#[ sort of! only briefly referenced ]

[notlongtolove]

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

​​“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for. 

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+. 

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.” 

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through. 

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.” 

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” 

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.” 

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside. 

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking. 

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide. 

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that…  that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side. 

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you. 

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences. 

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.” 

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable. 

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty. 

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that." 

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature. 

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again. 

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much. 

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’. 

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course. 

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him. 

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out. 

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.” 

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh. 

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.” 

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.” 

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much. 

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers. 

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A. 

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you. 

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him. 

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Thirty

Couple of things - I've been going through it lately and just wanted to get this bit out. I do have more planned but I need a break after this. The Carpenters song referenced is 'all you get from love is a love song' and if you don't know it you can give it a listen and then you'll get the 'broken arm' joke.

They squish together into the phone booth, Steve hitting the numbers almost on reflex now, going through the motions of briefly speaking to Robin’s mom.

He angles the receiver so that Eddie can hear too, their cheeks practically touching, “Steve! Chrissy’s here-”

“Why?” Eddie cuts her off immediately, “not time to close the shop,” he almost sounds a little critical when he says it, making Steve smile.

“I know I know,” Chrissy says, “but he came back!”

“So we waited for him to leave, and we followed him,” Robin adds enthusiastically.

If Steve couldn’t hear for himself that they’re both at Robin’s place, and they’re both absolutely fine, he’d be panicking now, maybe he kind of is, because he’s sort of snippy when he says, “Robin what the fuck, it’s not safe, you two aren’t- you’re not Cagney and Lacy for fucks sake.”

“Steve it’s fine,” Chrissy tells him, “he went to Starcourt, so we went home and called Hopper right away.”

“Good,” Steve breathes a sigh of relief, “okay, so what now?”

“We don’t know,” Robin admits, “we’re just waiting to hear now. See what happens?”

“Okay we could...Eddie, you want to kill some time in town, and we can call again later?”

“Yeah�� Eddie pulls back his sleeve to check his princess watch, “...lunch. And shopping?”

“Sure thing baby.”

Chrissy squeaks down the phone, “oh you’re both just too cute together.”

“Oh my god don’t encourage them.”

“Oh!” Chissy starts, “I met El and all the rest of the kids, isn’t she just, so cool? She made some pens float around!”

“El is the fewest bad kid. She’s quiet,” Eddie agrees, but Steve is absolutely certain Eddie’s warmed to the kids a lot over the last couple of months, so he knows Eddie doesn’t really mean it like that.

“Least,” Steve corrects softly, “she’s the least bad. Probably.”

“Best of a bad bunch?” Robin hazards.

“Maybe,” Eddie tells her, “we can come home soon?”

“Errrr…I mean, see what Hopper says, I guess? We might know later, but you guys shouldn’t come back today anyway, it’s a few hours drive, and you’ll need to pack up and everything, right?”

Steve frowns, as Eddie, very briefly, looks sad, “maybe tomorrow,” he says to Eddie more than the girls, “is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, “I...like the flower shop?”

“You miss it?”

“Yes, and Chrissy. Miss them. I know they’re not gone but...they’re not here.”

“Oh Eddie honey, I miss you too, okay? And when you get back you can come into work, there’s stuff to catch up on,” she whispers then, “Robin isn’t good with the flowers like you.”

“Hey! I’m trying my best here-” but she gives up, everyone else laughing over her.

The payphone starts to beep, “we’ll call later okay!”

Steve’s pretty sure Eddie’s jar will be empty again after today. He’s bought four more records, more Led Zeppelin, plus a Dio record because ‘Rainbow in the Dark’ was playing when they walked in and Eddie really liked it. Steve absolutely certain that the girl with a green Mohawk wearing a Dio shirt sealed the deal, but he's not going to tease Eddie about it.

Eddie comes out of the changing room of the second hand clothes store, showing Steve the jeans he’s trying on. He’s been making do all this time with Steve’s draw string sweats and jeans with a very cinched in belt, so it’s definitely time for Eddie to choose his own things but...Steve wasn’t expecting Eddie to choose anything quite so tight.

“Stevie? What do you think?”

Steve swallows thickly before he answers, he swears Eddie’s only getting away with wearing them because his dicks on the inside, the thing would get strangled otherwise, “you look really good Eds. You like those ones?”

“Yes. Black, like my tail. And look,” Eddie scratches at the ripped fabric, his knees on display, “see my knees. I like to see them, they’re new.”

Steve bites his lips briefly to suppress the chuckle, “you should definitely be proud of those knees, you did grow them yourself.”

Steve frowns at the sight of Eddie in a leather jacket; it’s so very far removed from everything he’s been wearing. It’s so different from all of Steve’s clothes, but Steve can’t deny he’s making it work. It definitely suits the look Eddie’s starting to cultivate. He’s very much leaning towards darker colors, and he was really pleased when he turned up a Led Zeppelin tee shirt out of a pile.

The difference between the Eddie that comes out of the dressing room and the Eddie that went in is startling, Steve’s pullovers and polos all tend to be lighter colors, so all the black is very different.

“You like it?”

“I mean, as long as you like it, sure, you’re the one who has to wear it. But yeah, yeah I do like it. You look good.”

Steve has to stand by while Eddie rummages across a tray of cheap jewellery, “they’ll turn your fingers green,” he warns vaguely. Eddie shrugs, probably not understanding what Steve means as he tries things on, he likes the shiny silver ones that definitely are not silver, “you’re such a magpie.”

Eddie chooses two chunky rings that are so cheap he will get change from his last five dollars, but he clearly likes how they look on his fingers; he doesn’t even take them off to pay for them. Steve knows he’s just here to hold the bags, but he doesn’t mind. Eddie’s worked hard for this money, he should spend it on the things he wants.

Steve meanders through the store, it’s mostly second hand furniture and ‘antiques’, but Steve figures that term is being used very, very loosely. As near as Steve can tell it mostly looks like house clearances and that sort of thing. He spends a little while at the glass cabinets, staring at all the little figurines. 'Dust gatherers,' his dad calls them. There’s some tiny little jade ones, big tall porcelain ones and everything in between.

He’s distracted away from them by the sound of twanging. Bad, uneven twanging on an acoustic guitar. Steve follows the sound, finding Eddie just fiddling with the strings, the guitar still lying on it’s back. It doesn’t have a case, and looks pretty beat to hell to Steve, covered in stickers and all scratched up, but Eddie is entertained by the noises, and he looks up, smiling, “you going to buy it?”

Eddie shakes his head, “not enough left.”

“How much are you short?”

Eddie checks his pocket, and then the little label hanging from the neck, “six dollars?” he hazards.

“Okay, well, I’ve got four left on me, so maybe you can haggle the guy down.”

“I’ll try,” Eddie grins big, taking the change from Steve.

They’ve dropped everything off at the car and, with nothing left to do to kill any more time, they head back to the phone and smush into the booth together.

“He wasn’t there when Hopper got there,” Robin tells them, and Steve sighs, disappointed, “but! El looked into my head real quick, and she says he’s called Doctor Owens. She knew who he was, and she says he’s...nice.”

“Nice,” Steve repeats, deadpan, “a man who facilitated experiments on little kids. Nice.”

“Well...I mean maybe as nice as he could be given the circumstances. I got the impression he never...he wasn’t cruel about it. If you know what I mean.”

“I guess,” Steve hazards, “Eddie?”

Next to him, Eddie’s kind of staring into space, frowning, “Owens. Yes. Remember that word, maybe?”

“Okay. Okay, so what are they doing now Robs?”

“Well, Hoppers keeping an eye out and he’s going to try the Motel right now, but if he’s not there he’s going to start doing drive bys of Starcourt and stuff, and hopefully he turns up,” Steve can hear in her voice that she's shrugging, “but Hopper says since no one else is asking any questions, he’s hopeful that it’s just this guy working alone, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah okay.”

Eddie listens to his new record while Steve makes dinner. He has his guitar over his lap, and occasionally plays a note or two. He understood the mechanics of it already, but Steve figures he must have seen someone with a guitar on TV at some point.

Steve’s absorbed in what he’s doing, and doesn’t notice at first that the twanging noises have stopped. The record ends, but it feels like it’s been a long time of quiet, and Steve looks over to find Eddie, expecting him to be flipping it.

He isn’t.

Steve turns off the stove, covering the two pots he’s been carefully nursing. Eddie isn’t in the cabin; Steve finds him on the dock. He’s just...standing there, in the near dark. Just...staring out across the lake.

“Eddie? You okay?”

Eddie looks around again, “heard something. Had to check it’s safe.”

“You could have said,” Steve comes up close, wrapping a hand around Eddie’s hip. Eddie turns in reflexively, looking for a quick, soft kiss, which Steve is happy to give.

“Think the trees look like The Upside Down.”

“Do you?” Steve looks around; all the trees have leaves on, they’re dense and alive and nothing like the dead twisted things that litter The Upside Down, “I don’t think they do.”

Wind moves through the trees, the susurration of leaves is kind of loud, “sounds like bats. Many many bats,” Eddie shifts closer, pressing himself against Steve.

“You okay?”

“I don’t...I think I don’t like it here.”

“Oh...well,” Steve makes a decision, “since they’re pretty sure it’s just the Owens guy, how about we go home tomorrow? I mean, you might not be able to go to work and stuff until they find him-”

“Yes. Home tomorrow.”

Steve looks around again, tries to see it through Eddie’s eyes. Tries to see what reminds him so much of The Upside Down. Maybe the panic attack in the shower knocked some stuff loose; Steve doesn’t know. Eddie’s been making do with strip washing from the bathroom sink the last couple of nights, and that’s been fine but not ideal. Eddie’s hair needs a wash.

“Okay, we’ll call when we go through town, okay, let them know?”

“Yes...take my book back.”

“You finished it?”

“Almost.”

“Lets go inside, I can finish dinner and you can tell me what it’s about?”

“So they’re...stealing treasure from a dragon?” Eddie nods, his mouth full of dinner. “Okay, fair enough.”

Eddie swallows, “I want to read The Lord of The Rings.”

“Okay, I’m sure we can get it at the library.”

“You promise dragons aren’t real?”

“Yup. Definitely not real, and there’s no hobbits or wizards or- or elves or any of that stuff. And magic isn’t real- well. That kind of magic isn’t real, at least,” Eddie frowns like the book committed a crime.

“But...dinosaurs. Dinosaurs were definitely real, you have those in your book?”

“Yes...dragons can fly though. And breathe fire.”

“Well...some dinosaurs could fly, and they were big like a dragon, some of them.”

“Really?” Eddie’s eyes go wide, “I thought from my book like...cow sized?”

“Hu uh,” Eddie excitement is actually palpable, “definitely a dinosaur book next, some of them were like...as tall as trees,” Steve doesn’t actually know, he was most definitely not a dinosaur kid, but he’s pretty sure at least some of them were tall like that.

“All the time, used to do this. When I had a tail,” Eddie’s voice is muffled where he’s bent over the kitchen sink.

“Yeah...I guess I did,” and it’s true, Steve was washing Eddie’s hair pretty much every other day when Eddie still had a tail. He feels the back of Eddie’s head almost reflexively at the memory, following the ghostly, barely there ridges with his fingers through the suds, “it’s getting so long again already.”

“Good. El said Max makes nice braids when it’s long enough.”

Steve snorts a laugh, “oh yeah? That’s going to look great, now eyes and mouth closed, I’m gonna’ rinse.”

Eddie has his head resting on Steve’s tummy while Steve plays with his hair, hand buried in his curls, massaging his scalp, “what you doing baby?”

“Hear.”

“Hear? Oh what, you’re listening?”

“Listening to Stevie’s inside.”

“Anything interesting?”

Eddie nods, his cheek dragging against Steve’s skin, “funny tummy noises. And bumping.”

“Bumping? Oh, beating, my heart right?”

“Yeah. Stevie, we can definitely go home tomorrow?”

“Sure thing babe, we can get packed up in the morning,” Steve yawns, “you want to go to sleep?”

“Maybe. There’s bad dreams here.”

Steve blinks his eyes open to look down, a weird shiver raising goosebumps on his arms, all the way down to where his hand is still buried in Eddie’s hair. Eddie didn’t have to put that quite so creepily. “I think it’s just...maybe it reminds you of things here, so your mind is kind playing tricks on you a little? There’s nothing bad here baby, I promise. What do you think?”

“The water reminds me of Barb.”

Steve frowns, “Barb? How do you know about Barb?” Under Steve’s hand, something crawls unpleasantly beneath Eddie’s skin.

Eddie shrugs, “Nancy told me you killed her.”

“Stevie!” Steve fights, briefly, confused. “Stevie love, it’s okay. Bad dream.”

Steve’s kind of sweaty and panting, but he quickly realizes that it’s Eddie whose holding him, so he quits moving, “Jesus Christ,” he breathes out slowly, trying to calm himself down, “I’m fine. Thanks. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“You want to tell me? Here, water.” Steve takes the glass, sipping it carefully. He can feel the cool water go down, grounding him.

Steve has no desire whatsoever to talk about it, so he deflects, “what time is it?”

“Five?” Eddie leans over, checking his watch before putting it back, “half five.”

“I miss you saying five and a half, it was cute.”

“I can say five and a half,” Eddie takes the glass again before snuggling in.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Already awake...bad dreams.”

“Fucking hell. We need to go home just so we can get a good nights sleep. What did you dream about?”

“You. Lost you, in the trees...we were here but...Upside Down trees? I tried and tried to find you. Could hear you, ‘help help,’ really scared.”

“Maybe it is this place,” Steve settles down again, pulling Eddie close, “weird that we’re both having bad dreams right?”

“I don’t like it.”

“No but...lets just rest a little, and then breakfast and we can get packed up, okay?”

“Okay, Stevie love.”

Eddie waits outside the phone booth, leaning against the car where it sits parked by the curb. Steve calls Family Video today, knowing that Robs should be at work, “hey Bird-”

“He got him! Hopper! He got the Owens guy!”

Steve feels himself relax, one less thing to worry about, “good. Good, we’re coming home.”

“Okay, Hopper does think it was just this guy. He was staying at the Motel, Hop had to wait around a bit, like proper stake out!! But he did get him. Said he couldn’t find any evidence of him like, working with other people, and El’s going to talk to him or something. Make sure. I’m not sure about that bit but-”

“Okay, okay, so where is he?”

“Hopper’s got him at the Motel. Probably like, tied up, do you think? Steve what if he’s like, working for the government though. Or or the Russians-”

Steve rubs his forehead, “Birdie, I know you do love some empty speculation-”

“I do!”

“But how about we wait until we actually like, know?”

“Spoil sport.”

They say goodbye and end the call, Steve offering the keys to Eddie, “want to do a little of the driving?”

Eddie grins big, clearly surprised and pleased by the offer, “yes I do!”

“Okay, careful though, you don’t know the roads like at home. And no getting distracted by the cows.”

Eddie ‘moos’ really loudly in response, once in the drivers seat, he pauses for a second, “should have bought tapes,” he laments.

“Well, unlucky, I’m thinking some Carpenters.”

“Nooooo,” Eddie laughs.

“Shut up, I know you love it. Now sing to me about how the best love songs are written with a broken arm.”

“I think that’s what she said! Broken heart makes no sense,” Eddie grumbles, Steve still laughing.

Eddie had caved after two hours of driving, but still, considering all Eddie had done before today is short journeys around Hawkins, Steve figures he did really well in an unfamiliar place, and he told Eddie so. Eddie has turned into a surprisingly careful driver, Steve doesn’t know if it’s his consideration for Steve’s beloved car, or if it’s Steve’s constant reminders that Eddie cannot afford to draw any attention to himself. Either way, Steve feels safe in the passenger seat.

“Okay, I think I should take you home to unpack, then I can figure out how to call Hop and see if I can go over.”

Steve’s not even surprised by Eddie’s response, “both go, you mean.”

“Eddie...I’m not sure it’s-”

“Stevie,” Eddie manages to make it a complete sentence.

“Look...I’m not going to take your choice away, okay, if you want to come, then that’s fine. But...you get I just want you to be safe, right? And I feel like the less this guy knows, the better?”

“I know...I know,” Eddie has his thinking face on, when he’s wrestling with how to say something. It’s been happening a lot less lately, but this concept must be more complicated. “The people had me in a tank. They...hurt me. I was scared. Now...Owens is in the tank? He has to...he has to say why. To me. And sorry.”

