze the side of the three blankets that wrap around you.

“Move over,”

You look at him, apprehensive and face blank, but then tentatively start to roll over, scooching your body closer to the front cushions of the couch.

You feel the weight of Richies knees dip down on the cushions, your back feeling a cool breeze as the blankets around you pull free for a moment. 

But the moment passes quickly, as the heat from Richie's body fills the cold and warms you from the outside in. He inches closer, and wraps an arm around you, clutching his fist at the blankets that already covered you.

“This warm enough?” he mumbled in your ear, and you would shiver at the sound if it weren’t for how hot you were.

“Mm, mhm,” you sighed, and curled further into yourself, closing the space between your back and Richie’s chest.

He let out a breathy chuckle, and squeezed you tighter.

You breathed in deeply, reveling in the proximity. As you breathed out, you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wiggled around a little and hummed, his heartbeat picking up a little. You wanted to push him further, you wanted to see his face.

In an instant, you nudged his hand away, and rolled back over to face him. 

You kept your eyes closed, feigning being tired (which you mostly were) but also just a little nervous to see his face… at what you imagined was just an inch away.

You felt his heart pick up even more, and you could barely hide your smile. 

He huffed, cool air hitting your forehead.

“You tired?”

“So tired,”

You nuzzled in closer, a little shameless at this point.

“You’re smiling,”

“Am I?”

“I bet I could get you to stop,”

“Oh I don’t know about tha-”

A light and ticklish sensation shocked your skin, as Richie thumbed his hands up the back of your shirt, fingers tracing your back. Your body arched instinctively, and your chest was flesh against his.

Your eyes opened wide, and by all means your smile was gone. You were shivering now.

Richie smiled at you cheekily, and let his hands move up your spine and to the place between your shoulder blades.

“Hmmm, you smiling now?”

“Fuck off,”

His hands moved back down, gliding over the skin above your pant line. You breathed in sharply, eyes closing again.

He let his hands sprawl out on your lower back, pulling you closer. 

You willed your eyes open, gaze meeting his. His eyes were dark and sultry, the look was immediately beguiling, and you found your eyes softening.

His gaze shifted downwards, fixed on your lips. You looked down at his chest, bashful, and closed your eyes again as you felt one of his hands leave your back and reach up towards your face.

His fingers found your chin, tilting your head back up, encouraging you to look.

Your eyes opened and your mouth parted, he inched closer slowly, head dipping down. And before you knew it, his lips were pressed chastly against yours.

You melted against his touch, breathing in the kiss, slowly, quietly, until you were so held together you had to part in order to breathe.

When you parted, you got a quick look at his face, lips red and cheeks even redder, before the fog clouded your mind and sight, and your lips were back against his. 

As his hand cupped your cheek, you went to hold his face, fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. Digits raced up and went to run through his short hair. It was rough on his face, but soft and coily by the nape of his neck.

He felt better than you imagined, his kiss felt better than you imagined. Warm and needy, you wanted to swallow him whole, he decided to take the liberty.

His tongue grazed over your teeth, and moved further, you couldn’t hold the low moan that grew and escaped from your throat.

At that, his fingers wrapped around the nape of where your scalp met your neck, perfectly squeezing the right sensitive spot.

Your hands reached out to clutch his tank top, pulling him even closer to you, where there wasn’t space to move anymore.

Richie decided to move, sliding you from your side to your back. You kept your fists held onto his shirt, pulling him on top of you in your adjusted position, he smiled into the kiss.

His hand found your side, riding up the fabric of your shirt so that half of it was off your body. You slowed, breathing in one last time, before you pulled away.

“Richie,” you sighed, and he opened his eyes, a look of increasing concern spread across his face.

“I do kind of… want to sleep,”

He stuck his tongue into the side of his cheek, and closed his eyes, lowering over to his side beside you.

“Come here, again,” he hummed, and you smiled a bit, before rolling back over to face him.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you in tight.

“I’m like yur… human blanket,” he sighed, and you chuckled a bit.

“Yeah, a really good one too,” you pushed your forehead into his chest, and he pressed his lips to the top of your skull.

Your eyes drifted shut.

[autismvault]

Hey! I'm the one with the Wayne dating a nerd girl request! I just wanted to let you know that I'd love to see what headcanons you've got for this ^^

Wayne & Ripper with a Nerd Reader

i decided to try and do ripper anyways! it was a fun challenge. i kept the interests very vague just so it’s more generalized :) i hope you like it!

