#I SALVAGED his rotten behind!

[hey-its-roseaurum]

Guilty until Proven Innocent-Part I

A/N: Hey everyone. Thank you for taking the time to look at this story. This is for a collaboration with @lainiespicewrites. She is an excellent writer and I figured it was my turn to stretch my writing muscles and put something out into the world. This is my first Henry Cavill fic, so please don't be too harsh. Anyways, enjoy!

Synopsis: After recent murders in town, You (Olivia) decide to train with Edith in the art of self-defense. In the middle of training, you got a mysterious knock on the door. Sherlock walks in, looking for assistance with his latest case. He offers you to partake in a partnership to help him in his latest case? Do you take it?

Warnings: mentions of death

“You’re progressing nicely Olivia.”  Edith smiled from above me, her elbow pinning me to the floor mat.  There wasn’t a hint of sweat along her forehead.  She had taken me down in less than a minute. The worst part was I thought I was going to land a hit on her this time.

”I’m beginning to think that you’re just saying that to soothe my pride”. I rasped out.  She had eased her hold on me and stood up, extending a hand.

”Nonsense.  Look how far you’ve come since you first stepped in these doors.  Pretty soon you’ll be able to hold your ground with me.”  She exclaimed as I grabbed her hand and hoisted myself up.  My back had long since started throbbing.

For the past few weeks, I have been meeting Edith at her office to train and learn self-defense.  Ever since the first girl went missing and was later found dead in the street I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly.  There were constant, nagging thoughts that made me question if I was going to be the next victim.  It had only gotten worse when they found the next girl a week later in the middle of an alleyway that I frequently visited.  Her throat had been cut. 

In London, it was ill-advised for a woman, especially of noble birth, to consider something as trivial as self-defense.  Women are supposed to be soft, elegant, and passive. All of the trouble and responsibility in making decisions was for the men. 

 Being passive and soft didn’t save those girls from their cruel end.

And I wasn’t going to let myself become like them.  I refuse to be the next girl that falls victim to this.  So I went to my dear friend Enola at her detective agency and inquired about a solution to my predicament.  She sent me over to Edith and had me start training the next day.  I’ve been training every day since then.

I’m still not really good at it.

”Did you say the same thing when you were teaching Enola?”  I inquired as I dusted myself off.  Edith only shook her head.

”Not exactly.  Her response was more witty, thanks to her mother.”  Eudoria Holmes, the mother, the fire starter as people liked to call her.  I’ve seen her wanted poster splayed all across London.  But I didn’t see her as a criminal.  I saw her as the woman who saved my life six months ago.

That morning had been cold and bitter.  I remember feeling my fingers grow numb while I huddled against a mailbox.  Its red paint had chipped away at its base, leaving rust behind.

Which was ironic and poetic now that I think back on it.  And let me explain why.

It all started when my father had recently passed from a sickness that left my mother and me penniless.  With no man in the house and no money to our name, we were cast out of society.  My mother and I were thrown out and the estate that I called my home.   It was sold to another noble family in the south.

We lived off the street after that.  My mother, using what knowledge she had of needlework, had acquired a job as an assisted seamstress.  I was left to salvage whatever pity people gave me and half-rotten food from dumpsters.

Eventually, we were able to afford a small cottage on the outskirts of town.  It was small, run-down, and often had a damp smell to it.  Mother didn’t like to be there for a long period.  She claimed it was because she was so busy with her duties to the seamstress that she didn’t have time to spend there.  I think it was because she missed her life at the estate and living in this small broken cottage was too much for her to bear.

That morning six months ago I decided to go into town to fill my water bucket and get bread before it got too crowded.  When I got there, I sat down by the mailbox to wait for the bakery to open.  I was particularly annoyed when I saw a lot of people around this early in the morning.

I was watching a man get onto a carriage when something shifted from the corner of my eye.  It had been a man, or what I thought was a man walking towards me with a package in their hand.  When we made eye contact I didn’t think anything of it.  I just watched them and noted how stiff they walked. They placed the package in the slot of the mailbox.  Before I knew it, I was grabbed by the elbow, hoisted upright, and pulled away from the mailbox.  

That mailbox exploded, releasing a whirlwind of fliers into the air.

The two of us had run from the police.  I was forced to since they refused to let go of my hand.  We ran until this stranger knew that they weren't being followed.  

When things settled down, the man revealed that they were a woman in disguise.  She introduced herself as Eudoria Holmes and then proceeded to lecture me about being near explosives as if she were my own mother.  All I had wanted to do was bite back, to lecture her on how she shouldn’t be putting explosives where there were people.

Instead, I broke down, not from her lecturing but because of something I couldn’t quite place. All I knew was that I was waiting for a soggy piece of bread and nearly got blown up.

In the end, I told her everything.  I told her my past, my current situation, and why I was even in town in the first place.  One thing kind of led to another.  The next thing I knew I was sitting in Eudoria’s house with a cup of tea in my hand.

I stayed in that damp cottage less and less as time passed and more at Eudoria’s warm, often chaotic home.  That’s where I became friends with Enola, had briefly met her two brothers Sherlock and Mycroft, and felt somewhat happy.  

I don’t know why she pulled me away from that mailbox.  The one time I asked her she said she saw something in me, some sort of fire in my eye.  She didn’t want it to go out along with the mailbox.

I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t tell that to her.

“So what you’re trying to say is that I still have a long way to go,” I asked as my brain jumped back to the present.  I stepped away from the mat and made my way into her office.

”What I’m saying is you’re doing better than you think you are.  You just began learning.  Give yourself a little credit.”  Following me, she made her way to the table by the window.  A stack of teacups were messily stacked up to one side.  She grabbed two, placed them on saucers, and poured liquid into both.  

“I know.  I’m just…worried.  It’s been a week since the last victim was found and the police still haven’t found the suspect.”  I let out a sigh and sipped some of my tea.  I needed a moment to choose my words carefully.  “I just want to be…prepared.”

A heavy pause filled the air before either of us spoke.  

”Olivia…there’s more to that, isn’t there?” Edith’s words were soft and gentle.

“I mean I-“. My response was sharply cut short.

A knock pulled our attention away from our conversation and to the door.  A tall man entered from the training room and to Edith’s office.  I couldn’t place if he looked tall because of his size, or because of the giant top hat sitting snugly on top of his head.  Dark wavy strands of hair peaked through from under his hat. 

”Have you any sense what time it is?”  Edith interrogated, crossing her arms.  The man took off his hat, revealing thick brown locks.  His sculpted jawline and nose complimented the hair.  Blue, mesmerizing eyes glanced around, investigating.

But the feature that I recognized right away from him was his shoulders.  I knew those shoulders.

”Hello, Edith” His attention briefly shot to me “Olivia”  I curtly nodded, averting my eyes.

”Good evening Mr. Holmes.”  I responded softly.  “With what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Holmes.  Sherlock Holmes.  One of Enola’s older brothers. One of the greatest detectives I’ve ever seen.

”There’s no need for formalities Olivia.”  I felt something warm begin to grow on my cheeks at his response.  He’s only being polite Olivia.  We are only acquaintances because of Enola and Eudoria.  He doesn’t like you like that.

Or does he?  

I’m not sure.

Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to understand.

“What are you here for Sherlock?”  Edith asked again, harsher this time.  Her tone quickly pulled me back to the present and away from my thoughts.  

Sherlock cleared his throat, his blue eyes revealing some sort of inner turmoil within himself.  It was an unusual amount of emotion that I was not used to seeing.  I expected it with Mycroft, he practically wore his emotions on his face at all times.  Sherlock never did.  He’s always been composed, and proper.  Before me now he still was, but a layer of some sort had been chipped away.

”I….need your help.”  He struggled to say the words like it was almost painful to him.  A moment of silence clung in the air.  

”Is it about Enola?   Did she get herself into trouble?”  There was a hint of concern in Edith’s voice when she begged the questions.  The only response he gave was a small shake of his head. I watched as realization flashed on her face. 

”There’s something about this case-“. 

”That deduction cannot solve?”  Edith finished his thought.  He slightly nodded, setting his hat down on her desk.  That was my cue. I softly placed my teacup down and made my way to the table by the window.  I began making some tea for Sherlock while listening to the conversation.

”I may need your…skills to get information from a place I cannot enter.”

“What kind of place?”  He listed off a name that I didn’t recognize.  Edith’s face slightly reddened.

”A showgirl theatre?! You cannot ask me such a thing Sherlock, no matter how close we are.”  My eyebrows raised as I grabbed a cup and saucer and poured some tea into the cup.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have another option.  A woman’s life is at stake.” His tone was calm, but there was something else there.

”But going into this with the possibility of getting murdered is not something I’m comfortable with.  Woman’s freedom and rights is one thing, going after a serial killer is a whole other matter entirely”

”Edith, I-“. I cut them off.

”I’ll do it.  I’ll go instead of you.”  In their arguing, I had made my way back to the two of them, Sherlock's tea in hand.  I had left mine behind.

”Olivia, do you know what kind of place that is, what situations you can get into.  You’re nowhere near ready to hold your ground”. What she said was like a punch to the gut.  

I knew I wasn’t ready, we had that same conversation not thirty minutes ago.  But I knew that if Edith went and something bad had happened to her Enola and Eudoria would be devastated.  I was different.  If I went and something happened to me, Edith would still be here training more girls like me.

”Who else is going to do it?  Enola?  She’s not expendable. I am.  And Edith, what about the other girls you train?” I took a breath, the stubbornness in me growing. “Besides, I know these streets better than anyone.  I’ve lived in them.  I know where to go in case I’m being followed.   And because of the way I look,”. I paused briefly looking down at myself, at my curvy, plump figure.  “No one would suspect me.  They would just see me as a showgirl trying to make ends meet.  I can blend in, go undercover, and get the information that he needs in order to catch this murderer.”

A heavy pause hung between the three of us.

I let what I said sink into the two of them.  I know that Edith is fighting with herself on whether she can let me go.  She believes that I am her responsibility, and I kind of was while Eudoria was undercover.  But since starting to learn to defend myself I told myself that I couldn’t sit and wait.  Sitting and worrying about who the next victim is going to drive me crazy.  If I can help and make a difference, then maybe the suspect will be caught before there’s more tragedy.  

”I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”  Sherlock’s voice broke the silence and my inner thoughts.  “You have my word.”  His eyes met mine at his.  I felt something else there besides the promise.   Edith sighed,  rubbing her temples with both her index fingers.

“Okay, Sherlock.  Just…make sure she comes back in one piece.”   Edith finally concurred.  “You’re going to have to speak to your mother if you don’t.”

A smile tugged at my lips at the agreement.  I finally raised the cup of tea, offering it to him.    

”When do we start?”

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading. If you want to read @lainiespicewrites story about Paul Atreides from the Dune Sage, here is her link: https://www.tumblr.com/lainiespicewrites/747032352877903872/the-atreides-era?source=share

[jjkamochoso]

The Perfect Fit

Story Overview: Levi Ackerman begrudgingly finds himself falling in love with the Survey Corps’ seamstress. Will they be able to own up to their feelings for each other? Or is their love doomed to fail before they discover the truths of each other’s hearts? This slow burn reader insert story will be filled with angst, yearning, and a bit of mystery as we slowly unravel the truths behind Y/N’s past… and explore her and Levi’s future!

Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Chapter 3 linked here

Chapter 5 linked here

Levi Ackerman x female reader

Warnings: cussing

Almost a week had passed since your horse died and now you were running out of food. You still hadn’t had any clients from the village come see you for their sewing needs so you figured you would question them when you saw them on your shopping trip. Walking into the quiet village, you noticed its inhabitants looked more pitiful than usual. The situation was grim out in the forest but you weren’t expecting it to be this bad yet. You could tell people were running low on food, the stalls barely selling any produce. You bought a few items you could salvage, but most of it was rotten.

“Haven’t seen your face in a while,” you said, striking up a conversation with the stall owner, a client of yours.

“I’m sorry. We have no money left to get our clothes fixed. None of us here do. If this continues…” He looked away and you noticed just how gaunt he was. His skin was starting to droop around his cheekbones and he was as white as snow. “You can no longer rely on us to make money. I suggest heading toward the interior. With your talent, I’m sure the nobles would kill to have you work for them. Someone’s gotta make it out of this godforsaken place and you have the best shot.”

You felt any words you tried to speak get caught in your throat. Opting to nod instead, you turned away to go back home when another stall caught your eye. Was that meat cooking? That was a rarity nowadays. As you got closer, you read the sign that told you what animal it was. It took everything in you to not vomit.

It was horse.

The villages must be truly desperate for food to chance eating your sick horse. You couldn’t take the sight any longer and rushed away, blinking away tears. Now that the villagers confirmed that you couldn’t make any more money from them, the seriousness of the situation dawned on you. Would you have to move? You most likely wouldn’t be welcomed back to your old home or else that would be an option. Would you have to join the military to have an income? You didn’t think you had it in you to make it through the training. Besides, if you failed out, you couldn’t risk hurting your hands in the meantime because you’d have nothing else going for you. All these thoughts buzzed around your head, distracting you from realizing you were home and you weren’t alone.

“Y/n! I’m here to rescue you!”

“Hange?!” You didn’t know what they meant, but you were glad to see your friend. You greeted them with a tight hug. “What are you doing here?”

“More like what were you doing not here? I thought you died or something. You’re always at home.”

You frowned. “Ouch! You came all this way just to bully me?” They laughed, clapping a friendly hand on your back as you continued. “Anyway, I was in the village. I was told my services couldn’t be supported anymore since the villagers had to save their money. Those poor people are starving, Hange. They were cooking my dead horse, for fuck’s sake.”

Hange’s eyes softened when they saw how distressed you were. “They’re strong people, y/n. They’ll get through it, just like in times past. Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s nothing you can do to save them.”

You clenched your fists in frustration. You knew that, but it still shook you to your core. You were a woman of action, taking charge against the inequalities people faced however you could. You had a long history of doing charity work, especially when you were living with your family in Wall Sina. Seeing those around you suffer while you were comfy in your warm home with plenty of food made you sick to your stomach. That was one of the reasons you left…

“Well, I have better news for you. How do you feel about formally joining the Scouts?”

You felt your eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “Huh?!”

“You wanna move in with us? You’d be on official payroll, have a clean place to sleep. And we wouldn’t have to keep coming out to this dump to get our clothes fixed.”

You wanted to be offended at Hange’s diss of your house, but they weren’t wrong. Instead of living in a run down building, you would be a Scout? Have a steady income, reliable food source, (halfway) warm bed? You had to admit, it sounded better than being by yourself out here.

“I’m tempted to say yes, but are you sure it’s allowed? I haven’t gone through training or anything.”

“It’s fine,” Hange told you, “Commander Erwin already got it approved. When he caught wind of your horse situation from the kids, he weighed the options of either giving you a new one or having you join us. It made more sense for you to be with us instead of us come to you. So he got the paperwork written up, approved, and here I am. So, y/n, I ask once more. Wanna be a Scout?”

Eyeing your property one last time, you balled up your fists and gave Hange the salute.

“Yes, sir!”

It hadn’t taken long for you two to pack up your things. Everything fit in the cart Hange brought, with plenty of room to spare. Even though the place was pretty gross, you were still a bit sad about leaving it. However, your future would be much brighter following the Scouts from base to base and you were excited for a fresh start.

“I’m excited to be around people again. It was starting to get lonely out here,” you told Hange, watching the foliage pass you by as you made the move to your new home.

“I’m sure. And by people, you mean Captain Levi?” They wore a big, teasing grin.

“I want to deny that but you’re much too smart to trick. He’s an interesting man for sure. He was such an asshole when he first met but then he did such nice things for me! Is he always this confusing?”

“Yup,” said Hange, “but that’s part of his charm. He’s honest and no matter how hard he tries to deny it, he wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s a soldier, he’s hardened. He goes through so much yet he still can’t find it within himself to not give a shit. You’re both my closest friends and you’re more alike than it may seem. He’s a selfless person, y/n, don’t ever let him convince you he’s not.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, deep in thought about the blue eyed man as your new residence entered your view. You entered the gates and you felt your heart beat a little faster. When you came to a stop, you were greeted by a familiar face.

“Erwin!” you yelled out, running over to give him a big hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You stepped away, giving him a salute.

“Y/n, welcome. I’m glad you and your things made it. I take it Hange told you everything?”

You nodded, smiling wide. “They did. I sincerely appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the years, but this is something else. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“No need. I just don’t want my good friend to be starving by herself in the woods somewhere. Having you here is repayment enough. These soldiers are reckless and I can’t have them running around in tattered clothes.” He examined your belongings in the cart and turned his attention back to you. “All of this will fit in your new office. Hange will show you the way. If you’ll excuse me.” You told him thank you one more time and he left while Hange took hold of your hands.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so excited to have you here! Your office will be near mine. Grab some things and I’ll lead the way.”

The first thing you picked up was the sewing machine gifted by Levi, your new prized possession. As you entered the castle, you were taken aback at how cool it looked. Sure it was in slight disrepair, but it was infinitely cleaner than your old place. When you got to your office, you let out a contented sigh. Anyone else would have called it simple but it was the most beautiful room you had ever been in! It was a big space, plenty of room for you to work and live out of. There was a big table for your machine to rest on and a small chest for your sewing supplies. There was also a dresser in another corner for your personal belongings and a small bed. You fully expected to share a room with someone in the barracks area, but you were glad to have your own space. When you and Hange finished moving in your belongings, they gave you the grand tour of the castle. You did your best to memorize where everything was, but you figured as long as you knew where the bathrooms and the dining hall were, you were good.

“Oh! One last thing,” Hange said, opening a dresser drawer when you were back to your room, “Since you’re part of the military now, you get to wear a uniform! Everything you need is in here. You don’t have to wear it every day, but it’s generally recommended when you’re working—which you will be starting tomorrow at 7 am. Erwin was able to give you the rank of Sergeant to make sure Privates couldn’t give you any trouble. Dinner is being served right now but I still have work to do. I’ll see you around!” They waved goodbye and you took the time to look around your room again. You had a nice sized window that overlooked the courtyard and you were excited to open it and get some fresh air in. You had a whirlwind day and you couldn’t wait to end it with a nice meal. Walking down the hallway, you thought you remembered which way to go, but it was starting to get dark and you were a bit twisted around. You would’ve asked somebody for directions but it was like a ghost town. All of a sudden, you felt a presence come up behind you.

“Lost already, Cadet?” A voice sneered behind you.

“It’s my first day and it’s dark as shit. Cut me some slack, Captain,” you replied to Levi. “Besides, according to Erwin, I’m a sergeant, not a cadet. I have rank now.”

The shorter man furrowed his brows. “The only rank you have that I care about is the stench coming off of you. Take a damn shower.”

“My apologies, Captain. It’s hard to bathe often when you don’t have running water. I was trying to get something to eat before I turned in for the night.” What was this guy’s problem? You tried to keep Hange’s words of advice in your mind but trying to see Levi as a friend was proving difficult right now.

“Tch. Your sense of direction is shit. Dining hall’s this way.” You trailed behind him, not attempting further conversation.

“Your fingers look better,” Levi observed after minutes of silence. He was right. The bandages had done wonders and you no longer had blisters gracing your skin.

“Thanks to you. I couldn’t afford gauze but the medic patched me up for free because of your note. You’ve really saved my ass these past few days. If there’s any way I can repay you, please let me know.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sergeant” was all he said, but you knew it was his way of saying, “don’t worry about it.” You smiled to yourself. You entered the dining hall at last, sniffing the air and practically drooling.

“Sorry about your horse,” Levi murmured, immediately walking off somewhere else. His behavior was strange but you didn’t think too much of it. He had proved his kind heart in his own ways over the few times you met him and you knew, from Hange, that he wasn’t good at hiding his true feelings. Maybe Levi wasn’t all that bad. Maybe he did like you, or at the very least, tolerated you. You could live with that.

Earlier that day, when Levi saw you greet Commander Erwin with a hug, he felt pangs of jealousy that he never knew he was capable of feeling. Didn’t you have any decorum with your superiors or respect for authority? Didn’t you give a second thought to how your actions were akin to yanking his plump heart out of his chest and stomping on it? Of course you didn’t— you were Erwin’s friend first, subordinate second, and you had no clue of Levi’s affections toward you. Not that he necessarily wanted you to know. Having a crush at his grown age was downright embarrassing and he hated himself for entertaining such childish thoughts. Your stupid pretty face hadn’t left his mind, taunting him when he closed his eyes. Not that being awake was any better. He imagined what it would be like to give in to such grossly human desires, feel your hand on his chest, your lips on his own—

Levi couldn’t do that. He wasn’t selfish enough to get close to you because it would only end badly for you. You deserved better than that. His plan of ignoring you wasn’t going to work now that you lived at the castle, not that he wasn’t relieved you left behind that falling down, dirty shack you called a house. Wasn’t that, coupled with trying to help your sick horse, why he ripped up his cape for you to fix all those days ago? Maybe he could rely on his shitty attitude to push you away? That would work. Or so he thought. When he found you wandering the halls, he knew it was the perfect time to make you feel small, weak, so much so that you would hate him and never want to see him again. Of course, it didn’t work out like that. You were too witty and kind to push him away while Levi was cursed with a heart that was too caring for others. In another world, you two would be a perfect match, but in this one… you were too precious to get wrapped up in his shit. As he ran away from you like the scared stray he was, Levi realized you would never cooperate in the way he needed you too. He was a strategist, though, skilled in warfare. He deduced that the least damage to either of your hearts would be if he kept you at arm’s length. No further, no closer. He was sure there’d be no casualties that way.