“I...is that what you want? For him to apologize? To...explain?”

“Apologize and explain. Yes. And...I will not hurt him. I’m Eddie. I’m not people.”

Steve shouldn’t be surprised, not really. He feels like he knows Eddie inside and out, but his natural compassion, his...kind of innate goodness still blind sides Steve sometimes. Steve had vaguely considered that a realistic outcome of this may be that he’s helping Hopper hide a body. Maybe. It was kind of an abstract thought he hadn’t wanted to poke too hard but, realistically, they’re talking about a man who experimented on children, on Eddie.

Steve is clearly no where near as forgiving.

Hopper meets them both outside the room. Steve has no idea what to expect, really. The rasp of Hopper stubble is loud when he scrubs at his face, “El thinks this Owens guy is legit. He already knows Eddie has,” Hopper gestures vaguely, “human parts.”

“How?”

“After Starcourt happened, he went back to poke about, and he saw you both. More importantly Eddie, driving a car,” Hopper’s words are full of accusation, like ‘see I knew him driving would be trouble.’

Eddie waves a hand dismissively, “I can go in?”

Hopper sighs, but Steve isn’t going to fight Eddie on this. He knows what he wants, and he’s so fucking smart. Steve’s sure Eddie doesn’t fully appreciate the risks, not since he doesn’t get fully grasp how stuff like actual governments work but...yeah. It’s Eddie’s life, but Steve still takes his hand. If they’re doing it, they’re doing it together.

Hopper just sighs and rolls his eyes.

Steve figured that, somehow, this guy would just...look evil. He doesn’t. He looks like a harmless old dude, sitting on the edge of a sagging motel mattress, looking over some papers. He cannot disguise his interest when Eddie walks in.

He’s not restrained or anything, he’s just...there. There are books and pens and folders and shit spread out on the opposite bed, like he’s been working.

“Owens?” Eddie checks.

“Yes. Yes hello it is...so wonderful to see you again. And to hear you speak! How good is your understanding-”

“I think we have questions, first,” Steve cuts him off sharply. He doesn’t seem threatening, just...genuinely pleased to see Eddie. The guy has to be up to something, Steve can’t shake the suspicious thought that the guy must be one hell of an actor.

“Yes. Of course. I have everything, all of my notes, from Starcourt, so any questions you have I will do my best to answer.”

“Okay, where the fuck do you get off experimenting on people?” Steve’s pretty sure his voice is reasonably calm. He’s vaguely aware of Hopper coming in behind them, pulling up a folding chair he must have gotten from his truck.

Owens closes his eyes briefly, before addressing Eddie,“yes. Of course. I am so so sorry for what you were put through but..the work we were doing. I was not fully aware of just how intelligent you were. Are. I didn’t at first fully comprehend that we were even dealing with a sentient specimen-”

“He’s not a specimen, he’s a person,” Steve snaps.

“I am very smart,” Eddie adds helpfully.

“Yes. Yes you are. And the transformation you have undergone is nothing short of miraculous, if I could take some bloods-”

“Absolutely the fuck not. What were you doing with the Russians?”

“Oh,” Owens seems genuinely confused by the question, like it hadn’t really occurred to him, “when the original labs were closed, the funding ended. Of course we were aware of the mirror dimension-”

Eddie looks at Steve, “he means The Upside Down.”

“-Oh, is that what you call it? Well, it was deemed for too dangerous, and not worth the expense, to continue, not after such a catastrophic failure. The Russians however didn’t seem to have any such issues and were interested in opening a gate; I had to go where I could to continue my work, you understand. And then they brought you back with them. What should I call you?”

“Eddie. I’m Eddie.”

“And you’re working? And you’ve learned to speak and drive a car...your ability to process new information is staggering. The physical changes, did they just happen? What was the-”

“Stop, just stop. What do you want with him? Why have you been asking around?”

“Stevie,” Eddie says quietly, pulling Steve back a little by his shirt. And yeah, okay, Steve may have taken a step forward.

“I just...want to continue my studies. Eddie’s change...the differences in his make up, his body’s ability to rewrite itself – it could lead to...well, significant discoveries. The data I could gather, imagine the effect on modern medicine, what we might achieve – the potential to help people could be immeasurable.”

“We could...help people?” Eddie echoes.

“Yes, well. We could try. Like I said I would have to do some tests to understand-”

“No,” Steve crosses his arms over his chest.

Next to him, Eddie asks quietly, “what tests?”

“Just...take some blood, for now. Just try to understand how this happened and...what the changes mean on a genetic level.”

“Look, Eddie, you do not have to do a single thing for this guy, okay? This could be dangerous, they could come and take you away again-”

“I would most certainly like to avoid just that,” Owens interjects.

“Oh yeah, right. Sell me on that then,” Steve snaps at him.

“Look,” Owens spreads his hands, he hasn’t moved from his seat on the bed, “I’m the only one who knows about this. The little contact I’ve had with my previous...employers implies that they’re done with the site, they’ve scrubbed the remains of Starcourt, it’s already being filled in. I only know you even exist because I just happened to see you. No one knows Eddie is alive right now, that he didn’t die in his tank, except for me. If I tell anyone they will take him, potentially back to Russia, and I’ll loose access to him. If I inform the American team, I’ll have to admit that I was working for the Russians, which would cause some obvious fall out for me. This way I can just…continue with my work.”

Steve rubs his eyes. It sounds...legit. He guesses. Logical. “Hopper?”

“El says he’s on the level.”

“Jesus fuck,” Steve huffs, walking in a circle.

“Stevie? I want to help people.”

“I know you do baby.”

“Oh, are you two in a relationship-”

Steve finds himself leaning over to point in Owens face, “do not.”

“Okay, okay,” Owens spreads his hands, “look, I think you need to see this from the other side too. What if Eddie gets sick? What are you going to do, take him to the doctor? And what about El, and her powers? What if something comes up with her? I’m more than happy to-”

“I’m sure you are,” Steve stops him, “and you agree with that Hop?”

“I mean, he’s got a point. Don’t think we could take Eddie to a regular doctor, and El was fine with letting him look her over. I mean I maybe don’t agree with the shit he’s been involved in but...I don’t currently have a lot of choice with getting my kids brain powers looked at.”

“I don’t like it.”

Hopper shrugs, “nope.”

“This is such a bad plan.”

“Not as bad as-”

“Don’t you dare-” Steve starts.

“Letting some fish guy-”

“Hopper!” Eddie adds, affronted.

“Bite your toes off.”

Part ThirtyTwo

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I have to politely disagree with you saying that Malleus is destined to be in an arranged marriage, and I'm saying this as someone who isn't that much of a Yuu/Malleus shipper. If we were talking about a real life royal, I would totally agree that would be the case. However, there is one big factor you neglected that makes me hesitant to believe that any sort of traditional arranged marriage would even be an option for him in the first place.

We learn in Book 7 that in order for a dragon age to hatch, they need "true love". If Malleus was in a loveless arranged marriage, he and his partner would never be able to "bear fruit", so to speak, rendering it pointless. I don't think the council would ever dare to try that, since they know what happened with his mother and her constantly rebelling against her arranged marriage, expecting more of the same from Malleus if they did that to him.

If anything, I think a Princess Jasmine situation would be FAR more likely with him. You know, having his grandmother constantly throw "eligible fae noble ladies" at him for Malleus to resent it and rebel by falling in love with someone for love? I can easily see something like that happening if the game was able to mention romance.

[Referencing this post!]

Hey, I’m not sure where the Malleus x Yuu ship is coming from?? It was briefly mentioned in the disclaimer of my original post, but not in the actual body of discussion. And, as I’ve stated in that original post, nothing that I said there is meant to invalidate shippers, whether you ship Malleus with Yuu, an OC, another main cast member, or whoever else.

As I always stress, it’s okay (and it should be expected) to have different interpretations of the same content. I’m not going to fault you or anyone else for simply saying they don’t agree with my headcanons. However, I do also believe that there are a number of objective misunderstandings and extreme assumptions being made here and I’d like to address them.

Firstly, the claim that a dragon egg needs “true love” to hatch is not exactly true. This phrase is not immediately used (whether in EN or JP) to refer to the situation with Malleus’s egg. A similar phrase (“someone capable of truly loving you”) was, however, used to refer to the condition needed to break Silver’s sleeping blessing/curse. When describing how to hatch a dragon’s egg, it is said that you need “love and magical energy from their parents”. I think you may have gotten the two circumstances mixed up?

Lilia does later state that, “Dragon eggs can only be hatched by their parents' magic and affection—nothing less than true love!” but it seems that the “nothing less than true love” part is a tacked-on personal interpretation by Lilia; what is consistent in the prerequisites for hatching a dragon’s egg is the “parents’ magic and affection” portion.

I also think it’s… short sighted??? To imply that “true love” MUST explicitly refer to the romantic love that the parents have for one another. Even if you were to define “true love” that way (it’s a neutral take to have in a vacuum), love between the biological parents doesn’t even seem to be a prerequisite in the Twst world. In both Silver and Malleus’s cases, they flourished because of the platonic love provided to them by familial figures. It’s commonly speculated that Silver woke up because “someone capable of truly loving him” (ie Lilia) appeared. Malleus received love and magical energy from his grandmother, and eventually fully hatched thanks to Lilia’s sacrifice. In both cases, there is NO romantic partner or romantic feelings involved, and Silver and Malleus still turned out fine. You don’t need romantic love between the biological parents to hatch a dragon’s egg, just the platonic love of a willing parent or guardian. Lilia himself includes “parental affection” (both giving and receiving it) in his own definition of what “true love” is:

On the subject of dragon eggs, this proposal is running on the assumption that there would even BE an egg to hatch when… that’s not a guarantee???? Maleanor is a dragon fae, so naturally she laid an egg. This is how a dragon fae brings a child into the world. Depending on the race or fae subspecies of Malleus’s potential spouse, they may not produce an egg in the first place. No dragon’s egg means no need for vaguely defined love magic.

I also don’t think you even need to be in love to order to have a child. This (unfortunately) happens in real life too. It might be uncomfortable or awkward in the case of an arranged marriage, but it can be done. Were this to happen, it would still be possible to hatch a dragon’s egg. One parent, both parents, or even no parent (although the “some other third party” route would definitely get pushback from the senators) could provide their magic. Again, this is because romantic love between the biological parents is not a hard requirement, as we saw with the hatching of Malleus himself. You could still theoretically care for a child that isn’t one conceived from your romantic love with a partner.

It’s true that Maleanor “ruined the engagement talks […]” but Lilia’s wording (“that time”) implies this was a single occurrence and not a frequent or constant thing. It’s possible that Maleanor behaved for other engagement discussions (not mentioned), and it’s possible that engagement discussions altogether stopped after this one incident; we cannot know for sure.

Nothing is stopping the senators from attempting to push an arranged marriage for Malleus too, especially since they care so much about lineage, status, etc. Yes, he may very well react negatively—but the Draconias in general are temperamental and behave this way in several other situations. If the senators stopped doing everything that potentially angers Malleus, then there would be little that he would be allowed to do. (For example, Malleus has thrown several tantrums, including directing his magic at tutors that he believed were underestimating him or at servants when he was upset about his grandma not joining him for a promised meal. Does that mean the senators didn't dare to make Malleus have magic lessons again? Does that mean that Maleficia swore to never miss spending time with him again? Of course not.) As I mentioned before, I believe that an arranged marriage or at least a heavy vetting process would occur for Malleus. Lilia’s mention of a dragon flying halfway across the world for “engagement talks” already implies an arranged marriage for Maleanor. Furthermore, Ghost Marriage has Lilia specifying that Malleus cannot just “propose to a random ghost”, as it would “set off an international incident.” This implies to me that Malleus cannot go around expressing romantic feelings to whoever he wants (lie or not); there are rules and expectations in place, and he is expected to follow them regardless of his feelings.

Lastly, I don’t see Malleus as being the same rebel that Princess Jasmine is. Nothing in his personality or history as we know it shows us he is the type to go against the grain. He comes from a highly conservative, isolated country and has significant issues adjusting to change himself. In fact, his entire conflict in book 7 results from him trying to uphold the status quo and prevent change. Malleus typically does not rebel, at least not in significant ways; he normally observes ceremonies, traditions, and rules of social etiquette as he understands them. He's not a shit-stirrer like Leona, who disregards formalities, scoffs at royal expectations, and speaks and acts rudely.

You also can’t exactly make yourself fall in love in an act of rebellion?? Emotions just don’t work like that. Maybe you’d be more likely to go for someone that goes against the expectations others have for you, but 1) it’s not a definite scenario, and 2) again, you can’t force your feelings to be a certain way.

I think there’s definitely a discussion to be had on how Malleus would feel about being in an arranged marriage. This is the one thing I’m uncertain about. I personally interpret it as… well, Malleus can’t be so naive as to not realize this is a very real possibility for his future??? And he has mentioned before that he is aware of his responsibilities as a noble. He must know and be anticipating an arranged marriage somewhere down the line (though this doesn’t necessarily mean he’s excited for it). I get the impression he might be resigned to his responsibilities (since it's such a big thing he's expected to do; similar to how he respects invitation etiquette despite also wanting to join in on group activities). But he could also be very mad about it if he just doesn't vibe with whoever the arranged partner is (similar to his mom)?? Ultimately though, I would like to believe Malleus would have an understanding of what his role calls for and would have to put aside personal feelings to do what's best for his country. There are non-romantic cases of him acting on this behavior, like refraining from proposing to the Ghost Bride, insisting that Leona (someone who frequently picks fights with him) be apologized to in order to maintain amicable relationships between their nations, etc.

I think we’re also assuming a lot about Maleanor’s relationship with Raverne here. Yes, it’s clear she loves him very much. BUT we also assuming that Raverne is someone she fell in love with and married without the senators’ approval, and that Malleus will have the same freedom to choose. How do we know the senators didn’t approve of Raverne? How do we know that Maleanor and Raverne weren’t arranged and she just didn’t complain this time because she actually reciprocated?? How do we know they didn’t marry first and fall in love later??? None of this was covered in canon.

Based on my own understanding of the lore and Malleus’s character, this is the conclusion that I have reached. Although maybe I'm expecting (or hoping for) way too much maturity from him as he ages 💦

[slowd1ving]

Hello, I love your work, can you write a Dg x boyfriend! Reader who is like Osaragi from Sakamoto days please, take care of yourself, you are great

FAR FROM ANY ROAD ゜・DG

"And strange hands halted me, the looming shadows danced; I fell down to the thorny brush and felt the trembling hands." And after the numbing day concludes, after the rain swallows all your sorrows, where else do you return if not home? honestly anon when I got this request I was fully wondering whether you meant the full deal of osagiri and was going to write actual assassin reader... then I re read the request. anyways hope you enjoy this short fic because once more I was at a loss whether to write actual headcanons or a scenario.. pairing: diego kang x male reader warnings: canon typical violence, blood, sort of hurt/comfort? not comedic sorry :'( wc: 1.4k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Tonight, the rivulets of rain streaming down your body feel particularly heavy. Those drops chase the blood that stains your skin and seeps into your clothes: petrichor battling against the acrid, metallic reek; purification against the concentrated sanguine of your sins and the sins of these assailants. 

In this abandoned construction site, you feel much like these unfinished buildings. A crude facade with crumbling foundations. Of course, the unconscious bodies of these Workers resemble those decrepit structures far more—alas, you’re not referencing their physical state, but rather the slightly-numbed, slightly-exhausted mental state you’re in. 

The bruises and scrapes littering your skin might make any lesser man hiss at his incompetence in guarding his temple, but to you, you absently trace the wounds with curious fascination. One last moment of entertainment, before your fun and games abruptly end. 

“How unpleasant,” you finally utter—the bleak words are washed away by the rain, to be heard by nobody but yourself. It’s always a thrill to perform your Sacred Duty; that is, teaching these wrong-doers a salient lesson that is beaten into their very bones. Your transgressions are only to correct their own sins, not bound to any particular affiliation but yourself. 

Against your injuries, your gelid fingers don’t spark the same warmth he does. It is at this particular moment that the joy completely evaporates, it is at this moment where all you want is to take off the crushing black veil and retreat back home. 

