#(not putting this on ao3 just bc its supposed to just be something quick and sweet and not...... 'good' lmao)

[ghoulangerlee]

if it was a sin, but i'd feel whole, would you still take control? ; mountain/aether ; E

god here it is y'all. this took so many days haha. I have read over this and fixed as many of the errors as I found but if you see anymore, just let me know! I had to take a benedryl today bc of food allergies and ive been feeling it since then, ha. the hat man has been my bff while writing this bc i keep seeing him whenever i stare too long at the screen 😂

title comes from move it or lose it by the home team :)

You can in fact read this one on AO3 here if you'd prefer :')

this was supposed to be quick and dirty based on the small dick mountain and aether post I made but it developed a life of its own and seven thousand words later here we are! I hope you enjoy!

contains: ghoul ruts, possessive behaviors (minor), trans aether (cock and knot are used for him), knotting, resolved sexual tension, oral knotting, fingering, biting, overstimulation and oral sex!

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There’s a knock at his door—its late, and while it’s not uncommon, it does throw Aether in for a bit of a loop. He’s been off duty now for about eight hours, retired to his quarters for the foreseeable future (until band practice in two days time, they’re leaving to finish off some final shows soon, he and the other new ghouls summoned to replace Papa Emeritus the Third’s previous ones, he’s a bit fuzzy on most of the details surrounding it all.)  

There’s another knock, this time more hurried and the scratch of something against wood—bone maybe, rough and grating and Aether frowns as he slinks from his place in bed. “I’m coming!” he calls out, and the scratching stops suddenly.  

He's only mildly concerned as he approaches the door, magic building under his fingertips just in case, but when he opens it, it’s just Mountain, the new earth ghoul, a grimace on his face and fingers gripping tightly at the door frame.  

“Are you—” Aether starts, but cuts himself off when Mountain pitches forward all of a sudden and the thick scent of rut hits him like a ton of bricks.  

He catches him, though just barely, arms coming up to gather the earth ghoul close to his chest—Mountain is mostly glamoured now, though Aether knows he won’t be for much longer, and makes a slightly impulsive decision to drag the ghoul into his room, grunting under the almost dead weight.  

“Satan above,” Aether swears, mostly under his breath as he steadies his center and heaves Mountain half onto his shoulder, strong or not, all of the earth ghoul’s dead weight settling makes it hard to move him around—but eventually, he makes it over to the couch, lowering him down onto the cushions before focusing on getting Mountain’s legs up and over the arm of it, a mimicry of comfort, but Aether’s more hesitant to allow a ghoul he barely knows into his nest.  

Even now, he glances over at his messily made bed, the piles of blankets and pillows on it arranged specifically, a sort of protective feeling wells up in him that he tries to ignore.  

A low groan pulls him from his thoughts and almost immediately he looks over to Mountain who looks mostly uncomfortable on the couch, eyes barely open as he looks at Aether.  

There’s something akin to hunger in his gaze, but he chooses to ignore it.  

“First rut topside, huh?” Aether asks out loud, putting some distance between himself and Mountain, “Is this part of your cycle or unplanned?”  

He prides himself for the way his voice doesn’t betray anything, from first meeting he and Mountain had hit it off pretty well, there was intrigue there, as the earth ghoul had watched him oh so carefully, as if curious about him. There has been some probing questions, quiet discussions after practice, mostly about magic and teetering on the edge of life and death.  

Aether doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s interested in what happens during an earth ghoul’s rut—being quintessence, he barely has anything of a cycle, and when it does happen, there isn’t much in the way of anything except pain and annoyance. Nothing too fun about it for him unless there was a partner involved—and most often, there hadn’t been.  

As he waits for Mountain to answer, he heads into the little kitchenette to get some water, it’s late so he suspects that Mountain has at least eaten at some point today, trying to remember the things that Omega had told him about what to expect when one of his packmates goes into rut or heat.  

(After all, quintessence ghouls are the equilibrium of the pack.) 

“’m not due for a rut until the winter,” Mountain finally manages to answer, his voice caught somewhere between his glamoured, more human voice and the one that Aether had heard when he was first summoned, all bass and full of static.  

It makes his teeth ache and his ears ring, but he turns with a smile, something small and gentle, he knows that any unexpected change of emotions could send Mountain spiraling, so he regulates, brings a bottle of water back over to the couch and lowers himself to sit on the edge of the low coffee table across from Mountain.  

“Early then,” Aether says, pausing somewhat awkwardly as he watches Mountain take the bottle from him and bite the cap off, guzzling down easily half of it with little thought, “Is there anything specific you need?” he asks, keeping his tone light, clinical, hoping he comes across more concerned than just curious.  

Mountain grumbles something, squeezes the water bottle in his hand once he’s downed the rest of it, drops of it soaking into the collar of his t-shirt, he drops the crumpled plastic to the floor and stretches his limbs, glamour melting away until all that’s left is a nearly eight foot ghoul stretched across Aether’s couch.  

His antlers curl from his hair, spanning more than the width of the couch, and Mountain makes a pained sound in his throat—t-shirt rucked up his torso, soaked in sweat.  

The noise digs deep into Aether’s core, and he feels the hair on his arms stand, he’s watching, curious—Mountain still hadn’t answered his question, the what do you need hanging heavily between them and the more the silence stretches, the more time Aether has to overthink it, to wonder if he'd propositioned a ghoul in a rut.  

He leans forward and grabs the crumpled bottle from the floor, stands and heads off to the kitchen to give himself something to do while he waits, he takes a few moments, grabs another water from the refrigerator.  

Just as the door closes with a soft squeak, there’s a groan from the couch and the sound of the wooden frame creaking under the weight of the nearly eight foot tall ghoul on it, “I need to...” Mountain begins, his throat dry, voice cracking as he speaks, and he stops with a groan, pressing his fist to his abdomen, “...need to knot something,” he mumbles, half out of it, “Hurts a lot.” 

Aether exhales and turns around, water in hand, “Is there someone you could go to?” he asks, and then frowns a little, “Or, someone I could bring here? I could find somewhere to go for the night.”  The idea of leaving his room and his nest alone during another ghoul’s rut leaves a bad taste in his mouth, he doesn’t want to do that, but it feels somewhat significant that Mountain had come to him of all people.  

Mountain shifts on the couch again, onto his side, at least the best that he can at his height and width, watching Aether with heavy eyes, he makes a pained sort of sound, presses his fist harder against his abdomen, “I — uh, I don’t know who else could...” he trails off, grits his teeth as if getting the words out were some gargantuan task, “I am...different, and anytime I try to take on a mate they...” his face screws up into something ugly then, “I’ve never shared my rut with anyone else.”  

The air leaves Aether in a rush and his grip tightens on the water bottle in his hand, “Oh,” he says, something like interest building in the back of his mind as he passes the sweating bottle to his other hand, “That’s...I thought that was just something that most quintessence ghouls do,” he says, trying for a light tone, but Mountain must sense something there, because his nostrils flare, eyes narrowing.  

“Quintessence ghouls don’t...experience that?” Mountain asks, tilting his head just barely, his antler scraping against the stone floor as he does so, “Heat, rut...” he trails off, hisses in pain as another wave of something overtakes him. “Like other ghouls?”  

Aether crosses the room again, though the whole time he feels like prey, under the watchful eyes of Mountain, who seems to be mostly trying to puzzle him out between bouts of painful cramps and he holds the water out to Mountain who takes it with barely a brush of fingertips, “Quintessence ghouls don’t have to have mates,” he says carefully, “We can sort of...produce heirs without them. Our heat and rut cycles are nearly nonexistent because of that, so we end up coupling for pleasure more than a biological need, I guess. My last cycle was several millennia ago.”  

It feels clinical, explaining this to Mountain, while Mountain’s in his own rut, but Aether had always been good with compartmentalizing, with not being affected by these things, “Of course, I don’t mind keeping you company, talking things out, but we should really try to come to some sort of ah resolution for your situation. I can sort of...” he trails off, waving his hand as if to indicate brushing something away, “get rid of my own issues, but I think it's better if you uh earth ghouls consummate the rut or heat, right?”  

Mountain snorts, a great sound that ruffles the pages of a magazine on the coffee table, “Sure, yeah, consummate is the word for it,” he opens the bottle of water properly this time, though the cap is easily crushed between his fingers as he does so before he’s gulping it down like he was starving for it, water dripping from the corner of his lip and down onto the couch.  

“Is there someone you had in mind?” Aether asks, unsure why he feels like he has to keep pushing this, there’s something in the back of his mind, nagging him, telling him to call one of the other pack members, another earth ghoul, someone else before this becomes something well beyond his control.  

Mountain is silent then, crushes the bottle in his hand and drops it to the floor, his eyes trained on Aether’s face for a long time before he lets his gaze trail down the quintessence ghoul’s body, “Are you offering?” he asks plainly, fangs heavy in his mouth.  

Floored, Aether takes a step back, catches his leg against the corner of the coffee table but otherwise stays upright, “Me?” he asks, voice strained. “I uh.” He doesn’t know what to say or how to answer the question—unconsciously maybe he had been offering something, but putting a word to that out loud felt scary and big.  

“Historically I’ve never been good with sharing a rut or heat with someone,” Aether says, trying to aim for calm, but his voice cracks a little, there’s a warmth inside him, an interest that he’s sure Mountain can scent on him.  

A low rumble echoes through the room, full of bass, a small and sly sort of smile tugging at the corners of Mountain’s mouth, “Historically I’ve never shared my rut with anyone,” he says, there’s an ounce of suggestion in his voice, but underneath that, there’s hesitation too, a brief flash of worry in his gaze before it evens out into something heated once again.  

And Aether, he’s never been too good when it came to self-preservation—the reason he dove head first into the first summoning circle that opened up was due to lack of exactly that, so knowing this, he sighs and comes to sit on the edge of the coffee table again, “We’re going to have to talk first,” he says, “Just because,” he pauses and looks at Mountain, takes in his height, the bulk of him and presses his own legs together.  

He’s getting wet now, of course he is, the prospect of strengthening pack bonds, of having sex for the first time since being summoned fills him with a heat—Mountain isn’t too terrible to look at, a capable lover, from where Aether’s sitting, but there’s just. A bit of an issue with all of this. One that he’s hoping won’t be a dealbreaker once he mentions it.  

Mountain makes some kind of noise, it sounds mostly tortured and a tiny bit playful, but he manages to get his hands under himself and heaves upwards so he’s sitting on the couch instead of laying.  

His shirt is soaked in sweat and there’s some beaded at his temples, his face a bit of a pale gray rather than the warmer tone that Aether’s used to seeing, but he looks alert, his eyes clear as he looks at Aether, as he takes this seriously, “I’m listening,” he says, hunching a bit on himself, arm curled around his abdomen carefully, “This is important to you and I have a little bit longer before I get too stupid with my rut,” he says with a bit of a wince.  

Aether bites at his lower lip, nodding his head, “Of course,” he says, “You are...very big,” the words come out before he can think it through, eyes trained on the width of Mountain’s shoulders, now that he’s sitting up almost properly. “And, I’m only going to assume that other parts of you are ah, proportionate.” he flushes, folds his hands in his lap—there's something in Mountain’s gaze that almost makes him pause, but he pushes on, “Sometimes, it takes a lot for me to enjoy penetration, and in the past that has caused partners to not want to pursue that with me. And since you’re in your rut, I didn’t want us to fall into bed and things not be enjoyable for you.”  

Mountain’s quiet then, he’s quiet for so long that Aether almost backtracks again, tries to think of something to say instead, to fill the silence because the way Mountain’s looking at him is unnerving.  

“Well,” Mountain finally says, tilting his head a little bit, “If we’re being honest about things, the reason I’ve never been able to find a mate is because of me lacking in the parts that matter during a rut.”  

There’s a curiosity there, simmering under his skin, at the lacking that he mentions, his eyes falling down to Mountain’s lap almost unconsciously—his breath catching at the utter lack of any hint of his arousal.  

And he is aroused, that is. Aether can smell it thick in the air, a temptation—like a cold morning in the forest, stealing the breath from his lungs as he breathes in.  

Mountain clears his throat and Aether’s gaze snaps back up to his face, behind the bravado and the heat there’s something like insecurity in his gaze, “So, do you think it’ll be okay?” he asks, a sort of downturn to his lips as she speaks.  

Aether stands then, clears his throat and dabs at the sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat, “I think we’ll make it work,” he says, and then he puts space between them, even as Mountain makes a desperate noise in his throat.  

There’s shuffling behind him, the sound of the couch groaning, but Aether pushes through to his task, collecting more water and some snacks—easy things to feed Mountain once the rut burns through him, “The bathroom is through the door over there,” he says, motioning towards the opposite side of the room, “If this is the last chance you have until you’re too stupid with rut, I need you to go in there and shower first. You reek of the ghoul dens and I won’t have that scent stuck to my nest.” He says matter of fact.  

Mountain slowly rises from the couch, lumbers across the room to the bathroom, glancing back at Aether every so often as something warm settles in his stomach, and when he disappears into the room, he leaves the door open just a bit.  

Aether exhales when he hears the shower turn on, thankful that the ghoul rooms are large enough to accommodate an unglamoured ghoul, and for a brief reprieve from Mountain’s scent—though it sticks heavily in his nostrils.  

He carries his supplies over to his nest, picking and pulling at some of the blankets, rearranging things to make more sense for a coupling, humming quietly to himself as he works. It's not often he has to change things around for a bed partner, not often he has anyone in his best, even before he was summoned, and the small part of his brain that frets over the structure wonders if Mountain will be pleased enough with it when it’s all said and done.  

The water shuts off, and Aether opens the window by his bed to let in some of the cool night air, there are nerves building in the pit of his belly, but he pushes through and undresses most of the way, down to his underwear and debating if he should remove his shirt too before he hears the bathroom door creak, the sound of heavy footfalls following.  

When Aether turns, his breath catches—Mountain’s standing across the room, water droplets pebbled on his chest, a white towel knotted around his waist though it barely holds, his entire hip and thigh visible where the towel won’t quite meet.  

“Didn’t think it would be a good idea to put my clothes back on,” Mountain says, a flush arcing across his cheeks, “I uh used that neutral soap you have, maybe I don’t smell bad anymore?” 

He asks it so earnestly, so shy, that Aether crosses the room and reaches out, careful fingertips brushing over Mountain’s arms, feeling the rut and shower warmed skin, the thick muscle just under it bunch under his touch, fingertips roaming downwards until he’s lacing his fingers through Mountain’s, tugging him closer, a shuffle of a dance as he walks them backwards towards his nest.  

Mountain's eyes widen, his mouth opens a bit, fingers spasming around Aether’s as his eyes fall to the nest, his nostrils flaring at the heavy scent of Aether, of pack emanating from the bed.  

“Are you sure…?” he asks, his voice low, garbled, lust and rut rushing to his head as he looks between the nest and Aether, the careful branch of trust the quintessence ghoul is offering him.  

Vulnerability.  

Aether hums, dropping one of Mountain’s hands as he steps back again, using his now free hand to steady himself on the foot of the bed as he climbs up onto it backwards, knee walking across the sheets, pulling Mountain closer and closer and closer until the earth ghoul is standing at the foot of the bed, bare knees pressed against the mattress.  

“Are you sure?” Mountain asks, barely above a whisper, his throat clicking loudly as he swallows, “We haven’t even kissed—” he pauses, flushing at his words. “We can go back to the couch, if you’d rather, I don’t want to…” taint your nest, is left unsaid.  

Aether smiles at him, tugs a bit harder on Mountain’s hand, “This is me inviting you into my nest,” he says softly as he sinks back on his heels, legs spreading a bit more.  

Mountain’s gaze is drawn to the splay of them, the way his thighs stretch and dimple just below the hem of his underwear, he’s wearing briefs, a dark fuchsia color—heat tugging sharp and pointed in his belly when he sees a damp spot, the slight bulge of his cock pressing into the material.  

“Oh,” Mountain said, somewhat dumbly, as he finally climbs up onto the bed, folding his long limbs under him so he can sit properly, “I can uh, you know,” he feels nervous, even as the heat courses through him, a voice insistently whispering for him to take, mate, take. “I can glamour again, I think, if this is too weird,” he mumbles, sharpened teeth digging into his bottom lip as he looks down at Aether, even kneeling, still so much taller. “I know it can be a lot.”  

With a soft laugh, Aether brings Mountain’s hand up to his mouth, pressing a firm kiss to the back of it, “Not too big for me, big guy,” he murmurs, feeling coy all of a sudden, glancing up at him from under his lashes as shadows darken the room, seeping closer to the bed like a mighty dog, “I like you like this,” he promises, his form flickering for a moment, like an illusion.  

The air in the room goes colder, prickling against Mountain’s hot skin and he shudders, watches the illusion flicker out of existence as Aether sits, now unglamoured, in front of him.  

He's bigger too, wider, medium downy fur covering his arms and legs, the contrast of his gray skin making the cyan of his fur seem colder, his eyes solid black now with a constellation of stars floating in the void of it.  

“You can touch me,” Aether whispers, his voice sweet sounding now, filling the air in a way that feels almost like a kiss of death, and Mountain takes a loud and long shuddering breath.  

He shifts closer until his knees press into Aether’s, ducking his head down to scent just behind one of Aether’s ears, the soft fur covering them dragging sweetly across his cheek—it twitches, Aether exhaling his own sound as arousal flares up between them and tips his head to the side, allowing Mountain more.  

Though his hands shake, Mountain presses them to Aether’s chest, his skin cold to the touch in a way that makes him whine despite Aether wearing a shirt still.  

“Always takes a minute to get used to it,” Aether murmurs, rubbing his palm over Mountain’s forearm, soothing, “Glamour doesn’t just keep me looking human,” he teases on the end of a sigh, as Mountain finally noses his way downward, scenting just under his chin now, lips brushing over skin.  

“Smell so good,” Mountain mumbles, inhaling deeply, he wants to crawl inside Aether and settle down there, curl up in his scent and luxuriate in it until they become one. 

The fire beneath his skin burns with a fury, and his fingers curl in Aether’s shirt, tugging at it, “Off,” he manages to say, and together, they wrestle the t-shirt over his head and into the nest somewhere before Mountain’s hands find their place on Aether’s waist, digging his fingertips into the small of his back with a sort of animalistic sound, he crowds forward until Aether falls back into the nest with a soft laugh.  

Aether’s hands find Mountain’s hair, fingertips cold and nimble as he seeks out the base of his antlers—the sound falling from Mountain’s mouth a fury of low bass and static that makes Aether ache.  

“Need,” Mountain murmurs, crouched over him, one leg between Aether’s own, straddling one of his thighs, “Should tell me now what you like cause I’m not gonna be coherent for much longer,” he continues, mouthing where Aether’s fur fades into skin.  

A laugh, soft, even as Aether scrapes his nails against the seam where Mountain’s antlers grow from his skull, relishing in the sort of guttural sound that the earth ghoul makes, the way Mountain’s thighs flex around his own, “I like a lot of things, slow and not too deep, fast and rough—a good mate that’ll take care of me knows what I need when he’s got me under him, hm? I know this is your rut, but it’s really not about that, is it? You want to take care of someone.” he murmurs.  

Mountain makes a pained noise again, shifts a bit so he can rut against Aether’s thigh, “I’ll take good care of you,” he murmurs, a litany of promises falling from his lips as he tries to get friction against his own cock. “Please, let me show you, let me take care of you.” he whispers, nearly begs, as Aether’s fingertips continue to trace gentle circles around the base of his antlers—highly erogenous, “Please baby, please,” he finally breaks, begs, turning his head and pressing his face into Aether’s throat. “Want to take care of you. Show you I can be a good mate.”  

Aether stays silent for a moment, feels Mountain shake against him for a bit before dragging a finger up along the shaft of his left antler, “Show me,” he whispers as his other hand goes down between them, tugging at the knotted end of the towel and Mountain makes a great noise in his throat, the sound loud and unyielding as he reaches down in between them and shreds at the towel, yanking it away from his body and tossing it in a messy heap on the floor.  

Mountain shifts above him, warm where he’s straddling Aether’s thigh, the prickly fur decorating the insides of them mixing roughly in his and Aether doesn’t much look as he does reach between them, seeking out where Mountain’s hard and waiting, fingers wrapping around his shaft and—oh.  

Oh.  

He has to look then; he nudges Mountain back though the earth ghoul whines about it, but Aether shushes him, murmurs something about wanting to see him, though his mind is steadily focused on how small he feels against his palm.  

Aether lets out a shuddering breath when he finally sees Mountain, the ruddy head of his cock peeking just barely over the top of his fist, his hand closing around it so easily—a good maybe four inches fully erect—and he must stay silent for too long, because Mountain shifts uncomfortably, makes a sort of worried noise.  

“I know it’s—” Mountain starts, then stops, pouts a little, he doesn’t go soft though, not with the way Aether’s holding him, gripping him tight enough to give him pressure, his hand moving the tiniest bit as he breathes. “Aether?”  

There’s an edge to his voice, a bit of sourness to his scent and Aether’s quick to snap out of it, squeezes Mountain with intent this time as he whispers, “You’re perfect,” already feeling out of breath just from looking at him. “You’re going to take such good care of me, Mountain, gonna feel so good inside me,” he murmurs. “D’you have a knot?” he mumbles, hushed, in awe.  

Mountain makes a sort of embarrassed noise, his chest flushing as he tries to hide his face in Aether’s hair, “I do,” he mumbles, “Not very big though, probably won’t catch without some help.”  

Aether makes a pleased sound, a low rumble of a purr deep in his chest as he nudges his face under Mountain’s chin, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his skin, “Gonna catch just fine,” he mumbles, feeling dazed as he strokes Mountain from base to tip, curling the palm of his hand over the head of Mountain’s dick. “You’re so perfect. The perfect size.” 

He bucks into his touch, hips jackrabbiting forward into Aether’s hand, “Satan,” he mumbles like a swear, mouth falling open—his hips move on their own volition, and all Mountain can do is making helpless little noises, fucking into the pressure around his cock over and over and over until he’s coming, shaking through it with Aether’s name on his tongue as he comes in spurts over Aether’s fist, getting the two of them messy.  

“Oh, oh,” Aether says, awed, “Felt good?” he murmurs, still stroking Mountain, feeling the beginnings of his knot, thickening at the base, “Look at the mess you made, baby,” he murmurs after a bit, pulling his hand away, sticky with Mountain’s spend, “I bet you have so much more to give though, don’t you?” he asks softly, hopeful.  

Mountain makes a soft noise, panting heavily as he turns his head to bury his face into Aether’s hair, “Wanna give you everything,” he mumbles, pawing at Aether’s sides, feeling the give of his waist under his touch, “Let me touch you now, taste you, please Aether.”  

Aether makes a soothing sort of noise, buries his clean hand in Mountain’s hair, “You’re already doing so well for me,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing his thumb against the base of an antler again, “Want that pretty mouth on my dick, baby,” he coos, smiling when Mountain makes a pained noise. “Go on, big guy,” he urges, lets his hand fall from Mountain’s hair finally as he settles properly on the bed, hooking his thumb in the waist of his briefs, pushing them down over one hip.  

Mountain pulls back, watches as Aether slowly reveals more of himself, there’s a constellation of navy, almost black patches of fur over his groin that he wants to follow with his mouth, so he shifts, shuffling backwards until he’s properly kneeling in between his thighs.  

“So pretty,” Mountain rumbles lowly, and, with a lot more grace and care than one would expect of a ghoul during a rut, he buries his face among the navy fur, inhaling the scent of Aether’s sweat and arousal, mouthing at each inch of skin revealed until he feels mad with it all, claws careful as he grabs at the other side of Aether’s briefs, pulling them down—easily getting them off as Aether lifts his hips in encouragement.  

One hand grabs at Mountain’s antlers and the earth ghoul makes a happy sort of noise, letting Aether direct him exactly where he wants—to his cock, pink and wet, hard and flushed with his arousal, soaking in the pleased, happy sound Aether lets out the moment Mountain’s mouth closes around it.  

“Yes,” Aether hisses out, bucking up into Mountain’s mouth—grinding into his face with a pleased sound, “Just like that, big guy. Feels so good, just like I knew it would. Got such a pretty mouth.”  

Mountain whines, closes his eyes and sinks into it, the praise falling from Aether’s lips washes over him until he’s feeling a bit dumb with it, his face a mess of slick and spit as Aether keeps grinding into him, fucking his mouth with sharp, pointed thrusts—each time he goes to pull out, Mountain makes a wounded noise and tries to shove his face in close again, trying to take in more—almost as if he were in heat and not rut, wanting, craving to feel the way Aether’s knot swells in his mouth.  

“So eager,” Aether murmurs, but it doesn’t sound mean, doesn’t sound exasperated like some of Mountain’s previous partners, it’s fond and bookended with a sweet little sigh as Aether tosses one of his legs over Mountain’s shoulder, allowing him to get closer.  

Happiness and contentedness radiates off of Aether, one hand cupping the back of his head while the other keeps him exactly where he wants him with a firm grip on an antler, “I want you to make me come,” he says, breathless, pressing his head back into the pillow under him as he rocks up into Mountain’s mouth, “Make me come and then you can get me ready to take your knot, baby.”  

Mountain makes another noise, something eager, as he grips Aether’s thigh in one hand, pushes it back towards his chest as he sinks his mouth further down on Aether’s cock, his face messy and slick as he buries as close as he can, tonguing at the beginnings of his knot, already starting to firm up in his mouth.  

He makes a happy noise, uses his weight to keep Aether in place as he sucks him off, feeling Aether’s thigh tremble in his grip—he makes a curious noise, sinks his other hand in between them, nudging a couple of knuckles against where Aether’s wet and warm. 

Aether swears, toes curling as he nods against the pillow several times, words taking a moment to form as he tries to rock down against Mountain’s other hand while simultaneously grinding into his mouth—he can’t though, not with the way Mountain’s holding him there, leg pressed up to his chest, keeping him open.  

“Please,” Aether finally manages to get out, tugs a bit harshly at Mountain’s hair, “Fingers, yes,” he breathes out, “Put one in me, baby, let me feel it. I’m so close.”  

He complies, presses one finger into Aether slowly, feels the way he goes tight around him, hot and slick like he’s in heat—something that makes Mountain’s mouth water a bit, drags him deeper into his rut, imagining spending a heat with Aether, satiating the quintessence ghoul in the same way Aether’s satiating him now.  

“That’s it,” Aether says, his voice going low, a moan catching in his throat as Mountain’s lips tighten around his cock, a wet heat that makes his knot thicken, he can feel it growing just inside the earth ghoul’s mouth, the pressure in his belly building as a slender finger works its way inside of him, pressing into his walls, testing, undulating, fucking into him with such care that Aether can’t help the way tears gather at the corners of his eyes, at the sweetness that Mountain’s showing him despite being in a rut.  

It goes on like this, for several, long minutes, minutes that feel like they stretch into hours and Aether feels so wrung out and loose by the time he’s shaking through his own orgasm, that he feels like Mountain could just slide into him without actually prepping him—a thought that seems to prolong his orgasm to the point that he’s kicking at Mountain, shoving him away bodily as he curls in on himself, turning onto his side and panting into the pillow, shivering.  

Mountain makes a sort of wounded noise, worry cloying his scent as he crowds up against Aether’s back, careful not to touch him too much, but still wanting to be close, nosing at the nape of his neck as he waits for Aether to calm down a bit, for him to stop shaking—and it doesn’t seem to take that long, but there’s a heat bubbling just beneath Mountain’s skin that makes time different, that makes his mind a little different, his eyes drooping a bit as he scents at Aether, trying to determine if he’s alright.  

Aether’s hand eventually reaches back and he drags Mountain in, closer to him, curling under the heaviness of his arm—their scents mingling together as he noses at Mountain’s knuckles, breathing still a bit choppy and uneven, aftershocks making his toes curl and uncurl. “Seven Hells,” he finally mumbles, feeling Mountain’s rumbling laughter vibrating deep in his chest, “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard,” he admits quietly.  

“Told you,” Mountain mumbles, deep and mostly inhuman now, “Wanna give you everything,” he punctuates the statement by grinding his hips forward against Aether—the hard line of his cock nudging at the back of his thigh, “Everything,” he repeats, the word catching in a whine at the end. “Let me, please.”  

Aether shushes him, pets over his forearm, “Think you can do it like this, baby?” he asks, “I’m feeling a little boneless right now, comfortable,” he murmurs with a purr, “A couple fingers and then you can fuck me, okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Mountain’s knuckles.  

It takes a moment for Mountain to catch up, but he makes an excited noise—and Aether mourns the loss of the arm curling around him disappearing, but is mostly okay with it when Mountain slides his other arm under Aether’s head, cradling him like he’s something precious as he carefully presses one finger into him.  

Aether moans, arching back into it, eyes fluttering closed as Mountain seems to take his time with this, letting him get used to it—fucking his finger in and out of him a few times until Aether’s whining, turning his face into Mountain’s arm and asking for the other one, a pleased gasp leaving his mouth when he complies, presses two fingers into him, slow and careful, his body opening up around them so easily.  

He thinks, somewhat dumbly, that if Mountain were to pull out and fuck into him now then he’d be happy, he’d be content, but instead, Mountain seems laser focused on fingering him, curling and pressing them over and over until Aether’s shifted a leg further out, giving him more space and Mountain’s thumb grazing over his cock once more, where he’s starting to get hard again.  

He’s sore in the best ways and it feels like hours, before Mountain nuzzles behind his ear and makes a curious noise, unable to get the words out proper, but Aether knows, he knows and he nods, reaching behind him to find Mountain’s cock, wrap his fingers around him and stroke him a few times, he’s hot and hard and so perfect—almost like he was made just for Aether.  