Wayne

⁃ possibly one the most supportive guy you’ll never meet.

⁃ gives you his undivided attention when you talk about the things you enjoy. except for the occasional story about either a previous hockey game or something silly he did with raj which he always seems to be able to tie into about every conversation.

⁃ loves to buy you little knickknacks that remind him of you.

⁃ when you first met wayne, you briefly brought up a game you were obsessed with as a kid. after he told you that he’s never played the game, you thought nothing of the conversation and moved on with your life. a few weeks later, he approaches you to tell you everything he could remember from the game you raved about.

⁃ confused about what even prompted this in the first place, wayne quickly follows up by telling you he played the entirety of the game for you.

⁃ isn’t a ‘typical’ nerd but once anything, and i mean anything reminds him of hockey, he’s talking about it for the next 10 minutes at the very least. over time, he does this with your interests as well. the references don’t always make sense (they do in his head), you have to applaud him for being creative at the very least.

Ripper

⁃ has no idea how to form any kind of positive bond with someone other than his typical boy-friends. while he does avoid a ton of people on purpose, ripper has a hard time having genuine conversations with just about everyone.

⁃ he doesn’t really know how to communicate the fact that you two have something in common and he’d like to talk about it with you. everything just comes out bad. seriously. he sounds disingenuous and you can’t tell if he’s just telling a really bad joke.

⁃ after a ton of awkward encounters, ripper finally blurts it out. “I want to be your friend! I know it seems weird that I’d want to be around you but I really-“ ripper stops himself, realizing how aggressive he’s coming off.

⁃ before he can try and backtrack, you give him a simple ‘yes’ to avoid any more embarrassment for him.

⁃ you two have a lot in common! it’s a bit unexpected at first, but Ripper is a huge nerd! over time he gets more open about his interests, but it takes a while.

⁃ being a little.. socially unaware.. ripper genuinely believes he’s one of the coolest people ever. scared that his interests go against his oh-so-great reputation, he never tells anyone about things he genuinely enjoys. until he met you obviously!!

⁃ can be a bit of an inattentive listener at first. uncomfortable that you might ask what he likes, he’ll steer the conversations into completely different directions that had absolutely nothing to do with the original topic.

⁃ you know he tries nonetheless. when he’s genuinely comfortable with you, ohmygod ripper does not stop talking about the stuff he likes. you both connect over a ton of mutual interests which definitely helps a bunch.

⁃ loves to learn more about what makes you happy! he’s not a sweet talker by any means, but he definitely knows how to make you feel appreciated. similar to wayne, he’ll always buy you little knickknacks correlating to whatever you’re interested in at the time. he’s kind of the ultimate gift giver.

[norteigr-if]

hvit ravni, kalld ýtar a leíde minn sjeili i streid.

NORTEIGR is a 18+ CYOA passion project taking place in the titular northern country of Norteigr and draws heavy influence from both Norse mythology and history, while being set in its own reality altogether.

You're no one in this world. Your memories are gone and all that you carry is your name. A history forgotten, only to be returned in vague whispers in your dreams.

Fate, coincidence, or sheer luck brings you to live in Midjabód, a town where you have to rebuild your life while learning both about the unrest that grips the country, and your fellow Midjabó, for better or worse. The Jarl is preparing for war, and you're left to navigate your own identity, the mounting hostilities, interpersonal relationships, and mysterious fragments of your past life you no longer recognize. Will you remember in time, and what calamity will follow if you don't?

DEMO TBA • PINTEREST • RO PORTRAITS • PLAYLIST

Characters / RO's

Vargi Geirfinnsson (M)

He almost put an axe in your face when you first met. You're pretty sure he still wants to put an axe in your face now, but the Jarl's orders are to treat you like one of their own and what kind of son would he be if he went against his father's orders. This doesn't stop him from being hostile in private, which probably means you should keep to the more populated areas if you wish to have a proper conversation with him.

While he holds unbridled suspicion and dislike towards you, he's well respected in Midjabód, and one of their best warriors to boot. He has few friends, being that he's mostly regarded as the son of the Jarl, and the mightiest berserkir in their Vikingr ranks, nothing else. Destined to follow in his father's footsteps, Vargi does everything asked of him and has the hardest time with failure, and refuses to see failure as an option even in the face of death. Armed with a short temper and a two sharp axes, he's best be left alone.