Chapter 5

[rosyfingered-moon]

Twenty Questions

@angryteapott Thanks for the tag! <3

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

35!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

748,763

What fandoms do you write for?

Mostly television: kdramas and cdramas, and some English-language shows. The only films I have written for are Decision to Leave and Cyrano de Bergerac.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

All of them are Mr. Queen:

Mrs. Queen - A rushed fix-it that I began one day after the show ended and then published daily for two months straight. It was a super fun writing exercise bc I tried to work in as many reader prompts as possible to salvage all of our broken hearts after the horrid ending. It was also the unfortunate beginning of my haphazard style of posting first chapters with no clue what the rest of the story will be. (100k)

The White Grass- Non-magic AU. I really enjoyed writing this because 1. it's my only properly beta read story and it was sooo fun to go over things with Sarah in advance! and 2. it features a noncon scene that was really divisive and led to a lot of very interesting discussions about power and consent on Twitter. (74k)

The Raw Ingredients - Bong-hwan finally returns to Joseon, but not as a queen, but a chambermaid!! So she has to scheme her way back to Cheoljong with the help of Minister Kim Soyong. I loved writing this, it was pure wish fulfillment and lowkey I think the most hilarious way a season two could have gone (if I may toot my own horn). @lady-guts has made theeee most beautiful fanbinding of it which has made me appreciate it more <33 (41k)

And I, and Silence - Soyong wakes back up alone inside her body with no memory of what has happened and has to fend for herself. I loved writing Kim Byeong-in's pov and also Jo Hwa-jin's pov and also their freaky love story!! (99k)

Whatever Souls Are Made Of - After almost drowning Soyong ends up with the complete memories of her future self (Bong-hwan). So suddenly she is both a Joseon woman and a South Korean man and has to grapple with that. Also there's a sweeping romance crossing time and space. (61k)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to respond to all, because I think those connections is what makes fandom worth engaging in. Currently behind on answering though :(

What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I'm a HEA gal, but my Kingdom fic Something Rotten ends with hate sex that isn't maybe only hate but more hate than love. (Also, at least one of the main characters is gonna get eaten by zombies in the future.) I wrote a short My Liberation Notes piece called These Winter Fields where I let Mr. Gu attend Alcoholics Anonymous, but his recovery is left open-ended. Writing it felt very bittersweet to me personally, as someone who has been close to an addict.

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

Most of them have tooth-rottingly happy endings! But the ones that felt the most healing to me were my The Hour fic not even the rain because I had been hurting for a decade over its cancellation, and my Beyond Evil fic Splinters where I unfridged Kang Min-jeong and let her live a vibrant poly life without having to die to fuel other people's manpain. Also very much enjoyed saving Comrade Gu in my Crash Landing on You fic Allegretto, not so much for his own sake as for Seo Dan, who deserves to have everything she wants.

Do you get hate on fics?

Not really. Sometimes people have expressed disappointment. I think the most hate I got was a person on Twitter who got really upset that I wrote a ship they didn't like and in a way they didn't like, but I don't think that had very much to do with my actual fic (since they hadn't read it).

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! Mostly het. I think I have progressed from more tender depictions to, like, trying to hone in on the slightly weird or awkward parts of sex, and also to describe the scene more straightforwardly and let people's imagination do the work for them?

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

A Six Flying Dragons/My Country: The New Age crossover, and a Rookie Historian/Sungkyunkwan Scandal crossover. Neither feels very crazy to me because the universes fit so well (the two former because they feature the same historical people and events, and the two latter because they are both fluffy fusion sageuks with perky heroines).

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes, or at least reposted without credit.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I would love if that happened!!!

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Gotta go with Goo Hae-ryung and Min U-won because they are sooo delightful to write, really grew on me (I didn't ship them immediately), and the fandom are such lovely people!

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I hope I will finish all of them in time.

What are your writing strengths?

Funny dialogue! (At least I think it's funny.) Readers mostly seem to appreciate the heart-wrenching confession oneliners.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Pacing, repetitive descriptions, that classic hyperfocus on the main ship to the detriment of other characters, and action scenes. There's probably many cultural misconceptions as well, especially since I mostly write historical pieces (ranging from the Joseon Dynasty and Tang Dynasty to 1950s Britain). I try to research, but being a foreigner means that there will always be a gap.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Since I'm not a native English speaker, all my dialogue is in another language! In the kdrama fics I sometimes include familial terms, honorifics, and other forms of address in transliterated Korean, because I think that helps remind people reading it of what the sentence "actually" sounds like within the fiction, and also maybe allows them to recall what those particular words sound like when spoken by the actors of show. It gives the appearance that the fic only translates the character's "real," embodied, Korean conversation and keeps the readers immersed. At least that's my intention.

First fandom you wrote for?

On AO3 it was for Supernatural, since 15x20 enraged me enough to finally post something. But I also wrote Buffy and Harry Potter fic on FF.net when I was a kid. Including Snape/reader inserts, which I recently told a friend about and she gave me the most repulsed look I have ever seen :)

Favorite fic you've written?

I don't actually know!! Whatever Souls Are Made Of is probably one of the best pieces I have written, but all of them are dear to me in different ways.

Tagging @drivingsideways and @comfect and @elderflowergin and anyone else who wants to do it!

[yonemurishiroku]

Nico dies, but his soul does not find peace in his father's kingdom.

He is a restless ghost full of evil longing.

Hades quickly understands what's going on.

"he needs to be brought home, he did not know his home during his lifetime — only in Venice will he find peace."

Now Percy Jackson must return Nico Di Angelo's corpse to Venice and burn it there so that Nico can come home and find peace.

FUCK YEAH

Oh my god does this mean Percy would carry Nico's corpse in a coffin behind him like a badass grieving character in shounen animes??? Bc I absolutely love that idea. 🥺🥺🥺 The haunting, the grief, the burden even after death--- all of it, on the shoulders of Percy.

Would it be heavier than shouldering the sky, I wonder. 😌

Oh oh and what if said coffin has a glass lid?? So we can see Nico's corpse slowly decay as the time runs out until it's rotten beyond salvage and no burning could liberate Nico's soul anymore??? The horror of it-- I'm rejoicing in my grave.

[starstcff]

❛⠀ number one, i never took you for a revolutionary. ⠀❜ ⠀between the two of them, he is the one more likely to paint stripes on his face and call for a complete dismantling of the structure. her touch is far more delicate. she'd never resort to something as basic as fire. ⠀ ❛⠀ if you discovered the wood was rotten, you'd find a way to replace it without creating unnecessary damage. you would never accept that something can't be salvaged, ⠀❜ ⠀he points out, giving her a look which challenges her to take the extremist position as a smirk starts to peek out from behind his smile.

there is a good chance she will. she'll start from there, and walk back until burning it all down seems like a sensible option, just for the sake of argument.

❛⠀ me? i'd find a way out. ⠀❜

with none of her usual reserved stoicism, she casts him a look that would be scathing were it less amused. there is nothing easy about a solution which relies on a promise she cannot possibly ask of him, cannot possibly ask him to keep. she has overstepped as his first officer every day for nearly a decade… and another captain would surely have had her transferred off his ship long ago for it. no, there lies the boundary, clear as day. she may do whatever she can to persuade him to take another course, to remain ten steps ahead and prevent the need for him to take such drastic action…

but when all is said and done, the choice must always be his.

❛ and what if you burn it down because the wood is rotten? sometimes, something cannot be salvaged: you have to start over. ❜ she remains as matter of fact as always, expression smoothed back to its wonted neutral, save for the slight curve of her brow. ❛ or, perhaps there is something to be learned from the flames. ❜

[cocho388]

............

Music by Kevin MacLeod  

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - ???

[squidwen]

Scenario Commission #1: 🦋The Butterfly Keeper🦋

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

For the delightful @zephypearl

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Summary: Your kind and helpful nature is not deserved by everyone you meet. After suffering at the hands of a particularly demanding student, you’re confident you’ve just had the worst day of your life.

Exhausted and disheartened, you make your way into the woods outside Ramshackle where Rook lays in wait to salvage a smile from your sorrowful little face.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Kindness is it’s own reward, right?

That was the catchphrase a troublesome Scarabia student had begun to use whenever he sought favours from you.

It was a Monday afternoon, and no one was particularly eager to go to their next lesson so the corridors were filled with tired, numb students ambling aimlessly about. You thought the cover was excellent. If you were lucky, you’d be able to make it to flying class without being spotted by your tormentor. But as you neared the end of the corridor, a pep of relief in your step, he rounded the corner. Your heart sank.

“My little lemming!” he exclaimed, an overly pleased smile on his face. “I was just looking for you,” You bit the inside of your cheek. He definitely wanted something. He never spoke to you unless he did. For some reason, it irked you. You had no issue helping others, but when it became obvious they only wanted to use you, you couldn’t help but feel unappreciated as a person.

You tried to politely skirt around him, tapping your wrist to imply you were going to be late, but he mirrored all your moves. He moved like a snake, his hips quick to block you, and arms even quicker to prod and grab you each time you tried to fake him out. A serpentine smirk never left his face. The more you stared at it, the longer you believed a forked tongue would pop out to taste the air.

“I need another favour,” he said. “Kalim’s asked me to rearrange all the couches in the dorm foyer for a party he’s got planned. But my back is weak. Surely a kind and sweet lady like you wouldn’t mind doing it in my stead.”

You opened your lips to tell him you needed to go, but he pinched them closed.

“Oh, and please, another thing. Crewel demanded that I wash all the old potion vials and put them back in his stockroom. But my skin is so sensitive. I don’t want to get anything questionable on me. Would you be an angel, more so than you already are, and do it? I shall kiss the ground you walk on forevermore if you do.”

This was proving to be too much for you. Fortunately, a group of Savanaclaws just were coming up and you managed to slip in between them and walk away.

“Lemming, you are vile!” he suddenly cried, following after you. You quickened your pace. “I always thought you were the type to help others in their time of need, not be this cruel.”

Your pace faltered. Were you being cruel? Were you being neglectful and rude? Surely you were just politely excusing yourself. Your hesitation made the boy behind you smile, knowing he’d gotten inside your head.

Suddenly, he latched onto your shoulders and spun you around. His eyes were piercing, yet gentle. Sly. “Perhaps I have been too harsh?” He furrowed his brow, seemingly apologetically. “I am in dire need of your help. I’m sorry that I haven’t got much to give you in return, but kindness is its own reward, right?”

The cheeky little grin he gave you as he said it, like it was an inside joke, made you itch to your very core. You wanted to sink through the floor, jump out the window, be swept off your feet by a giant bird and flown far away from here. You knew he would just keep coming back if you agreed, but what might happen if you refused? Not only would you feel a bit rotten on the inside, but this student was stronger than you – physically and magically – and seeing as you didn’t have a lot of connections in Twisted Wonderland, could you really afford to make enemies?

Eventually, you conceded.

After an awfully long lesson of flying, and a few scratches and scrapes from crashing the broomstick, you had made your way to Scarabia to do what had been asked of you. For some reason, the student was present. Perhaps he didn’t want it to seem as though he was taking advantage of you? But things quickly went downhill. The furniture was far too heavy for you, and occasionally you dropped it. Was the student forgiving? No. You were chastised for being so cackhanded, prodded in the ribs and biceps as he mocked how weak you were.

The second task wasn’t much better. While washing the potion vials, you’d forgotten to rinse out the sink before emptying a new one into it and a chemical reaction had happened in the basin. The two of you were sent running out of the room, sleeves over mouths, trying not to breath in a noxious gas that would have made ulcers grow in your throat. The student had called you every name under the sun before skulking off.

Was this the thanks you get for trying to help? It seemed so. By the time you had finished it was deep into the evening and the sun had already set. All you wanted was to be alone, to be swallowed by the darkness the night brought and not emerge until the Scarabia brat had been knocked off the planet’s surface. Your body swayed and stumbled into the woods outside Ramshackle. You’d put yourself on autopilot and were grateful to have ended up there. You didn’t want to be near anyone, and your adventurous spirit called to the peacefulness of the forest. Adorable little bats slept under tree branches, and soft mice and rabbits came up to you curiously.

In the silence, and having nothing but trees to judge you, you decided to be real with yourself. The ordeals of the day had left you feeling horrendous, and nothing suggested things would change. You sat down at the base of a tree and tears started falling down your face. They were thick and heavy, but were suddenly cut off as something thumped into the bark above you.

You yelped, shooting your gaze upwards. The impact had been enough to shake a few leaves loose. They rained down over you like lush confetti, but all you could focus on was the arrow embedded in the tree. A small piece of parchment was tied to the shaft with a purple ribbon. The sight calmed your heart. You knew then that you were in no danger.

Enthused by your curiosity, you slid the note off the arrow and unravelled it. To your amazement, it was a poem, and your heart swelled as you read:

Ma Reine de Papillons, are those tears on your face?

Seeing you so low is an utter disgrace.

The light of my life should be bursting with joy,

Thus straight to your heart did my arrow deploy.

Gone is the brute whom dared make you weep.

Alive he is still, but only if he keeps

A great distance from you, or lest he’s the nerve,

Bother you again and get what he deserves.

Fair lady of gossamer, how I yearn for your mirth,

To achieve it I would pilgrim to the ends of the earth.

Ensnared is my soul by your sweetness and charms,

Turn around, dry your eyes, be at peace in my arms.

A hand slipped onto your shoulder. You recognised the firm grip and calloused fingers. Without even thinking, you leant into the touch and brought your head down onto a familiar chest. Rook came out from behind a tree. He had his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. How he had managed to fire the arrow from one direction, and then silently stalk behind you, was baffling. His bold green eyes regarded you with admiration and concern.

“How dare such a filthy predator treat you so shamefully,” he said, spite lacing his usually sweet voice. “Je suis désolé for not ridding you of him sooner. You’re always so quick to help people I thought tonight was no exception. But when he started insulting you I did not hesitate to act. Take not a word of what he said to heart! And know that, as a vice dorm leader, I managed to get Jamil to help ‘persuade’ him to change his ways ...” The coy grin on Rook’s face clearly hid something much deeper than he wanted to admit. And you were too exhausted to question him. You just wanted to take his word for everything. Rook made you feel so safe, so self-assured. Here, in the middle of the woods, surrounded by nothing but nature and the unknown, you felt incredibly relaxed. The poem was still clutched in your hand. The parchment felt like the softest silk.

“Just when I was beginning to think today would end up being one of the worst I’ve ever had, you pull it right back.” You tilted your head back and smiled at him. The moonlight illuminated the thin trail of your tears and Rook sighed at how your face seemed to glow. Your features were like a butterfly’s, your skin as soft and delicate as gossamer sprinkled with morning dew. The hunter’s hands moved languidly up to your cheeks, hardly blinking through fear he would waste a single moment not admiring you. The way he gently squeezed your face reminded you of how you might hold a kitten or a puppy – full of affection yet careful not to hurt them. You found yourself giggling quietly. How was this man capable of being so intimidating yet so childlike at the same time?

“Ma Reine de Papillons?” he asked, bringing his face closer to yours. Your breath hitched, but you managed an affirmative hum. Curious animals skittered in the undergrowth, and all the bats and birds were now casting an eye down on the pair of you to see what was going on. Rook was aware of each and every one of them and chuckled.

“It seems we have an audience, ma cherie,” he chimed. “And I can’t possibly share your face with anyone at this moment.” With that, his hands smoothly rearranged themselves so one of them held your chin and the other reached up to pluck his hat off his head. The feather tickled your nose as he brought it down to mask you both. A blush rose to your cheeks, your chest swelled, and your hands squeezed themselves so tightly in anticipation that the poem crinkled. Rook loved seeing you like this, so flustered and so sweet. “Only help those who deserved to be helped,” he said softly, leaning forward to place a delicate kiss on your temple. His lips were soft and polite, treating you as if the smallest amount of roughness would cause you to shatter. “You have a pure soul, ma cherie. And I’ll be here to protect you from any greedy beasts whom wish to abuse it.”

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Thank you so much for reading! If you’re interested in a scenario commission too, click here :)

[i-am-bitterly-jittery]

They Call Me Wicked (That Makes Me Glad) (pt 2/?)

[<First],[Next>]

Word Count: 2233

Rating: teen

Pairing: none in this part, future Moceit Analogical and Rosleep

Warnings: mentions of child abuse, minor violence, bullying, threats, intimidation, Remus being Remus (mentioning masturbation, being a general gremlin), one mention of transphobia (not from any main character)