“Come on, big guy,” Aether murmurs, giving him one last squeeze before he lets go, bends his knee and lays mostly on his stomach, giving Mountain a good view of everything, of how wet and pink he is, where his fingers sink into Aether with such an ease, “S’yours to take now, baby.” 

Mountain makes a noise, something animalistic, growling as he pulls his fingers out and settles over Aether, pressing his face into the side of his neck as he reaches down to guide himself closer, to press into Aether—and they both moan, nearly shout as Mountain’s cock sinks inside, as his hips settle so quickly against Aether’s ass.  

“Fuck,” Aether says in a wheeze, clawing at the bed sheets under him, “Mountain, please, you can move, you can move baby.”  

It takes very little encouragement from there—the rut and their mingling scents going straight to Mountain’s head as he sets a brutal pace, fucking into Aether as if his own life depended on it, and at this point, maybe it did, maybe there was no Mountain without Aether; maybe after this he could no longer exist without having a taste of this regularly, of having Aether under him, moaning loudly into a pillow, trying and failing to fuck himself back onto his cock each time Mountain pulls out. 

He’s so used to seeing Aether so well put together that seeing him like this, seeing him give into his baser instincts and let himself be fucked makes Mountain want to keep him here, to have him as a proper mate so he can be the one that gets to see this, so he can be the one who satiates all of Aether’s needs.  

Mountain’s teeth sink into the back of Aether’s neck and the quintessence ghoul goes limp underneath him with a moan, he thinks Aether says his name, slurs it out as he clenches down around him tightly, his voice going a bit pitchy as he shouts—coming again so suddenly that it has to hurt, but Aether’s scent stays pleased, stays happy and content and doesn’t get sour so he keeps going, keeps fucking into him, growling lowly as he feels his own end hurtling close, his knot thickening and catching with each gyration of his hips.  

When it does finally catch, when time is syrupy and thick in his head and Aether’s voice suddenly breaks and he squirms under Mountain, knot locking them together, he can’t help himself, it takes only a few more humps of his hips and he’s coming in thick ropes, filling Aether, filling his mate.  

Aether makes a soft noise, his face flushed and his eyes wet as he grinds his hips back, he’s overstimulated and everything feels both like it’s too much and not enough at the same time, he tries to ask for something, for Mountain to continue moving for anything, but he can’t get the words to come out—but then a hand, careful fingers close around his cock, around his knot and squeeze and Aether cries out again, spasming around Mountain as he comes one last time, the pressure around his knot making him light headed.  

Mountain snuffles and carefully loosens his grip on the back of Aether’s neck, presses his lips there in a sweet kiss, the coppery scent of blood making him whine a little, but there’s no distress coming from his mate under him, the two of them reeking of contentment and each other—so he doesn’t move, not until his knot and Aether’s both deflate and then he carefully pulls his hand away, shushing the quintessence ghoul when he makes a noise of discomfort.  

His rut has settled for now, and as he shifts his hips back, pulling out carefully, he immediately pulls Aether into his arms, uncaring of the mess of sweat, come and slick between them—he always goes a bit quiet after a rut, used to being alone, but he tries, for the sake of his partner, nosing his way into Aether’s hair to breathe him in for a moment as he tries to find words.  

“Need something?” he manages after a few minutes, cracking his eyes open and spying the water that Aether had put by the bed before everything. “Thirsty?” he asks, but doesn’t wait—rolling the two of them closer to the other side of the bed, grabbing one of the bottles and trying to tear the lid off.  

“Easy there, big guy,” Aether says, his voice is wrecked but he sounds happy, and an arm, though it seems to take great concentration to move, reaches out and takes the water from him, uncapping it with a bit of a struggle. 

Mountain’s there, though, steadying his arm and helping Aether sit up just enough so he can drink from the bottle—and then he’s pressing the bottle to Mountain’s lips, encouraging him to drink.  

The nest is sort of a mess under them, but Mountain doesn’t think that matters much right now, not when he shuffles them away from most of the mess and curls around Aether again—Aether who’s looking a bit less out of it, his eyes soft as he stares up at Mountain.  

“You know,” he mumbles with a little grin, after they’ve both drank more water and Aether’s wrestled a clean blanket over their bodies, “We never actually kissed first,” he says with a little laugh. “Did this whole thing backwards.”  

Mountain stares down at him for a moment, his mind a bit fuzzy—his rut isn’t quite over yet, but he thinks that maybe in a day or two, he’ll freak out about how comfortable he feels, and the lack of shame he has when openly thinking about how he wants to woo Aether, about the way he cups Aether’s face gently in one hand and presses their lips together in a soft, sweet kiss.  

It doesn’t turn into something heavy; it stays sweet and when it comes to a natural end, Aether’s smiling, “Oh,” he says with a little laugh, “I didn’t realize you felt that way, big guy.” 

There’s a flush high on his cheeks, but there’s nothing Mountain can do to hide the feelings of contentment and something else that’s pumping through the bond he has with Aether—they're pack but it all feels like so much more, but Aether doesn’t push, just pulls him into another kiss, brief and light.  

“You’ve been so good to me,” Aether whispers against his mouth, “So perfect for me, Mountain. Like a good mate, knew exactly what I needed, baby.”  

He whines, mildly embarrassed by the broadcast of his emotions, half expects to be teased, but it never comes, and instead they kiss again, for longer this time and all Mountain can taste is happiness in Aether’s smile.  

[lets-try-some-writing]

Your CC Warfare fic legit had me stressing out so bad I thought I was feeling a genuinely new emotion, lol. That whole thing was like a really bad car crash: it's terrible what happened, but you can't look away. If Strongarm had just said nothing, she would've avoided putting her foot in her mouth and getting in trouble. With how tense everything was, I see no reason why she would jump in. I understand she was trying to help Sideswipe out of that situation, but she did it in like the complete opposite direction! She should've reared him in, not back him up. She said it herself that they were war veterans. Though, I suppose that's easier said. Strongarm may be intelligible of the war records and Autobot law, but truthfully, plain intelligence pales in the face of wisdom and actual experience. Intelligence says: this war could've easily been won because of xyz. Wisdom and experience say completely otherwise. And I guess that is one of the points Optimus is trying to make: that Strongarm and Sideswipe do not have the wisdom or experience to understand exactly why things played out the way they did. I have the feeling the two simply looked at the war records itself and not any history that came before, especially Optimus' involvement with Megatron's revolution. I don't know if that would make much of a difference for Sideswipe tbh but I think Strongarm would be able to see just a little why Optimus couldn't outright kill Megatron in the beginning like Sideswipe said he should've. Even so, going back to the records itself , it won't contain legitimately every single thing that happened. It probably only recorded decisive battles and notable events. Billions of people were involved, and with that many variables, it would be impossible to say that the war could've been won if only Optimus did something sooner. WHICH BY THE WAY MAKES THIS SO MUCH WORSE. Sideswipe (and by extension Strongarm) is basically saying that Optimus is personally responsible for dragging on an intergalactic war just because he didn't off one guy as if the most wicked bots in the face of existence werent out there making lives worse on purpose under the cover of the war and would help stretch it to continue their sick actions. As if there weren't a hundred other Megatrons ready to continue the war themselves the moment Megatron died. If I could write an essay on every reason why the war dragged on, I'll be writing until I die and never come close to finishing. Even within the small game Optimus planned there are obvious reasons why it wouldn't be a quick or easy victory if they even win: limited number of fighters (no guarantee they'd hit the max min bc rallying people to fight is difficult), no details until they got to Helex (you're not always going to know what your goal is when being sent out to fight), no resources from the state (war is expensive and getting funding is difficult). So imagine that plus way more reasons plus on a planetary scale. The scope is simply unfathomable. Anyways, I think this comment has gone on long enough lol. Excellent work as always and I'm excited but also incredibly nervous to see how this all plays out. Take care!

YOU ARE PICKING UP WHAT I AM LAYING DOWN!!!

This whole fic is one giant show. Optimus wants the idiots under Bee's control to LEARN. You've already picked up the logical reasoning behind the rules he's laid down so far. And let me tell you, its only going to get more complicated. War is a difficult and unpredictable thing. Optimus is going to make that as real as possible in this non-lethal scenario.

Is it overkill? Maybe. But if even those serving under Bumblebee don't have the barest inkling of the truth? It hints at a FAR larger problem. I am going to have so much fun writing this thing. I want to get a few chapters stockpiled and then I will post them on Ao3 and continue there :3

Thank you for enjoying my writing and giving this lovely analysis. This sort of things makes my dad and encourages me to write more.

[roseworth]

Aligned

word count: 2001

description: Rapunzel is pregnant, and Nigel thinks that she needs to give her child an arranged marriage. She and Eugene strongly disagree.

Nigel had been droning on about customs regarding the newest addition to the Royal Family for almost an hour now, and Eugene felt like he was about to fall asleep. Their baby still had at least 6 months until she was even born, yet apparently, they still had so much to figure out.

“Captain, are you even listening?” Nigel asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, royal customs, baby things,” he said, bored out of his mind.

“What he means to say,” Rapunzel cut in before Nigel could answer, “is that we have months before the baby is due, couldn’t we spread this planning over time?”

“We are spreading it over time, Your Majesty. This child will be the heir to the throne, there are lots of preparations to make before she’s born.”

Eugene held back a groan as Nigel pulled out a long scroll. “We can finish for today once you make a decision on who to promise the child to.”

“‘Promise?’” Rapunzel repeated. “What does that mean?”

“It means to give her an arranged marriage.”

“That’s dumb as hell,” Eugene said.

“Eugene!” Rapunzel scolded, though she didn’t disagree with him.

“Sorry. Respectfully, that’s dumb as hell, Sir.”

“It’s tradition! Future Kings and Queens should be promised to other royalty,” Nigel said tritely.

“I don’t want to do that to our child! What if I had been promised to someone, then where would we be now?” Rapunzel argued.

Nigel frowned. “Your Majesty, you were promised to someone.”

“What?” Eugene and Rapunzel said at the same time.

Nigel nodded. “As I said, it is all future rulers. Your marriage just fell through when you were… ahem, taken.”

“So what happened to who she was promised to?” Eugene asked.

“I assume he was given a new Princess,” Nigel shrugged.

Eugene frowned at the idea that Princesses were something you could just give away. It made them sound like some kind of cattle rather than human people. That didn’t sit right with him, especially concerning his wife and future daughter.

“Well, I appreciate the concern, Nigel, but we won’t be ‘promising’ our daughter to anyone,” Eugene declared, crossing his arms.

“But you have to! It’s tradition.”

“There’s no law stating it,” Rapunzel pointed out. “If it’s just ‘tradition,’ I think we’re gonna pass.”

Nigel tightened his grip on the scroll. “Your Majesty, I would strongly urge you to comply with the traditions of the Kingdom. There’s no use changing it if it’s worked well enough so far.”

“But it hasn’t! We wouldn’t even have this baby if I had been forced to marry someone else,” she said.

Nigel sighed. “We’ll come back to this issue at another time,” he said as he exited the room. Rapunzel turned to her husband.

“I’m not promising this child to anyone.”

“I agree with you, Sunshine. And I’m sure we can get Nigel on our side eventually, or at least wear him down ‘til he gives up.”

“Ugh, imagine if that marriage didn’t fall through. What if I had come home just to be told I had to marry someone else?”

“Honestly, sweetheart, I don’t think that could’ve happened, only because you would have raised hell the second they told you.”

“Hey, I just know what I want!” she defended.

“Well, I guess I’m just lucky enough to be what you want,” he said, kissing her cheek. “So who do you think you were promised to?”

She shrugged. “I guess it could be any of the princes or kings.”

“Like King Trevor!”

Her jaw dropped. “Trevor?”

Eugene had a cheeky grin on his face as he responded, “You never know! Maybe that’s why he never leaves us alone!”

“Or maybe it’s because you’ve broken into his castle twice,” she said. “Plus, we did technically crash Trevor Jr.’s wedding.”

“Blondie, that was a seal wedding. If anything, we made it more interesting.”

“Well, I doubt it’s Trevor. He was in love with my mom, remember?”

“All the more reason to try to marry you!”

Rapunzel smiled and rolled her eyes. “I guess it doesn’t matter who it is, since I’m clearly not going to marry them.”

“Come on, aren’t you at least a little curious?”

She sighed. “Yeah, I kind of am now,” she admitted. “I bet my parents would know, we should ask!”

So, at dinner later that day, they brought up the subject of the arranged marriage again. “Nigel thinks that we should promise our child to some random Prince, which I think is a little crazy,” Rapunzel recounted. “But he told me I was also promised to some random Prince.”

“The tradition of promising the future rulers is long-standing, but if you think breaking it is what is best for your family, by all means, break it,” Frederic said.

Arianna smiled. “I was pretty reluctant about arranging a marriage when I had you, I’m glad you’re standing up against it.”

“Do you know who my marriage was arranged with?” Rapunzel asked. Her mom thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“I believe we made the agreement long before you were born. After everything we went through with my pregnancy, I hardly remembered by the time I had you.”

“Was it Trevor?” Eugene asked jokingly. Arianna choked on the food in her mouth before laughing.

“Oh, dear, I hope not!”

Rapunzel giggled, placing a hand on her stomach. Looking at the way her family so easily cared for each other, she couldn’t help but feel excited about their new edition. Their daughter would be loved and cared for, no matter what happened. Rapunzel was ready to do everything she could to give her daughter a happy life, starting with making sure she wasn’t married off without a say in the matter. It was the least she could do.

Over the next few weeks, Nigel would occasionally bring up the matter of arranging a marriage, only to be immediately shot down every time. No one was surprised by his insistence in the matter, though. He was always concerned with upholding the traditions of the kingdom, even if the traditions were outdated and, as Eugene so gracefully put it, dumb as hell.

They finally got a break from all the preparations when they went to visit the Dark Kingdom. Ever since Edmund had left to restore the kingdom, Rapunzel and Eugene did their best to visit at least once every other month to stay connected with him.

Edmund was elated to see them as always. He walked over to them with a grin on his face and wrapped his arm around Rapunzel’s shoulder. “It’s great to see you two! Or should I say, you three?”

She laughed, placing a hand on her stomach. This was the first visit to the Dark Kingdom since they found out about the pregnancy, but Eugene had told his dad everything in a letter. Needless to say, Edmund was beyond excited to be a grandfather.

“Yep, one more Der Sonne on the way!” she beamed.

The three of them exchanged pleasantries, with Eugene and Rapunzel talking about the pregnancy, and Edmund talking about all the progress he had made in restoring the kingdom.

Edmund gave them a quick tour of all the changes he had made, but in all honesty, they couldn’t tell the difference. They had only been to the Dark Kingdom once before the restoration, so they didn’t notice things like new carpeting in a random room on the edge of the castle. Nonetheless, they nodded along as they listened to his descriptions.

“Oh, you two must be tired from your travels! Come with me, we’ll sit for dinner!” he said, leading them to the dining room. “Plus she’s pregnant, she must be tired enough as it is!” he added to himself. He had gotten better at keeping his thoughts to himself, but he still slipped up sometimes. Rapunzel just giggled lightly, shooting Eugene an amused glance.

“So, have you two been swamped with planning for a royal baby?” Edmund asked.

Eugene snorted. “Definitely, I’m getting sick of all this work that comes with it.”

“It was the same way when your mother was pregnant with you. There was so much paperwork for just one child. And none of the paperwork even mattered after the kingdom fell!” he added exasperatedly.

Rapunzel’s eyes widened excitedly. “You had to do the paperwork for Eugene? Did you promise him to someone?” she asked. Edmund nodded, and a smile grew on Rapunzel’s face. “Who was it?”

“Seriously?” Eugene groaned.

“Hey, we don’t know mine, so I at least want to know yours!”

“Sorry, Rapunzel, I don’t know off the top of my head. I might still have the documents in storage, though,” Edmund answered.

After some convincing, Rapunzel dragged her husband to a storage room so they could sift through old Dark Kingdom documents to find his birth records. There were cabinets and boxes full of various documents, each one starting to rip or fade.

Eugene was quickly scanning papers for information, but Rapunzel was reading as in-depth as she could into each document. “It’s so cool! There’s so much to learn about the history and the culture of the Dark Kingdom in these documents!” she said.

“Wow,” he replied. “I can’t believe I married a nerd.”

Rapunzel giggled and nudged him lightly, going back to her dive through all the documents. About 20 minutes later, she was halfway through a record of the trades between the Dark Kingdom and Neserdnia when Eugene spoke up.

“Hey, I think I found them!” he announced.

“Oo, what does it say?”

His eyes flitted over the page, then a huge smile grew on his face as he looked back up at her. “Wow, Blondie, it looks like you have some competition.”

“What?”

“I mean, the girl I was promised to is a real catch, you might have to look out,” he said teasingly, handing her the documents. She raised an eyebrow as she took them, reading through the page. She couldn’t help but smile as well when she saw what was written on the page.

Prince Horace of the Dark Kingdom is to be married to the first born Princess of Corona.

“Look at that! I guess we were destined to be together after all!” she beamed.

“Or just a really lucky coincidence,” he responded.

“Come on, there was some kind of fate working on our side!”

“Let’s not give Max that much credit.”

“Fate or not, we still found each other after all,” she said, grabbing his hand. He smiled and kissed her forehead.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two of them spent the rest of the night trying to come up with ways that their lives could have gone differently, but still finding each other every single time. They knew there were so many small coincidences that led to them meeting and falling in love, but even if all the moving parts weren’t there, they would still fall in love. That’s the thing about soulmates- they’ll always find their way to each other.

“The ruggedly handsome Flynn Rider would easily woo the beautiful and mysterious Princess Rapunzel!” Eugene laughed. Rapunzel scoffed.

“Maybe Princess Rapunzel would think Rider was an arrogant thief,” she teased lightly.

“Maybe, but then she would realize deep down, he’s just a rogue with a heart of gold,” he said.

She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “Yeah, she would. And they would fall in love despite everything.”

“And live happily ever after.”

Maybe it wasn’t “fate” or “destiny” or “soulmates,” but no matter what, the universe was on their side. Or maybe it was all just luck. They’ll never really know for sure if any magical forces were at work to bring the two of them together.

In the end, it didn’t matter how they met. What mattered was that they loved each other more than anything, and they would make sure their child would feel that same love. That’s all the “destiny” they needed.

[gringolet]

INTRO TO ARTHURIANA MASTERPOST

under the cut for absurd length

HOW TO GET STARTED WITH ARTHURIANA

The Arthuriana fandom is very broad and there's no one piece of media, which can be confusing for people just getting into it! There’s no right way to engage with arthuriana, and no minimum level of knowledge or reading you need to attain to qualify. 

The basis of the Arthurian Legend is a body of hundreds of texts written across the medieval and early Renaissance period in dozens of languages and cultural traditions. Which can seem pretty overwhelming, but there are a lot of modern vernacular translations-- you absolutely don’t have to learn old French or anything. I’ll go more in depth on where to get started with texts further down.

You also don’t have to read texts at all. As I said, there is no minimum basis-- if you prefer to engage with modern adaptations, or want to engage with medieval arthuriana outside of reading texts, that's also cool! 

In terms of modern adaptations there is a wealth of choices, which I am very much not an expert in lol, so I’m afraid I can’t give much in the way of reccs. Books I have heard good things about are, Exiled from Camelot, Idylls of the Queen, The Buried Giant, the Squire's Tale series, and Gawain by Gwen Rowley (warning that this one is apparently erotica? Good for him). I trust @princesslibs  for modern book reccomendations. and if you speak French Kaamelott is purportedly a very good tv show. Frankly no modern adaptation will ever be better than Spamalot to me, but that's just my personal take. 

If you are curious about engaging with texts but (understandably) don’t want to read a ton of dense medieval literature, one really cool resource is Norris J Lacy's New Arthurian Encyclopedia, which you can pick up at most used bookstores for under ten bucks. It’s a very thorough easy to look through reference of characters stories and texts. I know a lot of people like the Nightbringer wiki, though I personally am wary of it because it basically never cites sources. It’s a good quick reference though and a lot of people like it, I’d just take it with a grain of salt. Sparknotes also has a lot of summaries of the major texts like Le Morte D’Arthur and the romances of Chrétien De Troyes. You are not a fake fan for doing this I promise. And of course you’re always welcome to send me an ask <3 

Finally, getting started with texts. Quick glossary of terms:

--Verse Romance

    A verse (poem) story which can vary a great deal in length. These deal with the adventures of individual knights, usually Gawain, and tend to have a great deal of magical elements and the stereotypical monster slaying, questing, damosel rescuing knight adventures.

--Prose Novel or Romance

    A non poetic narrative, more like a modern novel, more likely to deal with the fall of Arthur, sword in the stone, Mordred, fall of Camelot sort of affair. They are usually quite long. Most famous of these are Le Morte D’Arthur and the French Vulgate, but there are a slew of late medieval Prose novels floating around. Eluding Rey.

--Pseudohistory

    I’m gonna b real these are boring I think. These are, as the name suggests, written as accurate depictions of history.  They very much are not, but they claim to be. Most famous of these is Jeffrey of Monmouth, Mr Jeff Mouth himself, and his History of the Kings of Britain, which I haven’t read because it bores me. You can if you want. It’s in Latin. Whatever. These tend to be some of the earliest texts, and include the “lives of saints” stories. Life of Gildas is the only funny one.

--Ballads

    These are only arguably texts, as most of them were written after the time of the “canon” being composed. But I like them. These are songs telling stories, recorded by people like Francis Child and Thomas Percy. They are very short and fun and include stories like The Boy and the Mantle, Kempion, and King Arthur and the King of Cornwall.

--Lai

    A specific type of French verse poem, usually quite short. The most famous collection of lais are those of Marie le France, including things like Bisclavret and Lanval. 

--Traditions

    Since Arthuriana was written all over, there are different literary traditions across time and space. The French tradition is one of the most famous, including works like the vulgate, Chretien and a lot of verse romances. The English tradition is one of the most influential on modern adaptations, including the Morte D’Arthur and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. There are also Welsh, German, Dutch, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Tagalog, Greek, Belarussian, Scottish, Irish, Breton, and probably even more. There’s a lot. It’s very cool and sexy.

A note that there is also a big tradition of Victorian revival Arthuriana. I wrote a starter guide to that here, it’s all very fun and like, aesthetic. 

Alright, now, which texts do you start with?

If you’re a little intimidated by long texts or medieval lit, starting with short verse romances in modern translation is a great place to start. These include Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which is very good and gay and well known, Lancelot and the Hart With The White Foot, which is very good and gay and underappreciated, or Lanval, which is homophobic but funny. 

If you want to start with what is considered the oldest King Arthur Story, Culwch and Olwen is short and fun!

If you want to read about the grail quest, you can start where it started with Story of the Grail or Percival, then the four continuations, Essenbachs Parzival, the vulgate version of the Grail quest which you can buy paperback for like 5 bucks (I can also scan my copy for you just shoot me an ask <3)

If you want to read about the fall of camelot, I have the Vulgate death of Arthur section scanned here. There’s also the Alliterative and Stanzaic mortes, which are in middle English. I have scanned Simon Armitage's Alliterative Morte translation here. I’m working on my own translation of the Stanzaic but it’s not done lol. If you want the first third or so DM me lol. King Artus is very short and readable and it’s a Jewish text which is really cool.

If you want to read about Lancelot, Chrétien de Troyes Lancelot is his first text. He also has a whole long vulgate section, the first part is scanned here by val <3, and there's Lanzelet,  Sebile is in it so it’s probably very good. He’s also basically the main character of Le Morte D’Arthur which I might as well talk about here uhm. It’s long and fun in places and boring in others but it does have like the version most modern adaptations take from and tells the whole story of Arthur and Camelot from beginning to end. The Keith Baines version scanned by val is the most readable but it is an abridgement I believe. people who like le morte usually read this version so its probably the best choice lol

If you want to read about Gawain, good news! He’s in basically everything. Even texts that aren’t supposed to be about Gawain are doomed to become The Gawain Show Featuring The Protagonist Of This Text As A Sidekick. Which is so funny of him. The Roman Van Walewein is very funny and long and Gawain™. I also recommend, L’atre Perilous, Diu Krone, Sir Gawain and the Turk, and I could go on but for brevity's sake let's start there. 

If you want to read about Tristan, go shoot an ask to Valentine @lanzelet on tumblr because Tristan scares me. 

Thank you to rey @gawain-in-green for helping me find links and put this together! They are also a super great resource for stuff and very cool and nice <3 They have a tag on their blog for full text resources so deffo look at that if you want more scans and links, and an info tag and tons of cool shit that is way better organized than my blog lol

Okay finishing this off, if you want content warnings for any texts, feel free to shoot an ask! I know medieval lit can be A Lot and there aren’t a lot of good warning systems, so if I’ve read it or know someone who has I can give you warnings if you want to read something but are understandably wary . <3

In terms of tagging, Arthuriana and Arthurian Legend are the main ones on tumblr. Arthurian Mythology is also used but tbh shouldn’t be. On Ao3, we’re trying to get our own Arthurian Literature tag but <3 its a whole thing. Anyway the tag is Arthurian Mythology, but I’ll b real, it’s kind of flooded with stuff that doesn’t really belong there, because even though it’s a fandom tag other people unknowingly tag stuff as Arthurian Mythology when it’s like, a knight au. Which is not their fault bc it’s confusing but, ah, alas. ANyhow, feel free to drop in my inbox anytime with questions, suggestions, reccs, etc!

Okay godspeed!! Have fun reading, watching, browsing, etc! 

[keilemlucent]

lavender latte: iii

(T (for now!))

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

chapter 1   ||   chapter 2   ||   chapter 4

word count: 4.2k

a cheeky drink and some mutual sabotage. 

warnings: oh no, they say s*x, fluff, pining, the usual, and a wittle angst on the side, reader smokes cigs bc its a salem trademarked fic thing

enjoy folks ;^) the whole of this piece is gonna be about? ten chapters. so. hold on tight!!!

beta read by @keiqos, heart EYES

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“Let that sit for a second or you’ll burn yourself—”

“Don’t need to tell me twice, angel. I know the drill.” Hawks replied with a wink.

You weren’t ever going to get tired of that.

You really expected Hawks to disappear out of your life. You really, truly expected him to run off for good. How many bigger, better, and more important things did he have to do? Even if you managed to speak to him and regard him like any other customer (or, perhaps acquaintance, and more recently, friend — ), your mind swam with insecurities that only seemed to get worse over time.

You were waiting for the metaphorical thread to snap.

You waited for the day Hawks simply would stop texting you flirty bullshit on a somewhat regular basis.

But, holy fuck, the dude didn’t.

 You couldn’t think of why. You weren’t complaining about the attention, but you also were terrified of getting too used to it. Hawks was a part... bird (?) right? He was flighty by nature.

Despite this, Hawks continued to not only text you but also stopped by the shop fairly frequently for his special, quirk-fueled beverage fix. Politely, he’d text you the day before he planned to make an appearance to check and see if you were working, and then show up the next day like it was nothing. 

He usually wouldn’t stay for long; the hero was ungodly busy and always on the move. But, he always took the time to flirt and get a full description of his drink before dashing out to save the world once more. 

Most days he visited were his ‘hero work’ days. He’d appear in his costume, done up and dashing for a sip and a quick talk before disappearing once more into the skies. Every once in a while, Hawks had an ‘office’ day where he’d be confined to his agency to catch up on his insane backlog of paperwork. On these occasions, Hawks would talk (stall) at the tea shop for as long as possible. You talked and joked with him as long as he would let you. Sure, it put you behind on work, but no one at the shop was going to tell you off for fraternizing with the number two hero (whose repeated presence was drawing more customers anyways). You both reveled in each other's attention, drinking in the other’s slowly softening smiles and quick wit. 

 On this day, Keigo’s wings were the shittiest they had been in a while. Plucked and almost barren with how much he’d been working lately. Total exhaustion seemed like it was constantly on the horizon, tugging as his eyelids and weighing down his chest each morning.

It was easier to get out of bed when he got to think about seeing you.

Sure, your drinks were a perk. Very much so. He was getting so used to the artisan beverages you crafted that the taste of his normal canned coffee was starting to bother him. 

But, what his real thrill in visiting the tea shop was that he got to see you, and that made his heart pound. 

He sat across from you, looking down into your newest drink. It swirled between dark and milky, a heady, rich aroma billowing up with the steam it produced. He had requested something ‘surprising, new, and horribly caffeinated’ as deep fatigue was the worst villain he’d likely see that day. You had just nodded, cheekily starting to prepare his drink with a bounce in your step, pupils going wide. 

“I feel like you’re gonna start running out of ideas one of these days,” Keigo laughed, adjusting himself on his stool, gloves and jacket removed. He almost looked like a normal patron.

 You grinned to yourself, idly cleaning around you as you often did, “I dunno, I’ve got a lot.”

Hawks raised an eyebrow, “Tell me about them.”

“Nope, top-secret,” You shook your head, digging into your apron to flash him the small notepad you carried on you.

Scrawled in nasty handwriting, you carried your many ‘feeling’ ideas around with you. Different concepts and abstractions all scribbled down, a nice long list to look back on whenever Hawks would make his appearances and his own vague requests. Your backlog of ideas made it easy to find something more than suitable to make for him.

When Hawks saw your notepad his eyes widened, tilting his head and a devious smirk coming to his lips.

Your expression fell, and you stuffed the papers back into your pocket, hiding your hot face by idly cleaning some more. 

