#He is so complex and deep that its hard to put into words sometimes

[phatcatphergus]

Hi, you reblogged me with a lore dump about Q! Tubbo and you mentioned that you'd be willing to do a character analysis? Please, I'm invested at this point

Ahhhhh omg hi! I can't believe you came back for more lol. You shall soon be a qtubbo stan like the rest of us.

I do want to preface this by saying that this is my personal lore interpretation so it's subjective. So many people have great analyses of his character, so I recommend watching a couple streams or looking at the tag for a broad scope as well!

That being said...

I think the best word to describe qtubbo is loss.

He was brought to the island having already lost parts of himself he didn't know. Through his time on the island, he lost respect, credibility, friends, family, teammates, nieces and nephews, penpals, godkids, mentors, and himself. He never had something he didn't end up losing, whether by choice or force. He loses what matters most to him, yet he continues giving his all to everyone he meets.

He came to the island with loss and no sense of who he was or where he came from, yet he spent all of his time for the benefit of others. He worked day and night so that other people wouldn't experience the loss of what he could prevent such as items or supplies. He never wanted anyone to experience what he experienced, even when they were the ones perpetuating it.

No one ever cared about him unless it was for a reason. His relationships were transactional and needed to be because who would ever care for someone with no firm sense of self or where you came from? When he couldn't provide a transaction of care, he made himself useful, he became indispensable so that even if people didn't like him for him, they could use his skills until they didn't need him anymore.

The only time he actually felt that someone cared for him, just to care about him, was Fred. Fred had no emotions, no sense of self, and no past to speak of. Fred was someone who had no reason to hate or use Tubbo because Fred was like Tubbo. Fred was the first person who could care for Tubbo because he wanted to, and not because of his use or someone's sense of responsibility.

Losing Fred meant losing the one person who cared about him without strings attached. Anyone else only cared about him because he was useful, a leader, an engineer, a neighbor, a business partner, a babysitter, someone to steal from, or just someone to poke fun at. Until Sunny.

With Sunny, Tubbo knew better than to expect her to stay with him. He learned from his past that he doesn't deserve something as wonderful as Sunny, that he can only love and wait until she is ripped away too. If he wasn't good enough to keep Fred, why on earth would he be even partially enough for Sunny.

He mourned her loss the day he got her. He knew he wasn't the best for her, he wasn't anywhere close to what Sunny deserved, but he did his best regardless and loved her more than life itself. Sunny became his tether and the only reason for him to stay alive. Sunny needed him like he needed Sunny. Sunny was the only reason he kept himself alive after Fred's funeral. Through the jeers, through the belittlement, through the disregard for his feelings, Sunny was there and provided him with enough purpose to keep going.

Fit and Pac dating made his only sense of security start to crumble. The two people he figured would stick by his side were moving along without him. They wouldn't need him in their life because they would need each other. They don't need his friendship anymore, his usefulness has worn itself out. He doesn't see them extending a hand to him as they step forward because he's too focused on the empty voids in his past where others should be.

He tries to break them up, and even if they hate him, he can rationalize that he did it for the right reasons. They may hate him but they're stuck with him, kicking and screaming by his side. Everyone tells him that he needs to find Fred, that he's projecting his romantic life onto theirs. In reality, he is too scared of leaving the island the exact way he started, with nothing to his name and no one by his side.

His character is such a battle between what he wants to do and what he feels that he needs to do. His entire run through purgatory was fighting others for eggs that weren't even his. He spends his days working on projects for other people and picking apart his failures when others can only see his success. He works tirelessly so that Sunny won't ever understand what it's like to be underestimated, beaten down, mischaracterized, and alone. Even if the world is against them, he will be in her corner to fight until his dying breath.

He loves so deeply and so purely. He tries to compensate for the lack of it that he has received after giving it away to whoever asks. He is depressed, anxious, and on alert. He has gone through trials and events with his head high and carrying the weight of others on his shoulders. He loves and he gives and continues to even when the people he gives his love to throw it to the side.

He has people in his corner, but his fear of them leaving has already made them vanish in his mind. He's a killer and a father. An engineer and a friend. A penpal and an adversary. He is loss and he is love.

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Mister Targaryen's Curious Bookshop

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, slow burn, Aemond being obsessed with the reader, a little bit of self-loathing and low self-esteem (Aemond), flower shop/bookshop AU

Summary: Aemond thought he would be alone with his bookshop for the rest of his life. Until the flower shop next door came back to life.

A/N: This fic had been sitting in my WIPs for ages. @hotd-bigbang gave me the motivational push to finally write it. And @targaryenrealnessdarling visualised my words so wonderfully, helping me imagine and feel this fic more.

Masterlist Taglist

Aemond had been working at "The Curious Book Shop" since college. It had become his refuge from the chaos of his family life and a break from his studies. He would hide in the deepest corners, surrounded by rows upon rows of books, studying for exams or reading for pleasure.

It was during one of his early morning runs that he stumbled upon his fate. Just around the corner from his apartment complex, he noticed a small bookshop. Something about it pulled him in as if it were calling out to him. The smell of old books gently wafted into his nostrils, and he felt as though he had entered heaven.

Aemond wandered the shop slowly, lazily browsing the shelves. His fingers grazed the spines of both old and new books. He spotted classics like *Frankenstein* and beautifully bound editions of Jane Austen novels, but there was also an entire section dedicated to fresh voices, new writers waiting to be discovered. 

Time slipped away from him until the bookshop keeper, a kind elderly man with snow-white hair, a stout build, and round glasses that made his eyes look larger—like a slightly overfed hamster—tapped him gently on the shoulder. With a warm smile, the man told him it was closing time.

Aemond felt a pang of disappointment. He had only explored half of the shop and longed to uncover every hidden corner. 

From that day on, he became a regular. His visits were so frequent that the old man eventually offered him a job. Aemond accepted without hesitation; it was a dream come true to work in a place filled with books.

Though Aemond had completed his business degree at Queen’s College in King’s Landing, he didn’t pursue the corporate path his mother and grandfather had carefully laid out for him. Instead, he chose to put his skills to use at the bookshop. His mentor appreciated his knack for numbers and calculations, and Aemond soon took over managing the shop’s finances and budgets.

For a long time, Aemond was simply an employee. His mentor guided him through all the shop’s nooks and crannies, revealing the secrets hidden deep within the endless rows of books. But when the old man passed away, Aemond was shocked to discover that, in his will, he had left the bookshop to him.

"Old Valyrian magic," his mentor had said one day as they placed new arrivals on the shelves near the cashier, "is rooted deep in every corner of this bookshop—in every rug fibre, dust grain, and wooden splinter. It is like the skeleton of this wonderful shop."

Aemond could feel it too—the raw power lingering behind closed doors, in the creaks of the wooden floor, and the way the air seemed to hum with ancient energy. Or, at least, he thought he did. The truth was, sometimes the shop seemed to have a mind of its own. Doors would appear where there had been none before, opening to reveal strange, hidden rooms. Other times, doors would remain locked no matter how hard he tried, as if the bookshop decided he wasn’t ready to enter.

One day, after stocking the historical crime books, Aemond’s curiosity was piqued when a door swung open just as he turned away from the shelves. This door, unlike the others, seemed to beckon him. It led him not to another room but to an entirely different dimension—a space outside the normal laws of reality.

There were no books written about the bookshop itself, at least none he could find, and so he started documenting his explorations in a leather-bound notebook. In it, he scribbled down every detail, theory, and oddity he encountered. He spent hours after closing wandering the ever-shifting landscape of the shop, venturing through realms that seemed to exist only within its walls. The bookshop was playful—mischievous, even. It would open random doors, then lock them again, guiding him through magical adventures far beyond the world outside.

One room in particular had become his favourite: The Hidden Library. It was a vast, seemingly endless space filled with row after row of books, stretching far into the sky. There were books of every kind—small, hand-sized paperbacks, large encyclopedic tomes, volumes bound in leather with golden lettering, some in languages long dead. History, botany, astrology, science, philosophy—the scope of knowledge was overwhelming.

The towering shelves formed a maze, a labyrinth of wisdom and mystery. At the heart of this labyrinth sat a large oak desk, polished to such perfection that it gleamed like glass. Above it hung an ornate chandelier, casting a warm, amber glow over the desk, perfect for reading or studying in the comforting silence of the library.

But the labyrinth had its whims. The shelves shifted at will, reshuffling the paths and the books. It was both awe-inspiring and, at times, deeply frustrating. There were days when the maze seemed to toy with him, taking him in circles or preventing him from finding the desk. Yet, Aemond knew it was the bookshop's way of showing off—revealing itself bit by bit, granting him access to its secrets.

Aemond often imagined that the Library of Alexandria must have been like this—filled with treasures of knowledge, books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the world, guarded by time and mystery. Here, in his bookshop, he was one of the lucky few to uncover these treasures.

But The Hidden Library wasn’t the only room that fascinated him. There were other hidden chambers—each with its own magic, its own allure. He spent so much time exploring these secret places that he realized the bookshop had become more than just his workplace. It was his refuge, his second home, and perhaps, more than anything, a living entity he had come to understand like a dear, old friend.

Next to the magical bookshop stood an old, battered flower shop. The windows were dusty, and the paint on the rusty frames—once a bright blue—was flaking off. The sunblinds were torn and faded, their colour washed out from years of rain and weather damage.

Aemond’s mentor had once mentioned that the old owner couldn’t keep the shop open because her hands were no longer as nimble as they used to be. “The arrangements she made were as magical as this bookshop,” he would always say. “A shame she had to close it. She had no one to take over.”

The old bookshop owner had seemed melancholic whenever he spoke of the previous florist, smiling wistfully as if he had secretly admired her, perhaps even loved her in silence. Little did he know that he would share the same fate, leaving behind his beloved shop.

But one day, the flower shop next door sprang back to life. The scent of spring flowers began to fill the street, drifting into Aemond’s bookshop. The windows were freshly cleaned, and a new, bright yellow sunblind had been installed, replacing the worn one.

A week after the shop reopened, he saw her. She had messy, short hair in a half-up, half-down style, and a soft smile on her rosy, full lips. Her eyes sparkled as she quietly mumbled to herself, carefully arranging cut flowers in a vase outside the shop.

Aemond didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed watching her. Lost in her own little world, she crafted magnificent art with flowers, leaves, and other natural materials. He marvelled at her creations every time he passed by, often stopping to buy a bouquet—sometimes just to strike up a conversation, sometimes just to be near her.

It was nearly closing time when she appeared in front of him, a bright smile spreading across her lips. Her hair was messy again, with leaves and colourful petals woven into it—likely by accident, as some softly drifted to the ground whenever she turned her head. 

"Hi, I'm your shop neighbour. Sorry for not introducing myself sooner; I had to unpack everything," she said, holding out her hand with a bright grin. "Lovely," Aemond thought as he shook her hand.

“I’ve been to your shop a few times. I should’ve introduced myself, too,” he mumbled sheepishly, a soft blush dusting his pale cheeks. His ears felt like they were on fire.

Her hand was so small compared to his, soft but marked with fresh scars—probably from working with thorny roses or other prickly flowers. She was always creating art, in any form or shape, and it showed.

Her voice was full of joy, and unlike so many others, she looked at him without a trace of disgust or discomfort. She didn’t flinch at his scar or the eyepatch. She didn’t even avoid his gaze, which most people did. She looked him straight in the eyes, seeing him as a whole person. A warm feeling washed over him at that realization—it had been so long since he’d felt this way.

“Oh! Yes, I remember you now. You always buy two bouquets at a time!” she exclaimed, gesturing excitedly with her hands. Her energy was infectious, Aemond noted, and despite the late hour, he felt more awake just watching her. “You must really like your life partner!”

His blush deepened, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that,” he mumbled, feeling the heat rise in his face.

Clearing his throat, he squared his shoulders, trying to regain his composure as he towered over her. But she only smiled more, undeterred by his flustered state.

“No problem,” he whispered gruffly, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He averted his eye, staring down at the cashier counter. Why was he so flustered?

“Can I look around? I know you’re closing soon, but this is the only time I can visit because of my shop hours,” she asked.

He nodded solemnly, and her grin widened as she skipped off into the depths of the bookshop. Aemond couldn’t help but stare after her, his heart still pounding wildly in his chest. His usual calm demeanour was slipping, and his hands were growing sweatier with every passing second.

He watched her roam through the aisles, her fingers gently brushing the spines of books. A soft smile played on her lips, and her eyes sparkled with the joy that seemed to radiate from her. Her skin looked smooth, her hands had been as soft as silk.

Her hair was up in a messy bun, with loose strands framing her face perfectly. He tried not to stare too much, but he couldn’t help himself. She was beautiful—radiant, even. The flower girl from next door.

It was no longer unusual for her to visit him after her shop’s closing hours. Since their first meeting, it had become routine, and Aemond didn’t mind keeping the shop open a little longer for her. He enjoyed the peace, but even more, he enjoyed her presence. She brought a sense of chaos and life into his dusty, meticulously ordered existence—something he had always carefully avoided, but now realized he needed.

This time, she told him in advance where she intended to wander, mindful not to repeat the incident from her first visit. That day, she had innocently ventured into one of the magical rooms, and Aemond hadn't heard from her for hours. Panic had set in when she failed to respond to his calls. By the time he found her, it was nearly midnight, and both of them had early mornings ahead. She explained that a door had appeared before her, opening on its own, and she hadn’t been able to resist stepping through.

Luckily, it was The Hidden Library she had found, a room Aemond knew like the back of his hand. The labyrinth of bookshelves had shifted, subtly aiding him in locating her more quickly than it usually would allow. Other rooms might not have been so kind, and Aemond had been relieved when he spotted her amidst the endless rows of books.

When he found her, she hadn’t been panicked or distressed. In fact, she had a stack of books balanced in her arms, her face lit with pure delight. "This is magnificent!" she had said, her voice filled with awe as she wandered between the ever-changing shelves.

His heart had pounded in his chest when he saw her, but not out of fear anymore. Something else stirred in him—his heart skipped, or maybe it leapt with joy, something akin to a yearning he hadn’t felt in a long time. Aemond was no stranger to intense emotions, but this was different. It wasn’t the fiery anger or the cold, bitter loneliness he was used to; this was warm, fluttering, almost sweet in its intensity.

Crushes were for middle schoolers, weren’t they? He tried to tell himself that, but there was no denying it anymore. Watching her flit through his magical bookshop with that infectious enthusiasm, her joy at discovering something new—it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years. 

He stood there, watching her as she made her way through the aisles, completely at ease in the strange, shifting shop. She never seemed bothered by the oddities or the magic; if anything, it only seemed to fuel her curiosity and joy. And as much as he tried to keep his distance, Aemond couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

Maybe crushes weren't just for middle schoolers after all.

Aemond had never imagined he'd find himself standing in a magical greenhouse with the quirky flower shop owner next door, watching her flit between plants and books with the kind of excitement that only she seemed to possess. The realisation that he had a crush on her had grown stronger with every bouquet she brought him, each one slowly wilting or drying out under his care despite his best efforts.

When she playfully teased him about his inability to keep her gifts alive—remarking that she’d thought a magical shop would do the job for him—Aemond could only smile sheepishly. He had no explanation, other than perhaps his unfamiliarity with the deeper, older magics of the place. Maybe, he mused, if he had studied Valyrian magic more closely, he’d have been able to keep her flowers flourishing. 

Then one day, they found it—The Glass House. It appeared out of nowhere. He had restocked some sections of the shop while she was aimlessly wandering around again. His eyes sometimes drifted over to her. Watching her read passages out of books quietly. Making a note of which book she held longer so he could give it to her when he bought another bouquet from her.

They both turned into the same aisle when the door appeared right in front of them. Just right at the end of the rows of bookshelves where usually a wall was.

She stared at him with big eyes. “Is this normal?” She looked up at him with a bewildered expression. He nodded nonchalantly, he was used to it. “The bookshop likes to play.” She giggled gently at his deadpan words.

“Tell me more.” Her bright smile made his lips quirk up slightly. “Well, I don’t know how the magic works. The old owner couldn’t tell me either. But I found out the doors mirror the moods, likes and needs of the person standing in front of it.”

“Like the Room of Requirement?” Aemond snorted at her question. “More or less. The door stays and only disappears when it isn’t needed anymore. To make room for another door. A few doors had disappeared when my mentor died. It felt like the shop had mourned him.” 

He let his eyes wander over her face. To check if she understood what he was saying. She nodded lowly. She seemed to be deep in thought. Mulling over his words carefully. “There are multiple doors in the bookshop. Not one like in Harry Potter. Maybe even hidden ones. But most of the time they are prominent.”

She nodded softly. Looking at the door that had appeared in front of them. Vines seemed to wind around the wooden front like they were alive. Forming a large tree taking up nearly the whole door. To her, it seemed like the tree in the Nordic myth, Yggdrasil.  "So if I would go through one of those doors, it is like I would go through a portal. Like the wardrobe in Narnia?” Aemond snorted as he put another book onto a shelf, holding “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ” in his hands. Coincidence? In this shop, less likely.