We’re on the Isle of the Lost now bb!

~~~START~~~

On the Isle of the Lost, Evil is King, and no one is more evil, more cruel, more malevolent than Maleficent. If anyone was ruler of the Isle, it was her, and she ruled with an iron fist. She gave no quarters and took no prisoners, when she said jump, you either said “how high?” or you ended up in the hospital.  

Her word was law, and no one was above her law.  

Not even her own son.  

Harsh. Ruthless. Unmoving as the magical barrier itself. Hers were big shoes to fill, but Patton was determined to fill them.  

He’d perfected his mother’s “murder face” (as Remus called it) years ago. That plus his style choices of mostly black leather and studs (which also came from Remus) were enough to make him look intimidating wherever he went.  

It wasn’t enough to just look intimidating though. On the Isle, actions spoke louder than words; if all Patton did was look the part, people would stop taking him seriously pretty quickly. No, he also had to play the part.  

“HEY! Watch where you’re–!”  

The vendor cut himself off in a hurry once he looked up to find that the scoundrel who’d knocked over his — rotten — apple stand was none other than Maleficent's son.  

“Oops,” Patton sneered, kicking an apple into a nearby wall.  

The vendor avoided Patton’s gaze and dropped to the ground, trying to pick up as many apples as he could.  

Patton walked past him, missing stepping on the vendor’s fingers by mere millimeters. One of his black and blue leathery wings shot out and clipped one of the poles holding up the vendor’s sign, the man gasped in pain as the sign hit him in the back.  

Patton kept walking — his every instinct was screaming at him to make sure that the vendor was ok, but he kept walking.  

The other vendors along the row bowed their heads and averted their gazes — anything to keep from attracting Patton’s attention and wrath. They needn’t have bothered; Patton already made his point, and he didn’t have enough energy today to do more than the bare minimum.  

Step. Step. Step. Step. Don’t slow down. Don't speed up. Confidence. Purpose. Murder face. Don’t look at me or I will end you.  

Patton made it to the end of the row of vendors then ducked down a narrow alleyway, tucking his wings in close to his body. Halfway down was a doorway blocked by a fence bearing a “CAUTION: condemned” sign. He ignored this sign and pushed the gate open.  

Behind the gate was a staircase that led him up to the abandoned apartment that he and his gang had converted into their own personal hideout.  

The hideout was one large room plus a small bathroom and an even smaller closet. One whole wall was covered in half-broken bookshelves full of a massive collection of secondhand — often extremely ratty and torn — books. Another wall was covered in art projects — most were spray painted directly onto the wall, but some were on salvaged canvas, scraps of paper, or even unwanted patches of fabric. The closet was full of half-finished clothes, fabric that had yet to become clothes, or clothes that were in the process of being taken apart to be turned into new clothes. In one corner was a small kitchenette where they kept the best foods a villain could steal — which wasn’t saying much seeing as the Isle of the Lost usually just got Auradon’s garbage — and a few attempts at baking that were mostly defeated by lack of good ingredients. Throughout the room was a small collection of furniture with three tables of various sizes, one couch, four chairs, and every. Single. Lamp one could possibly get their hands on on the Isle.  

No one else was in the hideout, so Patton plopped down on the couch — one of the nicer ones to be found on the Isle, there wasn’t any stuffing coming out of it or anything — and massaged the skin beneath his obsidian-black horns, trying to stave off his mounting headache.  

“Heyy Horndog!” 

“Not now, Remus,” Patton groaned. “My head is killing me.” 

“I can help!” Remus cackled, darting around behind the couch before Patton could stop him. He pressed his thumbs into either side of the back of Patton’s neck and his pointer fingers at the base of his horns then started rubbing them in small circles.  

Patton tried to protest, but after a few seconds his headache faded completely. With his headache gone, he released the tension he hadn’t realized that he was carrying in his shoulders and wings.  

“Thanks,” he sighed, pushing back the voice in his head — which sounded suspiciously like his mother’s — telling him not to thank anyone for anything.  

“No problem, Mal-deficient!” Patton flinched slightly as the nickname hit a little too close to home.  

“Ugh!” A voice carried over from the stairs, followed moments later by Remus’s twin brother, Roman. “The garbage man beat me here!?” 

“Aww, what’s wrong, princess?” Remus crowed. “Break a nail this morning?” 

For being identical twins, Remus and Roman could not look more dissimilar. Remus was large and bulky with a variety of scars covering his body from the various fights he’d either started or ended throughout the years; Roman on the other hand was lean with perfectly smooth skin, unblemished by even the smallest of blackheads. Roman’s hair was short and silky, always styled just so, and his clothes were the closest approximation of princely attire that could be found or made on the Isle; Remus’s hair was long and wild, and his clothes resembled those worn by the pirates more than anything.  

The twins were a result of a tryst between Jafar and Evil Queen years ago, but when the relationship turned sour, they’d agreed to each take one child and never speak to each other again. Remus was the result of being raised by a sad man obsessed with genies and power, Roman was the result of being raised by a would-be queen who valued looks and status above all else.  

Their relationship with each other was complicated, and Patton struggled to understand it at times, but they were like magnets: drawn to each other or repelled by each other depending on how you turned them.  

“Ah, I see I am the last one here,” Logan drawled, the last of their gang to enter the hideout. His long hair was tied up in a ponytail as it always was when he was in the hideout; the skirt of his dress was hiked up and tied behind him like a tail, revealing a pair of sensible trousers underneath. Both of these style changes were designed to be undone at the first sign of his father or an associate of his father.  

“Hey Inchworm!” Remus greeted, a subtle dig at the fact that Logan had to hold books extremely close to his face in order to read them.  

There were ways of getting eye glasses on the Isle, but Logan’s father, Gaston, didn’t think women should read anyway, so he’d never allowed Logan to get any — not that Logan was really a woman, but explaining that to Gaston had had... less than ideal results.  

“I found some more books for you while doing my rounds earlier!”  

Remus overturned the sack he carried with him everywhere and dumped a pile of junk onto the coffee table. The junk pile consisted mostly of books, but there was also a half-used watercolor pallet, some interesting scraps of fabric, a broken lamp, a cap-less lipstick, and a cracked gravy boat.  

“Some of them are missing pages, and a couple are pretty mildew-y, but I thought you might like them!” 

“Yes, these will be sufficient,” Logan murmured, bringing each book close to his face for inspection.  

“I’m taking these,” Roman said, swiping the paints and makeup from the pile.  

“Sure,” Remus accepted. “Just don’t touch my lamp!” 

“Have you tried rubbing it?” Patton asked. His genie obsession was something Jafar had passed down to his son, and while Patton knew that no lamp on the Isle would have a genie in it, he knew that Remus and his dad would still check every single one.  

“Yeah,” Remus groaned, flopping upside down on one of the arm chairs. “I would have better results just rubbing my dick — at least something would come out.” 

“Gross!” Roman groused, chucking the closest thing he could grab at his twin, which just so happened to be Remus’s empty sack.  

“Don’t be such a prude, your dye-ness,” Remus said, sticking his tongue out.  

Roman opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again at the sounds of loud footsteps climbing the stairs to their hideout. All four teenagers froze as the footsteps got closer, but each let out a sigh of relief as it was just Lefty, LeFou’s son.  

Lefty doubled over panting as he reached the top of the stairs, having run all the way there.  

“What do you want, Lefty?” Logan snapped, disliking his pseudo-cousin immensely, especially as he usually acted as a messenger for Gaston.  

“Your– *pant* your parents are looking for you!” The short boy reported.  

The four of them exchanged a look. It was never good when any of their parents were looking for any of them, parents looking for you usually meant that you screwed up somehow.  

And screwing up, for any of them, meant severe punishments.  

“All of us?” Remus asked.  

“Yeah. I didn’t catch what it was, but it must be pretty important, I’ve never seen Evil Queen and Jafar in the same room before!” 

More nervous looks were exchanged before Patton made a decision.  

“Well,” he declared, hoping he came across as more confident than he felt. “We’d better see what they want.” 

The twins moved in almost perfect sync — quite a feat considering they hadn’t so much as glanced at each other beforehand. Roman threw open the window nearest the sofa while Remus took the one in the kitchenette, and before Patton even had the chance to process this, they’d each jumped out.  

They were running.  

Logan wasn’t quite so bold as the twins, but he was still brazen enough to push past Lefty and hurry down the stairs.  

Patton sighed as his friends all fled, they’d left too quickly for him to warn them; there was no outrunning Maleficent, and trying to do so would only make the punishment worse.   

He’d learned that lesson very early in life.  

“Lead the way,” he sighed, pushing Lefty towards the stairs.  

“But the others–?” 

“Will meet us there,” Patton sneered. “Move!” 

“Right! Right!” Lefty hopped to it, rushing down the staircase as fast as he dared.  

Patton followed behind at a more sedate pace; rushing was a sign of fear, and any sign of fear had to be stomped out quickly if you wanted to last even a second on the Isle. Lefty, and others like him, showed their hands too much, they let others boss them around, sniveling and groveling as they showed their bellies; they would never gain any respect on the Isle, they were lower than weaklings who got beat into the ground trying to stand their ground against someone stronger.  

Lefty was weak, and it made Patton sick to think about how he whimpered his way through life, a footstool to villains like Gaston and Maleficent.  

The two of them exited the staircase and continued down the alley in the opposite direction that Patton had come from earlier. Just outside the mouth of the alley, one of Maleficent’s lackies — though one with much more status than Lefty — was waiting for them, an unhappy Logan thrown over his shoulder.   

Logan struggled in the man’s — Patton was fairly certain his name was Dennis, but he didn’t really care one way or another — grip, but it was no use. Patton brushed right past them, not sparing his friend even a glance.  

“Coming?” He called over his shoulder, not waiting for an answer.  

Step. Step. Step. Step. Don’t slow down. Don't speed up. Confidence. Purpose. Murder face. Don’t look at me or I will end you.  

He could hear Dennis carrying a still struggling Logan easily falling into step behind him. Lefty was not so competent, and Patton could hear him panting to keep up with his brisk pace.  

Just outside of Maleficent’s “castle”, they were met by the Stabbington brothers. Sideburns had his arms wrapped around Remus’s middle, pinning his arms to his sides. Patchy had his hands on either of Roman’s shoulders keeping him pinned to the spot in a less aggressive — but no less effective — way.  

Patton ignored them too, instead throwing open the doors to his home and walking right in. His mother was waiting for him on her balcony, so Patton stepped into the middle of the room and stopped. He heard the others gather behind him, but keep his gaze locked with Maleficent’s.  

Maleficent looked away first, her gaze sweeping over the party gathered behind her son.  

“Leave us!” She ordered.  

There was a slight commotion behind him as the lackies left, then he heard the doors shut. Once they were shut three other villains stepped up the railing on either side of his mother: Evil Queen, Gaston, and Jafar.  

“Pack your bags, kiddies!” Maleficent’s grin was like a knife twisting into Patton’s guts. “You’re going to Auradon!” 

~~~END~~~

Aww my sweet angsty babies

I know that Descendants was a DCOM so it didn’t probably have much of a budget, but the fact that they didn’t give Mal horns is a tragedy

General taglist:

@royalty-of-all-things-snuggly @pixelated-pineapple @knight-shives @misunderstood-shadowling

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Undercut

An act of total self-indulgence. After a tough fight with a wyvern, Jaskier has to tend to the deep wound left by the creature’s claws at the back of Geralt’s head. But for Jaskier to reach the injury, Geralt’s going to need a haircut.

5.6k words. Contains: wound tending and whump, middling blood and gore, bathing and - you guessed it - more shaving. Rated T for swears & suggestiveness.

~

The cramped little room built into the sloping roof of the inn is empty and quiet. Orange coloured sunlight filters in through the windows, the last rays of the setting sun illuminating little dust motes that float giddily in the air. Below the creaking floorboards the sound of the tavern’s patrons can be heard - drinking and carousing, celebrating.

A wide wooden tub rests next to the banked fire, the once steaming water now still and tepid. On the single bed lie the various accoutrements of a life lived on the road - packs and bedrolls, a little canvas bag spilling with medical supplies, a dust-coated doublet that once might have been a fetching green colour but is now closer to brown.

Beside these - a lute, resting against the lumpy pillow, and a thin satin chemise with a split shoulder seam bundled next to it, as if thrown aside in haste without care for creases. A needle, still threaded with cotton several shades too dark, sticks through the fabric, pinning the seams together.

There’s a distant crash - the sound of a door - and the rabble of the drinking clients below suddenly falls silent.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then the door to the room, made of old, nearly-rotten oak, bursts open, the hinges screeching in protest, and two men stumble in.

Rather: one man stumbles in - his face red with effort - half dragging and half carrying a second, slung over his shoulders, covered in blood and black, clinging viscera.

“For fucks—” Jaskier mutters, his fingers slipping on Geralt’s bloodied armour, “Fucking bastard thing—” Geralt murmers something against his shoulder, and Jaskier continues to complain. “You know if I hadn’t come looking for you, you’d be fucking dead right now? And these trousers are ruined and I’ll tell you, Geralt, this better be that creature’s blood and not yours, or else I'll, I'll… well I'll be very cross, I can tell you that much.”

With a laboured huff, he slides Geralt off of his shoulders and onto the bed, uncaring for the mess he’s inevitably going to leave behind. Sheets can be cleaned - or, more likely, burnt - but Geralt will be treated far less easily.

He kneels at Geralt’s feet, grabs his pale face - still sticky with monster ichor - and gently moves his head so he can see into his eyes. They’re a little unfocused, pupils blown wide through a mixture of potions and adrenaline. He blinks slowly, clearly concussed.

Jaskier swears, takes a deep breath, then begins the arduous task of peeling away Geralt’s armour, careful to breathe through his mouth so the stink of monster guts doesn’t make him heave. It’s a disgusting job, but one he’s well practiced at, and the unpleasant squelch of viscera against his hands is nothing compared to the lurching feeling in his stomach when he considers the state of the man beneath the armour.

The task is over quickly, largely thanks to his many years of experience. The armour is tossed aside - it can be cleaned later - and he moves to the clothes beneath. Geralt’s undershirt is sodden with sweat and blood - some his, some the monster’s - and that too goes on the pile with the armour. Perhaps it can be salvaged: Jaskier doesn’t stop to check.

Geralt appears to be coming to a little as Jaskier works. He watches him with a cautious gaze, and Jaskier wonders if he understands that he’s there to help him. He wants to force a vial of swallow down his throat, but he’d pushed one on him when he’d found him in the blighted field on the edge of the town, even worse for wear than he is now, and the dark lines creeping around Geralt’s eyes tell him that it’s not yet safe to risk another dose.

It had been - fuck - Jaskier isn’t even sure what the monster clinging to Geralt’s back had been. It hardly matters now: the thing is dead, and it will remain dead, while Geralt’s fate may still hang in the balance.

His armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but it's ripped in several places, buckles tugged away and straps sheared neatly in two, leaving large swathes of Geralt’s skin bloodied and bruised and torn. Jaskier heaves himself onto the bed behind him, then hisses through his teeth as he examines the back of Geralt's head.

His hair is a tangled, bloody mess. Not just blood, but that same black ichor, thick as tar. The beast’s claws have dug into Geralt’s skin, and only now can Jaskier begin to guess at the damage they've done.

“Come on,” he says, “we need to get you cleaned.”

Pulling off the rest of Geralt’s clothes and getting him in the tub is surprisingly easy, and while Geralt grunts at him a little when Jaskier pulls off his smalls, trying very hard not to think about what it is he’s doing, he gets into the tub with only a little complaint.

“Fuck,” he huffs - the first clear thing he’s said since returning to the room. “It’s cold.”

It’s good to hear Geralt talk again. The tightness in Jaskier’s chest loosens a little.

“It would have been warm if you’d come back when you said you would,” he says.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier squats beside the wooden tub, watching Geralt closely. The darkness has receded from his eyes, a little.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Can you take another swallow?”

Geralt shakes his head, then winces. “Not yet.”

“We’re doing this the old fashioned way, then… hold on.”

Jaskier stands, and returns to the medical kit on the bed. He briefly examines the contents, then grabs the whole thing with a sigh and carries it over to the bathtub.

“Right,” he says, “You start on your arms, and I’ll get a look at your head, okay?”

Geralt mutters something that’s probably a sound of assent, then begins to wash water up and down his injured arms as Jaskier moves around to his back.

The most pressing problem is that it’s impossible to tell how bad the injury is beneath the tangle of hair and muck. He needs to clean the wound, and thoroughly - who knows what waste was lodged beneath the claws of that screeching monster - but he can’t even reach it to do so.

With a resigned sigh, Jaskier rises to his feet and heads towards their bags, grabbing the tools he’ll need for the job. His comb, another bar of soap, the earthen jug set out next to the basin. He pauses, for a moment, before grabbing the pair of silver scissors he'd picked up in Toussaint several years ago when he realised that travelling on the road meant cutting his own hair.

Geralt is carefully sluicing soapy water over the claw marks on his arm when Jaskier returns to his side.

“Right,” he says, settling behind him. “This is probably going to hurt. Sorry.”

The first job is to untangle Geralt’s hair. It’s fallen from the tie he usually keeps it back in, so Jaskier pulls the dark strip of fabric away and rests it on the side of the tub before attempting to pull the hair from the mess of blood. When he's separated as much as he can, he twists it together and ties it swiftly back into a messy knot at the top of Geralt’s head.

Even without the curtain of hair obscuring it, it’s virtually impossible to gauge the depth of the wound. It needs to be rinsed. Jaskier grabs the jug and reaches around Geralt’s body - his arm sliding against Geralt’s bare chest - and dips it into the water between his knees.

Geralt stills. Jaskier hesitates, worrying that he’s hurt him, somehow - his back and shoulders are marred with bruises and cuts, after all - and then, quite suddenly, he realises what he’s doing. Where he's leaning. The slick dampness of Geralt’s bare skin beneath him, his chest pressing to Geralt’s back.

And most importantly: he realises where he's just thrust his hand.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He quickly withdraws, taking the jug with him with an awkward splash, bumping the suddenly heavy receptacle against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I just…” he says, then starts again, feeling his ears burning, “I needed to get water. To wash. It’s…”

“Okay.”

Fuck. Right. Jaskier can ignore this, if he focuses on the wound at the back of Geralt’s head. The injury is more important than the embarrassment making his ears ring, or the sudden realisation of how close Geralt is.

He gently tips the jug over Geralt’s nape, pouring slowly, working through the tangles with his fingertips. It shifts only the barest amount of ooze, but now the hair is thoroughly soaked he can at least work the soap into a lather against it, the yellowish bar quickly staining red. Geralt grumbles a little as Jaskier presses his fingers to the wound, but doesn’t swear at him or tell him to stop, so he continues till the lather has turned a sickly brown colour then washes it away with another glug of water.

Now he’s getting somewhere. There’s a deep, angry-looking gash at the back of Geralt’s head, a few inches above the hairline. The blood is quickly clotting, taking the monster ichor and dirt with it. If Jaskier doesn’t hasten his pace, the wound will begin to heal over while still tangled with muck, the skin closing over Geralt’s hair.

Urgh. Jaskier shudders, the reaction automatic, then gets back to work. Now he can see what he’s doing he can move more efficiently, tugging away hair and using his fingers to carefully peel away the worst of the black ichor. It’s a difficult job - much of Geralt’s hair is tangled into unbreakable knots, slick with blood and slime, impossible to untangle.

He fiddles unsuccessfully at the mess, his face just inches from Geralt’s skin despite the unpleasant stench of monster blood, engrossed in the disgusting task.

After fifteen minutes of struggling, Jaskier sighs, resting his hands against the tub.

“I can’t clean this properly,” he shakes his head, feeling defeated. “Geralt, I didn’t want to do this, but…”

He moves around to the side of the tub so he can look Geralt in the eye. He looks better, now - much better - his skin no longer that awful pale grey and his eyes back to their typical, burning yellow.

“I need to cut it,” Jaskier says. “Your hair, I mean. Or it’s just going to—”

“No.”

“... get infect— what?”

“You’re not cutting it.”

“But...”

“No, Jaskier.”

Geralt spits it out - his tone clipped and angry. Jaskier hesitates, his fingers tapping gently against the rim of the tub. Geralt isn’t even looking at him.

“Geralt, I—”

“I said,” Geralt snaps around, and his face is furious. “No.”

Jaskier swallows down his next argument, shrinking back - but not moving away. He takes a breath, counting to ten in his head, keeping his eyes fixed on Geralt’s until the witcher finally turns back, picking up the soap from the bottom of the tub and returning to his scrubbing.

Right. It’s like that. Jaskier has grown used to this, now. He grew used to it a decade ago, and now he just has to work through it, picking the best route. No wonder Geralt is in a foul mood - he nearly got ripped apart by a… by a something-or-other, and now he’s wounded and bleeding and he can’t even take a potion to heal himself.

And, Jaskier reminds himself with another twist of embarrassment, he’s likely still annoyed for Jaskier getting so close, earlier, even if it had been accidental.

He takes another steadying breath - grounding himself so he won’t shout back if Geralt starts yelling - and grips the rim of the tub with renewed vigour.

“I can’t clean it like this,” he says, slowly. “It’s a mess, Geralt.”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh, and you’ve suddenly sprouted eyes in the back of your head, have you? Is that part of being a witcher, too?"

Geralt doesn't respond, so Jaskier continues, voice rising.

"Or is it that you’ve suddenly developed the ability to see through my eyes? Have you slipped into my head like Yen does to get a good look at the mess back here?"

He's being ridiculous, Jaskier knows, but sometimes it takes a little absurdity to snap Geralt around - to make him cross with Jaskier rather than whatever it is that's really bothering him. He rather hopes Geralt hasn't suddenly developed the ability to peer into Jaskier’s head: there are several incriminating things in there he certainly doesn’t need to see.

Geralt scowls at the soap in his hands. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Jaskier says, adding a sarcastic twist to the final word. “It’s fucked, actually.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier feels like he might be winning.

“Look,” he says, “it’s a mess of hair and blood and… and monster shit—” he hopes this is an exaggeration, because of course it could be monster shit, “—and if I don’t clean it out it’s going to get infected and disgusting and when your fucking head falls off I will not be taking the blame.” He pauses. “Alright?”

Geralt has gone very quiet. His hand stills, the bar of soap pressed to his leg. Jaskier feels suddenly a little guilty - like he’s prodded too hard, like he's been testing a fruit for overripeness only to find his finger sliding through the skin.

"Alright,” Geralt mutters, finally.

Jaskier wants to ask what's wrong. He needs to ask. But he needs to clean Geralt's head wound more, so he presses a reassuring hand to Geralt's shoulder with a soft squeeze then moves back around to his nape.

It's clear that Geralt doesn't want his hair cut, but it needs to be done. The very least Jaskier can do is make sure it looks good.

He picks up the comb again and begins to section Geralt's hair more neatly, pulling two thirds or so up into the knot and leaving the rest - most of which is a tangled mess - hanging down. He works carefully, fingers pressed to Geralt’s scalp, ensuring the line where the hair is parted is neat and even.

When he’s sure it’s perfect, he reaches down and grabs the little scissors, giving them a couple of experimental snips before moving them to the back of Geralt’s head. He slips then beneath the worst of the knots, the sticky ichor, and cuts.

If he’s expecting the satisfying snip of blades against hair, he’s disappointed. There’s so much dirt and blood that the scissors stick, and cutting through the mess is harder than he’d anticipated. He’ll need to throw these away when he’s done, he’s sure. Geralt doesn’t move as he slowly cuts away his hair, tossing the fallen strands to the floor in a neat little pile.

Soon, the hardest part of the job is done, and he’s left with a pile of discarded hair, a useless pair of scissors and the unevenly cut inch or so of hair at the back of Geralt’s head. Now he’s unimpeded, he rubs the soap between his hands again and easily cleans away the rest of the grime. Geralt jerks a little as his fingers brush the wound, and Jaskier mumbles a low apology before washing away the bubbles.

He pauses. The wound is deep, and while Geralt’s mutations grant him swift healing, Jaskier suspects it will still need a little help. Even this short, Geralt’s remaining hair is still in the way - which means he’s only left with one option.

“This needs stitches,” Jaskier mutters, fingers pressed to the red skin around the gash. “But I need to…”

He places the scissors down then walks back towards his pack, looking for his razor. It’s a simple thing - a steel folding blade with a wooden handle, the closest thing to a knife Geralt trusts him to carry. Everything he needs to actually suture the wound is in their little medical bag, so he takes the razor back to the tub, slides to his position on the floor and grabs the soap again, coating the back of Geralt’s head in a thick lather.