Home. You’ll be late as usual—limping back to the dimly-lit apartment with carmine kissing your knuckles and a frown on your face. 

These hours, where the clouds swirl a rich black, and only the street lamps pity your lonely journey home, no longer feel so welcome. So it's despondently that you start the meander back to the city. 

゜・

It’s early summer when you transfer to his class—almost comically late in the year, James Lee notes. Right on the cusp of the holidays, you stand before your peers with caustically empty eyes and a careful blankness on your face. How dull, he dismisses before crunching down on his candy: an obnoxious gesture that swivels your pupils in his direction. But not much else changes in your face—it seems you’ll be just as boring as his classmates, if not slightly more weird.

Though, as you slip into your seat with almost serpentine grace, as you click your mechanical pencil in such a way he briefly wonders whether you know you’re wielding a writing utensil and not a weapon, as your loping gait starts appearing in the edges of his vision wherever he is—this is where his eyes start following your motions curiously.

These endeavours prove fruitless; you’re a model student, if not subpar to his own vast academic success. There’s nothing noteworthy about your clipped speech, nor about your penchant to eat heaping bowls of food in one serving on the rooftops. Maybe there is that feeling he gets—that you seem to be holding yourself back during sports and other activities—but he’s come to his own conclusion. Boring. And just like that, his interest wanes once more.

It’s in the holidays that he sees you once more. This time, you’re out of uniform and in such peculiar garb he half-believes you’re an apparition: clad in rich black with a veil thrown over your head.  Or at least, he would believe you were a ghost were it not for the heaps of unconscious gang members strewn around you, and the vibrant red staining your fists and face. And when he laughs, when your head finally turns to gaze at the boy at the abandoned parking lot—you look as nonplussed as ever, and that is perhaps the most interesting thing about this ill-fated encounter.

Even with the lacerations cutting deep, you barely wince. Even as he finds you, again and again and again as you’re guts deep in beating these ‘sinners’ up, you barely spare him any greetings as he watches on amusedly. Even as he’s taken to cheering you on from the sidelines, you ignore him just like he did you—though, it’s more matter-of-fact than malicious, like it would be unprofessional to acknowledge him. 

It seems James Lee has found himself a new form of entertainment: all wrapped up neatly in a parcel of a boy with weirdly haunting eyes. 

゜・

But with age, naturally, comes the act of growing up. As he sheds his crimson locks, as he slips on his new moniker and buries his name along with his past, as he finally puts a name on the captivation you’ve bound him in—no longer does he laugh as you throw yourself into danger. 

Rather, with each new scar you accumulate on the vast and brilliant canvas of your skin, he can’t help but feel each pain on his own body. 

This especially bodes true as you stumble across the threshold, back into the lonely recesses of your apartment. It’s a small thing in the suburbs—far from prying eyes that snag on the lace decorating your body, far from those that could pick up on your sins. 

When you shuck off the heavy boots—ever the contrast against the exquisite craftsmanship of your clothing—you want nothing more than to collapse against the cold tiles of the floor. As you take on the more fatal—the more perilous—jobs, the money proportionally increases. 

But you don’t get the chance to sink onto the ground, because warm hands suddenly catch your frigid body just as you’re about to keel over. 

DG, Kang Dagyum, Diego—he’s got many names. James. The man you’ve known for the past three years holds you close to his designer sweater. He willingly lets the plush fabric to be soaked in the sins that trailed in with you: clear, polluted rain, which seems to perfectly encapsulate your sullen mood; mud soaking the hem over your veil; and finally the sanguine, oily blood that never seems to wash off. 

“Sorry.” Guilt eats away at you as you watch the material seep with wickedness. “I ruined it.”

Laconic as ever, you feel worse for staining his clothes than you do for coming home bruised and bleeding. His heart seems as tattered as you look, wrenching and twisting through his flesh while you inhale the powdery scent of his freshly-laundered loungewear. 

“You’re not sorry for coming home to me like this?” he bites out. There’s not a trace of laughter in the tight lines of his mouth—for James can’t find these stupid jobs amusing any more. He makes enough, God knows he makes more than enough, for you to leave this cursed work behind and just stay by his side. 

“Um,” you murmur, and he can practically hear the cogs in your brain whirring as you wonder why he’s not mentioning the deep smears of crimson that assault his outfit. “I can change before coming in—”

“Stop.” He interrupts you with his tight grip on your body and the concerned, devoted glint in his softening eyes. “Can’t you worry about yourself for once?”

His job is harsh within itself: volatility and high-pressure wrapped in one, but the things you do for money are downright punitive. It’s paradoxically comical: a man who’s stained his hands with blood far darker and deeper than you have, versus a pseudo-vigilante whose life revolves around violence. Diego Kang, or more accurately, James Lee conceals his past as though it were a separate entity: while still keeping the dregs of yesteryear with him in the form of you.

No, that’s not right. He doesn’t keep you by him. He’s bound to you instead, he realises through his adoring gaze and tender hands, through the reverent kisses he presses to your glacial arms. 

You still as his fingers card through your skin: past the fragile, wounded dermis; weaving through the sinuous muscles, and past the tangles of veins; and finally, they hold tight on the steady thrum of your pulse. You’re alive. You’re alive and breathing, and your heart is still beating through all those layers. 

Only then does he gaze up at you. None of his past ghosts through his look: neither boredom nor the callous indifference he once regarded you with. He’s been destroyed and reborn anew within these three years, while you still remain the painfully reckless fool. 

He’s no longer James Lee.

No, there’s not a single trace left of the boy who once saw your endless struggle as entertaining: save maybe the part of him that’s always been enraptured by your existence.  

゜・

EXTRAS

DG: …

reader: yeah I beat up those haters who were harassing you on twitter

DG: …

DG: without me 🥺

[ohnococo]

Fight Night | CHAPTER 8 | MMA Fighter!Sukuna x Reader

Aoi Todo calls Sukuna out publicly, and it leads to a very uncomfortable discussion between you and Sukuna.

Warnings: Uncomfortable conversations, reader is slightly upset, kissing, fingering, biting, (light) pussy slapping

FIRST CHAPTER

LAST CHAPTER

From time to time, curiosity gets the better of you. It’s happened before with Sukuna, when you went without talking for months, and again when he alluded to his previous opponent being a bit of a wildcard. You could just ask him about these things now, of course, but sometimes you wanted to see how he was viewed through the eyes of others. You wanted to compare what the world thought of him to what you were coming to know of him.

As for this particular subject, Aoi Todo, you really just felt like it might be too awkward to bring it up. Not right now, at least, when things seemed to be going so well. Sukuna hadn’t brought him up since the video you’d watched together, only occasionally making vague references to training or “the fight.” So you look for information on him yourself to satisfy your curiosity, making the choice to try and avoid anything that might mention Sukuna’s brother, if they really were still training together like Sukuna had suspected. That was something you’d rather hear from the man himself.

It turns out it’s easy, with nearly no mention of the boy save for a site with an article about the Todo, where he briefly mentions training with his best friend. You see a picture of them together among many pictures of Todo and his coaches in a gym and wonder just how two siblings could seem so different, even just from a photo. The way he smiles brightly, looking hopeful, makes you wonder if Sukuna had ever smiled like that.

As you back out of the site, your search refreshes as hot news repopulates the top results. Articles referencing a recent interview with Todo, topped with pictures of the young man smiling and looking victorious next to pictures of Sukuna looking as terrifying as he always did in these promo pictures. It makes you cringe, but you know Sukuna is a sort of villain to a lot of these people with the way he broadcasts that he has no respect for those he perceives as weak, ready to be a winner at all costs - even if those costs are unnecessarily serious injury to his opponents.

He appeals to the masses in his own way - not a kind but strong hero with a flawless record of good sportsmanship, but someone to split the crowd into a dissonance of boos and cheers as he walks out and towards the ring. Someone to make fans nervous for even the best of the best when they faced him. And apparently, someone with whom Aoi Todo has quite personal beef.

You read through one of the articles, seeing his sentiments translated. Seeing that he’s promised to beat Sukuna to a pulp, for his best friend, his brother, whom Sukuna abandoned as a teen when he had no one else. He proclaims that the boy’s hope could not be crushed, and that he will one day join him in the same organisation. Big words from a newcomer. Big words about a man who, according to the article, has apparently gone through his lengthy and illustrious career without bringing any of his personal life into it. Until now.

It turns your stomach, it confuses you, it makes you want to ask Sukuna a million questions, but you know this little media frenzy over a blurb like that is only one of many sides to a story. You know you don’t feel comfortable bringing up a subject like this either, so you sit there regretting having looked it up in the first place, not liking this information festering in your mind. Not liking that you’d have to push it aside for dinner at Sukuna’s house in only a few hours.

When you arrive at his house he seems to be in his usual spirits, and you wonder if maybe he hasn’t seen the news. Then, as he takes you to his dining room after giving you your usual praise over what was becoming your typical (and much more comfortable) attire around him, you find that you’re grateful for Uraume’s momentary presence. It gives you something to focus on other than what you’re choosing to pretend you don’t know.

It also gives you something to focus on other than how Sukuna’s eyes narrow at whatever was different enough about your behaviour over just a few minutes to clue him in to you being off.

“Wow, Uraume, you actually can cook.”

Uraume is setting dishes down in front of you both, hair pulled back in a low ponytail, shorter locks kept from their face by a thin elastic headband. They shoot you a look, apparently unimpressed by the sass in your compliment.

“Of course I can, I’m not taking Sukuna’s money for nothing.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent, having meant the remark to be targeted at Sukuna’s eating habits rather than Uraume’s skills, “it smells delicious.”

Braised short rib, a healthy portion of roasted vegetables, coconut rice - you were starting to feel bad for your little running joke about Sukuna’s gym food.

“Thank you.” Uraume takes the compliment, hard feelings quick to dissipate as they now knew what to expect from your humour as much as you knew what to expect from their chilly demeanour.

They look to Sukuna, apparently waiting for his approval as well, but his eyes are locked on you, suspicious. Instead of waiting further, they clear their throat, “Will you need anything else?”

Sukuna finally completes his lengthy appraisal of you, focusing on Uraume with a little more warmth, “No, thank you Uraume, have a good night.”

They nod, dismissing themselves to clean up the kitchen, intending to leave shortly afterwards.

You grab your wine, lifting your glass in an invitation to cheers, hoping the food and conversation would steer your mind from the comment you were trying not to think of. Sukuna lifts his own glass of water, clinking it against yours before you make your toast to the only thing you can think Sukuna would feel was worth celebrating.

“To beating this Todo guy’s ass.”

He lets out a little laugh at that, just the smallest huff of air through his nose, and his shoulders drop a little. Though you still see the remnants of that suspicion there, you’re happy to get on with the evening as you both take a sip of your respective drinks.

Once you’re forced into silence by eating, other than you giving your praise to Uraume yet again even in their absence, you find yourself confronted with that look on Sukuna’s face.

He chews his bites slowly, looking you over, and it’s been some time since you’d felt like he was peering into your mind like that.

“You’ve seen what he said.”

Your cheeks are hot, like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, like it’s a crime to look up a public figure. Although it was perhaps a grey area to search for so much surrounding a public figure you happened to be dating.

“I just got curious…”

He leans back in his chair, eyes still on you as he takes a long drink of his water, unrelenting even as you get increasingly uncomfortable under his gaze. Then, he shrugs, as if dismissing the tension outright, “It’s fine.”

His words are one thing, but you’ve come to know him well enough to see that his broad shoulders still don’t fully relax as he brings his fork to his mouth again, speaking before he takes his bite, “Although I don’t care for my business being out there like this.”

You understand how it could be invasive, then worry that he thinks you’ve been invasive too, finishing your own mouthful of food in a rush before you clarify. “That’s all I saw, I didn’t search for anything else.”

His brow quirks, lips falling into a line as he looks displeased that you’re lying to him. “I know you’ve looked me up more than once.”

If you looked a little embarrassed before, now it must be even more obvious, wondering just how he knew. He catches that surprise easily.

“You’ve let it slip before.”

His words have you wracking your brain for when you’d played it much less cool than you’d thought, and something in your face makes his expression soften. A small smile has his eyes crinkling as he takes another drink, apparently enjoying some part of revealing his hand, even if all that hand contained was the knowledge that you thought about him much more often than you let on.

You shake your head, pushing aside the several tangents he’d inadvertently sent your mind on before returning to your original point.

“No, I mean I didn’t look anything else up about your brother.”

Sukuna’s smile freezes, just for a moment, before his face returns to that uncomfortable brand of neutral that seemed to be conjured up when this subject came up. He looks through you as he speaks, “You wouldn’t find anything anyway.”

“I… that’s-“ you push food around on your plate, “well I’m glad not all of your business is out there.”

“Don’t mince words with me.” His tone is stern, broadcasting that it’s an expectation he’s set for you that’s much closer to a demand than a suggestion. Like he expects better.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” this isn’t how you want him to open up, with venom in his voice, “one question.”

Your brow furrows and you wait for this one question of his, then he sighs and clarifies.

“You get to ask me one question about it, then I don’t want it brought up again.”

The clang of metal against glass is louder than you’d like it to be in this room, as you set your utensils down on your plate, sitting back in your chair as you look everywhere but at Sukuna. “I don’t want to pry…”

“Yes you do.”

He can read you far too well now for you to tiptoe around anything, so you just ask your question. “Why don’t you talk to your brother anymore?”

There’s another silence, another step further back into Sukuna’s mind, then he answers. “I started fighting because I had to. And I was good at it. He started fighting just because I did. I wouldn’t support it.” He flicks his hand, in a ‘there it is’ gesture, as if he had really answered much of anything.

“He wanted to be like you?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, and you know you’re bordering on stomping over, rather than tiptoeing around the subject as you had been before, but the question is out there and he’s answering it.

“He’s nothing like me.”

“Why don’t you-“

“Enough.” He’s far from shouting, but there’s a power behind his voice that has your hairs standing on end immediately, heart racing as you feel a small chill on the back of your neck. “You’re overstepping.”

It’s cold, bordering on angry. A tone you’d heard him use many times with others on your nights out, but never ever with you. You know you’ve pushed your luck, and now you know feel both wrong for that and wronged for the sharpness of his words. Your tells are showing again, something you only realise when Sukuna’s face moves from forcibly neutral to surprised.

He says your name then, low and even, and it’s like you’ve had cold water poured on you. “I haven’t dealt with this. So I certainly won’t deal with it with you.”

It’s as if he means it as a platitude, but it only hurts more that he won’t let you help, even if it was just to listen. But you nod as if accepting it as an end to the conversation, and so does he.

For the first time since he’d suspected something was up, he looks away from you, and it makes you feel like you can breathe again. His shoulders relax, and he closes his eyes and sighs heavily, looking suddenly tired.

“I didn’t invite you here to talk about this, I invited you here to enjoy a meal and to ask you to watch my fight.”

“Oh.” This time the change in subject is welcome, otherwise the tension in the room alone might just suffocate you. You’d already planned to watch it, of course. “I mean, yeah, there’s a few bars by my place that show the fights live.”

“No, I mean do you want to come to watch me fight.”

“Oh… yes.”

He tilts his head down slightly while looking up at you, as if he’s trying to appear as non-threatening as a man like him could. “I’d like that.”

You’d be outright giddy if this had come prior to the conversation you’d just had, but your excitement isn’t too stifled to stop you smiling at him, “Me too.”

It helps put a salve over the tension of what had just happened, though you still feel uneasy for the rest of the dinner. When you bring your eyes up to watch Sukuna across the table you can’t help assessing, and reassessing his demeanour. He seems fine, like that uncomfortable conversation had been buried, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said it had been for you as well.

He catches this of course, sliding his hand next to yours on the table, placing one finger on top of the back of your hand and tracing along your knuckles. He keeps the conversation light for the evening. Your life this week, your plans for the next, when those plans could align with his increasingly rigorous schedule. You eat, you talk, and youdo happily make those plans, telling yourself that you just needed to sleep the unpleasantness of tonight off.

When it’s time to leave you’re grateful for the night being cut short for different reasons than you’d thought you would be. Initially, dinner on a work night when you had to get up early seemed like a good idea if only because you wouldn’t be able to linger in his home and do things you didn’t need to be doing. Instead, you were happy to leave just to have a chance to clear your head.