“I see the shop more like the Tardis.” He mumbled. He was reaching up to restock the “Lord of the Rings” bundle packs back on the fantasy shelf. A classic he seems to run out of every week.

“Because the store seems small at first glance but it gets bigger with every new door opening?” She stood beside him, holding the stacks of Agatha Christi novels for him. “Yeah, like that.” He smiled at her, a rare occurrence that had happened more often since they spent time together. She hummed thoughtfully. “I like my Narnia reference more.” Aemond chuckled. “I am hurt.” He pouted playfully at her, making her giggle.

Suddenly the door opened next to her. She shrieked, which made him look up at her. His body was alarmed. Ready to fight whoever dared to scare her. He blushed slightly when he realised what he was thinking. And that he would fight a door for her.

Her fright was not long living. She was too curious to be scared for long. “I can make it up to you. Go on! Go inside and I follow you, Doctor.” He laughed gently. Putting away the last of crime mystery books before turning to the green door. “Well… Geronimo!” He mumbled playfully into her ear. Making her blush.

He turned the golden knop. With a gnarling sound, it slowly opened. A breeze of warm wind blew into their faces gently. 

Aemond held the door open for her to go inside. She shyly thanked him. Her eyes grew big at the sight of what lay behind the inconspicuous door. Aemond had to keep up with her as she rushed inside the door.

She stopped in the middle of the room. Her breathing hitched in her throat as she took in the room overgrown with lush green plants. Her smile reached up to her ears. Her small body vibrates from excitement. “Look! A greenhouse library!” He smiled as he watched her flitter around the room.

Strangely, it wasn’t as humid as a typical greenhouse. It was pleasantly warm or cool, depending on what they needed at the time. On either side of the house stood hip-high plant tables made of stone, filled with plants both known and unknown, their blooms and colourful leaves on display for visitors.

In one corner stood two cosy-looking emerald armchairs with a table between them. They looked so inviting as if they had been waiting for him and his companion. Friend? he wondered about what he should call his shop neighbour. His little flower girl? His heart pounded against his ribcage. What was he thinking? His little flower girl? She was barely his friend—acquaintances, maybe? Slowly he started to confuse himself, distracting him from marvelling and listening to her.

But his heart knew what his mind refused to admit: he wanted her. He wanted to explore his magical bookshop with her.

They moved on. Going into the garden section. She already held three books in her hand. Opening them at random pages to read them at the same time. It was an endearing sight he didn’t like to avert his eyes.

She talked animatedly about the various plants, suggesting that he put her half-dead flowers from the front of the shop in the Glass House so he wouldn’t be so sad when they died. She stopped short when she realized she was alone in another corner of the greenhouse, having abandoned the orchids to return to the centre of the room—back to the two emerald armchairs. Back to him.

The sight of her wide-eyed excitement as they entered The Glass House was enough to make Aemond's heart leap. Plants of all kinds surrounded them, lush greenery spilling over the stone plant tables. Despite the greenhouse setting, the air was a perfect balance of warmth and coolness, catering to their comfort. In the centre of the room were two emerald armchairs, an inviting sanctuary in the midst of the botanical splendour.

He watched her eagerly explore the space, picking up books on gardening and flipping through their pages with a joyful energy that he found utterly endearing. She chattered on about the plants, suggesting with a grin that maybe he could bring her dying bouquets here, where the magic could keep them alive.

Aemond was about to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His mind wandered to the sensation of her small, scarred hand in his earlier—a hand that had felt soft, delicate, and utterly natural in his. He couldn't stop the warmth that spread through him, a feeling he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with. What was she to him, really? His heart wanted to call her something more than just a shop neighbour or even a friend. Something like "his flower girl" seemed to fit, but it made his chest tighten with a strange kind of longing. 

As he stood there, lost in thought, he barely noticed her wandering off to the other side of The Glass House. He only snapped back to attention when he realized she had returned, her presence suddenly close again. She held out her hand, a playful glint in her eyes. "I saw another door opening," she said softly, her voice filled with excitement. "Your bookshop is telling me something. Want to come with me?"

He looked down at her outstretched hand, feeling a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Hesitation flashed briefly before he took her hand, its warmth seeping into his. “Let’s explore the rooms together, then,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with resolve.

She led him through the new door, and they entered a room unlike any other he had ever seen. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, filled with swirling stars, planets, and constellations that shimmered and moved like they were alive. The smell of ancient books filled the air, wrapping around them like a comforting, familiar blanket. It was peaceful, serene—a perfect contrast to the excitement they’d felt in The Glass House.

They both stood in silence for a moment, awestruck by the beauty of the room. Later, they would come to call it "The Sorcerer’s Room," convinced it had once belonged to a powerful wizard—a figure out of legend, someone like Merlin.

But for now, Aemond was content. Content to explore the wonders of his magical bookshop, not alone this time, but with her by his side. And more than the magic of the shop, it was her wide-eyed wonder and infectious joy that captivated him the most. As they wandered deeper into the room, he felt her hand tighten around his, and for the first time in a long while, he realized how much he enjoyed sharing this world with someone who made it feel even more magical.

Since the discovery of The Glass House and The Sorcerer’s Room, she had spent most of her time in both rooms—studying the plants or curling up in the emerald armchair to read. She looked like a cat when she did it.  

In The Sorcerer’s Room, she would lie on the floor and point out different constellations. He would lie next to her, hanging on to every word that left her lips.

“Black tea, steeped for nearly ten minutes with a dash of milk.” He set the large yellow cup with white daisies in front of her on the small coffee table. She smiled softly up at him.  

“Thank you,” she said. She had lost track of time as she read in the emerald chair in The Glass House, a blanket she had crocheted herself thrown over her lap. At his sweet gesture, her heart thudded harder against her rib cage.

His heart leapt again at her soft smile.  

“Am I here often enough now that you’ve already memorized my tea-drinking habits?” she chuckled softly.  

He grinned involuntarily. “It’s an odd way to drink tea,” he teased, “but I like odd things,” he wanted to add.

She giggled softly, making his heart flutter again, before taking a sip. She closed her eyes and let out a content hum.  

“Perfect,” she whispered, her bright eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the light in The Glass House, like stars sparkling in the night sky.

His body warmed at her smile. A rare smile crept across his own, thinner lips. He leaned slightly closer, inhaling the floral scent of her perfume—so fresh and light. He wanted to fall asleep with his face nestled in her neck, to wake up to her warmth every morning.

The realization hit him hard. His body grew tense, every muscle and fibre rigid as he looked down at her. His knees nearly buckled as he stared.  

Her perfect little smile haunted his dreams and every waking moment. Her eyes hypnotized him whenever they caught his gaze. She was an enchantress, though she didn’t know it.

He cleared his throat and sat down in the other emerald green armchair next to her, trying to focus on his book. But every five seconds, he lost his place, and after a few paragraphs, he had no idea what he had been reading.

The reason was clear: she, his shop neighbour. The sweet florist next door. A woman so kind and warm that he wanted to envelop her in his arms, keep her close, and never let her go.

He was growing possessive. He caught himself growling at male customers from time to time, surprising even himself. He had never acted like this before. Not with his ex, Alys, or with Floris, the girl he dated for one semester at university.

This was different—a deep, primal urge. To be close to her. To take care of her. To provide for her. To be hers, just as he wanted her to be his.

The more he thought about her, the more horrified he became at how deeply in love he had fallen. His heart raced, his hands grew sweaty, and they trembled lightly, clammy with nervous energy.

The most fatal mistake he made at that moment was looking over at her. His lone, piercing pale violet eye drank in her worried features.  

Strands of hair had fallen into her face, and he watched as her nose wrinkled slightly, one strand tickling it. Her bright eyes examined him carefully, her worry growing the longer he sat like a statue in the emerald armchair beside her.

“Everything alright, Aemond?” she asked, her voice soft. The sound of his name on her lips was enough to make him swoon. So sweet, so innocent.  

“Yes,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “All is well. Never been better.” He rambled, trying to regain his composure.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced. He felt trapped, like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a predator. What was she doing to him?

He couldn’t keep feeling like this—trapped in his own body. It was a sensation he had tried to avoid since childhood, an unhealthy way to cope with anxiety. He knew that well enough.  

Aemond abruptly stood from the armchair and rushed out of the room into the main selling area of the bookshop, trying to hide between the shelves. But he could hear her soft footsteps following him. She had thrown the blanket aside and followed him as fast as her shorter legs could carry her. 

He tried to outrun her, taking sharp turns every few steps but suddenly stopped at a dead end. Cursing himself for not paying attention to his own shop’s layout, he glared at the wall. A part of him wished for a new door to appear so he could disappear, but nothing happened. The wall remained still, unmoving.  

She chased after him the best she could. Her legs were much shorter than his, and while he could take one step, she needed four to keep up. She tried anyway, her eyes fixed on him as he turned corners.

But one of his turns was too fast. He managed to shake her off, leaving her out of breath and disoriented. Her mind raced, trying to figure out where he had gone. Her gut told her to go left, but her head insisted on right.  

Finally, she found him, standing rigid at the dead end. His back stiffened as she approached. "Why are you running from me?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with confusion. He didn’t turn, as if trying to ignore her.

She stepped closer. "Did I do something wrong?"  

"No!" he immediately shot back. She jumped, startled by the suddenness of his response, a gasp escaping her lips.

Hearing the sound, he turned toward her. He had scared her—a thing he vowed he would never do. "I’m sorry," he murmured, reaching out, and she let him touch her arm. Her baby blue jumper felt soft under his hand. "I’m so sorry," he repeated, his voice quieter this time.

"It’s alright," she said, stepping closer. "I’m just a jumpy person."  

She looked up at him, her eyes shining even in the dim light, like stars in the night sky.  

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered under his breath, but she heard it, smiling bashfully.  

"Thank you," she replied, her cheeks heating up.

They moved closer—toe to toe, chest to chest. Aemond looked down at her while she looked up.  

"You have beautiful eyes," she mumbled.  

"No, I don’t," he responded, his tone harsher than he intended.

She frowned at his self-deprecation. "They’re both unique in their own way, and I think they’re beautiful." Her protest was met with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  

"Don’t tell me what to think," she said, glaring at him playfully.

He chuckled. "If you say so."  

She huffed in disbelief, frustrated by how low his self-esteem was. Words weren’t enough, so she let her actions speak for her. She leaned up and kissed him gently.

His breath caught in his throat as their lips met, and a tingling sensation swept over his body. Slowly, he pulled her closer by the waist, careful not to make her stumble. Her arms wrapped around his slim frame, her fingers digging into the wool of his jumper.

The kiss lingered, electric sensations running through both of them. Eyes closed, they held each other tightly. But eventually, they had to come up for air.  

Their chests heaved, eyes wide and pupils blown, but big grins spread across their swollen lips. They didn’t need words—silence spoke volumes, carrying more meaning than a thousand words ever could.

[allidoistrytrytryy]

a moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on me (cove holden x reader)

ao3 version here

summary: Cove Holden and the black underwear (from Patreon moment 2, if you know you know), except it's his own surprise on a random Friday (smut with feelings)

word count: 3,116 words

tags: smut, porn with feelings, porn without plot, light dom/sub, switching, sexual intimacy, they're in love your honour, author has been feeling insane about cove for years and lately about the black underwear so here we are (female reader implied but i tried to be as non-descriptive as possible, can be a male trans reader too)

You were exhausted, your fingers rubbed at your eyelids and at your forehead, trying to take the headache away.

You had had a large project at your job, long hours, and planning that took too much of your time. You came home late, too late, so late sometimes Cove would already be in bed or asleep on the couch, always waiting for you (even though you had told him to sleep, not to wait up for you if you were too late, but he insisted every time).

You sighed at the thought of your fiancee. You missed him too much, missed being able to have time with him, going out on weekends or lazing around after work to watch a show you would fall asleep through anyway, snuggled in his warmth.

You hadn’t been able to do that in more than two weeks, always working, always in contact with your coworkers to continue the project even deep into the night. You were glad today was the presentation, and then you were taking a few days off, away from everything.

You felt the fear in your gut at the presentation. You were nerves on legs, as you always were when you had to talk in front of an audience. You knew that would never change, the way you spaced out, waiting and waiting, at your desk.

Your phone buzzed on your desk, which took you out of your thoughts and the ball in your stomach. A smile crept up on your face before you even had the time to read what the text said, at the name appearing on your screen.

Cove.

Romeo: You have this, show them what you’re made of. Love you. <3

You smiled hard, your finger rubbing at the heart emoji with the text, at the picture you had set as his picture on your phone. A picture of him asleep on your couch, snuggled under a blanket, his long hair freed from its usual low bun.

You hadn’t been able to resist the urge to take a picture, and your fingers had gone through his hair.

You sent him a heart back, now fired back up. You could do this, go home and kiss your fiancee senselessly until you fell asleep snuggled into his warmth.

And the presentation happened. It went well, and you shared smiles and compliments with your colleagues. Sighs of relief. You could all go home peacefully tonight.

Which you did. You sprinted to your car when the hour came, your colleagues’ laughter following you down the elevator. They all knew you were eager to be home again, to be with the fiancee you talked about too much. (You couldn’t help it. You loved Cove Holden too much, loved him since you were eight. What could you do?)

The drive went quickly and you arrived at your little place a bit further from the city in record time. When you parked in your spot, next to Cove’s car who was already there and home, you realized you had forgotten to send him a text. You bit your lip, hoping he hadn’t waited for it.

Five unread texts with Cove inquiring about the presentation, worried. Shit.

You climbed the stairs of the apartment complex quickly, your keys already in hand. You entered.

”I’m home! Sorry, I completely forgot to answer your texts, I’m so so...” You interrupted yourself by the sight of your living room, your coffee table with a range of plates and food, and even a cake.

Hands sneaked around your waist, a kiss on your hair, a chest against your back. Your fiancee enveloped you, mint, citrus and this particular ocean smell in your nose and you finally relaxed. “Hi sweetheart, how was it?” he asked gently.

You turned around in his arms and, as always, you had to crane your neck to look up into his eyes. You hadn't been fortunate with height while Cove had had too much of it over the years. His arms circled your waist. “Went smoothly, we can finally breathe now,” you answered and got on your tiptoes to kiss him quickly, which he answered with that giddy smile he never lost around you. “Now, what’s all of this, Covie?”

”Well, I knew it would go perfectly since it’s you,” you rolled your eyes at the remark but the smile betrayed you, the blush even more. “and wanted to celebrate it. I got your favorite things from your favorite places and got a cake.”

Cove looked like it wasn’t even an effort, and it wasn’t in your relationship. You both made so much effort, so much again and again for each other that it was just normal. But, it didn't change the fact that you were always touched by every gesture.

You still couldn’t phantom how dear you were to this man sometimes. You still couldn’t understand how your heart never seemed to stop expanding for him, taking in every piece, every detail, every word and action from him.

Your hands dragged his face to you, to kiss him deeply, like you had wanted to since you had finished the project. He sighed against your lips, that content sigh, his lips and tongue entangled with yours. An intimacy you could never get enough of.

”I love you so much,” you whispered against his lips and his eyes misted over, your crybaby, always yours.

”I love you too,” he whispered as if he didn’t want to break the calm of the moment, wanted to stay in this moment suspended in time.

Until you dragged him to the couch to drape yourself over him, eating and barely paying attention to whatever was on the TV as background noise. You talked about the project. He talked about his day and his own job.

When you finished, he pushed you to the bathroom. “Go take a bath, relax, I got the dishes,” Cove reassured and you pouted.

”But, I can help, I didn’t get dinner so it should be me,” you whined in his shoulder and he laughed while pushing in the bathroom while you couldn’t do anything.

”No way. Go, now,” he kissed your cheek and you still pouted as you got into the bathroom.

You did well on what he had told you to do, spending too much time in a hot bath until it got cold, your body wrapped in your comfortable fuzzy robe. You finally stepped out to get to the bedroom, itching to put your pajamas on, and fall asleep next to Cove.

The too-large shirt was in your hands, actually just one of Cove’s shirts you had stolen and never returned, as you did since you were teenagers, even before you were officially truly together. You hadn’t realized why the light was so dim, hadn't realized Cove was on the bed.

You turned your head slowly and you felt your knees wobble, felt your eyes widen until they almost popped out of your skull.

You had seen Cove in all types of clothes and nakedness over the years. You knew him and his body by heart, the moles, the sleeve on his right arm that you loved to kiss all over, the dips, and where the redness would creep. But right now? You were speechless.

Cove fucking Holden was sat against the headboard, half-lidded eyes on you, but you could see the blush high on his face and ears and down his neck. He was naked, well, except for the underwear but it was the underwear that made you want to scream.

It was black but it barely hid anything, the green happy trail visible from that delicious V-shape you liked to bite, down a dangerous low dip. Straps followed his hips and they showed his hipbones. You almost wanted to ask him to get up and show the back, to see how it looked over that ass you loved too much.

”Surprise,” he simply said, wanting to sound sultry but ending up at excited, embarrassed, waiting.

