#I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR EIGHT GOD DAMN YEAR FOR IT TO COME OUT

[foxyk7]

!!HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!

This are the drawing I did for my birthday.

Also, thanks everyone who gave me a gift art for my birthday!! I loved all of them!

[ckret2]

Bill hates it when people mention Euclydia. Everyone thinks it's because he doesn't want to hear his home's real name; it's actually the opposite.

Here, have some fic. The naming of Euclydia (among other things), the birth of the Nightmare Realm, and the Axolotl planting the seeds of a trillion-year-long plan to keep Bill from the death penalty.

This is the 🎉FINAL PART🎉 of a 9-part plot about the Axolotl in the aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre. If you wanna read the others (or look at the art), here's one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight.

####

With the immediate crisis averted and the triangle, for the moment, not attempting to invade and/or demolish the multiverse, most of the god militia pulled back. A group remained stationed near the unstable border between dimensions to watch the triangle; but the less powerful gods could trickle back in to get back to their own work, first and foremost the construction workers doing emergency repairs to reformat and stabilize the neighboring dimensions.

The Axolotl—who, he suspected, would have been arrested himself for interfering if they weren't still focused on the triangle—wove through the crowd until he found the Time Giant; and then swam angrily up to her and demanded, "You used me as a distraction?"

She turned a stone-hard look on him. "That was the agreement."

"No! The agreement was that I'd try to talk him down! We'd only resort to distracting him if I couldn't get through to him!"

"Ya didn't get through to him." The Time Giant nodded at the Axolotl's burned side. "Look at you. Your leg's off."

He looked down at his missing foreleg. He'd been so distracted by the near end of the multiverse, he'd barely noticed the pain. "It's just a flesh wound," he insisted. "I'm an axolotl, it'll grow back!"

She shook her head.

"I would have gotten through to him! You saw me talk him down after an entire army threatened him!" the Axolotl said. "What if I had succeeded, and when we left my tank he found out you already wrote him off?! You never gave me a chance—"

"We did give you a chance," she said testily, "and I saw that you weren't gonna succeed." She hooked a thumb over her belt and tapped a finger on her time tape; the stylized symbol of the Time Giants glowed on the side, an unsubtle reminder that she knew what was coming far better than he did. "So I did my damn job."

So she'd sent him in already knowing that he would fail. The Axolotl was speechless for a second. "But—you couldn't know—I got so close, if I'd had just one more try to talk to him..."

"If I'd let you, I'm sure you woulda kept trying until the end of time," she said. "You seem like a good guy, Ax—but you can't save everyone." She pushed past him to get to work. "There's first aid near where Dimension 2 Gamma was. Get those burns looked at."

"They're fine."

She was wrong. He could save everyone. Because he wouldn't stop until he did.

####

"You're replacing it?" the triangle asked petulantly.

"I'm not talking to you," VENDOR said, turned away from the triangle. "You had your chance at diplomacy and you blew it." The crablike cop was holding up a clipboard with some paperwork for VENDOR to review, and didn't look pleased to have been temporarily reduced to a secretary.

"I'm just asking a question!"

"We're not speaking."

At the top of his lungs—which was, it turned out, very loud and very shrill—the triangle said in the direction of the reporters, "Oh wow, that's a crazy thing to say about Lady Morgenstern! And talk about obscene! She'd be furious if she could hear that—!"

"Shhhhh!" VENDOR rounded angrily on the triangle. "You don't even know who she is!"

"I know her name and I'm not afraid to use it," the triangle said. "You're really replacing my dimension?"

"If I can be left alone long enough to finish signing the authorization paperwork," VENDOR muttered. "The construction crew's already out here and waiting, so if you don't mind..."

"It just seems pretty tacky, replacing a universe just like that." The triangle spoke like dimension he was talking about was just a pawn to be used in a trivial argument about etiquette, rather than everyone and everything he'd ever known. "No memorial or anything? Yeesh."

"So hold a memorial for it," VENDOR said. "We don't have any choice, we have to repair all the fallen walls to keep reality stable. If you'd let us into your hovel to sweep up what's left of your old dimension, it could have at least been incorporated into the new one."

The triangle half reached for his hat, stopped himself, and curled his hand into a fist and thrust it down at his side. "Over my dead body," he said. "Which I'm pretty sure got incinerated! So that means never!"

"You're pretty sure?" VENDOR asked archly.

"It... I had more important stuff to take care of, okay? I'm a busy guy!"

"I'm sure," VENDOR said. "Well, it's too late for any cleanup operations anyway. Enjoy rotting away in your landfill."

"Wow, that's how you talk to a refugee from the biggest disaster ever?" The triangle laughed. "Hey, bet the muckrakers over there would love to hear how sympathetic you are to the—what'd you say I am—the 'last surviving soul from my dimension'—?"

"Let's find somewhere quieter to work," VENDOR said to the cop.

He looked relieved "You got it."

As VENDOR and THEIR impromptu secretary moved away from Dimension Zero, the triangle shouted after THEM, "Hey! How do I vote for Municipalitron!"

Volcanoes on several of VENDOR's planets erupted. THEY whipped around to face the triangle. "You don't! You aren't in my district!"

"Well, whose district am I in? This Morgenstern creep you keep bringing up?" the triangle asked. "How's voting work, do you toss a ballot across the border and I toss it back—?"

"You're not in anyone's district! If you were, you'd have been arrested already!"

The triangle stared in dumb shock. "Wait, so I don't get to vote for which of you idiots I have to deal with?" He hollered at VENDOR's retreating back, "That's fascism!"

Fuming, VENDOR passed the Axolotl muttering under THEIR breath about showing the triangle fascism; then stopped, abruptly turned to face him, and snapped, "You."

"You," the Axolotl agreed.

"You're an optimistic fool."

Yes, well, he knew that already. He'd been voted Most Adorably Idealistic in his law school yearbook for a reason. "I don't think I like you, either."

"No one does." THEIR camera whirred irritably as they looked the Axolotl up and down. "What are you doing here, anyway? I assumed you'd been sent to figure out who's liable for this whole mess—but no, you only handle afterlife cases, don't you? Who sent you?"

The Axolotl was silent.

Furiously, VENDOR said, "Are you serious?! We could have avoided half this mess if it weren't for you!"

"If it weren't for me, he'd have knocked down the multiverse before anyone realized he's setting the fires," the Axolotl snapped. "And if you had figured that much out, you'd have gotten your cops killed before anyone realized he's a god."

"The professionals here to handle the situation could have figured it out faster if you weren't derailing their investigations," VENDOR snarled. "And arguing about jurisdiction! We could have arrested that that little troublemaker the moment we figured out just what he's done—"

"Right after you arrested that kid with the spray can who didn't have anything to do with this?"

THEY growled in frustration. "Forget it! I hope you're happy with your genocidal pal over there—you seem about as concerned with public safety as he is." THEY stormed off, the cop with THEIR paperwork chasing after THEM.

The Axolotl watched VENDOR go; then turned to look ruefully toward Dimension Zero.

When the triangle caught his gaze, he formed a heart with his fingers over his top point and called out, gleefully singsong, "Genocide paaals!"

It wasn't exactly the reaction he'd hoped for.

####

The Axolotl was attempting to distract himself from scratching his itchy leg while it regrew by eavesdropping on the triangle. It seemed like the triangle was entertaining himself by darting around the border of Dimension Zero to start arguments with anybody he happened to recognize (except the Axolotl, whom he seemed to be trying to ignore outside of throwing a few odd quips at him.) At the moment, the triangle and the Time Giant were hollering at each other about her decision to reinforce the second dimensions by making them splinter into multiple timelines.

"So you're really willing to sacrifice zillions of lives by letting me incinerate all their parallel timelines?" The triangle laughed in disbelief. "And everyone here thinks I'm the killer! That's not a good look for you, buddy!"

She glanced up from a table full of paperwork to give him a totally neutral look. "You're the one who's willing to incinerate them. You could not do that."

"When I do it, it's justified."

The Axolotl was distracted from the argument as the storm cloud with the apoc agents gloomily blew past him. It was talking into a walkie-talkie as it went: "Yeah, I know he's a nut. But he's a nut that can't throw fireballs outside the border of his dimension, and I've got to finish this report before we can get outta here." He sighed at whatever the walkie-talkie said in response, and said, "Yeah. We'll rendezvous after I have his testimony." It let its tornado suck the walkie-talkie back in and drifted to the Time Giant. "Mind if I steal your conversation partner for a minute? ATTF business."

She grabbed a binder to try to shield her papers from the worst of the storm's rain. "Please. Take him."

"Thanks." It floated closer to Dimension Zero and raised its voice to bark, "Hey! Magister Mentium!"

The triangle looked over mistrustfully. "What?" As he'd talked to the Time Giant, he'd been playing with the fabric of reality, creating a circle out of raw... stuff. The Axolotl couldn't tell what the stuff was, but it looked like it was some sort of animal tissue, except far too uncannily homogeneous to be natural, disturbing in its uniformity. Like a slice of baloney. When he saw who'd called out to him, he rolled his eye and turned his attention to extruding the circle into a baloney cylinder. "Heeey, Officer Fun Police! Here to rain on my parade again?"

"Rain jokes aren't as funny as you think they are," it said. "No, this is Apocalyptic Threat Task Force business."

The triangle's eye narrowed. "What business? Are you gonna complain about my renovations again?"

"No. If you're not about to knock reality down, I don't care what you do anymore," the cloud said. "It's not my business to punish anybody for previous apocalypses, I just want to prevent future ones. Answer a few questions for our incident report and I'll be out of your life." There was an implicit and you'll be out of mine in its tone.

"All right," the triangle said dubiously. "Fffine. Then we're on the same side. I'm not fond of apocalypses either."

It paused like it wanted to argue with that claim, but said, "Good enough for me." It pulled out the soggy notepad it had been using all day, flipped through it, couldn't find a free page, and with a sigh pulled out a tape recorder instead. "You're from Dimension 2 Delta, right?"

"If you say so," the triangle said, lifting his hands in a shrug. "You guys are the ones who named my dimension."

"Uh-huh." Under its breath, the cloud muttered, "Not exactly a name, but... If you're from 2Δ, that makes you the only direct witness to how your universe was destroyed."

The triangle paused. "Mm."

"Can you explain what happened, exactly?" When the triangle didn't respond, the cloud added, "I'm not gonna arrest you for it. If we want to have a chance of stopping something like this from happening in the future, we need to know what happened here."

"Uhhh, yyyeah. Suuure," the triangle said.  It wasn't clear exactly how Dimension Zero rearranged, but the view of the eternal dance party simply vanished. There was no sign of the millions of shapes. The music had fallen near silent, just a constant distant low thumping noise, like your heartbeat in your ears; quiet enough that it couldn't drown out the whispery hiss leaking out of Dimension Zero. "It's not like I have anything to hide." Whatever he was about to say, it seemed like he wanted to hide it from his party prisoners, at least.

A bolt of lightning shot through the storm's recorder, turning it on. "You said you were an active participant in the end of the world, right?"

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" He eyed the recorder suspiciously. "What is this, some trick to try to get a confession out of me?"

"Again, I'm not a cop. And you already confessed in front of a thousand reporters," the storm said. "If you were involved, you've got a different perspective than some guy ten superclusters away who only witnessed it, that's the only reason it matters."

"Oh," the triangle said. "Then—yeah, I was there for the whole thing. Start to finish."

"Great," the storm said gruffly. "Then could you explain in your own words what happened when the universe ended and, to the best of your knowledge, what caused it."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. The cause," the triangle said. "It... it was a—monster."

"I thought you said you—"

"It was a monster," the triangle said, more confidently now.

The cloud hesitated. "All right," it said. "Tell me what happened."

The triangle took a deep breath. "Okay. So. It uh—started with the third dimension."

"The monster came from the third dimension?"

"No, we were going to the third dimension. But we needed—"

The hissing background static exploded into a roar.

The void filled with the staticky screams of countless dead voices, pleading for mercy, pleading for it to stop. Death rattles, howls of agony, wails of terror. Most of the crowd of gods outside Dimension Zero fell silent, turning to stare at the disembodied hysterical shrieks.

One voice, strained with pain, rose above the cacophony, crackling, "Emergency services! We need medical assistance! Ambulances, or—please—I don't know what happened—it's like everyone's internal organs spontaneously ruptured, there's—there's hundreds of people here! Some of them are missing parts of their body, they just—disappeared! I'm hurt too, I don't know what it is—I can feel it inside me—"

A second voice replied, "We can't send assistance. Everyone's bleeding, the whole city's dying! We can't help you!"

Whatever the triangle said was lost beneath the roar. He didn't even seem to notice it. His eye was filled with static. The word "blood" was just barely audible. The word "mandibles."

Another voice, trying to sound professional, trying to sound authoritative, but trembling with fear, "This is an emergency announcement! This announcement will not repeat! The fire can transmit over radio waves and sound waves! Turn off all radios and TVs! Turn off all radios and TVs and destroy any wireless phones and pagers! Do NOT listen to the screams! Again, the fire is transmitting over radio waves, this message will not repeat, destroy your radio and warn your neighbors!"

The Axolotl saw images flash in the triangle's eye, too fast for him to mentally process one before another ten had gone by: a plane like infinitely thin glass with tiny delicate shapes painted on its surface shattering in a rolling wave; a bleeding body reduced to shards and then the shards reduced to chips and then chips reduced to dust; fire spitting and crackling into every crack split in existence; a light shaped like a triangle. (Was that the light that had blinded the Oracle's seer?)

Another voice gasping, "It's doing something to the gravity, I-I don't understand—we don't even have the equipment to read... it's like gravity's turned in a direction that doesn't exist! Does anyone know how to stop it?! Our universe is tearing ap—" and the words were cut off with a scream; and the scream was cut off with a sudden silence that was swallowed whole by the other voices.

The triangle had peeled open, shining golden panels stretching out like petals, his mandibles unhinged and curling around his eye in a ring of teeth, like a blooming carnivorous flower, sun-soaked and mesmerizing. God, he was so bright. He shot light in every direction like an explosion that never ended. Like a star trapped in the moment of supernova.

Another voice, shaking with rage, "Did you hear that, you monster?! I told you we weren't ready yet! Why didn't you listen?! I can see the destruction from here—the sky's on fire, everything is burning. How could this happen?! YOU killed them all—" and the rage cracked, revealing the fear and grief just barely hidden underneath, "Remember us. If you're the only one left, you have to remember us. Please—"

The static snapped off; the triangle's body snapped back into place; his eye snapped back into focus; "—and then they appointed me their god," he said cheerfully, "and here we are!"

And with only a couple more dying cries of pain and pleas for help, the voices fell back to their constant background whisper.

The storm cloud had started sleeting.

The Axolotl had stopped breathing. Just the sound of the carnage was enough to make him sick.

But the triangle sounded perfectly at ease—more than he had before he'd answered the cloud's question. "So is that all you needed?" He'd resumed playing with the cylinder of meat he'd been constructing—extruding it further, and then, dissatisfied with the results, collapsing it back into a circle.

His hands were trembling as he messed with the cylinder. There was a tightness around his eye.

"What..." The storm cloud let out a low rumble of thunder, ahem, "what... did you say about blood? I didn't catch it."

The triangle blinked blankly at the storm. "I didn't say anything about blood."

It paused.  "All right, then—what about the other voices? Who were they?"

"What voices?"

The storm stared at the triangle, baffled sunbeam fixed on him; then swung the sunbeam over to the Axolotl. "You heard—?"

So his eavesdropping had been noticed. He nodded. Oh, he heard, all right.

The triangle glanced between them. "I think you guys are hearing voices," he said. "The only one talking here is me."

He said it like he meant it. The Axolotl was sure he did. Had he not heard the voices?

"Never mind, forget it," the cloud said uneasily. "You said someone... Who appointed you their god?"

"Uhhh..." the triangle tilted to the side as he tried to think. "Pretty much all my people? Yeah. It was everyone!"

"Your people? From your universe?"

"Yup!"

"They didn't appoint you their god," the cloud said. "They're all dead."

The triangle scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about. They're all in here with me!"

"You mean the mortals from the other universes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the triangle repeated, a little slower, warningly. "They're all from my universe."

For a moment, the cloud just stared at him, at a loss. It glanced again toward the Axolotl. The Axolotl had nothing to offer it.

"Is that everything?" The triangle tried to keep his voice peppy, but there was an edge of exhaustion that hadn't been there earlier. (Yeah, him and everyone else here.)

"I guess that wraps up that part of the questionnaire," the cloud muttered uneasily, trying to recover its professional tone. "Just a couple more questions. I need your name. For the report."

Dimension Zero's hissing background static rose again: "The murderer... The name of the murderer... is—"

"NOBODY ASKED YOU!" The triangle turned and chucked the cylinder he'd been working on into the Dream Realm. He grumbled under his breath, created another circle, and started stretching it out again.

The triangle could hear the voices. Then why hadn't he been able to hear them earlier? Unless he had been able to hear them—and he just... couldn't remember that he'd heard them?

Even if the Axolotl hadn't known about the incomparable trauma the triangle had survived/caused, it would be pretty obvious by now that something was going terribly wrong inside his head. Contradictory stories about his own reality, memories he refused to remember, facts he simply set aside as not relevant. Was he refusing to face them, or was he unable?

From their conversation in the Axolotl's tank, he thought the triangle understood more than he was willing to admit. But the Axolotl might be the only one who knew that.

And that was beginning to give the Axolotl an idea.

"Just—put me down as the Magister Mentium, okay?" the triangle told the cloud. "Everyone'll know who you're talking about."

"If you say so," said the cloud. "What was your universe's name?"

"Its name?" The triangle glanced up from his new cylinder and gave the cloud a perplexed look. "You asked already. You said it's Dimension 2 Delta."

"That's its serial number. Every dimension's assigned one at its Big Bang. But it's standard to let a dimension's own residents choose its name. It makes it more personal." The cloud sounded as though it had memorized this explanation. The Axolotl wondered how many times it had had to take statements from a destroyed dimension's grieving survivors. He hoped it usually got to give this spiel to witnesses of a narrowly averted apocalypse. "Typically the first explorers to leave their dimension get to name it; but the only person ever known to leave 2Δ is... you."

"Oh," he said. "Right."

"So, what did your people name your universe?"

He stared at the storm like it was stupid. "We called it... the universe?"

"Everyone calls their universe The Universe," the cloud said. "Followed by The World, The Dimension, Reality, and Home. They're all taken, come up with something else."

"Seriously? You're making me name my whole universe and now you're telling me how to name it?"

"They're not my rules," the cloud said. "If you don't have a native name, we usually name a dimension after the first known explorer to leave it. Was that you?"

The triangle was quiet for an uncomfortably long moment. His gaze twitched away; and for a moment the Axolotl thought he saw another image flash in his eye: a triangle floating in space, eerily serene, dead. His voice was small when he said, "No."

Surprised lightning quietly flashed in the storm's cloud. "Oh. Do you know the name of the first?"

"Of course I do. He's my..." He stopped himself. He said, too evenly, "His name is Euclid."

Obviously, the triangle wasn't speaking a language that can be spoken with human mouths or written with human symbols. "Euclid" is a stand-in word for an unpronounceable name; trying to say the name without the right anatomy—without even the right laws of physics and sound waves—would only mangle it.

But the rest of the multiverse didn't have the right physics or anatomy either. "Euclid," the cloud repeated, mangling it. The triangle winced. "Fine. How's Euclydia sound?"

"It sounds stupid," the triangle said.

"Well, it's your dimension. Do you have a better suggestion?"

"I..." The triangle floundered helplessly. "That... Okay hold on, I've had a very long..." He floundered again as he tried to figure exactly what kind of time span he'd been having a long one of.

"If you want me to come back later..." said the cloud, who very obviously did not want to have to come back later.

"I don't knowww, gimme a second," the triangle whined. "I've never thought about a universe having a name! It's—it's fine. Euclydia's fine."

"If you're sure—?"

"Of course I'm sure," the triangle snapped. "Euclydia. Yeah. Great. Fine."

"All right." The cloud zapped its tape recorder, turning it off. "Thanks for your time."

As it started to hover off, the triangle said, "Hold on! I answered your questions, you owe me some."

The eye of the storm reluctantly swung back toward the triangle. "What?"

He held up the shape he'd been extruding. "What do you call this... 3D circle thing?"

The sunbeam swept over it. "A cylinder?"

The triangle pointed toward VENDOR, who was out at the edge of the crowd answering the questions of some reporters who'd caught THEM attempting to slink away from the scene. "And what are the 3D circle things Coin Slot over there is hauling around?"

It glanced at VENDOR's stock of planets. "Spheres."

The triangle shook his cylinder. "Well, what am I doing wrong, then!"

"I don't know, math's not my thing," the cloud said. "Try rotating it."

The triangle waited until the cloud had moved on; then created another circle, extruded it again, but curled the extrusion around into a circle. He ended up with a shape like a donut. He said, quietly, "Oo-oo-ooh." He sounded impressed.

The Axolotl swam up alongside the storm cloud as it left. "So. Find out what you wanted to know?"

The cloud laughed ruefully.

That was what he thought. "Are the interviews you've been taking classified?"

"No, our reports are open to the public. Anyone can request copies. The database is a nightmare to navigate, though."

"Let me know who to contact for the records on this incident. Especially the witness testimonies."

"I take it you're also planning to go through that noise we just heard with a fine-tooth comb?"

"That's hardly the start of it."

If the Axolotl had been convinced of anything during all his conversations with the triangle today, it was that the triangle could barely begin to grasp just what it was he'd done to his dimension and all the dimensions around it—and he did a very poor job of communicating what he did grasp.

And if the Axolotl could prove that—if he could build a convincing argument that the triangle hadn't understood what he'd done, psychologically couldn't understand, that even now he only had the fuzziest comprehension of what he was involved in...