You left yourself very open for teasing, it seemed.

(Not that you or Keigo minded.)

“You keep a little list of all of your ideas! I’m beyond flattered,” Hawks ran a hand through his hair, flashing a cocky smile for you. 

“I have to stay prepared, can’t be disappointing my celebrity sugar daddy,” You winked as Hawks’s eyes went wide, half-hearing a choke get caught in his throat. (You loved it when you were able to get him visibly flustered. What a treat.) You nodded down to the drink, “Should be good to try now.” 

 Keigo really liked spending time with you. He knew it was always fleeting and short and consistently he wanted to find reasons to stay with you at the tea shop counter for longer and longer. Your quips and chides continued to get quicker and more clever and he was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his cool around you. Most of the time he smoothed himself easily, not showing a trace other than that which he neurologically couldn’t control. 

But sometimes, you were bold enough and ballsy enough to get him to gag on his literal words and he was positive that you were the only person to ever have him break composure in such a way. 

He covered his weakened poise by sipping the new drink, mindfully letting the taste wash over his tongue.

Increasingly, you’d been changing up the so-called ‘vibe’ of your beverages. It seemed like each time Keigo dropped in, you had something new and vibrant to show him. 

This drink was particularly different.

The taste was rich, dark, and smooth, rolling into the back of his throat and down his spine. It coated his insides with a warm, low heat. Peeking through were sweet, light accents, warm but almost... teasing?

His dick twitched.

 Hawks’s mouth dropped open, any and all professional veneers dropped as you just beamed so fucking smugly at him. 

“What do you think?” You leaned a bit forward, bouncing on your toes with excitement.

“Is... Is this supposed to taste like sex?” Hawks asked, taking another mouthful to confirm. Based on the way his eyes briefly shut and some of the tension rolled from his shoulders, he thoroughly confirmed it.

“Technically, it’s crafted based on like... a late-night rendezvous. I left it fairly up to interpretation beyond that. The rest is on you.” You shrugged, still bouncing as Hawks took another chug.

“What the fuck, (Y/N),” Pleasant shock colored his features, but clear amusement stretched across his lips as he continued to drink. 

“You wanted something surprising and horribly caffeinated. That’s a dark chocolate mocha with two extra shots, our in-house raspberry and rhubarb syrup, a bit of white chocolate syrup, and a few of my add-ins as well. It’s pretty different from what I’ve made you before,” You blinked at him, stomach twisting as his expression remained unguarded. “I... I probably should’ve asked before giving you a drink that definitely could’ve been taken as sex. That’s my bad. I can remake you something else if you’d like?”

 Keigo shook himself from his stupor, shaking his head and quickly regaining his composure. He took another sip to emphasize his words, “No, nope. It’s okay. Definitely okay. The drink is really good. I’m just now wondering something.”

“And, what’s that?” You asked, reaching behind the counter to grab your own iced beverage.

“Can your quirk be used to manifest bad feelings and concepts, just like good ones?” Keigo asked. Normally, he’d add more nuance, but he was getting impatient and sloppy around you. He’d have to keep that in check.

Especially with the way your shoulders drew up and tensed. You turned a bit away from him, any and all potential for eye contact torn away.

He hit a nerve.

“The type of abstract feeling doesn’t matter, I can emulate it,” You replied, pulling at your nails. Keigo had long picked up that it was one of your habits when your anxiety spiked. 

He dropped it, but didn’t forget. There were public files on quirks. Maybe he’d look into it. Maybe. It felt a bit invasive, but considering plenty of that data was freely accessible, it hardly was an invasion of privacy, right? 

(Except for the fact that it obviously made you very uncomfortable to discuss the more unsavory potentials of your quirk.) 

(He just wouldn’t tell you.)  

Keigo switched topics, easily rolling away from the topic, “Any particular... event that inspired this one?” 

You pressed your hands into the counter, leaning over it to glare at him, “Are you referring to something with that comment, Hawks?”

He shuddered when you said his name, but you don’t notice. 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” Keigo shrugged easily, going for another sip.

 The drink was inspired by the several day cinematic, wine-bender you went on a week or two prior. An entire weekend with just you, your cats, three entire bottles of wine, and a backlog of movies to catch up on. You tried to consume lots of different types of media, but what had been catching your eye lately had been anything with gushy romance for fairly obvious reasons.

(There was an embarrassing amount of ideas for drinks that were a bit too romantic to properly indulge with your quirk. You’d never tested the limits of how certain feelings could manifest, and you weren’t quite ready to face the reality where you could make people nut from caffeinated milk.)

“It is good though, the drink,” Hawks smacked his lips together as if it would make his coming analysis more credible. “It definitely does taste like sex, but more so complicated. Darker.”

“Deeper.” You smiled. “Your palette is getting more refined. I’m proud.”

“Are you saying it was bad to begin with?” Hawks pouted, flashing you falsely weepy eyes and a puffed out lip.

You rolled your eyes, “Yes, you yourself have admitted this. You drink canned coffee still, so I can’t even call your taste good.”

Hawks gasped, putting a hand to his chest, “I’m hurt, truly wounded.”

“I’m sure you are, tailfeathers.”

“I really thought I had reliably moved up to ‘birdboy’, angel.”

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand, “Just goes to show how quickly the tables turn, tailfeathers.”

Hawks’s pager suddenly chimed, a familiar sign. He took a quick look at it and sighed, moving to re-robe. You were surprised by the speed at which he did so, and the way he became tense so quickly. 

It made you realize that he was always tense.

(Unless he was talking to you.)

“I thought today was an office day?” You asked, a bit of a disappointment clouding your voice.

Hawks just gave a small smile, fully plastering back on his heroic facade, “Duty calls. Lots happening lately.”

He flicked his visor back over his eyes, slid you your normalized wad of cash, and whisked himself out the door, immediately taking to the skies from the streets.

He’s in a bit of a hurry.

He... didn’t even say goodbye. 

Wonder what’s happening?

 Truthfully, Keigo was a bit startled by the notice on his pager. The whole reason he’d started patrolling the particular neighborhood the tea shop was in was because there was word of a villain syndicate working nearby. It hardly seemed right for the neighborhood, but Keigo knew that villains hid anywhere. Whatever they were planning was still relatively shrouded, but it was clear that it needed to be treated delicately. That particular neighborhood was rife with pedestrians, businesses, and homes and any sort of villainous activity had the possibility of reaping a heavy amount of collateral damage. Keigo and the Commission had been on their guards about it, but things had been steadily becoming more intense over the past few weeks. 

Plopping himself on a rooftop, Keigo took up residence to stake out his newest lead, watching figures and silhouettes in a nearby office building.

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 Funnily enough, the rest of your week went horribly. Just downright shitty. You figured at some point, things would let up, brighten, but they didn’t. Each day brought some new, personal calamity. 

The first was a trip to the emergency vet with one of your cats after she swallowed a hair tie. An expensive vet bill later, she was perfectly healthy, but you remained wracked with anxiety. 

Another day, the owner of the tea shop paid a visit to chew you out for your newest tea blends not fulfilling his picky seasonal requests. You were relieved it had nothing to do with how Hawks monopolized your time. Still, getting yelled at easily within earshot of both coworkers and customers made your insides twists. 

The final small disaster was when a particularly asshole-ish customer chucked a hot drink all over you and your cute white sweater. One of the younger openers had been dealing with a difficult patron and an incorrect order, nothing out of the ordinary. When you tried to step in and de-escalate the situation, the man ripped the lid from his cup and splashed you with the burning liquid. You held back any sounds of pain even as your skin stung like hell when you offered to remake his drink.

One of your managers luckily allowed you to go home early. Thank god.

By the end of your shitty week, you fell into your apartment and just cried. White sweater stained and day feeling fairly ruined, you let yourself have a good, solid sobbing session to just release how terrible things had been. 

It would pass, you knew. But it sucked at the moment.

It also didn’t help that Hawks had been particularly absent after running out the last time he came around. He’d still managed to shoot you a funny text or two, but mostly, it was silence from him. You rationalized it by reminding yourself of how quickly he flew off at the end of his last visit, hero business forever more pertinent than you and the shop.

You reminded yourself to keep yourself grounded in Hawks obvious impermanence, even if you were starting to get used to (and really like) having the hero around. 

You decided that your Friday evening would be good. You treated yourself to a hot shower, noting with a hiss the pink scalded skin that covered your chest from your collar bones to just below your breasts. You threw on a facemask and uncorked a bottle of wine you had been saving for a rainy day. 

You clicked on one of your favorite shows, an older cartoon that brought you consistent comfort in times like those. Curled up with a knit throw blanket and your healthy cats, it did help soothe the burns, mental and physical.

That is until you got a bit too drunk on red wine and it turned into sad drunk.  

So, you made your way to the roof.

You weren’t fucked up beyond belief, despite the fact that you were towing an open bottle of red in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the left. The cold would sober you up, along with the nicotine. You hoped it would force you out of your head. 

Upon throwing open the door to your apartment complex’s rooftop, you were made very aware of its wintertime disuse. The gardens that grew during the summer were snowcovered. The chairs and tables for lounging were in a similar state. You didn’t mind. 

The view was still nice. 

You set down your bottle and zipped up your coat. Quickly, you brushed off the flurries from a rickety lawn chair and plopped yourself down. You threw on some music from your phone, playing some sweet, old songs that made your chest ache when you needed it to.

The city stretched in front of you, beyond the rooftop. You didn’t live in a particularly wealthy district, but there was no shortage of dazzling neon and bright street lights dotting the ground below. You watched how the rest of the city stretched far beyond your little pocket, still gleaming with multi-hued lighting and dazzling in the wash of the crescent moon.

You took a swig, fishing for your self-dubbed ‘sad cigarettes’ and lit up. With your exhale, you watched as smoke lazily swirled away, carried by the soft winter wind. If you were any less drunk, you’d be freezing.

A shadow, winged, fell across the snow. 

“You know, I get nervous when I see pretty girls on rooftops with bottles in their hands,” You jumped at the voice, whipping your head to the source.

Hawks stood, scarlet wings fanned outwards, on the lip of the rooftop. 

Your eyes widened.

You took another sip.

He gave an affectionate laugh, jumping down into the area where you were seated.

 Keigo had just been out on his normal, nightly patrol. The leak had been correct and he’d been stealthily tracking the villains while completing the rest of his hero duties. He was able to laugh off his exhaustion, but it was starting to eat him. Several cans of coffee a day was hardly doing it for him. He hid his sleepiness and aches well, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult. All the same, his typical roles had to be fulfilled. 

He was surprised to see you, all alone on a rooftop with a lit cigarette between your fingers. Keigo let himself be surprised before noting that ‘ yes, you definitely probably live in this apartment building and you’re just outside to smoke’, but the sudden jolt of panic he felt was crushingly unbearable. 

Mostly because it was personally protective and not heroically instinctual and he couldn’t start acknowledging that aspect of his feelings for you. Not yet. 

Keigo walked towards you, asking, watching you blink blearily at him “You doing alright?” 

Eyes downcast, you shrugged, “We all feel shitty sometimes. Just depends on how you cope, ‘ya know?”

“And how do you cope, (Y/N)?” Keigo asked, pausing before brushing off a chair. “Mind if I join you for a bit? I could use a second to rest my wings.”

You nodded, almost offering him the bottle, but quickly pulling it back to your chest before taking another inhale. Offering a pro hero alcohol while he was pretty obviously working seemed like a bad move, even in your tipsy state. 

“Most of the time, I watch nice stuff and distract myself, like most people, ya’ know?” You exhaled as you smoked, relishing the nicotine buzz. “Sometimes, though, I just feel extra shitty and need to extra cope.”

Hawks hummed in agreement, sitting back in the chair. His wings were folded up and over its back, the longest feathers trailing in the small snowdrift behind him.

“Do you get cold, being in the sky all the time?” You asked, eyes going cloudy as you stared up at the lights of the city and higher into the sky. 

“Most of the time,” Hawks chuckled, throwing his arms behind his head, “I’ve told you this, angel. It was one of our first conversations.”

Your eyes widened at the realization, mouth open with a hearty laugh.

 It made Keigo’s eyes water a little. He blamed it on the wind. 

 “I’m silly, I can’t believe I forgot,” You nestled back into your chair, tracing the lines between constellations. “It’s the whole reason you came to the teashop in the first place.” 

Your voice resonated, focus foggy. Somewhere else, old memories played in your mind, recounting your first few meetings with Hawks.

A warm, small smile stretched across your face as you traced the stars. 

 Keigo watched, enraptured. You were cute, especially like this. All bundled up in your winter coat, half-zipped. There was a lot less stress in your shoulders than he normally saw at the shop, especially as your thoughts were so far away.

He wanted nothing more than to commit the contours and shadows of your face in the white moonlight to memory, never forgotten in the blissful cold. 

 You interrupted his thoughts so beautifully.

 “Thanks for talking to me.” You took a sip from your bottle just after speaking, half-drowning your words, but Keigo caught each one. “I appreciate you.” 

“P-pardon?” Keigo couldn’t tell if you caught his stutter, but even if you did, you didn’t show it. The comment felt like a jab to his jaw, half-knocking the wind of him and turning him into a filthy masochist. He’d take any whiplash if it meant you saying such kindnesses to him. 

How could you just say shit like that?

What exactly did you mean by that?

Why did your attention make his legs tremble?

You turned your attention from the night sky to Hawks, something like uncertainty bubbling in your chest, “I appreciate you, ya’ know? Coming by the tea shop still, teasing each other and shit, you humoring me—”

Hawks interrupted you, feathers tensing at his back.

“I’m not humoring you.” Hawks deadpanned, staring at you oddly seriously. The yolks of his eyes seemed even more intense in the neon and night light. 

“You’re... not?” 

There was utter disbelief in your voice, accented by the way your jaw was half-opened.

Hawks shook his head, standing in emphasis, feathers fluttering as he did, “ No, angel. Not at all. I visit because...”

I like you.

“Because I like your drinks.”

  Because you make me feel good in a way I’ve never felt.

“You’re fun to talk to, too. Added perk.”

  Because I want to hear your voice when I breathe and when I die. 

“I enjoy it, you know? You're fun.”

 Some feeling in your chest, something full of hope, crushed itself and compacted to the point of pain. You sniffled at his admission, blaming it on the cold. In a fucked up, sad way, part of you was so relieved. 

He likes the shop. He likes your drinks. 

He’s around because he wants to be. 

But not because you’re special to him. 

 His words reminded you of your insignificance in Hawks’s life. No matter how much you craved his attention and words, and more recently found yourself staring at the plumpness of his lips and the curve of his cupids bow and daydreaming about how much you wanted to lean over the tea shop's counter and kiss the constant, teasing smile off his face—

But.

You don’t matter that much to him.

Sure, he likes you, but he’ll never feel the same way about you. 

 You made the decision then to make the most out of Hawk’s affections and sweet words. You’d take what you could get, even if it was fleeting and probably  eventually heartbreaking. It seemed smart, to refuse to get your hopes up for someone so unattainable.

 You let out a shaking sigh, “Thank you, Hawks. I appreciate you coming around. You really light up my day.”

 Keigo saw the fall of your face and bottled himself up. Shoved down everything. Fuck his feeling, fuck how he felt about you, this was all fucking terrifying. It was getting to be too much and he had to try and control himself.

Just like he’d been taught so well.

He was just so happy to be around you. He could squash his feelings, even if they were fairly obviously somewhat mutual. God knows that he didn’t know how to handle anything like that.

On the gods, his pager beeped.

 “Duty calls?” You said, standing up yourself and brushing off the stray snowflakes. 

“Seems so.” Hawks sighed, nodding, “Thanks for letting me rest here. It was good to see you, (Y/N). I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You waved goodbye as Hawks disappeared as quickly as he came, launching himself from the roof with the heavy sound of wing beats. 

Soaring away, Keigo risked a final look at you. He swore he saw tears in your eyes.

He forcibly repressed his feelings, reminding himself that your company, words, and quirk-made beverages were more than enough. The flutter in his chest when he thought of you wouldn’t rest, but he could learn to ignore it. 

 On the roof of your apartment, you felt fatigue in your bones and wetness on your cheeks. You ignored both in favor of smoking another cigarette, soft, melancholy music being your only constant, reliable companion. 

You reminded yourself that he, Hawks, was a temporary fixture, more flighty than most and liked you just enough and for surface-level reasons. You could take that. You’d do anything to be around him more, even if it never amounted to anything. 

You, just as Keigo did, pressed down any larger feelings.

 (The thing about feelings, though, that neither of you was very good at remembering, was that they don’t go away. Sure, you can let them go, but that takes time or a practiced mind!)

(When you take feelings, big, aching, soaking feelings and shove them down into the deepest parts of you, they just tend to make you bleed. The ‘hidden’ feelings color your blood as it spills, even if you don’t notice when it falls and its change in hue.)

(One can only hope that both Keigo and you listened instead of lied.)

 Both of your hearts ached, and neither of you fully understood why.

[loviatars]

The Highwayman - Part Two

pairing: astarion x female npc (reader, not the mc!) warnings: references to abuse and torture rating: teen for the above reasons, for now <3 word count: 1,632 notes: we’re back bc this has been fun to write!! if you like it, consider reblogging and/or leaving me some notes in said reblogs xx part one. ao3.

There are some that take pleasure in the distress of another, often with a special glee if they think the other has done wrong. But who in the world hasn’t done wrong, you think as you try to maintain an expression that appears interested in what’s being said. It turns out the Gur can talk for quite a while.

It seems his delight with Astarion’s suffering has to do with the fact that he is not a fellow mortal. You’d like to think you’d be ashamed if you felt any way similar.

But he has no shame at all, it seems. Though his version of events is also part-lie, he claims vaguely to be a hunter as well-- and Astarion a prize. While you have no doubt in the verity of both statements, there’s something missing.

You’ve been sitting on a barstool so long your back’s aching. And were it a quicker-paced evening you might be forced to your feet, pouring drinks for the weary on their way to the city. But Gandrel the hunter is the only man still upright, in a manner of speaking. He’s deep in his cups and hasn’t asked for another glass of wine.

“Haven’t I seen you before somewhere,” he asks. And as if he seems to realize the foolishness of that, adds, “Briefly, of course.”

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir, no,” you begin. It isn’t always like this, most types that pass through the Dying Gull hardly notice you. They’re too busy looking at the flagon you set down in front of them.

But it seems Gandrel is smart, even when drunk. And that unnerves you.

“Forgive my asking,” he goes on, “but I think it may’ve been on a wanted poster in Baldur’s Gate.”

Clever enough to remember a face, but not bright enough to say nothing. You scoff, letting your eyes fall to the tops of your boots.

“I meant no offense, you understand,” he says, trying to salvage the interest of a pretty woman. “In fairness, I may be wrong. I couldn’t recall what the poster was for--”

“No, you’re right about where you likely know me from,” you admit. “My face was all over the city for a time.”

“Do you mind if I asked what happened, seeing as I’ve told you stories of my own?” he says. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him that you asked in order to steal from him.

“I was put on trial for theft’n murder, which I did not commit” you say, “course I ran, as any girl’d do.”

“We’ve all been scared,” he says, staring blankly at you. You nod.

“Right. Can I trust you not to say nothin’ when you get back with your quarry?” you ask in turn. “I mean, you are a hunter after all.”

“Not in the way you’d think,” he replies. “My quarry, as you put it, tends to be the bloodthirsty and monstrous kind. And I mean that literally.”

“You’re a monster hunter,” you confirm. He nods. “And the man in the wagon?”

“Not a man,” he corrects, you try not to bristle. “Vampire spawn.”

“Oh, my,” you feign a gasp. But he’s too drunk to notice. “I wonder what he’s done to earn such a fate.”

“I have no idea, it didn’t seem my place to ask,” Gandrel laughs in a way that makes you uncomfortable, “But I suppose its existence could be damning enough.”

“Right,” you reply. “That’s why you haven’t fed him?”

“Would be irresponsible, I thought,” he says. “Doubt it could die again.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” you admit.

He looks at you like you’re pitiable and soft-hearted. Like you’re still a lass on a wanted poster, wrongfully accused. You stare at him back with glassy sweetness, and he is foolish enough to mistake it for sincere.

Gandrel asks for another drink, then. And, dutifully as it is your job, you provide him with one. Though coherent enough to sniff out the gossip up until that point, this last glass makes him slump over the bar.

It’s just as well, you’ve had enough of his mismatched empathy. 

Plucking the obvious loop of keys from his belt as he snores over the bar is like taking sweets from a child. But without the obvious guilt, of course. Stealing freedom from a bad man is one of the nobler things you’ve done, after all.

You sincerely doubt him to be exemplary of anything other than cruelty, though he was right when he insisted to you that not all Gur were awful despite popular opinion. He, unfortunately, happens to be. You leave the Dying Gull with a sneer on your mouth and let the door shut quietly behind you.

Out in the cold night, you wish you’d brought your shawl. Skin turns to ice this close to winter, and you’re almost worried about Astarion as you near the wagon before you remember what he is. 

The canvas drape is still tugged out of the way, letting in lamplight and long shadows. Fear lurches in your heart when you don’t immediately see him huddled in the cage.

“Astarion?” you whisper.

“You’re late,” his reedy voice mumbles back. You hear a shifting, a creaking and a sound like bones being dragged. He pulls himself into the light at the gap in the canvas. “You said an hour, at the very least it has been two.”

“As if you’re any good with time of day,” you scoff. But with more triumph than even you expect, you hold up the ring of keys. 

Their merry jangle seems to shock him out of his joyless ribbing. His eyes, blood-red and glassy with hunger seem to sharpen in the half-light. He sits forward a little bit, though without the energy given to him by anger he lacks the strength to fly at the bars.

“You have them,” he says like he can’t believe it. “I thought for sure you’d be caught by that grubby little--” he cuts himself off when he sees your expression shift to something unamused. “He happens to be annoyingly wise.”

“Though a bit of an idiot at the same moment,” you add. To your surprise, Astarion smirks.

“Are you waiting for me to waste away to nothing?” he asks, his jovial tone now includes a sharpness. But whether it is fear or anger is anyone’s guess.

“My apologies,” you huff, choosing not to start an argument. You walk back around the cage and take hold of the lock. Astarion inches towards where the door will swing open.

It gives a satisfying click, feeling heavy in your hand when you tug it out of the loops. Pulling the door aside, you stand out of the way.

Though you offer your hand to help, Astarion does not take it as he crawls for the entrance. He stands for the first time in three days and nearly buckles upon doing so. His knees ache from sitting with his back hunched, and his eyes from straining in the dark for so long.

You jump forward, quick enough to wrap an arm about his waist and keep him standing. But before he can lash out, curl or coil away from you as he does-- Astarion notices you are not touching him any more. He’s been propped up against the cage, silver feeling uncomfortably warm with only a frayed doublet between it and his skin.

He decided he didn’t want your help. You only caught him to keep him from splitting his skull open. He gives a quick nod, not in gratitude or thanks. But it’s in acknowledgement, at least.

“You mentioned cattle?” he asks, trying to sound casual and crossing his arms over his chest. Keeping in a laugh is a struggle, but you manage it.

“Be patient while I lock up the cage. I think it best to make it look as if you’re still inside of it,” you rationalize. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“If I had it my way, I’d be strong enough to lock him in there,” he spits. “And to see how he enjoys himself.”

“Yes, and then you’d spurr the horse until it carried him to some other place with people less likely to forgive vampire spawn,” you reply. You don’t fumble with the lock in the least, sliding it back in its place and readying its key.

“I meant that he would be dead,” Astarion mutters. “In addition to being caged.”

“So did I,” you reply. You look back at him with a firm look. “Best that he be kept alive for now. No use murderin’ where it isn’t needed.”

“I don’t have much of a say, I suppose,” he admits. It’s true, he can barely stand. And cows blood will only give him strength enough to run now that his energy’s failed him, “Lead on.”

“Give me just another moment,” you say. “There’s two keys on this ring.”

“And?” he sighs. You’re already walking around the wagon, and though you don’t see him lean his head back against the silver bars-- you hear him hiss when his skin makes contact.

You smirk, tempted to ignore him.

“Odds are it’s not a key to a house, seein’ as he’s a proud wanderin’-type,” you say. 

You crawl up in the wagon and begin to feel over the rough wood. Your fingers brush over a keyhole discreetly placed perpendicular to the seat. A hidden compartment lies under it.

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks more directly, following you around the other side of the wagon and leaning when necessary.

You’re on your knees in the footrest, but you lift your head as a lock clicks open a second time that night.

“I said we couldn’t kill ‘im,” you repeat. “Never said we couldn’t rob ‘im blind.”

[carpsurprise]

sorry for my absence but... i bring pirate!sam.... this is also posted on ao3, if you’d rather read there..... but yes this is gender neutral “farmer”.. not beta read bc ive been losing sleep over this... under a read more because it’s long as hell. and thank you to the discord for fueling me many late nights to write this!!

the teasing nature of the ocean, and those in tune with it:

word count: 7.8k

summary: after wishing to become one with the sea for as long as the mind had allowed it, the newest shipmate had taken longer than usual to become accustomed to the physical ailments of being at sea, soon learning that their mental state would become the worst affected. the only pirate that had given them any mind was sam, an immature yet charming pirate in the higher ranks. his closeness to them unfolds as his attempt for some type of distraction from his own loss of self at sea.

warnings: allusions to s//cide, drowning, and not beta read.

PART I, INTRODUCTION

It was only supposed to take a couple days to stop their seasickness, hearing from the few ship mates they had encountered in their bedridden, infant days onboard that the body would become acclimated in no time. Never underestimate the human body’s quickness to adapt! the captain cried out soon after allowing them their rest time before their expected labor. This was an amazing opportunity no one could pass up, no one like the newest recruit, who had dreamed of days at sea since childhood, and longed for the nights of open starscape and the wail of the wind at full speed.

Yet, even with this wonderful expectation, they lay bedridden in their hammock, deep below the wooden deck that creaked with each step. The ship would groan with each bob in the water, the sounds of horrible screeches that came from deep within the ship furthered their nausea. Even if they had a few moments of solace between sick spells, anything would be better than the quiet squeals of the wood beneath the water. Despite that notion, that repeated itself in their mind, the back of their head had allowed no movement. Their head would turn to vomit every so often, scrambling out of their bunk and to the wood pail beneath them. The only company to be had before nightfall was a woman with strange, blue hair, decorated with gold jewelry and piercings—and a bird that sat on her shoulder, he seemed to have an injured wing, but in their sickness it was hard to tell— who would bring a wet cloth to dab on their head every so often. 

In their loneliness their acceptance aboard rang through their head alongside their migraine. Excited jitters fizzled through their body as jolts of pain replaced them, making it known to the newest mariner: the sea was not one to mess with. Yet, even in sickness, this was the opportunity they had dreamed of. Perfect scenarios replaced thoughts of pain, the wondrous look of joy wrinkling the captain’s face as he had met his newest recruit etching itself deep into their mind. 

“Welcome aboard!” He grinned, shaking their hand with a firm grip. The stumbled, losing their footing with the slight movement of the ship and the strength of his hands, the sheer roughness against their palm scratching at the skin. “Gonna need to toughen up if you want to make it out here at sea!”

With a nervous laugh, they responded with his honorific, keeping their eyes off of the few gold teeth that lined his mouth. The crew had already begun their preparations to set sail. Shipmates ran to their posts as maps made their way to the captain’s quarters to begin navigation. Snapping themselves out of their dreamlike trance, they ran to their assigned post, readying for departure before their sickness had hit.

Hit, it had. The joly of the ships movement had thrown them off their feet, the nausea of first-day-anxieties and the never ending cycle of waves flooded from their stomach up straight to the back of their head. The sea had claimed another victim within an instant, but showed its mercy for the first and last time to them. They had finally regained consciousness where they lie now, eyes trained on the flimsy roped hammock above them, a leg draped over the side as they clutched their stomach between gasps. After one last sleep, they decided they would start their duties on the ship. No matter the cost of their health, their goal of becoming one with the sea would be achieved.

A full night of rocking, being woken every so often by the shipmates’ chatter in the dead of night, and the lingering pit in their stomach had made the attempt at rest useless. But, by sheer willpower, they had managed their feet to land securely on the floor by dawn. Their grip on their hammock lingered for a moment, bracing themselves for sickness. At long last, their connection to the physical land would be forgotten for a life at sea, with its eternity of waves and comforting wind. 

PART II, THE TEASING NATURE OF THE OCEAN, AND THOSE IN TUNE WITH IT:

Finally able to enjoy the asylum of the sea, the comforting kiss of its mist and the heat of the sun’s rays, they had finally made their way out onto the boat, far from the confinement of the ship. After three sickening days aboard, they could finally muster to keep their head up. Throwing themselves against the rails of the ship carefully, they gazed over the side of the ship with a frown. Their reflection was not there, not like in a river or lake. A puff of air had escaped them, uselessly searching for any ounce of their own face. Chatter had ensued behind them, pulling them from their questioning looks to a faceless being and back to the people of the ship.

They were docked at some seaside town, mates running on and off the ramp of the ship as the town’s commotion sparked up. A few pirates they had recognized, some that stayed in their rest quarters, others that had walked past their bunk in frenzied states. Almost no one had introduced themselves, a kind face far in between indifferent ones. It wasn’t too big of a matter to them, just a bit odd from their days on the coast back home. But, this wouldn’t break them, or their pursuit of one's truest connection to the sea. Walking with haste to the side of the ship, they braced themselves against the wood rails, carefully tipping themselves to see the movement of water the best they could. It had seemed so inviting; the playful lap of water seeming almost childish in a strange way, beckoning them forward to indulge in its coolness.