Broki Hrekisson (M)

A talented bard and storyteller, Broki was the first one to welcome you to Midjabód with open arms. Your first true friend after losing your memories, and the trailblazer to your recovery, Broki brings you objects and trinkets like a little crow just to see if it stirs something forgotten in you. This makes him a mighty good pickpocket as well, but you have been sworn to secrecy about those shady mishaps.

The other Midjabó pin him as a local celebrity, and there's no place you can go without at least one friend or admirer showing up. Boastful at times, mischievous at others, Broki basks in the attention and is always chasing a new way to keep the masses entertained. Although his tongue is sharp, his blade isn't and he never truly learnt what was so appealing about becoming a Vikingr, and holds to his quill rather than a sword.

Svala Alfdottir (F)

Svala was the one to mend your body when you arrived in Midjabód. As one of the priestesses of the town, Svala is the most respected member of the community, and people clamor for her favor, for her to put in a good word to the Gods. She has kept herself close to you, worried yet intrigued by your story of loss and feeling of not belonging, and thus uses her privilege to bring you closer to your past, through magic, herbalism, and meditation.

When the deerskin headdress comes off and blood washed away, Svala is a very soft-spoken woman. While her voice carries prayers to heavens during rituals, she shifts completely when she is let roam free of her responsibilities. She prefers quiet times with her sisters, and nature is her respite. Once a mischievous little girl, Svala also knows all the nooks and crannies around Midjabód, be it the hidden cracks by the mountains, burrows in the woods. or forgotten caves by the ocean.

Randveig Ulfbjorndottir (F)

No one thought a retired berserkir would take in a stranger to live in their home, but Randveig was the one who gave you shelter when you had none. She doesn't take anything in return, only citing that everyone needs someone to take care of them in their darkest hour. At those words, your eyes usually go to her missing sword-hand, and you think you get it.

Although Randveig can be stoic and quiet, her wit could bring even the most studious bards to their knees. Her mind is sharper than the sword that cut her hand, and she is uncannily smug, if in a slightly terrifying way. Her Vikingr past is behind her, but at times of too much ale, you see a different side to her; A young woman dancing on tables with her fellow warriors, taken back to a time when she was allowed to do what she loved best, at least until she schools herself to be just a tavern owner once again.

[josefavomjaaga]

Hello, dear Josefa ✨

I hope you are doing well!

While Flower and myself were talking about our favourite couples of the napoleonic era, our conversation found its way to the Soults which we would love to group with couples like the Davouts or the Mortiers but can't because of the cheating on our monsieur le maréchal Soult's part.

With that in mind, we wondered: Do we know how madame Soult reacted to the cheating? How did her behaviour change through the first days, weeks, months after finding out? Did it even change?

We are aware that we don't know any details of the actual conversation where the couple discussed this matter but we still wanted to ask!

Thank you for your time and effort! c:

We do not really know, I fear. We do not even know when and how exactly she learned about Soult's little secondary Spanish family. It is quite possible that it did not come completely unexpected anymore, as people in Paris had been gossipping about Soult's alleged infidelities ever since 1810, and in one of his 1811 letters Soult kind of had admitted to a marital misstep.

If I remember correctly, Soult finally was granted permission to leave Spain by mid-February 1813, and could leave at the beginning of March. On his way through Southern France he took the occasion to go see his old mother in Saint-Amans, whom he originally had wanted to visit four years earlier, on his way into Spain. I do not remember (I'm not even sure if it is clear) if Louise and the kids already met with him in Saint-Amans or if they waited for him in Paris but I suspect they went to Saint-Amans and from there back to the capital that Soult reached at the beginning of April. He soon had to leave again, this time with Napoleon to Germany, on the 1813 campaign, and on 12 April he already gave full powers in all matters to his wife so she could handle affairs during his absence.

Did she at this point already know about the full extent of these affairs? It's likely, but we do not have any real clue.

She must have known by late June 1813, however (interestingly, that's the same time when, many miles away, Maria de la Paz Baylèn and her little baby son leave Spain and enter France). We know that because Soult in his letter fom 23 June at least vaguely hints at how hurt Louise must have been by his confessions. He invites her to come to meet with him at Dresden with their children, despite the fact that [...]

you will not be lodged very well, but you will be with me, your sorrows will cease, your cheerfulness will return, and you will be certain that, despite everything that has happened, you have never ceased to be tenderly loved [...]

"Despite everything that has happened" clearly means that by that point, Louise is fully aware of the existence of Maria de la Paz and her baby. And she had taken it badly, as was to be expected. Obviously, she doubted Soult's love for her, and she may have considered taking further steps, or at least that's something Soult feared:

I'm not talking about the other feelings, for nothing could add to their strength other than the step you're taking right now.