Someday, that triangle's sins would catch up to him. Someday, he would be in the hands of the gods of death and justice, and they would have to decide what fate his actions had earned. And when that day came, it would be the Axolotl's job to ensure that the triangle didn't end up damned or erased from existence.

As it was now, that triangle didn't stand a chance in the multiverse of being found innocent. But there was more than one way to avoid a "guilty" verdict.

By the time the triangle stood before a judge, the Axolotl would make sure that the right laws were in place for him to do what he wanted to do.

####

Where there had been swarms of firefighters earlier, now the scene swarmed with construction workers, working on the emergency genesis of over half a dozen replacement universes—carefully, so that the big bangs didn't do any further damage to an already unstable situation; but quickly. Already every destroyed one-dimensional universe had been replaced. Several half-burned dimensions had been supplanted with oddly-shaped undersized universes that met at the older universes' burned edges; jagged 1D dimensions sealed the gaps between these dimensions like a line of solder between two panes of stained glass.

By now, the flat planes and edges surrounded the zeroth dimension like the sleek shifting surfaces of an infinity-sided die; all except for one last missing wall in the middle of the damage.

Dimension 2 Delta. "Euclydia."

The construction workers were already setting up the scaffolding and equipment to set off another big bang.

As the Axolotl looked at the copious warning signs around the construction site—"DANGER! COSMIC EXPLOSIVES" "GENESIS IN PROGRESS"—the specialized equipment, the veritable army of workers, the mountain of papers the Time Giant had been reviewing earlier to ensure that everything was up to code and nothing would go wrong... he couldn't help but think of the triangle holding the seed of a big bang in his bare glowing hand, threatening to set it off right there. The Axolotl had known it was foolish, but seeing all the workers' preparations put just how reckless it was into perspective. Like a toddler holding a stick of TNT over a campfire.

He spotted the Time Giant among the workers, flickering back and forth across the scene as she tried to literally be multiple places at the same time. When she settled down for a moment over a worktable to double check a pile of blueprints and forms and calculations and even more paperwork, she caught sight of the Axolotl passing by, and tipped her chin up at him in greeting.

He paused, then nodded back to her. No hard feelings. He was just following his principles; and she was just doing her job. They'd each found their own way to help hold up the multiverse.

"Hey," she called out, and gestured for him to come over. As he did, she said, "Your leg's healing nicely."

He glanced down at it. His new toes were stubby, but at least they were back. "I don't like being uneven." He'd take a few more days on his tail. "I'll probably pay for it tomorrow, though." When he finally got home, he'd have to see if he could cancel his morning appointments.

"Reckon we'll all be feeling this tomorrow." She tilted her head toward Dimension Zero. "I've got a message for the god of DIY over there. I think you're the only one he likes—you mind carrying it over?"

####

It wasn't hard to find the triangle; he was leaning against the membrane around the zeroth dimension, moodily staring out at the third. He seemed to be gazing past all the gods, unfazed by their hubbub. The Axolotl tried to see what he was looking at, and didn't spot anything of note. As far as he could tell, the triangle might as well just be stargazing.

Along with the police tape and the ATTF barrier and the long-forgotten cordons to hold off the reporters, there was now an additional grid of orange cones set up blocking anyone from getting too close to the destroyed wall and the construction site. The Axolotl glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention before he slipped past the cones and swam up to the triangle.

When he approached, the triangle was muttering under his breath: "Stupid, now it sounds like an STD. I should've named it something cooler. Like... Triangletopia. Or the Party Plane. Or Margaritaville—I bet no one's ever used that one before..."

"Magister," the Axolotl said.

The triangle's eye snapped to him. "Hey, look at that! The pompous psycho is back! If you're even thinking about sticking me back in your 'office'—"

The Axolotl held up his forelegs appeasingly. "I'm not." He wasn't even crossing the threshold into the triangle's turf. "This is the last time I'll speak to you today."

"Finally, some good news," the triangle grumbled. "What do you w—ha! Ah-haha! I caught myself, that one didn't count."

The Axolotl decided not to count it. "The Time Giant wanted you to know they're about to set off the big bang where Dimension 2 Delta used to be. You probably don't want to be too close to the wall when it goes up."

The triangle's expression darkened; but he just said, "All right. Fine. Have fun. Not my problem! Just keep the construction noises down."

That was all he'd been sent to tell the triangle; but he added, "If you ever want to leave your dream realm, this is your last chance."

The triangle groaned. "This again? Listen, frills, I already told you I'm not interested! And you don't have the right to drag me out, this is my sovereign god territory—"

"I'm not threatening to," the Axolotl said gently. "I just—wanted to make sure you know. If you change your mind later, you physically won't be able to leave."

That gave the triangle pause. "I... don't see why not."

"For something to pass from one dimension to another, it needs a large enough hole to pass through," the Axolotl said. "For a person carrying the mass and energy of an entire universe to cross from one dimension to another... they need a hole the size of a universe. The missing wall where 2Δ was is the size your universe used to be. And now... it's the only exit big enough for you to pass through. Do you understand?"

The triangle stared at him silently. There was that hard, heavy look in his eye. It was awful to see. He did understand.

"If you don't come now..."

"We came up with a way to fit my entire universe into this one," the triangle said. "If I ever want to leave, we'll invent a way to get it back out."

"Your universe didn't fit in without incinerating it."

The triangle tapped the side of his hat with a finger; somewhere inside it was the speck that used to be his universe—the seed of a big bang. "It's travel-sized now. The next time will be easier."

For the first time since seeing the awful ruin of Dimension 2 Delta, the Axolotl forced himself to turn his fearful gaze chronologically forward. He squinted toward the hazy, far-flung future; and then he gave the triangle, in the present, a sorrowful look. "No, it won't," he said. "But I'll do what I can for you."

The triangle stared sullenly at him, unmoved by the offer. "I don't see what you're getting out of helping me. Everyone else is dying to send me to ghost jail or however things work around here."

"Isn't it enough to help you just because you exist and that makes you worth it?"

"If you ever, ever say something like that again, I'll kill you. I will find a way."

He wasn't particularly surprised. But that was truly what the Axolotl believed—and believed strongly enough to guide everything else he did. 

The things this triangle had done were too ghastly for even an ancient, experienced god to fully wrap his head around. Without exaggeration, he might have done the worst thing anyone anywhere in the multiverse had ever done.

But.

But if the Axolotl could prove that he, the worst person ever, was worth giving a second chance—that he could change, that he could show remorse for what he'd done, that he could be a force for good in the multiverse... then he would have proven that everyone, no matter what, was worth it.

The Axolotl had been voted Most Adorably Idealistic, but he'd never been called soft. His ideals were harder than diamond and sharper than obsidian. He hadn't decided to protect the triangle in spite of the impact that might have on the multiverse; he was protecting him because of the impact it could have. 

The Axolotl was a god of justice, of monsters, of second chances, and through his actions he could shape what justice meant throughout the multiverse as if he were sculpting clay; and he thought a small, sharp little equilateral triangle would make a perfect sculpting tool.

"In truth, I just don't believe in punishment. Not even for you." The Axolotl lay a forefoot on Dimension Zero's bubble. "But I don't see why you trust me." Because it was clear the triangle did. He'd trusted the Axolotl to judge the character of the other gods. He'd kept looking toward him like he was trying to gauge his own situation based on the Axolotl's reaction to it. He'd admitted the truth about the remains of his universe and his plans for it. It seemed like the Axolotl was the only one the triangle trusted in all this mess.

The triangle thought that over; then said, "You seem like a grade-A sucker."

He laughed. "I'll try to live up to your opinion of me." He had a guess what kind of people this triangle thought were suckers. The charitable; the caring. The people who didn't think that seeing the worth in everyone was a kind of illness.

"You should know, I intend to legally register my tank as a purgatory. I'll probably submit my application before the end of the week. If you claim it as your afterlife, you'll be transferred to my tank for holding while awaiting trial to decide your final afterlife."

"Ugh, now it all makes sense: you're starting a cult! I don't wanna join your cult, frills—I've got my own."

"But you do want to go straight to your lawyer's office if you're about to go on trial for your sins," the Axolotl said pointedly. "I don't intend to house anyone in my tank permanently. It will just be a transfer place for clients preparing for trial or figuring out where they want to go next—another afterlife, reincarnation... You're already technically dead; you can request at any time to come to my tank, and you'll be there."

"Sounds great for your other clients! But I'm not planning to go on trial and I don't want to be in an afterlife," the triangle said testily. "I'm pretty sure we've been over this!"

"I know you don't. I wish you didn't have to face it. But when you have no choice," the Axolotl said. "When you need it. When your time comes to burn like your people—" (the triangle flinched) "—call me. I'll offer you a second chance at any time."

"Low blow," the triangle muttered. "Don't put yourself out on my account. I'll be fine by myself."

"I'm sure." The Axolotl suspected he'd be putting himself out on the triangle's account for a long time. "What's your name? Your real name."

The background hiss of cosmic noise roared louder. The echoes of billions of erased ghosts said, "THE NAME OF THE MURDERER IS—"

With a flinch, the triangle cranked the distant dance music louder so it spilled cacophonously out of Dimension Zero again. It was too late, though. The Axolotl had heard the triangle's real name.

He pretended he hadn't. He waited.

The triangle didn't answer for a long moment. "You probably wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

"Maybe not." He'd seen how the triangle had winced hearing the cloud try to pronounce the name of some other shape. "I still want to know who you are."

He wrestled with his words; then finally gave up and asked his question. "What... is this place? We're not in the third dimension. When I—freed my dimension, I expected to go up; but we went... down. I didn't know there was a down." He confessed his ignorance in a near whisper, almost drowned out by his own music.

"You're in Dimension Zero." But that wasn't right. Dimension Zero was—should be—a point, and it's impossible to be "in" a point. A point simply is. "You are Dimension Zero."

The triangle said, "Then call me King Zero."

The Axolotl considered that. "Yes," he said. "I think that is your name."

Someone shouted, "Clear the way!" One worker at the construction site was looking directly at the Axolotl. "That means you! Unless you wanna be boiled frog legs!"

"I'm not a frog," the Axolotl muttered; but, he turned one last time to newly-crowned King Zero, said, "Call me," then hastily swam to the safe side of the orange cone barricade.

"Five, four, three..."

The Axolotl watched the triangle—and the triangle watched him—until the detonation. The big bang went off in a flash of light bright enough it would have incinerated anyone in the vicinity had it not been contained to a flat plane.

When the Axolotl looked away from the light, the afterimage of a triangle was burned into the center of his vision.

Dimension Zero was sealed off from the rest of reality—locking its king in for the next trillion years.

####

When the triangle said his name was "King Zero," of course, he wasn't speaking English. English wouldn't exist for a long time. The name King Zero is simply a convenient translation.

The English word "zero" comes from the French zéro. Zéro comes from Italian zefiro. Zefiro comes from Medieval Latin zephirum. And zephirum comes from the Arabic صِفْر—ṣifr.

####

Centuries ago, in the dream of a naive, trusting human, the human asked in Arabic, "What should I call you?" And King Zero responded, "Call me Ṣifr."

And years later, a dreaming human asked in Medieval Latin, "What should I call you, o muse of mathematics?" And of the two Latin words descended from his current Arabic nickname, Ṣifr responded with the one he thought was closer: "Call me Cifra."

A dreaming human asked in Old French, "What's your name?" And he replied, "My name's Cyffre."

Speaking Middle English, he told a dreaming human, "My name's Siphre."

And in Modern English, he told Edward Bishop Bishop, "The name's Cipher. But you can call me Bill."

In a year's time, and two years before his death from sleep deprivation, Edward would write Flatworld, a book about a 2D shape and his Muse journeying up to the highest dimensions; and also all the way down, below the spaces and planes and lines, to the self-absorbed King Zero, buried in the point-sized zeroth dimension, who thought a whole universe was contained inside him.

####

(It's FINISHED. 🎉🎉🎉

Hi y'all, if you just joined us for this Axolotl plot arc, usually this is a post-canon human Bill fic. I took a break from the main plot for one week to post a one-chapter flashback and then it was nine chapters. This bitch is 50k words. It's a novel unto itself.

Anyway if you only showed up for this story about the Ax, it only exists in service of a much longer story; so if you enjoyed this check out the rest of the fic. This is technically chapter 69 (lol). (If human Bill isn't usually your thing, I've been told that this is The Human Bill Fic For People Who Don't Like Human Bills because Bill is clearly very much a triangle unhappily trapped in a human body, rather than just chill with being human—so you might wanna give it a shot.)

And for the regulars who are already reading the whole fic: OH MY GOD IT'S FINALLY FINISHED, WE'RE FREE, WE CAN RETURN TO THE PRESENT. Listen I love the Ax and his bizarre but unbending morality, but guys. Guys. I miss Mabel so much.

Pre-warning that I may end up needing to skip a chapter or two before the end of the year, because work's piling a LOTTA extra work on me this month and I might just flat out not have time to edit & do art. I'm up at 3 a.m. editing & queueing this post and I was up til 3 a.m. another night doing the art because I HAVE NOT HAD TIME this week to do it any earlier. I did this because I love y'all.

No that's a lie, I did this because I want to FINISH this DANG ARC. That's my birthday gift to me.

Anyway lemme know what y'all think!! 💕)

[solarmorrigan]

“You know, you’d probably be more comfortable in bed.”

Steve groans. Quietly.

“I’m gonna take that noise to mean, ‘Yes, Eddie, you’re so right, I should take my sick ass to bed!’, to which I am going to say, ‘Thank you, Steve for acknowledging how right I am.’”

If Eddie’s plan is to irritate Steve until he manages to get up off the couch and shamble himself to their bedroom, he’s on the right track.

But the thing is, Eddie is right (unfortunately) – Steve knows he’d be more comfortable in bed. The couch is too short and the cushions are too worn and the seats are just a little too narrow for him to really relax. But at the same time, the flu is trying to murder him, and he’s got a fever, and everything aches, and he doesn’t want to move.

Rather than explaining any of this to Eddie through his sore throat, Steve instead grumbles, “Your impression of me sucks.”

“Well, I’ll work on that while you’re resting,” Eddie drawls.

Steve manages a faintly agreeable-sounding noise and then pulls a throw pillow over his face.

“Steve,” Eddie says.

Steve doesn’t move.

“Steve,” Eddie tries again.

Steve is still not compelled to move.

“Steeeve. Come on.” Eddie reaches out to poke Steve in the side, who belatedly raises a hand to swat him away.

“Don’t wanna move,” Steve mumbles.

“You’re never allowed to call me dramatic again,” Eddie says.

“Mph,” Steve replies.

He hates being sick – really sick, the kind that his body just won’t tolerate pushing through. If he can’t pretend to be well, he feels he has no other recourse but to be dramatic.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Eddie offers. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

Steve snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Eddie declares, and Steve has just enough time to pull the pillow off his face and look up before Eddie is scooping him up off the couch.

“What the fuck!” Steve shouts, arms locking almost instinctively around Eddie’s neck as Eddie gets one arm settled beneath the crook of his knees and the other around his back.

“Relax, we’ll have you in bed in no time,” Eddie says, swinging around to face the living room door with a grunt and trundling forward.

“You’re gonna drop me,” Steve says, winding his arms more tightly around Eddie’s neck; he’s pretty sure no one has picked him up or carried him anywhere since he was maybe eight years old.

“Ye of little faith,” Eddie replies, only slightly strained.

“Me of exactly the right amount of faith, which isn’t a whole damn lot, no,” Steve insists, ducking forward when Eddie lists a little too close to one of the hallway walls.

“You’ll be fine,” Eddie says. “I’m not gonna drop you.”

They reach the bedroom door and, as he’d promised, Eddie doesn’t drop Steve.

He does, however, whack Steve’s head on the doorjamb.

And then he drops Steve.

It doesn’t end up being much of a fall; Eddie only loses his hold on Steve’s legs, and with Steve’s death grip around Eddie’s neck, he mostly just lands awkwardly on his feet before tumbling down onto his ass with a thud and a quiet, “Ow.”

Eddie is on his knees beside him in an instant. “Holy shit, I hit your head.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. My head was the one part of me that didn’t hurt,” Steve grumbles, rubbing behind his ear, where his skull had connected with the doorframe.

“Oh my god, I hit your head,” Eddie says again.

Steve blinks at him. “Yeah, we established that. Did you hit your head, too, or–”

“Shit, shit, are you dizzy? Is your vision blurry? Wait, fuck, you’re not wearing your contacts – are things blurrier than normal?” Eddie places his hands on either side of Steve’s face and stares into his eyes, as if he’ll be able to tell that way if Steve’s brain has finally been knocked loose. “Do you feel anything, like, swelling? Bleeding? Leaking?”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t feel that sort of thing happening,” Steve says, and Eddie’s face crumples.

“Shit, you’re right, I should take you to the doctor,” Eddie declares, moving to stand up.

Steve grabs him by the arm and pulls him back down. “Eddie, I’m fine.”

“No, your brain could be leaking or some shit, and you’re gonna have, like, an aneurism, and you’re gonna die, and it’s going to be all my fault because I hit your head and I killed you,” Eddie rambles, shaking his own head.

Steve isn’t sure if any of that is even correct, but he’s willing to bet Robin has been sharing her worries about Steve’s head trauma with Eddie. “That’s not–”

“Your head is the one part of you we really can’t afford to hit!”

“As opposed to the rest of me?” Steve asks, one eyebrow raised.

“If it comes down to it, yeah!” Eddie bursts out. “Do you even know how many times you’ve hit your head?”

“Are you asking because you don’t know, or because you’re afraid I don’t remember?” Steve asks drily. “Because you weren’t even there for most of those times, man.”

“It’s not funny,” Eddie says, and he’s definitely trying to sound stern, but he’s verging a little bit on whiny; he seems like he’s starting to calm down, since Steve has so far failed to collapse and die.

“Okay, then, seriously, Eddie – I’m fine,” Steve promises. “You didn’t even hit me that hard, it barely hurts.”

“Steve, I love you, but you have a severely skewed sense of pain and should not be trusted to rate it on your own,” Eddie says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine. Here,” he grabs one of Eddie’s hands and pulls it around to where his head had hit the jamb, “feel. Are there any bumps? Cuts? Anything seem out of place?”

With a frown of deep concentration, Eddie runs his fingers gently from the top of Steve’s skull to the base, occasionally pressing a little harder, but never hard enough to hurt.

“Good?” Steve asks, once Eddie’s had a minute to feel for himself.

Eddie’s shoulders slump. “I guess.”

“Ah, don’t be disappointed. Maybe it’ll be a concussion next time,” Steve offers.

Eddie shoots him a wildly unimpressed glare. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Steve decides, but he takes Eddie’s hand from his head and brings it around to press a kiss to the back of it.

There’s definitely a smile ticking at the corners of Eddie’s mouth, but Steve doesn’t point it out.

“Do you want some ice, or something?” Eddie asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“What I want is to walk over to the bed and lie down, and I want you to come with me,” Steve says. “And in an hour, I want you to bring me more Tylenol and some of that really good tea that Joyce sent over. Deal?”

This time, Eddie does smile. “I think I can handle that.”

Steve smiles back. “Good.”

They get themselves situated, Eddie at Steve’s back with an arm slung over him, a single blanket pulled up to their waists (“Pretty sure you still have a fever, sweetheart,” Eddie had insisted. “You’re gonna cook yourself to death if you cover up.”), and in the dim, sleepy light filtering through their curtains, Steve presses back further into Eddie’s chest.

“I like that you care so much,” he says quietly, and Eddie squeezes him a little more tightly.

He shifts enough that he can press his lips to the spot where Steve had bumped his head. “Always will,” he murmurs, and hell if Steve doesn’t believe him.

[Prompt: Bridal carries]

[atsoomi]

"I'm disappointed in you." 

There are times in your relationship with Nanami where you feel like you're dating a forty year old father rather than a twenty eight year old sorcerer, now is one of them. You set your cup of tea down and inch closer to him on the couch, having been through this many times before."You always say that." 

He sighs, "you always disappointed me."

You laugh and place your head on his shoulder, wrapping your arm around his firm bicep. He smells like jasmines and white grapes, your favorite deodorant, one you've been using before you even met. Ever since you introduced him to it, he hasn't been anywhere without smelling like jasmines, without smelling like you. You bury your nose in his suit to take it in, humming against his shoulder.

"A bad grade isn't the end of the world babe." You speak, craning your neck to look up at him through your lashes, hoping that your allure would be enough to get him to abandon the grade report paper— the damn paper that's stealing all his attention right now. How'd you lose to a piece of paper? 

"I know," he sighs, again, "but I specifically helped you with this subject. Was my aid not sufficient? Do you need a private tutor?" 

His voice shouldn't be so raspy and sexy when he's scolding you like a disappointed father, but it is, and you can't do anything about it except pretend to show remorse so he can kiss you breathless when he's done.  

"No, you're good enough, baby. I just made a few dumb mistakes on the final, don't worry about it." You kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around his neck. One of his arms comes up to wrap around your waist and you internally cheer at the small win. 

"I see. You'll do better next time, then?" He turns to look at you and your faces become so close that you can feel his warm breath against your lips,your stomach aches with desire to close the gap. Mindlessly, you nod, "mhm." 

"Good," his eyes move down to your lips and your heart skips a few beats in anticipation, "then I trust you're ready for punishment if you don't improve next time?" 

The word punishment when he's so close sets your nervous system on fire, you feel your breathing accelerate, your response comes out breathless. "You can do anything you want to me Ken, I'm all yours." 

He smiles slowly, "anything?" 

"Anything." 

"Good," he pauses, "next time you get a bad grade, we'll be sleeping in separate beds." 

It takes you a minute to process what he said and leave the lavender haze you were so conveniently drowning in a few minutes ago, but the shift in tone doesn't stop there. The arm around your waist retracts and you feel like the carpet's been pulled out from under your feet, he looks back at the report card. 