The talking behind them had taken them out of their thoughts, passers by noting that there were only ten minutes more until departure. Their heart beat with nervous excitement, feeling that if everything in their life were to fall into place, now would be it. Helping with mundane tasks around the ship, traveling far across the horizon, and exploration of new lands untouched by others for decades sounded like heaven, the crash of waves against the ship and harbor echoing as a sort of applause for their accomplishment. It should have been the perfect sign that the wind was picking up, and that they were due to set sail. 

The ship jolted against the waves, the wind whipping their hair from them and tearing at the skin. Without the painful headache pooling at the back of their skull, the ride of the waves would have made them feel nearly weightless. Their legs shook from the motion, a familiar feeling of unease settling in their stomach. Sea air had always calmed them as a kid, but the sudden jolts of the boat left a sharp pain of unease within them. 

“Gotta get your sea legs sometime, dear!” 

The teasing remark had come from above, unfamiliar kind eyes paired with a teasing smile from inside the crow’s nest. He grabbed at the rope blowing by the nest, sliding down and switching hands every so often in a futile attempt to avoid discomfort. The ship’s shaking hadn’t stopped, yet he had no issue. His feet planted firmly on the wood deck. His confidence radiated off of him, well accompanied by his bright smile.

Their legs had still felt as if they were going to give out, whether it be from the choppy movement or the bold quirk of his eyebrow. He had a confident air to him, mindless flipping a gold coin off of his thumb every couple seconds. “So you’re the newcomer the captain allowed onto the ship, huh? Guess I won’t say anything, if he thinks it’s the right thing to do.”

With little clue what the man had meant, and wanting to avoid any conflict with a man that had a sword tucked to his side, they had decided to ignore his last comment. Despite his words, his tone was happy and unbothered, while his expression was distant, but content. The commotion to their side had signaled that the anchors had been raised, and that they were due to set sail soon. He returned his attention to the newest shipmate in front of him, asking their name with visible interest.

Humming, he flipped his coin once more before putting it back into a bag tied to his belt. “Sam,” he introduced, “your fellow shipmate— one of the higher ranking ones, mind you.” He bowed with his words, clearly proud of his title. He readjusted the chains across his chest, flipping them inside and out before pulling his hand away. “Y’know I used to be just a cabin boy when I was younger, but my past captain told me I deserved better.”

“Oh,” they responded, “interested in becoming a captain of your own ship?”

“Not in a million years! He has no fun! He’s one of the better captains I’ve been with,  but even then, I’d never do something so serious. I don’t want the fun sucked out of me. It’s so easy to lose every bit of yourself out here.”

“It couldn’t be that bad.”

He laughed, “Ya haven’t spent more than fifteen minutes on the main deck, dear, just wait it out. I hope you don’t end up like the others, it’d be a shame.”

For the second time in their short interaction, the newcomer was at a loss for words at his cryptic nature. At the sound of a battle cry-like sound, Sam had turned himself around, pulling on the ropes of the mast to raise the ship’s flag high atop the mast. Soon enough, their departure had started, signaling the truest start of their adventure. Talk had ensued behind them, catching the tail end of a conversation about the next two weeks at sea. Perhaps, with good luck, their sea legs would come with the waves and the moon’s cycle. 

Mumbling to themselves, they returned to their post, eager to rid themselves of their headache. Their sea legs would come with time, they had hoped, but thinking that the best plan of action was to fulfill their duties, they had involved themselves in the art of a pirate’s life the best they could. A week of smooth sailing had passed, their body sore from its arduous work on deck. A few shipmates had become at the very least, acquaintances. Not many had opened up or given the newest addition the time of day— all but one pirate, who had seemed almost too elated by their presence.

There was a slight pressure at the top of their head, before the unwelcoming feeling of rope had begun against the body. The frayed cord had permeated through their clothes, sticking into the skin like thorns. Their head turned quickly, a muffled giggle giving away the culprit almost immediately. Sam stood, his knees bent and hands still gripping the edges of the fishnet, with a devilish grin decorating his face. Between the diamond shaped holes of the net, despite their vision somewhat covered, his rosy cheeks were still evident even from their distance.

His playful look persisted as he dropped the net dramatically, hopping down from his placement on the ship’s wooden cargo boxes. “Whoops, sorry, darling! Must’ve mistaken you for a mermaid. Thought I finally got my hands on one.”

With an exasperated huff, they grabbed the edge of the fishing net, pulling it back over their head and throwing it to their side. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

Sam positioned himself near the stacks of cargo boxes, resting his chin lazily on his hand as he looked in all directions. The newest pirate mirrored his actions, met with nothing but blue, cloudless skies and a color matching ocean. With no land in sight, their eyes returned to Sam’s— interested and ready to respond, as always. 

“Not really,” he replied slowly, looking around once again in an almost mocking manner. “Not much to do at sea, you should know that by now! I know it’s only been a little bit, but come on.” 

After his reply, the ship shook, jolting itself after a clunking sound of metal echoed over the ocean. They had been thrown off their own footing once more, eliciting a loud laugh from Sam. His gaze was steady on the unsteady frame of his newest crewmate, still lazily perched against one of the many looted crates. He twirled his finger along the lining of metals up his ear, playing with the hanging chains as he allowed them to regain their composure before speaking again.

He nodded to them, then motioned lazily up to the open sky. “Just wait ‘til we hit a storm, darling. If you can’t stand on your own two feet now, just wait ‘til then,” he laughed, keeping an amused smirk stretched across his face. With a roll of their eyes they walked away, retreating back to the lower decks of the ship in pursuit of their blue-haired friend, and their friendly, injured parrot that gossiped with them.

PART III, THE STORM THAT FOLLOWED AFTER LANDING ON THE BEACH:

A quick side mission was at hand, a small island abandoned by its inhabitants and rumored to have treasure had made an attractive stop. The ship had anchored far from shore, splitting the ship’s crew into designated teams to make a quick, but successful mission before returning to sea for weeks. The captain had assigned them the simple task to forage for anything edible, afraid of running too low on rations in their extended time. They saluted him, thanking him for the opportunity before heading off. 

The trip to the island had been painful, the soreness of their arms from days of pulling and heavy lifting had led the rowing to be searing up their biceps. In little time they had hit sandbars, jolting with the bottom of the dinghy as it collided with sporadic mounds of shells and sand. The leader of this mission, a young woman with purple hair tied up with a bow, cried out from their collisions, commanding that it was time to bring the boat up by hand. Readying themselves, the group tightened their belts and prepared to jump overboard. 

“Ah, you do know how to swim, right?” Sam teased, shooting a boyish grin their way.

“Of course I know how to swim!” They cried back, jumping off the dinghy and into the water. The group had trudged through the knee deep water, cringing at the cold water filling their boots and wetting their clothes. Sam had laughed, pulling the boat up to the sand with him and a few fellow pirates, running up to meet the new pirate once they had secured it to the shore. 

“You’d be surprised,” he added, moving his head to look down at their face. They shook their head in response, focused on the group of trees and brush settled on the island. The rest of the group had dispersed along the beach with maps in hand, talking amongst themselves before splitting up. It had gone unspoken that Sam had ended up paired with them, slightly irritating, but nothing the newest recruit couldn’t handle. 

His smirk had made one of their eyes twitch, the cocky look in his eye making them bite back an annoyed sigh as he unsheathed his sword. He slashed away at the brush with a few grunts, standing back to admire his skill. His shipmate rolled their eyes at his proud smile, his demeanor annoying, but still upsettingly charming. The rest of the crew had branched off to find the rumored island treasure, while they were stuck foraging for anything edible. Their next stop, some foreign land across the Gem Sea, could take weeks or months, leaving the captain desperate to stock up.

Sam opened his mouth yet again, the newest pirate immediately tuning him out to focus their eyes on the ground. Few sights of berries, herbs, and dandelions covered in rough patches. Just as they had raised their head to tell their partner they gasped, craning their neck to follow Sam’s lithe body. He had, miraculously, climbed himself up a tree in no time and with little sound, already pawing at the hanging fruits. His reckless nature, the instability of his legs wrapped around the trunk and his shifting imbalance as he reached for fruits made them cry out in fear. 

He looked down at them, calm as can be before shooting them a teasing wink. “Can’t be that worried about me, can you, dear?”

“Well,” they stuttered, eyes still glued to the shakiness of the tree from his weight. “It’d be a shame if you splattered on the ground.”

Shaking his head, he shimmied himself up further, the top of the trunk beginning to bend with his weight as he tossed down a few fruits to his partner. “Nah, I’m not afraid of this. There’s solid ground to land on, what more could ya ask for?”

They scrunched their eyebrows, looking up to him as if there were a more obvious choice. “Water?” They questioned, watching him shake his head once again with both hands grasped onto the rough bark of the tree. 

Plucking the fruit from the top of the tree, Sam turned himself back down to throw it at his partner, watching them struggle to keep all of them in their hands. “No, no, no! I’d rather break my back than lose everything. There’s one thing I am afraid of, and it’s the ocean.”

“That makes no sense, Sam—” They interrupted themself, watching as he stood to full attention the best he could, his eyes obviously caught on something from his tree top view. Fearing it was another group of pirates, a dangerous animal, or anything else that could prove almost immediate death, they gripped the fruits closer to the chest, already repositioning them in preparation to flee. They couldn’t hear the stumped hum from Sam’s lips over the sound of the rustling leaves, but watched as he flawlessly dismounted from the tree tops with a grunt, his head still turned west.

Motioning them to follow behind him, Sam led the way deeper into the jungle, slashing away with his sword to clear the way for himself and his partner. He was mumbling on his way, a concentrated decoration of face covering his usual boyish and playful expressions. Without further words, the newcomer followed Sam’s trail, trusting his judgement and following at his heels. He did a wonderful job of clearing their walkway, looking back every few moments to make sure there were no branches in his partner’s face and warning of any roots or dips in the ground. In only a couple minutes the two had reached a clearing of sand, an odd formation of rocks and foreign symbols slashed into the surrounding trees. 

“Holy shit!” He cried, dropping his sword and dropping to his knees around the clearing, immediately digging through the sand. “There has to be something in here.”

“But,” the newest pirate interjected, still messily holding their foraged goods in their arms, “the map said it would be on the east side of the island.” Carefully shifting their fruit, they pulled their compass out of their pocket just far enough to see the point of the arrow. “We’re in the west.”

He shrugged, an excited look overcoming his face. “Maps aren’t always right! We would’ve never found this if I wasn’t up in the trees, the rest of the party is still south!” He sounded giddy, but the newest issue of lugging around a treasure chest, just the two of them, and also carrying their forages at the same time gave a slight pang of aggravation to the newest pirate. Sam had instructed them to put the fruit down and help him, causing them to groan and drop to his opposite. They had dug with him, using their weapons in between bruising their hands.

He sighed as they dug. “Man, wish there was a way to tell the rest of the group the treasure’s here so we could get some help.”

“I can go run back and try to find them if you’d like,” they offered, already feeling their hands sore.

“Hell no! You’re gonna get lost, and I’m not leavin’ ya here either. Something’s gonna come and hurt ya, I gotta be here to protect ya.” He struggled out, focusing all of his strength onto the hands full of sand and dirt he pulled from the earth. They groaned inwardly, silently continuing at half his force, but still doing a demanding worth otherwise. There was little indication that much time had passed, the sun still stood high above them and shone with unbearable heat, adding the stickiness of humidity to the ocean breeze. 

After a couple feet of sand thrown to the sides of the jungle, daylight had finally shone a glimmer of gold lining, attached to some wood corners submerged beneath the earth. Both had cried out in happiness, knowing that their efforts had not been for naught, and giving new drive to dig out the buried treasure. Once it had been taken out of the dirt, after extraneous work and gasps for strangled air, they both stood in the hole, suspending their bodies against the edge of the sand for support. They turned to each other, proud smiles upon their faces before Sam turned and broke the lock of the chest.

They let out a small gasp at his action, leading him to turn back and give them a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he huffed, “throw the lock back in this hole, the captain won’t know it was ever locked.” Their chest still rose and fell in time with his, panting from the heat and physical work as he cracked open the chest. Both of their eyes widened at the assortments of beautiful jewels and gold coins, jewelry and rolled papers all assorted messily with traces of sand caked on them. One piece had got their eye, unknowingly bringing their shaking hand up to it before holding it between their fingers.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” they whispered in awe. Sam poked his head closer to them, eyeing up the pendant with them with a grin. The amulet held some weight to it, its bold cerulean color would knowingly attract attention from anyone who would find themselves near it. The turret shell was attached to a thin, gold chain, hanging at the bottom at gravity’s mercy. It was an odd pendant, but the beautiful blue of the shell mirrored that of the ocean in sunlight. Sam looked at the newcomer, without them knowing, grinning at their awed expression. “It’s so special,” they commented, “I mean, look at the rest of this jewelry, clearly belonging to royals or aristocrats… and it all looks the same. This is so different from the rest, looks like it came from the ocean itself.”

The wonderful aquamarine coloring mirrored the water of the island’s shore, just before hitting deep water. They had snapped themselves out of their fantasy, setting it back into the chest and closing it. “Let’s get this back to the group,” they said, placing their hands flat on their thighs before standing up. Sam followed, already beginning to drag the chest towards the direction they came. Turning their back from Sam for just a moment, they wrapped their foraged fruits and berries in a fishing net, turning back around to see Sam with a suspiciously innocent smile.

Deciding not to comment on what was likely another childish jest, they set the bag atop the chest and heaved the chest back to the beach. The treetops challenged their eyesight of the sky, but the island’s shift from bright to a darkening gray had given them all the information they needed. Sam walked backwards, as he said a gentleman like himself should, crying out in glee once they had finally hit where their dinghy was anchored, the group already together upon their arrival. They had interrupted their cries of lament while waiting for the two with an impending storm, but quickly shut themselves up to run over upon seeing the chest lugged between the two.

Upon seeing the open sky, and the choppy waters that they would soon be met with, the newest pirate’s stomach dropped. Within no time that fear was pushed over by others, too infatuated with the treasure they had nearly left. It was wildly easier to lug the chest with four others helping. They couldn’t keep their eyes off of the far, black skies and the ocean’s matching color, the white of breaking waves proving as the only contrast that could be possible. 

The sands of time were nearing their end to return to the ship, the waves becoming rough with wind against the dinghy. It was already at the ocean’s mercy, moving with the waves as spouts of water overflowed onto the boat. Each member of the captain’s crew assigned to this mission struggled past the crash of waves to the boat, slinking in legs heavy with the weight of water.  The current dragged at their clothes as if it had claws of its own, begging for company beneath the heaving waves. Their experience dealing with the ocean in their life had only proved to help little, feeling their feet yanked by watery hands as they toppled over into the boat.

Even though they had clambered onto the boat in time, their heartbeat had still rung in the center of their head. Sam had noticed, along with the rest of the crew. A friendly smile crossed his face as he rubbed their back, reassuring them that the ocean’s storms will bring calmness to both the mind and body. They scrunched their nose at his words in disgust. How each storm would become a test of survival was sickening, thinking that the inhumanness of its strength would only prove it’s danger to its inhabitants. Each war waged against would be futile. Yet, it had spared them once again. 

The crew began rowing back, the newcomer pulling their own weight through the incessant bullets of pain down their arm, and the soreness of the back of their knees. They had felt a hole in their chest from their anxieties, working nearly the strength of two in desperation to return to the ship. Land was no longer an option, and they knew that all but one pirate would have no issue with abandoning them on the island. It was their hope, more than a fact, but the resolution had saddened them nonetheless. Though they had worked together in the moment, approaching the side of the ship to board once again, there was no true personable connection on the ship. The only connections the pirates had was between them and the sea, with little room for others in between.

Dark clouds dissipated into the air within hours, teasing the ship with danger before laughing in its face with smooth seas. The soft splashes of water against the hull of the ship sounded like gentle coos, as the wind blew giggles by their ears as it took the hair from their faces. The captain had stayed on high alert still, expressing his distrust of the sea with a firm click of his jaw. His rosy cheeks stayed the same, despite the hard expression of his furrowed brow in his standoff with the sea. He hobbled back to his quarters, cabin boys disappearing below deck as the captain’s crew followed his heels. Few had been left in the open air, cleaning or reorganizing looted crates from seaside towns. 

“Oh, darling!” A voice had sung out, tapping the newest recruit on the shoulder before appearing on the opposite side of them. Sam had stepped in front of them, his back to the ship and his companion trapped just before the bowsprit’s beginning. They couldn’t dissect his expression, some odd combination of the slyness of a fox with the curiosity of a cat. “Or should I call you treasure?”

They rolled their eyes at his newest pet name, still asking him to call them by their given name with an exacerbated sigh. He mirrored the action of their eyes, joking about their mission removed from others and the time they spent foraging before coming across the wanted treasure chest. He had stepped closer to them, leading them to take a step back, their foot slipping off the edge of the bowsprit in anxious nature. Why Sam had cornered them to near death was beyond them, but no fellow pirate seemed to mind any bit of this unnerving interaction.

He cracked a smirk. “Got you this.” 

They reached out their hand to his, letting him open and release the small item into their open palm. The small weight of a seashell had little pressure to their palm, but had their head raised with a questioning look in no time. His interested expression stayed, almost as if he were playing a joke. After asking why, he shrugged and mumbled, clearly amused by their confusion and, in turn, their own lack of amusement. Their expression had stayed, only faltering when Sam had turned himself around at the beckoning of another mate, where they quickly, but safely, shoved the seashell deep into their pocket to ensure it stayed. He turned back around with a distant smile. He brought his face close to the mariner’s, heat erupting over their cheeks and nose at his quick action. 

“And I also grabbed something else for you!” He whispered, shuffling around his pockets before digging into the small cloth bag tied to his waist. Quietly crying out once he had felt it, he pulled his hand from his pouch, still concealing his gift. Expecting another seashell, or perhaps an already fired bullet at this point, his shipmate opened their hand once more. 

This weight had been more than before. The texture had also been peculiar, but the slow movement of their head had proved to be more of the mind than the body upon seeing his gift. In their hand sat the gold and aquamarine pendant from the treasure chest, it’s cone shape fitting perfectly in between the lines of their hand. A quiet gasp had escaped on instinct just before clutching it to their chest and looking around nervously.

“Sam! You can’t steal from the chests yourself! The captain gets every bit of it!”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been doin’ this longer than you— and you said you liked it. Besides, I don’t think anyone noticed it but us. It won’t be an issue, just keep it hidden,” he paused, throwing a look over his shoulder before returning back and winking, “It’ll be our secret, darling.”

Releasing their death-like grip on the pendant, they pulled their hand back to hold it between them and Sam’s chests, both admiring the beautiful blue shell of the pendant and the strange glow attached to it. Sam’s hushed giggles filled their senses, mingling with the intoxicating smell of sea air. A smile had crept onto the shipmate’s face at the beautiful piece of jewelry that was now in their possession, from a pirate with a heart the size of the ocean.

PART IV, A CONVERSATION UNDER SUNSET AND WITH THE CYCLE OF WAVES:

“You never seem to be anywhere else.” 

Perhaps, it wasn’t the best greeting, but it was better than nothing. They kept their head held high as they spoke to him. Sunset had arrived the same time as always, akin to the never changing scape of water. The soft lull of the ship felt like a rocking crib fit for an infant, comforting for the mind, but hell on the body. That, paired with a fair breeze, had made the journey above the lower workings of the ship more bearable. 

Sam shrugged, turning his attention back to the infinity of blue beneath the ship. “Can’t keep myself away from it.” A smile, genuine and kind, crossed his face, eyes flitting back and forth between his companion and the ocean. “It’s the ancient art of knowing the ocean as if it were yourself.”

Their eyebrows furrowed in thought, bating themselves with a breath. “How do you do it?”

“Good question— wish I could answer it for ya, dear. That might be a question more fit for the captain than me.”

With no verbal response from them, Sam returned his eyes back to the ocean, traveling the horizon in search of nothing. His attention directed elsewhere had allowed them to get a good look at his face, the scar over his left eye, and the bits of salt collected at the roots of his windswept hair. He must have caught them staring, a quick flicker of his eyes met theirs before he erupted into laughter, turning himself to them with the usual hint of mischief in them. The newcomer moved their eyes from his, feigning an aloof look that failed miserably in his face. 

“How did you get that scar?”

He gave a short laugh, tilting his head to nearly touch their shoulder before popping back up. “I’m not the smartest,” he shrugged, resting his cheek on his palm and craning his neck to look at his newest interest at sea. Silence had ensued, leading him to point towards a real answer, rather than his usual avoidant dance around sore subjects. “Fishhook. I was a bit too close to my father when he was fishing. He was a soldier so I didn’t see him often, but anytime he was home he’d take me and my brother to the beach and fish.”

His face lit up for a moment. He straightened his back, moving his hands up to his chest where he pulled his already loose shirt further open exposing his chest and abdomen. Finding themselves flustered, the shipmate turned their head quickly, in both an attempt to hide themselves and to give Sam an ounce of respect. His laugh rang through their ears, syncing for just a moment with their quickened heartbeat. 

“You can look, you can look,” he reassured, beginning once they had turned to his bare chest and abdomen, gasping at the scar gashed across him. It was akin to someone messily attempting to  gut a fish, the scar still slightly raised over the skin, giving them a good idea of how long he had been cursed with it. “Got this in a fight in a saloon in some valley! Lots of drinkers there, might've gotten a bit too childish with one of them.”

Despite the scars he had shown them, his face was still happy. He hummed to himself, clearly forcing a more pleasant conversation— or mood, for that matter— upon them. Each of his hums was melodic, a clear indication that he had some type of musical talent gifted to him. Yet, once again, his gaze had returned to the infinity on all sides of them, moving himself with the waves. They listened to him for a few more minutes. Their curiosity was gnawing at them, eating away at their skin with the gusts of wind.

“A musician as well?”

Sam laughed, lulling his head around before shrugging with a smug grin. “I would say so, but that might be up to opinion. But, of course, I love music. It’s one of the greatest gifts! The ocean makes its own music just like I do.” The pirate’s silence to his response had allowed him some thought time, mumbling an old shanty to himself in their comforting stillness. Rhythmic like the waves, Sam continued, tapping his fingers on the wooden side of the ship with his quiet song, shutting his eyes with deep breaths.

They pursed their lips in thought, turning to him in a moment of silence. “Never heard that one before. Though, I’ve only been at sea for a little bit, so maybe I’m not the one to talk about it.”

He shook his head. “Nah, ‘s alright— learned it on one of my old captain’s ships.”

They nodded, resting their heavy head into their hands, crouching to lean their elbows against the railing of the ship with a deep sigh. Sam noticed, opening one eye to peek at their hidden expression. His head cocked to the side as his hand slid down the rope. “What draws you out here? You’re too headstrong, and I’m afraid it’s going to get you killed.”

Their hand slammed against a wooden crate, garnering attention from the few pirates that lingered beside them. “I want— I want to become one with the sea. I’ve always wanted to travel, and the ocean is the best way for it. I’ve always wanted to see the stars, to be far from home, and to see new things. I want to know the ocean—”

“You don’t,” he interrupted, his expression blank. It was the closest to a serious expression they had seen out of him, but despite this obvious warning, they continued on.

They shook their head. “I do! You don’t understand, Sam. You always talk like you know everything, you’ve latched onto me to do nothing but aggravate me.”

Sam stayed silent, watching the slight shake of their body and the way they consistently had to reposition their feet in tune with the rocking of the ship. Despite his happy tune, the mood had remained somber. He hadn’t spoken again, clearly understanding his mate’s feelings and having, at least, the maturity to know not to continue the conversation in teasing. It nearly drove them deeper into anger, finally realizing that Sam did, in fact, have the capacity to know the sea as one would know family they so desperately chased after. They were left miserable at sea, far from the expectations of the heavens among the waves. 

PART V, THE SEA WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME:

Stuck two months at sea, the newcomer had sat out under the stars, admiring the tempting call of the murky water beneath them. What was once dreamt of had now become dread; eating away at their psyche. The ocean had never offered their reflection, only a distorted pit of nothing in return. In fact, they hadn’t seen their reflection since on land, safe in the warmth of a home and in the comfort of people. People that were smiling and warm, unlike those on the ship, who had each lost their humanity and souls to the crashing of waves and the unknown of the masses. At the very least, the rocking of the ship on safe seas had begun to lull them to sleep each night, the only action of love the ocean would give.

A friendly voice had rang out from behind them. “Mm, still not used to being at sea?” 

“No,” they answered, keeping their gaze level with the horizon. Ocean wind had whipped past them, taking their hair from their face and pulling the ropes and sails of the ship with each gust. 

“Just something you gotta live with,” he shrugged, walking up beside them and placing his hands along the wood railing. “It’s not too bad once ya get used to it, promise.”

His smile had tried its best to reassure, but left them with nothing but dread. Their eyes had lost the horizon, meeting just below the two, where the water met the side of the ship. The rough movement had made their stomach sink to their feet. Nothing was certain out at sea; nothing sacred, and nothing safe. Sam sighed, matching their gaze at the black water beneath them.

“You’ll get used to it,” he repeated.

They finally raised their gaze up to him. “How long have you been at sea?”

He shrugged, pushing himself from the rail and turning to rest his back against it. “Maybe four years or so? I don’t really know. There’s not much that goes on most of the time, so I’ve just sorta tuned everything out.” 

“How can you possibly live like this?” Shaking their head, they returned their gaze back to the sea, and the hypnotic movement of black waves crashing against the hull of the ship. Each movement of the waves splattered against the side of the ship, dissipating and falling back into the water which it had come from. The wind whipped the waves against the side of the ship, a loud smack each time it collided unnaturally with the old wood.

The ship wasn’t natural, was the conclusion they had come to. The wood of it came from far away lands, unimaginable to them, but had not come from the sea. People weren’t supposed to be at sea. Like the trees that had been sacrificed for the ship, everything at odds with the great ocean was not meant to be there. The few times they had seen fish in the sunlight water, or a pod of dolphins that rode by their side in the morning, it had become clear: they were the only ones who belonged. 

Sam had noticed their dead stare into the water, knowing what epiphany was unfolding in their psyche. With a sigh he threw his head back, looking up at the moon and surrounding stars. “Don’t think too hard about it,” he sighed again, bringing his head back down to look at their worried expression. He’d seen it with his fellow shipmates, and he had seen it in himself. “It’s going to kill you if you don’t learn to live with it.”

“I refuse. How could anyone enjoy this? We sit and look at nothing for days, weeks, on end. Then, we finally get to our destination, then we’re back on the water for another unknown amount of time?”

He nodded slowly. Before speaking, he walked over to the bottom of the mast, twirling the rope between his fingers. “This isn’t for everyone. Just hop off the ship next time we land on a beach, start a new life, do whatever.”

His words had stung them, mentally cursing themselves for thinking that he had some ounce of care for them. Perhaps it was how everyone was able to live at sea, cut all connections and ties to those that are not the ocean. How childish of them to think otherwise, and that Sam would have been any different. He could not fare against the ocean, certainly no stronger than them in a power of wits or will. They would have to stoop down to his level, full acceptance of death at any moment and that there is no true control when it comes to the great ocean.

It would only be a matter of time before they found themselves overboard, gasping for breath in their last moments once the sea decides their time abroad is over. “But there is no true safety!” They cried, turning themselves back around to see Sam’s confused expression. “Even if, even if, even if I decided to leave— which, despite your words, I don’t believe you would enjoy— I will never be safe from the sea! An earthquake that would trigger a tsunami, a hurricane, anything! I would never be able to escape it’s hauntings.”

“Of course I wouldn’t enjoy you leaving the ship. It’s sad to see anyone go,” he shrugged, clearly ignoring their last musings, “you were the only person on board that hadn’t lost their soul yet, of course it was fun to mess around with you.”

Their mouth was left open at his words and flippant attitude. “You’re speaking in the past tense,” they spoke, tone almost matching that of a warning.

He shrugged again, lulling his head from it’s transfixed gaze over the night ocean to them. “Isn’t it obvious yet?”

“I refuse,” they repeated. 

Their attitude was clearly a front of denial, knowing deep down they have already become the worst of what they had once been. The ocean had thrown them to their extremes— the true mirror of the ocean’s reflection. Sam sat, hand lazily tapping a rhythm on his thigh as he watched the newcomer unfold before him, as he had watched plenty of times before. He sighed, knowing the outcome of this would be to render themself soulless, and lose the light behind their eyes, or to simply jump overboard and let the ocean have it’s way. A win-win for the sea, as Sam knew, and the newcomer had learned, the ocean never loses a game.

That’s what it is, the newcomer thought, nothing but a game of life and death for its own enjoyment. Each member of the ship, each pirate, or mariner, or fisher, that decided to take their chance from gambling their own life would inevitably find themselves face to face with nothing of themselves. With one last hit to the crate, clattering the treasures inside of it, they raised their head again and turned to Sam fervently, grasping at his arms in desperation.

“I never thought I would lose my soul, Sam!” They cried out, finally allowing themselves to cry. His face softened, shrugging their grip off of one of his arms and pulling them close to his chest. “There’s nothing out here to look forward to,” they choked out, allowing their hands to grip at the woven fabric of his shirt. He stayed silent for a few minutes, thinking of different things to say to them; something that had never worked with the others that he held and consoled over the same thing.

He sighed again, struggling to speak. “You just have to accept it.”