The shirt slipped through your fingers, forgotten on the floor, and you were still speechless. “What...are you...” you swallowed hard, heat at the back of your neck, on your ears.

Large shoulders were shrugged and he tilted his head, “I… we talked about how I wanted to try some...lingerie out and I thought it would be a good idea for a celebration.”

He was still waiting and you could see how waiting affected him, the redness ever more present on his face and down his neck, the quick jostle of his knee. You approached the bed slowly, eyes laser-focused on him.

You could feel a restraint slowly unfurling in your gut, a wait. You had missed Cove and his hands on you, you had missed the everyday intimacy but you had also missed the sexual intimacy you shared. You both couldn’t have enough of each other sometimes, a pull between your hearts and your bodies.

Your hands settled on the edge of the bed, and you crawled slowly to him, putting up a show for his eyes and his eyes only. The robe dipped down and he gulped, his eyes on your cleavage, on your bare chest visible underneath. You smirked, finding a place between his legs, hands on his thighs, so so close to the dangerous piece of underwear that threatened your composure.

”So, you decided to gift my eyes with this, baby?” you whispered, a finger playing with a strap at his hip. “You’re way too good for me.”

Cove gulped again and you wanted to bite at his Adam’s apple, leaving marks on his pale skin until everybody would know. He shook his head.

”What? You don't agree that you’re too good for me?” you asked, a little pout at the words, your eyes on his face. You were playing the game of how sultry you could be, how much you could push it until his own restraints broke. “Maybe I should show you.”

Your hands traced the straps and the edges of the underwear. Your mouth found a nipple as your hands traced but never touched where you could feel a hardness growing and growing. His moans hit your ears and you smiled, your tongue playing from one nipple to another.

”You don't have to...” he tried to say, his moans high, and god, did you love how vocal he could be. He was always so vocal, so good.

”I want to, so be a good boy, baby,” you whispered, bit at the side of his chest, so muscular, so pretty. He moaned higher, hips bucking against your chest. Your mouth traveled down and down, following the green trail of hair. “Driving me crazy with this, Covie.”

Your hands caressed the hardness over the fabric, but your mouth found the tip already out with how hard he was. The dip was so low that the tip was the only thing visible, so your tongue swirled around it, the saltiness hitting your tastebuds. You moaned, fingers at the straps.

”Oh my god," Cove whined loudly, hips bucking again, the tip making its way deeper into your mouth. “Shit, sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to...”

You shook your head and pulled at the straps downward, until the underwear sat underneath his cock and you pushed more and more into your mouth, desperate for more, to make him feel even better.

”Fuck, fuck, fuck," you heard him repeat and you wanted to smile, to tease him like you always did because he only ever cursed in those moments, so gone, so desperate.

More and more, until you felt tears in your eyes, until you breathed through your nose, hands at what you couldn’t fit down your throat because of how big he was. But you loved it, thighs clenching to relieve the ache that formed in between.

It wasn’t about you, even though you could spend hours between his legs, to look at his head thrown back, his eyes closed and face scrunched up, like now. He looked out of this world, long hair around his head, down his shoulders, redness still at his face, sweat down his neck and on his chest. You couldn’t believe he was yours still.

”Shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna… I’m...” Cove’s voice rang out and you felt how tight his balls were getting, see how his abs tightened. He was close, and a part of you wanted him to cum in your mouth, but you had another plan.

You popped off his hardness with a loud pop, saliva around your mouth, and his head rose up, his eyes opened in question. You crawled back up his body, your hands opening your robe, until you could throw it on the floor beside the large bed. You settled on his lap, hands on his shoulders.

You swatted his hands away before they could fall on your hips, and you saw the small pout on his face that you kissed away with a laugh. “Sorry, no touching baby, be good a bit longer for me,” you kissed along his face, nibbled at his neck, leaving a few hickeys as your hips moved, your wetness rubbing on his cock.

Cove whined still against your shoulder, “But you look so good… And you’re so wet,” he moaned, groaned. “Let me touch you, please,” he begged but you shook your head, your hips rising up to catch the tip at the edge of your wetness, of your warmth.

You slowly sunk down, your own moan unable to stay in your throat at the delicious burn his cock always gave you, that fullness that always took your breath away. You hummed as you sank lower and lower.

His eyes were closed tightly, his body trembled when you finished back on his lap, the length fully inside you. You stayed still, enjoying the moment, and his hands stayed beside his hips, beside the underwear that was still underneath his cock, trapping his legs in place. He was taut, all muscles tight and restrained.

”Please, please, move," Cove begged and you could only answer with your hips moving up and slamming back down.

Your moans intertwined with Cove’s, as you rode him, slowly, building a faster rhythm with every breath, every moan. You rode him, a deep pleasure building in your stomach, pleasure built with his moans in your ear, your teeth at his shoulder.

You rode him until your thighs trembled and his hips, so restrained until now, slammed up in response. You almost screamed his name. It had hit that one spot deep inside and your body had fallen down onto his chest.

All restraint broke in his body, his hands at your hips, so tight you knew you would feel them still tomorrow, “Sorry, I can’t...” he breathed out, before his hips slammed up again and again, his hands guiding your hips down every time.

“Fuck, Cove, Cove,” you repeated his name, your forehead on his shoulder, your eyes on the spot that joined your two bodies together, his cock sliding in and out.

His name on your lips broke him again and you lost all control you had on the situation. His hands manhandled you on your back, almost ripped the underwear that had started it all off his legs, and he had your legs folded against his chest before he slid back in.

The breath was knocked out of your chest, your hands tugged at his hair, and your eyes were on him always. The muscles bulging with every movement, the sweat trickling down, the pure ferocity and desperation on his face.

Cove wasn't always pushed to this side of dominance, if not ever. Not to this degree. You both liked to switch, to play with what were the limits and new things, but falling back into lovemaking most of the time. Here, your gentle sweet Cove was gone, to leave a rougher Cove you loved too, your moans encouraging him.

”Don’t stop, Cove, don’t stop," you begged, hands desperate in his hair, hips moving to answer every thrust deep inside, against the spot. You could barely talk and he could only groan and moan, his own mouth busy on your nipples, back arched.

You were getting closer and closer, and he could feel it, the way you arched more and more, the way you were tighter and tighter around him, the way your moans only got louder. His eyes were on your face, a hand moving down from your hip to the nub of nerves, so wet from everything.

Your head tilted back into the pillow, “Cove, I’m… I’m gonna cum,” you moaned, warned and he hummed in response, his thumb insistent on your clit, in time with every thrust. Your back arched even more, the pleasure exploding in your stomach, behind your eyes, and in your whole body until you were left a trembling thing underneath Cove.

His thrusts slowed down, but your hips moved and you shook your head. “No, don't stop, need you to cum,” you croaked out, voice spent, hands still tugging at his hair.

”I don’t want to hurt you,” Cove moaned over you, eyes half-lidded on your face, but you shook your head again. You tugged him closer, forehead against his.

”You can’t hurt me. Please Cove, I love you, please,” you begged, his thrusts were erratic and you could tell he was close.

”I love you, fuck, I love you so much, I love you," he repeated against your cheek, and you hummed, answered back, until he moaned louder.

Until the final thrust, until he came deep inside you with your name on his lips and you kissed his face.

Cove detangled himself from you only to bring back a wet washcloth, to wipe you and himself. You only got up to go the toilets, fast and impatient, to find him back in bed, under the covers.

You cuddled in his arms, your cheek on his shoulder, legs entangled to look at him. Content, beautiful. It was magical, as always, to go to sleep with him every night, to have him be the last thing you always saw at night.

”Well, that was a nice surprise," you giggled and he smiled lazily. “I’ll be the one to surprise you next time.”

He groaned lightly but laughed, forehead hitting yours gently. “If you want me to really die, sure,” and you could only laugh, his lips on your eyelids, yours reaching up to kiss his eyebrows. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

You hummed, “I love you, Covie.”

His smile grew larger, and his cheeks turned red as always, “I love you too.”

And you fell asleep, safe, happy, home, where you belonged.

[magnetosupporter]

Sooo

lately since ive been reading the comics and watching the '92's show I have come up with a thought that i guess only tumblr fandom may welcome it and i'd to share it with you guys

well, since watching xmen 97 i have been completly in love with rogneto, and even went to read the comics to know more about them and their relationship and what had lead them towards the end so she actually end up marrying another guy, and dont get me wrong, i do enjoy watching gambit and think he's a funny character, cool powers and memorable lines, but i do not like to see him with rogue, but ive came to be cool with this fact since he makes her happy.

ever since watched EP. 5 i had the thought that he was somehow ""childish"" on what he said to rogue when she taught him about her previous relationship, and at first, i did get it, he was hurt, hurt to see she choosing somebody else. choosing someone he thought was no good (in all ways possible) and most important, choosing someone who could give her what he could not.

I mean, he's not wrong, indeed, there are some things deeper than skin, everyone knows that, but not this, not for her. I think, love is so much more than sex, but sex is also a part of love. You can say you love someone without ever have touched them, but sometimes, some moments, when you're so in love you wish to... kiss them. To hold their hands, to hug them, to strip them out of their clothes and touch them bare, kind of touch so intimate, so deep, to bring happiness and pleasure to the other and get yours from it. Its not the thought "someone has their needs", we can live without sex, its okay, but sometimes you wish more, and you are not wrong for dreaming big. Rogue has the right to dream big, to love, to touch, to give herself to someone and be loved, touched, desired. She has the right to have dirty fantasies and even, maybe, dream of having children of her own.

It is unfair to her to remind her what she alredy knows. She never forgot her love for gambit, for the thing deeper than her skin, but with that she was also reminded that even with happy moments she couldn't kiss him desperatly without bringing him pain. It is not causing herself pain that scares her, but hurting someone she loves the most. And we gotta agree that he saying that to her was probaply the most unfair thing someone could have ever said to another. Gambit was wrong, and unfair. And i do think he was childish in this moment, even though he was also hurt.

With saying this to her, I think he scared her, wronged her for choosing herself, her dreams and needs over love. Im not saying "she should have choose sex over love", because I know her moment with Erik was long gone, and probably wasnt so deep as the present one with gambit, but i do know she loved Erik, as he was wholeheartly given to her. There was just so more complex things between rogneto than i could say right now, but the point is: she has the right of being loved, and choosing this for her, even if it isnt with somebody we would like to.

She has the right of choosing herself and not being called selfish for that, because she is not wrong. She cannot be wrong in this matter, its her life we are talking about. We know how much of a hell her powers are to her, so, how can you blame her for choosing a path that wrong bring her or the ones she loves pain??

I do know that in the comics she learns how to control her powers and so many more things, but im talking about EP. 5, that little moment when everything seemed so... hard to go thru. Do not wrong my girl, she deserves to be happy and dont even try saying shit about Erik to favor your r*my, because Magneto may has done plenty wrong things in his life, but he also loved her more than he could put into words. He loves her in every universe, even if she does not choose him.

(not to forget the difference between their reaction on being rejected, but this is a matter for another time)

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 11: Sweetheart

Ao3 | 3.1k Words | Sweetheart's POV

Darlin' spills. David makes pancakes. Angel sleeps through breakfast. Geordi makes really good coffee. Colm and Sweetheart gather some details.

TW: Discussions of violence, assault, sexual assault, murder, and dead bodies. Complex family situations.

Once it was all laid out in front of you, you were surprised that you hadn’t put it together on your own. You supposed that was some sort of complex self-deprecation, a deep seeded disappointment in your own abilities that you seemed to carry around like it was your fucking job. 

No, it wasn’t your job. Your job was solving problems. Your job was making connections that nobody else could, or nobody else cared to. You loved puzzles. You loved the satisfying buzz in your chest when you finally settled all of the disparate pieces of a mystery into their rightful place. It always filled you up entirely for a few days. And then there was another one to solve. 

You’d never put the pieces of Trouble together, despite how hard you had tried. You’d only known them for a few years before Gabe died and they left the 10-19, and even that was a distant relation. They seemed to hold themself at arms’ length, away from everyone, especially those who attempted to get close. You were still in the police academy when you met them, with some delusional idea that you might fix the system from the inside instead of getting eaten alive by it. You were so busy being relieved of that idea that you had hardly noticed them come and go from your life. 

They were just another firefighter, not part of the tight knit group that Milo considered more his family than his actual blood. You had enough trouble integrating with that group that you couldn’t have possibly spared the energy that it took to get through their rough exterior and see their situation for what it was. 

But you knew abuse. You had watched it spread its bloody fingers across the lives of countless people. Your clients were often battered spouses, hoping that you’d find evidence of their partner cheating so that they could receive a clean break in the divorce. You knew that sometimes people got quiet, made themself small to avoid being targeted. You knew that sometimes they did what Tanker did; got big, got tough, made themself deadly to cross, deadly to even touch. You should have known the second you’d extended your hand for a shake and received a sneer in reply that they were in trouble. 

So it was with a sinking feeling of satisfaction that the pieces of the puzzle fell into place when you opened the door in the middle of the night and were met with their bruised and battered features. All of the disparate pieces of Tank fell into place in front of you, and you sighed with realization. David was standing behind them, his spouse wrapped around his arm sleepily, his free hand resting on Trouble’s far shoulder. He seemed to be trying to pull them both in towards himself, to shield them from some unseen threat. You pushed your hair out of your face and huffed, pulling Milo’s plush robe tighter around your waist as you opened the door for them to step inside. 

“Come on,” you said softly, “let me make some coffee and we’ll get started.” 

Trouble and David were bringing you a job. Nobody showed up on your particular doorstep in the dead of the night for a friendly visit. It was your job to solve problems, and so that was what you would do for them. Just as soon as you had some caffeine in your system. 

Quinn Fox was a dangerous man. He was the sort of man you’d like to put on the actual police’s radar. You were a private investigator, which meant that you dealt with cheating spouses and petty theft and runaway teens. You didn’t spend too much of your time tracking down actual murderers, which, if what Trouble was indicating turned out to be true, was exactly what you were looking at. They had a hard time vocalizing it, putting into words the facts of what Quinn was capable of, what they had seen him do. It was like they were afraid to say a word against him, to condemn him even now, even as they stared down the barrel of his cruelty themself. 

It broke down like this: 

Tank was a teenager when Quinn first targeted them. You saw it often enough in missing persons cases. Assholes like Fox found isolated, often abused teens who didn’t have anybody else to confide their feelings to, anybody else who took them seriously. Then, those assholes shaped that poor kid into their victim, their accomplice. Pretty often that kid ended up dead or doing something heinous for their abuser. You’d seen a lot of kids twisted into bait for more victims, used to draw more vulnerable people into the orbit of their abuser. 

Trouble was a survivor, though. That, at the very least, you had known from the moment you laid eyes on them. They weren’t the type of person that bent when someone tried to push their boundaries, and they weren’t the type of person to go to ground to protect themself. If Quinn kept pushing, they would be the one to go nuclear. 

Quinn was a killer. He was a sadist. He was a rapist. He was exactly the kind of man who made your blood boil. You wanted to bring him down. You wanted to put him in a cell for the rest of his life. 

But you weren’t a cop. Most of the cops you had the misfortune of knowing were men very much like Quinn Fox. You were a private eye. You didn’t even carry a gun. 

“He’s smart.” Tanker said, staring resolutely at their hands. “He’s smarter than me. He knows he can’t get anything from me that I don’t give him, so he’ll go for people that he can hurt. People that I care about.” 

“I understand.” You said softly, your face severe. You felt a little ridiculous, talking in your professional voice when still in your pajamas and slippers. Milo was still knocked out in bed, bone tired after the shift he’d worked with David the previous morning. You didn’t know how David was still on his feet, still buzzing with energy, still upright and listening intently as Trouble talked. He didn’t show a single sign of fatigue, even as his spouse snored on his shoulder.

There was a lot of background work to do, and in the wee hours of the morning you started putting in requests to police precincts for reports that matched up with Trouble’s descriptions. You needed to know what the police did about all of this, even if they hadn’t tied the crimes to the same asshole. 

David and Trouble didn’t sleep. They sat, silent and still, in the living room while you worked in your home office. There wasn’t a comfort that you could offer them that would help. All you could do for them was put Quinn behind bars. 

You retreated to your bedroom as the sun rose, the grey dawn breaking the tense silence that had fallen over your house. It was new, actually. You and Milo had only moved in a few months ago. Most of the walls were still bare and the space still felt unfamiliar, alien. You moved through it in the dark anyway, unwilling to startle Milo awake. Instead, you calmored up onto the bed, patting down the luxurious duvet until you found him. He was curled up on your side of the bed, his face pressed into your pillow. You smiled, pushing his curls out of his face. 

“Hey, love,” you said softly. Milo hummed, turned in towards you. 

“Hey,” he croaked, voice slurred with sleep, “hey, Sweetheart.” 

“We’ve got company.” You sighed into his sleep-warm skin. “The Shaws. And Tanker.” 

Milo shifted, alarmed, and sat up. He shivered as the blankets fell away from his bare chest. You couldn’t help but run your hands over his skin as soon as you saw it, warm and toned and soft beneath your touch. 