"It's truly a shame that I put so much effort into helping you and you lost so many marks over dumb mistakes." He stands up and you're left leaning on air. "I expected better from you," he shakes his head in disapproval, making his way to your bedroom. 

Your mind is malfunctioning but you slowly realize he's about to lock himself in, effectively prohibiting you from your daily Nanami dose. You stand up immediately, stumbling over the couch as you try to regain balance. 

"Wait nanami, babe, wait, where are you going!" 

He continues walking as you trail after him, he actually starts speed walking, you have to start running. "I'm leaving you alone to reflect on your actions, maybe that'll make you rethink when you're making dumb mistakes."

"Oh my god, Kento," you catch up to him, pulling on his blazer like a desperate child, "when I said I wanted you to be my daddy I didn't mean like this." 

He finally stops and turns to look at you, you can see a rare smile on his face, maybe even a hint of teasing. 

"Well it's a full package," he wraps his arms around you again and you sigh in relief, "you either take it all or leave it." 

You pout and poke his chest, "you're so mean to me." He kisses your forehead, the smile he kisses you with causing a warm tingle in your chest, "I'm only disciplining you my love. I go too easy on you sometimes." 

You rest your chin on his chest, wrapping your arms around him as you look up, "I like it when you're easy on me though." 

He laughs, a low rare sound that rings inside your shared apartment, a sound you don't think he produces outside of these walls, and the deep vibrations it sends from his chest to yours makes your heart sing. The sight of his laughing face, the kindness in his eyes, the sweet taste of his lips that you know you'll get to try every day from here till forever— you love nanami kento, and everything is alright.

"I know," he plants a soft peck on your lips, pulling up to admire your face before he goes in for a full kiss, making the teasing all worth it, "I know, my love."

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Part Eight — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Everything is starting to get on top of reader and tensions rise. Azriel takes a trip to Fenlaros and comes away with a headache. Cassian does what Cassian does best. A friendly face swoops in to save the day.

Word count: 8.3k.

Warnings: A little freaky deaky 18+, NSFW, smut, minors dni.

Azriel’s kiss is a burning brand.

It’s fire and ice and earth and rain. It tastes like freshly set snow, and it feels like the refined touch of a steeled warrior.

He kisses you like he aches for you. He pulls his hands away only to remove his gloves and chuck them aside, and then he’s clasping your face once more, skin on skin. He’s always so warm — a part of him you’ve missed.

And a part of him that drives you to kiss him back with barely any hesitation.

This — his mouth on yours — feels like the answer to a riddle you’ve been puzzling out for days, weeks, months, years. You’re gasping for air, and his tongue is sliding between your lips, and his taste overpowers you so thoroughly that you think it could break something inside of you.

There isn’t much furniture left in here. A few scattered tables, a shelf or two hanging off the wall. Not much to work with, and yet it doesn’t matter, because you and Azriel will have each other however you can. You’ve spent a lifetime making do with whatever you’ve got. This is no different.

Azriel’s hands fall down to your hips, and he’s lifting you so abruptly that a yelp leaves you and lands straight on his lips. Your arms loop around his neck, and he’s fastening your legs at his waist and stumbling with you — stumbling towards one of those old tables. A plume of dust erupts around you as he sets you down and slots himself between your legs.

“I fucking miss you.” He groans, grabbing your face. “I miss…us.”

You feel so many things. There’s no chance to sort through them, verbalise them, before his mouth slants over yours again. He’s hungry, needy. Hot and sinful. This Azriel is a far cry from the one who coyly confessed to his inexperience. This Azriel writes poetry onto your lips and paints masterpieces on your tongue. He kisses like eternal happiness depends on it. He kisses as though he’s been an artful lover for centuries.

He’s been practicing, the thought pops into your head.

Not with me, the realisation follows.

And that feels like being thrown stark-naked into the snow. It’s not a nice feeling — to realise that Azriel may be treating you to skill refined elsewhere. Not when you think about kissing him more than you’d like to admit to yourself. Does it make you a gods-damned hypocrite after what you did with Cassian? Perhaps.

But none of this — not one bit of it — is reasonable, or rational, or logical.

All you know is that your stomach lurches suddenly, violently, at the thought of where else Azriel’s lips might have been. And that’s all it takes for you to shove him away.

He stares at you, wide-eyed. Perplexed.

“I needed you.” You pant, the words tumbling from you in a flurry of charged emotion. You’re not sure you planned to say it. “On Solstice — I needed you.”

Azriel’s face changes in the blink of an eye. The hunger is gone, replaced by…something else. “Y/N—”

“I needed you, and you weren’t there. You promised me.”

“I know I did. And I’m sorry—”

“Did you even think of me?” It’s awkward, but you try to scramble back on the table. You just…need that distance right now. “Did you not wonder how I might be doing, how my day might be playing out in that hellish house, before you jumped into bed with Kaeda?”

“We didn’t—”

“Did you think of me?”

“Y/N, of course I thought of you.” He tries to clamp down on your legs, but you’re moving further away, damn near falling off the table in your efforts. “But you — you said you would come and find me. I waited for you—I—”

You’re really not sure if it’s a strangled sob or a choked laugh that fights its way up your throat. Perhaps it’s both. The sound of it is jarring, and it echoes around the armoury and reminds you of where you find yourself right now. The situation you’re in. How different things might be had Kaeda not come onto the scene.

“You waited for me?” You repeat, righting yourself. “And—what? Did you get bored? How do you think it felt, Azriel, when I came to find you — the only person I wanted to fucking be around in that moment — and you were busy with Kaeda on top of you? As if I needed my heart breaking any more that night.”

You hate it — hate it so viscerally that the words won’t stop coming. That you’re bringing your heart into this and allowing it to be stomped on again. Your eyes are watering, and you turn quickly before Az can see.

For a moment, he says and does absolutely nothing. And then he takes a step closer to you.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me. Believe me, I am.” He says. There’s another step. Another. He’s hovering at your back and you know he’s wondering whether he should reach out and touch you. “But, Y/N…you encouraged me to pursue things with Kaeda. Am I to apologise for that?”

You blink at his words so abruptly that your tears spill down your cheeks.

Now you’re laughing.

It’s a humourless laugh — a hysterical one. It breaks from you in a series of fractured, incredulous noises. At least the emotion boils your blood so thoroughly that it warms you from the inside.

“Apologise?” You round on Azriel, balling your fists at your sides. “No. You don’t need to fucking apologise. But you also don’t need me to practice on anymore, do you?”

He clamps down on his jaw, a telltale muscle moving. “I didn’t kiss you for that—”

“You kissed me because you miss me. Because I am…I’m just a security blanket, aren’t I? I’m what’s familiar, and you’re used to being around me, and having distance between us has fooled you into thinking that you want to kiss me.”

“No—”

“But you’ll kiss me…and make me feel good..and then the novelty will fucking wear off, and you’ll be running straight back to Kaeda because she is who you’ve wanted all along. Not me. Never me.”

“Cauldron, Y/N, will you just let me speak?!”

No.

You will not.

You can’t.

You can’t do this. You can’t break in front of him. You refuse to.

You want to sound strong, and sure, and unbothered, but you open your mouth, and the words are watery and broken. Weak.

“No.” You swallow a lump down. “No, I won’t. Just…just go, Az. I need some time.”

“We’ve spent the last week apart. That’s plenty of fucking time—”

“Go! Go back to Kaeda. Stop…stop pretending like this could play out any other way. It can’t. It won’t.”

“I’m not leaving on an unresolved fight. You and I don’t do that.”

You are far too beaten down to discuss this any longer. You shrug, and the gesture is an effort in itself. “I’m not sure I know what either of us do or don’t do anymore. Things have changed. Go.”

“Y/N—”

“Go!”

Finally, it seems to dawn on him — the realisation that you’re serious. You won’t be discussing this tonight. You’re not strong enough for that yet.

He falters a moment longer, so clearly not wanting to walk away. The two of you have never been like this. You can fight like the best of friends do, but you’ve always made the effort to resolve things, to not part on a bad word.

But things are different, now. You know it. Az knows it.

“…Fine.” He rasps after a long stint of silence. “I’ll go.”

You nod. If he’s expecting you to suddenly change your mind, he’ll be gravely disappointed.

His eyes sweep you once more, and then he’s turning. Dragging his feet to the door like a kicked animal.

“Az?” You call quietly, and he stops.

The hope in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder almost breaks your resolve. Almost, but not quite. “Yes?”

“Send Cassian next time.”

He doesn’t deign to reply.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Azriel is not well-versed in the world of dinner parties and propriety.

He has a few decent shirts he reserves for special occasions — like when Rhys’s mother cooks a nice meal, and he and the others dress up out of respect.

Y/N would laugh herself hoarse if she could see him right now.

A thought that stings almost as much as the intense, burning gaze of Tathaln Baralas, Lord of Fenlaros.

He’s a mammoth, domineering presence at the head of the dinner table, seeming to command every bite that each person takes of their food, every sip of their wine. It’s silent unless he speaks. It’s tense because he makes it tense.

He watches Azriel as though he’s going to finish his food and then take a bite out of the shadowsinger himself. Az’s shadows are taut around him, not wanting to make a spectacle of their brilliance. The dinner so far has felt like one big, held breath.

But finally, Tathaln clears his throat, and Kaeda and her brothers sit up straight. Az does the same.

“I trust your friends have fared well since your little adventure in my camp.” The Lord addresses Azriel. “I hope the punishment wasn’t too severe. I did many similar things in my youth — though I can’t say I was ever quite so bold as to venture into a rival territory.”

Azriel inclines his head slightly. “I wanted to apologise again — for what happened. Things got out of hand.”

“I’m partly to blame, father, as you know.” Kaeda adds. Azriel damn near jumps out of his seat as her hand lands on his thigh beneath the table. “It was my idea to invite my friends from Windhaven. An oversight, perhaps, on my part. I was eager to show Azriel what Fenlaros has to offer.”

Tathaln seems to think on that as he chews his food. He washes it down with a gulp of wine and reaches for the carafe to refill his glass. The whole thing feels like somewhat of a performance, and nobody speaks a word as it plays out.

This family dynamic is…odd. Not that Azriel has much experience where normal family dynamics are concerned. But there’s a formality with which Kaeda and her brothers — not that the two males have breathed a word this entire meal — address their flesh and blood. Like he is their Lord first, and father second.

And that isn’t unusual for Illyrians — not at all. Offspring are, more often than not, treated like a prospective trophy to be paraded in front of competing families. The fiercer, more ruthless the child is, the prouder the parent will be. It’s a brutal, ugly way of living that never changes, no matter how many generations stack up.

But perhaps Azriel is at fault for having too high an expectation. Perhaps he shouldn’t ever have been fooled by Kaeda’s wings and spirit being left intact, unlike most females around her.

Tathaln is a puppeteer, and Kaeda and her brothers are his dutiful puppets.

“There was no particular harm done.” The Lord eventually says — rather reasonable, for an Illyrian. “I imagine you received a stern talking to. Revoked privileges, perhaps?”

“Lord Devlon saw fit to lecture us, yes.” Azriel concurs with a nod. “But besides that, we weren’t really handed any punishment. It was my friend, Y/N, who bore the brunt of his wrath. She’s been forced into homelessness as a result.”

A sudden, sharp kick lands on Az’s leg from beside him. He glances at Kaeda in his periphery, eyes the fierce expression with which she looks at him. It seems to be communicating, don’t bring this up now.

But Az wants to bring it up. He’s pissed off; more so than he initially thought. At himself, mostly, and at Devlon, at Rhys’s father, maybe even a little at Kaeda — at everyone really.

Tathaln pauses, his fork mid-air. And then he sits back. “Right — the girl that was here. Why has she been made homeless?”

Girl. It’s a sneer of a word in Illyrian mouths. Azriel has to clamp down on his jaw and remind himself that confronting the sexism that runs through their veins is a fruitless task in that moment.

And Kaeda sighs at his side. As if she’d rather be talking in great detail about the roasting of a boar, than about Y/N.

But it answers a question that’s been rattling around in Azriel’s mind all evening — that no, Kaeda had clearly not mentioned Y/N to her father, as she said she would.

“Her father kicked her out on Solstice.” Az explains. “He’s not a good male, to say the least. Y/N was living with myself and my friends, but after the events that unfolded here in Fenlaros, she was sworn off having any contact with us, because Lord Devlon seems to think that she’s the driving force behind any and every bad choice we make. She has nowhere else to go. It’s…worrying.”

“Perhaps she’ll think twice before wandering into rival camps.” Finally, one of Kaeda’s brothers speaks. Arlen, Azriel thinks his name is. Clearly the idiot doesn’t see the irony of his statement.

Or perhaps Kaeda doesn’t have to adhere to the rules that every other female is strictly held under.

“Arlen.” The Lord shoots him a warning glance. He turns back to Azriel. “I would argue that Lord Devlon is full of shit.”

Azriel stops. Blinks. That…that’s not what he was expecting.

“How so, father?” Kaeda’s brow furrows.

“It’s his job to keep the soldiers under his command in line, no?” Tathaln’s dark, feline eyes are assessing Azriel as he speaks — seeming to read his response. “If he finds that a single female is the cause of such disruption, perhaps it is himself he should look at. He can’t be a great leader if he has to resort to such extremes just to keep his soldiers under control, now, can he?”

Az stares back at him. The question is meant for him, but it all seems too…too easy. Reason and logic are simply not a common thing among these people. The words sound almost…false. Forced.

“No.” Azriel agrees. “I suppose not.”

“Do you find him to be an adequate leader?”

“I’ve never known any different.”

Tathaln’s mouth tips up. “That isn’t what I asked.”

No, it isn’t. But this is a fine line Azriel is treading. He positively despises Lord Devlon — thinks him an arrogant brute who uses his title to flout camp laws and customs and turn everything in his favour. Not to mention the fact that he and his cronies are so clearly threatened by Az, Rhys and Cass — an undoubtedly formidable trio. Azriel is sure that if Devlon had his way, the three of them would be slung out by their necks. Or hung by them.

But his personal feelings towards the Lord of Windhaven doesn’t change the fact that openly disrespecting him — and to the lord of another camp — is a huge dishonour. One that could blow up in Azriel’s face if this conversation were to somehow make its way back to Devlon. He has to choose his words carefully.

“He has a method of leadership that I can’t say I’m in agreement with.” Gods, he is the epitome and personification of diplomacy, if he does say so himself. Ten points to the shadowsinger. “I’m not sure that using his power to target vulnerable females was ever part of his job description. I’m sure, as a father to a female of the same age, you can see where I’m coming from.”

Tathaln takes another pensive sip of his wine. He inclines his head. “Indeed, I do. I think it’s terrible leadership. And I think you’re wasted in Windhaven.”

“I appreciate that, my lord.”

“There is no need for modesty, Azriel, the shadowsinger.” As he speaks, the Lord’s eyes inch towards those very shadows. He studies them with a strange expression that looks almost like…hunger. “Do you know why I sent my Kaeda to your camp? I may as well admit, I have an agenda.”

Azriel glances at Kaeda. She’s staring at her plate, shoulders squared. “Oh?”

“I sent her there to scope out the quality of the units that are being trained in the Windhaven Camp. My sons were sent on similar missions to other camps — Camp Theriel, Camp Steelshore, Camp Aruin. The consensus of what was reported back to me regarding each camp was that potential is not being filled. Quite frankly, a mockery is being made of Illyrians by the poor training of these legions. If war was waged tomorrow, half of our race could be wiped out.”

Bold, bold words.

Azriel finds himself stunned silent.

“We are Illyrians, no?” A thick, callused finger traces the rim of Tathaln’s chalice. “We are a warrior race. We have birthed some of the fiercest warriors in Prythian’s history and decimated tens of thousands across battlefields. And yet, it would seem, these days, that our camps are producing fewer warriors, and far more lazy, unambitious brutes who care only about drinking and fighting and fucking. Our reputation could be destroyed yet.”

This is…bizarre, Az thinks.

He also thinks that it’s a little unfair. He’s the last person to ever defend the creatures around him that are supposedly his brethren, but he also thinks that Tathaln’s assessment is wildly exaggerated.

Illyrians drink, yes, and fight, yes, and fuck, yes. But they do so in between harsh, gruelling training. They drink to forget the brutal nature of their life’s work. They fight each other because they’re just as angry as one another, and that needs an outlet. They seek pleasure, because it’s one of the few good things to be found in these parts.

Their training is not for the faint of heart. You train well, or you die. It’s that simple.

And if Tathaln, Lord of Fenlaros, truly has such concerns, Azriel doesn’t understand why the fuck they’re being presented to him, of all people.

“Is this something you’ve raised with the High Lord?” He asks — he isn’t sure he even means to say it.

Kaeda tenses beside him, and Az wonders if, perhaps, he’s overstepped the mark. But Tathaln seems somewhat pleased by the question — seems pleased that Azriel is engaged in the discussion.

“It is.” The male answers. “And I think he finds himself agreeable to what I’ve had to say. However, I haven’t yet presented my solution — what I believe to be the right course of action.”

Az takes the bait. “Which is what?”

“Eventually,” Tathaln says, “I would do away with the individual camps entirely. I would have one, sole camp to train Illyrian warriors, overseen by the most powerful members of our race. Members with rare, unique powers who can draw on the Illyrian potential and make our people what we were always supposed to be. What we once were, before we became too complacent. Better, even.”

And just like that, it makes sense that Tathaln is sharing such things with Az.

Rare, unique powers. Powers like that of a shadowsinger. So incredibly unique that Azriel has never met another of his kind.

Tathaln has ambition — he covets power. He has a vision that needs backing.

It’s like everything suddenly clicks into place in Azriel’s mind.

He finds himself looking at Kaeda, not her father. Finds himself wondering if she ever had genuine interest in him, or if that interest came entirely from Tathaln. Finally, she lifts her gaze to his, and she wears a strange, pleading look.

“Don’t get me wrong, shadowsinger.” Tathaln says. “This is not a goal that could be achieved overnight. Power takes time to build. I couldn’t take this idea to the High Lord without something to back it up — something to get him on side.”

Azriel shrugs. “But what would you have me do? I’m just a soldier in training—”

“You are a shadowsinger. Do you even realise what an asset that makes you? Perhaps your poor start in life, your mistreatment, has caused you to downplay your potential. But I see it. Your power could be a lethal weapon on a battlefield. And off a battlefield. There is so much you could be doing, and yet Lord Devlon has you landing punches on a sparring dummy and calls it training? You are made for better things than that.”

Praise is…it’s a rare thing, in Azriel’s world. And he doesn’t care about that, because the little praise he does get comes from the people who matter, and that’s all he needs.

But hearing somebody other than his close friends — his family — speak so highly of him, is…new. And he’d be lying if he claimed not to like it.

Still, Tathaln is clearly beating around the proverbial. Azriel almost doesn’t want the discussion to go any further, because his head is already full to the brim with swimming thoughts and close to exploding. But they’ve come this far already; he may as well learn what his role in this bigger agenda would be.

“What is it you want from me, my Lord?” He asks.

A small smile plays on Tathaln’s mouth. His eyes, yet again, are on Azriel’s shadows, rather than Az himself. “As I said, change cannot be made overnight. It would take years — generations, perhaps. I would need enough males — strong males — backing my cause, before the High Lord would even hear of it. But I am a patient male. I know what I want, what is right for Illyria, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen. Starting with strengthening my camp. Being known as the strongest of all camps. And strengthening my influence, too.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“Having your power on my side could be a good thing for me. And I could hone you. I believe this mission starts with you. Abandon Windhaven and take up residence in Fenlaros. Train under my command. Come and see exactly how wasted you are in that place. Come and see what we could build together.”

“You want me to be your pet?” Azriel raises an eyebrow. “Your project?”

“I want to hone your potential and show you what an asset you are. I want Illyrians to be a feared people once more. I want to build the strongest, most powerful army in all of Prythian and make Illyria what it was always supposed to be.”

In the wake of the impassioned speech, silence sweeps in. Azriel is staring at his plate, and he thinks he might be feeling cold all over. There’s a strange tingling at the back of his neck — like a warning sign.

He still doesn’t understand why he’d be integral to such an agenda. He’s a shadowsinger, yes, and that is not to be downplayed, but he’s just Azriel. He’s just an Illyrian who trains to fight, and fights to kill, and to one day be killed. That is simply how it is.

And Windhaven — ugly and cold and harrowing as it is — is his home. His family is there. A cottage that is far too small and cramped to house a group of adults but is always a beacon of light and hope and warmth. A place in which he’s made wonderful memories and felt genuine happiness. He’s happy to tolerate the hellish ways of life around him, because he has beautiful things in front of him.

Beautiful things that wouldn’t follow him to Fenlaros. Yes, he may have broken a rule and breached a camp to attend a party — but doing so under casual circumstances is wildly different to doing so under official ones. As a soldier of Fenlaros — as one of Tathaln’s puppets — he would be expected to adhere to the strict rules and standards that he metes out. Fenlaros would be his territory, and there would be no blurring of those lines.

But could Tathaln really be seeing more potential in Azriel than had ever been noticed before? Could it truly be that Fenlaros has more to offer him? More to be done for him?

“I would be turning my back on everything I know.” Az says, the mere words tasting sour in his mouth. “My loved ones. The family I’ve built. They would be left behind. I’m not under any illusion that you’d allow our two camps to interact if I came here.”

Tathaln dips his chin. “I am not going to sugarcoat that. It would be an adjustment, and a painful one at first. But there is far more for you here, shadowsinger. I simply ask that you consider it. Just as I believe your two brothers would consider it, if I were to present the offer to them.”

“And why haven’t you? Presented it to them? Why me?”

Those dark, calculating eyes swallow him up. “I need a shadowsinger. It starts with you.”

Azriel isn’t even sure what that means, and he doesn’t want to think about it any longer. There’s a lump in his throat. His appetite is well and truly gone. He might even be sick.

He couldn’t possibly leave his family. The thought makes him violently ill.