"Okay…" he breathes. "Don't move."

He's expecting Geralt to grouse at him, to warn him not to cut him or moan about getting a move on, but he doesn't say anything - just breathes. At least he's still, and Jaskier reaches up with the blade, positioning it against his skin with gentle care.

It's oddly intimate in a way that Jaskier is trying not to linger on. Binding Geralt's wounds or soothing salves across injuries he can't reach or even massaging him when he's aching after a hunt have all become such regular parts of their routine that he barely even considers them unusual any more - but this is new.

It's one thing for Geralt to trust Jaskier to tend to him when he's hurt and has no other choice, but now he's got a blade to his skin - even if that blade is only a few inches long - and Geralt doesn't even flinch.

For all Geralt's moaning and grumbling and empty threats to leave Jaskier behind if he doesn't keep up, he trusts him. And that's… not a thought that should surprise him, Jaskier knows, yet it does anyway.

He pulls the skin taught with his fingers, a sudden warmth pooling in his chest, and gently scrapes the blade across Geralt’s skin. He works from the bottom up, shearing away the hair and wiping the residue - bloodied hair and bubbles - on the fabric of his trousers. When he gets to the injury itself, he leans in closer with his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, using only the very tip of the blade, careful not to press too hard - not to slip and make it worse.

When he’s removed most of the hair, he moves to the boundary where shorn skin meets roots, making sure the line is even, his hands surprisingly steady considering how much blood he’s just wiped away - and how close his lips are to Geralt’s neck.

Finally, he’s done, and he leans back to check it’s even. There’s a couple of rogue patches of hair that he quickly sees off - and - there. Jaskier can breathe again as he drops his hands to his side.

He places the razor next to the scissors and reaches for the needle and thread. This he knows - and it's with a familiar sort of routine that he prepares the needle and presses the tip against Geralt’s skin.

“Ready?” He asks, voice low.

Geralt shifts in the water. “Ready.”

“Okay. On three, breathe. One, two, three—”

He pushes the needle in as Geralt exhales. Jaskier’s done this so many times that he hardly recognises the terrified young man he’d been when Geralt had first thrust the kit at him after a particularly hard fight and firmly talked him through the procedure, Jaskier’s hands shaking the whole time. He knows what he’s doing, now, and while he’s never had to stitch a head wound before it’s easier without the squeezing intimacy that had come with shaving Geralt’s head.

The injury only needs a few stitches and he’s quickly done, tying the thread off and using the razor to cut it short.

Geralt rolls his shoulders with a low grunt as Jaskier leans back. “Don’t forget the—”

“The ointment, I know.”

Jaskier places the needle to one side - he’ll need to clean it later - then pulls the tiny green pot from the bag and twists off the lid, peering inside. It’s still half full of the acidic smelling salve that Geralt uses on his wounds - on both their wounds - and with only the smallest grimace he dips his fingers in. He spreads it across Geralt’s skin, careful not to dislodge the stitches or irritate the injury, and then - at last - the grim task is finished.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Now… now your head won’t fall off. Probably.”

He edges around to the side of the tub again. Geralt’s hands are resting on the rim, his eyes low, watching the surface of the water.

“Geralt?”

He looks - lost. Almost young. Jaskier’s heart breaks a little.

“Do you…” he chews on his lip, trying to find the best words. “I know you don’t, but do you want to talk about it?”

Geralt’s fingers twitch against the wood as he stares down into the murky water. Jaskier waits for a long while, letting him think. Finally, he can’t bear the silence.

“You don’t have to—”

“After the trials—”

Jaskier falls silent immediately, letting Geralt speak.

“My hair… it was red, when I was young. Bright red. But I reacted so well to the Trial of the Grasses that they put me through it again. I was… an experiment, to them. And afterwards, my hair....” He sighs, and pulls his hands beneath the water, shrinking in on himself. “After it went white, I was so angry. I didn’t recognise my own reflection, and I hated them for doing that to me. So… I hacked it off, with a dagger.” He pauses. “Eskel helped.”

Jaskier can’t speak - too struck with the image of Geralt, barely more than a boy, tearing at his own hair with a knife in a desperate attempt to regain control over his turbulent life. He reaches out, and places a gentle hand to Geralt’s arm. He doesn’t snatch it away, like Jaskier is expecting him to do.

“It grew back white, of course. And… I didn’t cut it again. At least, never that short.”

Jaskier squeezes his arm. “Geralt…”

“It’s stupid, I know. You were right. It needed to be cleaned.”

“Oh, Geralt. No. Don’t…” Jaskier swallows, nervously. “I should have asked. I should have known…”

Geralt looks at him. “How could you have known?”

He’s right, of course. But guilt bites at Jaskier anyway. He knows that Geralt’s childhood - his life - has been built around trauma and fear. He hopes he brings a little light to him, now, to balance it out. But sometimes he forgets, and is brutally reminded of just how much pain Geralt carries with him.

He can’t fix it. He can’t turn back the clock and wish it away. He can’t reach into Geralt’s chest and pull away so many years of hurt and replace them with the love he knows Geralt deserves. The love that Jaskier wishes - fruitlessly and foolishly - Geralt would accept from himself.

But he can help, in his own way.

“You know,” he says, smoothly, “when I was a student, back at the Academy… this was very fashionable.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“I mean, the whole… half-shaved hair. It was all the rage, for a while. Very popular.”

Jaskier can distinctly remember how popular it was. He can also remember how fond he was of that particular trend - the embarrassingly long list of those he wooed or attempted to woo simply because they sported some variation of it. Geralt, he thinks, does not need to know that. And anyway: Jaskier’s sure he’s grown out of the predilection by now.

Geralt frowns. “Since when have I cared about being fashionable?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, never, but seeing as it fell out of favour a good ten years ago, I rather think you don’t need to worry about that. But… let me see what we can do with it, hmm?”

“And what does that mean?”

A sly grin quirks across Jaskier’s face. “Don’t you worry about that,” he says. “Just… trust me.”

~

When Jaskier had told Geralt to trust him, Geralt assumed that meant that the bare patch at the back of his head wasn’t, perhaps, entirely a disaster. That it wasn’t so bad. Geralt had known that he was lying, of course - it likely looked ridiculous - but he had appreciated the effort regardless.

He’d wanted to say of course I trust you - even if he was placing that trust in a lie. But it was a white lie - the sort that Jaskier was best at - borne from an attempt to spare Geralt’s already fractured feelings rather than from malice.

Jaskier had told him to trust him, and Geralt had silently assented, and then… then everything had happened quite quickly.

The bard had demand he get out of the bath, quickly wrapping him in a sheet before bustling back down into the tavern below and shouting at the innkeep until he’d sent someone to sluice away the dirtied water and replace it with some that was fresh and clear and - best of all - warm.

Jaskier had slouched down behind him with a range of inexplicable oils and soaps and returned his hands to Geralt’s hair, cleaning away the last of the blood, rubbing it through his fingers and coating it with oil so lightly scented that it barely tickled Geralt’s heightened senses. Jaskier had washed his hair a hundred times before, but this time had been different.

It had been different in a way that he’d chosen not to think about - a way he's still choosing not to think about now, his skin flushed and scrubbed clean, the linen of his clean shirt itchy against his prickling chest. His remaining hair rests damply on his shoulders as Jaskier gently runs the comb through it, tugging it back from his temples.

Jaskier mutters as he combs - he’s always chattering, usually more to himself than Geralt, but for once the sound isn’t an irritation: it’s almost soothing. He basks in the gentle tug of Jaskier’s hands in his hair as he pulls it up into a ponytail, out of the way. It was only an hour ago - less - that those hands had been holding a blade to his skin, the fingertips gently pressed to his scalp, the hot huff of Jaskier’s breath fluttering against his neck.

Geralt shuffles on the spot, hands tingling, and tries not to think about that, either.

“Right,” Jaskier says, and as he steps away Geralt is suddenly aware of how close he’d been standing behind him, “Done. Turn around, then. Let’s see how it looks.”

He does as Jaskier asks, already prepared for the laugh he’s sure the bard is going to try his hardest to stifle. Geralt knows he must look foolish, no matter what Jaskier says about the style once being popular. He wasn’t lying, before, when he said that he didn’t care about fashion. Geralt doesn’t care how he looks: partly because it doesn’t fucking matter and partly because even if he did, all anyone else would ever see is a battle-scarred witcher.

Now, suddenly, it does matter. He’s horribly aware of the shorn skin at the back of his head, unpleasantly reminded of the bald patches that had lingered there when he was a boy.

If - when - Jaskier laughs at him, even if he pretends not to, it’ll hurt.

So he turns, already preparing an acidic retort - but the laugh doesn’t come.

In fact - Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Geralt feels even more self-conscious, and reaches up a hand to feel the back of his head. His fingertips are cool against his scalp, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. It’s an odd feeling, being able to feel the shape of the base of his skull like this.

And Jaskier still stares. Geralt can’t take it.

“Well?” He asks impatiently, wishing he didn’t care.

Jaskier blinks, as if returning from some distant dream. He swallows, and Geralt can’t help but watch the movement in his throat. He nods - a small, constrained gesture.

“Good,” he says, simply. “It… it suits you, actually.”

Geralt frowns. “Really?”

“I… yeah. It looks good.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. He’s sure Jaskier is lying - but the sudden nervousness in Jaskier’s body language, the way he twists his fingers together and the pinkness mottling his cheekbones don’t seem to be betraying a deception, but something else.

Before Geralt can take a step closer - before he can hone his senses to figure out what, exactly, the bard is hiding - Jaskier plasters his face with a somewhat awkward smile and walks backwards towards the door.

“So,” he chirps, swinging out his arms. “Shall we head downstairs? Find something to eat?”

That’s not a bad idea. Geralt always feels hungry after a fight - especially after riddling himself with potions. Perhaps after a full meal and some good beer he’ll feel a little less unsettled, and he can examine Jaskier’s behaviour more closely.

“Fine,” he says. And then, feeling a little guilty as he remembers the hefty purse the alderman promised him for seeing off the wyvern: “I’ll pay.”

Jaskier grins at that. “Marvellous.” He gestures to the door, eyes twinkling. “After you, then.”

Geralt hesitates just for a moment, then grabs his purse and heads from the room. As he walks past, he can feel Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him. He can still feel them on him as he heads down the stairs towards the tavern below, Jaskier close behind.

When he reaches the narrow landing he turns just in time to see Jaskier’s gaze snap quickly away. His foot completely misses the bottom step and he stumbles forwards, crashing straight into Geralt’s shoulder, then quickly rights himself with a curse, face flushed. The tips of his ears are scarlet.

Geralt peers at him. Jaskier’s not laughing at him, that much is clear. But there’s something in that gaze - those sparkling eyes.

He just has to work out what.

~

It's with a wet thud that the Wyvern's head falls to the ground, black blood oozing across the grass. Geralt feels a little guilty at how easy the fight has been - and even guiltier when he aims a prolonged blast of Igni into the nest of eggs the creature had been so absorbed in guarding that it hadn't even seen him approach.

The eggs pop unpleasantly in the fire, and Geralt takes a swift step back, keen to not be caught in the crossfire if one should explode.

He realises, as he grabs the head and makes his way back to the town, that it's been two years since his last wyvern contract. Two years since the one that came close - but not too close - to killing him. Almost to the day, in fact. Jaskier will no doubt have something poetic to say about that, but for Geralt it only brings with it the gentle reminder of how quickly the time has passed, and how much has changed.

The scar on the back of his head is no more than a pale line, now.

It's barely a twenty minute walk back to the alderman's home, where Geralt trades the head for a heavy bag of coins, suspecting he's getting the better end of the deal. He doesn't stop to chat, but heads towards the inn, the sun still high enough in the sky that there's plenty of time left to enjoy the evening.

When he pushes the door open to their room, he’s half expecting Jaskier to be conspicuously absent - having found an eager audience in the town’s single tavern across the road - or possibly snoozing in the bed. But he’s reclining in the bath next to the fire, his back to the door, a book dangling from one hand over the rim of the tub. As the door opens, he half-turns, peering over his shoulder.

“You’re back early.”

Geralt walks past the tub, placing his pay upon the bed and beginning to remove his armour as Jaskier watches.

“Easy hunt,” he says, simply.

“Hmm,” Jaskier moves in the bath, the water sloshing a little over the side. “Looks it. I assume that means you won’t be needing the bath, then?”

Geralt is tugging away his tunic before Jaskier’s even finished speaking. “I didn’t say that.”

He shucks off his trousers and smalls, eliciting an appreciative hum from Jaskier, who drops the book to the floor and shifts back against the tub as Geralt steps in, lowering himself down between Jaskier’s legs. He leans against Jaskier’s chest - warm and damp and softly fuzzed with thick hair - letting his eyes drift shut.

It feels like an undeserved indulgence considering how swiftly he’d seen off the wyvern, but one he’ll allow himself, today. It’s not like either of them have anywhere pressing they need to be, and they’ve got the room till the next morning.

Jaskier wraps his arms around his middle, sliding beneath his arms, hands drifting lazily up and down Geralt’s torso. After a moment, Geralt plucks one of Jaskier’s hands from his chest and threads their fingers together.

“My hair needs a trim,” he says, finally. “At the back.”

With his hands occupied, Jaskier tilts his head, and Geralt can feel his lips pressed to the shorn hair of his nape, nuzzling exploratively.

“Hmm,” Jaskier assesses, “I think you do.”

“Can you…?”

Geralt doesn’t need to finish the sentence, of course: Jaskier’s been shaving his hair for two years now, keeping it in check every time it grows messy and unwieldy. His lips move from Geralt’s nape and down his neck, fluttering over his shoulder.

“Of course,” Jaskier mutters, his breath sending little shivers down Geralt’s spine. “But…” He opens his lips, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the bend between neck and shoulder, “...later.”

Geralt shifts beneath the touch, feeling Jaskier’s tongue hot against his skin. The hand not currently held in his own drifts down his stomach, sliding boldly beneath the surface of the bathwater.

“Did you know,” Jaskier continues, lips lingering above his pulsepoint, “that it’s been two years since we first…” his hand twitches beneath the water, and Geralt can feel him smile against his skin, “...cut your hair?”

“Hmm,” Geralt presses back harder, wriggling between his legs. “I did.”

The smile against his neck melds into a soft, open gasp - a little intake of breath.

“So,” Geralt says, a little smugly. “Shall I fetch the razor?”

The soft touch of lips and tongue is joined by the brief scrape of teeth - sudden and sharp. It’s Geralt’s turn to gasp.

“Like I said,” Jaskier whispers. “Later.”

[wildberryjams]

belly of the beast | bruno x mc | 7100+ words | read on ao3

warnings: mild gore, injury, demons, ghosts, general haunted house things (no one dies)

a/n: There's a longer note on AO3 so I'll just keep it brief: I love writing Bruno, I'm mad at myself for not seeing the light sooner, I miss the S4 crew & Happy Halloween! ♡

"Is this the place?" Thabi asks with a squeak.

Paloma glances up from the decaying map to the decaying house in the center of the decaying woods.

"Think so."

"You can't be serious," Bruno says, head hanging out of the window. "One look at this house and I know people have died here. The vibes are fucking rotten."

"I agree with Bruno," Najuma nods, eyes wide. "I'm not setting a foot inside that house."

"Look, guys, I know this isn't ideal, but the faster we get in, the faster we know if it's salvageable," Paloma sighs, leaning into the drivers' side window.

"The faster we get out," Will adds from the passenger seat. "Paloma's right."

The van erupts into groans, but Angie shouts before it can devolve into an argument.

"I don't like this either, but we agreed that we're here to support Paloma," Angie says in tandem with the door lock. "She's our friend, she needs help, and we're here to do that. End of."

That seemed to boost everyone's spirits, but the atmosphere outside of the van is eerily quiet. There've been no signs of human life for miles now.

Even the woods speak in a hushed tone, the sound of the wind barely rustling the leaves.

Yawning, Paloma takes a moment to stretch her legs as her friends slide out of the van.

"Mask? Mask?" Thabi asks, handing out crisp surgical masks fresh from the pack.

"What if I wanted to die of asbestos poisoning?" Bruno jokes with a fake pout.

"Let's not," Will shakes their head. "And say we didn't."

"Party pooper."

"With the look of this place, you'll probably have plenty of opportunities to die here," Najuma says, securing her bun with a brightly colored scarf.

"I personally think a Looney Tunes death is the only way Bruno's going out," Paloma laughs, sliding boot covers onto her sneakers.

"You know... you're right. I hope it's a banana peel," Bruno grins. "Classic."

"Or Final Destination," Angie adds, pinching her mask down to show her playful smile.

"No way," Thabi shakes her head. "I've never been able to look at planes the same."

"Or cars. Or roller coasters. Or bridges. Or tanning beds," Najuma murmurs, earning a shoulder nudge from Angie.

As they finish up grabbing their cleaning supplies and protective gear, Paloma notices that Will's stopped speaking.

It wouldn't be uncharacteristic for them to be quiet... if they weren't staring up at the house, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Paloma inches up next to him, calling his name softly.

"Will? Hey, Will? Willem –"

He jolts, nearly losing his footing. "Uh, I – uh. Did you... see that?"

"See what?"

"In the window." They point a shaky finger towards the top floor.

There's nothing there.

"Can you see her?"

"Will... You're scaring me," Paloma chuckles weakly, trying to keep her voice down.

She doesn't want to spook the others – they're on edge as is.

Will turns his head towards her, his eyes lingering on the window till the last minute, deep brown irises meeting her own.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," they say with a smile that doesn't meet their eyes. "Don't mention this to the others?"

"Of course," Paloma nods, pulling them into a hug. "Babes, if you need to wait in the car, don't hesitate."

He nods, takes a shaky breath. "Yeah. Thanks. I'm gonna splash some water on my face. Maybe I'm just sleepy."

"You're always sleepy," Bruno says from right behind them, hooking his arm around Will's neck. "Whoa, geezer, you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm alright. No worries," Will mumbles unconvincingly, wandering off to the car.

Angie, Thabi, and Najuma join Paloma and Bruno at the foot of the stairs, staring upwards at the looming mansion, arms intertwined like they're moments from skipping down the yellow brick road.

"So, what's the game plan?" Bruno asks with a yawn.

Paloma glances over the bleeding ink of the map once more, before handing it off to her friends to inspect. She pulls out the letter she'd received that was paired with this map.

She'd only known of this house's existence for a couple of days, and her distant relative not much longer.

Great-aunt Ana Losada spent most of her life alone, from what Paloma gathered. Never married, never had children, never kept in contact long enough for family members to connect with her.

She's both a blindspot for the Losada family and a huge mystery.

So when a lawyer called her with information about a family member's will and testament, Great-aunt Ana was the last person on her mind.

––––

"A mansion? With everything in it?" Najuma asks, eyes big as plates.

"Yeah, it sounds too good to be true," Paloma shrugs, gulping down her pint. "I definitely annoyed them with how many times I asked if it was a prank."

"Maybe she thought you were the only person capable of taking on the responsibility?" Thabi asks, swirling her straw around her cocktail.

"Well if you ask me –" Bruno starts, but is immediately cut off by Angie.

"No one did."

"Rude. Anyway, my theory is that she taped your names onto a dartboard and called the first person she hit – wait," Bruno stops, cocks his head to the side. "She was ancient, right? Maybe she wrote your initials on bingo balls and cranked the handle till it spelled a name!"

"Paloma doesn't exactly fit on a board," Will shrugs.

"Angie, Thabi, and Bruno fit," Thabi pipes up with a buzzed giggle, counting on her fingers.

"Will does," Bruno grins. "Kinda. W-I-Free space-L-L. Wi...ll."

"Well, we're shit outta luck, babes," Najuma laughs, leaning over to hug Paloma.

"So much for the bingo theory," Bruno sighs.

"Have you seen the house yet?" Angie asks, lapping up the beer foam off her lip.

Paloma shakes her head. "No photos or anything. It's deep in the woods so I couldn't even find a street view of it online."

"That's really fucking bizarre, honestly," Angie quirks up a brow. "Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say that I'm not comfortable with you going there alone."

The table murmurs in drunken agreement. It's hard to hold back a smile at her friends' love for her.

"Well, feel free to take anything in the house, really. I don't know what's in there, but mi casa es su casa." Paloma tips back the rest of her beer.

"You're thinking of selling it?" Will asks, seemingly a bit upset at the information.

"Well... yeah, I'm thinking about it. I wasn't going to move in or anything," Paloma draws circles in the condensation of her glass mug. "I... don't know anything about Aunt Ana. She's a stranger to me, you know what I mean?"

"Maybe she won't be after we visit," Will shrugs.

––––

"Let's do a sweep of the house and figure out the floor plan," Paloma starts once Will has joined them. "Then we can reconvene in the foyer – I'm assuming they have one – and go from there."