“Why?” He grumbled, sounding far more petulant than you imagined he meant to. You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. 

“They’ve got a job for me.” You said simply. That was enough for Milo to understand. 

You relinquished Milo’s robe in favor of your own even though you swore it was far less comfortable. He stumbled out to the living room with you and was met with a bundle of throw blankets, snoring softly in the dark and cozy space. Milo laughed softly, lifting the blankets to get a good look at the face under them. 

“Jesus, you’d think they were the firefighter with how hard they crash.” He whispered, leaning into you. You wrapped an arm around his waist and made for the kitchen. 

The stove was on. The coffee pot was sputtering to life. David was rummaging through your fridge like he did every time he came over and got a little too socially anxious. Trouble was sitting at the kitchen island, spinning slowly on one of the stools, eyes distant and exhausted. 

“Fuck, ain’t you a sight.” Milo huffed, patting Trouble on the back gently. Maybe it was the long fucking day they’d had, but instead of stiffening and pulling away, they leaned into his touch, head resting on his shoulder. Milo shot a glance to you, his face somewhere between surprise and alarm, and shifted so they could rest more comfortably against him. It was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen them, the most willing for touch or comfort. It almost made you uncomfortable. 

“I’m making breakfast.” David announced, emerging from your fridge with a carton of eggs, butter, and milk. “Pancakes. We um… I think we could use some pancakes.” 

“Cap,” Milo tutted, looking David over, “have you slept?” David grumbled in reply, a noncommittal grunt that told Milo all he needed to hear. 

“Pancakes sound great, David.” You said. 

You poured coffee, black for you and David, cream for Milo. You found out that Trouble took their coffee with so much sugar and cream that it made your stomach turn to pour. You did anyway, and relished how they cupped it close to their chest, coveted the warmth as they leaned further into Milo. 

David made some mean pancakes. Eggs, bacon, chopped fruit and powdered sugar he dug from the back of your pantry. He was insanely talented in the kitchen, even dead on his feet, even exhausted. The four of you ate in silence, plates and mugs clinking, David setting aside a plate for his better half. 

Once your plate was cleared, it was time to get to work. 

Colm Greer was far from your favorite person on the planet. Milo had made it quite clear the kind of man his father had been growing up, and despite having gotten sober and attending weekly Gambler’s Anonymous meetings, Milo struggled to afford him any grace and forgiveness. 

Colm made you feel uncomfortable because, despite the fact that you were aggressively on Milo’s side, you liked him. The two of you were similar. Driven, focused, too dedicated for your own good. Colm was working within a fucked system and he bore the scars of that, mostly in the form of stress-induced substance abuse, but you were annoyed to find upon first meeting that he was a good guy. When you two had occasion to work on a case together, it was like there were two of you working in sync, in tandem.

That was what you needed for this. Somebody with more connections, more resources, more information than you had. 

You texted Colm, set a time and a place. Milo and David went back in for another shift, and it seemed like David didn’t want to be separated from anybody at the moment. The four of them piled into David’s truck on top of each other, yawning. You waved them off as you slipped into your work clothes. You left just after dawn.

Bean Me Up was the best coffee shop in Dahlia, and you felt particularly qualified to declare that, given how much caffeine you took in on a weekly basis. It also had the benefit of being two blocks down from the 10-19 and a five minute drive from your house. It was run almost exclusively by a slight, nervous looking guy named Geordi who talked animatedly with Asher about Star Trek and whatever other nerdy sci-fi shit they liked. He smiled, adjusting his glasses as you stepped inside and handed off your usual before you even got the order off your tongue. 

“On the house,” Geordi insisted as you reached for your wallet, “nothing but the best for my favorite Detective.” 

“Not a detective,” you grinned, pulling out a ten and tossing it in the tip jar, “and certainly I can’t be your favorite.” 

“You literally saved my life.” Geordi waved you off, and you raised your to-go cup in cheers. A few months back, Bean Me Up had been robbed. Some desperate, ill advised kid with a gun had cleared out his register and tip jar. The cops had taken a look at Geordi’s internal security cameras and promised to get back with traffic footage just as soon as they could. When you heard about it the next day, you offered your services. 

A few favors and a tough conversation later, Geordi’s cash was back and the kid and his ailing mother had a fridge full of groceries and their next month’s rent covered. You confiscated the gun, slipped it to Colm to be processed and promptly forgotten in the back of the evidence locker at his station. You refused any offer of payment from Geordi, and you were pretty certain that you would never pay for a cup of coffee here again. 

“Hey kiddo,” Calm stood from his rickety chair at the tiny cafe table as you approached, his face slackened with exhaustion. It had been a few days since he’d shaved, and his suit was rumpled. He looked scarily like Milo, just older. You could blueprint how Milo would look at his age, where his skin would fold under smiles and stress, where his curls would grey, salt and pepper. 

“Hey,” you smiled, pulling him into a slightly awkward, one armed hug. You settled in the chair across from him, huddled in the back corner of Bean Me Up, away from prying eyes. “What’ve you got for me?”

“A bunch of fucked up shit.” He sighed. He produced a thick manilla folder. You opened it hungrily, scanning through police reports, crime scene photos, medical records. “This guy is… he’s a freak.” 

“I could have told you that for free.” You shook your head. 

“He’s been brought in a dozen or so times, and not just in California. Seems as though he likes to keep moving. I don’t have all of the reports just yet, but it’s a lot of heinous shit.” Colm sighed and directed you to a hastily-stapled stack of arrest reports. “Battery, assault with a deadly weapon, sexual assault, manslaughter in the first.” He clicked his tongue in impress. “It’s quite the record.” 

“What about prison time?” 

“That’s just the thing.” Colm scrubbed a hand over his face. “All of those charges and not one of ‘em has stuck.” 

“You’re joking.” You sneered. “Not even that shit in Ferris with my firefighter?” Colm pulled out a report from the pile. You scanned over it, your stomach turning. 

“Nope.” He said. “Fox was caught dead to rights assaulting somebody, beating the shit out of yours, and all of it was witnessed by the victim’s sister. A paramedic responded to the scene before PD could arrive, Anton something or another, don’t ask me to pronounce that.” You laughed humorlessly as you scanned the paramedic’s report. “He knocked the asshole out, but his focus shifted to the victims. By the time PD got to the scene, he was long gone.” 

“Fuck,” you sighed, running your fingers through your hair and tugging on the ends, “he’s smart. He knows when it’s time to go. Which means he doesn’t commit crimes of passion.” 

“Look at those crime scene photos,” Colm tapped them. You flicked through a few bloody, gruesome pictures. “It’s brutal. If he isn’t doing this shit because he’s pissed off or out of control-” 

“That means he’s doing it because he likes it.” You shook your head back and forth.

“There’s more.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Don’t bring Him into this, kid, ain’t nothing holy about it.” Colm scoffed. “I’ve got a baker’s dozen unprocessed rape kits with descriptions matching Fox.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” you pressed the heel of your hand your temple, trying to fight off the headache you could feel coming on. 

“Take a deep breath, kid. These next ones are rough.” Colm pulled out his phone and opened it up to his photos. He handed it over to you. You scrolled through a series of shaky pictures of a desktop computer screen. The screen displayed documents and enclosed photos that were marked as classified. You zoomed in on one. 

It was so unfocused that, for a moment, you thought it was Trouble. The shape of their faces were the same, the cheekbones. Even their eyes, opened and glazed over, were the same stark color. 

And the tattoos. 

You scrolled through three more photos just like that, victims that, at first glance, were dead ringers for Trouble, splayed out in back alleys and parking lots, one in the middle of the woods, naked and bloody. All of their faces were marked by a collection of eerily familiar tattoos. A series of shaky X’s lined the dark circle just under their left eyes. The letter Q was carved into the dimples on their right cheeks. Over their right eyebrows, someone had carved out the word PRECIOUS, as though they had been in a great rush to pack the ink.

You felt ill. You closed your eyes to the pictures, locked the phone, and handed it back to Colm. 

“He’s got it out for them.” Colm nodded. “This is gonna be dangerous, kiddo.” 

“Yeah,” you said, “it is, isn’t it?” 

“You’ll stay safe?” 

“You know me,” you rose, took the file and your coffee in hand. 

“I’m serious.” Colm stood with you, his hand landing on your shoulder. His eyes bored into you, the same intense brown as Milo’s. “Please, be careful. You call me if you’re in trouble. Milo is not losing you over some sadistic asshole.” 

“Milo’s not losing me period.” You said, putting on the best, most reassuring smile you could. “I’ve got this, Colm. And you’ve got my back.” 

“That’s right.” Colm gathered his own cup and pushed his chair. “You’ll, um… tell him I said hi?” You pursed your lips. Milo was pretty strict about his contact with Colm, despite Marie’s attempts to meddle. You liked Colm. But you wouldn’t be his messenger. 

“You’ll see him at Thanksgiving dinner.” You reminded him. “You can tell him yourself.” 

“Right.” Colm ducked his head, embarrassed. 

“I’ll call you with updates.” You promised. “And I’ll stay safe.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” Colm called after you as you left.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Fifteen

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst and fluff

— WORDCOUNT: 3.5k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

“Riddle?”

“Yes, Mr. Oso?”

“Have you finished authenticating that copy of Colonna that came in last week?”

“I’m writing the report now, sir.”

“Well hurry up. He needs it tonight.”

Tom rolled his eyes and kept on working. The Baron’s glorified butler had caught him mid-sentence and now he barely remembered how he wanted to end it.

“What was that?”

He hadn’t said anything, but he knew it was rather what he hadn’t said.

“Yes, sir,” he hissed.

And he reminded himself for the fourteenth time to figure out an enchantment on his new fountain pen to get it to write on its own just as his quill did. The problem was that unlike a quill its more complex mechanism required there to be more steps in the enchantment, and he hadn’t even begun to figure out how to get it to reload its reservoir when it ran out — which at his rate of writing was about once every few days. He’d just about resigned himself to having to put a spell on the ink pot too.

Ambrogio was more of a slave driver than old Caractacus Burke — perhaps because rather than being an indispensable addition to the shop, Tom was a threat to him. Or so he flattered himself with thinking in his more unhappy moments.

And when his wand hand itched, he went upstairs to her.

Whatever she had been doing, she always smiled upon seeing him. Sometimes she got up and went over to fix some unnecessary thing about his tie or a stray curl of hair or rub an imaginary ink stain off his cheek. He gladly stood there and accepted being fussed over.

If she was too busy she stayed right where she was — behind her desk or up a ladder or leaning over the telephone — and Tom would just come over, place a subtle hand on an innocent part of her body, and caress her in gentle motions. Not infrequently he soothed both her and himself in this way. She always shivered at his touch and said it was because his hands were cold — and oh how he liked to leave them in her care and allow her to warm him with little rubs between her palms or, even better, up between her thighs. And when he had the good luck to catch her at work in the storage area at the back he didn’t fail to interrupt her with a kiss that lingered even longer at her throat, beneath her ear, above her chest, and straying lower. There was always a hard surface to push her up against or down on and in the dark his hands could freely stray.

He loved, if the word ever applied to him, to hear and feel it when her breath caught. Her fingers moved gently through his hair in secret moments like this, carefully so as not to give away what they had done together. She seemed to be especially fond of the hair at the nape of his neck where it was shorter and a little curled, just right for her fingers to play with. When his kisses reached her heart, falling low and deep between her breasts to mix with her perfume, he clung to her hungrily and sucked in her warmth with everything he had.

And then it was back to the bottom, down the ladder, down to hell, where the living dead was waiting for him. That is, if it was late enough for the fiend to be awake. Tom always brought with him something back to serve as an excuse.

“Jasmine tea,” he smiled. “Would you like some too?”

“No, thank you,” said Ambrogio, on the few occasions he even happened to grace Tom with a response.

Oso had his own worries, of course — with each refusal his secret was closer to being revealed.

Tom grinned. If only he knew how pointless it was to hide…

II

Activities in the under-shop began picking up imperceptively at first, then in big swaths that overwhelmed all the other work they were doing. He didn’t need to ask why. Why the Baron needed five books a day appraised just as Tom finally enchanted his fountain pen to write all on its own. Why he came wheeling down there at all hours. And why Ambrogio started working during daytime — which did not by itself cause, but was no doubt connected to, his attitude growing increasingly cantankerous.

But Tom asked anyway.

“There will be an auction next week,” said Ambrogio with an air of supreme privilege as if Tom should have been impressed, but by that point, he didn’t have it in him to fake it anymore. “Your presence will be required.”

Snacks and refreshments were to be served at midnight both before and following the auction. It didn’t escape Tom’s notice that there was also a New Moon that night, but he couldn’t decide yet whether that had any connection to the timing, or with any spells Ambrogio was casting.

He spent days carrying crates of alcohol down from upstairs and cleaning crystal glassware while Ambrogio went through the inventory once again. The room with the food was connected by two wide doors to the auction room. There were seating plans to arrange as well, and books to place in special boxes the day before the event in the section just behind the stage. The last few hours before it started were spent arranging food trays under Ambrogio’s watchful eye.

“What is this?”

“These are the canapés, sir.”

“And where are the drinks?”

“Over there?”

“Idiot. Do you not see what you did wrong?”

“Please enlighten me.”

“The canapés and the drinks should be placed side by side. They make the guests thirsty. Move them at once.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And what of the other hors d’oeuvre? Did you bring the caviar?”

“Yes.”

“And what is on the bruschette?”

“Half are with tomato and basil, the other half with prosciutto and olive oil. No garlic, sir.”

“Did I ask that, you insolent whelp? Did I?”

“No, sir.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-four of each.”

“And are the deviled eggs ready?”

“Yes, here. They’re ready for their exorcism, sir.”

“Watch that cheek, boy, or you’ll see the back of my hand. Has it occurred to your suckling brain that tonight has to be perfect?”

“Every hour, Mr. Oso.”

“Get moving and shift those drinks closer to the other table.”

III

The hall beyond the curtains filled as guests came pouring in, all of them proceeding through the trap door with complete familiarity. They arrived at different times, but steadily. Mr. Malfoy was not among them.

Two elderly Italians arrived first, a signor Luce and Verdi, one quite tall and thin but bent like a gnarled tree, the other fat with a misshapen body that looked like it was melting, both of them with grimy, flaky heads of bone-white hair. A lone figure followed them some five minutes later, and Tom could not catch his name but were it not for his resplendent suit old darkest blue with golden buttons he might have taken him for a stray — his face was blistered with red and purple sores that streaked between, across, and over his deep heavy wrinkles. Three ladies followed, middle-aged and bloated around the waist with skinny arms and clean long necks from which hung rows of pearls like nooses. Tom thought he heard Oso mutter les trois grâces beneath his breath but he was back to being as silent as the grave when he turned. His back was facing Tom as he busied himself preparing the books for presentation.

And so the group of bidders gathered, formed mainly of old people in fancy dress but a few younger ones as well, each on the arm of somebody important. Oso led the auction on his own, with Tom watching from behind the drapes which housed the books for auction, like actors waiting for their curtain call.

The view from the back was enough to put fear into anyone who stumbled in, which was probably one of the reasons why they’d gone through so much trouble to conceal it — many others came to mind, like taxation, pricing, and the source of all those books which nobody seemed to have much evidence for, in spite of Tom’s hard work of authentication. The black and white heads of the crowd bobbed in uneven waves in the flickering candlelight, framed by velvet curtains that looked like flowing blood. The ceiling was low and carved in stone, its uneven roundness looming like a shadow over this festival of wealth. And in front of it all, on a stage rimmed with blackened silver, stood the vampire in his polite black clothes, his face looking more pale and gaunt than ever, eternal, by the lectern and the pedestal on which the books sat. The scenery from Tom’s point of view was so dire and demonic that it just had to be contrived, designed that way on purpose to impress upon the bidders how secret their gathering was.

The Baron certainly seemed to have a flair for the theatrical, although it was suspicious that he was not already there. Ambrogio said he might arrive long after midnight when only a few select participants were left.

To be on the sidelines, serving no real purpose while fortunes were promised and spent, was not the punishment Ambrogio envisioned it to be. Tom was quite content to watch the spectacle and learn. He recognised a few of the books he’d recently authenticated, including one four-volume series that was to be sold in bulk. He’d placed a charm between the pages of its second volume, nothing more complex than a bundle of leaves and flower petals, dried and left there as if forgotten by passed proprietors — an exact replica of which Tom held in his pocket. It whispered to him like a living thing, echoes of old forest nymphs that spoke in ancient tongues. They were sensitive to magic and complained like children if any was hostile to them. They had complained quite virulently all day, although their little voices were easier to ignore once the auction started.

“Going once. Going twice…”

“Four million and twenty-five thousand.”

“Four million and twenty-five thousand for signor Ekatlos.”

“Four million and thirty.”

Tom stood alone all night and watched the proceedings. He paid particular attention to Ambrogio’s handling of the items, both before and after. It was a little harder to sneak up on a vampire than he expected, but he did catch a quick glance of his wand. It was a faded brown and mostly straight with long and gentle undulations.