“As I said, all I ask is for your consideration.” Tathaln watches him. And then his eyes slide to his daughter. “As this meal is clearly over, perhaps Kaeda should show you around Fenlaros. Show you what this place might have to offer. Give the shadowsinger a tour, my sweet.”

Kaeda smiles broadly. “Yes, father.”

Az wants to refuse, but he can’t find the words. Too much is going on in his head. He wants to get out of there and go straight back to Windhaven, where it’s familiar and where love waits for him. He doesn’t want to be a component in a greater agenda.

When he met Kaeda, it was simply about…exploring attraction. About experiencing. Not about this.

But he can’t fucking speak. He stands without telling his body to stand.

And for some reason, when Kaeda slides her hand into his, murmurs a soft “come, Azriel”, he doesn’t protest.

Numb and stunned and sick to his stomach he may be. But he follows.

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Azriel isn’t sure if he’s heard a single word that has left Kaeda’s mouth.

She speaks, and yet it’s simply background noise. He can’t hear around the screeching in his head.

He should really just take to the skies and fly home, but perhaps he’s already a puppet — his feet stay on Fenlaros turf. Kaeda guides him around the camp as though the conversation at dinner never happened. She shows him her favourite haunts and introduces him to people whose names he forgets instantly.

It's up on a viewpoint overlooking the camp, just he and Kaeda alone, that he finally releases a slow, weary breath. He folds his arms against the railing and welcomes the cold air biting into his skin. Kaeda stands just a short distance away.

“We call this area the Widow’s Watch.” She says, daring a step closer. “It’s said that centuries ago, at the end of battle, the camp wives would gather up here with firelit torches and await their husbands’ return. If their husband returned, they’d extinguish the torch. Those that were left burning signified who did not return from war.”

Azriel says nothing; isn’t sure he’s capable. He digs his fingers into his arm.

Eventually, Kaeda stops at his side, also bracing her arms on the railing. She looks out over the camp wistfully, as though she can see hordes of wounded soldiers returning home. “I can’t imagine how eerie that sight must have been — the beacons of the dead painting the sky with fire.”

“No,” the agreement leaves the shadowsinger unexpectedly — surprises even him. “Neither can I.”

It’s then that Kaeda angles herself towards him just slightly. He meets her gaze. She’s so very beautiful — the kind of female that artists beg to paint. Her cheekbones are high and defined, her lips full. Her eyes look like shards of glimmering green rock. Never is there a hair out of place. Never a stray lash or smudged rouge. She is, quite simply, a vision.

But Az finds himself wondering if he’s ever known any part of her, or if she’s just following orders.

“I know you must have questions.” She eyes him cautiously.

“So many that my brain can’t keep up.” He takes a small step away. “Have you ever been genuinely interested in me?”

“I have.”

“Your father literally sent you to cozy up to me.”

Her eyes shutter, thick lashes fanning against her skin. “It wasn’t like that, Azriel. I mean — it was, to some degree. You’re right that my father sent me, and that he already had his sights set on you. I work for him. I’m training as his spymaster.” She opens those eyes again — wide. “Yes, he told me to get to know you. But he didn’t say romantically. That was all me. I just…like you.”

Gods, it should feel good, feel like a positive thing, to hear that. To know that the beautiful female he’s been getting to know these past months has genuine interest in him.

But he feels…nothing. No sense of relief. Only the anger that’s still simmering at this entire thing being orchestrated by her father.

“Does it not bother you?” His tone is brusque, sharp, as he stares Kaeda down. “That your father has you do his bidding? You’re a pawn in a game.”

“My father has a vision. It is an honour to serve him, and to be a contributor to that vision eventually coming to fruition. I will not apologise for that.”

“A vision. To create…to create one fucking super camp that he is to oversee? It sounds to me like your father has a hunger for power. Things have worked this way in Illyria for millennia. Why should they be changed now?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Things aren’t working. That’s just the problem.”

“You—”

“Are you proud to be an Illyrian, Azriel?” She steps closer to him; perhaps too close. “I’m not. Not with how things are right now. But I want to be. We are a warrior race. We are supposed to train, and fight, and protect. We’re supposed to be formidable. We’re supposed to be feared. But with the way things are going, fewer and fewer of those things are remaining true. If we don’t change how things are run across these camps and light a fire under our soldiers’ asses, half of our people could be wiped out when the next war comes. The Illyrian race could cease to exist entirely, and our legacy will be left at the mercy of rhyme and tale. We can’t allow that to be the case.”

Azriel studies her.

Her passion is…intense, yes, but also strangely beautiful. There’s a ferocity in her eyes that is so rare among a people who live and breathe misery; whose lot in life is to die.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that he appreciates Tathaln’s scheming, nor Kaeda’s. But they’re not exactly wrong in that ambition is a rare commodity these days. Those who can train for the Illyrian army do so because it’s what is expected of them. Those who aren’t cut out for it make do with everyday jobs around camp. Nobody has pride or passion. Nobody is prepared for war.

So Azriel’s shoulders relax just a little, even though his scepticism remains very much present. “I still don’t understand why I am being scouted for this cause, though. Why not take it to the High Lord? Or why not get Rhysand on side?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “As my father explained, we simply don’t have enough backing to go to the High Lord about this idea — not yet. He knows of my father’s opinion and even agrees that things need to change, but such a complex idea requires careful handling. And conspiring with his son about it would surely not put us in his favour.”

“So…what? I’m the next best thing?”

“After Rhysand, you’re the most powerful, yes. Your influence could aid us greatly. I don’t think you realise how highly coveted you are. Every other camp is aware of the fact that Windhaven has a shadowsinger. And they’re equally aware that your abilities aren’t being put to their full potential under Lord Devlon’s command. Changes will be made whether you accept my father’s offer or not, Azriel. But the changes we’re proposing are the best ones. The right ones.”

“I don’t see what’s right about having to leave my friends — my brothers—”

“Gods, Azriel, just…just take the emotion out of this for five seconds and listen to me.”

Az’s jaw clenches. “I am listening.”

“Then hear me clearly. Change is coming. It’s inevitable. And one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that even if you weren’t to come to Fenlaros, you would still be separated from your friends, or your brothers, or whatever you call them.” She hovers close enough to touch, now, mere inches from him. “One thing I’ve picked up on in Windhaven is that Lord Devlon is very intimidated by the strength of you, Cassian and Rhysand being together. The older you get, the more powerful you’re becoming, and people are growing aware of that. Devlon intends to separate the three of you, and by any means necessary. He can’t risk the threat you pose to him. He’ll tear you apart.”

The information doesn’t surprise Az one bit. He’s sensed a growing panic amongst Devlon and his cronies. They don’t stand a chance against the future High Lord and his two closest friends. And Azriel doesn’t doubt that if physical separation didn’t work, the callous bastards would resort to something far, far worse. Or try, at least.

But still, none of this is making any fucking sense to him. He needs a stiff drink. Or twenty. “How would coming to Fenlaros solve that in any way?”

“Beating Devlon at his own game — separating yourself from your brothers — will lure him into a false sense of security. With you gone, it’ll be one less problem to worry about. He’ll let his guard down. Meanwhile, we’ll be building our influence here and forming a case that can be taken to the High Lord. With his support of our changes, we’ll have the power to do more. And then eventually…eventually, your brothers can join you here. When we have more ground to work on. My father would never begrudge the bond the three of you have. He’d see it as a positive…having three such powerful Illyrians under his command.”

Too much to think about. Way, way too much. Azriel just wants to get out of there. He wants to lie down in a dark room and pretend nothing and no one exists.

But he stares at Kaeda. And he asks, “And what of Y/N? Could she come here, too?”

There’s a very slight hesitance — small, but certainly there. But then she purses her lips, and she shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

He’s not sure she means it. And that…that’s a whole other rabbit hole he’s not sure he can face going down right now. Another situation entirely.

Before he can say anything else, Kaeda closes the gap between them. She cups his face and leans up, close enough that their mouths are almost touching.

“Just think about it. That’s all I ask.” She says. “I really do like you, Azriel. And I really do think we could have something. Think of what we could do here, together. Of what we could be. We could make history. Just…promise me you’ll think about it.”

His lips part with a response he hasn’t even thought of. But there’s no chance to speak it as Kaeda slants her mouth over his and kisses him slowly, softly. Deeply.

Her fingers sink into the strands of his hair, and she breathes a muted hum into his mouth. She tastes like peppermint and sugar, and she kisses as though she hasn’t just laid the weight of the world on Azriel’s shoulders.

And that weight might be why he’s stiff as a board, barely reacting. Or it might be the horrible feeling of dread that this is all wrong. He kissed another female, earlier today — and that kiss had felt like burning, eternal sunshine.

This one feels like…like a ploy.

“Just promise me.” She pulls away just enough to whisper. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

There’s no way he can’t think about it. The seeds have been sown. And perhaps he feels a little slither of guilt for how rigid and cold he currently is, because he doesn’t shoot her plea down like he should.

He sucks in a slow breath and inclines his head.

“Okay.” He says. “I’ll think about it.”

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The fucking wall is Azriel’s fucking face.

At least, that’s what the fuck you tell yourself as you send a dagger hurtling at it and watch it bury its point into the surface. Another scuff mark to add to the growing smattering, all courtesy of you.

Fuck. Him.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so angry in your life, and Cauldron knows, you’ve had ample reason to. But this anger is…it’s consuming. It’s violent and jagged and nauseating. It’s claws sinking into your heart and your brain and dissecting everything that plagues you in both sleep and consciousness.

And it’s this severe because you care. You care so very much.

You’re sick of caring.

Why would he kiss you, after all that has happened since the last time? To taunt you? To grab your feelings in his fist and twist them? To practice on you?

And to think you almost gave in to that strange, carnal need to have his hands on you again. You cannot — will not — allow yourself to think about which deeper emotion or desire that need is rooted in. Thinking will lead only to realisations that may destroy you yet.

And he’s probably with Kaeda right now, too. Perhaps losing himself in her, forgetting all about you with the aid of her touch—

You scowl and march to the wall, yanking your dagger out. Your anger and your need to just…move, is keeping you warm, at least. Nighttime in the old armoury is about as pitiful as can be imagined, but the relentless cold is actually a strange…relief. It hurts in a satisfying way.

How fucking dare he, your mind chants, not for the first time, as you stalk back to your spot. How dare he treat you as though you’re nothing? You brace yourself and send the dagger hurtling towards the wall once again—

The door is suddenly bursting open, and the weapon only just misses Cassian’s face on its journey as he strides in, arms full of items you don’t care to look at.

He stops abruptly. Blinks. “Did you just throw a dagger at me?”

“No.” You immediately scowl, stalking over to retrieve it yet again. “Fuck you.”

“Ouch. Fuck you right back. I brought blankets and food.”

“Shove them up your ass.”

“I’d really rather not.” He kicks the door shut behind him and strides over to the pile of your scant belongings, dropping his items and freeing his arms. He turns back to you with raised eyebrows. “Is there a particular reason you’re acting like a little storm cloud, or is it just a way to pass the time?”

Finally, you sheath your blade — partly because you’re not sure you trust yourself with it right now. You face your friend, fully aware that you’re out of line and fully resentful of the fact.

“I had an argument with Az.” You admit, not even certain you mean to.

Cassian’s eyebrows raise. “Well, that explains why he nearly bit my head off earlier, too. What did you fight about?”

Do you tell him? Do you confess all your complicated, messed up feelings — the bizarre circumstances that brought them about — when you haven’t even sorted through them yourself? No. You can’t. It’s a bit too soon for that.

“It was…nothing.” You stalk over to your things. “Just nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing—”

“Thank you for bringing me these.” You toe a thick blanket with your boot.

Yet again, Cassian’s eyebrows go up. “Are you hinting at me to leave?”

“Just because I have to face the night in this hovel, doesn’t mean you should be subjected to the same fate. I wouldn’t expect that of you.”

“Well, fucking expect it, because I’m staying—”

“Cass—”

“Come here.” He opens his arms. “Right now.”

You stare at him. And in that instant, with him seeing you — seeing everything you are, everything you’re feeling, what you need — your anger simmers, and it threatens to turn into tears.

“You clearly need a hug.” He points out softly. “And I’ve missed you this past week. So come here.”

In an instant, you crumble. You’re stepping forward and damn near falling into Cassian’s arms. He catches you, just like he always catches you.

His arms band around you, warmer and more secure than any blanket. He pulls you tightly against him, and you allow your arms to snake around his waist. It’s only then that you realise how much you need the firmness of his body to hold you up. He’s like a huge, supporting wall that stops you sinking to your knees.

“I’m so sad.” You whisper, nestling your face into his chest. His scent and his warmth permeate his clothes, and they combine and wash over you in a soothing combination.

“I know.” His broad hand cups the back of your head. “Everything is a huge mess right now. But we’re going to get through it — together.”

You hate that you can’t believe him; not right now. Everything is too up in the air, too uncertain. A dark mass has followed you around this camp for the entirety of your life, and it’s closer than ever to closing in and snuffing out who you are.

“How can you be so sure?” You ask. “I don’t think I have the strength to fight anymore, Cass.”

He pulls back to study you. To cup your face and look into your eyes. “Yes.” He says firmly. “You do. You always have and you always will. There is nothing — nothing — you can’t face. I truly believe that, Y/N.”

Staring back at him feels just like…like the night in the cottage, when you lost yourself in him. Him being there for you, speaking the words that are so hard to believe and yet so what you need to hear. The same urge arises in you to give over to those feelings. Do something for yourself for once.

You think Cassian might read that thought on your face. Perhaps you wear it shamelessly.

He studies you closely — studies you hard. And his throat bobs as his eyes flit down to your lips.

“Y/N.” He says. “Let me make you feel good.”

You swallow, also. And you don’t need to think about it. “Yes.” You nod. “Yes.”

In a flash, he’s closing the gap between you, his mouth finding yours. The hot and heavy weight of his lips is a relief. One that makes you release a soft sigh.

You don’t let yourself think about the fact that you were kissing Azriel in this very building only earlier. Nor about the fact that it could have gone much further than that. Cassian gives you himself, and you take, your hands bunching in his jacket as you haul him against you.

His hand fists in your hair, tilting your face up to him. And as his mouth stains yours with his urgent need, he’s backing you up, walking you back and back until you collide with that very table that Az kissed you on earlier.  Cassian picks you up in an easy sweep and places you on the tabletop. He parts your legs and slots himself in between, his mouth never once leaving yours, never once faltering.

Until he parts from you and says, “Lie back.”

With his hand guiding you down, you do just that. You sprawl out on that table, anticipation coiling in your stomach. It warms you from the inside, makes your skin too hot and your clothes too heavy.

Cassian doesn’t mess around with teasing or taunting. He drags his hands over your breasts, your stomach, and down to the laces at your breeches. You don’t care about the cold air. You lift your hips and wish only for him to undo those laces faster. You want your skin bare, and his touch marking it.

“I didn’t get to taste you last time.” Your friend pants, pressing a kiss to your abdomen. “Will you let me now?”

Goosebumps erupt over you skin. You grip onto the edges of the table and breathe, desperately. “Yes. Please.”

So boldly, he yanks your breeches and undergarments down in one go. His fingers find the very centre of you, already soaked, already ready for him. What he finds there makes him groan.

“Here? You’ll let me taste you here?”

“Please.” You pant again. “Just…please, Cass. I need this.”

“I know.” A kiss lands on your skin. “I know.”

His hands drag down your legs at the same time he sinks to his knees. You bow your head forward — just to watch the predatory grace with which he aligns his face with your sex. He licks his lips like you’ve presented him with his most carnal desire.

He inhales slowly — breathes in your scent. A growl rips from his throat.

And then he dives right in.

His tongue licks a stripe up your centre, from your entrance, up to your clit. Your hips buck at the contact, one hand moving to bunch within his hair. As his tongue swirls over your clit, pleasure barrels through you that ends in a cry.

“Your taste is fucking divine.” Cass groans, and his hands pry your legs further apart. He wastes no time in lapping at your juices, damn near fucking drinking you down. He drinks and drinks like a male parched. “Gods, Y/N.”

“More.” You gasp, thrusting your hips towards him. You grind your cunt against his face, and you can’t stop your body jerking, your head lolling back. “Gods, Cass, more.”

“More?” His teeth graze against the sensitive nub. “Tell me what you need.”

“Your mouth. Fingers. You.”

A delicious, sinful chuckle, so incredibly deep and lilting, breaks from Cass and vibrates against you. He lands a harsh suck on your clit. “I love how filthy you are.”

And he shows you how much he loves it, as one finger suddenly gathers up your wetness and teases your entrance. You moan, plead, beg him to slip it into you. He does so at the same time that he fastens his lips to your clit and strokes at it with his tongue.

You feel him smile against you. Your responses seem to provide him with almost as much pleasure as your touch would.

“Just like that.” He growls the words onto you, sliding his finger out and back in — adds a second one. “Take what you need. Fuck my fingers.”

You need this pleasure. This release. He has no idea how much you need it. Nobody does. You need to feel like somebody else, feel like you’re somewhere else. You need to feel something other than…blinding pain.

And so you take what you fucking need, undulating your hips and moving yourself on his fingers, against his tongue. Cassian follows your lead, keeps up with your pace. As your moans pick up, so do the thrusts of his hand.

“Going to come for me?” His hand moves faster. “Come around my fingers?”

“Yes.” You throw your head back. “Fuck—Cass.”

“Come.” He growls. “Want to feel you.”

It’s as if your body is fully under his command, because the words have your climax bursting through your body and chasing you from every negative feeling that’s been plaguing you. It feels beautifully catastrophic, fucking mind-altering. It feels like an out of body experience.

You know, somewhere in your mind, that you’re being loud, but you don’t give a single damn. You welcome your orgasm and allow it to consume you. You allow your loud, gasping noises to echo around the building.

But perhaps it’s the loud volume of those noises that prevents both you and Cass from hearing the door open behind you. Perhaps it’s the heat of your passion that makes you immune to the sudden gust of cold air.

Whatever it is, neither of you notice a third presence until a voice bellows behind you.

“Cauldron fucking boil me, my eyes!”

Both you and Cass rise with a start, you scrambling to cover yourself. A horrified expression stares back at you both.

“Roza.” You both say at the same time. Both blink in shock, too.

Rhysand’s mother covers her eyes with her hand and turns her back to you.

“Please correct yourselves before you traumatise me any more.” She says. “Can’t turn my back on you idiots for five gods-damn minutes.”

azriel tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd

[see-arcane]

What is there to say?

I am afraid. I am angry.

For the second time this country has shamed itself and put the world in jeopardy from its example. Other monsters will be empowered and run ahead with their own nations. Now, short of a miracle which I do not hold my breath for, we must hold on for four years to see if one of Trump’s infinite ugly promises holds true—will we even get to have a presidential election in the future? Supposing we do, can we even trust that our fellow Americans won’t damn us again?

I am afraid. I am angry.

Sickness and blame boil in me. I did everything I could. I voted, I informed, I pleaded. I know that my friends have too. But the news tells me it was not just the electoral college that failed us, but the popular vote. Which tells me that we live surrounded by more ignorance and hate than I ever expected. We live in a country where eligible voters are steeped in an ideology that aligns enough with the poison of Project 2025 that it makes me fear to trust anyone—anyone—around me ever again. And it makes me wonder, in light of the turnout, how many people stayed at home and simply chose not to vote. Chose not to sully themselves with the effort of choosing the lesser evil. I am looking at you. We are all looking at you. Do you feel smart now? Do you feel superior? Do you plan to pat your back today for ‘teaching them a lesson?’ Do you have a plan to save us? To save the rest of the world from the ripple of this? Tell me you do. I’m listening.

I am afraid. I am angry.

I am not prophesizing doom. But I have a memory that goes back at least eight whole years. I understand the concepts of hindsight and foresight. I know that everything the Republicans say they wish to do to us, they mean to do, and want to do worse. That is the truth. That is who they are and what they want. I know this. I accept this as fact. The stages of grief have been cycled through before, remember? There is no denial. No bargaining. My calluses are still here. They must harden thicker now.

I am afraid. I am angry.

I am thinking, of all things, of cosmic horror. More, cosmic insignificance. I always do in the face of reality’s grandest nightmares. A useless perspective except to give scale to things. I am less than an atom in the sea of space. A fraction of a fraction of a fraction of meat and time and breath on a crumb of mud in a galaxy tucked haphazardly in a corner of an infinity of stars and darkness. My life, like all lives, is a flicker. Barely there. Death is inevitable. I must live like I know it. And to devote myself wholly to horror, even in the face of the unthinkable, is to waste the rest of what I have, what I am. Gods fall from the sky and raise their heads from the sea, and I am still here. Reading. Writing. Breathing. Thinking. Hating.

(“HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE THEM SINCE I SAW THE NEWS. THERE WERE 71,071,013 VOTES FOR HIM THIS YEAR. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH OF THOSE BALLOTS IN 8 PT FONT ON BOTH SIDES AND PRINTED AGAIN FROM THE EAST COAST TO THE WEST, IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR MY COUNTRY AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT. FOR THEM. HATE. HATE.”)

I am afraid. I am angry.

Nauseous to find that the first thing I did upon learning the results was look up suicide hotlines. Not for me—I have saved myself too long with fact: Wait long enough, death will come eventually. Do not jump ahead in line.—but for those who I know are afraid enough to overwhelm the anger, to drown out all else, and who are thinking of the next four years and who knows how much longer. I know you’re out there. I know you are looking at the pills in your cupboard, at the veins of your arm, at the black tunnel of the gun. Look away. Look here.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

TrevorLifeline: 1-866-488-7386 (for LGBTQ youth)

Trans Lifeline: 1-877-565-8860 (for the transgender community)

I am afraid. I am angry.

I am alive. Here and now, whether I like it or not. I despair for myself, for my friends, for strangers across the country and the globe who can feel the full and loathsome weight of all this election implies about those around us. Those who hold our lives in their hands and will do all they can to wring them dry in earnest. How did things turn to this? How did it all sink so low, so awful, so venomously backwards against education and empathy? How, how, how? A missing stage of the grieving process: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance, and Confused disappointment.