They sniffed, pushing themselves from his chest to look up at him. “How are you not like this? Why is it me? I’ve dreamt of this since I’ve been able to dream, and now that I’m hearing, I’ve just become a shell of myself. How are you still alive?”

Thinking of his answer, he looked over the sea as if for any hint of what to say. No discernible answer, but he had admired how different the sea can look within a moment’s difference. “Couldn’t tell ya. I go with the flow of the water, but— as long as you stay on ship, I will always make sure you’re safe.”

The call to the bottom of the ocean was tempting. Sam’s hand had moved from their back to cup the back of their head against his chest. Even if they had decided to wait it out towards morning, Sam would always have to live in fear that at a moment’s notice, the tide would take them from the ship and pull them under in the ocean’s horrifying mixture of mercy and murder. This sort of connection was exactly what he had always spoken against, knowing that once the ocean is aware of something precious, it will be ripped from its safety and holiness. Against his better judgement, he kept them in his hold, resting his cheek against the crown of their head as he looked out over the dismal water, knowing from experience what was bound to happen to his dearest pirate. 

[elliewritessometimes]

IT’S @mattieswheelers BIRTHDAY!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVELY WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH

beCAUSE of this, myself and @notsomightymightytiger decided to steal tea leaf’s time travelling mattie au and create a whole entire fic with their ideas and also a design that @ari-is-anxious did a while back!! hope you enjoy aaaaaaa <3333 aLSO stabbies try and spot as many starboard references as you can heheheh 

this can be read on ao3 here if you prefer the format :)

tw: swearing, murder (it’s minor and resolved tho jsgh), religion (nicco my love read with care), blood, i really hope i haven’t missed anything please do let me know if i missed anything

-

Mattie had always been able to time travel. For as long as she could remember, her walk-in wardrobe had been lined with silver metal and held no clothes at all. As a child, this made it all the more exciting, though as she grew older and actually started to want to own clothes, it became a little inconvenient. She supposed all great inventions came with some kind of sacrifice.

Her uncle had made the time machine as a gift when Mattie was born. Her parents, like any basic adults, assumed the wardrobe-sized box was simply a toy and had taken no interest in it. Mattie, from the age of about three when her curiosity had really set in, was the one who discovered that the machine was in fact a working portal and not just a children’s toy. Since then, she had been happily travelling time and space during the darkest hours of night.

(You may have entirely valid concerns about a three year old having full access to time travel - luckily, not just for Mattie’s safety but also that of the entire human race, her uncle had set what were effectively child locks on a lot of the controls. These were diminished the day that Mattie turned thirteen. Uncle Calvin had always been a little weird, but he certainly wasn’t heartless.)

-

Usually, Mattie’s time travel didn’t affect her life. Sure, it made for some pretty awkward conversations as Mattie spurted some knowledge which could never have been explained through a textbook, but those could often be blamed on watching too much Horrible Histories as a child (“Mattie, I swear to God, you’re so bageling British, and yet you’ve never been there, I don’t understand.” “Horrible Histories is a masterpiece! You’re just jealous that you’re too American to have seen it.” “Actual asshole of a child.” “Farrah-!”).

It was going well until Mattie’s freshman year at Giles Corey. And then three of her fellow highschoolers were murdered. And suddenly Mattie had a way to prevent that from happening.

In some stroke of luck, she passed out at the sleepover and didn’t find out about the murders until she was sitting in the back of a cop car, driving to her house to pick up her things. She remembered thinking how weird it was that she wasn’t being taken straight to the station, but brushed that away in favour of ‘going into her wardrobe to change out of her bloody clothes’.

The time machine was cold like it always was and that forced her out of her muddled state quickly enough. She thought back to the victims. Chess. Farrah. Clark. Snapping on her goggles, she pressed a button, whirled backwards through time and space, and appeared at the gate to Riley’s neighbour’s house.

She really wished that she had actually changed her outfit - the damp blood turned cold with the breeze and sent shivers up her spine. The smell perhaps or just her sudden appearance startled the neighbour’s dogs into a frenzy. A figure, Chess, unharmed and merely confused instead of terrified, stood up from Riley’s bench, calling into the darkness. Mattie’s breath caught in her throat. The second figure, knife glinting in the dim streetlight, slipped out of the back door. Their red hair shone in the reflection of the knife with a sick kind of beauty.

Mattie could have stopped them there, taken the knife from the assailant’s grasp, prevented the tragedy of the evening. But she didn’t. She just watched.

Three minutes later, after arriving back in her present time and pressing yet another button on the wall of her closet, she watched the same scene unfold in the bathroom with a much younger victim. Twenty minutes after that, the third attack. This one was different though, an accident.

Still a little desperate and overly conscious of the police officer standing guard outside of her bedroom, she reappeared in her wardrobe, putting on a jumper before turning back time a little further. She appeared in a gymnastics centre as a girl around Mattie’s age did wolf turns on a beam. A coach entered the scene from the sidelines as the girl stopped spinning, her distinctive plait falling still against her back. Something in Mattie ached at the sight of Chess so lively and innocent, willing to give up her life for her dream of succeeding in her sport. As the two wandered into a side room, picking up water with a smile, Mattie edged forwards, collecting soft gym mats as she went. Within minutes, the area surrounding the beam had been double layered with cushioning, and Mattie could only pray that her plan would work. She’d seen enough YouTube videos to know what happened next.

Chess emerged again with her coach, hopping back up onto the beam with practiced ease. Again, Mattie was forced to just watch as she went down into her wolf turn, then rose up, did a split leap across at least half of the beam, and jumped into a twist to land on the floor. It was a messy landing, the gymnast’s ankle caving in on itself, knee twisting unnaturally in the air, before coming down hard onto her side. But, unlike in the previous videos, there wasn’t a resounding crack, only a weak cry of pain as Chess stumbled back to her feet.

Mattie grinned despite herself as snippets of conversation drifted her way.

“-not broken, don’t worry-”

“The Olympics seem out of the picture…”

“Get her a drink to numb the pain! Yes, limeade’s perfect-!”

Mattie arrived in her room again with a whole plethora of new information just inserted into her mind like it had been there all along. There was no longer and never had been a police officer outside her door. Her shirt was clean, her head undamaged. Chess didn’t go to the Olympics, but still did gymnastics in her spare time as her knee made a full and quick recovery. Farrah wasn’t dropped. Riley, in some weird twist of fate, went to the same therapist as Mattie. Life was… good for the Giles Corey Tigers.

Across town, the sleepover was still going ahead as normal. From what weird memories she just gained, Mattie knew that the team was at a rocky patch, their personalities still clashing in any iteration of the evening. But, with some relief, she knew that it would never in this timeline be bad enough for murder to even be considered as an answer. Her phone buzzed. The lies came easily as she covered up her mysterious disappearance from the sleepover she should currently be at.

Reese (school): Where are you???

Mattieeeee: I went home :( not feeling good

Reese (school): :((( that sucks

Mattieeeee: Ikr. I think it was the ice cream.

Reese (school): I told the others

Reese (school): They all say get well soon apart from Kate and Cairo who actually agreed on something for once haha

Mattieeeee: What did they say skjghdjh

Reese (school): “Tolerate the lactose, Wheeler.”

-

In her short-but-actually-quite-long-given-all-the-time-travel life, Mattie had witnessed a number of key historic events (and had caused about 85% by some small accident, but that’s a story for another time). The one which ended up unveiling her secret to someone in her actual life occurred overnight one February. Or maybe July. Depends. Time is weird.

She stepped into a small room, luckily through the doorway and not awkwardly through the window, as done many times before. A man sat hunched over a desk by the window, dressed in brown and using a pen-but-not-really-a-pen to craft a page of writing. From Mattie’s extensive historical knowledge, it could have been anywhere from 1000 BC to the 16th century.

“Hello, excuse me,” she began, “But I’m a little lost.”

The man startled, his not-really-pen skidding across the page and leaving a trail of thick ink in its wake as he blinked at her in the doorway. “Who are you?” He seemed perplexed as to how a young girl was standing there, in the opening to his room, in clothing not of any time now or before.

Something that Mattie had realised after travelling not only to different times, but also to a vast number of different settings around the world, was that somehow, she was never stumped by a language barrier. Instead she was always able to fluently converse with those she met in what appeared to her as American English. It was really weird; she tried not to think about it too much or it made her head hurt. She’d also learnt that it was best not to explain her full situation to her companions, becoming accustomed to pulling the classic ‘I’m not here, you’re just dreaming’ excuse. So that was exactly the tactic she applied here. “A dream figure. You don’t need to be afraid.”

The man narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the paper and then back up to Mattie’s face. “That’s a good line.” He scribbled her words down onto a scrap piece of papyrus. “Maybe I can use that later.”

Mattie grinned, sensing her chance to fuck up history just a little bit. “What are you writing?”

“How the world came to be,” the man explained. “God.”

“Ah, of course. The Bible, huh?”

“Pardon?” The scribe locked eyes with Mattie for the first time, confusion etched clearly on his face. She shook her head in response, having learnt that it was hopeless trying to explain events of the future to people who could never even begin to imagine the future that she came from. Seemingly satisfied, the man continued. “As the vision you are, I wonder if you’ve been sent to answer my queries.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“I’m struggling for a name. Not for the book itself, but just for this chapter.”

Mattie smiled as wisely as she could. “What do you have so far?”

“‘Generational Crisis’. The chapter describes how our world came to be - the creation of natural elements, the first humans, the beginnings of emotion. ‘Generational’ as it shall be carried on for generations, and ‘crisis’ as it’s a huge event, a crisis for the higher powers.”

Mattie choked. Her mind imagined a world where the entry chapter to the Bible was named as so, and it was a world of chaos and highly differing language choices. “That is very wise, sir. I have one suggestion: how about shortening it? Make it snappier, more catchy. I’m thinking…” She paused, feigning deep thought, “‘Genesis.’”

The man gasped, scrawling her word down at the top of the papyrus. “Genius! Thank you, child. I should write your name in my finished book, to show my gratitude for your kindness.”

“Mattie, sir, Mattie Wheeler. It’s been lovely to meet you and see your studies.” Over the centuries, Mattie had learnt to leave those she met with some kind of reassurance as the humane aspect of her hobby. “Before I go, I may be a dream spirit, but I can assure you that the work you have done right now shall be greatly appreciated for thousands of years to come.”

“You really are a wonder, perhaps a child sent from the power above.”

Unthinking, she snorted, replying, “Oh, boy, you are not ready to hear about Jesus.”

“Jesus? You mean my sister’s husband? I do hear some curious rumours about the man…”

Mattie hid her laugh behind a hand. Of course, this was hundreds of years before Jesus Christ came to be thought of. “I know, right? Jesus? More like JeSUS.” The scribe didn’t reply, mind clearly tired of its confusion and instead turning back to something it knew well. He picked up his writing patterns again. Mattie turned away, back to the doorway. “I will leave you to your writing again. Sleep well.” Leaving a small vial of dissolved sleeping pills on the desk, she stepped out of the door.

-

The only class that Mattie knew she would see Eva in was Religion. They didn’t actually share the class, but Mattie’s Religion teacher was Eva’s form tutor and the older girl often used the classroom as a quieter study area for her free period. Not that Mattie would call a class of thirty sophomores particularly peaceful, but apparently she hadn’t heard the noise of the senior study area, you genuinely don’t understand, last week Jacob Thomas tried to make toast using the sun on a desk and then, bam, the entire of senior year are creating chants about sun bread, it was so weird, Mattie, I transferred to a school of crackheads.

After her travel to the 7th century AD, Mattie sparked a sudden interest in her Religion classes. Eva, being the older sister that she was, watched closely as the sophomore stayed behind after class to search the Bible for something in particular.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Nothing!” Mattie didn’t look up from fervently turning the pages.

“Well, that’s a fucking lie.” Eva perched on the side of a desk, sliding across to snatch the book out of the younger girl’s hands. “Why the hell are you looking at what is essentially the movie credits for the Bible???”

Eva watched as Mattie bit her lip, eyes darting around the empty classroom. She thought for a long moment, visibly debating points in her head, before leaning over the top of the book to run her finger down a list of names. About a third of the way down the page, she stopped. Eva’s eyes followed her finger as it drew a circle around a certain name. Matte Wheyler  

“See. I was looking for that.”

Eva didn’t say anything for a while. Mattie waited with baited breath as Eva’s brain tried to make sense of what they saw. “Mattie Wheeler, what the bagel.” It didn’t bother to even be a question.

“It’s a really long story.” Mattie slumped onto the desk as well. “Hey, did you know that ‘Genesis’ would have originally been called ‘Generational Crisis’ if it wasn’t for me?”

After a glance at both of their timetables, they decided that their next lessons (biology and latin respectively) were worth missing. Instead, they stayed seated on a desk in the Religion classroom, as Mattie explained in detail how her name came to be in the Bible. It was refreshing to finally spill her secret after fifteen years of complete silence, and Mattie wondered vaguely in the back of her mind if one day Eva might be able to share in her time travelling adventures. That might take a little more explaining though, because Eva sure did have a lot of questions.

“So, you don’t change anything?”

“Not anything major. Like, I can’t stop Hitler or anything, that would change too big an event. Little things, however, like names and stuff, it’s fun to mess around with. Ever wondered why the Italian city, Pisa, has its name? I delivered pizza to the guys who were kind of like the government at the time of its naming. Hence, the Leaning Tower of Pizza.”

Eva cackled. “Wait, what?! God, dude, that’s nuts. What the fuck.”

“What can I say, all I really want in life is a little bit of chaos and also mozzarella sticks.”

-

Mattieeeee sent a photo.

evanescence: is that??? abraham lincoln????

Mattieeeee: Abraham Lincoln was an otter.

evanescence: how so?

Mattieeeee: Point one: look at him.

Mattieeeee: Point two: no seriously. Look at him.

evanescence: oh my god

evanescence: i cannot believe you have a literal selfie with abraham lincoln that’s fucking wild

Mattieeeee: Perks of the job :D

evanescence: literally hire me i want a selfie with cleopatra

-

farrah o’satanic ritual: yall i got out of the shower like an hour ago and i still haven’t changed

Imposter: What can I say, bath robes are in fashion rn

farrah o’satanic ritual: ive told you before clark stop pretending you know how to dress

Mattieeeee: Farrah did you not die in the shower?

katherine: ????mattie???????

farrah o’satanic ritual: no?? i didn’t

SmileyRiley: dang it

katherine: riLEY-

caicrow: riley i thought we’d moved on from murder

Imposter: Plot twist: Mattie was the murderer all along

katherine: CLARK-

Mattieeeee: oops-

-

It wasn't meant to happen, she swore up and down it was a mistake. A true and honest accident. And it kinda was? I mean Mattie hadn’t intended for the scaffolding on the new tower being constructed in Pisa to wobble, she’d already fucked up Pisa once in her career, but… Well, that's what she got for letting loose Giles and Corey (her occasional time travelling companions, who also happened to be cats) in the middle of a Italian city in 1252. She could have sworn the catnip was safely concealed in one of the pockets inside her jacket (which was filled with all sorts of trinkets from her travels in the space-time continuum), yet somehow the two had still gotten into it. She guessed that's what she got for not hydrating-feel-greating and eating-to-defeating.

An old citizen eyed her suspiciously, taking in her struggle with the two cats. Or maybe she was just more focused on Mattie’s goggles - she doubted anyone in 13th century Pisa had seen such a bold fashion statement before. The tower continued to lean in the background.

Finally, Giles and Corey settled down, each in a pocket of her trench coat. Mattie breathed a sigh of relief, which only got halfway out of her before she was sucking it back in as the old lady from across the street began to approach her.

“Young lady.”

Mattie smiled sheepishly. “Hello, ma’am. Is everything alright?”

The lady looked mildly amused. “I couldn’t help but notice your two cats going mysteriously close to the tower before it started collapsing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. My cats are very well behaved.” Giles gave a resounding yelp at exactly the wrong time. A hiss from Corey echoed from the opposite pocket.

“Well,” the lady grinned, “If that’s the case, why don’t you leave the animals with me? You seem fairly preoccupied with the tower - perhaps you can try and assist its reconstruction?” She held out a hand.

Mattie thought for a moment and then handed across the two cats. “Thank you ever so much, ma’am. I’ll try and be quick.” The woman nodded and Mattie sped across the square to the drastically swaying tower.

When she arrived back at the woman’s table, there was a second lady in animated conversation with her. As Mattie approached, she stood up to take her leave, pressing a kiss to the first lady’s hair as she left. Something was definitely fruity there.

“All fixed!”

“I’m glad.” The woman nudged the cats back to their owner, looking intensely over Mattie’s shoulder to the stabilised tower. “It certainly looks sturdier.”

“I should hope so.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes,” she said, staring pointedly at an area on the structure, “I think about crabs.”

“Oh?” Mattie tilted her head. “Do you?”

“Yes. And often when I think about crabs, I think that they shouldn’t be in Pisa, and they most definitely should not be crawling over the tower.”

Mattie gasped and followed her gaze, muttering curses under her breath. “I didn’t realise I’d brought a whole crab with me! I thought I’d taken the sea life off the rocks!”

The woman chuckled. “You seem to be a strange character. Child, where on Earth did you find not only rocks large enough to support a tower, but also a live crab in Pisa?”

Accepting her fate, Mattie decided to tell the truth. “They’re from Egypt.” At the woman’s questioning look, she expanded, “I’m a traveller of sorts.”

“Oh. Well, child, you’re a gift of a traveller. Brightened my day. Italy these days is far too serious. Maybe we should put more crabs on the leaning tower, huh?”

Tucking her cats back into their respective pockets, Mattie allowed herself to laugh. “Maybe we should.” With a nod and a smile, she wandered off, eagerly awaiting her portal.

-

“Why were you in Egypt anyway?” Eva asked as Mattie recounted yet another of her time-travel-gone-wrong experiences.

“Library of Alexandria.”

“Oh, yeah, because that explains so much.”

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes. “It was 48 BC, Caesar was burning shit, this random Roman dude set fire to the library.” She pulled a book out of her backpack. “I saved this and stashed away a few of the slabs of rock. And apparently a crab.”

Eva took the book in awe. “Jesus Christ… This thing is, like, thousands of years old…”

“I know, right? Weird.” She watched as Eva flicked through the pages, tracing her finger over certain words or illustrations. “But it was such a beautiful library, I couldn’t let it just burn. So, I retaliated. Burnt the house of the soldier who set the original flame.”

“Mattie!”

She shrugged. “Setting someone’s house on fire is a survival skill.”

“Oh my God.”

“I would have done something more dramatic, but I had to get home. I had a cake which would need to come out of the oven.”

Eva laughed, the sound echoing around the empty classroom. They were skiving class again, this time PE, the one class they had which coincidentally fell at the same time for both year groups. “How are you so normal in school, but so badass when you time travel?”

“I dunno. All I can say is that cake and spite are my only motivators.”

“You’re like a superhero. ‘Time Travelling Mattie: The Only One Who Can Lead A Dual Life Successfully’!!!”

Mattie blushed, shrugging. She definitely needed to take Eva with her one day. A superhero duo. “Okay, that name needs some work. How about: ‘Sanchez And Wheeler, The Ultimate Time Travelling Duo’?”

“I think I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?”

Eva nodded, shaking her hand like they were signing a business contract. “Yeah.”

[max-is-tired]

Misconceptions: A Show

Pairing: Intrulogical

Characters: Remus Sanders, Logan Sanders, Roman Sanders, Patton Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Deceit Sanders.

Words: 3.941

Warnings: sympathetic Deceit & Remus, swearing, some graphic talk bc it’s Remus, screaming in caps

Notes: Finally, I can post this monster of a fic -hey there, @princeyssash, guess who was your secret santa? This fic was honestly so much fun to write, I swear -I loved all of the prompts I had, but this one just called to me,,, I had to,,

Big thanks to @purp-man for betaing this fic for me and listening to my 3am rambles, and shoutout to @afulldeckofaces for helping me flesh out some plot points, like Virgil memeing his way through Roman’s plans. You’re the absolute best <33

Commission me!!  Buy me a coffee!!  My Discord server!!  AO3!!

It was a normal day in the mindscape.

Patton was humming happily in the kitchen, shuffling around with a pep in his step as he mixed the batter for some cookies. In the living room, Logan and Virgil were enjoying each other’s company while doing their own thing, may it be reading or half-slouching on the couch while scrolling aimlessly through Tumblr.

Everything was peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

“YOU DIRTY LITTLE SEWER RAT GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!!”

Everyone jumped at the sudden shout, Virgil going as far as tumbling off the couch with a startled yelp. From upstairs, Remus’ unmistakable laughter bounced on the walls, followed shortly after by the twin himself bolting down the stairs with a maniacal grin on his face.

“Oh god,” Virgil groaned from the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose, “what the fuck did he do now?”

“Language, kiddo,” Patton called, emerging from the kitchen with a confused frown on his face. 

Turns out, they didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

“REMUS!!” Roman screeched, running down the stairs. He looked thoroughly pissed, eyes flashing dangerously as he glared daggers at his brother.

Virgil took one look at him, blinked, and then promptly broke down cackling.

“Stop laughing, Hot Topic!” Roman exclaimed, cheeks flushing red. Not that his blush was very noticeable, due to the various scribbles and crude drawings covering his face. “Look at what he did to my beautiful face!”

“You just don’t understand real art, brother dearest,” Remus snickered, waving the marker in his hand around.

“Oh, I’ll show you real art,” Roman muttered darkly, unsheathing his sword as he stalked down the last steps of the stairs.

At the sight of the unsheathed sword, Virgil’s eyes widened in alarm, his body tensing slightly as it became clear the situation was starting to escalate. Beside him, Logan looked at the two brothers, sighed in resignation and snapped the book in his hands shut.

“That’s quite enough, you two,” he said, staring the two brothers down with a raised eyebrow.

“Specs, he drew penises on my face! Multiple times!!”

“Which you can easily snap off with a wave of your hand,” Logan pointed out, “I do not believe there is any need for all this screaming, or for weapons to be brought into the picture.”

“Logan, you don’t understand, I gotta fight him now! For my honor!!” Roman exclaimed, waving his arms around -and therefore further proving Logan’s point by almost cutting Deceit’s head off as the side rose up to check what the commotion was about.

“Oi, watch it!” Deceit called out, ducking to avoid another accidental swipe of Roman’s sword, “who are you, Zuko?”

“If Roman’s Zuko then Logan is totally Uncle Iroh,” Virgil added, still lying on the floor.

Logan shrugged. “If we are referring to the first season of Avatar: The Last Airbender then yes, I can see the similarities.”

Roman squinted at them, finally lowering his sword. “There is an insult somewhere in that phrase. I don’t know where, but I know there is.”

“It’s because you’re a dumb-head, bro!” Remus cackled, once again calling the attention to himself.

Roman growled, looking more than ready to stalk through the room and tackle his twin to the ground, but Logan anticipated him before the situation could escalate once again.

“Remus, I believe this is quite enough,” he said, turning towards the aforementioned twin.

“Aw, but Logan, I’m just having some fun!”

Logan simply raised an eyebrow, staring him down.

“Ugh, fiiiine!” Remus finally groaned, throwing the marker somewhere behind himself, “that does not mean I’m happy about it though!”

Then, he sank out.

Peace once again established, Logan hummed and leaned back on the couch, going back to reading his book.

Or at least that was the plan.

“What the fuck just happened?” Virgil asked, staring at him in disbelief.

“Virgil, language!!”

“Sorry Padre, but I gotta agree with Cout Woelaf here,” Roman said, sword laying limp in his grip, “that was nothing less but weird.”

“I honestly do not understand where all of this apparent confusion is coming from,” Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You told Remus to stop!” Roman exclaimed, throwing his arms up, “and he listened to you!!”

“Roman, your sword!” Deceit hissed in frustration, having had to duck for the third time to avoid being cut in tiny scaley pieces. “If you don’t put it down this instant I might just try and stab you with it, do not try me.”

Roman grumbled but complied, making the sword disappear with a wave of his hand. Then, he crossed his arms, looking once again towards the logical side. “My point still stands though. Remus never listens to anyone, like, ever.”

“Yeah, I think I have to agree with them here Lo,” Patton said, still standing under the kitchen’s doorway, “that was a little weird.”

“Well, I do not know what to tell you,” Logan countered, “I asked him to stop, he complied and then sank out -it’s as simple as that.”

“If you say so,” Roman said, squinting at him in suspicion.

From the other side of the room, Deceit gave him A Look, appearing to be torn between amusement and concern. Logan subtly raised an eyebrow in response, making sure the others would not notice their silent exchange.

After all, it wasn’t like he could just tell them the truth, could he?

+++

When Logan finally sank up in his room, sometime later, he was not surprised to see a very familiar side sprawled on his bed, head hanging from the side of the mattress as he threw a tiny dagger up and down in the air.

“Lolo!!” Remus grinned, spotting him, “took you a while, I was starting to get bored!”

“I wanted to finish this novel first,” Logan said, putting the book in question back to its place in his large library, “it was rather interesting.”

“You know what would be interesting?” Remus asked, not looking away from the other as he kept playing with his dagger, “to find out what would happen if this dagger hit me in the eye!! Do you think it would reach all the way to my brain?”

“I suppose it would,” Logan hummed, sitting beside the creative side and quickly catching the dagger out of the air when Remus threw it again, “but between proving that hypothesis and spending the rest of the day with my not-injured husband, I think I prefer the second option more.”

“Oh really?” Remus grinned, sitting up -a slim silver chain fell out of his shirt with the movement, the golden ring hanging from it twinkling in the light of the room. “And tell me, how would you like to spend that time, my dear?”

Logan hummed, the light pressure of his own ring hiding under his shirt bringing a smile to his face. “Oh, I’m sure my dear husband will have some ideas of his own to share.”

“Oh, you are wicked,” Remus said, before leaning in to capture Logan’s lips in a kiss.

+++

For a while, it seemed like whatever had happened in the living room had been forgotten -the others were still confused by how easy it was for Logan to make Remus listen to him, but most of them waved it off as Logic easily overpowering Intrusive Thoughts with rationality and all that shit.

(Deceit knew better than that, but that was mostly because lying to him was next to impossible and Logan had been smart enough to let him in on their secret as soon as it had started to become a serious thing, both to help the couple lie to the other sides and to avoid him finding out on his own and potentially jeopardizing their cover.)

Point is, no one had yet discovered the real reason between the apparent chemistry between the two sides. But that didn’t mean they weren’t starting to notice things.

The first one to start suspecting something was, surprisingly enough, Virgil.

He had been sneaking to the kitchen around 3am, planning to grab a quick snack from the pantry and then tip-toe back to his own room, all the while hoping not to alert anyone of his nighttime escapade -he had already been at the receiving end of several stern talks about his fucked-up sleeping schedule and did not want to have to sit through another one, thank you very much.

What he had not been expecting, was to find himself staring at Logan’s back, the logical side looking busy filling two mugs with steaming water.

Virgil froze on his tracks, eyes wide in alarm as he tried to figure out how to sneak back out of the kitchen and up the stairs without being noticed. Unfortunately, Logan seemed to have other ideas and turned around before the anxious side could make up his mind about the next course of action.

“Uh,” Logan said, blinking in surprise, “hello, Virgil. I have to be honest, I was not expecting to meet anyone at this hour of the night.”

“Likewise, I guess,” Virgil shrugged, giving the other a tiny smile, “why are you up at this hour anyway? Weren’t you the one waxing poetry about the importance of a regular sleep schedule?”

“I got sidetracked, I guess. One late night won’t harm me in any way or form, I assure you.”

Virgil snickered. “I’m telling Patton you said that.”

“I don’t think you will,” Logan countered, calm as ever as he put down the kettle and moved to grab the two cups, “because if you do I will tell Patton about you sneaking into the kitchen at 3am with, as it appears, not a single ounce of sleep in your body.”

“... harsh, L. Real harsh.”

“Just stating facts,” Logan said, before walking out of the kitchen.

Virgil stared after him, watching the logical side leisurely cross the living room and walk up the stairs until he could not see him anymore. Then, he shrugged, quickly walking to the pantry and grabbing the snack he had come for.

He straightened up, holding triumphantly a bag of chips, only to freeze up again when a tiny detail finally struck him.

“Wait, why the fuck did he have two mugs?”, he wondered, turning back to glance at the stairs. Then, he turned towards the kitchen counter, noticing a little bag sitting just to the side of where Logan had been standing just a few seconds before.

“Kuding Tea” read the caption on the front of the bag, the inside filled with slim, dark tea nails.

Virgil frowned, rolling the name around in his head. He was sure he had heard it before, but where?

+++

The second one was Roman.

He had been strolling idly around the Imagination, humming a song under his breath as he walked along a path in the woods. Of course, his guard wasn’t completely down, not now that he was so near Remus’ side of the Imagination -while his relationship with his brother had greatly improved in the last year or so, he was still very much aware of the dangerous creatures lurking in his brother’s domain, and Roman had no desire to be caught by surprise by one of them.

Could you imagine the teasing, if Remus ever were to find out?

So yeah, he was still being very attentive to his surroundings -that’s probably half of the reason why he found himself hesitating when what sounded like distant laughter reached his ears.

Roman stilled, focusing on his surroundings. But all he could hear was silence, and after a few more seconds he was about ready to shrug it off to his imagination.

Then, the same, faint sound echoed from somewhere in the forest.

Curious, Roman started following the sound, watching his steps as his hand moved to hover over the handle of his sword -better be safe than sorry, he figured.

It didn’t take long for him to reach his destination, the forest receding just a few feet in front of him to make room for a vast, lush clearing. What he found, however, was something he could have never fathomed.