It doesn’t stop you kissing him at his door before you go, arms around his neck and clinging to his shoulders gently. With how high you were on your tiptoes, and how far you were leaning back to accommodate his kisses, you’d be in danger of falling backwards if he weren’t holding you in place by your hips. He keeps a distance between your bodies despite the firm grip and thumbs rubbing circles into your hips, though you do think of pressing yourself to him once or twice, wanting the confirmation that your lips on his affected him just as much as it affected you.

When you pull back, lips swollen and a little dizzy, you don’t need to feel it, when you can see it in his face - eyes sparkling with want even through his heavy lids and thick lashes.

You take his face in like this for some time, using it as a weight to tip the scales away from your previous discomfort, then finally blink the haze of lust from your eyes as he breaks the silence.

“Text me to let me know you’ve gotten home safely.”

“I will.”

Once you arrive home you start to do just as he’s asked, even typing out the words, “I’m home.” But leaving things with this pit in your stomach and the unsettled tension has you thinking back to the only other time you’d felt like this since you’d known Sukuna: when you thought you’d never see him again. So you delete the words in the unsent text, instead sending:

call me please

He does. Right away. You answer and he speaks first.

“Is everything okay?”

It catches you off guard, hearing him sound concerned. “Yeah, I’m home now.”

“Ah.”

“About tonight…” you trail off, half expecting some interjection but when there is none you continue, “I don’t want you to speak to me like that again.”

This time you let the silence hang longer, until he has to meet you where you are and respond. “Fair enough.”

“I hated how that made me feel. I felt like I was just some lackey-“

“You’re not-“

You cut him off, having to get everything into words before it eats you up from the inside, “Like you were telling me to know my place or like you were just going to throw me away if I didn’t.”

It feels like a lot, like too much, but it was just how you felt.

Sukuna is silent again, before speaking slowly, emphasising each word and making sure you really hear him. “You are not some lackey. I would not throw this away.”

Then he sighs, and you can hear his heavy footsteps as he moves through his home. “You could have told me this while you were here.”

He’s annoyed, but there’s an affected calmness in his voice that lets you know he meant it as a way to lighten the mood. Then, you hear the jingle of keys and sit up a little straighter.

“Now I have to drive over there.”

You barely have your door open, just the handle turned and an inch of space revealing Sukuna before he’s pushing the door all the way open and coming in, leading with his lips on yours. Your arms are around his neck and once he’s swung your door closed behind you he’s lifting you up and into his arms.

His tongue is hot on yours, and his cock is already straining in its confines as he wraps your legs around his hips, walking you through your home. He takes a wrong turn, heading towards the kitchen, before you manage to separate your lips from his long enough to gesture the opposite way and towards your bedroom.

He doesn’t get the chance to meet your lips again as you lean away, having a moment of clarity in the excitement of him needing to see you so badly after your talk, “Wait, what are we doing?”

“We aren’t doing anything. I’m showing you just how I’ll put you in your place. Properly.”

You don’t know exactly what that means, but from the joy peeking through his smile you do know it’s got a heat blooming within your body.

Then, you find that his proper way of putting you in your place involves stripping you down, something you allow him to do as you’re pulled and pushed along with your clothes coming off, before he’s pushing you down onto your bed. You lean on your elbows, watching him kick off his shoes and waiting for him to unveil his body to you, but he doesn’t. He tugs at your ankles just enough to have you flat on your back again, and climbs on top of you, kissing you, hands groping at your body, pinching at your nipples and groaning into your mouth as you whine and gasp for him.

He props himself up on one arm as he settles next to you, eclipsing the light above as he pushes his hand between your legs. You spread them, accepting his rough fingers sliding through your folds with a moan and a laugh bordering on manic.

“So eager…” He chuckles wickedly at your enthusiasm, circling your entrance as he licks at your open mouth. “Just because I’m not fucking you doesn’t mean you can’t fuck this pretty cunt yourself.”

His touch drives you mad as always, as he dips his fingers for just a moment before pulling them back out to smear your wetness over your pussy. Though it hasn’t left you so far gone you can’t bite back, “I’ve taken care of myself plenty.”

Skilled fingers find their way back inside you, delving deeper, hooking and stirring you up already as he lets the sounds of your pussy speak for themselves. Not for long as he can’t help feigning pity as he looks down on you with your fluttering lashes and wet, moaning mouth.

“Not like I can, hm?”

There’s no opportunity for you to respond, save for with a squeal of delight as he moves fast, fucking you with his fingers, palm slapping at your clit until you’re bringing your knees up as he tugs your orgasm out of what felt like nowhere.

Then, he pulls his fingers out, rubbing at your pussy, just enough firm pressure on your clit to have you clenching for him.

“Fuck,” you want more and you want it quickly, rubbing up against his hand and chasing your high one way or another, “well it’s easy for you.”

You give him that as you lean your head up to capture his lips again. Appealing to his ego, appealing to your need to have him at least keep kissing you if he wasn’t going to make you cum just yet. He kisses back with a force that leaves your body weak as you sink back down, mouth wet and tongue hot before he’s separating from your lips enough to kiss a path down your face and to your neck where he sucks and bites harshly.

You know he’s leaving little love marks, and you don’t care, shivering when he whispers low against your skin, “You don’t make this easy for me.”

He buries his face between your neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to leave you yelping as he slides his fingers back inside you, working you up more slowly this time, groaning out a low, “but I try.”

Sukuna’s movements speed up then, and you’re tangling your hands in his hair - petting his undercut as he gets you closer, then sliding your hands up to tug at the roots as his palm slaps against your clit and you see stars.

“If you ask me to fuck you I will.”

It takes you a moment to even process that he’d spoken, with you dangling so close to the edge. You have to think on it, licking your lips, trying not to let your pussy do the thinking for you. It’s hard, your mind is scrambled already, and you put your hand on his wrist to stop him so you can try and form a coherent thought, even if it rips another orgasm away from you for the moment.

It doesn’t deter him at all, movements steady, though he does place a wet kiss to your neck before speaking low in your ear, “Either way you’re going to cum for me.”

You can accept that much, releasing his hand, pussy clenching his fingers lightly as you feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin. He looks down, watching your pussy swallowing his fingers again and again, watching the way your thighs jiggle and twitch with the intensity of an end you hadn’t even met yet.

You don’t want him to look away right now, even if it’s to admire your body and the things he can do to it, so you hold his face in both hands, kissing his forehead. He looks at you then, slightly taken aback, like you’ve put his mind on ice. His arm is far from frozen though, as he keeps pumping his fingers into you, maybe even faster than before.

“Kiss me.”

The words are barely out of your lips before he’s complying, lips on yours, this time only the tip of his tongue brushes against yours and it’s the final straw that sends you over the edge. You raise your hips into his movements, moaning, panting, making a mess of his fingers and the sheets below.

Once the intensity ebbs, he pulls his fingers out, tapping your pussy firmly enough to leave you gasping as you clench your thighs around his hand to at least steady it. His lips are still on yours the whole time, drinking in your sounds, smiling against you as you whine and laugh when he goes back to rubbing at you firmly but gently.

He gives you a final peck, then another, then another before he leans back, resting his head on his hand as he peers down at you. He makes no effort to extract his hand from your still clenched thighs, and once he slides two fingers back inside of you, keeping them nestled and smiling at the odd twitch of your spent walls, you relax your legs and let them fall open on the bed.

“Feel better?”

You stare at the ceiling thinking, then look back at him incredulous. “Did you really just bust in here to finger it better?”

He sighs, pursed lips barely hiding amusement at your choice of words, ignoring your questions in favour of reiterating his own. “I’ll make you cum til you’re crying and calling in sick to work if you want?”

You did want, just a little, but you know you have things to do in the morning, and so does he. So you just laugh and slap his arm lightly, “Yeah I feel a lot better.”

He smiles, proud, happy, maybe even beaming. “Good.”

CHAPTER 9

[indianamgc11]

“makes me want to wreck you.” from the prompt list woth ethan landry 😇

eyes on you

a/n: hello! i wrote this with the intent of making a pt. 2, so lmk if you would be interested in that :)

warnings: cursing, mentions of weed and alcohol, touching, mentions of blood and the tiniest bit of violence, fighting, implications of sex, talking of body parts, ethan x f!reader (lmk if i missed any)

word count: 2,665

summary: reader and the group attend the frat party, but ethan and reader have their eyes, and minds, set on something else.

You never have really been a fan of parties, let alone frat college parties. But Chad had convinced you to go along anyways, saying you needed to “get out more.”

“C’mon! It’ll be fun! Maybe you could find a piece of eye candy to snack on.”

He laughs at his own comment and flexed his muscles in the air, jokingly referencing to himself, earning a playful eye roll and a sigh from you.

“Fine, I’ll go, just don’t try to find somebody for me, that didn’t go too well last time.”

You remember back to the last party you went to with the friend group, where Chad attempted to hook you up with a guy who ended up being some 30-year old freak who passed by the party scene, thinking he could get away with a girl or two. Chad ended up getting into a fist fight with the creep, leaving himself with bloodied knuckles and a red slap mark on his face, and the guy with a broken nose and a black eye. That was the last party you had gone too.

But you wanted to try again, seeing that you wanted to join this sorority with Tara for a bit, and figured that a party would be a good start (hopefully).

It was later in the day and you were getting ready with Tara in her room. Her, Sam, and Quinn were your roommates, and Sam wasn’t too fond of the “social gathering” that Chad had been talking about. She’s been very paranoid about letting Tara go out alone, or to any crowded event, since the recent Ghostface killings in your hometown of Woodsboro, California the previous year. Even with Chad saying him and the remaining friend group would be going, Sam still turned the idea down. Nevertheless, you and Tara still planned to go to the OKB party, you currently adding lavender body glitter to yourself while Tara was finishing pulling her hair up.

Tara is dressed as a pirate, while you were dressed as a fairy, sort of. Having a shimmery cropped top with feathers around the edge of the upper half, and a glittery skirt to go with it. It wasn’t a kiddy costume, but wasn’t an attempt to pick up any guys, they’d all be drunk or high anyways.

Quinn was, occupied, in her room with some guy you both didn’t know, so she definitely wasn’t going with you two. Instead she was going to cover for you both if Sam questioned your absences when she got home.

You both turn your lights off and shut your bedroom doors before leaving (so Sam might think you were sleeping), then shut the front door and started heading downstairs. Neither of you spoke a word, the only sounds to be heard were from your shoes hitting the floor and the air conditioning in the building. You did this just in case you ran into Sam, which was unlikely, but just for good measure. You make it out of the apartment building and join your group of friends, walking down the busy streets of New York. The sidewalks of the roads, and now the campus, are quite crowded, seeing various costumes on many bodies, including many Ghostfaces. You’re bumped out of your observations, literally, when you see a familiar face.

“Hey, Jason!” Tara says, glad to see her friend.

“Are you and Greg coming to the OKB party?” You ask him as you and Tara both stop to talk with him briefly, pointing behind you.

“Yeah, if he ever finishes his Spanish project.” Jason responds.

He continues to talk with Tara rather than you and asks if Sam would be there, seeming to take an interest to her. They finish conversing and you catch up with your group. You make it to the house, lit up with flashing lights, tables holding many plastic red cups and bottles of beer with lots of people around. You walk inside and are immediately hit with the smell of alcohol and many lit joints, which isn’t very surprising. You lose the friend group you arrived with, being left with Tara. It’s hard to hear nearly anything except for the loud bass of the music, and clips of conversations from everywhere you go. A course someone is taking, how Subway messed up their sandwich, or just plain horny college students at a poor attempt to start something up. But seriously, get a room.

“I’m gonna go find Chad”

You say to Tara, but end up nearly yelling for her to hear you, needing to repeat yourself. She gives you a thumbs up before you both wander off. You eventually see Mindy and her girlfriend, Anika, on a couch on the opposite side of the room. Anika has a pumpkin cropped shirt on with some blue flared jeans and a bucket hat, her legs over Mindy, who was dressed simply, but you could tell she was going for a simple costume look. You just couldn’t squint your eyes enough to see the same on the corner of her shirt. Your eyes lead you to Chad, who was without a shirt, but had a large cowboy hat, jeans, boots, and an obnoxious cowboy belt. Next to him stood his roommate, Ethan Landry.

Ethan was newer to the group, not always around but still present. You’ve known him for about 6 months, and within those 6 months slight came feelings for him. He was cute, really cute, having fluffy, curly black hair, plump lips, and eyes that could break your soul. You’ve always wondered how he doesn’t have any girls going after him. I mean, why wouldn’t they? He was also a typical nerdy guy. Being cute and a little dorky you thought was the perfect combination.

You walk over to the pair and see them both take a shot, but Ethan spit his back out into his shot glass. The guy wasn’t a fan of drinking, either.

“Hey cool kids”

You say to them sarcastically referring to their costumes, specifically Ethan. He smiles at you.

“Hey, y/n/n, you did come! I’ll bet you’re glad you did, huh?”

Chad says, nudging you with his elbow. You shrug your shoulders at the scene, looking around to the same wildness you saw before.

“Eh. It’s more of your scene definitely.” You shouted.

You look back to Ethan and scan him up and down, eyebrows knitting together, forming a guess in your head as to what he’s dressed as.

“I’m a knight from Murder Party.”

He says lightly to you, having that no one has been correct when seeing his cardboard costume. You nod your head and make an “ah” shape with your mouth. He then leans in so he can hear you better, and vise versa.

“A fairy? That’s not really what I thought you would go for,” He says closer to you.

“It’s what I got on short notice. Better than that stupid attempt at a sexy nurse or something. Also surprised that you got that.” You shrug.

Chad disagrees with the statement, but you nudge him in the side. You notice Ethan’s eyes linger on you every moment or so. Not to say you didn’t either. You never really noticed it, but the guy had muscles. He was wearing a plain long sleeve blue shirt underneath the cardboard, and even in the dark, his arms were defined.

It was hot. He was hot.

But that’s not something you would ever admit. Nobody had a clue, not even Tara, that you had a developing crush for Ethan. But you couldn’t help it. You were around him a lot of the time, and your eyes could just never seem to look somewhere else. Like at another guy.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when Anika approaches you three.

“Big guy. You’re needed.”

Chad glanced at you with quick worry along with Ethan, as you three follow Anika to the scene of some older looking guy dragging Tara up the stairs, mumbling something to her. You and Ethan make your way through the people gathering around to see what’s going on. Chad approaches the guy with a fake smile on.

“Hey pal. No private tours for this one, mkay?”

“Sorry bro, didn’t catch that.” The guy, Frankie, says, clearly drunk. His eyes were slightly glossy and his speech was slurred together, his eyelids drooping a little as well.

“Yeah, bro, you did. Tara’s good down here.” Chad says irritated.

Tara chimes in saying she wants to, followed by Frankie drunkenly agreeing with her and began dragging her by the arm upstairs, Tara’s expression turning from happy to discomfort, a tinge of fear evident. Chad grabs Frankie by his shirt and yanks him to ground level. Ethan quickly put his hand around your arm and pulled you back a little. You’re a bit surprised at his action but don’t try to pull away, leaning back to him. His fingertips were warm on your arm and his hands were soft. And you never realized how large his hands were. Pushing you once again from your thoughts, before Chad can show the guy, Sam comes in out of nowhere.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, I’m just gonna taze you in the balls real quick.”

She then electrified Frankie and he fell to the floor screaming at Sam.

“Fucking bitch!” Frankie screams while groaning in agony.

Tara immediately storms through the crowd and out the door, mortified and angry. You glance behind at Ethan, then to Chad, seeing his face confused as to what all just happened, then you all follow suite to Tara and Sam.

You catch up, yet keeping your distance to the sisters as you hear them arguing, Tara fuming and unpleased. You all stop behind the two and witness the argument, eyes going back and forth from one girl to the other.

“That guy was an asshole and he was gonna take advantage of you-“ Sam starts but Tara cuts her off.

“So? If I wanna hook up with an asshole that my decision. My decision! You’re out of my life for five years and now you can’t leave me alone for five minutes!” Tara’s voice gets higher as she gets more agitated just talking about Sam’s actions recently.

“See why I don’t live with them? I love them, but the drama.” Mindy whispers to you, Ethan, and Anika. You purse your lips and look at Mindy.

“Sorry” Mindy whispers back, averting her eyes and stepping back to Anika.