(All emphasis by me)

And then he continues to implore her to come and sit down with him and talk it all over.

So, obviously lots of trouble in honeymoon land. From the looks of it, I'd say Louise did not so much react with fury, but rather turned sad and depressed - which probably hit Soult far more. Her fury she apparently kept in stock for one French emperor to be used when she heard that her husband was about to be sent back to Spain again. But that's a different story 😁.

Thank you for the question, and I hope this kind of suffices, as it seems to be all information there is. (All quotes from N. Gotteri, "Le Maréchal Soult", as usual.)

[thatonebirdwrites]

Fanfic Writer Questions!

Thanks for the tag, @fazedlight

1- How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 19 works on AO3.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

Do y'all really want to know? Welp. Okay, since you asked.

According to the stats section of AO3, I have published 1,338,126 words on AO3. (Not including my recently deleted fic which was 23,000-ish words).

A million of those words are Korrasami fics.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Korrasami (The Legend of Korra) and Supercorp (Supergirl - Arrowverse).

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Confession (Supercorp) at 854 kudos, which was a rewrite of the end of Season 4.

You are the only one that sees me, trusts me, and believes in me (Supercorp) at 411 kudos, which is a one-shot of Kara telling Lena the truth after Lena is poisoned in Season 3.

Unraveling Realities (Supercorp and sequel to Confession) at 346 kudos, which is a rewrite of Season 5. (Includes Lena's Great Irish Quest and is not a rift fic).

Shared Moments: Book 2 - Spirits (Korrasami) at 329 kudos, and is a rewrite of The Legend of Korra Book 2. I continue this series all the way through to Book 4 (Books 1 through 3 are completed, I'm working on Book 3.5 and 4).

Terminal Velocity, Texts, and Cats (Supercorp) at 215 kudos, and is the story of Lena and Kara's friendship/relationship from season 2 through start of Season 6 (no Totem storyline tho) as told through texts, cats, and carefully woven short scenes. It's a one-shot technically.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes. I will gladly talk to folks in the comments and even have conversations with people! I enjoy it. I do my best to thank commenters too, though it may take me a bit to answer these days.

However, when people shit on my fiction, I learned my lesson, and no longer fall for that trap.

But overall most comments are pleasant and lovely. I love hearing from readers! Feel free to share how you feel and your thoughts on the story.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I tend toward happy endings to be honest, but I'd say the angstiest ending was Shared Moments: Book 3 - Change (Korrasami) because there's no avoiding the angst there. I kept the story arc of Book 3 close to the original, so for folks that have seen TLOK, they know how angst heavy the end of Book 3 is.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of them? Well, except for Book 3 - Change and Book 3.5 - The Mirror. Those aren't happy per se. They are hopeful, yes, but not happy. All other fics have a happy ending.

Maybe Asami's Hidden Box of Letters and Poetry? It's a cute one-shot of Asami and Korra being absolutely adorable, and it ends with them being happy and kissing, so yeah. Probably the happiest?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Ugh, yeah. Weirdly enough I got the most hate on my Korrasami fics, where a few readers would write some really, really cruel things. Or rant about what they wanted me to write. Or engage in fights with other commenters (yes, this happened on the big finale of Book 3 - Change, where the ableist comments squared off with the kind commenters). Or the editor commenter who gave unasked for and unwanted "editing" of chapters.

Strangely enough, I have only had one mean commenter in the Supercorp fandom, and that poster was someone that other commenters warned me about and told me to disregard.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Not really? I will write a vague sex scene here and there -- mostly in the Korrasami fics (my Shared Moments series). I haven't gotten to any sex scenes in the Supercorp fics though a few are coming up in Unraveling Realities.

I try to capture the emotion of the scene rather than describing the sex in detail. I honestly don't feel qualified to write a smut scene, which is why I prefer this approach.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I wrote a silly crossover of Supergirl and The Legend of Korra. It's on Tumblr somewhere -- see my pinned post, I think I linked it there.

I do have a WIP, where Lena builds a multiverse portal only for it to open in the Avatarverse, and her and Kara accidentally end up stuck in Asami and Korra's world. So then Korra and Asami have to help them build a portal and find their way home again. I don't know if I'll ever finish it.