Bruno raises his hand.

"Yes, Bruno?"

"Am I allowed to, like, swat and/or smush and/or stomp bugs to death?"

"Well... yeah. Do you plan on, I dunno, breaking through the floorboards when you kill one?"

Bruno lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. "I wouldn't put it past me."

"Here." Thabi digs through her cleaning bucket, tossing him a pair of gloves and a can of bug spray.

"Thabi, if a spider tries to harm you, I'll literally lay down my life for you."

"What about me?" Najuma asks, hand on her hip.

"I can't die twice."

"Unfortunately," Najuma laughs with a roll of her eyes. "I'll remember that."

"Okay, okay, any other questions?" Paloma asks, reeling it back in.

"Yeah, who's that?" Bruno asks nonchalantly, pointing to the window.

Paloma's stomach drops. She chills over, goosebumps rising across her exposed skin.

It can't be what Will saw... right?

They all crane their necks back, back, back until the window is in sight –

"AERRRRGHHH OOGA BOOGA BOOGA –"

Bruno can barely get the last "booga" out before Angie has him in a headlock, and the entire group is booing him for his prank.

"Uncle! Tio! Onkel! Fuck – wujek!" He coughs when she releases him, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, I admit that wasn't my best joke."

"If you don't want to get curb stomped, I'd suggest shutting up from here on," Angie frowns, crossing her arms.

Bruno smiles apologetically. "I, uh, yeah. Sorry guys. I'll wait till we're safely in the car to be a nuisance."

"Can't wait for that," Paloma grins, and shoots him a thumbs up.

His smile stretches naturally this time, eyes crinkling at the corners. He seems relieved that at least she's forgiven him.

Digging the master key from her pocket, she takes the first step up the stairs, daring to keep going despite the wood creaking under her weight.

It takes her a few tries to get the key in the rusty lock, but when she does, it clicks and... pulls away from her, like the door has a mind of its own.

It folds inward, cre-e-e-aking till the thick wood thuds against the wall. It's dark despite how bright and early it is outside. Thick dark curtains block out any sun, blending into the nearly black walls, tinted with a subtle blue-green.

A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, coated with cobwebs and an inch of dust.

Is it – swinging?

"You were right – there's a foyer!" Thabi says excitedly, dissolving the initial tension.

"Oh my days... with the right amount of TLC, this could be my dream home," Najuma muses, taking the first few steps into the house.

"Sounds like an offer to me," Bruno jokes almost timidly.

"In the middle of a creepy forest? I'm goth, yeah, but I'm not stupid," she hums, tugging at a tall lamp's string, grinning when it turns on.

The group begins venturing out into the foyer, small timid steps graduating into confident ones as they explore the first room.

"So, how are we doing this?" Angie asks, scanning the double staircase.

"Let's split up and look for clues!" Bruno says triumphantly, putting on his best Fred voice.

"You're literally Shaggy," Najuma stares at him with wide eyes. "You are so not Fred."

"I could be Fred – don't put me into a box, Najuma, I'm not a mime –"

While they bicker, Paloma reads over a part of the letter again.

"The house, and anything in it, is yours. However, I would implore you to treat the house with respect. Even though you are now the owner, you are still a guest: to me, and to the house. Be careful when moving things around as to avoid damaging the house and said possessions. All of the belongings in this house were precious to me and to whoever came before me. Sometimes the doors jam, and the pipes don't quite work, and the roof leaks when it rains. Either way, it's home. Maybe someday, you'll come to respect this house the way I've revered it for decades. Enjoy it while you can, because it's old and withered and might not withstand the weather for much longer. No one can take this house from you – remember that. Take care."

Paloma sighs and pockets the letter.

"This note tells me absolutely nothing except Aunt Ana wants me to keep the house from leechy landlords," she murmurs to Thabi, crossing her arms. "I guess we should go in pairs."

"Daphne, Velma –" Paloma points to Najuma and Thabi, respectively. "You take this floor."

"Shaggy, Velma's lesbian awakening –" She points to Bruno and Angie. "You take the second floor."

Angie is giggling still, and wraps a friendly arm around Bruno's waist. "Yeah, yeah, let's get this over with."

"And I guess that means that Fred –" Paloma gestures to Will, then herself, "– and Scooby are taking the top floor."

"It's not very Scooby-like to break up the Shagster and the... Scoobster," Bruno raises his hands with a dramatic lift of his shoulders. "We're supposed to be a team, you know."

"It's just one sweep. You're a big boy. You can handle it," Paloma winks. "Let's meet back here innnn..."

She checks her watch, and pouts. "Shit. I dunno. Just make a sweep and come back to this spot when you feel like you've got a good idea of the floor plan."

Shaking her wrist and slapping the face, Paloma frowns. She'd just gotten this watch as a self-indulgent treat, and it was already dead.

"Cheap piece of rubbish," she mutters.

"Race ya to the top?" Bruno grins at Angie, and swivels around to dart up the left staircase before she can react.

"Oh, you little cheating asshole –" Angie hisses, sprinting to the right staircase.

"You wish you could get a piece of this sweet tight ass –"

"I guess that just leaves us, huh?" Paloma says, finally turning to face Will.

She freezes, chest tightening. "Uh, Will?"

He's staring at the high ceiling, eyes slowly raking from left to right. His breath is labored, his hands trembling as he fists the fabric at his sides.

"Paloma, I..." They tear their gaze from the ceiling back to her. "Something's wrong here."

"Like the window?"

"Yeah," they say, taking a shaky inhale through their nose, exhaling through pursed lips.

Paloma runs a hand over her short buzzed hair. "Are you seeing anything now?"

"No... But –" he stops himself, and clamps his mouth shut, shaking his head like he's clearing it.

"I can *hear* something."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She feels something close to her – too close – almost  like it's... breathing down her neck. Right – behind – her.

She whips around just in time to feel the cool patch of air behind her shift away. There's nothing.

When she turns back to Will, he's still visibly scared, so she grabs one of his hands and squeezes comfortingly.

"Remember what you said a few minutes ago? The faster we get in –"

"– the faster we get out," they sigh, squeezing her hand back. "Yeah. Let's make it quick."

They climb the stairs Bruno and Angie raced up, discovering a small set of stairs to the top floor. It's creaky and quiet, and it's hard to see much of anything.

She hasn't let go of Will's hand yet, and they've made no move to loosen their grip either.

The small hallway has a few spare rooms and another door that's tucked away that presumably leads to the attic.

"Okay, can we, uh, head back now?" Will asks from behind her.

"Not yet, sorry. I'll just do a quick sweep, I promise," Paloma cranes her head back and gives him a gentle smile. "I'll open the door, scan the room, and move to the next one."

He nods, seemingly reassured.

The first door opens without a key – definitely a spare room with lots of knick knacks and whatever-the-hell else Aunt Ana wanted to lock away.

The second room was similar to the first, and so was the third. Half-filled spaces with things that weren't necessarily sentimental – just possessions.

"I guess she had a lot more rooms than she knew what to do with," Paloma sighs, throwing a look Will's way. "This is gonna be a lot to sort through, huh –"

Will slides a hand over her mouth and shushes her gently. Wordlessly, he points to the second room with a trembling hand.

The chair that once faced the window wobbles, newly flipped in their direction.

"It's her."

The attic door thumps behind them, like loud heavy fists rapping against the worn wood.

Paloma yelps, backing away with Will pressed up against her back. Thankfully, Will's legs are working and they tug her back towards the stairs.

Within minutes, they're all back in the foyer – Bruno and Angie banter and elbow each other, while Najuma and Thabi speak quietly with uneasy expressions.

"Should we tell them?" Paloma whispers to Will.

"Absolutely. I know I'd want someone to tell me," he says resolutely, confidence returning to his voice and gaze.

"Guys?" Thabi asks, voice low. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah, 'bout what, love?" Bruno asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Something's off about this place," Najuma blurts. "I'm sorry, Paloma, but it's true. Thabi and I have felt off since we started snooping around."

"Najuma's right. It's like we're being watched or something," Thabi adds timidly.

"Huh? Are you both serious?" Angie asks, brows furrowed.

"One-hundred percent," Najuma says, holding Angie's gaze.

"I... saw something," Will says, clasping his hands in front of him, wringing them out like he's trying to physically push the fear from his body.

"When we turned off onto the unmarked road, I was already feeling a bit off, but I thought it was because I'm dead tired –" they suck in a sharp breath and shake their head vigorously. "When we pulled in, my stomach was churning... like I was frightened before I knew why."

They scan the room, making a point to make eye contact with each person, to prove they're not lying.

"I saw a lady in the window."

"You don't think it could've been a squatter?" Bruno asks sincerely.

"Out here?" Thabi asks, shakes her head, her curls swishing around her. "There's no way."

"We went upstairs and I saw her again. Same room, this time sitting down."

Will glances back down, this time at his hand, still firmly in Paloma's own.

"She was just sitting there – staring. I didn't get the vibe like I'd gotten before. This time it was like... she was warning us. Like she's giving us a chance to get out."

"I don't know about you all, but I'm not gonna die in here the day before Halloween," Najuma says, tearing her surgical gloves off and pocketing them.

"No one's dying," Angie rolls her eyes. "Look, I know this place is unsettling, but we drove all this way. We should at least take a thorough look before we run out screaming."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," Will shrugs. "I'm spiritual, not religious, so I don't know if I can do anything about... whatever that is."

"Will's right. None of us are equipped for something like this," Paloma agrees, chewing her lip.

"Maybe we could stay right here and figure out what to do next," Bruno suggests. "We're not hurting any spirits if we don't leave the foyer, right?"

But will they hurt us? The question hangs in the thick air between them, an uneasy feeling spreading like wildfire.

They analyze the map again, and Thabi's limited knowledge she's gathered from giving tours helps them immensely – this is definitely a map that Aunt Ana has had for who knows how long.

And she decided to pass it and the house down to her great niece she's never met instead of trusting any other living relative to settle her affairs.

But that begged the question... who gave it to her? And why did she care so much about respecting the house and its contents?

The house creaks and moans around them, the walls breathing a quiet "Get out" with each new sound.

If the house is this lively in the morning, Paloma wants to stay far away from the nighttime.

"Should we split into groups of three this time? Maybe take the first two floors?" Angie asks, gesturing vaguely.

"Yeah, sounds good. Uh, let's just split it right down the middle to make it easy," Paloma murmurs, rereading the note for the tenth time.

"Okay Angie and Will, you're with me. We'll take this floor," Najuma beams, curling her arms around their necks, toothy grin in full bloom.

"Looks like Velma, Shaggy, and the Scoobster are reunited," Bruno pats both of them on the back gently.

Paloma waves to the other group, taking a moment to observe them before they go.

Angie is relaxed, a determined expression pulling her brows till they're furrowed in concentration. Najuma is somewhat relaxed, leaning against Will, seemingly trying to comfort him with touch.

And Will is... off. It's like some kind of darkness lingers, threatening to spill over at any moment. It's so wrong on them.

"What I'm still confused about is why the hell your Aunt left a note if it doesn't say much," Bruno says, scanning the note over Paloma's shoulders. "She didn't tell you anything about herself. Just kinda throws obvious info at you."

"Yeah, you're right," Paloma sighs. "I don't get it. Why me?"

"I dunno. Maybe she's on bad terms with everybody else in the family," Bruno shrugs. "From the looks of this place, she wasn't the social type."

"Maybe for good reason."

"Paloma... do you know how she died?"

She glances over at Thabi, who's wringing her hands at her waist.

"I mean... not really."

Bruno's eyes widened. "Wait, you have no idea how she died? Not even a newspaper clipping?"

"No, there's not an obituary on her cos we're in the middle of fucking nowhere," Paloma says and throws an arm up wildly. "I didn't know she existed until she died. Her cause of death isn't a priority to me."

Bruno winces, runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just thought that it might help us piece the puzzle together, you know what I mean?"

Sighing, she pulls Bruno into a hug. "I'm sorry, babe. This whole thing is getting to me."

"It's okay. I should be apologizing, honestly. I've been a proper nuisance today," Bruno laughs.

"And every other day," she grins, pressing a friendly kiss on his cheek (and pretending she didn't notice him blush afterwards).

"Guys..." Thabi says, squeezing her eyes shut. "I have an idea but I'm too frightened to see it through."

"What is it?"

"Well, what if Aunt Ana wanted you to come here for a reason, but... she couldn't tell you why?"

"Couldn't tell me? Why do you think that, Thabs?" Paloma asks, confused.

"Maybe she was too scared or... maybe she really needed you to come and you wouldn't believe her if she outright told you," Thabi says, hands trembling as she points to the note.

"I'm no Sherlock, so you're gonna have to spell this out for me," Bruno says, picking the note up.

"Acrostics."

"Is that... like lacrosse? With good acoustics –"

"It's a hidden message of sorts," she explains. "There's lots of types, but I'm referring to the type where the first letter of each sentence spells it out."

"Got it," Bruno says, skimming the paper.

"Here –" Paloma hands him a pen and he grabs it from her outstretched hand, getting to work.

In no time, Bruno's circled all the letters.

His face falls as his eyes dart back and forth, rereading it over and over like he doesn't want to believe it.

"Oh no."

"What is it?" Paloma asks.

Bruno lays the note down and starts scribbling out each capital letter while Paloma watches – Thabi is hiding behind her hands.

When he's done, he throws down the pen and folds his hands behind his head. "No, no, no –"

Paloma's heart sinks like a rock in water, settling in the form of a knot in the pit of her stomach.

DON'T GO IN THE BASEMENT

She stumbles back, nearly tripping over the uneven floorboards as she does so.

"Will, Thabi, Angie –"

Paloma barely gets the words out of her mouth when she catches Angie twisting a knob under the stairs.

"Hey Paloma you should come check this out – I think it's the basement –"

The door slams open with Angie's hand still wrapped around the knob, pinning her to the wall as she screams.

Najuma and Will are frantically yelling, tugging at the door, trying desperately to free her.

They're silenced by the snap of a bone, somehow loud enough to ricochet off the high ceiling like a gunshot splitting through a raucous crowd.

Angie groans in pain, slinking down with her crooked arm cradled in the other.

"What the fuck –" Najuma says with a shaky sob, crumbling till she's next to Angie.

Will locks eyes with Paloma from across the room, unblinking, unflinching.

Their whole body is straining, like they're flexing every muscle underneath a deadlift – teeth gritted, fists clenched.

The doorway to the basement is pitch black, framing Will's pale, rigid silhouette with midnight lines. But for a moment... before she blinks, she thinks she can see a pair of eyes above their head.

Will strains even harder, but it's like he's slinking back into the darkness – his eyes are losing their light with each passing moment. Only a few seconds have passed since Angie broke her arm, but it feels like a lifetime to Paloma and Will.

And as she opens her mouth to call out to Will, to warn him – he does, too.

In one quick sweep, he crumbles under the invisible force and surges forward, curling the crook of his arm around both Najuma and Angie's neck –

"RUN."

Will shouts the syllable with the rest of his effort, before giving Paloma one last apologetic smile, exactly like the one he wore after witnessing the woman in the window for the first time.

And with that – Will, Najuma, and Angie are dragged backwards into the darkness of the basement, screaming in terror as the door slams shut behind them.

"What the fuck?" Bruno screams, stumbling towards the space where their friends once stood. He rattles the knob to no avail, opting to kick and shoulder and kick again –

"Stop – Bruno –" Paloma whispers, throat burning with unshed tears.

"We can't just stand here like fucking dickheads," he argues, crossing the room back towards them. His eyes are wild, glistening with fear and adrenaline.

"We can't run in there without a plan, either," Paloma shakes her head, sinking her teeth into her lip to keep it from quaking.

"I – Thabi," he says, trying to reason with her. "We can't just... Those are our friends... They're –"

He folds into a heap on the ground, shoulders shaking with quiet sniffles.

Tears stream down Thabi's cheeks as she whispers: "What can we do?"

"Not much –" Paloma dries her tears with a quick swipe of the back of her hand.

She bends down to comfort Bruno and glances back at the basement.

"– but we can give it our all."

––––

The shed behind the house is full of razor sharp gardening equipment, a kitchen drawer full of rusty knives. Flashlights in the study, emergency candles under the bathroom sink – some burned down to the wick, some misshapen like they're homemade.

In exploring the safer parts of the house, Paloma's stumbled across a few not-so-creepy, almost endearing signs that Aunt Ana lived a full life in the secluded mansion.

Knitting needles and a half completed scarf in the sitting room. A half empty bottle of wine on top of the fridge. Dusty framed photos of her and her half sister (Paloma's abuela) litter the mantelpiece above the old brick fireplace.

An old newspaper and a full cup of coffee at the table.

Bruno commented on it first, while fastening various makeshift weapons to his toolbelt.

"Damn, did they really just pick up her body and leave everything intact?" He asked, peering over the mug.

He gags, sticking his tongue out in disgust. "There's clumps of mold on top of this – I'm gonna be sick –"

Paloma stops mid match-strike and grabs the newspaper.

"This is dated from months ago."

Thabi sidles up next to her, scanning the date to confirm. "Paloma... did they tell you when Aunt Ana died?"

"I mean, I assumed that it had to be right before the lawyers contacted me... right?"

Goosebumps prickle her skin again, a cool patch of air settling behind both her and Thabi.

She glances at Thabi just in time to see a few curls lifting, pinched like a fist is wrapped around it –

It slams her to the ground, dragging her across the ground as her high pitched scream tears through the space.

"HELP –"

She's reaching out to grab Paloma and Bruno as she's being dragged away at breakneck speed; Bruno trips over his own feet trying to grab her, and manages to clasp a hand around her ankle.

The force pulls harder, harder, harder –

"Paloma, check the letter's date –" Thabi chokes out, before Bruno's grip loosens, and her head cracks against the kitchen's door frame, blood streaking across the off-white paint.

Her eyes roll shut, and she's dragged away. Paloma sprints after her, but stops dead in her tracks when she sees the open basement door –

And the skinny arm attached to the long rotting talons that wrap around the knob.

The same pair of eyes glow in the dark, wide and red and... amused.

And then she sees the crooked teeth, curling into a bone-chilling grin, taunting her one last time before it cre-e-e-eaks shut after Thabi passes through.

She sprints back to the kitchen and fishes the marked up letter out of her pocket and slams it on the table next to the newspaper.

Paloma's blood turns cold, shaky labored breaths passing through her parted lips.

Bruno scrambles to the table alongside her, spitting expletives when he realizes, too.

The dates match.

"They probably had no idea until they came out here themselves to figure out why she wasn't paying her bills on time," Paloma mutters.

"So she must've known she was going to die," Bruno says, white knuckling the edge of the table.

"If she left us this note, then there has to be more to it, right?" Paloma asks, flipping it over, turning it, inspecting every inch.

"Yeah," Bruno agrees, and flips through the newspaper. "There's nothing special in here, but... Paloma, I think she left this here as a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"That this wasn't just natural causes. Maybe..." he trails off, shaking his head incredulously.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think Aunt Ana was fighting something off and gave in –"

"– like Will," Paloma whispers.

Bruno nods. "You noticed that, too?"

Paloma mirrors his motion, throat burning as she speaks.

"This is all my fault."

He drops the papers and wraps her in a tight hug, shushing her, kissing the top of her head as he does it.

"Babe, no. Stop blaming yourself –"

"How can I not? My best friends are probably fucking dead or gravely injured because I brought them here," she says into his chest, fisting the fabric of his tee.

"No matter what you say, it doesn't change the fact that this isn't your fault. If you would've come here alone, it would've been so much worse," Bruno says, pulling back to look in her eyes.

"I –" he blushes. "– we couldn't fathom losing you."

Paloma blinks the tears away; Bruno swipes one away with his thumb.

"It'd be better if I'd just sacrificed myself, but I didn't even get the fucking chance."

"Don't say that, Lolo," he whispers, cupping her face in his hands like she's fragile and so precious to him.

Her heart swells at the nickname she hasn't heard since they were kids.

"Shaggy would be nothing without Scooby, I hope you know that," he murmurs, eyes full of nothing but pure sincerity.

He pulls back and moves on, leaving Paloma conflicted, heart fluttering like this isn't the worst time in the world to kickstart an old crush.

"What would Mystery Inc do?" He asks, inspecting the letter.

"Wait – you're a fucking *genius* –" Paloma snatches the letter and grabs her flashlight.

She flicks it on and holds it under the letter – and words start to appear.

"Mystery ink."

Bruno's jaw drops, and he grabs his own flashlight to speed up the process.

The letter is handwritten on the back in the white space between the black ink on the flip side.

Paloma reads it out slowly as the words show.