Ethan leans down to your ear,

“Is it this bad all the time?” He questioned in a curious tone.

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

Sam and Tara bicker quite often. Quinn has never been to bothered by it, usually doing other things, but you on the other hand, are always around to hear them. Occasionally you’ll go over to Mindy and Anika’s, but if they’re busy then you’ll go stay with Chad and Ethan. They normally know what it is when one of them opens the door to see you standing there with a pillow in your hand. Not that it’s a big deal, sometimes you just do it to spend more time with Ethan.

Usually you and Ethan would end up playing cards, study, or even watch a movie until you both fell asleep. You also used to just sleep on the couch, but Ethan has recently let you sleep in his bed while he either takes the couch or the floor. You refused at first, saying it wasn’t necessary, by the boy wouldn’t take no for an answer.

In the mornings it was Ethan who was up first, stretching and checking the time on his watch set on the nightstand. He was careful not to wake you, seeing as you were still sound asleep with the blankets all about. One leg would be over the covers while the other was under, you turned on your side and face against the pillow. One thing that Ethan noticed as well, was how you still looked perfect to him even after turning around all night. Your tank top accentuating your curves well, also being enough to where your cleavage would show a little. But Ethan wasn’t uncomfortable, in fact he got a little aroused by the simple sight of you a few times. But you also chose to wear that to bed, so maybe Ethan’s eyes might linger a little longer. Exactly how you intended.

What wakes you up is the closing of his bedroom door, leaving you alone to sleep for a bit. You sit up and stretch, feeling the warm sunlight through the cracks of the shut blinds. You swing your legs over to the floor and walk towards the door to the kitchen. You see Ethan, who is currently sipping a cup of coffee while reading his Econ textbook. His hair is quite fluffy and his eyes are intently focused on the schoolbook in front of him. When the cup moved away from his lips, they move against each other to savor the taste of the caffeine. He doesn’t even notice you standing there until you say something.

“Econ? Really?” You express as you walk over to sit with him.

He sets his mug down, giving a slight laugh and smile at your comment.

“I have an exam in two days, I can’t risk anything.”

You smile and shake your head, still loving the smart boy in front of you, even if he willingly reads from a textbook in his weekend free time.

You don’t notice it at first, but your eyes don’t leave him. He looks up at you before you can look away. He raises an eyebrow at you and smiles with the left of his mouth.

It stays silent for a while as you hold your coffee and take a sip, the steam still visibly coming from the caffeinated drink. Not many sounds are heard except the flipping of the textbook pages and the honks of cars from NY traffic.

You eventually finish your coffee and get up to refill it, knowing you have many lectures that day. You walk over to the machine and start to pour the liquid in the mug. You place the pot back in its place and then around, only to be met with Ethan’s tall frame facing you. You nearly shriek from the startle.

“Ethan! Why would you scare me like that?”

You say as you exhale and hold a hand over your chest, the other leaning against the countertop behind you.

Ethan doesn’t say a single word. He just continues to watch you, his eyes scanning over your figure.

“Eth? You alright?” You hesitated.

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” he nods and bits his lip a bit.

You then feel his hand snaking on your waist, slowly pulling you towards his.

“Last night, at the party..” He begins slowly.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, you know.”

His voice is deep. He sounds like a sexy villain in a movie, almost. Why is he acting like this?

You can feel his breath on you.

“How could I not? Even going for a simple costume, I couldn’t look away..” He trails off.

You were now flush against him. Your mouth felt dry and you needed to clear your throat but didn’t want to ruin the silence. You felt your heartbeat quicken, your stomach whirl.

It felt good.

Ethan’s eyes were still on yours, burning with something. A passion. Something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, but so badly wanted to. His fingertips slightly squeezed your hip, his other hand to your side on the countertop. His arms were tanned, flexing from his hand slightly moving. His nostrils flared a bit with every breath out, his lips pursed a little bit.

He leaned closer to your ear, your eyes following him until they couldn’t anymore. Barely above a whisper, he muttered a phrase that made your heart beat everywhere, your palms sweaty.

“Really makes me want to wreck you.”

[rosurie]

rambling? a statement if you will ♡

I'm doing some redesigning. I briefly mentioned why in a reblog with the updated version of some designs but I wanted to just make a post to clarify [let me note that this was a post that was decided by both me and Dollya so please don't think I felt forced into it, it was actually something I had already planned on doing before speaking with Dollya]

but back to the redesigning! why am I redesigning? partially because I'm indecisive and mostly cause i realized that i was heavily referencing designs i liked and that didn't sit well with me. I'm specifically referring to Dollya's [ @dollya-robinprotector ] design for fem Robin and Fray's [ @fraternum-momentum ] design for Syd and old design for male Robin. not only did it make me feel gross once i actually sat with it but it's super disrespectful towards the artists, even if it wasn't my intention. you may notice that I've deleted some posts, for example my "welcome to dolville" post, and that's because I am currently redesigning. I'd rather not still have those old designs lingering around on my blog, not just for their sake as two artists I really love but also my own. these old drawings with these designs were always going to be taken down post my realization that I was basically just copying and pasting what I saw on my feed from these two onto my own designs.

I've actually spoken with both Dollya and Fray about this situation. we're okay now! though they'd both be perfectly in the right to be upset with me, they were both very calm and nice about the situation so I'd like to thank them [again lol. I just know y'all must be tired of me thanking you and saying sorry. also Fray, don't worry I'm not beating myself up over this ♡ but thank you for worrying. the posts were going to come down regardless lol] this is unfortunately probably not the first time I've done something like this, the only difference being that no one saw it before because it was artwork I never bothered posting and I ended up changing the designs again when I did start posting. it's not from a place of malice, honestly most of the time I don't even realize I'm doing it for a bit, but it's still like shitty behavior. so I felt Fray and Dollya both deserved an apology. plus Dollya and I both thought a clarification was needed for people who follow me and for their sake [and for future reference because this sort of situation I'm sure isn't uncommon, in fact Dollya told me how common it was for her].

anywho thank you guys for reading and sorry for the long post but it was necessary ♡

tldr I took down some old posts because I was basically just copying designs and I hated it as well as the designers. and Dollya and Fray were both very understanding of my dumbassery ♡

edit note: I hope this doesn't come across as me trying to make excuses, because I'm not. I engaged in shitty behavior and I own that.

[splash-of-soda]

If you ever took a gander at my DA, you probably saw a redesign I did of Danny and Vlad that is... not very good and was v rushed, so I wanted to redo it + add Dani because she deserves it

This probably looks sorta clunky cause this is one of the first times I'm heavily referencing dynamic poses to my art so bear with me

Some information about their redesigns and closeups under the cut:

DANNY:

. Danny is trans in this redesign - it may be hard to see but the bracelet he's wearing uses the trans pride flag colors; it's a gift from Jazz! :)

. Turned the red spot in his shirt into a planet (not any specific one) because of his interest in astronomy

. In Phantom form, he has scars of the accident - lichtenberg ones that scale up to his cheek - that glow when he uses his powers

. In my redesign, all ghosts that are people who died (called spirits) have scars related to how they died - Vlad and Danny are half-ghosts that fall into this category

. Made Phantom's hair sort of floaty, as if it were flying underwater

. Gave him greenish skin, pointy ears and (altough not present in this image) fangs to highlight his ghostly appearance

. I've never liked the DP logo on Danny's jumpsuit, and even now I dislike it (even more for the asinine reason given to it be in the show and the sucky episode it debuted in), so it doesnt appear in my redesign - sorry to those that liked it :')

DANI:

. All I did for her human form was add a bandage to her cheek

. In Phantom form, she has the same floaty hair as Danny

. Because Dani was "born" a half-ghost in v different circumstances than Danny or Vlad, she doesn't have the specific scars that Danny in Phantom form has - her heart-shaped "scar" is actually a look into her core

. Same as Danny, gave her pale greenish skin, and pointy ears and fangs to highlight her ghostly status

. Removed the bare midriff for Dani Phantom because it always felt kind of unecessary to me

VLAD:

. Got rid of the crescent moon hairdo he has - sorry, but it only seemed really goofy to me - and turned it into long black hair (somewhat inspired by Netflix's Castlevania Dracula's hair)

. Added two hair fringes that stick out from Vlad's hair in both human and ghost form

. Vlad's scars are meant to be reminescent of veins - I briefly considered remaking it into the ecto-acne spots, but it would probably look really silly

And closeups!

[selarina]

Out of Style

-> Suna Rintaro x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1: The Night of the Party

Summary: At a band's afterparty, the protagonist's protective instincts kick in when their younger sister encounters Suna Rintaro, the band's guitarist.

Content Warnings: celebrity au, rockstar!suna rintaro, actress!reader, reader has a sister, afterparty scene, alcohol, implied/referenced drug use, fluff, tension, eventual smut

Word Count: 2.9k words

Author's Note: Yes, the title is from Taylor Swift's 1989. Anyway, @renardiererin asked and I had to deliver <3

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Moodboard

Your eyes take in the scene, a bunch of people sprawled on the couch, empty bottles of alcohol lined up on a pool table, and said pool table is adjoined to a torn net. You see a couple on the verge of getting to places you didn’t necessarily want to witness alongside your sister so you decide that going upstairs might be more than ideal, especially for your sister. You might even meet a bunch of people on the balcony above where you can find sober people to talk to.

Your sister is due to go college in a few months and this scene isn't exactly one she is familiar with. You decide that this scene is alarmingly akin to a college party, except you’re all wearing fancier branded clothing this time.

You look up towards the stairs leading into a calmer environment and upon getting a closer look, you smile. You can't help but notice the high chandelier that looks rather misplaced in the center of this scene, but again so does most of the modern decor clashing oddly against the inherent gothic features of the house.

The two of you find yourselves a drink first. You settle for orange juice, since you’re tired enough today as is. Plus, you’re with your sister this time. She doesn’t usually accompany you to these parties, and honestly, you don’t either, not if you don’t already know a person or two who are sure to be attending. That way you can piggyback off them, using them as a social lubricant.

“I’ll be back,” you tell your sister since you want to pee, and you swivel through the crowd. A few of them recognize you, and you have to stop to greet them. You keep it briefly because you still really want to pee.

While you're washing your hands, you hear a distant sound of commotion. You can't tell what’s happening, but you decide it's better to hurry up than leave your sister to witness whatever may be taking place, all alone.

You're not usually this on edge or this protective, even if your sister suggests otherwise. But, you only brought her here to attend some band's album launch afterparty because she begged and begged and begged, and so you relented like you always do. And it's her birthday, you think. Who would you be if you didn't make your sister happy on her birthday?

You sigh, discarding the tissue as you walk outside.

The people have gotten relatively quieter since the two of you walked in. The crowd seems to be more populated towards the secluded area from earlier that seemed to have a bunch of trophies of some sort on a shelf.

You cinch your brows, not wanting to stay down any longer as you start searching for your sister.

"I'm so sorry!" You hear, and you immediately swivel your head towards your sister's voice, heavily concerned about it coming from the center of the crowd.

It takes you all of 5 seconds to move through the bodies before you take in the scene.

She's holding her cup, and a man, who upon a second look seems to be the guitarist from the band, staring down at his shirt. His wet shirt.

You hold your breath, and you talk yourself up in all of the two seconds you have — that you will defend her, that you will fight off the urge to quiver before this man, whoever and however powerful of a connection he might be, that you can go home and have your sister's cake and sleep in your comfy bed if you feel like crying. It's okay.

But all of it crumbles to the ground, the moment he looks up, and he smiles like he's forcing himself to, a clear distaste for the way the wet t-shirt sits on him is visible on his face, the way it frowns ever so slightly. The way his eyes blink a bit too quickly for it to be natural.

"It's alright, don't worry about it," he says, saving his hand off as a gesture for everyone to leave.

"It's not okay, that costs a lot." A lady who was standing right behind him walks in between your sister and him.

It urges you to stand by your sister's side, who upon your arrival, immediately reaches for your hand, almost out of instinct she squeezes.

She's scared, so you're not, you decide.

"We'll pay you back," you speak up, firm but neutral. You won't back down and defend her but there's no need for you to be hostile yet.

"You won't be able to afford this sweetie," she turns her attention to you, her eyes moving up and down your body, in a way that's supposed to demean you but you feel anything but demeaned. Just a bit amused, really.

"Oh! Then I'm sure you guys can manage to pay for this yourself. Apologies for having the drink on you in the first place but we'll be leaving now," you say, and you can admit that the smile on your face is meant to be anything but sweet, cordial at best.

"And if you change your mind, feel free to let my manager know," you say.

Your assistant, you were not aware she was in this crowd really, but she immediately finds herself beside you.

"Of course, here's my card," she reaches her hand out to the lady, who snivels it away from her hand. You look at your assistant and can't help but be caught off-guard by how unlike herself she looks, her hair is down and strewn about, and her clothes are different, more colorful. You smile, you suppose she's more her now than she will ever be around you.

You can understand her frustration really, you would be a bit put off if the clothes you are wearing were something you had to pay for. You only mean that you would never actively wear what you are wearing today, but in all honesty, anyone here can pay for that t-shirt without even breaking a single sweat.

"Oh, you will be hearing from m—" the lady starts, but is stopped when the man puts his hand on her shoulder and puts himself in front of her.

"There's no need. This is my house, I can literally change upstairs." He says he's not smiling but you feel a sense of kindness from him, even if he's modeled to look like the antithesis of it. Or perhaps, you’re just judgemental. "Guys, go back to drinking, or… fucking apparently," he eyes the couple who's part of the crowd, seemingly to view what's happening, but also entirely too invested in each other mouths for that to be true.

And at that, the crowd dissipates. You're about to leave too, before you feel the urge to thank him.

You turn to him, "Thanks," you muster up.

"Thank you so much, and once again, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was expensive," your sister says, sincerely.

"Don't worry about it. Was my fault anyway," he says as he quirks his lips up in what could only classify as a half-smile but you feel that it, whatever it is, is genuine before your eyes flit up to his face. in all fairness, he — he's really beautiful.

He's got good bone structure, you conclude.

You smile, and he looks at you this time.

"Hi, I'm Suna Rintaro,” he says. “I like your movies," he says, and you smile a bit too visibly harder at that. He almost sounds a bit too much like a sincere fan, but all people in this industry are actors, off and on screen, so you gauge this out as you usually do.

"What's your favorite one?" you say, and he frowns. You knew it. A cocksure smile can’t help but sit on your face.

"The one where you kill a group of men," he says.

Your eyes widen, "Hm, that doesn't narrow things down." You laugh, "But wow, you sound like a decent fan. Want my autograph?"

"Maybe just your phone number for today?" He's quick, and you realize it's only been a short exchange but he's standing really, really close to you. His eyes are narrowed down at you, so intently, and it makes you want to look away, but you peer back at him, focusing on the yellow in his eyes as you talk yourself into not looking away. There’s a soft tinge of gray in his eyes, and you think you can only see that because you’re so close to him. You can’t help but think he resembles a predator, strikingly similar to a cat. A pretty one, regardless.

"Maybe… I'll give you my Instagram for today," you say.

"I could live with that.” A compromise and a soft smirk on his face.

"Also…" your sister's voice comes from behind you, and it comes off soft and meek. You feel embarrassed, you forgot she was there for a moment. You look at her and she looks back at you, as though she's asking for something. Your eyes widen, and it strikes you.

"Oh! Yes. Um — In the interest of being transparent, I'm here for her really," you pull her from behind you so she's standing right next to you.

"And I think she'd really appreciate a picture with you. Only if that’s okay with you?" You don't want to push it, even as much as you love your sister. There are days when taking a picture with a fan makes you want to pull your hair out and run naked across the city's most paparazzi-invested zones.

"I don't mind. If you wait for a few minutes, I can get the rest of the band actually," your eyes flit to your sister's face, and it's gleaming so bright, you’re afraid they’re going to pop right out of her head.

You smile. "That would be great," you say before he takes off, his hands fiddling with his top.

You bring your hand in front of your sister's face, giggling, "Hello, I'd like my sister back. Could you please un-possess her for a quick minute?"

"This… is going to be the best birthday ever," she says. "I can't wait to tell Allie about this," she quickly pulls out her phone.

"Am I the best sister in the world or what?" you sigh, feigning tiredness, feeling anything but when your sister’s this excited.