I also have a Star Wars Korrasami WIP. This one involves Asami and Korra assisting in the Battle of Endor with Luke, Leia, Han, and crew. They then help with the building of the Republic.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes, I was pissed. Please don't do that.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of. If anyone wants to translate one of my fics, let me know. I'm willing to talk shop.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

@nottawriter and I are working on a Supercorp fic, though it's not published. It's where Lena and her daughter meet Kara, who is their home inspector.

Beyond that, I've only ever co-written original fiction. My friend, Raveneye and I wrote an original science fiction story. It was written in the form of "letters," where one person was on the space station (Raveneye's character) and one person on the alien planet (my character).

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

Korrasami. Supercorp is a close second.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I will finish all my WIPs someday!! Unless I die before that happens. *knocks on wood* But I guess the Supergirl/TLOK crossover is least likely to ever be finished.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Worldbuilding and immersion of reader in the five senses.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Pacing. Honestly. pacing makes me anxious, and I'm always convinced I'll fuck it up, especially in longer works. (And yet, I write mostly longer works. Go figure).

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I have done this. Spanish and Irish in particular. (Kryptonian as well now that I think about it). I include translations in the end-notes.

I do it mostly for the reader to feel the same emotions as the POV character who struggles to understand the other language. Does this trick work? So far comments seem to imply yes? But who knows?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Korrasami.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

I have to pick one??? I don't know actually.

I'm pretty proud of my rewrite of Book 2 - Spirits and Book 3 - Change. I'm also proud of Confession, especially how I reworked Lena's role in the Red Daughter fight scenes.

But I like all my fics equally well to be honest. I mean why write them otherwise?

For Tags... ummmmmm.

I have no idea who has done this and who hasn't? If you have done this, apologies for the tag. Let me know and I'll go read your version. @thecasualqueer, @nottawriter, any of my mutuals, and anyone else who wants to play.

[ennas-aesthetic]

Read your newest part of the retired!dream, loved it! Dream finally knowing what it feels to be truly loved was so heartwarming🥺. I'm a bit lost though, when did Dream get that scar? He said he kept it but I don't remember in the comics him getting injured

Aaaw thank you! I put Dream through the wringer in my last fic, so I guess he deserves the happiness he gets in this AU. :'DD

Re: the scar on Morpheus' cheek, that's actually a GREAT question, but I'm afraid we're going into spoiler territory for this one. So this is a fair warning to anyone and everyone who might see this and not want the Sandman Comics spoiled. Spoilers Zone from here on out:

You're sorta correct on Morpheus never getting injured in the comics. The Endless are more than humans, more than gods. It would take an entirely eldritch and primordial being to hurt the Seven enough to make them bleed.

Which is why the one time Endless blood WAS SPILT, it was both blood-curdling and terrifying, because YOU KNOW that it is a grievous threat indeed.

Dream gets the scar on his cheek during The Kindly Ones (volume 9). When he goes to Nuala after she called him for a boon, the Furies through Lyta Hall were able to enter the Dreaming so they may destroy it. After he comes back, Dream confronts them and demands them to leave; in retaliation they struck him with their barbed scorpion whip on his cheek.

Below is what the scar looks like up close.

In the next few panels Lucien actually asks him if he would be keeping the scar. In turn he says this:

And (hoooo boy prepare yourselves for this one) until his last conversation with Death, you can actually see that Dream still DOES have the scar here. He has it until he... well, you know what happens after this conversation.

The scar is quite significant arc-wise for Dream. In the panels above he says that Alianora foretold that he would receive two scars: one on the cheek, one on the heart, the way he did to her. This is expounded on in Sandman: Overture, where Alianora, his former lover, got a scar on her cheek when she defended and rescued Dream from the two gods who held him prisoner. (Of course, the scar in her heart was when Dream tire of her and grew cold and distant. Seriously, if anyone reading this hasn't read Overture yet, check it out. It'll reframe everything you know about the original comics in the best, most heart-breaking way possible.)

In the AU, while I'm keeping the details of HOW Dream gets to walk away very vague, I'd like to think that most of the events during The Kindly Ones STILL happened. I'd also like to think he kept the scar because while his self-destructive spiral was averted, Dream still hasn't fully healed and processed his issues, and thus considers it to be a literal symbol of self-flagellation. He is fully capable of erasing it, but it remaining there is a choice he made.

What he hasn't calculated is that people will be kind and caring and concerned. What he hasnt calculated is that being human means being subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known, to reap the rewards of being loved. 😌

Hope that answers your question! :DD

[peninkwrites]

Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. Ch 2 of ?

Ranboo has been going blind his whole life.