I am afraid. I am angry.

The morning is sunless, of course. There will be no light for another hour as I write this. But time is passing. Second by minute by hour. And each micro-instant that accrues in which I am here and myself, existing outside the red mold they want, is another moment that would anger them. To let despair crush and collapse me out of shape, out of life and its facets, is a victory I will not cede to anyone. Least of all to them. I will go on, because I must go on. I will be myself, for that is an affront to all they want from me. I will think and act and make and be for as long and fully as I can. Because fuck them.

I am afraid. I am angry.

I am not alone. I know that too, for the numbers show it. Afraid, angry. But never alone. Neither are you.

I am afraid. I am angry.

I am here. I am holding your hand.

I am afraid. I am angry.

I love you more than I fear anything.

I am afraid. I am angry.

I love you more than I hate anyone.

I am afraid. I am angry.

Let’s go.

[theocddiaries]

Bruce: Clark!? Clark! They're gone! They're gone! Clark: ? Bruce: Every picture we've taken for the last seven years is gone! Clark: What are you talking about? You have backups, don't you? Bruce: No, they were on the computer, and now they're gone… Listen, I keep hearing about a cloud. Do we have a cloud? Clark: Just the black one over our heads. Jason [From the other room]: We don't have a cloud! Bruce: Well, can we get one?! We need to buy one right now. Oh, my God, everything is gone… Dick's graduation, Tim's graduation, Dick's birthday, Jason's birthday, Tim's birthday! Damian: Not hearing a lot of Damian… Bruce: Do something besides read, and we'll take your picture. Sorry. I'm just too panicked to coddle you right now. [Dick, Tim and Jason come into the living room]. Dick: Wait… do not tell me the photo where I ran up against the wall and did that perfect flip was on there! It's only the most awesome photo ever taken, and I'll never be able to do it again! Ohh! You really Tim'd this one up, Tim! Tim: Well, it's not my fault, Dick! You know, if we had the original cord that came with the computer… But no! You had to take it up to college. So now Dad has this cheap knock-off Mr. Cord, so when I plugged it into the computer, it said: "this device is not supported by your cord"! Bruce: It's not the cord! It's the computer! [Gasps] Disney World! [To Clark]. I told you we needed a new computer. Yet, the man who knows nothing about computers said this one is fine! Clark: Don't try to blame this on me. I don't even know why we need a damn computer. How many times have I said to print them out, Bruce? Just print them out. Bruce: Gee, that's really helpful right now, Clark. Thanks! I'm gonna be sick… Clark: Look, you only need six pictures in life, anyway… Born, first day of school, first car, married, first kid… Funeral. Jason: What about second kid? Tim: Or third? Clark: Kids look like kids. Bruce [Gasps]: Kids! Where are the kids pictures? Where are the picture from eight years ago and before… Before they all went digital? Damian: You lost those, too?! Bruce: No, no, no, wait. I think I have them in a box somewhere. Like a-a knock-off stride rite box from when you kids were little. Oh, my God, I haven't seen it in forever. We got to find that box! Everybody, just start looking! Clark: Really, Bruce? Are we really gonna do this now? It's Christmas Eve, and you're running around, making yourself a wreck over some pictures. Relax. Nobody's dead. Bruce: Yes, they are! 15-year-old Tim is dead! He's gone, and we'll never set eyes on him again now. And what about 10-year-old Jason, when he was sweet and he liked me? He's gone, too. There were thousands of pictures, Clark… thousands! Clark: Of this family?! Why?! I don't get it. It's like you're trying to archive for some museum that's never gonna be built. Unless you're a president or a serial killer, nobody cares! Bruce: I care! God, if we don't have computer pictures and we don't have picture pictures, we have nothing! Our history is gone! Tim: I can't remember anything without pictures! What did I eat for breakfast today? See? Gone! Bruce: Oh, God, could I have thrown it away when we did that spring cleaning a couple years ago? That would be so typical of me! Other people have a system, and I don't have a system, and now it's gone! Damian: Father, it's not your fault. Bruce: Yes, it is. This whole damn house is just a system failure. That computer has not been backed up for 67 weeks! I just kept hitting, "remind me later." Everything here is "remind me later." We live a "remind me later" life.

[kangaracha]

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 9

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

a/n i send in a job application, you get a new chapter. the world continues to go round. (i also got two skz albums for writing my application, and a bonus chan card for walking up to the counter with $150 worth of skz merch in my arms (she was like damn i wonder what group this girl likes the most what a mystery))

previous | masterlist | next

---

At some point in the last two months, you'd become more used to the presence of eight boys than you'd realised.

The thought only makes the quiet air of the studio all the more oppressive as you sit on the floor, legs stretched out before you as you wait for the livestream to load. You'd spent plenty of time in here alone since joining their group, but not as much as you have in the past week, with the boys gone from the moment they woke up to the late hours of the night on schedules and promotions. It was strange to be here for twelve hours or more and not hear a single voice coming through the door, to wander up to the cafeteria for lunch and not see them, or Minseo, or even the other trainees you'd worked with for so many years, your personal rhythms no longer lining up with the regimen of classes and mealtimes and monthly evaluations, which you know are drawing close without even having to check.

Even your home is lonely, the empty rooms echoing with no voice to respond to you. You haven't had your own room since you left Australia all of six years ago. You've never had your own apartment. You're not sure you know what to do with it anymore.

The livestream erupts in a burst of noise and colourful pixels, clarifying slowly into a picture of a stage. You've missed most of the opening performances, not watching the time as you practised. You've seen them all three times this week already; you'll probably see them all again next week as well. And if you said that watching the rookie groups in the earlier stages of the show didn't make you a little bit jealous, you'd be lying, especially this of all weeks.

(If you said that watching the boys perform God's Menu didn't make you a little bit jealous, you'd be lying too, but you won't allow that thought to cross your mind.)

As if summoned by the thought of them, they flash up on the screen, one at a time, and then as a group as the stage begins; senior idols, playing top billing on a weekly show watched by millions, a position you have no business being in. And yet here you are, sitting in their studio and watching their shows and thinking that it should have been you and you've been cheated again.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the music or the sweat that clings to your skin runs down your spine. Were you just being conceited about this whole debut thing; signing this contract to join a senior group, watching other debut groups like you had the right to be out there with them, occupying this private dance studio as if it is your own space, as if you'd earned the right fair and square to leave the darker, shared spaces of the fourth floor rooms, where all the other trainees ground away at their skills with only hope in their future. 

Weren't three missed debuts just three signs that you'd ignored that maybe this wasn't the life promised to you?

Your phone vibrates, a text notification from Minseo covering Felix's face. Your thumb hovers over it, the desire to ask where she is and what she's doing tugging at your breastbone. You let it slide away though; she's been at different schedules all day too, if she is even home yet, and night is drawing on quickly. You're exhausted anyway; you'd probably fall asleep in the first five minutes of a movie, or even midway through a bowl of icecream.

You need to keep practising anyway. That was the key to this debut you'd stolen off of fate; every minute of every day spent in this studio, until you made it or they dropped you. You already know how it feels to look back and see an hour or a day that could have been spent getting better, and you'd hated it; this time, even if you never debuted, no one would say that you didn't try. No one would call you lazy.

(But the wrong look was what they had said, not lazy. Just not pretty enough, just the wrong face in the wrong lineup in front of the wrong man. It was one thing to fail out of merit; it was another to fail because of the way you were born.)

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids @hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts @puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night @d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk @minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification @starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace @amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002 @hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff @splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit

[steddieas-shegoes]

Request: Steve has a few younger siblings. He is very protective over them (2 brothers & 1 baby sister) his family is very close. But the party meeting his siblings in the hospital post spring break from hell, Steve's little sister screams tearfully until she is put beside her older brother who is in hospital due to severe injuries. His younger brothers (8yrs old & 5 yrs old) demand for their big brother to be left alone by these strangers. The party demanded to know why he kept his siblings from them???? Also Steve just being loved on by his parents & his siblings and of the party.

DARLING IDK HOW YOU COME UP WITH THIS STUFF BUT THANK GOD YA DO!!! Steve having siblings and good parents and STILL choosing to be the best damn babysitter is kind of giving me LIFE. I am forever here for giving Steve all the love he deserves. A little backstory for this in my brain: Steve's parents got married right out of high school at their own parents' insistence, and they loved each other, but wanted to go to college first. Anne got pregnant during their honeymoon and had to put college on hold. The reason there's such a big age gap between Steve and his siblings is because she finished college, started working as a lawyer, and then went into business with Richard. Once they were comfortable in that for a couple years, they decided to have more kids. We love responsible decisions!!! - Mickala ❤️

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

Steve spent 12 hours unconscious, which would be more alarming if he hadn’t had worse before. At least this time he was in a hospital for it.

Or maybe that was worse.

His mom was by his side the moment he woke up, along with a pacing Dustin and half-asleep Robin.

“Mom? Where’s Dad?”

“Oh, honey!” Anne Harrington was a strong woman, a lawyer who didn’t take shit from anyone, only cried when Steve won his basketball championship and graduated high school. But here she was, sobbing against his hand tightly grasped in her own. “He’s with your brothers and sister. I didn’t want them to see you like this, honey. You almost died!”

Maybe that was true. He certainly felt like he almost died.

He felt Robin and Dustin staring at them, realized what his mom had said.

“Brothers?” Dustin asked, barely more than a whisper, from the foot of the hospital bed.

“Sister?” Robin asked, a yawn breaking out before she even finished asking.

There was a commotion outside the door, he could hear his father’s voice trying to stay calm as he spoke, but knew he was frustrated.

Then he heard a loud cry and his heart broke.

“Was that Bethany?” Steve croaked, his eyes watering at the wails his three year old sister was letting out.

Anne looked at the mostly closed door, nodding as she turned back to Steve in the bed.

“They’ve been begging to see you since this morning. They wouldn’t stop begging to come, so your dad compromised and said they could sit in the waiting room until you woke up, but they’ve been sitting there for two hours. You know how they get.”

He did. He knew that any compromise they’d agreed to was going to work to their benefit in the end because they were all much too clever for their ages.

Suddenly, the door shot open and his eight year old brother, James, stood there with wide eyes. His five year old brother, Ryan, stood behind him, bouncing on his feet so he could try to see.

His father appeared behind them, holding Bethany in his arms, and looking like he wished he could be anywhere else.

But that look disappeared when he saw that Steve was awake.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, son,” he said, a choked noise making its way from his throat like he would have sobbed if the kids weren’t there.

He could feel the confusion coming from Robin and Dustin, but now wasn’t the time to explain any of it.

“Hey kiddos. You guys okay?” Steve rasped out, giving a small smile to all his siblings.

James and Ryan ran to his bed, climbing onto it carefully when Anne snapped her fingers at them and told them to go slow so they didn’t hurt their brother.

“Down, daddy! Wanna see Steve!” Bethany was kicking her legs and trying to push away from Richard, who sighed and let her down.

She ran to the bed, ignored the warning to go slow, and piled into Steve’s lap.

It hurt, but she was so small, and Steve could deal with some discomfort if it meant she could see he was okay.

“Steve, you have boo-boos!”

He patted her always messy hair, and gave her the best smile he could muster.

“Just a few. I’m gonna get all better soon, though. The doctors just had to put some bandaids on them.”

“Are they Barbie bandaids?”

“Of course they aren’t, Bethany. They’re big and have to be wrapped,” James said.

Steve gripped James’ hand in his.

James was going through a phase of wanting to seem older than he was, which was normal, but he took a lot of it out on Bethany. Bethany could certainly hold her own, and often did, but they were all emotional and under a lot of stress at this moment, so Steve stepped in.

“Buddy, let’s just take it easy today, okay? It’s okay to be scared, but so is Bethany and she’s little, so we have to be patient. Like we talked about, remember?”

“What is happening right now?” Dustin asked, still standing awkwardly at the end of his bed.

“Um. Dustin, Robin, this is Bethany, James is to my left, and Ryan is to my right. These are my brothers and sister.”

“You have siblings.”

It wasn’t a question, but Steve could hear the disbelief in Dustin’s tone.

“I do.”

“You never mentioned them?” Robin asked as she looked at where Richard and Anne were now whispering in the corner of the room.

“It just never really came up?”

“Uh. Okay.”

“Who are these people?” Ryan asked as he turned his face into Steve’s arm, always more shy than his other siblings.

“That’s my best friend, Robin, and Dustin. I used to babysit him and now he’s like another brother.”

“But we’re your brothers,” James said, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Of course. But there’s plenty of room to have Dustin around, too. He’s awesome. He can teach you D&D!”

Bethany was curling up against his chest, at least being more careful now that she’d seen his injuries up close. Ryan was shuffling closer to his side, burying his head under his arm like he did on their family movie nights when he was getting tired but didn’t want anyone to know. James was still tense, jealous.

“Did he teach you D&D?”

“Nah. I told you it’s too complicated for me.”

“Did I hear someone say D&D?” Eddie peeked his head through the door, grin lighting up the room.

“Eddie!” Dustin exclaimed.

“Looks like Steve’s got a whole party in here! Are we playing or what?”

Eddie walked into the room completely, smiling until he realized that Steve’s parents were here.

They got together during chaos; they didn’t have time to talk about logistics, about what Steve’s parents knew about him, if they would even be okay with him.

He’d briefly mentioned his siblings to Eddie when they were getting weapons ready, but didn’t talk much about anything else.

“Eds, these are my parents, Richard and Anne,” Steve introduced them, winking at his mom when she gave him a questioning look.

He’d been out to his parents for months, accidentally letting slip that he’d gone on a date with a guy on their Christmas vacation. They took it well overall, the shock making it seem like they were upset, but they were just confused about why he’d only ever brought home girls.

“Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Eddie.”

Eddie’s eyes practically bulged out of his head when he realized what Steve was doing.

“Ew, a boyfriend?” James, already back to his previous attitude, curled his lip up in disgust.

He looked so like Steve sometimes, it was alarming. If they were out running errands together, people often assumed he was his son.

“James! Watch your tone!” Anne said as she reached out a hand to shake Eddie’s. “It’s lovely to meet you, Eddie. I assume you’re the one who helped carry Steve to safety?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“So polite. Who would’ve thought Steve found someone so nice?” Richard said with a smirk and a wink at Steve.

“Are you in love?” Bethany asked as she watched Eddie from her spot against Steve’s chest.

Steve could feel his face heat up, watched as Eddie’s face went red and he looked down at the floor.

“We care about each other a lot, B,” Steve replied, hoping she would drop it.

“But he saved you! Like a princess!”

Eddie let out a small laugh as he got closer to the bed and sat down on the edge.

“Well, you look like a princess, too. What’s your name?” He asked, glancing up at Steve for a moment to make sure it was okay he sat there. Steve nodded once.

“Beffany.”

“Princess Bethany? Of Loch Nora?”

Bethany looked at Anne to confirm, nodding as soon as her mom gave her a thumbs up.

Eddie stood back up, bowed, and then sat down again.

“It’s an honor to be in your presence, your highness.”

“Are you a knight?” she asked as she scooted away from Steve’s chest and off his lap, climbing her way into Eddie’s.

Ryan was even pulling away slightly to watch what was going on.

“I wish! I haven’t been through all of my training yet. Maybe you could help me?”

“What kinda trainin’?” Bethany started playing with his hair, but Eddie didn’t stop her, wanted her to feel comfortable while Steve recovered.

“I need to learn my royal etiquette. Do you think you can show me?”

“Yes! We have lessons!”

“Great!” Eddie beamed at her. “Maybe you can give me lessons when your brother goes home?”

“Mommy! Can Eddie come play?”

“Of course. But not today. Steve has to keep resting here for a couple days and I think Eddie probably wants to be here for him.”

“Okay. I stay too?”

“No, baby. We have to let Steve rest some more. We can come back to visit tomorrow.”

Steve felt Ryan and James cling to his arms when they realized that meant they were all leaving.

“But Robin and Dustin are staying!” James was jealous. He loved spending time with Steve, thrived on being considered “mature” enough to run errands with him when their parents were busy, helping him with chores because he was the only one big enough.

Dustin was a threat to his time with Steve, even at eight he could tell.

“Actually, I passed Dustin’s mom on the way here and she was coming to get him soon to go home. He hurt his ankle and shouldn’t even be walking around right now,” Eddie said, eyes squinting in Dustin’s direction like they’d already discussed this once.

“And I have to get home to my parents so they don’t worry. Maybe you can walk me to the bus stop and keep me safe?” Robin asked, somewhat awkwardly.

She didn’t know how to talk to kids, but it was a valiant attempt.

And it seemed to work.

James perked up at the thought of helping in a big kid way.

“Oh, darling, we can drop you off at your house on our way home,” Anne said. “I’ll take you and James can walk with us so we aren’t alone. Right, James?”

James nodded vigorously.

“I’ll protect you. And then we can come back tomorrow to see if Steve’s better.”

Steve leaned down and kissed the top of Ryan’s head, smiling when he realized he fell asleep at some point during the conversation.

“He barely slept last night. I’ll carry him. Hopefully now that he’s seen you’re alive and okay he can rest,” Richard said with a sad smile.

“If you bring them all tomorrow morning, I can help them make character sheets for D&D,” Eddie suggested.

“Yes! Please, dad! Can we?” James bounced in the bed, jostling everyone a bit.

Steve hissed in pain, but tried to cover it with a smile when James looked at him with an apologetic look.

“Sure. If you promise to sleep tonight and eat breakfast in the morning, we can come back.”

“I promise!” James poked Ryan. “Ryan! Promise you’ll sleep tonight and have breakfast in the morning so we can come play D&D!”

Ryan blinked a few times, nodded, then snuggled back into Steve’s side.

As Richard and Anne worked on gathering the kids and Robin and Dustin walked out with them, Steve relaxed in the hospital bed, finally feeling most of his injuries.

He knew they would give him more pain meds if he asked, but he wanted a few minutes with Eddie first.

“Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said as he took his hand in his own, gently squeezing as he made himself comfortable on the side of the bed.

“Thanks for being so cool with them,” Steve let his eyes close for a moment as he took in every wound on his body.

He knew this was a close one, could tell by the way Eddie was looking at him a moment ago.

“You never told anyone else about them?”

Steve shook his head.

“Didn’t really need to. I figured they’d all meet eventually. Just never came up before.”

“Want me to get the nurse?” Eddie could tell he didn’t want to talk about it right now, so he changed the subject quickly.

“In a minute. Wanna kiss you.”

“Oh yeah? Come kiss me then.”

Steve opened one eye and started pouting.

“You come kiss me,” Steve said.

“Fine. But only because you’re hurting.”

Eddie leaned down to press his lips against Steve’s softly, a comfort as much as a promise for more when he was better.

“You’ll stay?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Just gonna get the nurse and grab a snack from the machine down the hall and then I’m all yours for the night.”

“Can’t wait to feel better.”

“I know. Maybe next time you won’t try to be a hero, hm?”

“No, I don’t care about the pain or anything.”

“Then…”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie choked. “Are you always like this or are there still some drugs in your system?”

“Dunno. Never felt like this with anyone else.”

“Stevie…”

“You’re good with them. Especially Bethany. She’s a lot. But you did good. Good for my nuggets.”

Steve was slowly losing consciousness and Eddie couldn’t help the fond smile creeping up on his face.

“They seem like good gremlins. They sure love you a lot,” Eddie whispered.

“Mhm. Love you.”

“Oh. I don’t think they know me well enough to love me yet, sweetheart, but that’s nice of you to say,” Eddie scrambled to get out, his heart flipping over in his chest at the thought that that wasn’t what Steve meant.

“No.” Steve opened his eyes, staring right at Eddie. “I do. I love you.”

It was crazy. Probably a product of his injuries, exhaustion, and drug cocktail in his system. He probably thought he loved him, but they’d only just gotten together officially.

“Eds. It’s okay. I’m just lettin’ you know how I feel. You don’t have to say it back.”

“I just. I. I think I love you too. I just don’t see how you love me.”

“‘S easy.”

Just that easy.

Like Steve would have said it whether he was in the hospital or not.

—------------

The next morning, James, Ryan, and Bethany planted themselves on Steve’s bed while Eddie explained character sheets to them.

Steve watched with a smile as all of his siblings watched Eddie in awe.

His family meant the world to him, and Eddie did too. He wanted things to always be like this.

When Eddie smiled at him over James’ shoulder a while later, he thought that maybe they would be.

[teyamloving12]

Bbbyyyy💕💕💕👀 Neteyam fic… all imma say is Neteyam fiiicc!!! 🔥🔥🔥 God damn i almost passed out reading it, that’s how good it is

Pleaseeee write more of him, i’m even gonna beg for it ❤️

Taking what is His

Warning: NSFW content (MDNI), cheating, arranged marriage, angst, breeding kink, angry!Neteyam, etc.

Pairing: Neteyam x Omatikaya!Reader

Synopsis: You were Neteyam's first but your parents promised you to another man. Like hell Neteyam will allow that to happen.

A/n: Your wish is my command sweetheart. Have some possessive Neteyam. 500 followers special!

You were Neteyam's but that "cunt" came in your life. Your relationship flourished beautifully before he left for the Metkayina clan. Distraught took over your soul. You mate-to-be was leaving. Would he come back to You? What if he found a woman more beautiful than you could ever be? Those were the question your younger self would ask herself.

It's been 8 years ever since that day. Probably he is living happily with a woman. No! You couldn't think about him. You had a mate. You didn't like him very much, he tries to be the carbon copy of Neteyam and continuously failing after you begged him to stop. He showed you off to his friends as you were his trophy and a prize that he won. Neteyam would never.