"Yeah," she says, a hint of realness, although you presume she's more preoccupied with processing what just happened. "Thank you for today," she says, her hands coming to engulf you in a tight hug.

You pat her head, "Aw, you love me so much," and at that she backs away, scowling.

"Ruined the moment," she deadpans, sticking her tongue out, and right before you know it she's standing with the band.

Suna's wearing a different top this time and Atsumu brings his hand up, to hold her shoulder, and you think your sister looks constipated almost. So still.

You take a few pictures for her before you pocket your phone, walking over. "Thank you for this," you say. "I forgot to introduce myself, I'm—"

"The very pretty actress who kills men," Atsumu Miya swoops himself in front of you, and his hand is already taking yours to leave a kiss on it. Odd, you think. You didn't realise that was your reputation, despite all the recent influx of love interest roles.

"Charmed," he says, making sure to embellish it with a cocksure smirk.

You smile, a bit less genuinely than you have all evening. "Nice to meet you, Atsumu."

"Ouch, sweetheart," Suna walks towards the two of you, his hand coming up to his chest to feign hurt. "You know his name and not mine?"

"Well, h-he's more — reputed? I've heard about you before is all."

You look towards Atsumu. The onslaught of people in his dating history, the drug cases (even if it's just weed), and the obnoxious energy he radiates are enough for him to make some headlines that even you could catch.

"Only good things I hope," he says with a smile.

Definitely not, you want to respond but instead, you just smile back at him.

"We should get going," you say and that's all it takes for the band to disperse, you're sure they were told to form connections today as much as they could, even if they are a pretty popular band. Events like this are meant for that.

"Of course, I'll drop you out," Suna adds.

—

"It was nice having you," he says. His eyes leave your face to see your sister, "And you especially, ma'am."

Your sister smiles, a bit shy this time, "Thank you," she says.

His eyes find yours, and you look away. "Nice interior," you say, not knowing what else to say. You turn back to him again.

His eyes narrow and his head tilts in confusion, “Oh, most of the stuff in there is not really mine. Just recently bought the house," he says. "With the decor and stuff," he adds like he's aware that your odd comment was a consequence of odd interior choices.

"That explains a lot," you say. You feel odd, you didn't really know him before today either but you thought your observations could fill in the gaps to make up a person, but maybe not all the time.

The three of you wait in silence, a soft wind blows and it's enough to send a chill up your spine.

"Cold?" he asks, and you think he's talking to you. You’re ready to answer no because you know how this goes, he asks for the hoodie, you meet him again and really, you didn’t want to fall for the oldest trick in the book. But when you turn to look at him, you see that he's asking your sister. And at that, you smile.

She loops her hand through his jacket, her hands engulfed by his long sleeves. She thanks him, and he merely brushes it off, his eyes focused on the waterfall adjacent to where you stand.

His eyes looking at yours after a few moments, "I can get another jacket from upstairs if you can wait," he says.

"Nah, the car should be here soon. I'll manage," you say, and talk of the devil, and the devil arrives. Your car swoops through in front of the three of you, and before your driver could even rush out to open the door, Suna steps in. He opens the door, and your sister ducks into the car almost immediately. Maybe she felt colder than you thought.

"Thank you again," you say. "And congratulations on the album."

As the car door closes, Suna gives you a nod and a small smile.

He closes the door, but you press down to open the window. "It was nice meeting you both. Have a safe ride home," he says.

Your car revved before it takes off.

"He's not my favourite from the band, but he's so cool! I want his eyes," she gushes, almost morbidly. Your eyes widen before you break into laughter as you send her the pictures you took of them together.

"I can't wait to post this on my Instagram! You should have taken one too.” She frowns.

Back at home, you take a hot shower, carding through your hair, as you gently massage your scalp. The sole of your feet hurt as you stand, and you think maybe you would have chosen a different pair of heels for tonight. Not that you really had that much of a choice.

You walk to the kitchen, turning the dim yellow light on. You preferred having dimmer lights on in the evening or night, everything else was too bright, and it leaves you unmoving on the couch, as you fall into slumber.

You pull out two plates and two spoons.

Walking over to the fridge, you bring out the small pink box that sits on the top shelf, carefully pulling out the box so that the accompanying items don't fall out of the shelf.

You place it on the kitchen counter before you go to your sister's room.

Your sister's face front on her pillow, and she seems asleep.

You call out to her.

Nothing.

You turn the lights off after tucking her in.

Walking to the kitchen, you put on some cake, and walk to the living room.

Your hands, almost of their own volition, pull out Suna Rintaro's Instagram. It seems to be handled by him rather than his management by the looks of it. It's not as curated as yours.

Just as you're going through his photos, one that's entirely curated to be enticing, his hands on an untagged woman as your eyes flicker down to the caption.

Promotional photos for a music video.

Something urges you to watch the music video, it's a fairly common music video but leaning more on the provocative side, everyone's half-naked, and comfortable in their own skin.

But your eyes draw towards Suna and the untagged woman from earlier, as she tugs at the chain around his neck as he's looking up at her with something so fabricated, yet so primal and fascinating, to say the very least. Something in you twinges just a bit.

It's been less than a second since you're reeling but you hear the Ping!

suna_rintaro: it was veil of vendetta btw suna_rintaro: the movie of yours i liked suna_rintaro: rewatched it last night

[chryza]

I’m super mega not interested in discoursing about this so if you disagree please just scroll but. I suppose people being confused about Rosmontis’ role in Lone Trail is sort of expected given that she is like. Only referenced but she is and has been a Rhine Lab kid from the beginning. I can’t remember if Rhine is mentioned explicitly in her files but I think it’s at least referenced that Loken Watertank was funded by RL, and then of course she does pop up briefly in Dorothy’s Vision, so I for one really enjoyed getting some much needed closure on her story. Besides which. The entire plot of Dorothy’s Vision was predicated on the Rosmontis experiment. So.

As for the argument that it took the place of Ifrit’s character development. I mean sure I would always be down for more Ifrit Screen Time because she is daughter. But to be honest she’s kind of already had that character development I think people wanted off-screen. I see a lot of “well I shouldn’t have to read the manhua to know what’s going on in the story” and that’s fair (even if the manhua is free and is better than like 90% of the VN but whatever) but just going off her module and her oprec it’s clear that she’s growing up fast and developing a strong sense of responsibility. I think she’s forgiven Saria and Silence and she’s too laid back to care about much more, and that in and of itself was a delight to see in Lone Trail. We just happen to be catching the tail end of her character development and I for one felt just as much a proud mama bird as Silence. She got plenty of screen time it just wasn’t…her growing up I guess? But we already have quite a lot of that even without the manhua.

Literally my only Ifrit Complaint was that she didn’t get a confrontation with Parvis, or show any sort of emotional reaction to him being there whatsoever which was. Out of character for sure, thinking about her module. But that was about it, and I still enjoyed the wrap-up with Parvis and Silence. Ifrit is one of my favorite characters and LT got my stamp of approval so do with that what you will.

[kitkatsudon]

A brief foray into the military ranks of TKEM characters…

It’s no secret that our favourite boys from the Kingdom of Corea have a history in the military - but apart from Gon being bottom of his class in the Naval Academy (as confirmed by Choi Gitae in Ep4), what else do we know? As with every tiny detail that sparks my interest in this show, I took it upon myself to find out, and gave myself a headache in the process. Let’s have a look, shall we?

Lee Jihun:

I’m starting with him because he’s the only one I could find a concrete answer for, thanks to him being from a universe very similar to ours. Though we only see him very briefly in Ep16, from that short scene we can glean a little bit of information about what he was doing:

To find his rank, one needs only to look at his epaulettes. You can see that his are black, with three gold stripes: two thick ones, with a thin stripe in the middle. This identifies his rank as follows:

He’s a Soryeong, which is the equivalent rank to a Lieutenant Commander.

However, what I find perhaps more interesting for Jihun is this badge he’s wearing:

Though it’s blurry when you zoom in, I’m pretty sure it’s this one:

You heard it here first, folks. Lee Jihun is a Navy SEAL. They didn’t have to include this detail - you’d probably have to be quite familiar with the military to recognise it straight away, and I doubt that even most Korean fans would be able to recognise it, because I can tell you for a fact that I wouldn’t be able to recognise the equivalent for my own country. Someone on the production team decided this, and I want to give them a big kiss on the mouth, because now it’s confirmed that the sweet little Jihun we saw grew up to be totally badass after his abusive father passed away. I sincerely hope that it was a good life that led him to joining this branch of the military, and not some combination of horrible factors that pushed him into joining one of the most intense and dangerous branches… hm. I’m not going to dwell on that, actually. You can all make your own conclusions here.

Now… to the Kingdom. *sigh.* This is where things start to get more vague and confusing. I’m going to start with ranks first, and then go onto what they were doing as one big section because, spoiler alert, I haven’t got any sort of concrete idea.

Lee Gon:

His rank is easiest to determine, because Choi Gitae says it explicitly when they met at his father’s funeral in Ep4. I cross-referenced this with the closed-caption Korean subtitles, and everything adds up nicely: though he’s the Commander-in-Chief of all the armed forces in the Kingdom, thanks to his position as the monarch, while he was actually serving, he rose to the rank of Daewi, or Lieutenant - the highest rank of the junior officers - before leaving the navy.

Jo Yeong:

When we see Yeong in his navy uniform in Ep6, this is what we can see:

Once again, that same pattern emerges on his epaulettes of two thick stripes surrounding a thin stripe - he’s a Soryeong, a Lieutenant Commander. This means that Yeong ranked one rank higher than Gon before he left the navy, which is something that brings me quite a lot of joy.

However, something I like even more than that is Yeong’s current title, as the leader of the Royal Guard. We all know him and love him as Captain Jo, but in Korean he’s referred to as 조영 대장 - Jo Yeong Daejang. This is what Gon calls him in the iconic “Are you having fun, Captain Jo?” and you can also see that title of Daejang on his character page on the official TKEM website. On WordReference, this is what happens if I search for 대장:

Ignoring the results about other things, it doesn’t seem to mean “Captain” explicitly, it’s more like a general kind of leader title. His rank isn’t necessarily “Captain,” it’s whatever Daejang is equivalent to. So… how good is a Daejang? Looking at the South Korean armed forces, in the army, air force, and marine corps, Daejang is equivalent to General, and in the navy, Daejang is equivalent to Admiral. To put this into context a little better, the only rank in the South Korean navy higher than Daejang is Wonsu, and this rank only exists on paper and has never been given to any officer of the South Korean armed forces. To achieve this rank of Wonsu, you’re appointed from the rank of Daejang when you have “distinguished achievements.”

In conclusion: Yeong has an incredibly high rank in the armed forces, second only really to Gon himself, assuming no one from the Kingdom has ever been appointed the rank of Wonsu either. However… there’s a first time for everything, and though I’m only speculating and of course could never say anything for sure, if anyone was going to get those distinguished achievements needed to be a Wonsu, it would be our Jo Yeong Daejang.

Choi Gitae:

I’m including him briefly because I have a bone to pick with the subtitles. In English, he’s Captain Choi. In Korean, Gon refers to him as Hamjang, which, as far as I can tell, doesn’t exist in the South Korean navy of our universe. In the Korean subtitles in Ep4, he’s named as 최 소령, Choi Soryeong, and he’s just… he’s not that. Let’s take a look at some pictures:

The epaulettes on the first picture and the star badge on the second tell us that his rank should be this:

He’s a Junjang, equivalent to a Rear Admiral (lower half). Not a Captain, and not a Lieutenant Commander. As for the Hamjang/Junjang disparity, I’m going to suggest that Hamjang is the Kingdom of Corea’s equivalent to the Republic’s Junjang.

So, what was everyone doing in the navy?

The only clue we have is a badge:

This is from Yeong’s uniform, but in Ep6 Choi Gitae was wearing the same, and Gon was wearing a gold version of it. However, for the life of me, I can’t seem to figure out what it is! The design seems to be that of a ship sailing through the waters, but that just gives ✨navy✨ in a general sense. Browsing google images, I’ve noticed the same golden badge that Gon wears on other high ranking members of the South Korean navy, so maybe it signifies a high rank? Or maybe it just means that the wearer is in the navy? I don’t know! I can’t work it out! What it tells us at least is, if Yeong isn’t wearing a “specialised” badge like Jihun… it’s unlikely that he served in any kind of special forces… which I feel is a piece of information that might break some hearts in the fandom as their headcanons shatter into pieces. I’m disappointed too, because when I saw Yeong’s badge without paying attention to any of the other characters, I thought that the two shapes on the sides looked a little like submariner dolphins, so I’ve spent half a year or so thinking that’s what Yeong did in the navy, before I realised that Gon and Choi Gitae had the exact same badge.

So, if anyone has been bothered enough to read this far and also happens to be a Korean military buff, I would love you forever if you could tell me exactly what this badge means, and whether it gives us any indication of what Yeong or Gon or anyone else was doing in the navy. However, maybe it’s good that it’s unclear, because that leaves fic writers plenty of room to wonder about what Gon and Yeong were doing in the military - whether they were doing different things, strengthening their bond as best bros doing the same thing, and if you’re on the same side of this fandom as me, whether they were repressing some big feelings at seeing each other in their military uniforms, or whether they were engaging in certain activities that are maybe stereotypical of sailors cooped together on the same boat without women to spend their nights with… there’s plenty of room for interpretation :D

[velvetvexations]

i refuse to watch the clone high revival.

IT AIN'T GOOD

This is my full review I posted in a server back when it aired:

The cast changes are one of the biggest issues. It completely throws the whole dynamic off because they lost Ghandi, who, admittedly, was inconsequential in terms of long term character relationships even if he was like half the show, but they add THREE new people who are all supposed to be way more relevant to the serialized story. Two fall very flat and one is okay but still misplaced. Let's talk about that. Confucius, at first, seems like the obvious 1:1 replacement for Gandhi because he's a cheery dude who partakes in silly antics. He's not a full Gandhi clone [copy] because unlike Gandhi, who had a habit of just assuming he was cool and proceeded to act like it, Confucious is, like, trying to get popular on Tikstagram, I guess? That honestly didn't really come up a lot, he just sort of drifts around being there whenever they need a guy who's not JFK or Abe. Then near the end he ends up in a relationship with Harriet Tubman, which is like, okay, because she's the only character even more generic than he is. Seriously, there is NOTHING about Harriet, absolutely nothing, I can say about her personality beyond "once was briefly concerned about turning into a wine mom". Her design being completely unrecognizable as a historical figure really plagues her whole character, like I truly in my heart of hearts believe that if you read the scripts they would all say "TBD Woman of Color".

Which brings us to the sidelining of Cleo. In the first season, Cleo was a major character and focus of several episodes. She was the person JFK was dating, that Abe wanted to date, and that Joan was rivals with. The entire show revolved around that relationship chain. So it's super fucking weird that Cleo goes several episodes into the second season before she gets more than a handful of lines. Here's why I think that is: Obviously, the second season had to be finished or very nearly finished by the time the Cleopatra [Queen Cleopatra (2023)] stuff blew up recently, but I think even before that we've hit a point where people are a lot more aware that Cleopatra was not Egyptian Egyptian and that her portrayal as such in the first season would get a little more side-eyed. This is even more true considering the mandated loss of Gandhi, as she and him were the only non-white leads. Adding two or three more PoC characters made sense! But being so awkward with the handling of Cleo, who did at least manage to wiggle back into the main plot a little, was still weird, and it sucks that two of the three added PoC characters were so badly handled. So which one worked? Frida Kahlo was pretty cool. I don't know nearly enough about the IRL person, but I can at least define her character on the show as the hyper-chill laid back girl and she had several funny jokes, and based on the little I do know of who she is, they referenced her being an artist several times as well as her distinctive physical appearance. Also, apparently her bisexuality, because Frida ends up with Cleo. And, you know, that's fine, but fucking Cleo? Can I please get an episode or three or six or an entire season just about Cleo realizing she's gay, because fucking what? It comes out (ha) that Frida likes Cleo and from there it's like, cool, she just has to have the courage to tell her, but that makes no sense. Even in this season Cleo has multiple jokes about being The Girl Who Is Hyper-Competitive And Puts Down Other Girls, like from top to bottom the stereotypical cheerleader of 2003, because, hey, the whole premise is that the clones were frozen in 2003 and were just unfrozen! can I get anything dealing with that beyond Abe almost saying the r-word in the first episode? *The old clones are from 2003, the new characters were raised since then and that generation gap is actually interesting when properly explored which it barely fucking is.