Ch 1

Ch 3

crossposted to ao3

Ranboo knows blindness is inevitable.  He’s known this since he was small.  His mothers had never said it to him directly, but it seems maybe they regretted having a child who was only half enderman.  How could they have known he would inherit his other half’s tear ducts?  They did their very best to raise a child who wouldn’t cry, but they were fighting an impossible battle.  The early years were the worst.  Ranboo lost maybe a quarter of his vision in the first six years of his life.  Six was old enough to hold back, to refuse tears through skinned knees and childish insults and getting lost.  It took him a few years more to realize that never crying would have a different toll.  Ranboo kept his emotions clutched carefully to his chest, letting them pour free not in burning salt, but ink.

Eventually it became clear that their forgetfulness went beyond the ordinary, and his book began to serve a different purpose.

Not that Ranboo remembers these finite details, things like his mothers, his childhood, where he is from.  Nor is he really sure how he arrived on the SMP, only with the vague goal of winning an election.  He remembers a few essentials kept carefully in his memory book.  Tears burn, they make his vision worse, and one day he will go blind.  Crying will hasten the process, and even as that scares him, he cannot let it scare him enough that tears fall.

So he doesn’t cry.  First he meets Niki, whose voice is soft and kind and reassuring, and she shows him around the server.  He follows her closely, and she points out different structures and places and Ranboo pretends to perceive them.  He pretends there isn’t a fog over his vision, confining his view to the prime path and a bit beyond that, depending on the brightness of the sun that day.  His peripheral is worse, but as long as he’s looking at something head on, something close enough, he can see it generally.  Niki he will remember by voice, by her outline, her hair, but not really her face.  He would have to get way too close to see what she really looks like, but he knows enough to recognize her.  He can remember people relatively well by name and vague appearance, it’s who they are, the details of what they have done together, that’s where things get fuzzy just like his vision.

This was not ideal, as the next person he met, the current president, introduces himself and rather curtly tells him:  “I’m pretty much totally deaf, so, sorry if I’m not much for conversation.”

“Oh,” Ranboo had briefly had no clue what to say, before some impulse built on the sound of this boy’s voice, his small stature, wearing a suit, by the looks of it, he felt inclined to show a little faith.  “I’m… I’m kinda blind, so,” he mumbled.

“Um, like I said, man.  I can’t hear, so.  Dunno what you just said.”

Ranboo’s cheeks flushed green and red, fumbling for his memory book and flipping to the back of it.

I’m a little blind, so.  I don’t think I’ll be very good at sign language.

He holds it out to Tubbo, who frowns at the page, reading slowly.

Instead of irritation, he laughs.  “I mean, that works out!  Sort of.  Maybe not, but, how about I help you with the seeing bit, and you can… you could be my minutes man!  If you’d like.”

“Minutes-?” Ranboo stops, going back to the page.  Minutes man?

“Yeah!  If you want, you could write down the stuff we talk about in meetings, so if I have a hard time keeping up, I can still keep track of stuff,” Tubbo says brightly.  Ranboo knows he’s staring at him.  “So, is that why..?” Tubbo’s hand goes to his own face, which Ranboo notes is slightly discolored.  “Sorry, I shouldn’t…”

“Oh! The scars?” Ranboo brushes against his own cheeks, and the deep, red divots along the corner of his eye.  “It’s okay,” Ranboo shrugs, hoping that’s reassurance enough.

“I’ve got some pretty gristly scars too, dunno if you can tell,” Tubbo says.

“Not really,” Ranboo shakes his head, and then shrugs.  He should really just write.

“Huh, you can’t even see that?” Tubbo says unthinkingly.   “Sorry, that was, well, not very tactful of me.  If you want to, I could like, I dunno,” Tubbo pauses, thoughtful  “I could describe stuff?  If that would help?”

“Uh, yeah!  Yeah, I mean, I–” Ranboo nods and starts talking before remembering, returning to his book.

I’d like to be the minutes man. I was actually planning on running in the next election, so it would be cool to work with you.  And that might be nice. If you described stuff sometimes.  I don’t know I’ve never tried that.

Tubbo reads, and sounds surprised.  “Oh!  You’re planning on running, then, Rambo?”

Ranboo almost goes to correct him, but can’t bring himself to, endeared.

“Right, well, least I can do is show you around!  Or, show you what I can,” Tubbo says sheepishly.  “How bad is your vision?  You don’t have glasses, you know?  Feel like that could help a bit.”