“Quit skulking about like a land-eel. Go see to the guests, and try not to make a nuisance of yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Oso.”

Once the bidding was announced to be over, the attendees moved in an orderly fashion into the other room where they could finally mingle and chat. They hovered around the alcohol like flies and Tom saw more than two ladies stuff napkin-wrapped hors d'oeuvre in their purses.

He’d decided to neglect his duties and go pick up his jacket when a rain of cries billowed behind his ears, speaking in old fey: “he’s killing us.” Tom turned and hurried to the back office to find Ambrogio in the middle of casting a spell. It looked like the peeling back of a veneer. Light came from the books faint enough to seem like a layer of liquid dust.

“What do you want?” Ambrogio asked without turning, his wand now out of sight.

“Noth—”

“—ing.”

Tom turned his head at the voice that had spoken beside his and was surprised to find their upstairs colleague there — his girlfriend. She looked scared and sheepish like a child caught eavesdropping. He wondered if she’d noticed the magic being lifted from the books, and he further wondered if it was the first time she’d witnessed it.

“I just wanted to see if you were done,” she said, her eyes shifting from Tom to Ambrogio.

“Not yet,” said the vampire, “but you may leave. Both of you. I’ll deal with the guests and lock up once they’re gone.”

“Alright,” she said, “t-thank you. Good night.” Her gaze turned expectantly to Tom.

“Yes, good night,” he said. “Thank you for —”

“Leave.”

IV

They managed to catch the last tram. They were the only people on it riding through the start-poxed night, and the emptiness of everything around them made it seem unreal.

“Why were you still there?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean working at this hour.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw that little smile again.

“They want me there, just in case they need something brought downstairs.”

“But Oso is there. And now, so am I.”

“Like I said, it’s just in case…”

“You shouldn’t stay there so late.”

“Well, it’s not exactly up to you,” she said in a tone he couldn’t quite interpret.

There was accusation there, and there was tiredness, and a sense of giving up that he’d experienced more than once in his career as well. Tom couldn’t quite place why it bothered him, her working hours, or why he even cared. He just knew that he did.

“Perhaps it should be,” he said.

She chuckled and reached over to grip his chin with the tips of her fingers.

“You can’t even afford to buy one little book. You think you can afford the whole shop?”

Tom smirked bitterly. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, then quickly dipped his head and bit her fingers. “And you know it.”

“Ow! Tom!” she laughed.

“Just getting revenge for earlier.”

“Who’s the animal now…?”

V

It was around the time of Tom’s first auction that he found a place to rent. In fact it was a few days before that new moon that he moved out of the hotel. He even managed to find something within walking distance of her flat, which he was inordinately proud of. They walked home together after work and spent time in her flat until the late hours of night or even until morning.

When Tom made his evening tea he poured her a cup too, and when she had the strength left after work she’d cook them pasta or risotto. Perhaps it had been too long, but Tom could swear it tasted better than anything he’d had at Hogwarts.

And if she didn’t, Tom would cook, managing to do it at least once without a bit of magic — which he was loathe to do, and only because she was there next to him.

“We can buy something from the restaurant across the street and take it home, maybe,” she said when they were going home together late one night. “I want a pizza… Haven’t had one in ages.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want. But… what’s a pizza?”

“Oh caro bambino mio!” she laughed with delight, to Tom’s great puzzlement.

He was happy in his solitude, in his new flat away from noisy tourists or the peskiness of hotel maids, but he found some value too in spending time with her.

When they got home she’d turn on the radio or put a record on of something he scarcely recognised, like jazz music or classic symphonies by Elgar, and they would eat and drink their tiredness away. If not for her, Tom might have no idea of what happened in the world, or at least among the muggles. She was quite amused to hear his questions about what, to her, must have been obvious things, but she didn’t mock him beyond a giggle.

But more than listening to music Tom liked it when they read together. She laid her head over his lap once she got sleepy, and his fingers could get lost in her hair. More than once she had him read his books to her — quite troublesome for Tom, as it meant he could not bring his own books there and had to pretend to be interested in pedestrian muggle editions — but between his words and fingers caressing her she fell quite fast asleep. As did he, soon enough.

And then, there were yet more selfish reasons why he preferred to sleep with her. They came as a surprise even to him, but there was something… magical about falling asleep with her by his side. Like a snake on a warm rock, he basked in her body. Her palm over his chest, her head by his shoulder, their legs entangled... It was a dangerous feeling, one he could only compare to melting away and being absorbed. Total entropy.

His head would naturally gravitate to resting by her own, temple to temple, and sometimes when he woke up in the middle of the night he’d find, to his horror, his hand placed over hers, pressing it to his chest right where his heart was.

He always woke up before her, which was a bit of a bother as the duty of making breakfast fell to him. But then he’d walk back in the bedroom and find her sound asleep, her face buried in his pillow, her arms curled tight around it, and perhaps the smile that gave him was something of a consolation.

VI

The night after the auction was a little different than the rest. They were both quieter, still stressed and tired, and Oso’s horror still lingered in Tom’s mind. She collapsed with a sigh on the armchair while he put their coats away.

“I’ll make us tea,” said Tom from the hallway.

“You don’t have to…”

“No, I need it too.”

“That bad?” she said with a smile in her voice.

He didn’t want to admit just how much so — although it hadn’t all been bad. Aside from Oso’s torments, he’d learned a lot that night.

Tom cursed as he fiddled with the mechanism of her stove. Why couldn’t it just be a cauldron and flame? He hissed. If he were at his flat, he’d have it ready with a wand flick… But then he’d have to contend with the spartan furniture, the ugly cutlery, and the table that quaked whenever he put anything on it. He felt more like a person in her cosy little home, like there was more to life than drudgery.

And, if he was being honest with himself — a rarity — there was a savage charm to doing some things without magic, like folding his clothes away, polishing his shoes, or, in this case, brewing a cup of tea. A different Tom was woken then in his heart, in his mind… An equally as dark, relentless, proud young man, but with a surging self all around him filled with things he left behind when he first stepped on the Hogwarts Express, when he was Sorted, when he snuck into the Forbidden Section all those years ago. He didn’t often have cause to think about it, but he had lost unknowable parts of himself as he learned more about magic, the Gaunts, the Riddles...

The old Tom that was before that had never quite come back. At least, until he started spending time with her.

Tea was ready just as she was changing for the night. The overture from Wagner’s Parsifal was playing on the radio speckling the diaphanous dark with long tremulous notes of grief like pins and needles through the air. Her shirt was hanging off a chair, her skirt folded above it, and she had just thrown on her soft nightgown as Tom stepped through the door. He placed the tea beside her on the table and rewarded himself with a touch of her skin. His palm brushed the length of her naked back from one shoulder to another.

“Your skin is warmer now,” she smiled, turning to rest her hand over his chest.

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment as if she found relief there. Then, playfully, she started tugging on his tie. Tom smiled at her invitation, but his mind was far away. It was still in the dungeons with that book.

“Did you ever see him do that before?” he asked as she continued to undress him.

“Who?”

“Oso. That thing he was doing after the auction.”

She threw his tie over her clothes and took a sip of tea, moaning pleasurably at the taste, then returned to unbutton his shirt.

“He was getting them ready for packing, wasn’t he?”

So she hadn’t noticed anything. Not the wand and certainly not the magic. Tom was disappointed, but not surprised.

“Why?” she asked as she pulled him to the bed.

“No reason…”

He took the rest of his clothes off in silence and she went to lay down, the cup of tea held to her chest.

“I think he was doing some sort of ritual,” he finally said as he put on his pyjamas, a pale green set he’d brought over one night and had since just left there.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” she chuckled, head leaning back both soft and heavy against the pillow. “They love to do all sorts of things like that. Rituals that have a purpose they don’t bother to tell me about. They like their secrets.”

“It certainly seems so,” he smiled, “although they’re not as good at it as they would like.”

[autumnfangirler]

OC Speech Mannerisms

got tagged by @zoneofsmites for this! it looks fun, but also idle it is Very bold of you to assume that i have any idea what my characters sound like ever/lh. However. this is an excuse to finally talk about my pirate captain slut hans so im taking it. gonna tag @misfit-alley @b33tlejules @localcryptic @darkfire1177 and @hyper-pixels if yall are up for it?

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

he knows at least three! i dont know what languages he knows (because that requires world building and i do Not have that figured out) but its something that comes up occasionally, especially for hostage negotiations.

TONE OF VOICE: high / average / deep

i???? think?????? im going to be so real with you im not sure what he sounds like, but i feel like he might have a deeper and smoother voice.

ACCENT: Yes / No

tentatively putting yes, but he definitely didnt Used to. he ended up developing one the more he traveled and stayed with the crew. hes always been good at adapting accents though.

DEMEANOUR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other

if you can get past the fact hes a pirate, hes very easy to make conversation with!

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

he has a habit of standing with his hands on his back or resting at his sword a lot.

HABITS: head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing (fidgets with his hems) / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

he likes his beard :) genuinely probably the most normal guy you could talk to, hes practically perfected the art of social interaction.

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

tends to keep his words straight forward, but sometimes he accidentally lets something more flowery slip through.

EMOTION: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

im giving him points because he could absolutely swear more than he does considering the fact hes a pirate.

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

that said he Does love himself some wordplay.

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY: arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently / rarely / never

DOES YOUR CHARACTER'S INTENDED POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

hes a leader, what good is he if he cant get his point across?

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

his favourite thing to do before being a pirate as a past time was to disguise himself and strike up conversation with any table he found particularly interesting that day.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

he doesnt Usually have a reason to end the conversation, but he also isnt interested in taking shit from other people. if the topic doesnt interest him, he Could sit it out, but hes also far more likely to politely (or rudely) excuse himself from conversation.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE 'WHOM' IN A SENTENCE? - yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that's everything / say that's everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they're done here / remain quiet / they don't.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn't.

hes much better spoken than he looks at first glance, and is surprisingly amicable with most people (though that last bit depends on whether youre a target or not).

[redninjaoutfit]

i want to understand: why ship tad and peanut?

I've been gathering my thoughts on this topic for such a long time because I have so so many but its so hard to articulate them sometimes. THEY ARE SO NEAR AND DEAR TO MY HEART YOUR HONOUR MY ANGSTY SONS

More under the cut cause it's gonna be a whole lot of words

For starters, I just enjoy the enemies to lovers trope in general. I think seeing someone else's flaws to the point of considering them annemesis and still managing to move past that and fall in love with them down the line is very poetic. Having to battle through hate, one of the most misguided and complex emotion one can feel towards other people and coming out victorious, conquering the concept you have of someone and replacing it with an image so dissimilar to how you perceived them before... I get a lil kick out of it. It takes incredible maturity and willingness to cooperate on both sides of the relationship to move past hard feelings, to find common ground and build something substantial and amiable on that very ground. The former enemies actively heal and grow as people alongside one another, it's a very beautiful concept.

HATE AND LOVE ARE NOT TWO SIDES OF A SPECTRUM!! They're standing next to each other, separated only by a thin sheet of paper which is so easy to rip through once you move past the issues which divide you.

For Tad and Peanut, the obvious and unavoidable source of conflict is their allegiance to their respective cliques. The Preps and Greasers are supposed to despise one another out of principle which they very much do. Consequently, as of the events of the game, neither have any possibility to openly display their many compatible characteristics around one another. Hence why the animosity festers.

When I talk about the many compatible characteristics of Tad and Peanut I mean MANY. SO MANY. You might notice I did not say similar as I don't find they are carbon copies of one another, their lives are very different, however, their very cores slot with each other perfectly. It all falls into place.

Peanut, as I'm sure everyone already knows, has a painfully and one-sidedly dependent relationship with Johnny who is assumed to have saved him in some way, judging by the contents of his character quotes. He's fiercely loyal to his leader to the point where it's overwhelming and he actively fears disappointing Johnny in any capacity (not aided by the fact that he's implied to have feelings for Lola). Not to mention, as a second in command, he's got big shoes to fill, shoes he doesn't deem himself good enough to fill. Though he seems content with being trapped in Johnny's shadow he does show a sense of longing for freedom and a deep self-consciousness about his abilities.

Tad on the other hand is not second in command, quite the opposite, he's at a disadvantageous position in his clique with his newcomer status. Yet the expectations he has to meet at the forceful request of his father are just as if not more ambitious than Peanut's. With how prominently Mr Spencer's abuse towards his son altered his character and mindset, Tad is thus trapped in the role of the usurper, exactly what he feels (and knows) his clique-mates see him as. His opinion of the topic is largely apathetic though the apathy seems forced and learned.

His destiny as his father's extension has been set in stone, as has Peanut's servitude to Johnny. Neither feel they can do anything about it.

Both deem themselves worthless and void of purpose when they are not of use, not going along with whatever demands have been put onto them. They convince themselves (Peanut moreso than Tad) that their prison is a comfortable one, that the end goal of their struggle will be satisfactory yet know deep down all they want is freedom.

In this way they are very compatible, enough that they see a bit of themselves in the other which is part of the reason their bad blood runs so deep, especially on Tad's part. They see the collars hanging heavy around their necks and tug on them in hopes the other won't notice the perpetrator's own. It's easier to depersonalize yourself from your own issues than to face them head on.

I can definitely see them snapping on one eventful occasion - a supernova of unspoken emotions ready to surface - their reconciliation would not be a serene, drawn out ordeal of slow acquiescence. They fire each other up to the point of accidentally creating a spark which leads to a flame. A common flame between them in whose glow and light they can finally see each other's true colours, which will not burn them like it usually does but rather provide warmth, much needed after the long years spent in their cold, oppressive jail cells.

They would be like two dogs chained to a tree and left for dead tasting food again and rediscovering the comfort of a plush pillow - striving to maintain the warmth of mutual understanding conceived on that very day and would no doubt cultivate it to the best of their inexperienced ability. They both know by then the other is a novice in terms of... well, everything when it comes to being appreciated.

They rediscover love together and that's why I think they are so very beautiful and compatible as a pair!!

THAT'S IT... UM SORRY FOR RAMBLING AND THIS BEING MUSHY AS ALL HELL THEY JUST MAKE ME SOB AND WISH FOR THEM TO HAVE A BETTER LIFE. THE POTENTIAL IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS IMMENSE AND I WILL NOT BE SILENCED ABOUT IT. THEY CAN HEAL EACH OTHER LIKE NOONE ELSE CAN!!!

[not-goldy]

i was the one who wrote the post about jk choosing/proritising his 97 liner friends over jimin. i guess i was harsh with my wording and i think it was caused because of the lack of jikook in a way (sounds stupid i know) we dont know how much time is left before all remaining four members enlist in the military (they would enlist this year itself, that much is clear) and there's a chance jimin would leave soon seeing most of his schedule is done (that we know of) and i was expecting a jikook live before the torturous two years we'll have to go through without them but i dont really see any chance of that happening now. jk also has music bank on jm's birthday and we know its a really tiring event and it can take a full day to get done with the whole thing, so chances of jk and jm interactions are again very slim.i think i just miss them and desperately wanted to see them. i know just because we dont see them doesn't mean they dont interact off cam but i wanted to see them on a live or tiktok or something. so seeing jungkook make tiktoks with that mingyu during both seven and 3d era just...ruffled my feathers in a way. also saw a lot of 'gyukookers' on my tl so yea that was annoying as well. i kinda assumed jm won't be in the live as it was a post-album announcement live, but still...

so yea, knowing that jungkook won't be much active on jm's b'day and not getting the oct 4th live as well kinda saddened me. does not excuse my behaviour but that's what happened.

Thanks for being real and for being honest.

I think you are human in every sense of the word so I can't be too hard on you or even hold you to it. We've all been there. I know exactly how painful and frustrating it can be. But I'm here for you okay?

I would be that person to bring you back to reality and keep you grounded when you drift, I will call you out if I have to and I will point out the errors of your ways and it would almost always be out of love- if I however sense you actually hate any of our captains I'll deep fry your titties, lace them with acid and spoon feed them to you🤧

You can dm me anytime with any grievances you have and I'll listen. Or just tag your asks with rants and I'll know how to respond without putting a target on your back.

I wish we have a jikook live too.

I wish they release the seven tiktok challenge they filmed on the boat.

I wish Jimin has a happy birthday and not feel unloved or cared for or that he matters to those that matters to him the most.

And I feel Jungkook had to keep repeating he'd be busy on the 13th so we don't make a huge deal out of it if we don't see him around that day.

Sometimes I know they feel they are in a three way relationship with us where we are the pets and children they didn't ask for but have living in their basement.

They don't just have to care for eachother they have to care not to bruise us too. It's a complex symbiotic parasocial relationship dynamic we have with them.

We care and sometimes they care that we care. But that's not fair to them.

We are the kids who keep complaining daddy forgot mommy's birthday. Daddy was seen with female in his car. Daddy came home late. Daddy forgot to take the trash out. Daddy yelled at mommy. Daddy didn't eat mommy's meal. She worked so hard to make him his dinner. Daddy doesn't love mommy. Daddy is a fuckboy. It's almost as if we want to date mommy ourselves and nothing daddy does pleases us.