"Paloma, my dear great niece, I'm sorry. I have to start this out with an apology, because all I've wanted to do is know you. I feel as if I do, but I know you don't know me. I've watched you from afar as you've grown, and it's been the highlight of my secluded life. There's a reason I'm here. When I inherited this house, it was from the other side of my family that I knew nearly nothing about. I could tell from the moment I stepped on the property that there was something evil in here. I believe that my devotion to my religion is the reason I'm here today. I managed to trap the demonic entity in the basement, and it's been there for decades. But I fear that my time is coming to an end. And it's going to break out. I know this sounds crazy, but please, have faith. I'm too weak to fend off this demon anymore, but I know you can. Just believe. All you need is a prayer that YOU believe in, and my rosary that hangs above the fireplace. I hope that you can read this lemon juice ink. I love you, and I'm rooting for you. Take care."

The house creaks and shakes when she says the last line, and loud wails and moans ring out from beneath the floorboards.

"Demon?" Bruno asks, his voice small.

––––

It could've been ten minutes since their friends were dragged into the basement, or ten hours – none of the clocks in the house seem to work, both digital and traditional.

It's still morning, but the entire house has a witching hour vibe.

Bruno and Paloma are equipped with their traditional weapons, and Aunt Ana's religious ones.

Paloma heads towards the door, but Bruno stops her before she can slide the key in.

"Can I... say something? Before we go in?"

"A pep talk? It's a little late for that," she chuckles weakly.

Bruno inhales deeply to settle himself before nodding resolutely.

"Look, if we die in here, I need you to know that I've loved you since we were kids. Remember that one summer we met, when we got 'married' on the swing sets? Well... since then my heart's been yours," Bruno admits sheepishly, blush creeping up his neck.

"I'm in love with you, and I think if I died without a kiss, it'd be a banana peel death of sorts. Comically bad and so embarrassing –"

Paloma's lips meet his in a tender kiss, and the years of longing and pining pour out of Bruno and straight into her – he tastes sweet like the best candy she's ever had, satisfies her sweet tooth and the hole in her heart that's been empty for as long as she can remember.

"I love you, Bruno. I think I always have," Paloma says, forehead pressed against his own.

"Imagine if you'd just rejected me before we went into the belly of the beast," he laughs breathily, still reeling from the kiss. "I think I would've just sacrificed myself to try to PEMDAS the embarrassment from my system."

"I don't know much about math, but I'm sure that's not what the 'E' stands for," she giggles, pressing another kiss to his lips.

She pulls back, determination pulling her brows inward. "Let's do this."

––––

The stairs creep underneath their weight, the pitch black atmosphere swallowing their streams of light like it's nothing.

The flashlights slice little paths through the dark, but there's no signs of life. Belongings are covered in dusty white sheets, and that's all they can make out.

As they get to the bottom, Paloma's light catches something – an arm.

"Bruno?" She whispers, gripping his arm as he freezes on the steps in front of her.

"Do you see that?"

"What is it?"

Her hands shake as she points the light in the same spot, but... the arm is gone.

In one quick motion, she feels a hand wrap around her ankle and yank her down, crumbling on top of Bruno.

They scream as they tumble down. Bruno manages to catch himself, but Paloma's head smashes against the concrete.

She's disoriented and her vision is hazy – is she bleeding?

Clutching the rosary closer, she tries to focus on Bruno.

"Lolo – are you okay?" Bruno asks, but before she can answer, he chokes.

Chokes like someone's squeezing his neck until he can't breathe anymore.

Her flashlight flickers on and off and she tries to tap it against the concrete floor with all the strength left in her.

She gets glimpses of Bruno, as he's getting dragged upwards until he's hovering above the ground, feet dangling helplessly.

Paloma fades out of consciousness, still holding the rosary against her chest – she's so out of it, she can't tell if Bruno's still fighting to breathe.

––––

When Paloma wakes, she's engulfed in darkness.

Her eyes have adjusted enough so that she can see the outlines of the sheets above her that look like humans of all shapes and sizes. It's freezing, it's dead silent, it's pitch black.

It's like a sensory deprivation tank of fear – she has no idea what time it is, no idea if her friends are alive or not, no idea if she herself is alive.

She drags herself up to a sitting position, trying desperately to slap the flashlight back to life.

The flashlight isn't working, so she retrieves her special weapon. A candlestick and match from her tool belt.

She lights it and tries to deduce her surroundings, hands shaking so hard that the flame wiggles.

There's five mounds covered in sheets on either side of her.

"Oh my God," she whispers, frozen in place.

Right in front of her, the eyes appear again, with the same sickening smile. This time... there's blood on its teeth.

"Jesus fucking Christ –" she curses, scooting back as far as she can get till her back bumps against something.

This something is breathing – it lays its hands down onto her shoulders and digs its claws into her skin until it breaks, ripping a guttural scream from her throat.

She flails, trying to rip herself away from its clutches. It's drawn blood, streaks staining her tank top.

It's... Najuma.

Paloma could recognize those pretty manicured black coffin nails anywhere.

Her blood stains Najuma's hands, but that's all she can see – the rest of her body is hidden in a sheet.

"Najuma – please, it's me! Paloma! Your best friend!" She yells, trying to reason with her.

But nothing seems to get through to her.

She glances around as she shuffles back, realizing that the rest of the bodies have stood up and have circled her.

"Don't let it get you, please – let them go," Paloma cries, finally tearing the rosary from her chest, holding it outwards.

She trips over her feet and falls down, but the group makes no move to advance on her.

The candle reflects off the ground, and she notices the red lines crossing the floor beneath her.

A pentagram. Her best friends at its edges, her at the center.

"Prayer, a prayer, I need a fucking prayer –" she whispers to herself, glancing around.

She's so fucking terrified that she can't even recall the Lord's prayer she was forced to learn as a kid.

A laugh rings out, a distorted voice ringing out against the silence.

"She couldn't get rid of me. Why do you think you could?"

Aunt Ana's final words rattle around her head: "All you need is a prayer that YOU believe in."

Paloma pushes herself off the ground with weak arms and stands proud, determined.

"Because I've got the power of fucking friendship," Paloma growls, holding the rosary with a firm, resolute grip.

"Najuma, Thabi, Angie, Will, Bruno. Najuma, Thabi, Angie, Will, Bruno," she shouts with a steady cadence.

At first, the demon laughs, its head raising up higher and higher, lifting to its full height.

But after the fifth or sixth time of her shouting her friends' names with all the strength and love she can muster in the face of fear, the demon begins growling, a rumbling horrific sound.

It gnashes its teeth, and Paloma squeezes her eyes shut and keeps chanting, hoping desperately that her prayers will be answered.

*Please, bring my friends back. Take me instead. Please. Hear me. Please.*

And then, everything stills.

All five sheet-covered figures crumple to the ground in heaps. Her flashlight flicks back on, and the candle is blown out in a gust of wind.

Paloma sinks to the ground, rolls out of the pentagram into the figure she recognizes as Bruno.

She grabs his hand, and laces her fingers with his, squeezing with the last bit of her strength. He squeezes back.

"We did it."

Her vision fades to black.

––––

She wakes up in the backseat of the car, head cradled in Bruno's lap.

"Thank God you're awake," Bruno chokes out, eyes glistening with tears.

"Where are we?"

"On the way to the hospital. No –" he pushes her back down gently, stroking the side of her face. "Stay down. Rest. Please."

"Did we all make it?" She asks, voice raspy.

"Yeah, we all did. Thanks to you," Bruno smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss on her forehead.

"When did that happen?" Angie croaks from the passenger's seat.

"Sometime while we were blacked out in the basement, Anj," Najuma laughs from behind the wheel.

Will turns around from the middle seat, while holding an ice pack to Thabi's head.

"I... saw your Aunt Ana while we were down there. Something had overtaken me, and I choked Najuma and Angie out, and I was alone and terrified and –"

They're clearly choked up, rolling their lips together to keep them from quivering.

"She reassured me that you were coming to save us."

Will leans back, grabbing Paloma's hand. "She knew you could do it. She has so much faith in you. She loves you."

And with that, Paloma breaks down in tears out of pure euphoria. For a moment, she feels Aunt Ana in the car, like a warm summer warmth washing over her despite the cold fall temperature.

"Well, at least we have a ghost story to tell at tomorrow's Halloween party," Bruno jokes.

"Absolutely not," Thabi laughs.

"Can we at least dress up as Mystery Inc? It's only right," Bruno grins.

"I suppose," Will says with a soft smile of their own. "Tomorrow's Halloween, so I'm sure it'll be hard to piece together a group costume at the last minute."

"We might be spending Halloween in the E.R.," Angie groans. "And on my day off, too."

The group laughs at that.

Najuma turns out of the woods and back onto a properly paved road, flooring it the second she's able.

Paloma lifts herself from Bruno's lap, staring out the back window at the autumn-leaved trees.

For a second, she thinks she thinks she can see someone standing at the edge of the woods.

Paloma waves, and they wave back.

"Goodbye, Aunt Ana," she whispers, as the figure disappears into the trees.

––––

[revengeisourlullaby]

Everything Happens For a Reason

Warnings: 18+, smut, Cheating/mentions of cheating, “revenge” sex, arguing, dealings of breaking up, ex-partner being shitty, dom themes, hair pulling, dumbification, degradation, feelings of worthlessness, Thor being an asshole, Loki being an asshole sexually, sensual themes, some angst, some softness but mostly tough love vibes, this will take place around the time of Ragnarok for visual reference, kinda domestic but not really 

a/n: This is my first time writing for marvel characters! I previously was writing for mha, which I still do if you’re interested. Apologies to the Thor lovers, he’s an ass in this. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it and that I do a good job of representing characters that we all enjoy. :)  

Word count: 6.7k

Main: Loki x female!Reader Ex: Thor x female!Reader

You were on your way back home after ending a grueling shift at work. Everything around you left you in a sensory overload. The sound of your feet pattering on the sidewalk, the aggressive car horns of New York’s taxis, conversations you passed by all created a stinging buzz that roared in your head. Finally reaching the station, you walked down a flight of stairs, the horrific New York air filling your nose. A stench that made you feel at home but somehow could never get used to. Sighing you thought to yourself.

I just wanna get home.

The idea of having to mush yourself into the train in desperate hopes of not only being able to find a seat but to not be bombarded with the evening nonsense made the buzz in your head turn into an unfortunate headache. Waiting for the train to rush through the tunnel, you grabbed your phone and frowned, seeing that your boyfriend had yet to answer the text you sent earlier. He said he was free from any heroic duties for the next month so it was peculiar to not hear from him. You began to grow worried. 

Picking at your nails, you were thinking about all the possible “what ifs” that could have happened with Thor. You guys had been dating for some time now, almost two years. It had become common to be met with all the craziness that his job title of hero held. Truly anything could happen. So, of course, your brain was constructing all of the terrible things that could’ve possibly happened with him. 

You couldn’t fuss about it too long, the train came bustling through the tunnel, the air from up underneath it blasting you in the face with the trademarked scent of burnt rubber tires and gasoline smoke. You trudged your way into the train, squeezing your way to a spot closest to the door so you could make your way out quickly. Holding on to the railing beside you, you popped your AirPods in and dissociated. Trying your best to drown out the noise and the perpetual thoughts of what was going on with your boyfriend. You couldn’t help the aggressiveness of your worries so you pulled out your phone and gave Thor’s phone a ring.

You waited, and waited, and waited and the line went to voicemail. Your mind was running a mile a minute. It felt like you couldn’t breathe. You tried composing yourself, you were almost at your stop. When the PA system announced your stop, you rushed through the automatic doors and ran to your apartment. The sky, now overcast, and the slight smell of rain tainting the air, only adding to the tension. Running up the outside set of stairs, you headed to the elevator preparing yourself for the worst. Once the elevator dinged, you rushed down the hallway to your apartment. 

Fumbling with your keys at the door, you began to hear a slew of moans. Stopping in your tracks, you moved your head closer to the door to make sure that you were hearing the moans slip from the other side of your apartment door. Placing your ear against the door your suspicions were confirmed with a groan that seemed to billow from none other than Thor’s throat. Your heart began to shatter and become blanketed with the bitterness of winter, you slowly turned the key into your apartment. 

Conscious of your steps you tried your best to not cause creaks to squeak from the floorboards. The air wreaked of sex and was starting to become seasoned with rotten jealousy. Turning the corner to head down to your shared bedroom, you were acquainted with Thor pile driving into your best friend. 

She caught you in the doorway and to your dismay, she called out

“Y/N! Oh my god. Thor stop!”

With the mention of your name, Thor whipped his head around but you were already making your way towards the front door. He threw on his pants that were thrown on the floor and rushed his way over to you.

“Y/N!”

You turned around with a quickness and landed your hand right across his cheek. Leaving him with a scarlet mark to brand his betrayal upon him. You looked up at him through your eyebrows because you didn't have the strength to look at him in the eyes for the tears that were welling up would threaten to spill over. 

“Thor...why don’t you go finish your business with her. Since clearly, she’s the priority.”

“Y/N, it’s not what you think it is. She brought herself upon me.”

“Oh! And you just couldn’t resist right. Cause she was just so overbearing against yourself?”

His silence solidified your suspicions and you wanted nothing more than to just get out of that apartment. Not waiting for him to come up with another response you grabbed your bag that you dropped on the floor and turned on your heel to leave.

   “And when you release yourself of whatever leftovers you’re straining to hold, I want you to get your shit and leave. There’s nothing here to be salvaged and honestly, the last thing I wanna do is attempt to fix this.”

You slammed your apartment door and took the stair exit, not wanting to chance to have to confront him again while waiting for the elevator. Coming up on the last flight of stairs you held yourself up against the railing and felt the emotion in your throat bubble up and release itself. 

It hurt. A strangled whine erupted from your throat and you hid your face in your hands. Hoping that it would muffle your cries enough so that no one would hear you in the stairwell. All of your insecurities began to settle in and resurface. Why weren’t you good enough for him? What made your best friend better? It's not like she was otherworldly or something. You could maybe understand if it was Valkyrie, but this was some regular bitch. This was someone you knew and felt undeniably close with. It felt sour, like residual vomit on the tongue. 

You pushed yourself up from the stairs and slowly walked to the main door of your building. You were brought out of your haze with cold droplets of water that began to roll down your face.

“This is just comedic now.” 

You laughed to yourself. Not only did you just spoil your eyes by seeing your now ex-boyfriend inside of your best friend but now you're stuck out in the exordium of New York rain with no real place to settle. Not at least until Thor packed his things and left. You put your bag over your head and searched for the nearest station to just catch a ride on. Walking down the steps, you again waited in the queue for the next train. Leaning on the wall you were suddenly overwhelmed with the stench of your wet outside clothes and wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep.

With the roar of the train coming through the tunnel, you got on. Unaware of where you were going just desperately wanting to get away from the drama currently suffocating your mind. Trying to forget about the world around you, were brought back into reality by the buzzing of your phone in your pocket.

Of course, you had a list of missed calls from Thor as well as your best friend. Lists of texts from Thor, but the notification that stood out the most was a text message from Loki. It was unlikely for you to hear from him and coupled with today’s events it felt like salt being rubbed in a wound. 

It can’t get any worse, honestly. Just open it. Fuck it.

Going against your brain and entrusting your gut, you opened his message.

Would you happen to be in the Manhattan area? 

You looked up at the sign above the train doors, flashing the streets of the next stop. Luckily for you, you were getting ready to be dropped off right in the heart of Manhattan. Sighing you swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. Replacing your previous weight of mourning with now a sudden spark of pride and revenge running through your veins.

Yeah, I’m actually on my way there now, why?

You rolled your head back and bounced your leg, sudden nervousness striking your body. You didn’t fear Loki, it was nothing like that. But rather you were intimidated by him. His presence demanded attention and you were one to give it to him. You couldn’t deny that he was incredibly handsome. Despite his condescending nature, you found him all too alluring. Yet, here you were awaiting a response from him to come through. 

Interested in some company while visiting your planet for personal business. Care to be that company? 

Your heart started to thump behind its ribcage, beating a rhythm that you hadn’t been familiar with. You were excited. Quickly you typed back, not wanting to wait too long. 

Sounds like a plan. The train is getting ready to stop, probably will be in central Manhattan in about 10. Where should I meet you?

I’ll be waiting outside the Baccarat.

The train doors dinged and you rose from your seat and maneuvered your way through the 5th Avenue-53 St. station. Climbing the stairs, you were met with the unfortunate luck of it still raining and now with nightfall completely draped over the sky, you were beginning to regret accepting the invitation of meeting Loki. Looking ahead you noticed a store on the corner. You bolted in there, desperate to find something to change your soaking top out for. You walked in and saw yourself in the mirror. Your hair was still okay somehow, not too damaged by the wetness in the air. Just a tad more frizz. Fluffing your hair, you walked away from the mirror and searched for the men's section. 

Wanting an oversized hoodie you felt you had your best chance to find what you wanted there. Coming across a graphic hoodie, you pulled it off the rack and walked to the checkout. 

You got into a fitting room before you left, taking off your soaked shirt and now bra, and slipped into the hoodie. Stuffing your hair under the hood, you placed your clothes into your bag, sprayed some perfume on, and walked back outside to head to the hotel. The rain had let up some but you weren’t trying to risk it considering today had been littered with bad luck. You quickly walked up the street and finally made it out to the front of the hotel. 

You went to pull out your phone from your pocket, but when you did you were tapped on the shoulder. You whipped your head around, an instant attitude flooding your body. You were about to mouth off until you looked up and realized it was Loki who had grabbed your attention.

“Tense, are we?”

You rolled your eyes, wondering why you showed up. His tone worming through your ear and rattling your brain with contempt. He seemed to be a bitter reminder of his brother and you questioned why you thought this was a good idea. Looking up towards his face, you remembered why you came. His features, absolutely tantalizing, and the cadence of his speech almost always put you in a trance. The suit he was in only added to your inner desire. This was a moment of revenge, a moment of sheer pride that you needed to take advantage of. Finally, you opened your mouth and looked up at him. 

“A little, the day has been quite rough, but I don’t think you’d want to hear about all that.”

You looked toward the entrance of the hotel silently wondering why you two were still waiting outside. 

“Shall we go in? Standing in the rain like this is quite puerile.”

You looked up at him incredulously, 

“I swear you can read minds.”

You both shared a chuckle while he guided you in the hotel, his hand resting upon your lower back. Once you were in, you were struck in awe of the decor of the building you were in. It’s not that you had never been anywhere nice before but compared to your day-to-day lifestyle this was something very unexpected. You soaked it all in, not wanting to ever leave the luxury. 

“Y/N? You in there?”

You finally came to and gingerly shook your head to settle back in your body realizing you were now standing in front of the elevators.

“Yeah, I just got distracted, my bad.”

The door dinged and you two stepped into the elevator. He pressed the last set of numbers on the pad and you waited to be dropped on the floor of what you assumed where his room was. Your stomach dropped when the elevator arrived on the floor, almost adding to the anxiety you were feeling being so close to Loki. Walking down the hallway you reached his room and he pulled out his room key. Wanting to cut through the silence you broke the ice by asking Loki a question. 

“So what are you doing back on Earth? Here to cause some trouble or just for leisure.”

“Leisure, more or less. I came back for my brother but he has yet to inform me of his whereabouts.”

Dropping your bag down at the door you felt your body become heavy. Like someone had just dumped an anvil on your shoulders and expected you to be fully prepared. It stung. You couldn’t escape the sour taste that lingered from the day's earlier events. You sat down on the bed and had become unusually short. You had spit back at Loki.

“Yeah, he failed to let me know as well. Had to stumble in on him.”

“What do you mean “stumble in on him”? Where was he?”

Expelling air, you puffed out your cheeks slightly. Silently expressing your disdain for the question asked. You suddenly became aware of your hair still being tucked under your hood when you went to trail your hands across the top of your head. Removing the hood and fluffing your hair, you stood and walked up to the mirror to fix yourself before sighing again. Tears of frustration began to well in the corners of your eyes. You pursed your lips into a tight pucker and had to look up toward the ceiling to prevent them from spilling. 

“I’d prefer to skip over the antics, darling-”

“-Your wonderful brother was fucking somebody I was once close with, but now that relationship is undoubtedly severed, and quite honestly thinking about the event makes me want to cry and vomit.”

You finally let your voice shake and a fat tear rolled down the left side of your cheek. Hot and stinging your lash line before it fell. Exhaling more air, you shook your hands in a feeble attempt to calm yourself down. You heard the springs of the bed squeak as Loki situated himself on the bed.

“No one ever listens to me about that brute. He may be my brother but he lacks the capacity of decent intelligence.”

Turning around to face Loki, your eyebrows furrowed wondering how in the hell you thought sitting in a room with the smuggest piece of shit to ever exist would be a good idea after being cheated on by none other than his brother. Sniffling you brought yourself together and smiled at him.

“You know, for someone to be baggin on someone else about decent intelligence, you sure are lacking in the emotional department.”

“Never said I was perfect sweetheart, just alluded to being better.” 