Okay. Moving on. There's another new character, Christopher Columbus's clone who goes by Topher Bus because he doesn't want to be attacked for it, and that's the first of several funny jokes we get from him that make him way more likable than the show wants him to be. He's given the early flaw that he's a dick online, but not even in a racist way or anything like that? In fact, he's generally shown to be pretty woke, and the main cast casually shove him out of the way when he tries to get involved with things! If they wanted to depict someone who like, pretends to be woke but really is an asshole or something, they do a terrible job of it and have him come off more like someone who's trying but keeps getting kicked for literally zero reasons. "Oh, but he's mean online!" Yeah, to JFK, who was an asshole like literally last week from the perspectives of the older clones. I don't mind JFK getting hit with the likability stick, but like with Cleo being into women it comes out of nowhere aside from the Abe Says a Slur joke where that contrasts JFK being told he's so sex positive for a lame cringe reference to wanting to fuck and you're clearly meant to think "ah, the roles have been reversed, now JFK is just a confidant bro while Abe is in danger of being an angry loser incel", but it just! Needs! More! Development than that! One interesting part of that dynamic flip is that now instead of Joan secretly pining for Abe while Abe openly pines for Cleo, Abe is secretly pining for Joan while she continues to date JFK as in the first season's finale. It gets kind of lost in the politics of the gender swap, though. Like, Abe is now in that incel space, and he tries to manipulate Joan and then feels real bad about it and stops, but taking the way that's framed with other things that happen this season it's like, oh, it's bad for a guy to manipulate a girl like this, even though Joan did that exact kinna thing back in season one and it was more just "lol wacky hi-jinx!". I'm not trying to be all Misandry Double Standard here, but it's one more reason why it would always be really hard to modernize this show in the first place. Another thing about Abe along similar lines is the musical episode, where a big deal is made of Abe having White Guy Confidence, and that is fucking astounding to me. Like, what? Abe is a constantly anxious loser who is fully aware of that fact, I get that White Guy Confidence is a thing but why the hell is Abe getting tagged with it and not JFK, who absolutely has always suffered White Guy Confidence? Beyond the fact that JFK is now a cinnamon roll out of thin air and Abe's new arc is about avoiding the MRA trap?

In that same subplot you had Sacagawea, George Washington Carver, and Kublai Khan fighting to be exceptional enough to shine despite Abe's white mediocracy, and again like with the primary additions nothing is ever done with either who they were or who they are now. They are literally just there because Non-White, which I want to stress I'm not railing against as a concept, but their lines could be given to literally anyone. GWC was actually in the first season, I'm not sure about the others, and there were some Goddamn peanut jokes! Maybe boiling him down to peanuts is an unconsciously racist meme, as is boiling down all of Black science to "the peanut guy", but if the new series is above that then maybe use fucking someone else you are comfortable reflecting in a humorous cartoon fashion that people will understand? It's not necessarily a race thing, like "oh they were overly cautious with the PoC characters". I can think of one joke offhand - not that it was the only one, just the only one I can think of - where the minor characters had a reference to their historical selves, and that was technically delivered by JFK. Between that and how generic Confucius and Harriet are, I feel like the whole idea, the first word in the title, just completely went out the window. In the first season, beyond spear-carrying "some bit character in this large crowd needs to provide a reaction to something", you'd never have an extended scene where a minor character wasn't making a historical reference. It might seem logical to allow them to be more than that, but think about it: these are, after all, minor characters. With the main cast, not every line has to be Nothing Bad Ever Happens to the Kennedys, but it's like when The Flintstones has everyone go to New Rock City to see The Rockles play a 60s pop song. It's like, what in God's name is the point then?

A few days later:

Okay. I think I've mediated on it enough. I can now give my opinion on a reworked season two. Here's what I would have done, assuming only that the mandate Gandhi be absent is absolute: The group dynamic more or less starts the same, with Joan dating JFK and Abe pining for her, it's a great reversed setup. Abe starts to drift in an incel direction, but Topher is there to provide the "don't get this bad" warning that keeps him on the straight and narrow. Joan and JFK quickly realize they aren't working out, and Joan figures maybe she wants to try lesbianism, because she just seems so much like she would be a WLW. She starts to go out with Frida while JFK teams up with Abe and basically acts as the new Gandhi in terms of silly comic relief who's often hanging out with the protagonist. They support each other in Abe getting with Joan and JFK getting back with Cleo, who's started going out with Topher partly because she's desperate for a boyfriend she actually enjoys being with and partly because she really hates having lost both Abe and JFK to Joan, but Topher is actually also in love with Joan, which puts him at odds with both Abe and JFK. Eventually Joan realizes she isn't gay but Cleo realizes she is and Cleo and Frida get together, which is extra emotionally satisfying because Joan lost someone to her this time. The wacky misadventures of Principle Scudworth and Butlertron are basically the same as they are in season two as it exists, the addition of Candide Sampson wasn't bad at all and overall those b-plots were pretty good with the exception of the really terrible Butlertron origin episode, but the end result in the season finale is all the clones being frozen again just as Joan is about to pick between JFK and Abe. Confucious and Harriet Tubman are not present.

At the time I did not propose further characters of color to replace either Confucious and Harriet and would have to think on it a lot to figure something out. Probably people other than me would be better at selecting good fits that are recognizable to an American audience. I also didn't solve the issue of Cleopatra not being Egyptian, but maybe they find out she's actually the clone of a less well-known Egyptian woman who started claiming to be Cleopatra for the clout? That's certainly something Cleo would do.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I saw what you said about the dreams being nothing and useless to the story, and I was curious about something, do you think the characters that never got closure or development from their book should have stayed like that or do you think a new book should have been made to tie up the initial stories?

Heartslabyul for example had a lot of loose ends on their book that never got resolved, Cater never had focus or allowed development, the others too didnt get true closure, and I thought the heartslabyul dreams was the perfect way to finish their arc in a fulfilling way.

But you hold the opinion the dream arcs shoudnt have focused on them too much right? Do you think It was okay for the characters development to end in their book, or do you think their closure should have been in a different moment or way?

[Referencing this post!]

While I realize that the original post was very critical of the dream hopping segments, I did not mean to call them "nothing" and "useless" as a whole. I'm unhappy with how the dreams were executed, especially the lack of urgency present in them. My main gripe is how the characters know that they're on a time crunch, yet they hardly ever act like it. Instead, they stand around for multiple segments eating fake food or casually sharing stories about their families. This is time-wasting nonsense and it does nothing to help their situation. We quickly started to stray from Diasomnia and the urgency of the conflict at hand in favor of fanservice (like dorm leader Cater, despite Cater expressing he never wanted the position) and trying to explain away that fanservice with contrived dialogue.

Please do not misunderstand me. I never said that I don't want any non-Ignihyde or non-Diasomnia character to get development in book 7. It's true that many characters, especially the non-OB boys, never got the spotlight in previous books or that we never got the satisfaction of seeing their growth this far into the school year. If any of them were going to get attention, it makes sense to do it now as one last hurrah in book 7. It might not have been very obvious due to the critical nature of that original post, but I actually thought some of the later dreams (namely the Savanaclaw and Heartslabyul ones) were good and wrapped things up nicely. I will, however, still lampoon them for having the characters standing around and eating/talking for way too long.

It's not that I wished the game didn't focus on the non-OB boys, it's that I wished the execution of them wasn't so meandering. If the devs wanted to keep the dream segments in, they should have trimmed the fat out. Get rid of all (or most of) the idle parts, or at least trim down on the idle dialogue by a lot. Or maybe just make the OB boys mandatory and the others optional. Like, still part of book 7 but you can read the non-OB boys at your leisure, similar to collecting individual students' wishes in the Wish Upon a Star event, and you only need to clear the OB boys to advance in the story. Have short scenes where dorm members reunite (sort of like at the end of book 6, when everyone regrouped with their respective OB boy) and gear up + strategize with each other. Cut back briefly to Malleus and Lilia's brawl between each dorm, just to keep them relevant and/or remind us of that clock ticking down as Lilia gets more and more worn down. Maybe standardize how many parts are dedicated to every character too… Not have a spread of 4 to 46. That would at least speed us along a little faster or at least give a better sense of rushing to prepare for the fight against Malleus.

That being said, characters don’t just magically stop developing the instant their book ends. They’re changing on their own, outside of the purview of the player or off-screen (like when Riddle talks with his mom over winter break), all the time. A lot of this happens through self-reflection/internal thoughts, so we the players don’t get to see it. It doesn’t mean the characters haven’t changed or wouldn’t change without us viewing it ourselves. Even now, the characters are still growing and changing. Some of them might have more concrete “closure” now (like Kalim finally getting to punch Jamil), but the truth of the matter is that character development never truly “ends” (ie Kalim and Jamil still have their complicated relationship to sort through). It is a continuous thing we consciously work at. There’s truly no end in sight for it. Regardless of whether we got those dream sequences or not or how that development was delivered to us, this still would have been true.

[15fishes]

dystopian novel but its tumblr

💥thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow

ok but can we seriously talk about how effed up things have gotten that people are actually being arrested for saying swears? like they aren’t that bad that peoples lives should be ruined over them…saying swears is a human right imo…

💕ilikefrogsandcoffeealot🔁 thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow

no it’s literally not? why do you need to swear its literally vulgar and rude. how is not being able to say horrible words a human rights violation? Literally unalive yourself op.

♻️catraisdumbiamverysmart🔁 ilikefrogsandcoffeealot follow

thats not the point of the post you idiot. of course nobody here is saying that saying swears is moral or justifiable. people who say swears like **** and **** should all be unalived immediately, what op is saying is that the oppressive right wing government is trying to control our minds using sanitatized shows like steven universe that have secret hidden homophobic messages so that they can have a perfect word and make us do their bidding like were all sims! its not about the swearing, god, get some reading comreheion. compernmientoln. copresenion. whatever I dont have to pander to this literate-normative society.

⭐️starclansbravestwarrior follow 🔁 catraisdumbiamverysmart follow

prev obviously doesnt live in the US because saying g** is literally illegal too. “boo hoo we cant ssy swears anymore :(“ try living in the states for one day? honestly making a post like this is so insensitive like. did anyone here even consider that its harder for me? did you even remember america when you were making this post? non-americans are so selfish.

☹️thebananamuffinman🔁theblueberrymuffinman

pretty sure op is actually referencing when in 2036 over half the population of america all collectively shouted “****” in protest and then a bunch of people briefly went to jail? obviously op is opposing the new laws theyre only saying that that one time in america was pretty messed up…

💥 thatonemitsurikinnie123🔁 thebananamuffinman

WHAT!?! what are you all talking about!?! I am literally word for word saying that yes!!! I think people should be able to swear!!! why not?

⚽️ishipirlpeoplewhoplayfootball follow 🔁rpfismypassion follow

lol. “why not” ha. are you actually that stupid op? do you even understand the extend of the damage that swearing has done? my grandma literally UNALIVED herself because somebody sweared infront of her. how can you be so brain unalive that you cant see the harm of words that were literally INVENTED to be bad?

💥 thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow 🔁 ishipirlpeoplewhoplayfootball follow

killed.

⚽️ ishipirlpeoplewhoplayfootball follow 🔁 thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow

…what?

💥 thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow 🔁 ishipirlpeoplewhoplayfootball follow

not unalived. killed.

🩸vampireenthusiast🔁 thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow

excuse you? this is the sort of disgusting stuff that comes from opposing the law. it starts with wanting to swear and in less than five seconds op is BLANTANLY advocating for unaliving people

💥 thatonemitsurikinnie123 follow 🔁 vampireenthusiast

STOP SAYING UNALIVED IM LOSING MY MIND. KILL. DEATH

💟queersandbeersandbeesandknees🔁mangaspoilersonmyblog follow

are we just going to ignore the absolutely insane rant at the beginning of this post or…??

✨cutegirlnamedpencilcase🔁flowersandcutekitties

if you reblogged a post with vulgar language like this you’re actually part of the problem. block and unfollow me.

💥 thatonemitsurikinnie123-deactivated182828292929929 🔁 cutegirlnamedpencilcase

you literally just reblogged it fuck off

🖼️arthistoryismypassion follow 🔁yesmynameisactuallymilkstopasking follow

lol op got unalived by tumblr RIP BOZO

🎃ihatealliceskatersforeverandever 🔁acamallcopsaremeanies follow

BREAKING!! EVERYONE REBLOG THIS VERSION OF THE POST OR ELSE IM BLOCKING YOU!!! NEW LAW JUST DROPPED THAT PROPOSES BANNING LEARNING HOW TO READ FOR KIDS 10 AND YOUNGER!! EVERYONE CALL THEIR REPRESENTATIVES!!!!!!!

💥 thatonemitsurikinnie1234567 🔁mcytblog500 follow

im killingmyself for real this time

#tw s****** #illprobably get banned again for this but meh i want to add another digit to my name anyways #DONT check the notes btw lgbterfs (lgbt exclusionary radical feminists) found this post :( #also whats up with that guy who ships the soccer players lol i read some of his fics and its just like all really erotic dentist visits #im kinda into it

50,000 notes

🦝15fishes

I am a completely normal person who did not spend 1 hour making this tumblr post that will not even get 1 note :)

[mayordea]

songwriting with meiko 🎙️

i have a few things to comment abt this which will be isolated under the cut so the post doesnt get too bloated :] mainly small hcs about meiko/kaito/miku hhhh

an idea that briefly popped in my head when i was brushing my teeth that i did not want to let get away. it was ambitious and i liked the concept of using my hc'd versions of the younger crypton vocaloids (miku's beta design and meiko/kaito's v1 designs) interacting with each other, so i went for it. i designed the general vibe of the background in animal crossing, ol reliable for these kinds of things, since i knew i wanted to cram as much detail in the environment as i could. i made a post about it on my personal account here since i was quite proud of this build.

as i was decorating, i kept spontaneously making headcanons for the younger meiko/kaito/miku unit in order to understand how to populate their living space with accurate clutter. i ended up totally overdecorating the whole thing and only referenced a small portion of the interior (like, why'd i go so hard on thinking about the yard? thats just what happens when i try taking this route) but i did like some of the ideas i came up with to explain my decorative choices. here's just a ramble.

oh yeah i guess i should get something i mentioned in the tags of that art i made w all the crypton gang's "younger" versions out of the way: i hc the character vocal gangs' "younger" designs to be their "IF" or beta designs. and meiko and kaito's younger versions are their V1 designs, mainly inspired by how they appear in the earlier project diva games (every time i look at them i just see them as awkward teens still trying to figure out who they are lmao)

also mentioned there that sakine meiko and meiko are one in the same and the fanloid and vocaloid arent separate entities. sakine meiko was meiko in her early music career as a relatable teen pop idol, with the "sakine" family name being made up to create that image. once meiko grew into an adult, she put the persona behind and just went by meiko, and around that time she met kaito and theyd be musical partners for a while

meiko sort of adopts miku into their unit when she recognizes her potential and serves as a mentor to her after then. kaito is the same but acts more as a supportive guardian in comparison. rin, len, and luka would come along later of course.

yeah i really fuck with the idea of the crypton gang being a little family :] i think it's neat! and this art/animal crossing build was a fun way to explore that hc a little

meiko is a physical media fiend, especially for music. loves collecting cds and vinyls and the like; they're littered all over the house. loves rock music too

kaito on the other hand has a knack for gardening and tends to the very modest garden outside their house. also collects a lot of art he finds in thrift marts and such for novelty's sake

miku always dedicated herself to improving her craft and finding her voice thanks to the help of meiko. she was also kind of a nerd at this era. very serious and dedicated

these folks did not know how to clean shit up, everything left lying on the floor ends up being an intentional decoration (probably not clear in this but i did like scattering stuff around to the best of my ability in the AC build)

ummm that’s it for now i guess i had less than i expected? but i’m glad to get this down somewhere lol feel free to share your own hcs if you wish, i love hearing them

[ashintheairlikesnow]

His Word Goes Forth

CW: Referenced past child abuse, some emeto references (brief, vague), some dissoci@tion towards the end, alcohol references, prostitution references. Just a whole load of references. But I am so excited to finally be able to write this chapter and introduce... Gilly's children.