If it were a horror movie we'd be the changeling they'd be running away from🥲

It is well with us. Love you okay?

[rose-lunaire]

snow on the beach | regulus black x gn!reader

inspired by snow on the beach by taylor swift (feat. lana del rey). the story of two people rewriting traditions. happy new year everyone!!

pairing: regulus black x gn!reader

warnings: heart-fluttering is expected!

family home. the place you’re supposed to feel most at ease, welcomed and safe. but within the world of sacred heritages and centuries-old dynasties it sometimes felt more like an elaborate prison. your mother the main guard, your siblings and cousins fellow inmates unwillingly participating in this masquerade-like event. yet this year was supposed to be different. the man of your life was standing by your side thought the dragging ceremonies, squeezing your hand every time a quiet sigh escaped your pouty lips.

he understood your pain better than anyone. hating the lineage you were forced to continue. still, having no will to abandon it completely. hell, there were times when you envied the fearlessness of sirius’s choice. admiring his courage, wishing you had as much strength as him. one glance at your boyfriend’s face was enough to keep your fantasies at bay.

“are you alright?” he mouthed over the sounds of a christmas carol. his concern so out of place with the joyful notes of the song, you cracked a weak smile. regulus joined your hands together and led the chorus with his solemn voice. the depth and complexity of his feelings ringing with every word he sang, making you thankful he managed to spend holidays with you. he fitted so well in the festivities, mingling with your family members, ever so stoic and charming standing by your side every second of the day. nursing old wounds under the moonlight.

times like these you were thankful that you never ran away, for it would mean you would never get to see regulus in you home. the way his face lit up tasting your mother’s dishes, complimenting the stuffing of the pie you made. the way his baritone blended in perfectly with the choir of your family’s voices. snickering when your father told one of his many terrible jokes and making silly faces with your sister’s children.

there were no dark undertones to the celebration with him by your side. no snarky comments reached your ears. the candlelight reflected in his eyes was so bright you couldn’t notice how great aunt janice looked at you two. too lost in your own world, you were busy fantasising about the life you wanted to build with regulus. he seemed so much younger than his usual self, burdened with his family’s expectations and brother’s shadow resting upon his face. he was in peace.

slowly the dining room started emptying. children being put to sleep, some family members departing for home. that’s why nobody paid attention to the young couple leaving. laughing like two kids who were playing hide-and-seek with their parents, hiding behind the doors and about to surprise them. “where are we going?” your boyfriend’s voice felt distant from the wind. but you couldn’t be bothered neither by the snow drifts nor the blowing mistral. you tugged onto his sleeve, dragging him further, your careless laughter the only clue he had of the destination.

the view was hard to distinguish because of the snow but then it all made sense. the sudden change of surface that made his boots sink a little deeper. faint salty smell and humidity in his throat. “careful now baby” you whispered. as cliff was ending abruptly the sea came into full view. powerful in its silent struggle against the wall of sand, the horizon nowhere to be seen. stars blending with tiny snowflakes resting on the locks of your hair.

“focillio” regulus murmured under his breach, warmth from his wand encapsulating the both of you within its protective bubble. as if his mere presence wasn’t enough to set your insides on fire. there was a bonfire of passion hiding beneath his long lashes, deep below the icy surface of his pupils only for you to see. and it was hungry. ever since you left the house it was begging to be set free and devour you both.

before he could even but his wand in the back pocket of his pants your lips landed on his. a little flustered at first, he responded eagerly. the kiss was sweet, full of grateful inexchanged feelings, it was patient, slowly progressing into a full-blown make-out session. your hands were wrapped around his frame, drawing hearts onto his lower back. you didn’t notice when your face ended up nuzzled in his cashmere scarf, inhaling regulus’ scent. his head weighting on your shoulder, grounding you in this intimate moment.

but then you felt a cold pinch on your exposed neck. and then another two before snowflakes decorated the crown of your head. “bloody hell, im so sorry!” your boyfriend jumped away from you, scratching his hair in embarrassment. you just laughed and kissed his cheek. “you’re just too distracting” he murmured bashfully, causing you to erupt in laughter once again. “what? why are you laughing at me?” oh dear, he looked like a lost puppy. “i’m just really happy. that’s all” you confessed. regulus held your cheeks in his hands. “i love you, y/n l/n” you went on your tiptoes to reach his face and join your foreheads together. “i love you too, regulus black”

[hyunpic]

Hiii Vilma ✨ I’m sorry I don’t want to be a bother but would you mind listing some books that Hyunjin recommended at some point please? If you have some time?

I know some threads are very easily findable online so I don’t want you to think that I’m using you bc I know Google exists but the thing is that those threads are only visible by people who have Twitter / X and I don’t have an account so I can’t see it :( (with all not-due respect, fuck Elon Musk) Really feeling like the beggar ant meme lmao I’m so sorry

Thank you so much 💕

i got u!!!! don’t worry about about using me or anything 🫡💘💘 i put down some synopsis of the books too. i hope u can find something to read from there 🥹 also this probably isn’t a full list but i tried to include as much as possible!!

fire salamander by han kang: a collection of seven short stories tied to one keyword "recovery". the author shows the issues of a human's suffering and loss, as well as a human's will to lead a life without giving up despite the pain and frustration.

i want to die but i want to eat tteokboki by baek sehee: a successful young social media director at a publishing house begins seeing a psychiatrist about her depression. it is a book to keep close and to reach for in times of darkness. it will appeal to anyone who has ever felt alone or unjustified in their everyday despair.

temperature of language by lee kijoo: the author of this book claims that language has temperature. he encourages us to use words that can comfort others with warmth instead of cold words that hurt them.

the setting sun by osamu dazai: the setting sun deals with the decline of japan’s aristocracy in the wake of world war II, and portrays characters adrift in a world that no longer feels familiar.

no longer human by osamu dazai: the poignant and fascinating story of a young man who is caught between the breakup of the traditions of a northern japanese aristocratic family and the impact of western ideas.

almond by son wonpyeong: it tells the story of yunjae, a young boy born with a difference. yunjae has a brain condition called alexithymia that makes it hard for him to feel emotions like fear, anger, and empathy.

contradictions by yang guija: contradictions is a coming-of-age tale that explores the paradoxes and contradictions of the human condition and delves into the meaning of personal happiness

proof of gu by choi jinyoung: a heart-moving novel written with beautiful sentences, which questions the meaning of life or the meaning of death through the death of a lover and the subsequent feelings of loss and condolences.

the old man and the sea by ernest hemingway: through his struggle, santiago demonstrates the ability of the human spirit to endure hardship and suffering in order to win. it is also his deep love and knowledge of the sea, in its impassive cruelty and beneficence, that allows him to prevail

someone harmless to me by eun young choi: the novel collection portrays various relationships, especially relationships of women including a love story of a lesbian couple, a story of two girls who grew up in oppressive patriarchal atmosphere and a story of two sisters who spent their childhood persistently fighting but sometimes understanding each other.

the preciousness of everyday words by kim eana: through the use of everyday words, lyricist kim eana finds solutions to the complex emotions and frustrations in relationships encountered in life. (<- this was recommended to him by stay but he ordered it so i included it here too )

[lazulisocinfodump]

Adminverse Sec is A Complete and Utter Mess of A Person - An Essay

Sec is trying so very hard to make everything work for everyone. Shes trying to encourage everyone, life people up, strive towards everyone Getting Along, trying to mediate. Trying to give good advice.

But shes only Mid at it overall. And She knows it.

(Warning, this might get kinda heavy, this dives headfirst into messy mental health issues)

Sec wants to be useful soooooo bad but simultaneously think they are mostly worthless AND that their actions/words have a big impact on people. Its a weird contradictory belief.

People often mistake self-hatred as a virtue, as a type of humility. Sometimes people think self-hatred is the opposite of pride when it really isn't. Sometimes, self-hate is really just the most painful variant of Self Obsession.

And Sec Hates Herself.

I mean, part of it is she has The Big Fat Mega Depression. And Depression can cause you to spiral into self hatred. But also, She is full of blaming herself for events she actually had very little control over. But this self-blame is also something she is using to hide from herself that fact that she deeply resents her older sister.

Arlee was so amazing, so special, so talented, so bright and loud and attention grabbing. And Sec? Sec was never special. Never talented. Never worth much. Can't she have a piece of what her sister Arlee was? It isn't Fair!

And Arlee was the person who loved her the most, yet even she did not think she was worthy of respect? Even she was willing to disregard anything she had to say? Even after how much Sec supported her? Consoled her? Forgave her for the crappy things she tended to do out of impulse? Reined her in from destroying herself again and again?

Arlee was the one who loved her the most, and she was not willing to try and fight for their relationship once Sec started pulling away? And to top it all off, she went and DIED on her, leaving her ALONE with no hope of fixing things? For something stupid as a fight for the sake of her pride? Was Sec not even worth living for vs dying for saving face?

And then there is the resentment Sec *is* aware of in herself. Like the resentment she feels about wanting the kindness she tries to give other people to be given to her. Can't being Nice cause people to love her, give her affection, think she is special? Kinito is meant to be Everyones Best friend, he is meant to be somebody who Loves, who gives you attention and care. Yet no matter how much she tries, or invites, or offers... she simply is not the priority even to him.

And Sec knows that this line of thinking is irrational. She knows this whole situation is FAR from being About Her. But the feelings won't go away. And it just gives her more ammo for her self-hatred.

Often the thought going through her head is: "I'm only pretending to be kind, to be nice, to care. But I'm a lying fraud that only cares about themselves. If I actually cared, I would leave the situation and stop interfering with people who can actually do something."

Its not really the full truth though. Sec is a genuinely kind person. She does very much care about all the characters in adminverse. She really, really wants Everyone to have a happy ending (Yes even Scary Face, just not at the cost of Casey dying lol). She wants everyone to have hope. She wants everyone to be free from their suffering, to grow to become better people. She wants the rifts between Sonny and Nito and Casey and Nito to heal, or at least for them to come to an understanding.

And even if everything ended with her being nothing more than a footnote and forgotten, she would be genuinely very happy for everyone if things get better for them. In spite of her resentment. Sec would put her life on the line to save Kinito, Owl, Casey, Sonny or Addie if it came down to it.

But Sec also has a martyr complex, deep self worth issues, unresolved resentment, is drowning in grief, sadness and self-pity and is disgusted with herself for it. And she won't talk about most of it .

She only talked about Arlee's death because she wanted to shock Kinito out of his complacency AND show that she had firsthand experience of what his path might end up being if he didn't change. And then later to show that he was not Alone in carrying mistakes and guilt he could not fix.

Sec Hates being guilt tripped and does not want to do that to others (despite the fact that she kinda does guilt trip others, just more subconsciously). But she is hypocritically trying to give emotional advice and support when she herself is the emotional equivalent of a dumpster fire that she won't seek help to put out.

This lady is trying to save others from drowning knowing full well that she herself is drowning too. What does she expect?

[teddypoi-qd]

POV 👀

YAAAAY YIPPEEEE this got so long but have 1.2k of Sam yelling at a fandom teen <3

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

Mr Crowe’s eyes rove over the lake of fans with this unplaceable emotion in them. It’s almost like he’s not all here, seeing something other than a group of people desperate to hang off his every word. I raise my hand a little higher, waving my immaculately crafted, one-of-a-kind replica of the intricate Redshifter above my head in hopes that it’ll catch his attention. There’s a moment where it seems like he’s going to point to me, when instead he indicates yet another scruffy-haired guy in a graphic tee. It isn’t even official merch. But it’s fine. It’s alright. There’s still plenty of Q&A time left. I lower the flashing rifle back onto my lap and try to pay attention. They’re talking about something to do with his short story collection from a couple of years ago. It’s interesting, but hard to hear, what with the awful mic that keeps popping in and out, and the rushing of blood in my ears.

Mister Crowe. Thank you for your work. I have a question about what inspires you. Why do you write? I rehearse the question over and over, so much so that I nearly miss when the current speaker sits down and they call out for questions again. I stand up almost too fast, whacking my knee on the chair in front of me. The mum sitting there (clearly dragged here by her kid) glares at me venomously as I mouth an apology and grimace before looking back up towards Mr Crowe and the host. As I stare up, scared to blink, the question morphs in my mind. I can barely keep a hold on it for a second. Mister Crowe. Thanks for all you’ve done. I wanted to ask about your inspirations. Why do you write? Mister Crowe, your work saved my life, thank you. My question’s about why you write. What inspired you to start? Mister Crowe, sometimes it feels like your work was made to invite people in. It feels like you wrote it for me to make a home in. How? Why? Mister Crowe, do you feel as at home in the worlds you create as I do?

“You,” his weird accent draws the word into two syllables, “In the Redlight cosplay.” That could be anyone. I’ve seen, like, five Redlights today, “Nice Redshifter.” I’m the only one with the Redshifter, though. Given its complex design, most people opted for the sleeker (if canon inaccurate) Greenshifter. A shock runs down my spine as the mic is passed down the row. I’m sure I look like a deer in the headlights as it drops into my hands.

“Hi.” Oh, god, my voice is loud. What the fuck was my question? All I can think is that I’m talking to Carrion Crowe, and I’m making a fool of myself in front of Carrion Crowe, and Oh god is that what my voice sounds like?

“Hi.” He’s looking right at me. Well, no, he’s looking at the top of my head, but I think that’s about as close as he gets to looking someone in the eyes, “What’s your name?”

“S- Skye!” I blurt, trying to will my cheeks not to burst into flames, “I’m Skye. I- I, uh, named myself after your character. My, my question is… I wanted to ask, because… It just feels like… Sorry. I’ll start again.” His eyes flick to the clock on the wall of the shop, then back to me, then away to another cosplayer. I take a deep breath and force my anxiety down. Just for 20 seconds, then I can shake it all out. I can do that much, “The thing is, your stories feel really real. Even though, of course, they’re not. It’s just that they’re like another actual world. Somewhere where me and, I think, a lot of people have found a home. And I was just wondering… Why do you write like that? Or, maybe it’s better to ask how?“

That gets his attention. He stops fidgeting, stills entirely actually, and looks at me with an expression I can’t read. There’s a long silence, and I’m sure I’ve somehow put my foot in my mouth and I’ll have to excommunicate myself from the fandom before I’m cancelled for bringing a downer on the first Q&A that Mister Crowe’s done since he was a debut author. I’m already mentally drafting my grovelling apology post when he finally speaks.

“It’s funny you say it’s not real. It is. To me, at least.” His voice wavers in a way it hasn’t for the other questions he’s answered. Gone is the flat affect machine-gun essayist speaking about Ga’al reproduction, and in its place is a flighty, airy voice and focused eyes, “You and I live in, ah, different realities. Our experiences, the ways in which our realities are shaped, are different. And so are our perceptions. Even if you came into my head, saw through my eyes, we’d still be seeing different things. Take colours, for example. It is impossible for us to know, beyond reasonable doubt, that what you and I call ‘red’ is broadly the same.” He’s speeding up, now. He stabs a finger at the poster behind him, at that iconic tricolour streak that blasts from the engines of the Galaxyhopper, “Most of the time, that doesn’t really matter. Your red is my blue, but we both know what to call each colour to communicate what we mean, so to speak. But… Sometimes it slips. I’ll describe red as, god, I don’t know, the colour of joy. And you’ll say, what, no, that’s the colour of sadness! And that’s the gap we can’t cross. I can’t describe to you in any real way what my red looks like, not in a way that you’ll be able to map onto your red and see the differences.”

Someone next to me coughs, and I can hear murmuring from further back rows. The mum in front of me has looked up from her phone to stare at Mr Crowe. The mic is cold in my hands as he continues to ramble.

“It’s not a perfect metaphor, I’ll admit to that much. What I’m- What I’m trying to say is that these books are my world, my reality, my attempt to translate the untranslatable. To transmit it from my mind to everyone else’s, and you need to understand that I will never do it right, okay? It will never be what I see, and you all,” and he’s looking directly at me now, his eyes wide and wild and angry, “Will never truly understand. Does- Does that answer it? What was the fucking question again?”

All of a sudden, all of that energy leaves him, and he looks like a deflated balloon. It’s only when the person next to me gently nudges me that I realise I’m still holding the mic to my mouth. I manage to eke out a thank you before shoving the mic into someone else’s hands and picking my way out of the audience, towards the exit. My heart hammers in my chest, and my head is filled with fog. The words replay in my mind, the way he was so possessive in calling it his world, the venom in his words as he told me I’d never understand it, not really. Fuck. Never meet your fucking heroes.

[nattyontherun]

I just read all ur naruto fics and I feel insane.

Me about fictional characters: they get me.

I absolutely refuse to be emo in someone ask box but screams at you so much.

“How much do you lose to mourning, when what you lose is everything you’ve ever had? How can you acknowledge yourself, when all you have left to acknowledge is the you who never grew past your hurt? // Existence was ruination, to Sasuke. Existence was the slow descent into insanity.” I’m literally rolling around on the floor thrashing around. Hearth fire (and the rest of the series) WRECKED ME by the way if you even CARE. Me when the parallels in a fic to my life literally grab my by the throat and stab me but also wrap me in a warm fuzzy blanket and pat my head. Literally sent me deep into a very contemplative mood after reading it.