In the middle of the clearing, sitting on the grass in front of each other, were Remus and Logan, looking way too engrossed in their own conversation to notice the stunned prince staring at them from just behind a tree.

Remus seemed to be showing Logan something, looking completely enraptured by whatever Logan was saying.

The logical side was talking animatedly, waving his hands around with a grin as he occasionally gestured to something sitting between them. And Remus, well, he was staring at Logan with an expression Roman was pretty sure he’d never seen on his twin’s face.

He was looking at Logan like he was the sole holder of every secret of the universe, like he was everything he could see and hear.

He looked absolutely, utterly smitten, and Roman did not know what to do with that information.

+++

For Patton, well, it was more of a gradual realization.

He may not be the smartest in the group, but he was not by any means an idiot. He had noticed right away the potential chemistry between the two sides, the way Logan never seemed to be fazed by Remus’ shenanigans or the way Remus seemed to enjoy poking fun at the logical side.

Initially, he had not been very thrilled about it. But as time went on and they started to get closer to the dark sides, he could see how those two being friends could be highly beneficial for everyone, Remus and Logan included.

And he thought that was all it was -a blossoming friendship!

But the more time passed, the more Patton started to realize how that wasn’t exactly the case.

He didn’t know what initially tipped him off, really. Maybe it was the shared glances when one of them thought the other wasn’t looking, or the smile both of the sides seemed to fight down when in the presence of the other.

Maybe it was the subtle change in Logan’s demeanor, the way he’d grown calmer, happier, metaphorically softer around the edges ever since he and Remus had started growing closer.

Something was starting to bloom between the two sides, and Patton was not so sure it was a simple, innocent friendship anymore.

+++

Things came to a head one fateful Saturday afternoon, with Logan stuck revising schedules with Thomas and Remus doing who-knows-what in the Imagination.

The other sides were all lounging in the living room, all doing their own thing.

Then, Roman spoke up.

“Do you guys think something’s going on between Remus and Logan?”

Virgil, who was very much not expecting to hear something like that in the foreseeable future, jumped up from where he had been sprawled on the couch, headphones hanging limp from his neck as he stared wide-eyed at the creative side.

“Please tell me you’re not implying what I think you are implying.”

Roman shrugged, looking away as he scratched the base of his neck. “I don’t know what to tell you, Panic! At The Everywhere -I’m just asking.”

“If I have to be completely honest, actually,” piped up Patton from his place on the floor, stopping the episode of Parks & Rec they had been using as a background, “I have noticed some strange things too.”

“Right??” Roman exclaimed, “I saw them in the Imagination, last week, and I swear to god at one point Remus’ expression almost rivaled the way Logan usually looks at a jar of Crofters.”

“Whoa there Princey,” Virgil said, “don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little?”

“I know what I saw, J.D-lightful.”

“And I think Logan could be developing some feelings for Remus, even if he probably hasn’t quite realized it yet,” Patton added.

Virgil went to argue, but suddenly a realization struck him.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered in shock, suddenly looking like he was reevaluating everything he’d ever known.

“What?” Roman asked, confused.

“I caught Logan down in the kitchen, the other day,” Virgil explained, “he was brewing two cups of tea -which I found rather strange, really, but it was something like 3am so I didn’t question it too much. But I saw the name of the tea he brewed, and it felt familiar but I didn’t connect the dots until now.”

“Well?” Roman prompted, “We’re on the edge of our seats here, Marilyn Morose.”

“It was Kuding Tea, aka Remus’ favorite,” Virgil revealed. “He made us brew it all the time, and he was the only one able to drink that stuff because it’s one of the most bitter things you could ever try to swallow.”

Patton hummed, looking deep in thought. “Looks like those two might be closer than we thought.”

Roman grinned, something akin to mischief glinting in his eyes. “How about we help them grow just a little bit closer, uh?”

“We can discuss all of that later, Ro, but first there’s another thing we need to talk about,” Patton said, before turning to look at Virgil with a stern look on his face. “Virgil Sanders, what’s this I hear about you being up at 3am again?”

(Engrossed as they were in the new revelations, none of the sides noticed the tiny smirk stretching on Deceit’s face as he watched the scene unfold. He could have tried to stop them from trying to meddle, sure.

But where would be the fun in that?)

 +++

As it turned out, not a single one of the sides’ plans came even close to its goal.

First came Patton’s idea, which was arguably the most subtle. They set up a family dinner, pestering the two sides until they confirmed their presence at the table. Then, very last minute, everyone gave random excuses as to why they couldn’t come. Everyone was sure it would work, even if they didn’t stick around to find out -knowing Remus’s tendency to make things rather… spicy, they didn’t want to find out what would happen after the two finally confessed their feelings.

However, when, the day after, they asked Logan how the dinner had gone, the logical side simply leveled them with a confused stare.

“Since you all weren’t there we just agreed to bring the food back to our rooms and keep doing our work -I still had some possible scripts to read through so it worked just fine for me.”

So, it looked like plan A had been a failure.

Roman, in all of his finesse and “romantic prowess” (his exact words), decided to put his own plan in action -which consisted of not-so-subtly shoving the two sides in the same room and “accidentally” break the doorknob, effectively trapping them inside.

(“Wow, a true Cupido alright.”

 “Oh, shut up, you Emo Nightmare.”)

However, Roman’s incredible, astonishing, foolproof plan (again, his exact words) did not account for one specific aspect, aka Remus’ tendency of not letting puny, material things like doors keep him trapped.

In less than five minutes, the two sides were free once again, easily sidestepping what little remained of the door with Remus still holding his morning star in his hands.

And just like that, plan B joined its predecessor down the metaphorical toilet.

Last came Virgil’s plan, which was quite different from the other two’s -it was succinct, concise, and the farthest thing from subtle you could ever think of.

“Hey L,” he called one day, not even looking up from his phone, “what if you went and kissed Remus?”

Logan slowly looked up from his book. “... I apologize, what?”

Virgil shrugged, smirking. “Don’t worry, I’m just kidding. Unless…?”

Logan blinked at him, looking thoroughly confused. “Virgil, are you unwell? How many hours of rest did you get last night?”

And that’s how plan C joined its sibling down in the metaphorical sewer.

(“Your plan was a meme??”

“At least I didn’t try to cliché them into a relationship, Princey.”) 

Point is, by the end of the week the three sides had still to come up with a tactic that could actually work. So, they planned another brainstorm question in the living room.

Only, they appeared to have greatly miscalculated Remus and Logan’s whereabouts.

“Alright, you guys want to share with the class what the fuck is going on already?”

The three sides jumped in unison, whipping their heads around to stare at the two sides standing at the bottom of the stairs. Remus was leaning on the railing, looking at them expectantly, while Logan was standing just beside him with his arms crossed in front of his chest, one single eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“Uuuuuh…” Patton spoke up, looking at the other two in search of help, “language?”

“Pat, I think my language is the least of our problems now,” Remus retorted, refusing to drop the subject, “so, who wants to start talking first?”

The three sides, who looked like three deers caught in the headlights, seemed to grow more panicked by the second, searching for a possible explanation and coming up empty-handed.

“We found out you guys have a crush on each other and wanted to help you two get together!” Roman finally blurted.

“Roman!” Virgil growled, turning to glare at the creative side.

“I’m sorry!” Roman squeaked, throwing his arms up in frustration.

“You could have been a little more… tactful about it, kiddo,” Patton said, smiling nervously as they all waited with bated breath what the two’s reactions would be.

Logan and Remus blinked, dumbfounded. Then, they turned to look at each other, before Remus decided that the best course of action was, of course, to break down into hysterical giggles, compete with wheezing and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

As for Logan, well, he limited himself to chuckling, looking downright amused by the whole situation.

So yeah, not exactly the reactions the others were expecting.

“... what?” Virgil asked, “please tell me I’m not the only confused one right now.”

“Apologies, Virgil,” Logan said, as Remus kept merrily cackling his lungs out on the floor, “we just thought something serious was going on, since you have all been acting strangely during the last week or so. Discovering that the reason behind your strange behavior was that, well, is rather amusing.”

“Wait, is that your way of telling us you actually don’t like Remus?” Roman said.

“Actually, I do like him, in a romantic sense,” Logan chuckled, throwing a fond look at the side wheezing on the ground. “We have been engaged in a romantic relationship for a while now.”

“... I know I probably sound like a broken record but what?”

“He wants to tap this booty, Vee!” Remus cackled, “and I’m 100% down for that!”

“ By the horn of a unicorn, please spare us the details,” Roman muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“So that means you guys are already in a relationship?!” Patton exclaimed, a wide grin on his face as he clapped his hands in obvious delight, “oh my gosh, that’s so cute! I’m so happy for you guys!!”

“I don’t know if I want to be angry because you guys didn’t tell us or because my brother somehow managed to score a boyfriend before me,” Roman grumbled.

Logan and Remus shared a glance at that, mischief twinkling in both of their eyes. Then, once it appeared they were both on the same page, Remus spoke, barely stopping himself from giggling in anticipation.

“Actually we’re married, but go off I guess.”

Silence fell, seconds ticking by as the news started to sink in.

“Now hold on a second you guys aRE WHAT-”

And then, chaos.

[ddaenggtan]

hearts on fire | jhs

Hoseok has been in love with you for as long as he can remember, and he’s beyond excited to see you married and glowing.

He just really wishes that he was the groom.

pairing | jhs x reader, knj x reader

word count | 6.5k | cross posted to ao3

genre | angst, light fluff

warnings | angst, mentions of blood, mentions of vomit, lots of choking, lots of angst, this is open ended so like.......potential (?) mcd??, like this is very very very open ended yall there is no happy ending and there is zero satisfaction at the end, like it’s truly just here to hurt you

a/n | part of Outro: Tear, The Angst Now Told, and you should really read all of those fics bc they hurt so good but they’re sO WORTH IT, and i’m shouting out to @personawife​ not only for betaing this, but also for putting the Outro Tear Angst Collab together, because it’s been so fun!!!!! and yet so painful!!!! in so many good ways!!!!!!! this was honestly really fun to write, mostly because it’s rare that i write angst - unhappy ending angst, at that - so it was nice to stretch my creative muscles. 

also go stream ego bc its wonderful and i love it

It starts, as most things do, with a kiss. 

It was innocent enough - just a soft peck on his cheek and a sunflower in his hand while he cried about another student kicking him in the shin. To this day he can’t be sure what it was that did it for him. Maybe it was the way the sunlight lit up the barrettes in your hair and made them glint like stars. Maybe it was the way you hadn’t hesitated to smooch him on the cheek and give him the flower you’d picked out of a vase just to cheer him up. Maybe it was the fact that it had worked when nothing else had. Maybe it was none of that, instead something bigger altogether and more complicated than he could ever understand. 

Or maybe it was all of it. A simple act that led to a simple reaction - him taking your hand and making you smile with some face he made - that led to this moment. 

Either way, Hoseok decides as he watches you walk down the aisle in the off-white dress with the golden sash that perfectly matches the sunflowers in your hands, he doesn’t care. Because it all led to this moment. 

[then]

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” You call over your shoulder. Hoseok laughs, wrapping his hand around your wrist to slow you down from your sprint. 

“We are not going to be late,” He tells you firmly. Your lips form a pout that he wishes he could kiss away, but he resists the urge. Instead, he grins and pulls you into a warm hug. “It’s not like they’re going to start our graduation without us, Starshine. It would be a little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

“Ooh, conspicuous, big word! All that studying paid off, I see.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes; he doesn’t mention that he’s been studying his ass off ever since you started crushing on one of the bookworms in the school. He refuses to acknowledge to himself that he did it in the futile hope that it would make you notice him. 

“Hey, it was worth it! Got me into that fancy university, didn’t it?” He wags his brows and lets go of you, and he does his best not to let his arms linger around your waist for longer than they need to be there. 

“Yeah, that fancy university that’s a million miles away from here,” You complain. His smile falters a little, and he covers it with a dramatic gasp. 

“What’s this? Is my little starshine going to miss me?” He doesn’t tell you about the packet laying on his desk at home, about the scholarships he’s scoured the internet to find, about the decision he has yet to make, despite the looming deadline. He doesn’t mention the sunflower pressed between the pages of a book that sits beside his bed, so he can stare at it each night as he wonders whether it’s stupid to take the harder road just for love.

“You know I will, Hobi,” You tell him. You curl into his side, lacing your fingers with his. “You’re my best friend in the whole world. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Who’s going to make me study when I don’t want to? Or convince me that getting pancakes at two in the morning is a proper breakfast?”

Hoseok shakes his head. He knows exactly what will happen when you head off to school in a few months. You’ll meet so many new people, make boatloads of friends, create new memories and new jokes and new references, and he’ll be standing off to the side, waiting to hear about all of it. 

He can’t wait to watch you flourish.

“Who’s going to help you stop stressing out about your choreography, or your routines?” You ask. Your voice dips into a whisper, and it’s the most scared he’s ever heard you. “Who’s going to be there when I need someone?” 

He knows what you mean; he knows all about the anxiety that wracks your body every so often, the way your brain spirals and panics and can’t seem to bring itself down out of red alert. He remembers - in vivid detail - all the nights he’s climbed through your window to help you breathe in that rhythm your school counselor taught you, or just talked at you through the phone about some new song or dancer he found until he eventually heard your soft laugh.

He remembers the nights you called and called and called and eventually just sought him out, not even bothering to knock as you barged into his room because his parents adore you and don’t care to let you in whenever. You’re like a second daughter to them, something his sister gives him no end of grief about. He’ll always remember the way your hands felt against his skin as you tugged him out of his room and into the kitchen to make some kind of monstrosity, just throwing anything and everything into a blender or skillet, only to wind up going out to the corner store to get noodles anyway. 

“I’ll be here,” He tells you. His voice is as soft and firm as his fingers as he brings your chin up to face him. He wants you to look at him, wants you to maybe see after all these years just how easy it would be for him to move the earth if you asked him to. “I’ll always be here for you.”

Your eyes search for something in his, and he wonders if you’ll finally realize. If he’s finally told you about every single pang of love that he’s ever felt without even needing words. 

You smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and playfully shove at his shoulder. “Not when you’re off at your fancy university a million miles away from mine.”

He covers the heartbreak with a deep sigh and slings his arm around your shoulders as you head into the building where your graduation is being held. He wonders what you’ll think of the sunflowers sitting on your chair, waiting for you to find them. 

Something tickles his throat, a hint of a cough not ready to be cleared, and he swallows it back. 

“About that…”

[then]

Asthma is what he tells you, months and months later while you both sit in your dorm room, curled under blankets. 

You’re preparing for your philosophy paper, pages and sheets and everything else strewn about your bed while he sits at your desk. The lamp is focused and bright as it shines on the metal and stone in his hands, glinting as he twists the wire this way and that. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying for your dance eval?” You ask him. He shoots you that half-smile, a quick glance so that he can finish wrapping the quartz in his palm. He hasn’t told you that he switched majors, that he’s now ‘undecided’ simply because he can’t keep up with the others anymore.

“Aren’t you supposed to telling me who made it their mission to disprove Kant’s entire career?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” You pout. He smiles, satisfied, at the stone in his hand; it’s wrapped in wire shaped to look like a tree. He never thought he’d be the jewelry-making kind, but thanks to a randomly-selected elective, he’s discovered he’s got a knack for it. 

Besides, he enjoys seeing the collection on your windowsill grow with each new thing he can make you. 

He extends the quartz to you -  a polished golden one that complements the tarnished brass he’d used to wrap it, the same colors as the flowers you love so much - and the way you light up as you take it makes his heart clench painfully. 

Something tickles his throat, too familiar now, and he does what he can to swallow it down, but this one is stubborn. It forces its way up his windpipe, giving him no choice but to try to cough it up. 

You watch, worried, as he rushes to the sink in your room, bending as far over it as possible so that you won’t see as much. 

It’s small, when it falls. Small and unassuming and spit-slick, he can almost believe it just fell out of the vase of them nearby, and he hopes that’s what you’ll believe as well. 

“Hobi?” 

He hates how small your voice is, how worried you sound as you listen to the ragged pants of his breathing. So he wipes his mouth, checks in the mirror to make sure there’s no blood, and turns back to you with a wry smile. 

“I’m fine,” He says softly. His voice is still hoarse, and you don’t look convinced, but he continues before you can argue. “Just asthma.”

“Asthma? You don’t have asthma, Hoseok-”

“I do,” He says quickly. “Developed recently. Strained myself too hard, weakened my lungs, or something. I don’t remember what the doctor said exactly.”

“But...your dance, how can you-” You cut yourself off with a sharp breath, and he can’t bear to see the heartbreak in your eyes as the realization hits, so he stares down at the scuff in his sneakers instead. “That’s why you aren’t practicing right now. You had to drop out of the dance program?”

You sound like you’re on the verge of tears, so he plasters a smile on his face that’s more convincing than anything else he’s ever done. 

“It’s fine, Starshine. Not all dreams come true. Besides, there’s other things I can do.” 

“But your scholarship, Hobi, I-”

“Already figured out,” He says quickly. It isn’t, not nearly, because he can’t just call his parents to say ‘hey I lost my scholarship because I’m hopelessly in love but don’t have the guts to say anything about it’ and he hasn’t had time to go visit them, either. The corners of your mouth are turned down, and your lips are pressed together, and it’s obvious you’re upset, and it hurts more than the roots tangling in his lungs. 

He crosses the room and slides some of your papers to the side so that he can sit across from you. You’re still holding the quartz in your palm, fingers wrapped gently around it like you’re afraid it’ll break if you squeeze too tight, so he wraps his own hands around that one of yours. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You ask him. Your voice is small and hurt, and he hates that he made it that way, but he knows it’s better than what would come if he told you the truth. 

“Because I didn’t want you to worry,” He replies quietly. “You’ve got exams and studying and papers to worry about. I don’t need to add to that. Besides, you’d just try to help somehow, and you do that enough as it is.”

“How could I possibly be helping you with this, Hoseok?” The look you give him is familiar and humorless and fond and it makes his throat tickle so he looks away. Stares down at the feather-soft blanket in your lap instead. 

“Just by being here,” He tells you. “Distracting me from it. It’s not important, that’s all. I can do other things.”

“Like what? Dancing has always been your dream, and now-”

“Like,” Hoseok interrupts, sliding the quartz from your hand and placing it with the other things he’s made you on the windowsill, “Making things, like this. For you. For everyone.”

You’re quiet for a minute. Your eyes linger on the collection of stones he’s decorated for you, that he’s worked on so carefully to make them as beautiful as you deserve, and he wonders if you can tell. 

If you can see it in every careful twist of wire, in the way his hands are always so gentle against your own, in the way he can’t bear to look at you for longer than a few moments but can’t bear to be away from you in the same way. 

“Well,” You eventually say, blinking back what might be tears. “I suppose we’ll just have to find you a new dream, then, won’t we?”

Your smile is weak and watery and doesn’t reach your eyes, but it’s still a smile. So he returns it, and locks his pinky with yours, and vows to himself to make sure you never cry for him again. 

[then]

"What is that?"

Hoseok looks up from the book he's got propped against the table. He hasn't been paying much attention to the conversation, too engrossed in the metalworking book his glassblowing professor gave him while you studied for an upcoming test, so your words surprise him.

"What's what?" He asks, looking around the cafeteria as if he can magically spot whatever it is you're talking about.

" That ," you repeat, stabbing towards him with your pencil. It's reflex that brings his hand up to his chest, and it's realization that has him clutching the pendant tightly, praying you hadn't really seen it.

"Nothing," he says quickly, tucking it back under his shirt where it's supposed to be. "Just a practice thing."

"Why won't you show me?" You pout. "You always show me your practice work."

"Yeah, because you always take it," He quips back with a laugh. You don't even try to argue, because you both know it's true. The collection on your windowsill has grown immeasurably over the last two years, and it makes Hoseok's heart stutter every time he lets himself consider why you keep all of them. Especially when some are so terrible.

"Seriously, Hobi, can I see?"

He starts to say no, because if there's one piece he's ever made that could tell you about his feelings, it's this. He should say no, should insist this once that you can't see it, but before he can, his hands are pulling the chain over his head and setting the entire thing gently in your palm.

He watches your mouth fall open and your eyes grow wide and he wonders.

He wonders what you see among the curl of metal; if the fact that he would do anything for you is obvious in the way it twists and turns on itself, looping around and around. He wonders if you can see, hidden between letters, how just being near you gets him through every day and makes it all worth it. He wonders if you'll be able to tell, between the pressed yellow petals, just how his chest aches; if you've put the pieces together, after so long, now that you're holding his heart so openly in your palm.

"'Remedy,'" You read, and Hoseok's heart jumps into his throat, even when he knows you don't know about it. "And some tulip petals? It's so gorgeous, Hobi, but what does it mean?"

"They're sunflowers," He corrects, almost scandalized that you could confuse the two. The petals are shortened, of course, cut so that they'll fit into the pendant without obstructing the text in the back, but still. "And it doesn't mean anything. Just something I wrote once in high school."

Your eyes light up. "You mean that poem you never let me read?"

"It was a song, actually," He mutters, but your attention is back on the necklace, looking for any hints about the secrets he keeps. Something soft tickles the back of his throat when you glance up at him and smile, the light glinting just right along the stones and casting golden beams along your features.

You look more beautiful than he's ever seen, and his chest aches with more than just the flowers taking root there.

"This is really gorgeous, Hobi," You tell him as you watch the way the light reflects through the amber beads along the edge.

"Yeah," He whispers as he watches you, drinking in the way your eyes widen in awe and the soft smile on your lips. "It is, isn't it?"

He wishes that moment could last forever, that he could tuck it away into a pocket and pull it out whenever he needs it, but he can feel the flower starting to work its way up his throat and he doesn't know how to hide that from you.

The coughs start right as someone calls out your name and his, and he tucks his chin into his elbow in an effort to hide it. He doesn't bother to look yet, just waves a hand as someone sits beside you, and by the time he's got the handful of petals tucked safely away in his pocket, you're deep in conversation with Namjoon about one of the classes the two of you are taking.

[now]

Hoseok decides, looking at you now, that you are happier than ever. 

You've said your vows and you've cried several happy tears and you've kissed more times than he can count, but you're still radiant. It's the glow of contentment, the promise of more to come, all coalescing to shine like stars in your eyes. 

"May I, Starshine?" He asks, extending a hand and pulling you away from your current dance partner. Yoongi doesn't look too upset about it, just smiles knowingly at you both as your hand folds into Hoseok's. 

You move with him as if it's second nature, and Hoseok supposes that it is , at this point. As many times as he held you this way while teaching you the steps, as often as he led you through them before today, you should be able to move out of sheer muscle memory. 

"Have I told you yet that you're sparkling, Starshine?" He asks, smiling along with you when you laugh. 

"I think that you're confusing me and the ring again, Hobi." 

On cue, he looks down at it. He spent so long on it, years of dreaming of what it may look like and months of trial and error and practice runs before he got it right. It was worth it, though; the ring does sparkle, takes the glow of your skin and the joy in your smile and amplifies it. 

Crafted to look like a sunflower itself, the ring is easily the most expensive thing he's ever made. Each petal sparkles with the same yellow quartz of that stone he gave you so long ago, and set into the middle is one large chocolate diamond that he spent entirely too much money on because it was already cut exactly the way he needed it. He'll never forget the way you cried when you saw it the first time. 

Hoseok's eyes meet yours, and he frowns at the tears he sees there. 

"Hey, none of that, Starshine. It's a happy day, remember?" He stops moving in the middle of the dance floor, hands moving to wipe your tears before they can fall. 

"I just...I'm so happy Hobi." He grins at your words, resisting the urge to poke fun, because of course you're happy. You just got married. 

You look up at him again, eyes still watery and he pulls you into a tight hug. 

"I love you so much, Hobi," you mutter against his chest. His heart flutters in his chest as he resists the urge to press his lips to yours right where you stand. 

"Yeah," He whispers. "Yeah, I love you too, Starshine." 

Someone taps him on the shoulder and he releases you, relinquishing his grasp on you so you can dance with Namjoon. The pendant around your neck sits beautifully, shadowed on either side by the white of the cloth, and he thinks for just a moment, that maybe he made that pendant for you, after all. 

He's worn it for years, of course, but the smile on your face when he slid it around your neck was worth it. It was worth being asked if you could have it, not entirely joking, and it was worth every single time you would fiddle with it during movie marathons, and it was worth every single night he held it in his clutched palm as he sat over the sink and coughed up the yellow blooms that you've strung up all over the reception hall. 

very day that you bugged him about it, how you asked every day without fail if you could have it. He knew you were kidding - mostly - but the light in your eyes when he finally gave it to you before the wedding today is something he’ll remember for the rest of his life, no matter what the future holds for him. 

It ends, as most things do, with a conversation. 

It was innocent enough - just a phone ringing in its place on the worktable and his hands covered in clay while he struggled to hit the screen with his elbow. To this day he can’t be sure what it was that he missed, exactly. Maybe it was the way that you’d been calling him less and less in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the way you hadn’t noticed that he’d been spending too much time in the studio, pouring his soul into every shape he crafts and wire he twists while he chokes down petals. Maybe it was the classes the two of you shared and the projects you worked on together, that he assumed was friendly and not anything more. Maybe it was all of that, everything working in tandem in a way that he could never understand.

Or maybe it was none of it. Simple acts that led to simple reactions - being too busy for each other, not talking as often, coughing up sunflower petals - that all led to that moment. 

Either way, Hoseok decides as he watches the heart-shaped vase spin aimlessly on its wheel while you cry tears of joy through the phone because he finally - finally - asked you out, he can’t care.

[then]

Asthma? is what Jimin asks him, years later when they’re both locked in Hoseok’s newly renovated store, basically a hole in the wall that he saved and saved for with his online sales. Hoseok is curled over the workbench in the back, doing everything he can to catch the petals before Jimin can see them. 

When they eventually subside, long enough for him to gulp down some water and shove the red-tinted petals off to the side in a pile that’s been steadily growing for weeks now, Hoseok shoots Jimin a self-deprecating smile. 

He doesn’t even get a chance to lie to him. 

“How long?” Jimin asks him. There’s no softness to his tone; it’s all hard edges and naked truths, and for once, the exhaustion overtakes Hoseok. He’s so sick of lying. He’s so sick of carrying an inhaler he doesn’t need, of shoving sunflower petals into every nook and cranny he can find so that no one sees them, and he just wants someone to know. 

“Forever,” Hoseok answers simply. “As long as I can remember.”

“And you never said anything? Ever?”

Hoseok sighs, throat scratchy and raw, and he stares down at the ring he’s been fiddling with. “Would you?” He eventually says. 

When he looks at Jimin, the other man has a petal of his own in between two fingers and rubs it absently, distractedly, like it’s habit. When he looks up, Hoseok understands, and an understanding passes between them. 

Jimin goes back to the laptop perched in front of him while Hoseok continues to work on other orders, things less important than the ring burning a hole in his mind’s eye, begging to be made. 

He isn’t ready, he tells himself. He isn’t skilled enough yet. Maybe one day. 

“I’m getting the surgery,” Jimin says after a few hours of silence. Hoseok fumbles with the pliers in his hands, twists the wire the wrong way, and it all clatters to the tabletop. He doesn’t bother to catch it, either; he’s too busy staring at his best friend in shock. 

“Seriously?” He breathes. Jimin nods, and the air rushes out of Hoseok in the span of a heartbeat. 

Everyone knows about the surgery, just like everyone knows about hanahaki disease. It took years to develop and it’s the only known treatment, but there are always side effect. Always. Sometimes they’re minor, just losing your feelings of love for the person you have feelings for, or like the guy that just became allergic to the peonies that he had removed. 

But then there are the others. 

The people who lose the capacity to love altogether. The ones who never find anyone else, who never learn how to love another person, not like they loved the one that caused the flowers. Or the ones who just lose their emotions completely, and become essentially lifeless. Unable to feel love at all, or sadness, or grief, or joy, or excitement, or remorse, or anything. They just exist. 

“But...the side effects-”

“Aren’t guaranteed,” Jimin interrupts. “Plenty of people get the procedure every day and walk away fine.”

“Yeah and some of them turn into lifeless machines!” Hoseok counters. Jimin’s expression hasn’t changed. He looks steadfast, decided, and he’s barely looking away from whatever work he’s doing on the laptop, and it infuriates Hoseok. “You’re gonna sign away any hope that you have, any chance that you have, because it...because it hurts?”

“No,” Jimin says as he closes the laptop and slides it to the side. “Because I’m tired, Hobi. I’m so tired, all the time. I’m tired of keeping it a secret, and I’m tired of puking my guts every time I think about-” Jimin cuts himself off and closes his eyes, tight, as he swallows. 

When he opens them, Hoseok can see every emotion he’s ever had in Jimin’s eyes, and it makes his heart ache. 

“Aren’t you tired, Hobi?” 

Jimin’s voice is small, and weak, but it lingers in the air between them. It curls past Hoseok’s throat and then down to wrap around his chest, growing tighter and tighter with every breath. Neither of them break eye contact, and Hoseok wonders what Jimin sees in his face. 

“Yeah,” Hoseok eventually says. With that, the spell is broken, and he can breathe again, and he drags his eyes away from Jimin to look at the piece he’d been working on instead. “But I can’t just...stop, y’know? I’ve loved her for basically my entire life. I can't...I don’t even know who I am without that.”

Jimin’s quiet for a long moment, and Hoseok thinks maybe he’s not going to say anything. Maybe he got through to Jimin, maybe he won’t get that surgery. 

“Don’t you think that you should find out?”