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

The Hotel Import, Grand Island, the Colonies

Guilford Wentworth the Fifth - who went by Ford and told everyone who didn’t already know his parentage that his name was Wilford Prose, simply a cousin to the illustrious Wentworth name - woke up to sunlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains, bright like daggers against his closed eyes.

He’d been meant to go to the symphony last night and make some sort of connection with a man whose properties his father admired, a man named Hogarth or something who owned too much land and not enough good common sense to know to avoid anything to do with the Wentworth businesses. Ford had been told to convince him a visit to the Continent would do him good, to stop by the Wentworth estate and meet the elder Guilford.

He’d been told to make many such meetings before, and usually he did as he was told. Ford had ceased to be treated as a child and had become just another tool in his father’s toolbox since his mother died and could no longer shield her children. He’d been good at it at first. 

But now… He was only eighteen and already he was tired of this.

And last night, he’d decided to let tired win the day.

Instead of making contact at the symphony, he’d instead allowed himself to be distracted by the promise of further liquor in a dark men’s club down the street, and spent his night in pursuit of new ways to forget his hated name.

He had succeeded, however briefly.

Unfortunately, the end result was that Ford woke up knowing his own name very well still, but with a headache that threatened to split him in two from temple to chin, a tongue that felt like cotton stuffed into his mouth, and a stomach that was either threatening to empty itself or ravenous for food and it couldn’t seem to decide which.

“Damn the sun,” He groaned, still feeling the ebb and swell of the liquor from the night before within him, stretching against the sheets. There was an ache in his hips that he enjoyed more than he disliked it, and when he tried to open one eye to look down at himself, there were marks of red from someone’s rouge, he thought, along the insides of his thighs. “... huh.”

Rubbing his face, he slowly sat up, squinting against the pain. There was a bottle with at least two good drinks left in it on the table next to the bed, and he drank it all, feeling it burn all the way down.It would help hold off the worst of the ache, though, at least until he could find somewhere darker to hide away from the daylight and a draught of laudanum to send him back to sleep.

Then, when he woke up once more, he’d need to come up with an excuse for why Hogarth Whoever wasn’t already boarding a ship for the Continent, to be swayed by his father’s monster like everyone else was.

That could wait, though. At least for however long it took to sleep off last night, both the alcohol and the pleasures that came with the darker bars and the seedier places in the city. Ocean air and warm nights made pleasures easy to find, and there were plenty of people who wanted money to eat more than they wanted their own virtue intact.

Ford had plenty of money.

Although even the money wasn’t really his.

He sighed, dropping back into the bed. There wasn’t anyone in the bed, although there had been when he went to sleep. Or passed out. Whichever it was that he’d done.

There’d been a young man, his own age - what was his name? It didn’t matter. None of their names mattered. Once they had coins in hand he could call them anything he wanted and they’d do anything they were told. Nothing there beside him now but empty space.

 When he laid his hand there, it was still warm.

“Damn,” He whispered, then checked the other side, where there had been a lovely woman. Had the two known each other? He couldn’t remember. Well, in any case, that space was equally emptied, and it wasn’t warm at all. 

She’d left long before the man had. 

“Well… double damn,” Ford said, voice a little rasping. One of his last clear memories had been shout-singing along with the sea shanties sung by the sailors come on shore to drink and whore with the rest. Had the young man been a sailor on leave? Might have been... “If he told me his name, I forgot it. I rather liked them.”

His eyes drifted closed again.

“Of course you did,” His sister’s voice came, warm as the ocean nearest the shore, dry as the desert wind, breaking through his thoughts. “You like them all, because you are an idiot with money and that makes them like you.”

Ford gasped, his heart half-stopped before his mind caught up and he realized she wasn’t actually in the bedroom, but out in the sitting area where he couldn’t see her - and more importantly, she couldn’t see him. Even so, he felt himself flush and yanked the blankets up to cover himself, sitting upright all at once.

“Nathalie! What in the gods’ names-”

He heard the rustle of the morning paper. “Good morning,” Nathalie said, without even the slightest change in tone. “How are you, dear beloved sister? Oh, I’m fine, Ford, thank you for asking. Did you just arrive, Natty? Why yes, Ford, I did, it is so lovely of you to ask after my health-”

“Fine, fine, Nathalie, I get it. Just-... hold on, let me dress and I’ll join you.” Ford snorted, reaching blindly towards the floor and grabbing at the first pieces of clothing he found there. The suit he’d been meant to wear to the symphony, now a wrinkled mess - but it wasn’t like his sister would care, or even as if it were the first time she’d seen him in disarray after a night wasted. He had to fight a swell of dizzy nausea as soon as he was on his feet, leaning against the wall and letting his fingers scrape the textured wallpaper there, a series of flowers in dim pastels against cream. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

“I asked at the desk if my brother was here carousing with whores,” Nathalie said. The paper rustled again as she turned the page, as if punctuating her sentence. “And the sweet young man at the desk informed me that you were, indeed, carousing with whores. I paid him to let me in and threw out the whore.”

Ford swallowed thickly, walking with slow, careful steps along the cool wooden floor to the doorway, his shirt half-buttoned and the linen a mess of wrinkles. “There were two.”

“Of course there were.” Nathalie set the paper down and turned to look at him. She looked like their mother - both Ford and Nathalie looked like her, thank any god who might have been responsible. They had her delicacy, her bright wide eyes. Nathalie looked the most like her, though. And now she turned their mother’s look of solemn, disappointed judgment on him just like she had. “There was only one when I arrived. I sent him away.”

“Hmph. I thought he was quite nice, I was hoping to seek him out again. I can’t recall if he told me his name, though.” He dropped into a chair at the little breakfast table she’d set herself up at, slumping against the hard wooden back and tipping his head back. The world swayed dangerously around him when he did.

“His name was Darren,” Nathalie said, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, he found that the disappointment had become the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Darren Meander.”

“That… He cannot have been speaking true to you.”

“I don’t care if he was or wasn’t, it’s what he told me. There, now you have a name if you want to find him again.”

“Thank you. Why did you bother?”

“You get on better with the whores than you do with your own class,” Nathalie said, as if the answer were obvious. “And you’re going to seek them out anyway. Besides, I use you as proof positive to myself of something I have always known.”

“What…?” 

“That I, Lady Nathalie Wentworth, shall never marry, since any man of means or with a good family name may be as dissolute and pointless as you are.” She winked at him, and he might even have found it in himself to laugh if his stomach hadn’t twisted angrily at the thought. “I do enough picking up after you, I don’t think I am in need of any other man to deal with.”

“I’m sure you can find a pious man and get to him before he joins the priesthood,” Ford muttered, his face hot with guilt. She really did so often have to handle things for him, things he should have handled himself as the eldest.

Nathalie was younger than him, only just now sixteen, but she’d always seemed older, more second mother than sister some days. Maybe because, since their mother had died - when he was eleven and she was only nine - she’d done all the mothering of the twins, all the hiding them from the attention of their father, holding them in the night after nightmares or when the coastal storms raged. 

Ford’s job, back then, had been to take the brunt of his father’s anger, keep Guilford’s eyes - and his fists - on him, and only him. It had kept Nathalie and the twins safe, for years… until their lordly father had split them all apart and declared the twins were old enough for finishing school, Ford was ready to take over the business interests in the Colonies, and Nathalie was old enough to run her own household and prepare for marriage.

Still.

They were all still far, far away from their father, and therefore safe from his direct influence, his attention, and his damnable monster.

Still.

Ford sighed, watching a shivery little rainbow from the sun shining through a window just right bounce off the ceiling. “In any case, I’ve hardly caused enough trouble to cross the channel and find you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

Nathalie didn’t look up from the paper she was scanning, but she gestured at a carafe before her. It had freshly-brewed coffee that steamed as he poured it into a teacup, and he sighed happily at the first sip. She hummed. “I came to see you.”

“You’re meant to be up at Howe House.”

“I was up at Howe House. I’ve been supervising it for months. It’s nearly habitable, which is lovely, considering I’ve been habiting there amongst the dust and the mouse droppings all this time.” Nathalie finally set the paper down, crossing her arms on the table and looking Ford over. She was pristine, in a light-blue linen dress made for the hot island days, her hair pulled back in a chignon to keep it from suffocating the back of her neck. “Oh, Ford. You look awful.”

“I feel awful, thank you ever so much for noticing.” He drained the first cup of coffee and poured a second, his tongue flat and numb from the too-hot liquid. He didn’t care. “So if you were at Howe House, why aren’t you there now? It’s a four-day sail to get here from there, and you sent no warning-”

“I absolutely did send you a notice, you shattered teapot of a man. You just haven’t been home in a week, I checked when I arrived. Your servants haven’t seen you since last Wednesday and not a single one had a clue where to find you except your butler.”

“Yes, well, he’s the only one I told when I left that I was going to stay here.” Ford exhaled. His sister’s constant piercing stare wasn’t helping his headache even a little bit. His stomach turned over itself and he fought back the urge to simply be sick all over this lovely table and Nathalie’s lovely dress. “... I hate the house. I avoid it whenever I can.”

“Clearly.” Something in his sister’s bristling manner softened, a little. She reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Ford. I know this… wasn’t how we hoped it would be, when we were young.”

Ford laid a hand over hers. His fingers felt chilled and numb - hers, by contrast, felt bright and warm and full of life. “We thought we could go farther from him, that he wouldn’t follow us. But…”

That had been when their mother was alive, and they had thought they could bring her with. Neither of them said it. Both of them heard it, anyway, even unsaid.

Ford cleared his throat. “... but if this is what our father wants, we must help to build and maintain the Wentworth name and fortune.”

“I know.” She squeezed his arm, brief but firm, and then let go of him, glancing back down at the paper. “I know. And we are, however we hate our parts, we play them. For the twins, at least.”

“For the twins. They’ll… be out of school in a few years, and by then, maybe-”

“Maybe.” She cut him off. She poured herself a coffee, then, holding it in both hands. Her nails were bitten nearly to the quick, the one bad habit that had never been broken in her no matter their father’s rages. “I should tell you, Ford, this is not a social visit. I was… sent here to pick you up.”

“You were?” Ford sat up straighter, and felt a frisson of dread like an electric eel moving inside of him. “By-... Nathalie, not by-”

“Yes. By… our father.”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “... why?”

She took in a breath, wincing and pressing one hand to her side as the mere expansion of her ribs pushed against the tightly-fitted bodice. The style of the times, for wealthy young women, and Ford had spent more than a few nights undoing laces of young ladies wondering if ‘style’ was just a pretty way to avoid saying suffocation. At least the lower class women he spent most of his time with were allowed to breathe. 

Nathalie’s voice was so soft it was nearly a whisper. “You were supposed to be packed and ready to go when I arrived, Ford. I was supposed to explain it to you on the ship.”

“... what?” He blinked.

"Father's letter to me made it clear I wasn't to tell you until we were underway, but-... but I meant to regardless, just-... I expected you to have seen my letter."

"... Ah." The mere mention of his father had made his stomach try to rise up in his throat again, and the idea of going back on a ship - the weeks of seasickness and then the week of land sickness afterward when he had to get used to being solid and still once again - made it much much worse. He had to swallow hard as bile rose and lean over, resting his forehead on the cool surface of the table and pressing one hand over his belly to try and calm it with the pressure. 

The morning breeze blew in through the windows, bringing the salt-scent of ocean air with it. There came with the welcome salt the faint hint of dead fish, a simple fact of life everyone tried to ignore. You got used to it. Ford had gotten used to it, in the end. But it didn’t help his stomach feel any better now, or stop his heart from racing. “Father sent you... to pick me up? I am to live at Howe House with you now?” He groaned against the tabletop without looking up. “That house is full of ghosts!”

“It is not.” Nathalie rolled her eyes. He could hear her shoe tapping impatiently under the table and her cup clatter against the saucer as she put it back down. “That’s an old wives’ tale, I’ve never met a single one and I’ve been living there for more than a year.”

“Yeah, because you aren’t the heir, they don’t loathe you like they do me.”

“There are no spirits haunting Howe House,” Nathalie said firmly. “And if there were, why would they hate you?”

“The same reason I have such hatred for myself, due to the blood in my veins! His blood!"

Oh, he’d spoken too loud. The pain in his head spiked with his voice's volume, and he had to close his eyes tightly and breathe in quick, shallow pants until it ebbed again. 

Nathalie was silent, but her hand laid on his back, then, rubbing gently up and down. Just like their mother had, when they were young and came to her with sickness. She gave him a moment or two of quiet, which... it helped, honestly. “You cannot help the circumstances of your birth,” She murmured. “And remember what Mother said."

"It is only blood," Ford muttered, mouth barely moving. "She had no idea how deep the ties of blood run."

"Yes she did. And... I understand, Ford, I wish as much as you that we could change our names and be gone, but you know we can’t."

"The twins need us."

"Yes. Besides, Father-”

“Why, why would Father even think of me? I’ve done everything I can to get him to forget me entirely, Nathalie!”

“Oh, is that what the drinking and whoring were about? Being easily forgotten?” Nathalie’s humor was sharp, but it never quite cut deep. He knew her too well for that, and she was still gentling herself for his sake. He made himself sit up and look over at her. There was something in the set of her face that had his nerves singing in worry. “Listen to me, Ford. You aren’t coming to stay at Howe House.”

“Well, he can’t have sent you to scold me about… this.” He gestured at the wreckage of the hotel suite around him, bottles emptied or half-emptied. It looked as though at least one of his guests the night before had left their shirt behind. Or maybe that was one of his, and it had been unpacked… He’d never seen it before, but that didn’t mean much. Ford’s clothing was bought according to his father’s specifications, he never knew of it until he was sent for tailoring. “He doesn’t even know about it.”

“You cannot be sure, but… no, no, it’s not about this.” She licked at her lips, looking uneasily over to the window. Outside, the sun shone in a perfect, cloudless blue sky. The sound of people going about their lives down there filtered up to them. “... Ford. He calls us. We have been summoned... home.”

His heart chilled at the word. "No."

"Yes." Nathalie exhaled, folding her hands in front of her. She looked everywhere but him, and he tried without success to follow her gaze. “He’s… sent for us, Ford. You know why. You know what that means.”

“Either of us, really.” His voice was a whisper, airless. The hotel suite around him seemed suddenly transparent, as if he weren’t even seated here within it. As if it were all a pretty fiction, a daydream he had at night with Wentworth Manor crowding ever closer, his father’s eyes everywhere searching for faults, always finding them. His father’s monster with teeth bared and loathing in its dreadful eyes. “It could be for either of us. You’re sixteen, I’m eighteen, it could-... it could be for you, or for me, it could be-”

“... I think it’s for you.” She took his hand in both of hers again, and this time she held on tight. They looked at each other, with their mother’s eyes, and Ford felt the wave of fear he had spent his time here on the islands trying to escape breaking over his head, to drag him under again. “I think Father has found you a wife.”

The sun shone. Birds sang. The ocean was a constant dull, reassuring roar just outside the window. Despite the heat, Ford shivered with a depthless chill and felt water closing over his head, drowning him in the dark with all his fears coming suddenly to life.

“How-” His voice broke.

He had to swallow down terror, just like he had done since he was a child, and straighten his shoulders. He had to tell himself the world was only a play, and he was only a part his father had imperfectly cast. He had to keep his own life at a distance, and not feel it, or he would feel too much. The world had too many sharp edges, and he must stand apart from them or be slashed to ribbons. “Nathalie-”

“Please,” Nathalie whispered. “Please don’t ask, Ford. Don't, I won't know the answer, none of us know."

“How long?”

She didn’t answer, only looked away. He could see the glimmer in her eyes, knew it for what it was. It made the world feel even more distance, as if he were adrift in a lifeboat, the tide carrying him away from his own body. The escape was a gift or a curse, and he didn't know which.

His mouth still moved, without his consent. Without his decree. It asked the question neither of them knew the answer to, the question that haunted every Guilford Wentworth but the first.

“After I’m married, Nathalie... after he has given me to his bride, and the monster has taken my mind and will from me... after he has me shut up in his house again..."

His voice felt like someone else's. His body was only a creation that carried blood to a new generation, to give his father more power. He was far, far away from it.

"Nathalie-"

"Please, Ford-"

"How long will he... let me live?”

-

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