Ranboo tries to remember the explanation.  He doesn’t have glasses.  Because..?  Another quick scribble on the page.

I don’t really remember why.  I think it might have to do with the different types of eyes?  I’m not really sure.

“Huh.  Well, if you want, we could see about getting you glasses.  My friend Wil–” Tubbo stops, and Ranboo cannot see that his expression is stricken.  Tubbo continues, and Ranboo notices the slight tremor in his voice.  “My friend Wilbur.  He wore glasses.  So, I’m sure we could get you some as well.”

Ranboo hesitates, writing slowly.

thank you. That would be nice.  Maybe it would help.

my vision is pretty bad.  I can’t see far over distances, it gets all foggy, and my peripheral is almost nonexistent.  And things are always a little blurry unless you’re right in front of my face.

Tubbo reads it slowly and carefully, murmuring the words as he does so, maybe meant to be inaudibly, but Ranboo can hear him.  “I am also dyslexic, so, the reading stuff is a bit slow for me.”

Ranboo just nods.

“Well then, Rambo.  I will give you a specialty tour of New L’Manberg!” Tubbo had originally wanted to take him to the top of the hill, to look out over the city, but he now knows that wouldn’t exactly be much use, so instead he takes him over to the platforms.

“I built this recently,” Tubbo puts a fond hand on one of the support posts.  “Made it out of spruce, and look, can you see how new it is?”  He motions Ranboo closer.

Ranboo follows, having to crouch down, but once he does, he sees the grain in the wood, he sees the fresh bark still left on the logs and the new metal bolts holding it all together.  “You built–” Ranboo quickly course corrects.

you built all this?

Tubbo stares at the page, always a delay, but not that Ranboo minds.  When Tubbo has to lean in to read it, Ranboo can see a bit more of his face.  “Yeah, I did!  With some help from the rest of the cabinet, and… and from Ghostbur.”

it's really cool

Tubbo reads it, and for a second Ranboo thinks he might be blushing, but then Tubbo is too far for him to tell.

“Right, now over here, we’ve got a few houses set up.  This one here,” Tubbo all but escorts him to the front door.  “It’s the one to the left of the stairs up.  It’s where Phil lives.  You’ll like Phil!  He’s really great.”

Ranboo nods, and he is startled when Tubbo takes his hand, pulling him along to the next doorway.

“This house is unoccupied at the moment.  The door is also spruce, and we’ve even placed flower boxes outside!  The house is a bit small, but it has two stories.  And I dunno if you know this, but the whole city is on stilts right now.  Over a big crater.  The plan is to hopefully refill it with rain water, there’s already some starting to collect, and make it a little less… rough,” Tubbo actually guides his hand to the flower boxes, so he can touch the dirt, so he’s close enough to see the flowers clearly, and Ranboo, if he weren’t so repressed, thinks he might have cried.  Tubbo doesn’t seem to notice, moving along.  “And here’s the flag!  The flag for New L’Manberg.  Maybe I can find you an old flag and show you that one too.  The history is important, you know?”  Once more, Tubbo hands the cloth to Ranboo, so he can feel its material, and hold it up close enough he can see the colors and the heart stitched on its surface.

It’s pretty

“Thank you!  I tried, you know?” Tubbo sounds a little bashful.  “Um, maybe it could be your house!  You’ll need to have a house here if you want to run in the elections.”

yeah!

Tubbo opens the doors to the house.  “Check out the inside!  It’s got barrels for storage, and a crafting table already set up, and a ladder up to the second floor.”

Ranboo can see the outline of the walls, and the second floor, he can guess where the ladder is from how it stands out distinctly to the cobblestone.  He can see the lanterns hanging from the ceiling from the harsh streaks they leave across his eyesight.  Ranboo also finds his vision does better in the dark.  Outside in the sun, the fog gets worse.

“You’d have to buy it.”

Ranboo scribbles faster.  Wait how do I do that??

Tubbo laughs, and Ranboo wants to make him laugh again.  “You’d have to talk to Ghostbur.  Don’t worry, he won’t charge you an arm and a leg for it or anything.”

Ranboo nods.

“And down here we have market stalls built!  No one is selling anything at the moment, but Ghostbur has decorated each one with wool and these… these decorative panel things, um, banners!  Lots of different patterns and things,” Tubbo nods him over to one of the stalls so Ranboo can see the detailed weave.  Tubbo walks to the next stall, and then the next, pausing at each so he can see the decorations.