You went to the Tree of Souls praying your Neteyam, the man you truly love, would return to you in a safe conditions. You visited the Mountains and sat at the cliff waiting. About to give up, one day you saw ikrans flew to the west, towards the village. Your eyes widen, your Neteyam was finally back. You rushed down to the village. It was true. It was him. He looked different, tattoos were found on his stomach and face also with his arms and legs.

He was a warrior here and a warrior at sea. His handsome demeanor struck you unlike when you were with Ka'wan. He was good looking but could never compared to Neteyam. The girls beside you looked at him in awe stating how he become even more handsome. You walked away from the crowd, thinking Neteyam could never love you again. Maybe he had changed. Maybe he was not the same Neteyam 8 years ago.

Neteyam went straight to her grandmother's hut. "Where is she, grandmother? I have looked everywhere!", he asked in a panic. " She is a woman now, Neteyam. Do you still expect her to live with her parents?", she asked, making him realized what was happening. " So where is she?", he asked again.

" Do you see the hut over there?", she pointed. He nodded. "You will find her there but I warn you you may not like what you will hear.", Neteyam looked confused but heeded his grandmother's words. On his way, he saw a man exiting your hunt. Who was he?

You were cleaning up your hut until you felt a presence behind you. "Tìyawn, I have returned back to You!", he said hugging you from behind. Your Neteyam was here by your side and you smiled widely. He let you. He watched as you scanned your surroundings. "Neteyam, I'm so happy you're back but you can't stay here!", you whisper-yelled. Neteyam as angry, he was finally back yet you were pushed him away.

"What is wrong, ma syulang?", he questioned. "Neteyam I don't know how to say this but you can't call you yours anymore for I'm promised to someone.", you explained. That explained the man that walked out of your hut. He was furious, he backed you up to the hut's wall. You were scared. He grabbed you by your chin forcing you to look at him.

"So after I nearly died at the Metkayina and kept you in my heart for eight fucking years, you had the nerve, the enfrontery to mate with another man!", you trembled in his hands. Tears stung your eyes as he continued to shout at you. You tried to push him off you.

"Neteyam, please!", you begged. "It was my parents! They hoped you would come back earlier but they feared I would be lonely for the rest of my life!", you yelled back, Neteyam finally calmed down, letting up of your chin. "What! I'm the son of Toruk Makto, a mighty warrior yet they had no hope for me!", he yelled before tried to calm himself. He looked at you lovingly, backing you up towards the bed.

You fell on the bed and Neteyam crawled over you. He kissed your neck and then headed for your cheek and then your lips. "You were mine then and you are still mine now.", he said with your bottom lip touched yours. You closed your eyes and smiled remembering your sweet memories when you were teenagers in love. You loved him but Ka'wan was still a person.

"Wait! We can't do this, Neteyam. Ka'wan-", you tried to explain but you silenced you with her finger. He slowly tried your top. "You're as beautiful as I remember.", you kissed from your chest to your stomach and paused at your loincloth. He looked up at you for consent which you granted. He grabbed for his loincloth and pulled it out.

"You and I are meant to be.", he said sliding himself into you. You squealed as the pleasure of the man you truly loved was inside of you. You pulled him in for a kiss. This was meant to be. "Ma'Teyam, I'm yours.", you said. He thrusted inside of you. "You're mine, my mate, the mother of all my children!", he said as he rammed into you like a mad man. He grabbed your hips allowing him to go either further.

"I gonna make you get birth to MY children, not his!", you tried to push him. "No--ahh-- I will be a shame to my family--nnmgh-- the village people will talk!", you said through your moans. "I am future olo'eyktan of the Omatikaya, no one will have a word to say of you.", you felt your cunt giving wetter by his words. "Move your hips, tìyawn! Eywa made us for each other.", he stated with each thrust touching your womb. You grabbed the soft sheet on the bed, you closed your eyes from the pleasure overwhelming your body.

You felt your pussy clench around his cock. You came inside of you. You moaned from ecstasy. You wrapped your hand around Neteyam as he fell in your chest. "You are my woman, the mother of all my children, Tsahik !", he said. "We are meant to be, Ma'Teyam.", you whispered, not caring Ka'wan was the man you were promised to.

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 3

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn friends to lovers

Sorry for the wait! The day I set aside to get loads done on this I ended up having to visit a family member in hospital, he’s much much better now. Anyway oversharing. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I loved writing it. Let me know if you wanna be added to my tag list 💕

Part 1

Part 2

——————————————————————

You woke up on Saturday morning to a missed text from Art.

7:58am - text from Art

Sorry if I woke you when I left. Gone to play hard court today hope you slept alright on that couch.

The sudden realisation that you were not in fact in your bed hit you almost as hard as the loose spring in your back. You groaned, reaching for some leftover pizza. None left. You groaned again.

9:26am - text to Art

Did you eat all your pizza?

To your surprise the boy replied immediately, showcasing his ability to read your mind.

9:27am - text from Art

Afraid so :) Look in the fridge if you’re so hungry

The fridge, despite the tightness of your apartment, had never looked so far away. You’d rather wait the nine hours for Art to return and pass food to you through a funnel. He could create some sort of feeding tube, perhaps he could fashion it out of one of the dozen tennis ball containers Patrick left lying around. You hadn’t seen the floor in years.

It took you almost thirty minutes to peel your lifeless body off the sofa and trudge the eight metres to the fridge. Before all of your fingers had grasped the cold metal you caught it. The smell.

The month you and Patrick were flat hunting had been a difficult one, full of stress and disappointments. A week before you found the flat you now called home, Art had found crying outside your favourite pancake place. You didn’t know if Patrick had texted him, giving him a heads up of your less than stellar mood and where to find you, or if he had simply ran into you by accident but one minute he was there.

The two of you had shared your favourite, strawberry and kiwi pancakes with whipped cream, despite having never spent time alone together previously and it hadn’t been awkward. Any awkwardness had come from your inability to keep your emotions to yourself and not a mess for all to see. Art hadn’t minded in fact, unbeknownst to you, he’d greatly enjoyed your company and had had a shitty day himself before your talk.

10:02am - text to Art

Did I ever mention I love you living here??

Sitting proudly in the fridge, in between Patrick’s abandoned pasta and your pathetic amount of cheese, was a plate of strawberry and kiwi pancakes. You looked at the pile of washing up and noticed essence of strawberry still dripping from the chopping board next to a whisk and bowl.

‘God damn…’ you actually moaned aloud at the first bite. Not only were they delicious but they’d been made especially for you for no reason. No one had ever made you breakfast before, unless you counted the time Patrick threw a box of muffins at your head to wake you up for school. It often didn’t take a great amount of effort to impress you, something maybe a therapist needed to hear about, but you felt justified being impressed with Art for this. They were truly wonderful.

10:20am - text from Art

Come thank me in person if you want, Liam is taking another break

You couldn’t help but smile at his little dig at Liam, whether intentional or not it told you everything you needed to know: Art was the better player. Art was always the better player, he usually wiped the floor with anyone who wasn’t Patrick.

It was only a twenty minute walk to Stanford and although you were ashamed to admit it … you had nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. You decided to pack your laptop, so you could kid yourself that this was a productive thing and not just an excuse to watch Art sweat. The damn thing wouldn’t even get opened and you knew it.

It was a hot day, even for Summer it was unforgiving. You pulled at your tank top, attempting to negate any sweat stains by leaving a gap between your wet skin and the thin fabric. No such luck, the car window reflection of yourself showed you the harsh reality. How did Art do it? How did he look sexy whilst sweating? You felt like a drowned dog, heaving and panting in the back of a muggy car trying to see past the drops of sweat in your lashes.

You reached Stanford earlier than you expected and to your great satisfaction, saw no Art present. That gave you ample time to tidy yourself up in the toilets before meeting him. The college had crisp air con, much better than the pathetic excuse for a fan you and Patrick would crowd round on hot days.

Art didn’t text you directions because he didn’t need to. He knew you’d visited Patrick enough times to know your way around all the tennis courts, hard or otherwise. It didn’t take you long to find the right one.

‘Fuck!’

You scanned the indoor courts for the source of the outburst. Art, third court from the left and he was not happy. For a moment you teetered on your feet, unsure if it was better to wait a bit before interfering with their clearly tense match. Before you could make a decision however-

‘Y/N!’

Liam spotted you, putting his racket down immediately to wave you over. He’d once gotten drunk and told Patrick how much he liked you but that it had been so long ago that you’d almost forgotten and his new girlfriend was a tennis star. On the ‘up and up’ as Patrick’s dad would say.

Although Liam’s hug was intense, sweaty and pretty uncomfortable you were too focused on Art to cringe. He was rubbing his face with his hands, looking more pained than you’d ever seen him. You didn’t know why. He’d been playing well before you arrived.

Noticing the object of your frown, Liam suddenly grinned even wider. ‘He just lost the third set.’ Art took a large swig of water, not noticing the way you stared in awe at the angle of his jaw and the wet curls on his forehead. He was too focused on the racket he was clutching fiercely enough to force the veins of his forearm to pull your attention.

‘I know it’s not over yet,’ Liam panted slightly, clearly Art had still run him ragged. ‘But this never happens - never.’ In the years they’d played together, Liam had never beaten Art. Not in singles or doubles. Not on hard court. Not on clay or grass. Never. You were not convinced, however, that poor Liam had never won a set before so you voiced your opinion without thinking.

‘Art, you can still win. It’s fine!’

Art shot you a glare. It didn’t last long but it burned you a little, the intensity of it. He wanted so badly for you to be right, for it to not matter to him. ‘It’s just a game’ well it wasn’t to Art. It was his entire future and if he lost - if he lost ever - it was him throwing that future away.

‘You’ll win the fourth.’ You smiled, reassuringly. That lifted Art a little and bruised his partner.

‘I thought we were stopping for a bit since Y/N’s here.’ Art watched your face for a reaction, daring you to decide for the three of them. Without removing your eyes from Art you smiled. ‘No, no. I’ll watch.’

You watched them play for another hour and a half. Art just won the fourth set, by the narrowest of margins but that gave him the confidence boost he badly needed to destroy Liam in the fifth. Th-wack! Smash. Th-wack! Slice. Th-wack! Topspin. You were honestly confused why Liam bothered serving. If it had been you - well - let’s just say the floor would have made a more than sufficient bed. It was certainly making a sufficient seat for you to watch Liam get massacred. God was Art good.

‘You win…’ Liam was dripping, his white shirt almost see-through. ‘I need a sec…’ So did you. It was practically a workout just watching them. You clapped as Art walked over to you, looking very satisfied with his win. ‘You happy now?’

‘Very.’

As Liam rung out his shirt, Art gestured to the court with his racket. ‘You and me. One game.’ His eyes were full of amusement.

‘Ha.’

You’d die.

‘One set?’ He smirked, desperate for you to humour him. Not today. ‘Absolutely not.’ You laughed, standing up.

‘Actually, I’d love lunch right now,’ Liam’s suggestion was a necessity. ‘After a shower.’ And so was his afterthought. They both needed one desperately. Art’s hair didn’t even look blonde anymore.

‘Yeah you two go, I’ll wait then we can get food. I’m not super hungry but I can always eat.’

Liam was already rushing to the showers, practically leaving a pool of loser evidence behind him but Art heard. He looked like he was waiting for something from you and for a moment, in your haze, you wondered what. Oh!

‘The pancakes,’

‘Hm.’

‘De-licious.’

‘Good.’

You could tell he was happier with your compliment than he was letting on. The truth was Art craved praise, mostly for tennis but for anything he accomplished. It didn’t matter if he’d made a three tier cake, organised a trip or won every set in a match he wanted to know he’d done good.

‘Seriously, how did you even find the recipe?’ The two of you walked together out of the hall. ‘I’ve been asking the staff for years, pretty sure they hate me now actually.’

‘I have my ways.’ He grinned. ‘Now, I’m gonna go shower-‘

‘Good, you stink.’

‘Fuck off.’

Chapter 4

Masterlist

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn

[swordofsun]

@scoobydoodean had been posting about 4x17 It's A Terrible Life and it's reminded me of one of my favorite overlooked bits in the episode and how it shows that Zachariah is just wrong about Dean.

Zachariah's whole theory with this little experiment is that Dean will choose hunting.

ZACHARIAH To prove to you that the path you're on is truly in your blood. You're a hunter. Not because your dad made you, not because God called you back from hell, but because it is what you are. And you love it. You'll find your way to it in the dark every single time and you're miserable without it. Dean, let's be real here. You're good at this. You'll be successful. You will stop it.

But Dean has expressly denied hunting already at the end of the last act:

SAM Look, all I know is this isn't who we're supposed to be. DEAN No. I'm Dean Smith, okay? Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo. SAM When was the last time you talked to them? To any of them? DEAN Okay, you're upset. You're upset, you're confused— SAM Yeah, 'cause I only moved here 'cause I just broke up with my fiancée, Madison. But I called her number and I got a damn animal hospital. DEAN Okay. What are you saying? Are you trying to say that my family isn't real? Huh? That we've been injected with fake memories? Come on. SAM All I know is, I got this feeling in my gut. And I know—I know that deep down, you gotta be feeling it too. We're supposed to be something else. You're not just some corporate douchebag. This isn't you. I know you. DEAN Know me? You don't know me, pal. You should go. SAM leaves.

Sam tried to get Dean to drop everything and go hunting. They stopped a ghost! It was fun! They could do this, but Dean's not going to give up his life for it. Dean has no intention of turning his life upside down to start hunting and it's not until Zachariah lays out one of the most depressing 10 year plan ever:

ADLER Positive. You are Sandover material, son. Real go-getter. Carving your own way. DEAN Well, thanks. I try. ADLER I see big things in your future. Maybe even senior VP, Eastern Great Lakes Division. Don't get me wrong, you'll have to work for it. Seven days a week, lunch at your desk, but in eight to ten short years, that could be you. DEAN takes off his headset. DEAN Uh, well, thank you. Thank you, sir. It's, um...but... DEAN passes the paper back. DEAN I am giving my notice.

He's already the director of marketing and sales and his career plan is 10 years of nothing but work to make VP of a division? Probably a small division? Everyone would quit with that laid out. Maybe not as directly as Dean does, but yeah, they'd be going home and revamping the resume. That's a dead end career path you'd have to bust your ass and give up your life for.

Hearing that and going "hmm, maybe I take some time and check out that hunting thing with that Wesson guy. He was less creepy once we started working on the haunting, for the most part" is actually a pretty normal thing to do.

And really Zachariah doesn't even give him the chance to go find Sam. Because there's actually a good chance Dean gets home and after thinking about it he just updates his resume and LinkedIn. He had to give Dean back his memories in that exact moment in order to try and leverage the situation to his advantage.

Zachariah stacked the deck and still barely managed to get Dean to quit his job. Dean wasn't running to hunting with open arms. He was, at best, looking at it as a more viable option than the shitty 10 year plan Mr. Adler just laid out. And Zachariah couldn't wait for him to actually choose hunting, he had to strike before Dean could second guess himself.

(Even Sam is making the choice between IT support call center or ghost hunting. This isn't hard.)

4x17 Transcript

[genericpuff]

alright so this is a post I've been wanting to write up for a little while now, but I was waiting on permission from a third party to post DM's (censored, of course). That permission has since returned with a yes, soooo

LET'S TALK ABOUT RACHEL'S HIRING PROCESSES-

okay this isn't gonna be as comprehensive as I'm making it sound BUT I've mentioned before on this page (albeit briefly and it's long since been buried) that I actually applied to be a background artist for Rachel a couple years ago, I think it was around the midpoint of S2, and it was (obviously) before I turned to the dark side of crit-n-shit-posting. I never got an email back, so that was that. I'd like to think there's a parallel universe out there where instead of joining the antiLO/ULO community, I became an assistant for Rachel and remained a fan. Enjoy that fridge horror thought.

That said, while I didn't get a response, someone on reddit mentioned that they did:

And they were kind enough to share further details with me in DM's.

Right off the bat, I'm fairly certain they were applying to the same ad I was (as it was a posting that Rachel had made on Twiter and the approximate years line up).

All that aside, considering what Rachel's process is like with her assistants (from what we've discussed here in GREAT detail), it's not shocking in the slightest that the vibe of working with Rachel from the very beginning was "IDK what I'm looking for".

Buuut that's not the end of the exchange because it gets better.

Mind you, this was back in 2019 and it was the experience of one user, so it doesn't necessarily reflect every assistant on the team or how Rachel does things down to the last detail. But it's pretty damning enough that you can still see the evidence of this kind of workflow in current LO 4 years later. If anything she's continued to operate with a rapidly declining pipeline because the art just keeps getting worse and worse.

Part me of wants to say that this could be on Webtoons, as they don't offer support to creators to have assistants. Creators have to pay for their assistants completely out of pocket, split from the income they make from Webtoons. This is why so many creators often don't have assistants or their 'assistants' are also their co-creators (see: Nevermore, which is drawn and written by two people working together).

But Rachel has an average of four assistants per episode, sometimes as many as eight in some cases (though it's been a while since that's happened so I won't really count it for this post).

That means Rachel's team is typically made up of five people, including herself, and that's not including the recent addition of copy editors (but that balances out with the times when Amy Kim isn't contributing , she tends to pop in and out).

Now, she's not the only person on WT with a team of this size, there are others with comparable teams if not bigger ones, but NONE of them seem to operate with as much inconsistency as LO does, and that's not on the assistants, that's on Rachel. She's said in interviews that she always wanted to be a director and that making LO on Webtoons was her way of achieving that, but she doesn't seem to have the integrity or leadership skills necessary to take charge when the team isn't working in sync. You don't see any of these insane art art inconsistencies in webtoons like The Kiss Bet or Tower of God (though they have their own problems, the art isn't one of them), and there are webtoons operating without a team at all that are drawing circles around LO right now, like Nevermore (which is, by the way, also edited by Bre Boswell, same as LO).

Now, that's not to say there isn't struggling underneath the surface, the creators of Nevermore have stated how difficult it is to work for Webtoons as it is, especially as creators who don't have assistants. But how is the #1 comic on the platform failing to meet the standards that come with its labels and awards? Why are the exceptionally better comics being drawn by 1-2 people not getting the attention or opportunities they deserve from the platform? And why does Rachel Smythe, one of the highest paid creators on the platform, still seem to struggle with managing a team of artists after five years of publication on Webtoons? Why does she choose to have a large team if she can't pay them adequately? Why have a large team at all if she's not going to utilize their skills properly? To further lighten the load of work onto others?

Really, it just goes to show the lack of care and respect all around - for the self, for the work, and for those who are pushing out the work and meeting the deadlines, whose reputations and potential are being dragged down with the comic itself.

[lovebillyhargrove]

***

It is that time in the early morning hours when nothing seems quite real.

You open your eyes and still don't understand if you're awake or still dreaming and whether it's time to get up and start about your daily routine or there's still a chance to fall back into sweet slumber.

It is still dark and what makes it darker is rain outside.

Gently tapping on the roof and against the windows. Lullabying.

Neil isn't at home. He is on a night shift, working as a security guard in a bank some blocks away. He'll come home at 7.

She still has enough time but she needs to hurry.

She grabs the bag she packed the previous evening. She doesn't need much.

Quietly puts the bag on the floor near the door.

She'll be out of this burning house in no time and

She'll be free.

Of Neil.

What a mistake. What a huge fucking mistake and such a waste.

Of her time, of her youth, of her strength and love.

Before grabbing the door handle, she knows, she must say good bye.

To her boy.

She can't make herself do that, it's too hard, it's impossible. She can't look at him.

She has to.

She's gonna settle and come back for him, but how much time will it take before she can do that?

She doesn't know for sure.

It's time to go, however,

She must take a look at him and whisper him goodbye.

It's not goodbye, I'll see you soon, I'll come back for you, I promise.

She goes to her little son's room, cracks the door open.

There he is, sleeping peacefully. The blanket is down on the floor, he often kicks it off in sleep.

She should put the blanket back on him, it's a chilly night.

Just don't wake up, please, don't wake up.

"Mom?" His voice so thin, so fragile

..

"Mom, is that you?"

"Yes, honey."

"Is it time to get up?"

"No, baby, you close your eyes and sleep, it's not morning yet."

She touches his hair and tries not to look at his face.

Into his eyes.

"Okay. Mom?"

"Yes, baby?"

Billy sighs, half in drowse, closes his sleep-enchanted eyes

"Why are you in my room?"

"Just .. just came to check on you. I love you, baby. Go back to sleep."

"Love you too. Can you make pancakes for breakfast?"

"Sure. Sure I can."

Damn it. She should leave. Dale is waiting for her a block away from their house.

Dale is nice. He's taking her to Utah with him, and they'll ..

They'll get settled and she'll come back

For Billy.

Dale is not so keen on the idea of taking care of her son that she has with Neil, but .. she'll try to convince him. She will.

Billy has already slipped back into deep sleep.

She shouldn't look at his face, but she can't help herself.

Her eight-year old son's face is so beautiful.

A kid's face.

Untainted.

God.

She shouldn't have done it, cause now tears are running down her face and she doesn't want

To leave him.

But the hell they've all been living in for the past year?

A year and a half ..?

It has to stop. Maybe they'll be better off, just the two of them, without endless ugly fights

You're leaving him in the hands of a monster.

The twilight of the early morning hours is soft and dim

And grey. The rain makes it darker

And sadder. Mournful.

She's clutching at her bag, as she runs, and keeps the other hand close to her heart - to help hold it together, to help it not to break.

The twilight is quiet and pale,

And sorrow is cutting her in half.

***

A wip? Billy's mother POV. I understand her motives and reasons. But that doesn't mean that I consider them a valid excuse for leaving her son. Is there one? Kids are ours, ties thicker than ropes attach us to each other, and it's all on us. Cause we had them, and they are little.

And so, she'll pay.

[suguruwithabow]

pics are from pinterest, dm me for credits/remove

𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 , satosugu

☆ ; gojo satoru × female¡geto suguru (7,3k)

☆ ; where satoru, the heir of the gojo clan, is forced to marry the thirteen-year-old utahime. luckily, the girl and her lady-in-waiting, suguru, already have a plan.