You laughed. You had to. It was all too much to bear. Your ex-boyfriend sleeping with your ex-best friend and now you’re stuck in a hotel room with his shit-eating brother. You wanted to peel off your skin and remove your brain from its confinements. You needed to leave, you could find somewhere else to loiter around until tomorrow. 

“Ya know, I’m still trying to figure out why I thought having you for some company would be a good idea. Think I’m gonna leave you and your better than average intelligence to fuck off together.”

You couldn’t even look at Loki because inside you didn’t really wanna walk away. You were just projecting because all day everything that could go wrong, went wrong. It felt like your legs and heart were going to buckle at any moment and it was becoming too much to lug around silently. You wanted to scream for hours on end. Walking towards the door, you picked up your bag. Too engrossed in your thoughts to hear the bed creek signaling Loki’s movement. 

“Y/N, wait.”

Loki grabbed your wrist and your heart stopped beating for a moment, almost forgetting what it was you were upset about because you had someone else’s warmth heating your tainted soul. You looked up at Loki, creases in between your eyebrows beginning to form from you trying to hold back the tears that were welling up once again. 

“What? Look, Loki. I don’t want to be the downer of the evening and I’ve surely already done that. The last thing I want to do is burden you fully with what’s going on. I’m not gonna dump it all on you.”

“Will you sit down, please. Don’t leave.”

Sighing you dropped your bag and flopped onto the bed. Leaning over and burying your face in your hands. 

“Let me apologize. I was not thinking about the severity of what you were dealing with, that was foolish of me.”

He sat next to you on the bed and once again placed his hand on your back but this time it was rubbing back and forth. An action that seemed to calm you down instantly. Taking a deep breath you looked at him and couldn't help but feel an overwhelming amount of lust pool in the pit of your stomach. It felt wrong but, so right. You hoped he wasn't looking too deep into your eyes because you could almost predict how blown your pupils must’ve looked. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap and be so dramatic.”

Loki chuckled to himself, a small smile dancing across his face as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and laid it on the bed.

“No need for an apology, I was being insensitive. As for your dramatics, I’ve grown used to them.”

Your face folded and your lips pursed, annoyance clear on your face. 

“Yeah, you would be used to dramatics, Mr. “I need to rule over Earth cause I can’t back home.”.”

Your eyes lidded, you had your lips rolled around your teeth trying your best to hold a snicker in. 

“You Midgardians never know how to let things go, do you?”

“Well considering you were demolishing half of New York with an alien army it’s kinda hard to forget....I forgive you though.”

“Do you now?” Loki raised his eyebrow smirking at your remark.

“Yup, kinda hard to stay mad at someone so easy on the eyes.”

It wasn’t until after you said your words, did you realize what just rolled off your tongue. Your eyes grew wide and heat rushed to your face. You breathed heavily out your nose and brought your gaze to his. 

“Easy on the eyes huh?”

“I-” you couldn't even get any words out you were so embarrassed. All you could do was laugh to yourself and decide to be a little bit bold. 

“There’s no reason for me to be shy about it. You’re obviously the more attractive one.” 

Grazing your hand across his knee, you trailed your hand up to the meatier portion of his thigh.

“Are you planning on plowing through every Asgardian you meet?” 

Mouth agape you couldn’t believe what he just said to you. But you realized quickly this was your time to go in and plant the seed.

  “Not exactly. You’re the one I really want. Your brother just happened to fall in my lap first. It’s always been you though. Honestly, I was just too afraid to say anything. I couldn’t fathom the thought that you’d look my way.”

In the moment of your ramble, you hadn’t realized Loki rolling up his sleeves, using his nimble fingers to expose his veiny forearms. Once you had looked down you noticed his now exposed arms and your eyes met Loki’s again, the tension between you two becoming so thick it created a fog. 

“Honestly, I have yet to meet someone as dense as you are. The verity of my liking for you I thought was terribly noticeable. Yet you still somehow ended up with my oaf of a brother. It’s quite amazing actually.”

You were astonished, to say the least. While Loki was sarcastic with you, he had confessed his liking for you. Not just an inkling for you but a liking for you in a romantic aspect. You were over the moon. You stood up not being able to contain your excitement. Walking towards the desk you stared in the mirror and composed yourself. Looking in the bottom right-hand side of the mirror you caught Loki’s blue eyes in the corner. He stood up and walked behind you, almost stalking you like a predator does prey. 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Truly I thought you were happy darling, it wasn’t my business to interfere. Although, if I knew your deepest feelings sooner, I would’ve acted with more haste.”

Hearing “darling” come from his mouth so freely made butterflies fly hoops in your stomach. It did something to you that you had yet to describe outwardly. Turning around to face him, you hooked your fingers into the loops of his pants and pulled him closer to you, all so nonchalant. 

“Shall we make up for lost time then, Loki?”

Lust dripped off your tongue when saying his name. Your tone penetrating through the fog of sexual tension and your eyes undressing him before the affair would begin. You heard his breath hitch while you looked back up at him, his blue eyes were now almost black. His breath heavy and waiting for the go-ahead to indulge in each other's desires. For a moment you saw his eyes flicker to portray something of uncertainty. Dare you say something of insecurity.

“Only if it’s true. I want you to want me in the purest form of carnal desire. Not as a pawn to veil what you want to erase from your mind.” 

You moved your hands from his belt loops and traced your hands up his arms and planted them upon his neck, playing with the hair at the nape. 

“ Don’t stop now, we’ve already started. I’m begging for you Loki. Always have, always will.”

With the quick reassurance, his lips found yours in a heartbeat. Intertwining with each other like flies in a spider’s web. It was intoxicating you couldn’t breathe properly and still you pressed yourself closer against his body. Your leg inching up on his side and grinding into his now hardening dick. Your hand that was resting at the nape of his neck, crawled its way into his hair and grabbed a fistful of it, fully giving into the moment of you and Loki getting lost in each other. Your fistful of his hair would soon be gone, being replaced with his hand buried in your mass of hair and craning your neck back to look up at him.

“I control things around here, Pet. Don’t forget your place.”

His voice seemed to drop in pitch. Your eyes glossed over fully with lust and the sheer need to be ruined. Dominance enveloped his being which instantly quelled the brat in you. The reality of sleeping with Loki made you dive headfirst into a subservient space. You wanted him, you needed him. In being completely lost in submissive thought you almost forgot who was in front of you. That was until he spoke again.

“Understand?” 

He grabbed your hips and pressed your body against his, eliciting a slight whimper from you while nodding your head.

“Yes, Loki, I understand.”

Your voice was so meager, a complete 180 from your previous behavior in the night. You wanted as much of him as you could get so you shoved your lips against his again. A fiery kiss that made you dizzy and warm all at once. He moved with such fluidity, it made you feel like you were floating. His hands snaked down your back and his large hands landed on the cush platform of your ass. Squeezing, you moaned into his mouth and he picked you up. Turning around and laying you down on the bed. Your lips dislodged from one another and you felt empty and needy without him on you. He preyed over you, his stygian locks falling down his face.

“If you don’t want this, tell me now and we’ll never speak of this aga-” 

“-Loki, there has been nothing I want more than you…I need you. Please.”

With that, Loki attacked your lips again, his hands wandering up your hoodie. You had forgotten you ditched your bra earlier until Loki’s hands found your pert nipples. 

“Expecting this, weren’t you.”

You went to respond, but Loki rolled them between his fingers and a breathy moan was all you could muster up. Your hips rolled upwards, aching for some type of friction to your core that was more than soaked. 

“Maybe I was. Have to be prepared for anything.”

To emphasize your tease you moved your hand down to the tent in his black pants and applied a bit of pressure. Loki sucked in air through his teeth and released a light laugh. 

“Careful, Pet. Make sure you can hold up this front you’re putting on for me. Not sure you can handle it all.”

It was a challenge and a challenge you’d be more than happy to oblige in. Smirking up at him you began fiddling with his belt and undid his pants. Fishing your hand into them you lightly stroked his cock. 

“Try me.”

The restraint in him broke and a sardonic smile adorned his face. You knew you were in for it and were entirely ready for everything he had to offer.

“Darling I hope you’re ready to feel what it’s like to be fucked by a real god.”

Your hoodie came off with one swift motion of his hand and they wandered over your body egregiously. He was taking his time with you and was determined on making you fall apart. You messed with his dress shirt buttons but couldn’t get them off fast enough for your liking. Catching onto your frustration Loki mocked you,

“Aw, look at you, Little one. Having some trouble there?”

You huffed, the attitude in you not wanting to fully give in just yet. You finally got the top button undone and slid your hand back down to his pants in a feeble attempt to take the heat off of you.

“Ah ah, it doesn’t work like that. Let me help you out since you’re in such need of relief.” 

Finishing off the rest of his buttons, he pulled off his shirt and threw it somewhere in the room. Snaking his way down your body he undid your jeans button and peeled off the zipper with his teeth. Looking down at him you shuddered, excitement coursing through your veins.

“Easy now Y/N, I’ve barely even started.”

Removing your pants and underwear completely, you were now fully exposed to him and almost felt a bit of shyness envelop you. And of course, he noticed your legs attempt to cover yourself,

“Don’t hide from me darling, I want to see every bit of you crumble before me and show you how it feels to have your concupiscence satiated.” 

You let your anxieties fade away once his tongue placed a swipe across your aching cunt. A moan louder than you expected emitted from your throat, catching you off guard and a chuckle to release from Loki. The vibrations only added to the pleasure you were already feeling. Losing yourself in the silver tongue of the god between your legs, your hand found itself in his stark black locks. Your moans became more frequent and you were beginning to feel the coil tighten in the bottom of your stomach, heat spreading to your core. 

“Loki, please I-”

You hadn’t enough time to finish your sentence for Loki had wrapped his arms around your hips pulling you closer to him and making your back arch off the bed. Your moans becoming higher in pitch you could feel yourself coming to the precipice of your orgasm. Lifting his head for a moment he caught your eyes as you moved your head to look down at him.

“Cum for me Y/N, I can feel that you’re there.”

As Loki went back to devouring your pussy, you threw your head back into the pillow behind you, your orgasm finally washing over you. It was like none other you had before. Your legs caved in around his head and your body began to shake. Coming down from your high you reached for his neck to guide him up to your face, sharing a sloppy yet intimate kiss. The taste of yourself evident on his tongue and glistening on his chin. You felt the need to return the favor. Turning you two over you were now on top and you slid your way down to his basal regions. Undoing his pants you felt his hand upon your wrist.

“Not tonight, this is about you Y/N”

You shook your head, surprised by his actions. But, it wasn’t in your nature yet to fully comply. You went back to the hem of his slacks and went to pull them down. While Loki let you slip them off with ease, egging you on with a few hitched breaths, it wasn’t until you came back up and lined your mouth up with the head of his painfully erect cock that he took control again. You placed a kitten lick on the tip of his head, looking up at him while doing so. Loki then grabbed a fistful of hair, forcing you to stay stuck on his face and giving him full leverage of where he wanted you.

You crawled up his body because you had no other choice unless you wanted to continue to feel the slightly painful pull on your hair. Obeying his silent command you were brought face to face with him once again.

“You just don’t know how to listen, do you?” he chided

“Neither do you, but you don’t see me complaining.”

In an instant you were flipped over again, being towered by Loki’s body. Your breath quickened and you watched his blue eyes dilate once again. A lascivious smirk and energy cast across his body. Wanting nothing more than to feel him, you raked your hands down his back and dragged them across the sides of his ribs, only to let one of them begin stroking him again. 

“Ah~ Y/N”

It was at this moment that the last bit of power you had completely dissipated. Loki’s hand moved with such a quickness that it took you a moment to realize that his hand was now wrapped around your throat. Sending your eyes to roll to the back of your head in absolute euphoria.

“Such a dumb little girl you are. Can’t follow simple instructions yet here you are begging, for me to ruin you. Fortunately, you’re pretty. Otherwise this would be quite pathetic of you.”

Your walls clenched around nothing. It was becoming painful to not have some form of release. You just kept being pushed towards your edge with his words bringing you closer every time he spoke. He was dragging it out on purpose, you could see the sadism glint behind his eyes. Strangled you spoke, tears of desperation falling lightly from the side of your eyes.

“L-Loki, please. I need you so bad. I can’t take it anymore, please.”

“You may need me, but do you deserve it is the question at hand.”

“I promise no more games, I’ll be good for you” 

Removing his hand from your neck, he traveled them down the valley between your breasts bringing one hand to massage one while the other traveled further, landing on your soaking clit. 

“All this, from a little degradation...I expected more from you, darling”

Jutting your hips toward the hand currently nestled between your folds you begged,

“Loki, please I need you inside me, I need to feel you.”

He finally lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you with just his cockhead, reveling in your juices. You couldn’t help but whine the teasing was getting to a point of something almost unbearable. Your voice breathy and hot you whimpered one last plea,

“Please~”

When he fully sheathed himself inside you, your head rolled back, moans coming out of you at a pace you couldn’t control. He made you feel so full. You had yet to feel something so reminiscent of rapture. It almost made you dizzy. When you looked up at him there was a softness in his eyes that contrasted his tone of dominance a moment ago. It caught you off guard, but you were soon brought back to reality when his head brushed against the inflamed spongy spot within. 

“Oh! My god”

“Yes darling, I am your god-”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his comment. His cockiness always finding a way to rear its head. But in your moment of ecstasy, you didn’t think he’d be able to catch it. Wrong. In a second, his length left you, flipped you on your hands and knees, and slipped back into your drenching cunt. You settled into the position, propping your ass out even more so to give him better access. You heard him growl behind you, his hand coming across your ass check and without a doubt leaving a mark. You yelped, startled by the sudden action. His pace became unrelenting, pounding into you with a ferocity that would make angels weep. His hand slid down your back and rested and the bottom of your hairline, once again grabbing your hair and pulling you back so your back met his chest. Directing your head to the side to face his own, he got in your ear,

“Roll your eyes at me again and there will be more than just a simple punishment awaiting you.”

Your walls clenched around his cock, eliciting a loud groan to come from Loki. You couldn’t help it, the noises he made were beyond divine and each one had you one contraction away from being sent over the edge one more time. 

“Fuck, Loki, you feel, so good~fuck, please.”

You weren’t quite sure what you were pleading for; it just felt right leaving your mouth. 

“Yeah, you like it when I fuck you like this. Like the little whore you are.”

“Fuck! Loki, oh my god~”

You were in so much pleasure you couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down your face. It felt so good to have this instinctual release. Loki released his grip from your hair and pressed your face down into the mattress. Unable to truly control the noises that flew from your mouth, you were now whimpering in the mattress. The ravaging of your body sending you into a full-blown frenzy that you never wanted to be free from. Loki’s thrusts became more erratic and his moans and groans flew more freely from his mouth. Enjoying the moment of approaching his climax.

“You’re going to cum with me and I’m going to paint your pretty little insides my color. Wanna know why?”

You tried your best to be attentive, flipping your hair out from your face, you looked behind you facing the god above you.

“Why, L-Loki?”

Bringing his hand around your body to massage your clit, he gave you an answer that you weren’t prepared for. 

“Because you’re mine now. There’s no leaving after this. You belong to me.”

With one final clench, you tightened around his cock. Both of you reaching your peak at the same time, milking him of his seed. Both of your breathing was heavy, bodies sticky with sweat. Loki pulled out of you, his seed spilling out of you like donut filling. You rolled over on your back as he did the same and there was a comfortable silence that filled the room. 

With the distraction of reaching a climax now faded, you felt violently vulnerable under his gaze. You found your courage and looked back at him, his eyes still dilated but now with a different emotion swimming through them. Adoration? Wonder? Regret perhaps? Before you could let one more intrusive thought in Loki brought you out of your head.

“Stop worrying, you’ll make the wrinkle between your brow permanent.” 

Your mouth opened slowly in disbelief, slightly offended by his comment but also at a loss for words for him figuring you out so quickly.

“Is it that easy to figure me out.” you chuckled.

“Yes, in fact, you wear every single emotion on your sleeve. You couldn’t hide what you feel even if you wanted to.” 

You sighed, a smile stretching across your face as you exhaled. 

“Can’t fool you, can I?”

“It’s quite hard to fool someone who is the master of fooling others. I’m the creator of the ins and outs of mischief.”

You shared a light laugh but you couldn’t ignore the overwhelming feeling of guilt and disquiet swirl in your head. Did he honestly feel for you, or did he perhaps just indulge your desires because he had wants of his own. You were in the perfect state to be taken advantage of, heartbroken and needing something else to fill the hole in your heart. You rolled on your side, your hand resting on his chest, beginning to draw feather-light patterns on his skin. Your hand created a path up to his neck, your fingers guiding his face forcing him to have nothing else to focus on but you. You needed to quell the noise in your head, you didn’t want this to eat you alive as well. 

Worst he can say is no and we just move on Y/N. That’s all that can be done. Just ask him.

“I know you’re not one for sentiment, but did you mean what you said to me? About your liking for me.”

Moving a few coils of your hair away from your face he gazed into your eyes with an intensity you were unsure how to read.

“One thing about me darling is that through all my moments of deception, dealing with such intimacy is not something I take lightly. While not sentimental, I meant every word. I assure you of that. Now, dry your eyes.”

You hadn’t even realized the petal-soft tears slowly rolling down your cheek. You were too engrossed in Loki’s words of affirmation that you felt you left your physical body for a moment. Loki’s hand came up and wiped the tear streaks away from the bridge of your nose and under your eye. He made you feel at home. Warm and comforted even if he had his instances of sharpness, you didn’t want this moment to end. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

You chuckled and the light was restored in your face.

“I don’t care what you say to me, you can read minds. Now stop reading mine, you’re freaking me out.”

Your laughs echoed through the room, any remnant of tension long gone from the space. You stared at the ceiling thinking about how the rest of your days would pan out. You felt the waters would be rocky but they would calm eventually. The thrashing of emotional waves turning into gentle swells. You felt at peace for the first time in a while. Pulling you once again from your thoughts, Loki’s voice filled your ears. 

“Now, I am aware that we have done this quite backward, but would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow night? And do this the right way?”

Rolling back over onto his chest you smiled against him

“I’d love to”

Amiable silence fell over the room as your body began to rest. The beating of Loki’s heart created a rhythm that seemed tailored specifically to put you to sleep. Eyes growing heavy, you fell asleep, ultimately feeling secure within his arms. 

[serodev]

OK. In that case, I'd like to request drabble where Rui finds out that his gender neutral S/O is cannibal. Like, he walking into his/her room and finds him/her eating small amounts of human flesh.

Warnings: Mentions of cannibalism, soft gore.

Pairing: Rui x gn!reader

Note(s): *Rubs my hands together like a sly fly* Let's hope that I succeed in this. Viewer discretion is advised!

You wish you could explain your... So-called 'problem' to other people without being branded as a monster or something worse, but there was nothing you could've said or done at that moment when the people of the nearby town made you run away from there.

The problem? You liked how human meat tasted like.

It all started out as an accident when you were low on food, and you had to find food somewhere. At first, the idea of eating another one of your kind made you feel sick, but you got used to the thought after a while, and the meat kept you up and running, which was the most crucial part of it.

However, things didn't end up too badly because you managed to find an abandoned house, and it didn't take too long for you to make friends with this spider-like boy, Rui.

You two ended up becoming friends when he managed to find you one night when you were walking in the forest, trying to find something to eat. It was close that he would've killed you himself, but he saw a potential friend in you, and he ended up talking to you instead.

The situation was kind of messy at first. Your food sources were minimal at best, and you didn't want to raise any kind of suspicions by eating human meat because you didn't know how Rui would've reacted to it at all.

You tried your best to keep up with the upcoming winter by stashing away dried mushrooms and berries, but deep down, you knew that you weren't going to survive this winter unless you managed to hunt some meat for yourself. However, that's where your problems began in the first place - You were awful at hunting, and the safest bet you had at obtaining meat was to find a dead animal that wasn't rotten or eaten to the bones.

And that's why you ended up walking around the forest while hoping that Rui didn't find you.

You knew that you could probably trust him when it came to your eating habits, but you didn't want to risk anything, especially since he was the only person you could trust in your current situation.

It didn't take long for you to find this even bigger abandoned house that sat right in the middle of the forest. "What the..." You spoke out before you stopped right in your tracks.

You knew the scent you were smelling right now - it was the smell of fresh blood. This made you look around frantically because you were ready to eat anything at this point, and it didn't take long for you to find a dead person lying on the ground.

The sight was... Gruesome, to say the least, but you knew what you had to do at this point, and you ran up to the corpse to see if you could find anything salvageable — At least you weren't the one who killed them.

You managed to take an arm and a leg from the person, and it didn't take long for you to bold down to the path you had come from in the first place. Even though the notion of eating a human should've made you feel sick, you still felt this small happiness in your chest because you finally got something better to eat.