“Alright, come on.  Stick close to me.  There are railings around the main platform, but we haven’t finished adding them to the sides really yet, or the stairs.”

I can see the railings and where the edge drops off.  I just can’t see far away or details unless it’s really close.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to… to patronize or assume or anything.”

it’s ok! thanks tho

“No problem, bossman!  Up here, this is Karl’s house.  I’m sure you can hear the llama?” Tubbo says this more hesitantly.  “There’s also bright red flowers.”

yeah!  The flowers are nice.  You’re right the llama is loud.  So is the redstone track.

“Oh, right, the redstone!” Tubbo stares at the track perhaps thoughtfully.  “Forgot about that,” he murmurs, and Ranboo isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear him or not.  “Um, back over here is Quackity’s house.  It’s very… open concept at the minute.  All those big gaps over there?” Tubbo points to a large opening in the far wall.  “There’s no glass in there yet, so it’s very… airy.”

Ranboo nods.

“Right, and over his Fundy’s house, it’s across this bridge here,” Tubbo leads the way.  “And… he’s got blue carpet!” Tubbo actually sits on the floor in his fancy suit, and brushes through the woven wool.

Ranboo can see the color, he knows it’s carpet, he doesn’t actually need to know what it feels like, but Tubbo is trying so hard, so Ranboo sits beside him and threads through the wool.  Ranboo smiles.  He glances up to Tubbo’s face and is unsettled to find that he’s most likely staring at him.  He hopes Tubbo isn’t looking him in the eye.  Even if Ranboo can’t tell, he doesn’t like the thought very much.

“Right, um, anyway.  Down here is the rest of Fundy’s house.  His house is very nice, it’s properly furnished, lots of that blue carpet,” Tubbo describes it as they go.  “And outside here, under the crane, this is Ghostbur’s property.  It’s not all under water, he just… he sort of lives next to the sewers––storm drains, to be clear, nothing gross.”  Tubbo heads down into the water and Ranboo hesitates.

He fumbles with the edge of his iron armor.  He should be safe enough to make it down there.  Ranboo can’t help but cover his eyes as he follows.

“You… you alright?” Tubbo asks carefully.

“Y-Yeah!” Ranboo quickly nods, relieved to find his face is dry.  He needs to have more faith in his enchantments, and once he gets some netherite, he shouldn't have to worry about water anymore.

“Um, well, in here is Ghostbur’s house.  His thing is making invis potions, as you can tell.  Reeks of blaze powder,” Tubbo flips through barrels of supplies.  “And in here is his library…”

So it follows.

Tubbo shows him everything, every little thing close enough, at least.  He gives him things to feel, and he points out sounds he knows should be there even if he can’t hear them anymore himself, and Ranboo cannot describe the feeling it brings him to follow Tubbo.  It’s not merely caring, it’s the fact that in some way, Tubbo understands.  He won’t realize for a long time that that was where he started to fall in love.

Next, he follows around Tommy, who is an explosion of noise and energy and his hands always a flurry of motion that Ranboo cannot quite make out.  He does his best not to reveal how little he can see.  He doesn’t know Tommy well enough for that; Tubbo’s own confession had felt like enough.  When Tommy questions Ranboo accidentally hitting him––Ranboo hadn’t noticed Tommy out of the corner of his eye until Tommy was right there, he’d reached out to stop him, severely misjudged the distance, and apparently hit Tommy––Ranboo fumbles an explanation about wanting to hand him a flower.  He cannot read Tommy’s hazy expression as he says, “y’like flowers, Ranboo?” but since Tommy continues to talk to him, asks Ranboo to walk with him, he assumes Tommy wasn’t offended.

Ranboo agrees to join Tommy in his mischief.  He doesn’t realize the house is burning until he smells smoke, and Tommy drags him away from harsh yellow light and heat muttering a fierce string of curse words.  He hisses to Ranboo as they walk quickly up the prime path, “we saw nothing, got it?  We saw nothing.”

And Ranboo nods and deigns not to tell Tommy how true that is.

When they are dragged to a court house, Ranboo doesn’t remember what happened.  He remembers going somewhere with Tommy, he remembers Tommy’s panic, but he doesn’t grasp the details.  He doesn’t see Tommy’s face, but hears him defend him, and support him when he explains why he can’t remember.

So Ranboo is let go, and Tommy isn’t.

And it only gets worse from there.

Ranboo is overwhelmed by how everyone starts to panic, but he told Tubbo he would follow him, that he would try to help, so he does, and he tries to keep the minutes.