☆ ; CW mature content , historical inaccuracy , child marriage (but not between gojo and geto) , vaginal sex , fingering , oral , consensual cheating (?) , clan leader gojo , strangers to lovers

☆ ; TW mention of child marriage but there's no underage sex here (both satoru and suguru are twenty-eight)

☆ ; ao3 | wattpad (eng) | wattpad (ita)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | +18 enjoy ! 🎀

«No way! I have no intention of doing it. Have you all gone mad?» «Now calm down, you have no other choice. And why take it out on your servants? It's not like they can do anything about it.»

Nanami watches him impassively from the other side of the room while he paces nervously back and forth.

«Don't you understand, Nanami? Someone has to do something. That is a child. What am I supposed to do with a child?»

«Possibly generate a male heir within the first year of marriage.»

«You're a heartless monster, you know that?»

Satoru Gojo is the only son of the current head of the Gojo family, making him the sole contender for the position of clan leader. He is twenty-eight years old and has everything a man in this world could desire: fame, wealth, good looks, and a strong warrior's body.

Satoru is no slacker; he earned his stripes fighting on the front lines among the emperor's troops. When he walks down the street, people lower their heads out of respect.

But what is happening to him now must be a bad joke.

«No one here is saying that the situation you're in isn't crap, Gojo. I'm just saying that honestly, I don't understand what you want me to do about it. I'm a soldier, Satoru, not a magician. And even if you become the next leader of the Gojo clan, you must obey your current master, like a slave.»

«What kind of sick mind could come up with such nonsense and think it's a brilliant idea?»

«It's more common than you think. The same thing happened to the Zen'in's son, if I'm not mistaken. Then by law–»

«I don't give a shit about the law. By law, children can be given in marriage, and sent to fight a war. What bullshit.» the white-haired man bursts out.

During the last clan council, his family informed Satoru that a wedding between him and the Iori clan leader's daughter would soon be arranged. Satoru had been dazed for a moment. His fears were confirmed when they told him that the Iori daughter was thirteen years old.

Nanami sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he often does when he's exhausted – which is basically every time he is in the same room as Gojo Satoru. «I don't know how to help you, Satoru. You'll have to grit your teeth and do as you're told.»

«Thanks, Nanami. Very helpful.» «Don't be such an ass.» the samurai, his long-time war companion and friend, reprimands him.

This was a nightmare from which Satoru could not wake up. The very idea of marrying a thirteen-year-old girl made his skin crawl and his mouth sour. What kind of sick pervert thought that a couple formed by an adult man and a girl just entering puberty would make a successful marriage?

Marriage? Seriously? And then what? Would they ask him to generate an heir as well? God, not a chance.

It wasn't a secret that his old father was nearing the end, but after sending Satoru to fight on the front lines in the army, he still wasn't tired of torturing him and had come up with this bad joke?

It had to be a joke.

«I'll convince the council to annul this marriage. Hell no, I won't marry a damn child.»

Nanami looked at him with concern. One of Gojo Satoru's many flaws? He was seriously convinced he was omnipotent.

***

As expected, Satoru couldn't get the marriage annulled, and a month later, the Iori daughter arrived at the Gojo estate in preparation for the ceremony to be held in a few days.

Her name was Utahime, a sullen girl with brown hair and eyes who seemed even more opposed to this marriage than Satoru.

Just by looking at her, it was clear how young she still was: petite, with a flat chest and straight hips, exactly as a thirteen-year-old's body should be.

In the eyes of the law, however, she was a woman of marriageable age. At this point, Satoru wondered if he was the crazy one, because who could look at that child and say, "Yes, it's time for her to get married"?

Apparently, Utahime's father.

"Maniac." Satoru thought.

The girl was accompanied by some ladies who would stay with her until the marriage. One of them would stay for at least a year to help her mistress in case of – Satoru felt like throwing up just thinking about it – pregnancy.

The Gojo clan leader had been quite annoyed when he received the request to host one of the Iori ladies long-term even after the marriage of their children, complaining that they already had many female servants at the Gojo estate.

Fortunately, Satoru's mother convinced him to accept. She had been in Utahime's place twenty-nine years ago and remembered well what it was like for a young girl to be sent far from her father's house, thrown into the arms of a much older man, terrified and unhappy.

Having a familiar face nearby might make the process easier.

Utahime's ladies-in-waiting were all beautiful women around twenty years old. Satoru wanted to bang his head against a wall. He would have gladly married one of them, an adult and mature woman with an adult's body, but instead, his nightmare was coming true more and more with each passing second.

Satoru fought until the last moment to get the marriage annulled: he threatened to burn down the estate, to take his own life, or to take the girl's life before even marrying her. But nothing worked, and realistically, Satoru didn't have the courage to carry out any extreme act that would endanger someone's life unnecessarily.

Nanami told him to resign himself, as everyone else close to him did. That's how their world works. The son of the Kamo family is about his age and had to marry a girl much younger than Utahime. Satoru would not win this battle, so he might as well surrender to his fate.

He accepts the idea of marriage. He can always hope for a sudden war so he would have to go to the front before facing the first wedding night. Unfortunately, the peaceful times they lived in dashed his daydreams.

He can delay producing an heir; no one is forcing him to do it immediately, and he has all the time in the world – waiting until the girl becomes an adult doesn't seem like a big problem, but he would still have to consummate at least the first night.

It's mandatory. They will check, and failure to consummate could invalidate the marriage, which would be a much bigger problem because he would be disinherited, and Utahime might be executed. Satoru couldn't escape that. They would stand outside his bedroom door to listen, and the next day they would ask for blood-stained sheets, and one of the older women would personally verify that the girl was no longer a virgin.

If he crouched on the ground and started crying in desperation, would anyone blame him? Maybe not.

The days passed, and the wedding approached. On the morning of the ceremony, Satoru really did cry – but just a little! – He put on the outfit the servants had brought to his room, facing the longest and most exhausting day of his life – and he had fought in a war before this.

Everyone was there. The Kamo son looked at him with concern, sitting next to his child bride. The Iori family sat in the front row next to the Gojo patriarch and his wife, staring at them with admonishing looks, especially Satoru's father, who seemed to be warning him not to mess up.

That bastard Ryoumen Sukuna had the luck to marry a twenty-two-year-old, one of the younger Zen'in daughters named Megumi with long black hair and forest green eyes. Satoru wished he were in his place.

Utahime cried a little when the moment came. Satoru's heart tightened because all of this must have been more terrifying for her than for him. He couldn't even imagine what she was feeling. She was so young, small, and defenseless. At her age, Satoru was playing in the dirt and pestering the maids in the kitchen all day, while she was forced to marry.

The world is truly a horrible place.

There was a grand banquet with music and dancing to celebrate. Satoru sat with his head down next to his wife, who was also silent as a grave. People approached them, congratulated them, Kamo gave him yet another sympathetic look, and his very young bride did the same to Utahime.

Sukuna came to flaunt his beautiful adult wife, while Nanami brought him rivers of alcohol, hoping to induce a coma that would last until Utahime turned at least twenty. Satoru really couldn't bear the sight of the girl dressed that way, and the servants seemed to have bathed her in lavender oil, and its pungent scent gave him a headache.

One of Utahime's ladies, the one who would stay after the party to assist her, approached her to say something that sounded like "everything is ready for tonight," and Satoru felt like crying again, so he hid his expression behind yet another glass of saké. Fucking alcohol tolerance of his.

The lady glanced furtively at him. Satoru returned the look. She was a beautiful woman, about twenty-four years old, with long black hair and bangs framing her tanned face, highlighted by amethyst eyes typical of the southern regions.

Satoru imagined she was born into a peasant family, then sent to the city to become a lady-in-waiting at a noble house like the Iori's.

It was common for girls like her, blessed with beauty, to be taken from farm life and trained as noble ladies. They spent their lives following their mistress, and once she married, they could leave to find a husband. This girl was still young and beautiful, and when her duty was done, she would surely find a good soldier or even an officer to settle down with.

Satoru already envied the lucky man who would marry her. He should be the one with a beautiful woman with black hair in his bed tonight, with whom to consummate his wedding night, not this girl victim of a rotten system.

The party continued well past sunset. Guests drank, ate, and danced without reserve. At one point, Utahime declared she wanted to retire to her room and left with the purple-eyed lady.

Satoru seized the opportunity to breathe a little, meeting his army comrades, Nanami included, and distracted himself by chatting with them about this and that. At least they had the decency not to mention what he would be forced to do tonight.

His father glared at him the whole time from his patriarch's seat, disappointed at how he had let his wife go on their first wedding night. Satoru was so irritated. What did the old man expect him to do? Be eager to sleep with a teenage-girl? No, thank you.

They went on for hours until the fateful moment became unavoidable. Satoru walked around the garden three times, strolled through the estate's corridors at a snail's pace, and, when he reached the bedroom door, wondered if it was worth running away as far as possible.

He thought of slitting his throat right there in the corridor; killing himself was undoubtedly much easier than doing what he was supposed to.

He entered his own room silently like a thief, hoping to find Utahime asleep and use the excuse of his incredible magnanimity in not wanting to wake his wife.

It was all dark, and there was not a sound except for Satoru's heart pounding in his chest. The man took a few steps forward, saw nothing but the outlines of the furniture, and it seemed there was no movement.

Victorious, he turned back and tried to leave, planning to sleep in one of the guest rooms, but before he could realize it, he found himself with his back pressed against the mattress and the girl straddling him.

His blood froze in his veins.

«Hey kid, wait, I don’t–» «Shh.» he is silenced with a finger to his lips. The girl leans down to leave a trail of light kisses across his cheek and jaw, trailing down to the tender, pale flesh of his neck.

Satoru is petrified with horror and fear. What to do? Let things take their course? He thought that Utahime was on his side and wanted to delay this moment as long as possible.

Her long hair seems black in the dim light, caressing Satoru's face as she descends further and further down his throat and chest, the man's senses are invaded by a rich sensual scent of vanilla and shea butter, which seems to send all his nerve endings in ecstasy.

He stops.

This seems anything but the wedding night of a blushing young virgin. A full and firm breast rests on Satoru's chest, soft and thick thighs are tightened around his hips in a sweet vice, when he moves his hands and places them on her waist, he feels her generous curves under his palms.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that she’s not his wife. He’s shocked, he’s about to say something, but as soon as he separates his lips, the woman pounces on him for an expert kiss, her tongue dominates in his mouth leaving him breathless, Satoru squeezes her hips to find something to hold on to, but he is too powerless to reciprocate.

Her deft fingers untie the knots of his dress revealing his toned and chiseled chest. She traces the dip of his muscles with the tip of her index finger as her ass rests against the growing bulge beneath his clothes.

The woman is wearing a white silk slip, they explained to him that it is a tribute to purity or something like that. It really doesn't matter to him. His eyes are adjusting to the dark and he can see how the thin fabric slides over her shoulders, barely covering her boobs; her nipples stand out under the white silk and Satoru would really like to suck them and give them all the attention they seem to deserve.

Obviously the dress was custom made for Utahime, so it's nowhere near the right size for this woman. It marks her slim waist, her fabric is stretched across her chest and hips, it moves dangerously up her thighs until it reveals the imprint of her warm cunt pressing against Satoru's lower belly.

She opens his formal dress, letting it fall off his shoulders and reveal his perfect body and his big, already half-hard, cock resting against the woman's ass.

She grinds against him, her wet pussy’s lips surrounding the tip of his cock, coating him with her sweet venom. She lets out the sweetest sound as her clit is stimulated by the friction against his skin, sending shivers down Satoru's spine, his dick throbbing in anticipation.

She pushes down her hips and the tip gently forces her entrance. She's wet, tight, she resists a little but slowly his cock is completely enveloped by her soft walls.

Satoru has never felt so good. He has never been fucked like this. The woman rides him, imposing her rhythm, squeezing tightly and moaning as she rotates her hips, biting her lips to suppress as much as possible the sounds she would like to make.

Satoru arches his back as her walls clench tightly around his length. Hell, what was that? Something like this had never happened to him; it certainly wasn't the first time he had fucked, and yet.

She increases her speed, her tits move in front of Satoru's eyes who watches them mesmerized. He's been lying on his back the whole time and feels like a real dick, so still.

The woman quickly gets tired of this position, but judging by her wet sounds and moans, she must like it a lot. Satoru takes advantage of this to reverse their roles, he comes out of her just long enough to slam her back onto the mattress and then re-enter that paradise all the way back.

He is indulged without problems, she grabs his shoulders digging her nails into them, a wimp escapes her lips when Satoru imposes his rhythm, much more pressing than before, he bends over his chest to take those precious buds between his lips and tease the nipples between his teeth. God, her tits are really big and beautiful, he already loves them.

The woman's walls clench tightly when she comes, she trembles around him and clings to his neck as if without his support she risks slipping. Satoru kisses her face, which however he cannot see with the little light available, her neck and chest.

He pulls out of her still painfully hard, and masturbates quickly pouring himself onto her stomach. With her labored breathing he collapses next to her, sweat dripping onto his skin as he tries to calm down, she also inhales deeply and her sweet scent envelops Satoru like a caress.

He is exhausted from the long day just passed, so much that he falls asleep without even realizing it.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, Utahime is next to him.

Her white nightgown falls flat over her chest, straight over her hips, and loose around her thin thighs. There's blood on the sheets, but Satoru knows it's not his wife's. The woman he was with last night wasn't Utahime.

The door opens, revealing a crowd of servants and relatives huddled in the corridor. Utahime suddenly wakes up, frightened, and Satoru sees red, moving in front of her to cover her body.

They demand the sheets, and he shivers, yanking them off the bed and handing them over without much ceremony. He barks at the onlookers to leave, saying his wife is shy.

They heard them last night, they have the sheets, now only one last, terrifying proof remains. It will be Satoru's mother who verifies the girl's deflowering, and he doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

They set up a shoji screen, Satoru stands there, Utahime has her back to him, and his mother leans down to check. A crowd of curious onlookers waits at the door, thank god they can't see. Utahime complies with the requests; it seems like a medical examination, even though it's nothing but a torture.

Satoru feels nauseous; his life is in his mother's hands. She checks, realization dawns on her face: they didn’t do it, it's all a sham.

She looks at him, her blue eyes locked on Satoru's, with an unreadable expression. Satoru breaks out in a cold sweat. She straightens up, «Everything's good.» she says, and leaves. Everyone is relieved, coming to congratulate him, while Utahime hides, wrapping herself in a clean blanket, trying to become as small and unnoticed as possible.

Breakfast is served, the usual maids come in with trays full of fruits and pastries. He sends everyone away, wanting to eat in peace, for god’s sake.

The last to enter is Utahime's lady-in-waiting. When she passes by, Satoru immediately notices the sweet scent of vanilla and her long black hair, turning his head so quickly his neck cracks. She has a bandaged wrist.

Gods, of course! How could he have been so stupid? She’s the one who was with him yesterday evening; Utahime switched places with her maid to avoid consummating her first wedding night. It makes sense.

Satoru looks at her and immediately recognizes her; even under the loose clothing, the deep and sensual curve of her hips is well defined by the fabric. She caresses Utahime's face with concern; the bandage on the wrist is slightly stained with red, she must have cut herself to simulate the blood on the sheets. Genius.

Satoru is about to say something, but Utahime stops him with a dirty look. She knows he knows. But there are still too many people in the room. Everyone is sent away; they are alone, eating in silence, and Satoru thinks about that lady.

«What's her name?» he asks Utahime, and she glares at him.

«Don't even think about it.» she spits venomously.

«Oh, come on, I at least have the right to know, don't I? I'm part of the team too.»

«There is no team.»

«Hey kid, I'm on your side. I'm happy about this. Just tell me her name.»

Utahime sighs. Is she really married to this idiot? She wants to curse her father. «Suguru, her name is Geto Suguru. But she's totally out of your league.»

«How old is she?»

«Twenty-eight.»

The same age as him? Satoru would have sworn she was a bit younger. Oh, well, he’s pleased. They already have something in common.

«She's beautiful.»

«I know. Stay away from her.»

«Hey, you ladies dragged me into this mess.»

«Because we knew you wouldn’t say anything, but Suguru is mine, so don't get any weird ideas.»

Possessive. Satoru understands; he'd be the same if he had Suguru for himself.

Suguru, what a beautiful name. Satoru thinks about it all day.

After breakfast, he gets up and takes care of his duties as the heir of the Gojo clan. His father asks to see him and congratulates him on consummating the marriage; his mother is in the room, always giving him that strange look, but as long as she says nothing, Satoru is fine with it.

There are still some wedding guests preparing to leave. Sukuna pities him for his unhappy union, and Satoru considers punching him in the face; his wife, Megumi, scolds him and apologizes to Satoru. Damn, she's too beautiful and kind for a monster like Sukuna.

Nanami gives him a supportive pat on the shoulder, Satoru is about to tell him what really happened, but there are still too many people around.

He stops a maid, asking about Suguru, Utahime's lady-in-waiting, pretending his wife was looking for her. The maid tells him Suguru wasn’t feeling well and was sleeping in her quarters, exhausted from all the work they had to do.

At lunch, Satoru visits the kitchen, hoping to see her, but she’s not there. He wants to check their room to see if she’s with Utahime, but his father calls him to have lunch with him.

He sees her again only at dinner. She sits behind Utahime, peeling fruit with her long black hair framing her face, making her look like a sea goddess.

Satoru can look at her openly because it looks like he's glancing his wife. It's perfect. Suguru is so caring, so ethereal, Satoru can't decide which part of her he prefers, but perhaps it's her overall beauty that makes her special.

It's easy to have pretty eyes, lips, or hair, but beauty is more than just the sum of its parts. It’s elegance, grace.

Utahime is tired and wants to retire to sleep. Satoru became sad because Suguru accompanies her, and as she leaves the room, she doesn’t even glance at him. And all the moans and kisses from last night? No way they were fake. She enjoyed it, Satoru is sure of it.

Dinner drags on. It's all deathly boring. Satoru retreats into his head as he often does; it was the only way he managed to keep his cold blood during war, carving out moments of pure fantasy within the only safe space: his mind. He thinks of Suguru peeling fruit, but this time she's doing it for him, in his bed. She feeds him small slices of apple one by one, and when she smiles, he kisses her with the sour juice mixing with their saliva.

Sweet.

Almost all their relatives left today, only they and the servants remain at the estate. He retreats to his office, writes a letter to be sent tomorrow morning, and signs the required documents, the usual routine.

When he’s done, he heads to his room. He can slip into his bed, and no one will disturb him, Utahime is silent, she won’t give him any trouble and is probably already sleeping. For now, he still has to sleep in his room; they expect him to. In a few days, maybe, he will move to the guest room when his "duties" are over.

Until then, he will sleep in his bed as usual, as close to the edge as possible so as not to disturb the girl.

When he opens the door, however, she greets him with a hug and a kiss. Suguru smells lovely tonight too, her lips are warm, and her arms wrap around Satoru's neck, pulling him close.

Satoru smiles at her, tonight the oil lamp is lit, and the faint reddish light illuminates the woman's amber skin as if the sun itself had gifted her. «You made me wait.» she says.

It’s the first time he really hears her voice. She’s talking to him, not addressing Utahime with that formal, submissive tone. Satoru feels like a happy husband, returning to the room embraced by his wife after finishing his duties.

Fuck, he deserves it. It's been a tough few days.

«I didn’t expect to find you here, I would have headed back much earlier if I had known. You didn’t even look at me at dinner tonight.»

«And how could I, Gojo-sama? I am not allowed to look up at my mistress's husband. Where I come from, one risks death for such things.» She is sweet; Satoru puts his hands around her waist and holds her close to feel her warmth. Her scent is intoxicating, her loose hair framing her face like a gift from the night itself for this wonderful creature.

He looks into her sharp, violet eyes, so clever and bright – it seems hard to believe they belong to such an angel.

«Yet you're here, are you willing to risk your life for this?» «Only if you make it worth it, Gojo-sama.»

«Satoru.» «Mh?» «You can call me Satoru.» «Sa-to-ru.» for the first time, his name takes on a completely different consistency on her tongue. The man kisses her, pushing her back to the edge of the bed, covers her with his body and keeps his hand on the back of her neck to keep her from moving away.

She kisses him back, she's fucking good at it. Her hands do not lie helpless on his chest, but caress his back forming new and wonderful patterns. Tonight her nails will scratch that back hard, Satoru will have to make amends for last night, in which it was mainly Suguru who did the work.

He undresses her without stopping kissing her, under her dress there is nothing so his hands immediately find the soft and smooth skin to caress and pinch. His kisses trail down her chest, he massages her breasts with his hands, showers them with attention, sucks on her nipples until they are erect and glistening with saliva. She whimpers a little as she squirms under his touch, but Satoru keeps her still and good with more gentle, playful touches.

He kisses her stomach, the trail of hair that leads him to the main meal. He kisses her inner thighs, rubs his cheek against them, looks at her with his impossible blue eyes while hers are pleading and swollen with tears. She wants him to taste it, but she's afraid to say it out loud.

Satoru fortunately is a perceptive man, passionately devouring the lips of her flower. She's so wet and tempting, that taste of her makes him moan against her skin, he has to reach up to his crotch to squeeze his already rock-hard cock.

Suguru bites the back of her hand to keep from screaming as she buries her head into the pillow. Satoru devours her as if he made a religion out of it, his strong arms keep her legs spread and pinned to the mattress, so that even if she wanted to, she couldn't escape his slow torture. The spiral of her pleasure tightens more and more in her womb until it blurs her vision, her walls tighten around nothingness as her body is pervaded by the spasms of her first orgasm of tonight.

She trembles in Satoru’s arms, he stands up to kiss her face while she sobs, he lets her taste herself on his tongue, dries her tears with his fingertips.