[now]

Hoseok watches from across the room as Jimin spins you in a circle, both of you laughing brightly. 

Jimin’s suit matches your dress wonderfully; Hoseok doesn’t think anyone else could quite pull off the pattern on it quite like Jimin does in such an effortless way. He looks happier than Hoseok has ever seen him, more content, more at home in his own skin. 

He isn’t coughing, and he isn’t struggling, and everything worked out well for him. No more flowers in his lungs, no more lies to his friends, no more unrequited love left heavy in his heart. Just happiness and laughter and joy. Hoseok wonders if he’d be the same. 

His thumb rubs absently across the business card in his pocket. It’s been there since Jimin handed it to him, what feels like forever ago now. It’s worn, and faded, and torn, and old, but the doctor is still practicing, just got recognized by the World Health Organization for his work. There’s an appointment reminder dinging in Hoseok’s phone, and a business card in his pocket, and he still doesn’t know if he’s even going to go, because you look so beautiful. 

You’re surrounded by your flowers, and you’re glowing like the North Star, and he can’t keep his eyes off of you. 

“She’s gorgeous, right?”

Hoseok turns and smiles at Namjoon. The man looks just as good, decked out in the best suit money can buy, with crinkles in the corner of his eyes and a dimple in his cheek as he grins.

“Yeah, she is,” He says. Emotions clog in his throat when he looks back at you only to find you looking his way. There’s love in your eyes and a soft, private smile on your lips, and it makes his chest tighten. “She looks really happy.”

“She does,” Namjoon agrees. 

Across the room, you wiggle a finger, and the ring glints in the light. Hoseok stifles a laugh, and shakes his head. 

“I can’t dance anymore, so this is all on you, big guy,” He tells Namjoon. The other man looks more than happy to take him up on the offer, grinning sheepishly as he sets his drink down to make his way to you. 

You take Namjoon’s hand and pull him close as the music transitions into a slow dance. Namjoon presses his forehead against yours, and both your eyes close, and suddenly, Hoseok feels like he shouldn’t be watching. This feels private, intimate, in a way that he’s never been privy to.

His throat clenches and he can feel it in his throat. 

He nearly drops his drink, but he gets to a table just in time to put the cup down with shaky hands. He knew, he knew what would happen. He clenches his jaw and heads through the side door of the event space, barely chancing a glance behind him. You don’t seem to have noticed, thankfully, but Hoseok makes eye contact with Jimin. The younger boy taps his wrist, and Hoseok just heads outside. 

He doesn’t need Jimin to remind him that time is up. 

[then]

“You need what?”

Namjoon’s smile turns shy at Hoseok’s tone. Of all the things that Hoseok could have anticipated Namjoon would ask him for, of all the potential items that he’s been commissioned by the taller man, this was never something he expected.

Though maybe he should have.

“-you know her better than anyone, y’know, and no one can craft like you, Hobi-”

The nickname sounds wrong, suddenly; like poison on Namjoon’s lips, but Hoseok just plasters on his smile again, the one he saves for truly difficult customers who try his patience, and he prays Namjoon doesn’t recognize it. 

“No, I get it, yeah.”

“I just...it needs to be perfect. And you’re the only one that I trust to make it perfect.” Hoseok’s heart twinges in his chest, and he can feel the roots moving in his lungs. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, too, cost isn’t a factor, it just needs to be-”

“Perfect,” Hoseok finishes. Namjoon smiles again, sheepish, and nods. “It’s fine, I’ll make it. No charge.”

“Hobi, I can’t ask you to do that, not for free-”

“You didn’t,” Hoseok insists. “I’m offering. Consider it a...gift.” Namjoon’s smile is blinding, and he really must trust Hoseok with this, because he’s heading out just a few minutes after, already on the phone with you because the two of you are meeting for lunch. 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It makes sense. It’s been years. Isn’t that the usual time people start to expect this kind of thing? 

A voice in the back of his head, bitter and cruel, tells him that he should have charged Namjoon. Should have made him pay an exorbitant amount, enough to keep the shop running through the months of the slow season, enough to help heal the wound in Hoseok’s heart, but he brushes it off. It wouldn’t have felt right, charging for this. 

Not when he’s had the design sitting in his head since he wrapped that first stone with wire, since he first learned how to make this jewelry. Not when he’s had pages upon pages of designs drawn out for years, since before he even owned his own shop. 

That was never his to design, though, he reminds himself as he heads into the workshop. He had no right to that design. 

Just like he has no right to you. 

[then]

Later, weeks and weeks later, In the darkness of his apartment, Hoseok cries. 

Hoseok cries for all the things he’s never said, all the things he’ll never do, all of the things that you don’t know. He cries for the late nights together and the impromptu adventures and the panicked phone calls. He’s been so blind, he’s refused to see it, he knows. It’s all been waning, all put on the backburner in favor of him. 

He’s the one you call when air can’t make it to your lungs. He’s the one you pull from work in the dead of night to make him sleep. He’s the one that gets to wraps his arms around you while you watch the newest episode of whatever show you’re obsessed with lately. It’s all him, and it will never be Hoseok, no matter how hard he wishes, because he’s too late. 

He spent so long obsessed with maybe. Maybe you’ll love him back, maybe it’ll ruin the friendship, maybe you’ll realize. For years and years, he said maybe, and now it’s too late, because you’re going to be saying yes to another man’s question, and Hoseok will be left in the darkness, no longer able to look at the stars in your eyes because you’ll be looking at him. 

For the first time in his life, Hoseok hates. He hates you for not realizing that he loves you; he hates Namjoon for taking the chance and asking you out; he hates the flowers growing in his chest that are just further proof that he’s alone in his feelings. Mostly, though…

Mostly, Hoseok hates himself, he realizes as he crumples against the wall of his living room. He hates himself for not taking the risk that Namjoon did, for not putting it all out there so that you could give him whatever kind of closure would come. 

And it’s there, sitting on his floor, surrounded by the remains of too many projects that he spent too long on that you’ll now never see, that he first begins to consider it. Everyone knows about the surgery, everyone knows that you can get the flowers removed, but that it comes with a cost. He stares, past his tears, past the colorful crystal remnants at his feet, and he considers. 

There’s already a numbness spreading through his body; it follows the same path as the roots of the flowers in his lungs, it runs parallel to the petals and seeds, and it only serves to highlight the painful ache that his feelings have caused. He’s already becoming numb to it, so why not? He may lose the ability to love forever, yes, but he can still be your friend. He can still watch you marry another man, this time without the itch in his throat and the flowers in his bile. So why shouldn’t he?

His phone rings, and he already knows it’s you. Not by the specialized ringtone - the only custom one in his entire contact list - and not by the blinking light that’s sure to wake him up in the middle of the night. No, he knows it’s you, because he knows that there’s no way Namjoon could have resisted the temptation to ask you tonight. He’s pictured what you’d look like a hundred thousand times, knows exactly how bright your smile would be as you said yes, how soft the tears would feel as he wiped them away, he knows. 

And now you’re calling him, to tell him the great news, or maybe scold him for not giving you a heads up about it in the first place since he’s the one that made the ring. Either way, you’re on the other end of that ringing, ready to tell him about the happiest night of your life, and Hoseok can’t…

He can’t resist it. It’s autopilot as he drags himself to where his phone is still ringing, and it’s only after a deep and shaky breath that he answers it. 

You don’t even give him time to speak for you’re launching into your squeals and happy giggles and how Namjoon did it, and Hoseok feels a reluctant smile cross his features. It only grows when you start to gush about the ring, complimenting his skill, and he can feel a bud trying to make its way up his throat, so he mutes his phone. He doesn’t want you to hear as he rushes to the kitchen sink, as he chokes and coughs and gags and eventually spits out a nearly whole sunflower. 

It’s not a big one, maybe an inch or so in diameter, and not fully bloomed, but it’s there, and Hoseok knows it’s more of a death sentence than anything. 

“Hobi? Are you there?” 

He wipes his mouth and clears his throat and leaves the flower in the sink with its red-stained petals so that he can unmute his phone. 

“Yeah, Starshine, I’m here.”

[now]

In the alley beside your wedding, Hoseok coughs. He coughs and he gags and he chokes, until the ground is littered with flower petals that aren’t from your bouquets, and blood drops and tears. He chokes until he can’t breathe anymore, until he has to reach in and pull the flower from his throat before he really does die, and it makes him shudder when he sees that it’s nearly fully formed, almost completely bloomed and everything.

He doesn’t think he’ll make it through the next one.

He stands up, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of the red suit he chose for this exact reason, and he looks through the window, to the space where you should be dancing with Namjoon. 

You aren’t, though. You’re watching him, brows drawn together, confused, and you’re saying something that he can’t quite make out through the glass. 

Fear strikes his heart. Fear that you saw everything, that you know everything, but directly after it comes relief, because he knows now. He knows what he needs to do, because he doesn’t think he can bear to have you watch him die, but he doesn’t think he can bear not to love you anymore, either; no matter what, he’s lost you, and that knowledge solidifies his decision. He holds a hand over his chest, and you mirror him, your fingers closing around the pendant he made so, so long ago.

You turn, looking for someone - Namjoon, maybe, or Jimin, to ask what’s wrong with him, and he takes the opportunity. He heads out of the alley, as fast as his legs can carry him, because he knows. 

When you finally make it into the alley, you don’t understand. Your best friend, your best man, is nowhere to be found. In his wake are flower petals, drawn out by the wind. 

One catches your eye, and you pick it up. It’s soft against your fingertips, and you frown when you see the red on it. 

You don’t ever see Hoseok again.

[startwithbrooklyn]

THE GREAT ND REWATCH OF 2021 / SEPTEMBER 3, 2019 // the funeral

{i have a notebook with 32 pages front and back full of s1 nancy drew thoughts from last year so these will keep comin babes}

-wonder what metal thing lucy put in the microwave to make it explode?

-maybe nancy rejects others "they're not my friends" is bc she missed her moms death while she was out w friends...thus carson's "friend from HS" comment in true dad fashion wondering if your kid still talks to the friends youve always heard about (and guessing/knowing that she stopped talking to them at some point)

-"wHo'S dRiViNg ThIs ClOwN cAr?" i fucking love laura. laura is me lmfaoooo

-"do NOT 'nancy drew' this up for us" LMFAOOOOOOOOO SIS

-they all talk about getting released from the charges when nancy wants justice but boydo they change tune real quick the second she starts chasing lucy 🙄

-"if it attacked you i dont think its dead lucy" i wonder what all nancy has compiled mentally about lucy to make her think that

-I FUCKIN LOVE THIS SONG (nobody does it like you do by vinyl pinups? someone pls tell them to post itttttttt)

-laura/ace cracks me UP typical stoner/trust fund baby trope

-wondering about bess' wounds here (and thinking of her "ghost hands" comment from s2). the one rare time i delved ever-briefly into nd fanfc on ao3 i saw a story that mentioned bess's 'scar collection' and 👀👀 consider me interested

-"cool" ryan. just. what the fuck. lmaooo

-soooooo kate was a social worker and victoria knows her/of her (child and family services line from ted's kidnapping ep) wonder if victoria knows kate because of their social situation

-"shame about your mom, death always takes the good ones first" given the irony, so is lucy better bc she went 'first' before kate? what does that mean for carson/ryan for having to stay? or is this just an ironic lucy v kate jab?

-"this seems like a cry for help - she's not going to leave you alone until you help her." tiffany. lucy. odette. agnes. something about being able to reclaim power in death as spirits that you never had in life

-history w ryan/'funeral thing' : both nancy and george know things about each other that the others don't know for a few eps (/nancy never really tells people herself that her mom has died)

-bess had every right to stand up to nancy there and defo nailed it. and nancy does act like family isnt important to her

-ryan was tiffanys husband, why is his fucking father presiding her funeral?? laura's here so?? last remaining family doesnt get to say shit? and ryans mom didnt even come! lmaooo the 911 call was kinda a dick move but i honestly support it. i get the hudsons controlling the image of it all but god damn.

-"that's all that matters, that was enough." gosh. when's the last time someone told you, you are enough?

-ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh her hair. her hair in that sunbeam at 34 minutes. yes. THAT is what its supposed to look like all the time. see nancy (from the original books too) is actually a strawberry blonde (which is how 2 blondes had a redhead bc red hair is rarer than blonde) which is soooo hard to capture bc they just went too dark. but this. this one scene. this is Glorious.

-think of how lucy could imagine nancy's speech to the grave as being said to herself....and she would think, i did stay, you are enough to keep me here, don't cry...💔

-feel it coming on 🎵👌🏻

[apharine]

Sightseeing

Chapter 1

Pairing:  Siane x Nanu

Fandom: Pokemon

Rating:  T

Read on AO3

My writing commission info!

Summary:   Siane hadn't meant to wind up in Alola, under Nanu's care, while she recovered from a mysterious illness that left her prone to weakness and collapsing. But now that she's here and getting stronger, she wants to see more of Ula'ula than just the rainy skies and the Po Town wall by Nanu's police station. And who could be better suited to give her a tour than the Kahuna of the island himself?

Notes:  Siane is the wonderful HybridDragoness’ OC and she is amazing!  This fic is a commission for Hybrid and I’m honestly so honored to have been able to write for Siane and Nanu bc I love them so much!  Hybrid is a really talented artist and you can find her art of Siane here!  You can also find Hybrid on Twitter and AO3 under the same handle as on Tumblr!

                                         _____________________

“Is every day like this here?”  Siane asks, gesturing vaguely out the window at the grey and looming clouds.  It’s already started to drizzle, and she’s sure that by the afternoon, it’ll be pouring.  Because here, on Route 17, where she’s staying with Nanu in his police department-slash-home, that just seems to be what the weather always does.

She’s hoping that Nanu will just say that it’s been an unusually bad stretch of monsoon season weather for the last….four weeks?  Five?  Siane’s a little foggy on exactly how long it had been, and she has the sudden feeling that time has been getting away from her while she’s been so weak.

But Nanu smirks, sipping at his coffee - black - and lowering the newspaper he’s reading, his shocking crimson eyes meeting hers from across the small kitchen table.

“Pretty much,” he responds easily.  For a moment, Siane is sure he’s watching her for a reaction, but all she does is blink and look at him closely in return.  He’s an odd one to figure out, in some regards - he reminds Siane, oddly, of some of the Pokemon she’s worked with as a conservator, back home.  More specifically, he reminds her of the ones that don’t like humans very much.  

Except…there’s that light in his eyes, that light that he thinks he conceals.  He thinks he’s so surly - and sometimes he is - and he thinks he’s negative in a way that puts her off.  But Siane notices the little gleam of curiosity about him, and she knows exactly what it means.  She’s seen it before, and she’s seen all the Pokemon with it come around, in the end.

“So,” Siane says, finishing her breakfast and sitting back.  “The whole island’s like this?”

Nanu, who had been about to return to his newspaper, sets it down and sighs.  A Meowth cries, brushing against his leg, and he automatically reaches down to pet it.  Siane’s lips curl into a slight smile at the sight.

“No, of course not,” Nanu returns.  “There’s a lot of variety on Ula’ula.”

Siane raises her eyebrows encouragingly.

“Like?”  She prompts.

“There’s Malie City, of course, where the weather is typically nicer.  We’ve got Hokulani Observatory - they picked their site on Mount Hokulani because it’s above the city lights and it’s almost always clear there.  There’s the Haina Desert, too, and the Ula’Ula Meadow just off this Route, which is covered in flowers,” Nanu says, ticking things off on his fingers as he goes.  

“Wait - an actual desert?  On this island?”  Siane says, gesturing again out the window vaguely with a little snicker.  It’s nearly impossible to imagine that there can be a place on this same landmass that isn’t absolutely smothered in rain and puddles.  “You’re sure you’ve got that right?”

“I better,” Nanu grumbles, picking up the Meowth and setting it in his lap.  “I’m Kahuna of ‘this island’, after all.”  He does little finger quotes as he speaks, and Siane can’t resist the way her smile grows on her face at his unintentional antics.  Nanu notices, though, and frowns at her.  “What?”

“Well,” she says, careful to deflect.  She’s learning that being too directly friendly with Nanu often puts him off, and she really doesn’t want to put him off just now.  “I was just kind of thinking…I’m feeling better these days.”

“You nearly passed out before your shower yesterday,” Nanu says sardonically.

“Yeah, but that was like, the only time I had an issue all day,” Siane says, waving his concern off.  Sure, he’d had to catch her, but still - she was doing better, and she hated feeling - or admitting to being - weak.  “Don’t give me that look.  I know I need to get more of my strength back.  But I also need a change of scenery.  I’m pretty sure I’m going to wind up with a Vitamin D deficiency here otherwise.”

To her surprise, Nanu actually makes a little snort through his nose that she thinks is supposed to be laughter.

“Vitamin D deficiency or not, you’re in no shape to be going galavanting around the island alone,” Nanu returns, his voice holding a little of that biting edge that he seems to think is so off-putting.  

“I know,” Siane shrugs easily.  “That’s why I was hoping you’d come with me.”

Siane watches as Nanu takes a sharp breath in, his crimson eyes flashing.

“I have - things to do,” he mumbles, suddenly deflating and looking away.

“I thought it was your day off today,” Siane prods.  She knows she’s being a little pushy - there were plenty of friends back home who would be quick to point that out in a moment like this - but she also knows it’s the only way she stands a chance at getting her way.  And she needs to get her way.  She needs to be stronger - not only for herself, but for all Aedis, too, and she won’t get that if she stays inside this police station forever.

The Meowth in Nanu’s lap jumps off and scampers away, interested in something across the room.

“Yeah.  It’s my day off.  Doesn’t mean I don’t have things to do around here,” Nanu returns, though the biting edge to his voice is gone.

“I can help you with whatever needs to be done tomorrow,” Siane offers.

“Oh?  Then we could just as easily tour the island tomorrow,”  Nanu quips, his eyes narrowing.

“I guess we could,” Siane acquiesces.  “No reason why it’s gotta happen today, right?”  Somehow, the ready admission seems to put Nanu off a little, though he covers it quickly and well, years of his police training likely kicking in at a moment’s notice.

A long silence stretches out between the two of them, and Nanu takes a sip of his coffee, his red eyes drilling into her.  Siane tears her eyes away from the Kahuna, instead looking out the window again.  The rain had picked up a little, and she traces one particularly fat raindrop as it rolls down the window, gathering other droplets in its path.  As easily as she’d admitted that tomorrow worked just as well as today, spending another day doing nothing feels intolerable to her spirit, which is just bursting to be free.

“We can go today,” Nanu finally speaks up, setting his drained coffee cup down on the table.

“We can?”  Siane says, her head whipping around to allow her gaze to refocus on Nanu.  She could swear that the edges of his lips are turned up just the slightest bit - though it’s hard to see for sure at this distance.

“Yeah.  You got me, girl.  No reason I can’t do my stuff tomorrow, either, I guess,” the grey-haired man says.  Siane’s foot bounces just a little in excitement, and her chest feels like it could explode at the thought of sightseeing and adventure.

“Well - thank you,”  Siane says, a grin spreading across her features.  She stands to clean her dishes and get ready to go, but immediately, a wave of dizziness hits her.  She’d stood a little too fast, though she’s able to conceal this from Nanu by putting her hands flat on the table to brace herself.  With the eagerness written all across her face, she’s pretty sure the move just comes across as excitement.  “I promise you won’t regret this - we’ll get through everything you need done tomorrow.  I’m actually really excited about this, you know.  I finally get to see Ula’Ula, and my tour guide is going to be the island’s own Kahuna!”

A crooked smile flashes across Nanu’s face for a moment.

“Finally get to see the island, huh?  Didn’t know you’d been wanting to go for so long,” he comments, arching one eyebrow.  

“I’ve mentioned it, like, three or four times before now,” Siane laughs, standing up straight now that the dizziness had passed.  She gathers up her dishes and sets off for the sink, flashing a teasing smile over her shoulder at Nanu.  The man gathers his dishes and hovers close to her as she walks; he clearly doesn’t trust her on her feet just yet, which Siane figures is just as well at this juncture.

“Didn’t really think you were serious when you were saying that stuff, since you couldn’t make it to the door if you’d tried,” Nanu returns dryly.  

“Well, I was,” Siane says.  “Serious, that is.  And I really am excited about this.  So thank you again.”  She affixes the Kahuna with her best smile, and this time, she definitely sees the way his fingers fidget just a little on his coffee cup.

“Hm,” Nanu says.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”

As Siane moves off to the side to put her rinsed dishes in the dishwasher, he scrubs at his coffee cup with a sponge, trying to get the ring of black out of the bottom and trying even more desperately to convince himself that he had agreeing to this just because he didn’t want her to keep bothering him about it.  It had nothing to do with the fact that he felt a twinge of pride when he thought of all the radiant locations across the island - his island - or that he wanted to see the look on this young woman’s face as she took them all in.

You could have let her go alone, a small voice insists in the back of his mind.  Send Honchkrow with her.  She’d be fine, and Honchkrow could fly her home if she were to have a problem.

But the thought of Siane, crumpled on the ground and hurt, alone, in a strange place, makes his heart clench a little.  And why shouldn’t it?  His job - both as a cop and a Kahuna - was to protect people.  Whether Nanu liked it or not, he was a protector, and the young woman currently telling him she was going to go find some shoes for going out in had landed herself squarely in his protection.

“You’re going to want to change your clothes, too,” he calls after her, putting his coffee cup in the dishwasher.  “The rest of Ula’ula is a lot sunnier and hotter than it is here.”

“Okay!”  Siane calls back, and Nanu allows himself to smile a little to himself as he scratches the ear of a Meowth who’d come up to nuzzle at him on the counter.

Whatever the reason he had agreed to play tour guide for the day, he has to admit that he feels a little excited about it, too.

 ***

 “So, Kahuna,” Siane grins, standing under the eaves of the police station to stay out of the rain.  Nanu glances up from the device he’s trying to operate - apparently called a ride pager - and affixes Siane with what should be a withering gaze, except that she’s in too good of a mood to find it anything other than amusing.  “Where to first?”

“If I can get a Charizard to come, we’ll be going to Malie City first,” Nanu grumbles, turning to frown down at the device again.  “Pretty sure I just - there we go.”

“You use that thing often, huh?”  Siane asks coyly, and Nanu’s eyes flit back up to her, a sharp expression in their red depths - but it vanishes quickly, as soon as Nanu realizes Siane’s teasing is harmless, playful, even.

“Usually I just fly on Honchkrow if I’m going any distance, but I can’t ask him to carry both of us,” Nanu explains.

“Makes sense,” Siane says, shifting on her feet a little.  Nanu’s surprised to find himself taking a step closer to her, just in case that little weight shift was a sign of any impending wooziness.  But no - she seems steady on her feet, and he’s just worrying too much.  “You know, I am a flying-type specialist.  I’m sure Fearow could carry me.”

Nanu frowns at this.  

“No.  I’d feel better if you were on the Ride Pager Charizard.  They come with this, kind of a saddle thing,” Nanu explains, trying to gesture with his hands to indicate what he was talking about.  “You’ll be safer on that.”

The unspoken implication of the hazards of Siane’s unpredictable weakness hangs between them for a moment.

“So what’s in Malie City?”  Siane finally asks.

“Well, there’s the Malie Garden, and the architecture is pretty spectacular in the city.  It’s right on the ocean, too, so you’ll get to see that.  Plus I figured we could pick up some takeout to have for lunch later,” Nanu shrugs.

“Yeah?  Like, a picnic?”  Siane asks, sounding a little excited.  A lopsided smile pulls at Nanu’s lips, but he smooths it over in a flash.

“Something like that.  Mount Hokulani isn’t far from the city, so we can take a bus to the observatory if you’d like,” Nanu continues, thinking through his last-minute plans for the day out loud.

“I wanna see this desert you claim exists here, too,” Siane says, giving Nanu another teasing grin.  Nanu only frowns at her words.

“The desert is halfway across the island, Siane,” he says.  “And the conditions there are harsh. Neither of us are really sure how much you’ll be up to…”

Siane’s face falls, and to Nanu’s surprise, he actually trails off instead of hammering his point home, like he usually would.  He grimaces and glances away, scanning the cloudy skies for any sign of the Charizard he’d called.  Nothing yet, of course.

“We’ll see how the day goes,” Nanu concludes.  Even as he continues to look away from the young woman by his side, he’s surprised to hear himself softening his own words for her.

Must be getting soft in my old age, he thinks to himself, grimacing again.

A long silence stretches out between the two of them, but Nanu can sense the way she continues to shift her weight a little, clearly regaining her sense of anticipation for the day ahead.  Nanu is happy to stay quiet and listen to the rain, which pours off the eaves over them and trickles to the ground in great drops.

Finally, he sees a winged figure approaching through the clouds - Charizard.  He puts one hand up to wave it down, though he knows it’s likely unnecessary - all Ride Pager Charizards know the Island exceptionally well.  Siane looks to him, then back to the approaching Pokemon, and decides to mimic him, waving it down as well.

Hmm.  Cute.

Nanu’s eyes widen at the thought.  Had he - had he just thought she was cute?  No.  Acerola was cute.  Meowth was cute.  A grown young woman relying on him for safety and protection could absolutely not, under any circumstances, be cute.

Charizard lands with a happy roar of greeting, and Siane’s eyes light up at the sight.  She glances over to Nanu, a brilliant smile on her face, and exclaims,

“Are you seeing this?  He’s got a saddle!  And I’ve never seen a Charizard so orange before!  Their faces are different in Aedis, too!”

Before Nanu can reply, she hustles over to the Charizard, approaching him politely and letting him sniff her while she continues to coo over him.  Nanu rolls his eyes, but ultimately smiles to himself.  If she thinks this is exciting, she’s gonna have an amazing day ahead.

[jowritesthingss]

a moment of relief

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): Loceit (Logan | Logic + Janus | Deceit), romantic or platonic

Rating: Teen (for some swearing)

Content Warning(s): unhealthy hyperfocusing, burnout, sickness, mild swearing, potentially dissociation?? (Lo kinda experiences it bc exhaustion, although he doesn’t put a name to it)

Length: 2,243 words

Brief Summary: Logan is hot. Janus is not.

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

*

It is hot in Logan’s room.

Blisteringly hot. Unbearingly hot. Unshakingly hot.

It’s the type of hot that slaps you on the face on a bright summer day. The type of burning hot that causes relentless sweatstains and heatstrokes, the type of sweltering heat that beckons for you to tear off your shirt like a buffoon. Normally Logan would not attribute such comparisons to something, but he has been working for so long that he is no longer certain that his brain actually works at all.

He has been working hard all day, all night, and all day again, with barely any breaks for dinner with the others, and none whatsoever to get any rest. Perhaps that is the reason why his thoughts feel like they are swimming through dense lava within the confines of his brain. Perhaps that is why he finds his tongue loosening, muttering aimless literary devices and frilly confessions aloud to himself that he would not typically be “caught dead” saying.

Perhaps that is why Logan can feel the incinerating effects of burnout licking all around the edges of his weary, frenzied figure.

And perhaps he should have caught on earlier—he usually does, and acts accordingly—but Thomas, bored to tears during quarantine, finally decided to listen to his endless requests that they take an online class or two (or ten). He can’t help it if, in his overenthusiastic hyperfocus, he tried to complete an entire month’s worth of coursework in the span of two days, can he?

A thudding sound interrupts the incessant scratching of his pen on paper. He barely pauses to look up and figure out the source of the sound. The door. Someone is knocking on his door.

Logan intends to shout at them to go away, that he is busy, but his tongue trips over itself, and an incoherent stream of babble makes its way out instead.

The knocking sound falls silent, and there is no response from whoever is on the other side of the door. They must have left. That is what Patton did, when he came to inquire about Logan missing breakfast that first day, and he hasn’t come back since. The same had been true when Roman banged on his door, whining about some simplistic problem in the Imagination, and for Virgil, who had quietly tapped on the door for some unknown reason at what Logan thought was two in the morning (or was it four? time always seemed to blur together that early in the morning, especially when he was figuratively “on a roll” like this).

Honestly, by now the others should know not to bother him when he’s like this. They so, so rarely listen to him, but! Thomas is listening to him now! Thomas is taking classes again now! He is learning more now! Logan must do his absolute best to ensure maximum learning potential is reached. He must do as much work as he can. He must, he must, he must.

“Well, isn’t this a delightful sight to see,” a voice drawls from behind Logan.

Logan whirls around in his seat, surprised, his fist clenching and snapping his pen in two. Dark blue ink cascades over his fingers, but he absent-mindedly wipes it off on a corner of his already-stained black polo, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he glares at whoever it is that dares interrupt his study session.

He squints around his bedroom, frowning at the somewhat...muted quality of it all, as if someone had slapped one of Roman’s ridiculous Instagram filters over it all. Is the blurriness caused by his eyesight failing, or is there a haze throughout the entirety of his room?

There, standing in the doorway of his now-grainy room, is someone dressed in all black, with a dash of yellow around the corners. A mismatched pair of eyes stares faux-casually at Logan where he sits at his desk.

Logan opens his mouth to speak. It takes him a few tries to get the wrods rout wight. “Ah, Janus.” He reaches to push his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, misses, pokes his forehead instead. He tries again and hits the left lens, but pushing that adequately situates the glasses further up on his nose, so aside from the smudged inky blue fingerprint now on the glass, he deems the result satisfactory.

“I must say, Logan, you’re looking quite well-rested,” Janus purrs.

Logan looks up at him, woozy. Janus...he...snake. Deceit. The backwards thing. The lie thing. Correct? “That....” He moistens his lips. Everything is so hot and dry and scratchy. He should ask Roman to snap him some chapstick after...after all this. “False...hood?”