“… would have to live on because if not him, who?” “…because mourning, in its own way, is a form of safekeeping.” Hello I have died.

Also I don’t mean this in a derogatory sense but when I went to ur ao3 profile and read u have a psych degree I was like. That makes so much sense lmFAO.

Also also on a slightly more serious note, well it’s not that serious tbh, but I also do be dissociating and the way you described it was idk it felt weirdly good to read. I used to lose days at a time. I’m not as bad now but I’ll still lose hours here and there. I am not one to externalise things so I don’t have the capacity to describe things to people when asked but we’re I to try very hard it would probably be similar to how you wrote sasukes experience.

Oh my god tho. Oblivion. YOUR MIND IS SO POWERFUL. Your mind is literally so so so powerful. I’m shaking.

Anyway maligayang pasko at mag ingat ka 🫶🏻

This just made my holidays! First of all thanks??? I'm as surprised as you are that HF has been so monumental for me????

I've been told on a multitude of occasions that I have the unfortunate(?) habit of putting a lot of myself in fics. What I explore--thematically at the very least--is often just me chasing after the worms that haunt me in my dreams, yk? It's not like I'm a perpetually sad or moody person--quite the opposite really--but if I don't contemplate stuff I go through at least a little bit, where would that leave me? As uncomfy as it is, it's better to know yourself too much than not at all.

But YEAH! HF! Mindboggly amounts of woah topped by a surprising amount of hope? Sometimes I think I made it too melodramatic and "floaty" for lack of a better word and then I get comments like yours and I start rethinking my spirally thoughts. I just have so many OPINIONS about how canon treated everyone, but mainly Sasuke. If they weren't gonna let him die, by god give him the justice he so deserves?? He has like zero closure and an overwhelming brother complex and all canon does to fix that is say "revenge bad, here walk around some" FAWK no????

Anyways I have a psych degree! I don't use it for much rn but it's glossy and makes me feel good about myself sometimes! I like to think I'm not so obvious about it but I also feel like I always talk about it to anyone everytime so bvcedjsnj where was I going with my reply?

Right. Right! I meant to say that, as per the dissociation thing--far be it for me to claim I know anything about it beyond what I've read in a couple journals but I do tend to 'lose time" so to speak, myself? When I'm stressed or depressed or anxious or some horrid conglomeration of those three horrid things lmao. It's NOT fun, and I don't wish it on anyone, and I hope, if you can, you can speak to someone about it because suffering, in whatever way, however much, doesn't have to be a thing we just settle with yk? Idk. I wrote HF with this thought in mind that just because things can seem absolutely ass over tits at any moment doesn't mean it's always gonna be like that. I love the struggle story, I love ANGST--writing it, reading it--but there's something so devastating and inspirational about wanting to stand back up after stumbling. Human tenacity and resilience will always be infinitely more heartrending than sorrow itself or whatever philosophical way you can spin it...

I feel like I just lost the thread of my response all over again. I'm sorry! It's nearing 3am, I just got off shift, and I'm in one of those moods again... just... I care very deeply about people as a concept, and the way we mold ourselves around each other's lives until every one of our struggles is an extension of our community, which is an extension of our history and so on. I'm not super good about being in the /now/, the details of general existence aren't my best friends. But if characters get to act however the fuck they want to act, if they can build themselves back up from nothing, explore themselves in ways you or I never could, maybe never is just a qualifier we give ourselves to excuse our inflexibility and stagnation?

Something, something, the ultimate goal of the human experience will always be Self Actualization.

Anyways Anon, sorry about all the rambly philosophizing, I've probably scared you off now fbvehcskffbcrehd but you made my whole month!! Maligayang Pasko sa inyo po!!! Ingat ka lagi!!!!!!! And to whoever even bothers to read all this rambling,,,, in English: Merry Christmas and take care always, Mabuhay!

[believemetheodore]

Northern Attitude pt. 5 (complete)

Ted Lasso x Rebecca Welton

Divorce is hard. it doesn't matter if you're the one who got left, or you're the one doing the leaving. When an unexpected blizzard puts a dangerous twist in Ted's hiking adventures he's rescued by an axe-wielding, lumber-chopping, blonde angel. Oh, and there's only one bed.

Warnings: divorce mentions, mentions of Ted's dad, mentions of Rebecca's dad, implied sex, let me know if you want me to add anything.

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Ted works on instinct more than thought with Rebecca. He feels free as they fall into bed together again. He can't say he's entirely sure about what he's doing, but he's positive that if this is the last time he gets to hold her like this he's going to remember it. Determined to live this moment in such a way that it won't ever feel like a loss. 

A part of him whispers at the back of his mind, scratching at the door and hoping to squirm its way into his conscious mind. A fear of loss, a fear of being too much. He’s terrified by how much he wants her.

Whatever happens, he won't allow regret or grief to touch it; he won’t let his fears taint this memory. He’s moving forward. He’s doing better. For himself-- for Rebecca too. She deserves better than she’s been given. She deserves, attention, support, love, and affection undivided and without conditions; and if this slice of time is all he has to give her that? He’ll be damned if she receives anything less. 

In the morning they aren't much more than a tangle of limbs. His mind is awake but his body is tired and entirely comfortable being held hostage by Rebecca's arms and legs. Ted’s eyes follow the paths of Raindrops sliding down the window, silently refereeing races between them. He keeps score of their wins and losses, drawing invisible tally marks across the skin of her back. She burrows further, under the covers, and impossibly closer to him. Blindly seeking heat in her sleep. 

He measures his pulse, convinced that his heart might leap right out of his chest. He calms his own breathing, syncing it with Rebecca’s deep, slow, inhales and exhales. The memory of the tide lapping at the sand during trips to the beach fills his mind, he hears his own laughter, Henry’s face bright with a joy that only children can manage to carry. 

In his mind, he counts the shells they collected that day, the same way the two of them count sheep to fall asleep. And somewhere in that inventory, Ted finds his eyes drifting shut again. 

Her fingertips tickle, brushing nonsensical shapes and letters across his chest and collarbones. Her lips feather light in their mission to scatter kisses. Ted doesn't bother to stop his growing smile, how could he in this private bubble of incandescent freedom. 

His left hand catches hers, halting its journey south. He swears he feels her pouting, but she laughs when he takes his turn doling out kisses, starting with the pads of her captured fingers. A gentle scratch of his mustache across her skin results in barely contain giggles from Rebecca. Ted revels in her amusement. Honoured to be privy to so many parts of her personhood; having seen her chop and lug wood, care for him so diligently when he was only an injured stranger, and now melt against his side.

“I have a son,” he blurts out.

It's not a confession. It wasn't a secret. But the words feel like they've shaken something. Shifted the tide. Four words that carry with them all his hopes and dreams, and all his biggest fears. A Pandora's box sorta situation. 

“I have a goddaughter,” Rebecca says, she smiles but Ted can see the complexity of something more in her eyes, the urge to say more lingering on her tongue. He wants to listen.  

“What's her name?” Ted ventures when the silence between them threatens to deafen.

“Nora. She'll be thirteen this year,” Rebecca answers without hesitation, “what's your son’s name?”

“Henry. He just turned nine,” Ted's smile grows again, and he rolls over to face Rebecca, “he's getting so big--sometimes I worry I'm going to blink and he'll be off to college. And while I'm sure he's going to do great things, I wish I could keep him a kid forever”.

There's what looks to be a pinch of hurt across Rebecca's face, but she takes a deep breath, and Ted can feel her long limbs stretching out beneath the sheets. It reminds him of a lion puffing up its main, an attempt to appear bigger, more confident. He decides that the silent pep talk suits her. She's definitely a lion. 

“I only managed to get reacquainted with Nora last year,” Rebecca explains, “she was six the last time I saw her-- I let Rupert isolate me, and then I isolated myself further. It wasn't fair to my friend Sassy. It certainly wasn't fair to Nora”.

“Doesn't sound like it was very fair to you either,” Ted all but whispers.

Ted’s learned to realize that Rebecca is far harder on herself than she is on anyone else. He can see it in the way she takes on half the blame for emotional aches and pains he’s sure are only Rupert’s. He wonders who taught her to bare that blame. 

Rebecca’s silence feels like enough of a response to his statement; proof that there’s more than what meets the eye when it comes to the psyche of the woman in front of him. Without words, he understands why she seems to stuff it all away behind walls and fences, but he feels them crumbling when she lets her eyes meet his again. 

“For what it’s worth,” Ted speaks, his fingers resuming their invisible artwork up, and down her spine, “I’d bet you’re a fantastic godmother. And I’m still holding out hope that you might be a magical one at that.”

She laughs, so he continues, “How neat would that be if this whole time you’ve been out in the woods doing fairy-godmother things? Turning chipmunks into coachmen, and pinecones into carriages?” The sound is infectious, and his own chuckles start as just a smirk growing as loud and as silly as hers by the time he’s run out of fairy-godmother activities to add to the ridiculous list of a skills. 

The passing of two days feels like two hours, and Ted holds off until the last possible minute to say his goodbyes. He knows the roads will be dark for his drive home, but he couldn’t care less. Sunset rests at the top of the trees and they stand leaning against his car, in the gravel parkinglot. 

“You should text me,” Rebecca says, pulling her flannel jacket closer around her. “I thought you didn’t get cell reception out here?” “We got cell towers put in. Turns out campers have a habit of falling off trails, and getting lost. If they have a signal it’s easier to get help… and hopefully, it makes the quiet seasons less lonely for us who live here year-round”. 

“I feel like you might be flirtin’ with me”. 

“And so what if I am?” “You might regret it. I can be quite the texter-- might call and chat your ear off as well,” Ted shrugs his cheeks aching from smiling. “I’ve had worse company,” she smirks, “text me anytime”. 

He kisses her before he leaves, and the feel of her hand on his cheek lingers, and his phone feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket with the urge to text her as soon as he gets to his first rest stop. 

At home, his bed feels too big. Too empty. Too cold. He still hasn’t texted her, and he decides to wait until the morning. He knows she was genuine in her invitation to message her anytime, but the fear of being too much still sticks in his throat. His chest feels tight, and he wills his eyes shut, convincing himself to count sheep for another night. 

Ted remembers believing that time moved faster when he was asleep. Six years old and bundled up in his coziest Christmas pyjamas, asking to be tucked into bed at 4:00 in the afternoon so that Christmas morning would come quicker. He wishes now that he’d been correct in his childhood reasoning, that shutting his eyes tonight might bring the next time he could see Rebecca any closer. 

His phone lights up on the nightstand. Goodnight, Ted. I hope you got home safe. 💜

The last few weeks of spring bring late-night conversations, and daily good-morning texts. He sends puns, and pictures of some of the art Henry makes at school. She shows him what she’s made for dinner and daily updates about the nest of baby bunnies near her cabin. He listens to her plans for the park’s summer programming and supports her new tree planting initiative, volunteering himself and Henry to plant saplings in the summertime. Nora comes to visit her and is happy to be put to work chopping wood, and scouting with her godmother. 

The summer sun is hot and leaves Ted’s cheeks, and shoulders tinted pink. The lake is a refreshing break after a long hike, and Henry insists on learning how to swim on this trip. Rebecca cheers from the narrow pebbled beach, her wide-brimmed hat protecting her from the light; and she’s positively glowing in her tank top and denim shorts. 

“I’m gonna teach you how to swim the same way my dad taught me, alright kiddo?” Henry nods eagerly, holding tight to his father’s arm. 

The water is shallow enough for Ted to stand, and deep enough for Henry to learn to kick and puddle. With the support of Ted’s arms under his chest and belly Henry gets used to going through the motions and gets comfortable floating. 

“Do you trust me?”Ted asks. 

“Of course,” Henry says and Ted slowly lowers his arms until the boy is swimming entirely on his own. 

“Dad, I’m doing it! Dad look!” Henry shouts swimming a lap around Ted. “I see ya bud! I see you,” Ted promises as Rebecca films the moment for him to keep forever. 

The fall rolls in heavy, all dark clouds and rainfall, the cold seeping in. September feels like a punch to the gut. 

He tells her about his father. About the day he lost him, the gap in his heart he’s never been able to fill back in, and the shattering sound he’ll never be able to forget. Rebecca tells him about her father, and the day she caught him cheating on her mother. She tells him about the constant suspicion she’s harboured since that night, and the anger she wishes she could shake. 

They talk about the odds, how the same date could’ve been so life-altering for both of them, albeit in different ways; what are the odds they found each other? They fall asleep miles apart, sharing their beds with cellphones propped up on pillows, the sound of the other’s breathing lulling them to sleep. 

November comes with a new wave of daily autumnal-themed puns from Ted. 

He boasts about his ma’s pumpkin pie and Rebecca sends photos of the trees changing colours.

“My work contract is expiring soon,” Ted tells her one night. “Oh, do you have the option to renew?” “I do. But I’m not sure I want to. I’m thinking about taking some time off. Look for something new”. “That sounds lovely. Are you going to travel?” Rebecca asks. “Sorta. There’s this park I’ve grown quite fond of, I was going to inquire about renting a cabin…You don’t know anyone who might have a place I can crash at do ya?” 

“I might know a place,” she teases.

“What did the acorn say to the ground?” Ted asks, his arms winding around her while she makes her morning tea. “What are you on about?” she’s still half asleep, and he buries his face against the side of her neck, leaving a kiss behind. 

“I’m falling for you”. 

Ted watches her set down her mug, turning to just stare at him. Silent. Blinking. And then, “Oh my god! You arse! Of course, you'd be the first to say I love you with some folksy little pun!” She smiles despite herself, his face held in both her hands, “you're incorrigible!” 

He hears the swing of her axe before he sees her. The swoosh of air before the echoed thud as it collides with the tree trunk. The tree she’s picked out is perfect. A smidge under six feet, with full brunches. The best Christmas tree he’s ever seen, though Henry would remind him that he’s prone to saying that about every Christmas tree they’ve ever had. 

“Can I help?” He asks as he gets closer. She pauses, lowering the axe and stretching her back, “I’m just about done here. But you could make me a cup of tea”. She grins, accepting his kiss. 

“That, I can absolutely manage,” Ted promises before adding, “I made you biscuits”. “I thought you were waiting for Henry to get here?” “Ah, but those will be Christmas biscuits”. “And the ones you made today-- on Christmas eve, they aren’t?” “Nope!” Her brows furrow, as she tries to understand him, “What are they then?” “These? These are ‘just because’ biscuits,” he shrugs. She can’t help her smile at his antics, “Just because?” “Just because I love you”.

[ajokeformur-ray]

~ Merry Christmas, Rose! ~ 🎁🎄❄️💝

For @rosesloveletters

Overall word count for this gift package: 4, 246.

First, as is one of our traditions, a little note from me🥺

Second, just in case we haven't been able to go on call to open physical gifts just yet, a glimpse of what you're in for...

Next, letters from some of my beloveds!💖 I had a hard time putting these together; none of my F/Os make things easy.😂

Now for some fics! I've written four; These are what I was spending all that time with your F/Os for!😭🙏💕I worked long and hard on these so I really really hope you enjoy them, darling! And if not, let me know and I’m more than happy to write you something else🫂💖I love you so so much and I had a lot of fun putting all of these together!👀

These four walls // Rose x Frank Slade // Scent of a Woman

Summary: the bedroom scene in which someone should really give Frank a cuddle. Lucky he has you, no?

(We had this conversation when we watched this film together and I took some mental notes of things you mentioned wanting to do in that moment🤗🌸)

Word count: 1, 468.

To finish the GIF:

"... Fuck."

Okay, sorry, this made me giggle! And the scene was playing as I was looking for GIFs so how could I not use it? Alsoooo, from the Thanksgiving dinner scene onwards, I just wanna give him a huuuuuug💔Okay, the fic!!!😂👀

Lt. Col. Frank Slade was... a lot to take sometimes. His mood was unpredictable, his bark always worse than his bite, he was stronger than he looked in so many ways. If you rolled your eyes in another room or suppressed a quiet sigh, he swore he could hear it and called you out on it if the mood struck him. Sometimes he did it anyway just to hear you laugh under your breath at his antics. It always made him smile, softened his already soft deep brown eyes.

He was beautiful.

And tragic. Twisted but not broken, blind but not unseeing, hard of resolve but soft of heart. Witty and mean, complex yet simple, kind to you and to Charlie but an asshole to most others. He had a soft spot for women of all kinds, men who had served or were intending to train, young people with promising futures, for the tomorrows and the somedays and the maybes. Frank had no spot, no time, for no's before one had even tried and what if's and people who didn't care to look underneath the underneath of his psyche. Underneath it all, he felt much but said little, and his actions spoke louder than he ever could, even when he was shouting so loud it made your ears feel like they would begin to bleed if he yelled any louder.

On days like this, if his soul had vocal chords, it would be bringing the walls down with the volume of its cries.