Satoru's hands aren’t delicate, they are rough and covered in calluses, but they touch her as if she were made of paper that he doesn't want to tear. He’s kind and touches her so gently. Suguru has never had such a tender lover.

He lets her calm down, his hard cock pressing against the woman's tender flesh but Satoru ignores it. He only care about kissing her, rubbing his nose in the crook of her neck to let himself be overwhelmed by her vanilla-scented skink, gently fingering her with devotion, enjoying the wet and obscene sounds of her cunt.

Suguru comes at him with thrusts. She grabs the wrist of while his hand has two fingers buried inside her, squeezes them as if she wants to break them; Satoru wets his lips as he remembers the sensation of being inside her.

Suguru decides that his fingers aren't enough. She needs something thicker and warmer to fill her up, so she grabs his cock and lines it up with her hole. «Can you– can you– please.» she pleads. She pleads because doing it with Satoru feels so good and she doesn't mind sounding needy.

Satoru holds her and fulfills her request, without batting an eye. He fucks her the way she wants, slow and deep, then fast enough that the smacks of their skin are so loud that they drown out her moans. Her mouth is open, a string of saliva sliding down her chin, her eyes crossed.

Satoru has his hands on her waist, he stares intently at the point where his cock enters her, red like a blooming azalea, he has to think about something else in order to not come immediately and paint her insides white.

He does inventory of the Gojo’s warehouse in his head and goes over the names and ranks of all the members of the royal family before giving in and coming so hard that his balls hurt after. He pulls out just in time to pour himself on her wet and red pussy. If he didn't want to risk impregnating his wife's maid, he would come inside her so deep that he would touch the pearly gates of heaven with his fingertips, but unfortunately he has to resist to the instinct to stick his cock back into her cunt and make a mess of it.

Suguru lets him rest on her chest once cleaned with a wet cloth, strokes his white hair and traces imaginary drawings on his skin. Satoru soon slips into the limbo of half-sleep, but when he is about to fall asleep for real he hears Suguru get up, get dressed and leave. He wants to stop her, but he's too tired even to speak, he falls asleep a second later.

***

The happiest six months of his life pass. On paper, Satoru is married to Utahime from the Iori clan, but every night, waiting for him in his room, there’s Suguru Geto, with her soft lips and warm body.

Satoru doesn't want to exaggerate, but he might have fallen in love with this woman. Their encounters are limited to nighttime, while for the rest of the day, Suguru isn't in his sight or, if she is, she's always a step behind Utahime with her head bowed.

They don't just have sex when they meet, sometimes they just kiss, chat about this and that, or play shoji or cards – and Suguru always beats his ass.

Satoru likes the way she laughs, how she quickly ties her hair back when it bothers her, her elegant handwriting, her always neat kimono, the way she eats.

When she's with Utahime, she takes care of her hair, accompanies her on long walks, listens attentively to every word, truly listens without ever interrupting. Satoru understands why Utahime adores her so much, she always talks about Suguru with shining eyes and gives him terrible looks when he tries to approach her in daylight.

She's a precious treasure; anyone would want her by their side. Satoru even overhears a servant making compliments about her and has to summon all his self-control to not draw his sword and execute him right there in the corridor.

One day, it seems like it's going to rain, so Satoru goes to get Suguru in her room and tells her to get ready. She looks at him, frightened and confused; it's the first time he's spoken directly to her in front of other people.

She does as she's told, following Satoru to the estate's entrance, always a step behind, staring at his back with her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

«Gojo-sama, what are you doing here?» one of the servants asks when the master orders a carriage to be prepared.

«I'm going to the city for errands.» he replies brusquely. The servant tilts his head, casting a long look at Suguru, who does everything to hide behind Satoru's imposing figure.

«Are you taking Lady Iori's maid with you? Perhaps you’d prefer to take your wife, no?» The servant's tone is provocative. Satoru doesn't like being questioned; he already has to deal with his father every day – in reality, the only time he's truly listened to is when he's barking orders in the army.

«That's not possible. I'm going to the city to buy a gift for my wife; it must be a surprise. This maid knows her more intimately than I do, she will advise me wisely.»

The servant seems suspicious, but Satoru is firm with his words, and the servant is no one to contradict the master. They get into the carriage and travel in silence, sitting apart.

Suguru is happy to finally leave the estate, hiding her smile behind her hand as she looks out the window.

Utahime still hasn't gotten used to the new house and rarely goes out. She doesn't have much to do, as a lady-in-waiting, she isn't allowed to work outdoors or in the kitchens. Usually, when her mistress doesn't require her presence, Suguru simply sits down. Thankfully, Satoru has given her free access to his library and occasionally sends her accounting reports to review – since Suguru is very attentive and has noticed small errors more than once – otherwise, she would seriously risk dying of boredom.

Sometimes Satoru's mother wants to have tea with her, saying she appreciates her company, but Suguru thinks she suspects something. Satoru told her that his mother knows about the unconsummated marriage, but that her suspects the relationship between her son and the maid is just a conjecture: Satoru is too careful and Suguru has a great poker face, she must have deduced it, being the only other person aware of the first night's ruse.

So, Suguru is happy to get out of that estate, meet normal people outside the servants and the Gojo family.

When they arrive there, Satoru actually runs errands, and Suguru follows him patiently. All eyes are on her, and Satoru doesn't like it. This woman is too beautiful even for a short visit to the city.

It doesn't take long before the strong smell of rain fills their nostrils and the first drops begin to dot the ground with spots. Suguru feels herself being grabbed by the waist and lets Satoru guide her through the city's streets.

«Damn, it really looks like it's going to rain, we should find a place to shelter for now, what do you think?»

Suguru blushes and lets herself be guided to a teahouse, one of those refined places where only those with money to throw away can enter, while most people can only gaze at the windows in hopes of catching a fleeting glimpse of the girls working there.

They enter the foyer just in time before the rain starts pouring down heavily. The old woman at the counter greets Satoru with a smile, as if it's not the first time he's been here.

«Maeda-sama. We weren't expecting you anymore, it's been so long!»

Satoru returns the smile and shrugs. «What can I say, Ogawa-san? I've been busy.»

They take a private room; it's rather large and furnished a bit kitschily, but the cushions look soft, and there's a window where they can watch the rain fall on the empty street.

A girl brings them tea; Satoru sends her away and pours the hot liquid into Suguru's cup himself, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her onto his lap.

He watches her drink carefully from the ceramic cup, moves her hair from her face, and gently kisses her neck. Satoru wishes there were more moments like this, but unfortunately, they can only afford stolen moments during the night when the house is silent, and prying eyes are closed.

«Aren't you going to drink anything, Satoru?» Suguru, who has finally started calling him by his name after all his urging, asks him.

Satoru shakes his head, hiding among her long, silky black hair. God, how he loves that hair, he adores how it frames her face innocently, or how it slides sensually down her back when he takes her from behind.

«They didn't bring sugar; I don't like tea unless it's sweet enough.» he explains. Suguru laughs, leaning back on her lover's shoulder. «You're such a baby.» she gently chides.

Satoru grabs her chin with his fingers and forces her to turn her head to engage her in a deep kiss. The tea might have been bitter, but the mouth of the most beautiful woman in the world to Satoru is like honey from its source.

She moans into his mouth, rubbing against his thigh seeking more contact. Suddenly, it's too hot and there are too many layers of clothes between them.

«Satoru–» Suguru moans as they lie down on the soft, decorated carpet, in each other's arms.

«Suguru...» the man whispers, looking at her with his clear blue eyes. «I wish you were my wife.»

Satoru has thought this from the moment he first noticed her, but it's the first time he's said it out loud, especially to Suguru.

It sounds sad, but she decides to joke about it to lighten the mood. «Come on, Satoru, don't you know married men don't bring their wives to teahouses?» she laughs.

«I'd take you anywhere if I could. I’ll find a way to marry you, Suguru. I promise you.» he's serious, Suguru can't handle the intensity of his gaze, so she moves down his body to his groin and carefully unties his dress.

«You will have to settle for a lover for now, Gojo-sama. And then who tells you that I would like to be your wife? I see you have a tendency to be unfaithful to your spouse.» she jokes by grabbing his cock at the base – it's thick, warm, with a big vein running the length of it. Suguru swallows dryly.

She kisses the tip, parting her lips to wet the length, with her expert tongue that already knows all of Satoru's weak points. She’s grateful that she has practically no gag reflex, otherwise she wouldn't be able to take even a quarter of it. Instead, she swallows his length almost entirely and where she can't reach, her hand takes care of completing the job. She enjoys the strong taste of him, and his muffled moans as she sucks him off.

«Says the woman who crawled into my bed on my wedding night.»

When Satoru's cock is hard and aroused enough, Suguru pulls away with a pop, a string of saliva connecting her red, swollen lips to the tip of his cock.

«Did not you like it? Yet I thought you had a good time, if my memory serves me correctly. Do you remember how I rode you that first night?» Suguru climbs up the man's tense body, her dress slips down her shoulders leaving her naked under the burning gaze of her lover. She moves to rub the tip of his cock against her hole, the emptiness in her stomach becoming unbearable in anticipation. «I thought you liked it, Gojo-sama. Maybe you were expecting a pure virgin dressed in white, I'm afraid chastity doesn't suit me though, master.»

«If you’re chaste I am the emperor, but don't worry, my love. I will drink your debauchery to the last drop, as long as it is reserved for my eyes alone.»

Suguru smiles at him, her hair down and wild, driving Satoru crazy. She lowers her hips until she takes it all inside her, her walls squeeze him tightly, like the first night, Satoru is in ecstasy. The sensation he feels inside her is unlike anything on earth, sometimes while he’s fucking Suguru he thinks that the angels have sent him a piece of heaven as a gift for him and him alone.

The idea that someone else could get close to her is enough to make him rush with anger. He tells himself in his head that if anyone ever wants to taste Suguru, they will have to taste his blade first.

Suguru whimpers as she rides him wildly, Satoru assists her movements by placing his hands on her hips and supporting her, but he doesn't have to guide her in any way because she already knows what she has to do.

The idea of the virgin and pure wife never aligned with Satoru. He doesn't find it arousing or anything, unlike many other men; he himself wasn't a virgin when he got married – hell, he lost his virginity in a teahouse similar to this one as soon as he had the chance – he would never have pretended a chaste woman to be his wife, the way he was made.

He was certain that Suguru wasn’t a virgin, and was actually quite experienced, but he didn't care. As long as she was his from now on, after all, Satoru hadn't shown any interest in other women since Suguru had come into his life, and he had no intention of doing so in the future.

«But look at me, I'm a married man, I shouldn't be doing this sort of thing.» Satoru jokes, leaning in for a kiss. Suguru doesn't deny him and leans forward to give it to him.

«You forget that your marriage isn't valid, and that you spent your first wedding night with me. Perhaps I'm the closest thing to a wife you've ever had, Satoru.» she smiles. The wound was already poisoned; Satoru would never be able to fill the space in his heart meant for Suguru.

«You're right, Suguru. Only you. My one and only.»

That evening, when they return to the estate, Satoru has a dress and a book on botany to give as a gift to Utahime. For the first time, she doesn't look at him disdainfully but thanks him excitedly, immediately starting to flip through the pages filled with detailed drawings and descriptions.

The servants of the estate melt at the sight; in their eyes, Satoru is a tender husband spoiling his wife.

When he turns around, Suguru has already disappeared down the corridor to change in her room. He sighs.

Utahime sits on the couch, and Satoru sits beside her, genuinely grateful to her for bringing Suguru into his life. He promises himself that he will find a way to free her from this marriage and marry Suguru, even if it's the last thing he does in his life.

For now, he will enjoy the peace a little longer.

Fin.

[geralt-of-baevia]

Call It What You Want: Chapter One

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine

pairing: nobreakout!joel x f!ofc (Violet Fletcher)

rating: explicit, MDNI 18+

word count: 2.1k

summary: Seeking solace from a painful breakup, Violet relocates to a tranquil town, purchasing a neglected house to renovate. In her new neighborhood, she befriends Harlow, who introduces her to Joel, a gruff and seasoned contractor with a heart of gold. Despite Joel's initial grumpiness, Violet finds herself drawn to his expertise and hidden kindness.

As Violet immerses herself in home renovations alongside Joel, their dynamic begins to shift, with Joel unexpectedly opening himself up to the possibility of love. Their budding relationship faces challenges as shadows from their pasts emerge, testing their newfound connection.

warnings/tags: nothing for now! just lots of light and airy fluff and a meet-cute! but don't worry, it's gonna get dirty 😈! oh, I guess age gap? yeah, that one.

a/n: alright, i've had MAJOR writer's block for a couple years now. I tried to write a Ted Lasso fic last year, but quickly lost steam. But somehow Pedge worked his magic on me and I'm already nine chapters in on this story and 25k words and I'm just now posting it! I hope y'all enjoy. This story means the world to me rn. <3

My keys jingled in the door, and I couldn’t help but let out an aggravated sigh. This was at least the third time this week that the front door was sticking. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed again, knowing my fate: I would have to crawl through the kitchen window. 

Again. 

As I walked around the back to go in through the kitchen window, I heard a voice calling my name. I looked across the street and saw my neighbor Harlow. She was standing on the last step of her front porch. One of her hands was held up to her brow as a temporary visor, blocking her eyes from the sun. She was shaking her head at me with a big, stupid grin. 

“Girl, is that front door stuck again?” she asked, humor dripping from her faint southern drawl. 

I sighed, crossing my arms in defeat and shifting my weight to one hip. 

“Is there any use in lying to you at this point?” I called back in response. 

She let out a loud laugh. “At least this time I caught you before you god forbid get stuck in that damn kitchen window again, ass up and legs flailing.” 

I laughed at her comment and placed a hand awkwardly over my face in embarrassment. Two days prior I had gotten stuck climbing through the kitchen window when the front door had been jammed again, Harlow coming to my rescue. 

“And I thought you had “finally fixed” anyway?” she asked, doing air quotes with her hands.

“I did!” 

“And how is that working out for you?”

I shook my head with a laugh and flipped her the bird.

“Well, why don’t you come over and I’ll make us some breakfast?” she said, motioning me to come over to her, “and then you are going to let me call my friend who will come and fix your door. And I’m not letting you tell me no this time.”

I knew there was no saying no to her.

----

“Wait, so you’re telling me you just sautee mushrooms and onions, and then put it between puff pastry and a slab of beef?” 

I nodded with a giggle. “Mmhmm. And then you brush the meat with mustard as well.” 

Harlow’s mouth dropped open. 

“I’ll make it for you sometime!” I told her excitedly, “I haven’t made it since culinary school, but I loved it.” 

The doorbell rang and interrupted us. Harlow shot up from her seat excitedly.  

“He’s here!” she said as she made her way towards the front door. She paused for a minute and turned to face me.

“Okay, just a warning real quick. Don’t be put off by the fact that he might be a bit of a curmudgeon,” she giggled. 

“A curmudgeon? That’s such a specific brand of grump,” I said with a chuckle. She shrugged her shoulders before turning back around to get the door. 

The doorbell rang a second time and I heard Harlow shout, “I’m coming! Be patient, Jesus…” 

I giggled to myself and took a long drink of my coffee. Before I was able to set my mug down on the table, I looked up to see Harlow walk back into the kitchen, a tall man following behind her. 

“Do you want some coffee Joel?” she asked him. I watched as he crossed his arms and leaned against the frame of the doorway. 

“Yes, please,” he replied, emphasizing the please. 

I started to stand up to introduce myself, but he caught my eye and put a hand up to stop me.

“Oh, no need to get up on my behalf,” he said, stopping me. I sat back down as he walked the few steps between us and held his hand out to me. 

I took his hand in mine and he gave me a firm handshake. I almost missed him introducing himself to me. I was too focused on how the pads of his hand and fingers were callused, and how it felt against my smooth skin. 

“I’m Joel.”

“Hi, I’m Violet,” I replied, thankful that at least the autopilot in my head was paying attention. A big smile spread on his face, causing his eyes to squint and get crinkly in the corners. 

“As in the Violet that lives across the street in the 1940s fixer-upper?” He had the same faded southern accent that Harlow did. They had known each other for a long time. 

“I feel bad that you seem to know more about me than I know about you,” I said, trying to not come across awkwardly. Joel took a seat and let out an airy chuckle. 

“Oh don’t worry, there’s not much to know about me,” he said sincerely. 

“We both know that’s not true,” Harlow interjected. She sat down at the end of the table between Joel and me, handing him his coffee. 

“Thank you,” he said almost in relief. 

I tried my hardest not to stare at Joel, but I caught myself looking him up and down more than once as we sat at the table and talked. 

“Wait, so what’s goin’ on?” he asked, setting his now empty coffee mug down on the table. I sighed before tucking my hair behind my ear. 

“Okay, so the original door knob kept catching and jamming. Something having to do with the original door knob not lining up correctly when it's closed. I thought putting a new door knob and re-aligning it would work. But then I tried to open my door when I got open, and it was stuck again,” I explained, “so I think it’s past me just YouTubing answers.” 

“Well it’s a good thing that Joel here is a carpenter,” Harlow said, patting him on the shoulder. He smiled another crinkled smile at her. 

“Retired carpenter, but yes,” he said, giving her a friendly wink, “but I can fix that. I bet you anything your doorway is slackin’ and need a new door. Either way, I’m sure I can fix it.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother-”

“If it was going to be a bother to me, I wouldn’t have come here in the first place,” he said with a knowing smirk. I tried my hardest to keep my blushing to a minimum, but my cheeks still grew warm. 

Joel stood up and clapped his hands, rubbing them together excitedly. “Alright ladies, let's get up and go look at this door.” We all got up and exited the house, making our way across the street to mine. 

I smiled up at the house as we made our way to the front door. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it was mine. The house had been barely used for almost a decade. Each one of the five bedrooms needed to be redone. And the two bathrooms. And the sitting rooms. It was a lot of work, but worth it. Not to mention a dilapidated house was cheaper to buy than a ready-to-move-in one. I saw it as a way that I get to make the house exactly how I wanted it. 

Once we were at the door, Joel held his hand out to me. 

“Key please,” he said, locking eyes with me as he did. I fumbled into my pocket, pulled the key out, and placed it in his hand. “Thanks.” 

He put the key in the keyhole and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried turning it the other way, but it still didn’t move. I sighed. 

“How badly did I fuck it up?” I asked. He let out a chuckle. 

“You didn’t fuck it up, the house did,” he said, giving me a reassuring look. I watched as he pointed out areas around the frame on the wall, “I guarantee you it’s like I said, slacking in these places and putting the door off balance.”

“So what's the fix?” I asked, “Is it going to be intense?”

“Not at all. It’s a project I could do and get done by this afternoon. I just need to go get some things for it,” he said, still looking at the wall and assessing. “But I need to look at it from the inside before I can tell. Is there a way to get in?”

Harlow giggled. “Through the kitchen window. I had to help rescue her the other day, though.” 

"I’ll give you a boost this time then,” he said with a smirk. 

The three of us made our way around the back of the house, and I shimmied open the window just enough for me to fit through. Joel squatted down, laced his fingers together, and looked up at me. 

“Ready?” he asked. I nodded in response. I took a deep breath, placed my hands on Joel’s shoulders, and then my foot in his hands. 

“Three, two, one, up.” On ‘up’ I jumped with my foot on the ground as he simultaneously lifted me. I was taken aback a little by how effortlessly he did so, and how I could feel muscles through his shirt. 

I grabbed onto the bottom of the windowsill and pulled myself up as Joel continued to push. He led the foot that was in his hands to his shoulder, where I was able to give myself a final boost and get through the window. I grabbed onto the edge of the counter inside and pulled myself the rest of the way in, accidentally landing in a thud on the black and white kitchen floor. 

“You okay?” Joel and Harlow shouted in unison. 

“I’m fine!” I called back as I got myself to my feet. I peeked out of the window to look at them. “I’m going to go find an easier window for you two to climb through and get it ready.”

I ran towards the front of the house, looking for a window that was lower and easier to get through. I decided on one of the windows that lined the porch. I haphazardly ripped the screen from the window and unlocked it. After opened it I stuck my head out and shouted, “Over here, you two!”

Once Harlow and Joel crawled into the house, Joel immediately headed for the front door. 

“Have you decided on a paint color for this room yet?” Harlow asked me, looking around the room we were in. I shook my head. 

“I’ve decided to keep the wallpaper. I’m just going to clean it and touch up the trim,” I told her with a big smile. She looked around the room at the wallpaper in question, wincing a little at the bold gold pattern on the walls. 

“So, I was right,” Joel said, peeking his head around into the room. He nudged his head for me to come see. I swallowed the butterflies down into my stomach and went into the foyer. He nudged his head again before crouching down by the door knob. I closed the space between us and followed suit, crouching down so that I was at eye level with Joel and the doorknob.

Joel pointed his finger at where the door and the frame joined. “See how it’s not lining up, it's just a little too low.”

I watched as he stood up and grabbed onto the knob with both hands. With a grunt, he lifted the door and turned it at the same time. To my happy surprise, the door opened with no problem. Joe took a step back and placed his hands on his hips, looking at the door with a sense of accomplishment. 

“So, a new doorframe?” I asked as I got to my feet. He replied with a “mmhmm.” 

“Yep. I just need to take some measurements of the door and the frame. I know I have enough spare wood at my place, but I’ll need a new door. Did you say you have the original hardware?”

I nodded. “How much is a new door going to cost? I can get you the money for it.”

He shook his head. “Nah, don’t worry. I know a guy where I can get a good door for cheap. Consider it a housewarming gift.”

Harlow and I sat on my front porch as we watched Joel drive off in the direction of the woodshop. 

“So, I thought you said he was a curmudgeon?” I said, keeping my gaze ahead. 

“He is. Usually.”

She nudged my shoulder with hers, causing me to sway to the side. I straightened up and finally looked over at her just in time to nudge her back, biting at my bottom lip. 

Usually. We’ll have to see what that means.