Janus rolls his eyes. Watching his slitted, snakelike eye do that is surprisingly intriguing. Logan could—what is the phrase? He could figuratively get “lost” in that eye—in either of Janus’ eyes, really. All of the sides have the same eyes, but nevertheless, they’re just so fascinating on Janus.

Janus strides into the room, shutting the door behind him. Logan really should tell him to leave, but his tongue is too big in his mouth.

“Now, is there any particular reason you decided to experiment on sleep deprivation using yourself as a test subject?” Janus asks him, penetrating Logan with that intense gaze of his. Maybe it’s just the state he’s in, but gosh, Logan really likes that intense gaze. He wishes it would stay trained on him more often.

“The others are not worried in the least,” Janus says offhandedly. “You missed breakfast and lunch, and you turned them all away, so they sent me to...take care of you.” His expression is...Logan would dare to say it’s almost...lascivious. Dear lord, Logan hopes he doesn’t make that face around the others. They would melt. Is Logan melting?

“I am hot,” Logan abruptly announces.

Janus’ eyes dart down, running leisurely from Logan’s untied shoes up to his half-tucked-in shirt to mussed-up hair. Logan supposes he should feel embarrassed over his unkempt appearance, but the haze hovering in his room seems to have permeated his brain as well. Any embarrassment (or any other...feelings he should have, for that matter) seem strangely distant.

Janus looks Logan in the eye, heterochromatic brown and yellow matched with glazed brown. His forked tongue slithers out of his mouth, licking his lips, and for some reason Logan feels himself shudder at the sight. “Yes, you are hot.”

“I...that is what I just stated, yes.” Logan blinks owlishly at the snake-like side.

Wait.

Snake-like.

Snakes are cold-blooded. Cold. Cool.

Is Janus cold-blooded?

Well. There is only one way to find out isn’t there.

(Perhaps there are other ways, such as, just maybe, actually asking him, as Logan will later reflect. But in his current state of foggy disarray he can think of only one action moving forward.)

At some point he must have stood up. Logan doesn’t really remember. He makes use of this newfound state of existence, though, and he moves forward on rubbery legs. He crowds himself into Janus’ space, staring intently into the other side’s slitted yellow eye.

“Uh,” he hears Janus stammer. “This is a very, um, normal position. This isn’t strange at all.”

Logan raises his right hand, cupping the scaled side of Janus’ face with a sweaty palm.

The sweet soothing relief of something cool touching him is instantaneous. “Oh,” he mumbles, leaning still closer. “You...your skin is cool.”

“Of—of course. It’s not like I’m a cold-blooded snake or anything,” Janus chokes out, his expression extremely odd as he gapes at Logan.

“’s nice,” Logan assures him, mentally shoving away the instinct to collapse in the other side’s arms. He brings his other hand to cup the more human side of Janus’ face, pleased to find it alleviates the burning in his palms equally well.

Janus carefully pushes Logan an arm’s length away, and Logan fights the urge to whine at the loss of contact. Janus’ closely-guarded expression is as incinerating as Logan’s nerve endings feel—that is to say, very. However heated his expression may be, though, Janus’ skin is so nice and soft and cold, and Logan wants, but he mustn’t, he mustn’t—

Only...why has he been fighting that instinct, anyway? It sounds like such a nice idea....

Logan collapses forward onto the other side.

He feels Janus hastily throw up his arms, struggling to support the deadweight that is now Logan. A muted part of his brain supposes that this is not a good sign, but he is too overwhelmed by his senses screaming Janus, Janus, safe, cool, comfortable, sleep.

“Um—Logan—” A voice rumbles near his ear, his name absorbing through the heated skin of his neck. “Shit, you’re—heavy—uh.”

Through his rapidly tunnelling sense of self, Logan feels the cool surface he is resting on stagger, then he is being deposited on something soft. Something warm. And his source of cold has disappeared.

Quick, quiet footsteps echo through his ears, then the sound of a door opening and shutting.

A pathetic whine works its way out of Logan’s half-open mouth.

Time passes. He doesn’t know how much. All he knows is that his body is too leaden to move. The blood in his extremities is molten like magma, shimmering red underneath the surface. His head feels like it is about to erupt.

He cannot move, cannot drag himself off of the squishywarmhothothot surface he lies on, but he cannot sleep where he is, so scratchy and blazing and burning and uncomfortable.

Logan vaguely becomes aware of tears, slipping trails down his face, but they provide little relief, for they are just as salty and warm as the rest of himself is.

Eventually, the sound of a door opening and shutting crashes through his brain. He winces, trying to draw his hands up to cover his poor ears—but he’s not entirely sure if they actually make it up there or not. He’s not so sure he can control anything he does anymore.

Soft footsteps patter ever nearer, cutting through the crunchingscraping white noise of his head, and then two cool hands are gently re-positioning his body. A third hand delicately removes his glasses, a fourth rests itself against his cheek in an oddly familiar motion, a fifth and a sixth carefully place something on his forehead—something soft and—and cold.

Logan’s breath stutters out in a hiss, his eyelashes fluttering. Cool. Good. Feels good. Feels very nice. Very good.

“I’m sure it does,” a soft voice murmurs. “Here—drink.”

A pair of the arms gently hoists Logan up, leaning him against a pleasantly cool something—someone? A glass is pressed to his lips.

Grateful, Logan drinks.

The water is sweet and refreshing as it trickles down his throat, calming the raging of the rest of his body. He feels the closest to lucid that he has been in...in hours, at least. Possibly days. He isn’t exactly sure what time even is anymore, what it even means. It’s all made up anyways.

Logan’s eyes flutter open for a moment, but he sees nothing. At some point the lights must have been turned off, and his glasses are off.

Taking another gulp of the water, a corner of Logan’s mind notices an almost chalky aftertaste. Medicine, hopefully, something to help this fevered state. Remus has since learnt that the sides cannot be killed via poison, and if the person helping him is Roman, Logan doubts he would want to repeat the paint water incident of 2016.

Surely it must be medicine, for not long after he finishes drinking the water his brain starts to feel fuzzier once more.

Logan sags down, and whoever he leans against lets him. They—was—is it Janus? It has to be, he’s cool against Logan’s feverish skin, so deliciously cool and he’s always been so, so nice and pretty too—Janus carefully extricates himself from Logan’s weary body.

“N...no,” Logan moans, feeling his most welcome source of chill disappear away from him. He thinks he might reach out, grabbing for it again, but he feels nothing. “Come...come back. Please.”

A long, resigned sigh sounds from above where Logan lies. “Fine, fine,” the voice mutters. The phrasing makes it sound as though the words ought be said more reluctantly, but the tone of the voice saying it sounds more concerned and fond than anything else.

The surface Logan is lying on dips slightly—his bed, it must be his bed—and a cool body slides in behind him, wrapping pairs of arms securely around Logan’s waist, his chest, his neck. Were Logan coherent enough, the arms might feel suffocating, but as it is, their firm grip and the low temperature radiating off of them are strangely comforting.

“Logan.” A cooling breath of air blows into the back of his neck, and he squirms half-heartedly, loving the chill of it against his skin and love-hating the vague heat it curdles in his stomach.

In the morning they will wake, and they will discuss. Janus will turn the tables and lecture Logan about overworking himself. Logan will surprisingly discuss feelings—namely, that warmth in his stomach that lingers even as his fever dissipates. But that is for the morning.

For the moment, there is just the two of them and the now-receding, almost pleasant haze of Logan’s room and mind, just the two of them and their breaths huffing out as Janus whispers, “Sleep.”

Logan sleeps.

Fin

*

I’m not usually on the “Janus has six arms send tweet” train bc I’m more apt to believe it’s simply a visual effect Remus/the team used in that particular musical sequence, BUT I am jumping aboard for just this one-stop fic bc that means more hug for our poor boi Logan here. And our poor boi Logan here needs more hug.

Also uhhhhh...this is the very first Sanders Sides fic I’m posting, so plz be kind lol. Of course if you have any critiques I’d love to hear them too! ^^ Also, if there are any typos, let me know, cuz I have no friends and my stuff is almost always unbeta-ed. :P

Want to be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

[tiptapricot]

May I request something fluffy with the Batfam, like a fun trip or something? Maybe Cass Cain as the main character bc she don’t get much love

Anon this was an absolute joy to write. AO3 link here as always and enjoy!

Cass had never been camping before. There were times when she’d been forced to survive in the wilderness, times she didn’t like to dwell on, but those had never been fun. This, camping, real camping, was wonderful.

Dick had wanted to take everyone on a road trip to celebrate the beginning of summer break. Sibling bonding, he had called it. After a bit of heckling Bruce had agreed, and the following week everyone had piled into the car and waved goodbye. 

The ride up to the campsite had been less chaotic than Cass had expected. After a short scuffle between Steph and Damian the car had made an agreement to rotate the AUX cord every two songs, but that had been the only real argument the whole ride. The windows had been rolled down and Cass had smiled as the highway flew by. She hadn’t had much time alone with her siblings, and it was almost refreshing to be away from Bruce for once.

Dick had been driving, Jason in the passenger’s seat, and the two of them had talked for most of the drive. It was the first time Cass had seen the two of them so relaxed. Their conversation had been light and familiar, that of two old friends sitting down for a chat.

They had rolled into the campground at sunset, and the ensuing scramble to get the tents up before the light faded had resulted in more than a few bruises. It didn’t matter though. In the end they had all collapsed in a heap on the dusty ground and laughed. Duke had helped get a fire started and they had spent the rest of the night roasting marshmallows and eating snacks that probably didn’t count as actual dinner.

Cass crouched lower in the bush, breathing slow. She couldn’t hear anyone, but in this family that hardly meant anything. After taking one last look around she crawled quickly across the hiking trail, hoisting herself up into the branches of one of the trees. She climbed until she was well hidden among the leaves, in just the right spot to spy on the ground below.

It had started out innocent enough. They had just finished breakfast and Jason had suggested they play a game to get their blood pumping. Hide and seek seemed too hard with all the trees, and Babs wasn’t interested in playing at all, so they couldn’t divide up evenly to play a team sport. After a short debate everyone had agreed on tag, and really, it was the only game left that wouldn’t end with someone’s eye out. Well… most likely at least. There was a quick round of nose goes, pinning Dick as It, and then they were off, sprinting through the trees.

Cass had split from the group early on, running into the denser area of forest that bordered the hiking trail. She supposed she’d turned it into hide and seek after all, but it was working, and that was all that mattered. 

She had narrowly avoided a run in with Jason, sliding under the cover of a fern patch as he ran by, only to hear a scream of surprise when he turned the corner. Other than that, she hadn’t seen anyone. She wasn’t sure who was It currently, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her.

Cass shrank back into the leaves when she heard footsteps below. A moment later Duke and Damian stumbled onto the trail, panting heavily.

“Holy shit, how is she so fast?” Duke asked, glancing behind them.

“Stephanie has a competitive drive, do not underestimate her in a situation like this.” Damian said sternly, chest heaving.

“Yeah I picked up on that.” Duke leaned back against Cass’ tree, catching his breath. She made sure not to move a muscle, watching them intently.

“Do you think we lost her?” Duke asked.

Damian looked back into the trees, craning his neck.

“Not sure. It would probably be wise to keep moving.”

“Agreed.”

They continued running further up the trail, their footsteps slowly retreating. When Cass was sure they were gone she swung her legs over the branch and leaned back. 

So Steph was It, that was good to know. Now she could be sure to avoid her. Steph was a formidable opponent, especially when she was properly motivated. She was faster than Cass, though not quite as strong. If worse came to worse Cass could probably escape her by climbing another tree. Though it would do her no good if Steph followed, the trees were too dense with foliage to jump safely between them. 

Cass pushed herself up and peeked through the branches, making sure the coast was clear before dropping to the ground. Damian was right, it would do no good to stay in one place. Cass took one last look behind her before taking off down the trail.

The camping area itself was beautiful. It was bordered on one side by a lake so clear you could see to the bottom, and on the other by a large mountain. They had made plans to hike up to a meadow later that day, but for now that didn’t matter.

Cass heard a shout echo through the trees to her left and skidded to a halt, changing directions to run into the woods, sliding down a small hill. She reached the bottom and continued through the undergrowth, pushing off of fallen tree trunks. She passed a mushroom patch and skirted around a thicket before she burst into a clearing, shaking the leaves out of her hair.

When she looked up Cass froze. Steph was standing on the other side of the clearing, an elated expression on her face.

“Finally! I’ve been looking for someone else for like ten minutes!” She yelled, jogging across the field.

Cass turned and sprinted back into the woods, ignoring Steph’s shouts of protest. Over the logs, back up the hill, she could hear the footsteps pounding behind her. 

“Cass, come on!” Steph called.

“You aren’t catching me tod—umph!” She slammed into someone else just as she reached the trail, careening backwards into the dirt.

“Holy crap Cass, are you alright?” Tim’s face appeared above her, eyes wide. 

“Fine.” She mumbled, trying to get her breath back. Tim helped her up, brushing the dirt and leaves from her shirt.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“No time, Steph’s right behind me, come on.” She said, grabbing Tim’s arm.

“A little too late for a retreat.” He said, pointing over her shoulder. Cass whirled around, her whole body poised to run. Steph had just emerged from the woods, her brows knitted in confusion.

“Why did you run?” She asked.

“You’re It.” Cass said, fingers tightening on Tim’s wrist. If they didn’t move soon Steph was going to get one of them for sure.

“What do you mean? I tagged Jason way before I saw you.”

“Than who’s It?” Cass asked.

“Uh,” Tim tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and when she turned around he was grinning like an idiot, “tag.”

Cass stood still for a moment, her eyes wide. Tim had betrayed her. 

“Oh you bastard.” She hissed. His grin widened. No… wait. What had she learned? Change every situation into an advantage. Tim had tagged her, and now everyone else would be scared of her. A smile crept its way onto Cass’ face. This was going to be much more fun.

“No tag backs?” She asked.

“Yep, you can’t touch me.” As soon as the words left Tim’s mouth his smile faded. He looked at Cass, then down at the hand still resting on her shoulder. He paled as the realization dawned on him, an expression of absolute horror washing over his face.

“Oh shit,” he whispered, “what have I unleashed?”

Steph was gone before she turned around.

***

Duke stumbled down the hill, heart beating loud in his ears as he thundered through the grass. He could hear her. He could hear her. He rounded another tree stump and put on a burst of speed, emerging back at their campsite.

“Oh hey, game over?” Barbara was sitting in her wheelchair, a thermos in one hand and a book propped open in the other.

“Not… exactly.” Duke glanced up at the canopy, scanning the branches.

“You look terrified, are you alri—”

A shrill scream echoed through the trees, followed closely by thundering footsteps. Jason burst through a bush, scrambling away from the woods with a fierce desperation.

“Dude did she follow you?” Duke asked, panicked.

“Don’t know,” he was breathless, panting, “She just jumped out of nowhere, thought I was going to have a fucking heart attack.” He said, grabbing Duke and yanking him towards the car. “We should be fine here right? No cover, no bushes, she can’t hide, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Do you think she got one of the others by now?” Duke asked, crouching next to one of the tires.

“Dunno. Hope so. I swear I’m gonna kill whoever tagged her, I mean holy shit.”

“Cass?” Barbara called over.

“Yeah.”

She snorted. “Good luck.”

There was a crack from somewhere nearby and Duke tensed.

“Did you hear that?” He asked.

“Yeah shut up I’m trying to listen.” Jason swatted him hurriedly, scanning the tree line.

There was another crack, closer this time, and Jason pressed both of them against the car.

“Oh dude we are so dead.” Duke whispered.

“I know I know shhhh!”

They waited in tense silence, straining their ears for any noise, any sign. One second. Two. Duke didn’t dare to breath. Twenty seconds. Thirty. Jason held a finger to his lips, slowly moving to look around the car. Forty seconds. Fifty. Sixty. Duke felt like he was going to explode. 

Finally, finally, Jason relaxed, head lolling back against the car door.

“I think she’s gone.” He said, relief clear in his voice.

Duke let out a long breath, huffing. He took a moment to recover, his heart feeling like it was beating a million miles an hour, before he glanced up at the woods.

“Should we go back in?” He asked.

“Oh hell no. I wanted some exercise, not to be in some—some,” Jason waved his hand dismissively, “some goddamn horror movie.”

Duke chuckled. “That is what it feels like huh?”

“Yeah, remind me never to cross Cass when she’s in a mood. Jesus Christ.”

They both laughed, the tension slowly melting away. Honestly, Duke wasn’t even sure why they were so scared in the first place, now that it was over. It was just tag. A leaf landed softly in his lap. It was a game, and it wasn’t like Cass was more or less scary than the others. Another leaf landed in Duke’s lap. They had just gotten freaked out for no reason, there was nothing to be—

Duke froze. He looked at the leaves in his lap, quietly nudging Jason.

“Dude…” he muttered, voice lower than a hush.

“What’s up?”

Duke pointed to the leaves and Jason’s smile dropped, his face paling. 

“But then she would be…” Slowly, carefully, they both looked up.

Cass descended upon them in the next second, and the campground erupted in screams.

[mci-writing]

Ok. So, I have a quick question that I was hoping you could help me answer. The whole ‘x POC reader’ isn’t considered racist, right? (Personally I don’t think so but others,,) So by that logic, ‘x white reader’ wouldn’t be either, right? Another question was why those whole poc reader thing popped up when i dont typically see skin color mentioned? Its usually s/c? I don’t know I’m sorry if this is confusing,, or sounds mean, i dont mean it to be,,

Okay, so, if you give a reader a specific skin tone, it isn't necessarily racist. It'll just exclude a good bit of people from being able to relate to the piece and may lower the amount of people willing to actually read it. The reason the POC reader thing is a thing is because many, many writers tend to default reader's race to white (especially in anime fandoms, which makes no sense bc typically the characters are Japanese and many Japanese probably wouldn't approve of certain things anyway). It's a little hard to understand if you don't know the difference between what whites do and what POCs do, but many things are sorta things that white people would only do or the detail gets too white specific. Now, people have been better about it recently, especially on Tumblr and Ao3, but it still exists where the writer gives the reader white qualities without realizing it. A writer may say the following about reader during a windy scene:

Her long, silky hair cascaded behind her as the wind blew, a few of her locks resting against her pale cheeks.

There are many indicators here that the reader is supposed to be white, from the mention of pale skin to the description of her hair being long and silky. It also defaults reader to a female or someone going by feminine pronouns. The thing is, I didn't make that scene description up. I've seen something similar so many times that I practically memorized it and put it in my own words. You're probably even thinking the reader is blonde with blue eyes now too. There's this post that goes around Tumblr that couldn't be more true. It's meant to be comedic, but so many people relate to it it's not even funny. The one with the reaction images to specific traits. I'll find it after this, maybe.

Anyway, there's also the problem of physical characteristics that can be assigned to the reader that imply the reader is of white origin: waist measurements, bust size, the way their hair is done, cheek structures, how they look when embarrassed, etc. Etc. It's all there. Even if the s/c thing is used, there are many times where the writer says 'screw this' and gives the character a white characteristic without thinking about it.

Now, even with POC!reader content, I try to avoid physical descriptions unless the moment really needs it, and it typically doesn't. Yes, I have an image in mind when writing for reader, but I avoid describing them so I don't exclude anyone and tend to keep them vague to some extent (I.e. POC!reader content usually has some indicator of reader being POC with a small mention of darker skin). That's what a lot of writers I personally talk to have done and a good bit have been getting better about it, but there arw those times where it's there and it can ruin the mood for certain people.

TLDR: Character x POC!readers are to help have POC feel included and get really specific to counter the narrative of default white reader

[thelasthomelyurl]

the invention of vice

Not posting this on AO3 because it’s not really a full story, but it got excised from not one but two other fics, so I figured I’m probably unlikely to ever complete it, and I thought some of it was worth sharing. fandom: good omens pairing: technically a gen fic, but it’s all about aziraphale and crowley word count: 2k-ish rating: PG

(thanks to @curlycrowley for admirable beta services, including supporting me when I chose to cut this from an upcoming fic)

4004 BC

The first winter was well underway and Aziraphale found that he didn’t much care for it. The nights were long and uncomfortable, and he had no real occupation to distract him. Life was abundant—everything had left the Garden and multiplied as if the Earth had been around for thousands of years—but it needed very little input from Aziraphale. He didn’t even have a Tree to guard.

It was still more interesting than Heaven, though, so without orders to the contrary, down on Earth he stayed.

Adam and Eve had left the valley near Eden and he had followed them, kept an eye and an occasional miracle on them from a safe distance. When they had started to make a home, he had removed himself to the mountains to keep watch. The air was biting and bitterly cold; he kept a fire, which ate no wood, burning at all times to keep the frigid winter out of the stone of his cave.

There was not a great deal to do except to commune with an unresponsive God and fret about the future. Aziraphale was particularly good at the latter. He could have slept, as he knew the humans often did, but when he tried it, he found that he did not grasp the appeal. So he mostly fretted, and pondered which miracles he could provide to Adam and Eve, and wished it weren’t quite so quiet down on Earth. The last being he’d spoken to had been that demon at the wall—and once the rain had let up, even he’d made himself scarce.

One sleepless night, he heard something moving in the darkness. He had frequent visitors: bears too lazy to hunt, lynxes or panthers looking to dry out their coats from the frequent drizzling rain and slush, and one very persistent gazelle who had brought her injured young one to him for healing and now showed up every few nights, normally with a dead branch or some other gift. But it was none of these that appeared in the firelight moments later: it was the thoroughly bedraggled form of the demon from the Garden.

Aziraphale sat up straight in surprise.

“Crawly?”

“Oh, hullo Aziraphale,” Crawly said, barely looking up at Aziraphale as he slumped into the cave. Even his voice sounded bent over with weariness. “Budge up and make room at the fire.”

Dumbfounded, Aziraphale did as he was bid, not even pausing to consider the fact that there was, in fact, a great deal of room at the fire already. Crawly plunked down close to him in a sodden heap of sharp-jointed limbs and huddled as close to the fire as he could. After a moment, Aziraphale’s wits returned to him; he squeezed Crawly’s shoulder with a tentative hand, and the demon was instantly dry.

“Eh?” said Crawly, looking at his own clothing in bemusement as if the thought of a miracle hadn’t occurred to him.

Aziraphale belatedly let go of his shoulder and shook his hand.

“I’ve worked hard to keep this cave pleasant,” he explained. “Wouldn’t do to have puddles.”

“Right,” Crawly said.

They sat in silence for long moments while Crawly continued to soak in the heat of the fire. Aziraphale watched him, perplexed. What on Earth—he paused a moment to appreciate the phrase he’d just invented—was the demon doing here? Walking in like he did this every day? He was no longer soaked through, but he seemed weary, and he listed towards Aziraphale as he sat, like he might fall over and asleep at any moment.

“Don’t like this sleet stuff,” Crawly said after a while, gesturing to all the weather going on outside of the cave. “Like snow even less. You seen it?”

“No.”

“Ugh, it’s awful. Cold and clingy, gets in your eyelashes.”

That did sound mightily unpleasant, but Aziraphale found his thoughts lingering on the image the words painted: of Crawly, cheeks bright in the cold and long hair garlanded with wispy white flakes. It was a far cry from the huddled demon beside him.

“You’re just...hanging around?” Crawly asked when Aziraphale made no response.

“Keeping an eye on things, yes.”

“Seems boring.”

“Warm, though,” Aziraphale said, and Crawly looked up whip-fast, incredulous, and then laughed, and the sound of it please Aziraphale right down to his toes.

Crawly recovered his composure and spoke again. “Spent any time with the humans?”

“No, I don’t think I’m meant to interfere. What’ve you been up to?”

“Traveled around a bit,” Crawly said casually. “Seeing the place. Bloody dull without more people, though.”

“They’re, er, working on it,” Aziraphale said.

“Delightful,” Crawly said. Then he nodded at one corner of the cave, not too far from the fire. “You use that for much?”

“Hmm? No.”

“Great.” Crawly stood and walked over to it. Without another word, he laid down and closed his eyes. Before long, his body had relaxed and his breathing had slowed. He was, to all appearances, asleep.

“Huh,” said Aziraphale. He watched him a little while to see if this was some sort of joke or ruse, but no—the demon only slept, his features gentle, the pinched weariness gone. The firelight danced on his ember-red hair.

Aziraphale urged the fire to be a little warmer and turned away.

                                                              *** *** ***

The next morning was bright and clear, although it was still much too cold to be deemed pleasant. Aziraphale was out and about with the sun, walking down to the valley and bestowing a quick blessing on some of the crops Eve had put in, to make them hardy enough to last through the cold and bountiful come springtime.

When he returned to his cave, he found Crawly awake—which was surprising enough all on its own, since he’d assumed the demon would scurry off after getting his rest. But no, not only was there a still demon in his cave, there was also a mountainous heap of pillows and cushions, on which Crawly was lounging in what appeared to be utter comfort.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale demanded.

Crawly waved a lazy hand. “No need,” he said, not opening his eyes. He was in an undignified sprawl, legs akimbo.

“Where did these come from?”

“Byzantium,” Crawly said. “About four thousand years from now. Not sure how I did that. Not sure what Byzantium is, if I’m honest.”

“You, what, stole them?”

“Probably,” Crawly said, sounding tremendously unconcerned.

“And what precisely do you think you’re doing in my home with them?”

“Inventing cardinal vices. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Cardinal vice. Sounds important. This one—” he gestured grandly at himself and the pillows “—is Sloth.”

“Not larceny?” Aziraphale asked archly.

“No, I don’t think that one’s very grand,” Crawly replied, unbothered by Aziraphale’s tone. “Saving it for the really neat ones. Just got to think of them first.”

A moment passed.

“Can’t give this one to the humans too early, I suppose,” Crawly said thoughtfully. “It’d be a shame if they died out because everyone realized it’s way more fun to sit around than go out and...reap, or whatever it is they’ll need to do with their crops.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, the effect of which was rather lost as Crawly had resolutely kept his eyes closed and his posture utterly relaxed for the whole conversation.

One could only stand around being ignored for so long, even if one was an angel; eventually Aziraphale gave up and went on with his day.

In fact, he went on with his next several days, until those days stretched out into a few weeks. Every time he looked in the corner, the demon was still there. Crawly would occasionally talk to him, but as far as Aziraphale could tell, he never once got up—it was quite possible he never even opened his eyes.

“Wanna try it?” Crawly asked one day, a little more than three weeks since deciding to take up residence in Aziraphale’s cave.

“Try what?”

“Lounging.” The demon rolled over from where he’d been facing the wall and stretched slowly, making a great show of it.

“Thank you, no.”

“Come on,” wheedled Crawly. He was actually looking at Aziraphale for the first time since the night of his arrival.

“No.”

“It’s nice! All that sitting around on the stone can’t be comfortable.”

“No.”

“Is it because I said it was a vice? Giving it a try isn’t a sin, you know—you’re far too industrious to actually give into sloth. I don’t know how you’ve managed to make busywork, but you have.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and didn’t respond.

“Look—” Crawly sat up a little and pointed to a brand-new pile of cushions that extended the heap “—I got these special, just for you.”

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale said at last. He walked over.

The new pillows disappeared.

“Too bad,” Crawly said.

“I--what?”

“How are you feeling?” Crawly’s tone had turned clinical. He looked at Aziraphale with open curiosity.

“What?”

“How are you feeling?” the demon repeated. “I’ve spent the last couple days thinking up Envy. Wanted to see if it works.” He lounged aggressively, wiggling down into the pile of pillows as if to show off.

“I don’t think that counts,” Aziraphale said. “Offering a person a thing and then taking it from them isn’t quite the same as if they coveted the thing on their own. I’m more in the neighborhood of Disgruntlement.”

Crawly pouted a little, then shook his head. “Fair point. I’ll get the hang of it, though. Good thing we’re workshopping this.”

In an instant, Aziraphale’s hackles were up. “We are not doing anything,” he said. The very idea! It was preposterous.

He turned on his heel and left the cave. If Crawly said anything, he didn’t hear it.

By the time the sun went down that evening, Aziraphale had set himself up in a new cave, with a new fire. He hadn’t minded the demon’s company—insubstantial as it had mostly been—but implicating Aziraphale in his scheming and wickedness was several steps too far.

The night stretched on, even longer than usual, and several times, Aziraphale reminded himself that he was not watching for anyone to appear in the entrance.

                                                              *** *** ***

One lovely morning the following spring, when Aziraphale was watching the world go by from the mouth of his new cave, he saw a familiar figure walking up the mountainside. When the demon realized he was being watched, he paused a moment and waved his hand. Aziraphale marveled at the new gesture and decided to try it out himself: he waved back, and he thought he saw Crawly smile.

When Crawly reached the cave, he stopped just outside the entrance and looked in.

“Nice place,” he said. “Could use some pillows, though.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Aziraphale said, and Crawly grinned a little sheepishly.

“Not to worry. Listen, I—hang on—Am I allowed to apologize?” Crawly cocked his head and looked around as if he expected the cave to answer. Then he waved a hand in dismissal and continued. “One way to find out. I’m sorry,” he said, sounding only a little as if the word pained him, “for...whatever it was. Besmirching your good name.”

Aziraphale looked at him in surprise.

“And trying to tempt you to Envy, I guess,” Crawly added as an afterthought.

How extraordinary. The apology floated in the air for a moment. Crawly looked at Aziraphale; Aziraphale at Crawly.

“I...forgive you,” Aziraphale said once he recovered his wits.