Frank lay on the bed, dark hair and eyes a stark contrast to the bright white sheets and pillows. Golden sunlight streamed in through the open curtains and left silver white rays across the white material of Frank's short sleeve t-shirt; with his hair mussed and about his face like a dark halo, he was the very picture of melancholy as he stared up at the ceiling, gazing at nothing in the room but everything in his mind. The monochrome of your bed and his attire was broken up by a dark brown blanket which was strewn across his abdomen and lap.

While you had gotten up to face the day at noon, Frank had stayed in bed. It wasn't entirely uncharacteristic of him, but it was an unusual enough event that it had given you pause and you had resolved to do your work in the bedroom, your typing and rustling of papers, the scratching of pen and your mutterings the accompaniment to the sounds of the city bustling outside the open window. You wanted to be close so that when Frank broke, as he always would at some point or another whether he wanted to or not, you would be there to offer him your undying support and unconditional love.

It was the very least you could give a man such a Frank, and yet it meant the very most to him. He wasn't used to people wanting him to be around for his own sake; his derision was often met with scorn, people took offense by his snark even when they knew him well enough to know that he didn't necessarily mean it. Anger was a secondary emotion which always hid pain or fear and, in Frank's case, being so terribly in the dark - but not alone, for never would you allow that now that he was quite firmly in your life - it hid both. He was in a lot of pain, emotionally, and his fear was such that almost everything he said had a sharp gruffness to the tone, even when his voice was soft and the words were kind.

Frank Slade had always been a bit of an enigma.

You paused in your work, currently working on invoices and book balancing - a tedious job which required typing repetitive figures and double, triple checking information, though you got it done quickly - to examine Frank and the very particular way he moved his head from and against the headboard, looking for some grounding.

Frank must have felt your stare. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." A pause and then a customary barked, "hah!" Another pause and then his eyes and voice softened, "Oh, Rose," His sigh was weighed down with all the sadness of the world, someething in his dark eyes pleading. For what, neither of you knew. Even so, it drew you to him like a moth to a flame and you got up, abandoning your work in favour of approaching your Colonel. "What do you want?"

"You're worrying me. Are you - are you okay?"

"What do you think?" Frank groaned and closed his eyes before he opened them again, fixing his gaze on you. "Come lay by me, sweetheart. Let me feel you." You were at the side of the bed in a heartbeat, so fast you were almost dizzy, and Frank sat up with awkward movements, as if his body was weighted down with lead, "Give me your hand."

Somehow, even though he wasn't looking directly at you but just at your nose, his fingers slid perfectly and without hesitation, like a knife through hot buitter, into the spaces between your own. He gripped you tight, as if he was afraid that you would disappear if he loosened his grip even a little. In truth, he was afraid that he would lose himself if he let go of you. "I am eternally grateful for every day you give me, but right now I want to be left to sleep here."

You noticed that Frank didn't let go of your hand and he didn't say "alone", which meant that in a very very roundabout way, in a method so casual that if you didn't know him as well as you did, you would have missed it, Frank was asking you to stay with him. To let the world outside of the bed he had been laying in all morning and all afternoon, if the day carried on this way, slip away until all that remained was the two of you. If you didn't take him up on it, then Frank would lessen the sting of rejection by telling himself that you hadn't picked up on his little hints. But he knew you better than that, and he knew that you would pick up on the things he didn't say; those were always the things you responded to as best as you could.

You answered his non-verbal question silently as you slid into the bed with him, immediately burrowing down so that your head rested on the portion of his arm where tanned hairs met pale upper arm, your dark hair spilling across his skin and creating more of a contrast between the light materials which made up the bed and the way you both had dark hair, with tender eyes to match. You laid beside him and watched his eyes move around the room, taking it all in without seeing anything, and wondered what he was looking at, while you snuggled in further and closed your eyes, intent on keeping him company just like this all day. You wondered what he was thinking of - fallen friends, lost opportunities, the grenade that got away.

A few inches away, Frank's mind was in a similar place to yours, but where you mourned the life he could have had as much as he did, tried to decide how best you could help him and where to put your other arm - his shoulders or his waist? - Frank had decided upon something else, too, something which gave him a little more appreciation for his bleak future: if his eyesight was the price for finding you, then Lt. Col. Frank Slade would happily pay it again and again.

"The thought that one day, I'd have a woman's arms wrapped around me, her legs wrapped around me, that I could wake up in the morning and she would still be there and I could smell her, all warm... I finally gave up on it, but you, sweetheart..." Frank smiled softly and it made your heart melt, "you're right here, aren't you? Hoo-ah!"

You squeezed your arms and legs around your Colenol, pressed your head against his and held it there, as if your mind could reach his and offer him comfort from the inside out while your body gave him comfort from the outside in and decided that there was nowhere you would rather be, no one you would rather be with, and that you would be with him for as long as he would have you. And as it turned out, that was to be forever. You deserved the love of a lifetime and Frank was already in the process of growing that with you. As they used to say in the service - teamwork makes the dream work.

I shouldn’t be doing this, it’s too easy // Rose and her Daddy ft. the rest of Ocean’s Eleven

Summary: you step foot into the Bellagio with the intent to try gambling. After only moments on one slot machine with 'free' money, you make a wise decision.

Based on real conversations we got to have in an actual casino😭and I tried to remember bits and pieces of things your dad taught us!

Word count: 1, 411.

You were as familar a face in the Bellagio as Terry Benedict himself, and indeed did people who didn't know you well give you a wide berth as they walked past. It was as if even the threat of accidentally brushing shoulders with you in a packed and crowded place such as one of Terry's casinos was enough to keep people away from you, in fear of incurring Terry's wrath.

They weren't wrong, exactly, but neither you nor Terry were going to tell them that.

It was way more fun watching people try to squash their shoulders in while in an already wide corridor just to avoid even potentially brushing your shoulders, clad in a high-end dress which suited you perfectly.

At first, it had slightly upset you, sensitive were you even though you sometimes tried not to be, but now it was just funny. Especially after Danny and Rusty took it upon themselves to deliberately and loudly bump your shoulders with theirs, knocking you off your sure path before catching you with a smooth arm around your waist and a "sorry" soaked in humour. Those two could turn anything into something humourous, and indeed did they make your hectic and chaotic life easier to manage, deal with.

You were always in the Bellagio; of all of Terry's casinos, this one was your favourite. It was your first love, as far as places went, and it served only to bring you closer to Terry, whom also obviously favoured the Bellagio. Though you worked in all three casinos, as trained up by your daddy, you spent the majority of your working life here, walking the same halls as Terry Benedict. Your postures were similar; you both held your heads high when you were comfortable in your surroundings, your shoulders were set yet relaxed, your hands were either down by your sides or holding a set of keys tightly in your fist or clutching a clipboard; they were never empty and you were always busy.

Just like your daddy.

That thought never failed to send a thrill down your spine. You were so proud to be Terry Benedict's only daughter, the very best investment in his life alongside his casinos; he almost owned the whole strip in Las Vegas and regularly asked for your input on which ones you thought he should buy up next. He valued your opinions, tauight you to speak up for yourself and to take what you wanted if no one else would give it to you. Nothing was impossible or improbably for his daughter if she wanted it enough.

As yet, you had never wanted to try gambling for yourself. You were content to walk through the aisles, casting a critical eye over slot machines and card game tables, looking for any signs that things weren't as they should be, checking winnings and withdrawals of cash, making sure that the people in the casino were being lawful in every possible way so that Terry's name and reputation remained as intact as he worked hard for it to be.

You didn't really see the appeal of gambling, but then, how would you know about something if you didn't try it for yourself? Life wouldn't come to you, you would have to go to it. Chase it down and make it your own, just as your daddy taught you from a young age.

So you did.

You had spoken to your daddy at length about this and he said that if you were going to try gambling, you were going to try. So, you approached the front desk to sign up for an account at the Bellagio, with your first real name but a fake last name which was obviously fake so Terry could wipe it from the system at just a glance if you wanted him to after your experience as a customer. You were given a voucher for $10, 'free' money with which to give you a taste of what it meant to gamble, and with Danny and Rusty flanking you - security as well as giving you hints and tips on how to successfully gamble, Linus with his hand in yours, you were on your way. Terry, for his part, was stood on top of the grand staircase, where he usually stood every morning during security and management handover, to keep an eye on you. It was how he usually handled life; he would step back and watch you, curious to see how you would do and proud no matter how you did, but he would intervene as and when he thought it to be necessary or when you asked for him to.

Linus, Danny and Rusty had taken it upon themselves to teach you about how to select the best slot machine, what to do with the $10 given to you; what machines to avoid, how to get the best payout, which staff members had better sleight of hand and which ones took bribes, which ones had helped in previous operations... the three men had your mind spinning with information and possibilities and fragmented sentences which you did your absolute best to hold onto.

The neon lights and high pitched noises alerting of winnings dizzied you as you walked around the casino, looking over titles and buttons.

"Nothing too complicated to start," Danny muttered, hands pointing over to a relatively simple slot machine which only had three buttons on the panel, "But something like this would be good for your first time."

"I don't like the graphics, though." Your nose wrinkled slightly as you looked the machine over, eyes wandering over to a machine with golden vegetables. "How about something like this?"

Danny eyed it, shared a look with Rusty, and the two men nodded. Agreement - this was a good pick. Not for them, necessarily, they preferred the more complex machines, but for your first time gambling, as well as for the fact that you chose it, this one was perfect.

Linus leaned in close, his lips almost brushing the shell of your ear, "Do you like it?"

You wouldn't know until you tried, and so Danny walked you through putting the $10 in the slot, setting up the money you were happy to put up to gamble, the pace of the game, and all the other details, and soon you were gambling for the first time, with Danny, Linus and Rusty all giving you advice and your daddy still watching you. You had chosen a good machine and he made a note to buy some more of those; he wanted parts of you in every part of his every casino. His daughter and his life's work, joined together, so that you were both everywhere he looked.

Within just a few bids, you were noticing a problem within yourself and it was raising alarm bels inside your head, red hot, loud bells. You were enjoying yourself just a little too much and you were beginning to understand how people could get addicted to gambling. "This... is gonna be a problem if I let it," there was laughter in your voice, but it sounded nervous. It caught the attention of all three men.

"Hold it," Linus muttered, a hand hovering over the button you were about to push, "What's the matter?"

You shrugged, the golden lights of the machine reflected in your eyes, "I can see how this would be a problem for some people... it's only been five minutes and I'm already - " You shook your head, finished the bid, and stood up, "I don't want to do anymore. It's too much fun and I can see how it can be addicting."

"Wanna withdraw the money you got left? Technically, that's your profit because this was on the house."

You looked at Linus for guidance and he shrugged, already taking out the money and handing it to you in a movement so deft you barely registered him moving. You decided there and then that it was the last time you would ever gamble.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and the screen lit up with a notification from your daddy; A wise decision. I'm proud of you.

The smile that lit up your face was brighter than any of the lights in or around the casino, and Terry realised as he watched you from across the room, still on the staircase, that his greatest treasure wasn't the $160 million in his vaults, but you. His daughter.

Rose Benedict.

I then wrote you two smaller pieces, because I had some ideas I wanted to share with you. They're shorter than the previous two but I hope you enjoy them!💖 And if not, then pleaseeee let me know, you know I'll write you something else.🥹💖

All I have is your name // Rose x Tony Montana // Scarface

Summary: you envy his easy way in the world. Tony tries to show you. Comfort for having too much to do and not enough time.

Word count: 790.

You could never have enough time with Tony.

Even if you spent your whole day with him, like you consistently did, it still wouldn't be enough time. Unfortunately for you, life frequently kept you away not only from Tony, but also from yourself. There was simply too much to do, and never enough time to do it in. In order to get things done, you felt the need to sacrifice your favourite comforts; your stomach twisting, your mind racing, your heart pounding, your energy levels depleted from late nights and days which started earlier than you would prefer, but still you tried. Your body was just another thing to take care of on your never-ending list.

Looking back with the gift of hindsight, you rarely understood how you had made it through something, but still you always did. You kept going, day after day, with more work than there was hours in the day.

It was something which Tony felt connected to you over, for he, too, had no idea how he would survive going from being a Cuban refugee to being someone who was living the American Dream, but somehow, some way, he had done it, despite all the people and all the thoughts telling him that he wouldn't, not now or ever, and he had always known that you would, too. You would make it in your own way and in your own time, this Tony knew.

You were strong, stronger than you or others gave you credit for, and for every time you had faced a challenge and thought that you wouldn't survive it, you had done just that. Tony was never surprised because he knew firsthand what you were capable of, but you always were. He had learned the hard way that when everyone tells you no, you have to believe in yourself and be your own advocate, and though he wanted for you to have some more confidence in yourself, he also didn't want you to because it meant that he could be your hype man, he could be the one to build you up when others ripped you to a size they could bite down on and chew up easier. He knew what the world was capable of doing to someone and he wanted to protect you from that as much as he possibly could, while also admiring your strength. It was a tight line to walk but Tony had always been good with enclosed spaces. He left you to your own devices for the most part, but he trusted you to go to him when you needed help or wanted some comfort. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed, it was yours. No hesitation, no questions, no fuss.

Tony had always been an all or nothing type of man, one who was hard working and aligned to his own firm principles. He had built himself a life from rock bottom, crawled up from hell until his knees were scraped raw, covered with the blood of those he had walked on to get to where he was. Despite this, even he marvelled at how much you got done each day. Tony had come from nothing, in every sense of the word. He only has his momma and his little sister, Gina, his word and his balls. Those first two, he protected with his life and indeed had done terrible things in the name of defending those he loved. The second two, he broke for no one.

But if he was going to break them for anyone at all, it would be you.

You, who worked so hard and tried as much as she could even if she didn't know why. You, who walked with your chin held high when you wore a shirt which Tony had bought for you, but a less healthy posture when you wore clothes you picked out for yourself. You, who often moved around Tony's desk to sit in his lap because you missed him but you didn't want to interrupt what he was doing. He had gotten so used to you doing it that when you walked towards him, he automatically took his feet off the top of his desk to welcome you into his space. Even when he was meeting with Manny.

Especially when he was meeting with Manny.

What Tony's Rose wanted, his Rose got, and if she wanted to sit on his lap while she did her own work because she missed him so much it drove her to the point of not being able to concentrate, then... who was Tony to tell her no?

After all, what good were unbroken balls if he had to break his word to keep them that way?

A lion protects his pride... To the max 😉 // Rose x Lion x Max // Scarecrow

Summary: Softness😭

Word count: 577

Things had not always been happy or easy for your boys... Or for you.

They had been through so much, both individually and as the duo they were; Lion especially. More often than not were you the third, quieter party, the one who listened as Max drank a beer or three and Lion did his best to help, clutching a white box which had definitely seen better days. You had asked him multiple times if he wanted you to replace the box, so that the contents inside were better protected, but Lion metaphorically and literally held fast. He always shook his head at you with a quiet, "no, thank you", paired with a genuinely grateful smile. Max didn't often listen to Lion, preferring to do his own things in his own way, but slowly and with the gift of time was he learning to take himself less seriously and to have a bit of fun in amongst the chaos. What was the point, otherwise?

Where Lion and Max clashed or couldn't quite see eye to eye despite how clearly either of them was explaining their point of view, you were there to level them out and help them to work through any frustrations. You didn't speak with as much confidence as they did, but when you did speak, both men shut up relatively quickly and gave you their undivided attention. You had a way of coming up with solutions to problems quickly, thinking on your feet and making the most, the best, of what you had. It was one of the things they both loved about you; no matter what, you had a way of making things happen for yourself which you previously had wanted but hadn't thought to be possible. Possible for others? Of course! But for you? Maybe not.

It practically drove Lion to distraction and it only made him and Max even more protective of you than they already were.

You supported them, advocated for them and accommodated their wants and needs as best as you could, all the while asking for nothing from them except for them to be themselves. And so when night time fell and you finally, finally, got to go to sleep, Max and Lion guarded you and your rest with everything they had in them. They were used to sleeping anywhere; in barracks, in truck beds, slumped against each other's weary bodies, up against tree trunks or simply on the cold hard ground. But you had a proper bed, with a real mattress and blankets, and both men always hesitated to join you each night, feeling out of place and undeserving of an actual, real bed.

With time, patience and persistence, especially with Max, you managed to get the both of them to join you in bed almost every night; sandwiched between them, with Lion clinging to you like an oversized cat (if the shoe fit... the thought always made you smile) and Max laying beside you but barely touching, unless either you or Lion were in great need of comfort or you explicitly asked him to. He just couldn't, wouldn't, say no to either you or Lion, if only because of all the things you had gone through on your own as well as since knowing each other and being together as a couple.

Things hadn't always been easy for any of you, but things were easier with Max and Lion in your life, and you in theirs.

So there we go!!! ~ 🥺🥺🥺I really hope that you enjoyed these, darling, and if not then please let me know so I can write you something else or even add more detgails to these pieces if that's what you'd prefer!! I love you so so so much hasdfghjkl merry christmas, angel!!!💖💖💖💖💖