It didn't take long for you to set up a small fire so that you could've cooked the arm, and it didn't take long for you to start picking up small pieces of cooked meat as the rest of the limb sat upon the fire.

However, your frail relief about the food didn't last long because you heard shuffling outside of your house, and it didn't take long for Rui to step into your home.

"Rui—" You started to speak before you realized the situation you had managed to get yourself in, and you tried to hide the meat behind your back after that.

"Y/n, you don't have to hide. I know you eat human flesh." Rui said in this bored tone as he walked around you to look closely at the limbs you had taken from the person he had killed.

Rui could see that you felt uncomfortable right now, so he stopped walking around you, and instead, he sat down in front of you before he set his hands on your cheeks. You could feel your face grow hotter as he did this, and you lowered your gaze to the floor in a fit of uncertainness.

"I'm sor—" You were just about to apologize, but Rui placed one of his fingers in front of your lips, thus making you fall silent once again.

"I accept you, y/n." - The thing Rui said was extremely simple, but it still made you feel a bit warmer, a bit more comfortable, and you couldn't help but nod.

"Thank you."

Author's note: Ahh man, this took a slightly darker turn than I expected it to do. However, I still hope you enjoyed this drabble!

[lipstickbisous]

for hc night!! ransom slowly realizing he and his girl are starting to adopt each other’s habits (vocabulary, interests, schedules, etc!) 🤍💐

ouu i love this!! added in a little bit of angsty spices for tonight's theme skfjs but this is so sweet! esp because it's for ransom!

warnings: minor angst, fluff, lovesick ransom

it started when ransom noticed himself waking up at six in the morning. you were the morning bird and it was usual for him to sleep until his alarm rang at eight am. but the countless mornings you'd tried to stay quiet while getting ready for work when the sun had barely risen were starting to take their toll.

now, his eyes would open the same time as yours and once you left, it was impossible for him to fall back asleep.

he then began to notice the change in your cursing behavior. before, it was completely unlike you to curse out any stranger you didn't know. now, he found that anytime an employee at the grocery store was rude or a clerk at the mall was irritating, you'd whisper just underneath your breath, "eat shit."

it was adorable but also terrifying.

ransom was his own person, that was for sure. he wasn't going to change for anyone. he saw how both of his parents molded into different versions of themselves as year passed just to salvage what was already a rocky relationship, and ransom had vowed to never allow himself to do that. for anyone.

he had kept a good streak of thirty-two years. he's been with a countless number of girls, and not one of his relationships had lasted over two months.

and then, of course, you just had to squeeze your way into the tiny space he'd opened in his heart. he didn't think anyone was willing to fit themselves inside, but you'd prodded and poked around until he was hopelessly in love with you.

"i was thinking we could take a visit to brooklyn next week," you gave mindless domestic talk while you were hunched over your desk, typing away at your computer. "we're both free and it's been a while since our last vacation."

he looked behind him to you, noticing how your eyes were completely glued to the screen. your tongue stuck out between the corner of your lips and you'd occasionally blow away any loose strands of hair that fell in your face.

"yeah," he hummed, smiling at your stature. the feeling of love really was rotten. it was a sugar rush and crash in his chest, tooth-rotting sweetness that he was addicted to.

"or maybe even the cabin upstate?" you offered without looking away from your work. you were hellbent on having it finished before the night ended.

ransom closed the fashion magazine he'd been looking over and completely turned towards you. "anything you'd like, baby."

finally, the clacking of your fingers against computer keys and you caught his lovesick glare towards you. you blushed, "what's going on, rannie?" your nickname for him ruptured butterflies in his stomach.

he chewed on his bottom lip and smiled. it was strange to do so, considering you were the only person he really ever smiled at. forming his lips into a curve was foreign, but it felt right with you. "nothing, princess," he stood and placed a kiss on your forehead, holding the back of your head with his hand. "nothing at all."

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas: Christmas Eve Edition is here!

Today we have an STL AU one-shot (it's complete!) about what would have happened if Mary-Alice had left with the Major.

I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to post many of the requests, but December was a bit of a disaster and I fell way behind. I plan on finding something from every one of those requests in January to make it up to everyone <3

Onwards to FicMasEve ;)

And I never wanted anything from you,

Except everything you had, and what was left after that too.

Florence and the Machine, Dog Days Are Over.

—

How long have they been away from the South? From Maria and the wars?

She’s lost track entirely.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She never saw any of it coming.

She watched carefully, she planned and practiced, watched and worried, and she still never saw it coming. Not the Major taking her hand and dragging her out of Mexico and Texas in the dust of Charlotte and Peter’s flight. She never even considered that he’d think to take her with them.

So she does her best, her gaze focused on the future, focused on Maria and their desertion to make sure they see the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of the year. Her head feels tight, so full of what could-might-will happen that she’s glad that the Major doesn’t let go of her hand the entire time, just drags her along behind him.

And that’s how they escape the south.

—

They travel with Peter and Charlotte for many years, a little trio and the shadow. He watches her, the blankness of her face and her emotions as they move past the Mason-Dixon line to peace and safety.

She has no strong opinions about anything, never offers thoughts or ideas about their little trek across the country.

He doesn’t know how to help her. Not at all. He makes sure she’s fed, and that she’s decently clothed. He makes sure she’s not left behind, or alone too often (he knows something about the terror of being alone, and he doesn’t want anyone to feel that way.)

So they continue on. He waits, she watches, eyes empty but all-seeing. They part ways from Charlotte and Peter (there are a hundred little tiny reasons why, and Mary-Alice is one of them. She doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t trust Peter or Charlotte and he’d like to know why, but that’s not the kind of question he can ask her. Especially not now.) They wanted into the north, into wet and damp and green and empty, where the emotions of the cities are long behind them and he can finally breathe a little.

Mary-Alice doesn’t breathe, doesn’t relax or doesn’t seem any less broken. She simply is, still - a shadow, a ghost, his personal spectre of the horror of the wars.

This is not how he imagined freedom would be.

—

The little house had been half-swallowed up by the forest, one half of the building having collapsed under the weight of debris from the trees crowding it, and the smell of mould and rotting vegetation was overwhelming.

The rain had continued for two and a half days unabated, and whilst they ran no risk of getting sick or cold from it, but when it was raining this heavily and for this long, it was unpleasant - their clothes were sticking like a second skin, with rivulets of dirt and old blood running from the fabric onto their skin.

Wiping mud off her face with an equally filthy hand, she followed the Major towards the house; they were both covered in a combination of blood, mud, and ash from the fight. Mary-Alice’s dress was in a far worse state than the Major’s pants and shirt, but neither were particularly salvageable.

The house is a little time capsule of the past, having sat untouched for forty or fifty years, just resting and rotting. The dust that covers the floor is more of a sludge thanks to the dampness and the nearby river, with veins of mould and fungus running up the walls, and vivid green vines twisting and blooming up the door frames and around the ceiling. There might have been wallpaper once, but it’s little more than stained, rotten pulp right now.

(Two fat little frogs have nestled in a hole in the wall, luminous green and content. Mary-Alice watches them for a moment, fascinated. He likes that.)

They move through the house slowly; everything has been abandoned - it was not the home of wealthy people, but there is evidence of a few modest creature comforts - some books, discarded embroidery, painting supplies.

It feels like the other side of the Monterrey mansion; like they’ve stepped through the looking glass to another world. No one would argue that Maria’s home was cleaner - more bodies moving around to prevent dust settling - but the air of disrepair, of abandonment, of a liminal space is the same.

For a moment, he thinks he would prefer dirt and sand and the dry heat. But he’d take the rainiest days, the mouldiest shelter, before he’d go back to the hell of being a soldier in an unwinnable war.

—

The little washroom was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, with lacy spiderwebs strung in the ceiling corners. The tub matches up with his hazy human memories, bringing the smell of castile soap, and the heat of the boiled water sloshing into the the tin tub to the front of his memory.

(It is bittersweet in its simplicity. That once upon a time, he was a boy who washed in a bath like this, with homemade soap and rough rags. That he was a person, a human, a brother and son. A child. Jasper. Those memories sting and feel heavy but at least he has them. There is something amusing but also dreadful at Mary-Alice’s fascination with something as simple as frogs, as folding paper into animals, at how stricken she is out in a brand-new world.)

They are absolutely filthy; it’s been weeks since they washed, in a river somewhere in Virginia. They’ve relied upon the rain, upon the remoteness of their path, but maybe a bath would help. Would make them feel better. Even back with Maria, getting the opportunity to wash, and to claim new clothes made things seem a little less grim.

If nothing else, they’ve both got blood in their hair they need to wash out.

(The first time he had her after their escape, was in the lake somewhere in South Carolina when they stopped to wash the dirt and sand from the south off them. It was rough and hard, because he felt stripped raw, and she had held on to him tightly, her face pressed against him and it wasn’t exactly the cleansing baptism he had hoped for, he realised afterwards. Not for either of them. Maybe this bath will be better.)

—

There’s an old bucket in the corner, rusted tin housing a fascinating colony of something unidentifiable that he takes down to the river when Mary-Alice is exploring the narrow second floor.

It takes a few trips to the river to fill the tub enough for the both of them, and by then, Mary-Alice has crept back downstairs to watch his progress with obvious curiosity.

(A piece of ragged ribbon is clutched in one of her hands, and he wonders why she would want such a thing.)

“Wash yourself,” he says gently, motioning to the bath. The water is off-colour, but it is river water, from an ancient bucket, and it is still cleaner than the two of them.

Mary-Alice nods and strips out of her rag of a dress; there was something utterly pathetic in the wet slap it made when she dropped it on the stone floor amongst the dust and dirt. She’d drag it back on when she was finished in the tub, he knew that - but it looked like nothing. Black and brown and red, the fabric worn thin and frayed. It was barely fit for bandages or as a cleaning rag, let alone as someone’s clothing.

She picks up the dress and rings it out - bloody-muddy water dribbled out of it. And she folds it over the half-broken chair in the corner, as if it is going to be dry or cleaner when she reaches for it again.

The whole thing just feels sad to him. But then, he knows how wrong this is; he vaguely remembers what it was like to have new, clean clothes as a human. Even as a vampire, he got to replace his garments more often than Mary-Alice ever did - so few of their victims were small enough for their clothing to fit her.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mary-Alice in clothing that fit her right. Not the ragged hospital gown he found her in, nor any of the dresses she was provided with afterwards. Always swallowing her up, leaving her shoulder bare.

That’s why she had so many scars there, overlapping indiscriminately. It had been like a beacon to others, a vulnerability. Because her clothes never fit right.

(He thinks of homemade sweaters, of crisp afternoon dresses, of pristine petticoats and neat lace. He thinks of rancid dresses and torn hospital gowns and thin, pale limbs unguarded.)

—

It’s been awhile since he saw her bare like this, as she steps towards the tub. (Normally when he does, he doesn’t see her back.)

His fingers have grazed over the narrow plane of her back, but he’s never really just looked at it. At the scars dotting her shoulders and arms, at the long scar that runs from her shoulder blades to her hip raggedly. He wonders how it happened, how old it is.

(Not that old. He knows the small scars under his fingers as well as his own; in comparison, her skin dips into it… how burns on his tongue but he says nothing.)

She turns to him, her head tilted in curiosity some, and she just… stands there. Thin and pale and scarred and completely naked without shame or thought. And that tastes like regret, that she’s been raised up like this, that she doesn’t expect privacy, doesn’t bother with modesty, because she never had a reason to. The Wars take their pound of flesh, and left this girl without the idea that she should-could cover herself. Could turn away, refuse, say no.

Her lack of modesty is something that shames him more than it shames her. It is not enduring, not an ideal. Just another red mark against him.

He turns away and she finally climbs into the bath, a cloud of filth spreading out from her as weeks of dirt and grime and dried blood peel away from her skin. She sits in one end, still watching him as he moves around the little wash room, tugging open cupboard doors and watching the rotten, water-logged door crumple in his hand. Vermin and insects have eaten away at any linens left behind, and water and time finished the job.

They don’t speak as he slips from the room, leaving her in the cold water, waiting for… whatever it is that she’s always waiting for.

—

She sinks into the water when the Major leaves her to wash, and scrubs at her arm with her hand, eyeing the cake of forgotten soap in its dirty little dish. The soap has been left behind and broken down into some mould-riddled pulp that looks almost organic in its curdled decay - it fascinates her, honestly. It’s so innocent, yet so repulsive, a mundane little reminder that nothing last forever. At least, nothing should.

(It’s easy to focus on little things, like rotten soap or the blood dried pink in the Major’s hair, than bigger things. Like her visions. Like the fact that this was never supposed to be their fate. That she hasn’t seen anything in weeks, since they fled. She has no idea what will become of them, truly, and it is ice-cold, hard knowledge that she cannot outrun, that she will not acknowledge.)

Stretching out in the tub, she smiles at the idle thought the she cannot even reach the other end with her toes - unless she submerges herself and stretches right out. Maybe then.

She has to wash her hair, pick out tiny leaves and sticks and crumbs of dirt and matted blood. Will have to wash out her dress, too; it was gingham once. Now it’s just brown. Brown like mud, brown like the bathwater, brown like the dried rivulets of old blood running down her neck. If she ever gets to choose, she thinks she’d like a blue dress. A blue dress with a yellow ribbon around the waist.

(Why can’t she see?)

—

He prowls through the rooms of the house that are still accessible, peeling off things that might be useful - he finds an old wooden comb; a mouldy bedsheet that he rips in half to salvage; and a long-sleeved dress, decades out of style, but perhaps small enough to suit Mary-Alice. It was grey once, and now has water marks and ragged moth holes, but it’s far and away better than what she was wearing.

(He finds himself a cleaner shirt, a little mouldy but certainly wearable. His pants will last until their next hunt - Mary-Alice is a quick study in which human’s clothing will fit him. She might even be convinced into stealing some clothing from a forgotten washing line, so that she finally has something that covers her properly, something that doesn’t leave her vulnerable and exposed.)

Back in the washroom, Mary-Alice looks somewhat cleaner, but not entirely. She straightens up in the bath as he walks back in, curiosity in her eyes at the items that he’s carrying. She always liked getting new clothes back in the South, always inspected each dress she was issued, as if she had to make a choice and didn’t just have to settle for the closest fit, for whatever colour and fabric and style was in the mixed-up pile.

(She always did a little twirl when she tried them on, a little spin as she looked down at her new prize. It was… endearing. Sweet. Hopeful. He didn’t know if she realised that she did it, or that he noticed. He never said anything, but he was always sorry when she came back from a battle with a new tear or stain - she always appreciated her clothes so damn much.)

He nods at her, and she rests her chin on the edge of the tub, her gaze following him as he walked around the room.

The new dress and shirt are folded carefully on top of the bedsheet, so damn obvious in their surroundings like offerings to a pagan god.

(Perhaps prayers for a rebirth, for a revolution and a revelation. New clothes for a new age.

He’s already getting sentimental over a few lengths of moth-eaten fabric.)

When he turns back around, she’s still watching him with that vacant, but half-starved look, grime still streaked on her face.

“Has it helped?” he asks, sitting down by the tub. They are nearly face-to-face this way, neither looking up nor down. Her eyes are darkening, to a deep rose-red. They still have another few days, maybe a week, before they have to hunt again.

“Has what helped?” she asks, confused.

“The bath.” He looks at the stone floor, at the little veins of dirt running through it. “I thought it might help.”

She shifts in the tub, so he can only see the top of her nose and her eyes above the rim, shadows rippling over her face.

“Help?”

He swallows and looks at her. Really looks at her. At the dark circles under her eyes that seem deeper because of the fear. At the way she shrinks back but never breaks her gaze.

(A slim hand gripping his shirt sleeve when the nomads approached them, tucking herself behind him. That had surprised him; he’d never seen Mary-Alice back away from a threat before.)

“I know…” he begins, and he wants to reach out and hold her. But they aren’t there, they don’t casually touch in that way. This was his choice, and he dragged her along for it with little consideration for her, just laser focus on getting them both away.

“I know you didn’t see this coming…” he tries again and he doesn’t finish that sentence before Mary-Alice shudders and folds in on herself, burying her face in her hands.

And crying.

—

He reaches for her, instinctually; her tiny frame shaking as she tries to contain whatever she’s feeling.

(She cries like a little child; little wobbly sobs into her hands with shiny red eyes that will never produce tears but secrete venom down her face, more viscous than the venom from their mouth. It burns white stains on clothing, their faux tears do. Venom from their mouths and limbs eats through most fabrics and papers quickly. But that’s not why he wants to mop up her face and hold her tight.

He wants to because she’s scared and worried and feels like she’s alone. And he never, ever wants anyone else to feel that way, not when he can make a difference.)

The water sloshes in the tub as he climbs in, fully clothed. If the water was cloudy when it was first tipped into the tub, now it’s completely opaque - they would get a better wash, in cleaner water, if they just waded out into the rain-swollen river. She looks up at him with a breath that almost sounds like a gasp, as he sinks into the water, and pulls her into his arms.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, her thin arms wrapping around his neck, and she pushes her face against the rough, reeking fabric of his shirt and maybe there’s a corner of his mind that is a little embarrassed at the state of him when she’s this close, but she’s naked and looking so very broken that she takes priority, not some half-forgotten lessons on gentlemanly behaviour in the back of his head. It’s not like he’s ever been a particular gentleman to her before.

“I can’t see,” she says, and she shudders with misery and sobs. “I can’t see anything, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

Gently rocking her, he ran his hands through her hair, freeing a few small tangles and some debris gently.

“It’s alright,” he says again, because he really is lost at what to say to fix this. To apologise and soothe and heal and repent.

“No. It’s not,” she leans back, and he’s enchanted by her. By her mussed hair, and her big red eyes, and the sheen of venom clinging to the fan of her eyelashes. She really is truly lovely - he thought that the day he found her, with a wide smile and emotions that leapt out at him in their strength and purity. He could have led her anywhere, and she wouldn’t have questioned him. Or rather, she would have, but in excitement and trust. Not in fear or suspicion.

(He aches to go back and make it right. He’s watched her since they left; the blank, cold way she has moved around. Just utterly dull and uncomfortable. Peter had voiced the suspicion that it was him and Charlotte that had been making her so unhappy, that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to leave but had needed to follow the Major’s orders above all else. But even now, weeks after leaving Peter and Charlotte in New York, she was still so miserable, a shadow of all that she had been before - gone was that happy girl he found abandoned in Mississippi; as was the solemn but confident little shadow of the Wars. She was like a marionette with the strings cut away, like an abused animal limping into freedom reluctantly, scared of another set of tests and traumas.

And all of that is his fault.)

“It is. None of us know what’s going to happen next. That’s how it is,” he tries but she scowls.

“We never would have gotten this far if I hadn’t seen,” she murmurs, ducking her head. “I need… it protects all of us.”

It takes him a minute to comprehend what she’s saying - the scope and scale of her gift; of her efforts to protect and guide and manipulate. Of the fact that she was never just looking after herself; that she had stretched and warped herself into the shield that protected him and his.

(‘All of us’ is not just them. It is him, and her, and Peter and Charlotte. And he’s seen the way she and Peter stare at each other, at the way Charlotte inches away from Mary-Alice with varying degrees of subtlety. The only reason for her to have guarded them is because they were his friends. His people. And that is a layer of devotion, of kindness, and of power that he’s not sure how to compute, how to articulate.)

“…You did that for us?” he finally manages, pushing a soggy lock of hair out of her eyes, ignoring the rust-coloured stain it leaves on his fingers. They’ve both been hunting a little more viciously in this part of the country, where easy prey is harder to come by. Bloody hair is hardly their biggest problem.

She blinks and frowns. “Of course. We were meant to…” And she trails off, and for once, he feels something from her. Sadness, disappointment, and grief all tangled up. Something that was lost, then; something that couldn’t be retrieved.

His hand slips to cradle her cheek and he has a million things to say and he doesn’t know what to say first.

(I’m sorry, let me protect you, let me fix this, let me fix you. Let me stay with you, let me touch you, let me make you smile again.)

“How does it work?” he asked. “Your gift?” She’s leaning into his touch and he wonders if she notices. He wonders if it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“Decisions. The outcomes of choices. Things can change,” she says quietly, “but I’d see that as well.”

(She smells like flowers and salt, even now.)

“Does that mean you haven’t made a choice yet?” he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Mary-Alice shrugged. “I don’t know what choice to make,” she said.

It’s such a simple answer, such an easy problem, and he marvels at it for a moment. The idea that she’s been guided by her visions for so long - a hand pulling her along in the dark - that she can’t bring herself to move forward on an unknown path… it indicates so much power, so much discipline, and such a burden. That, to her, any wrong step on the tight-rope could ruin everything.

“What about a small decision?” he asked, and watched as her hands fell to his shirt, to the few buttons that still clung onto the fabric. “What’s something that you want?”

He can see the thoughts turn over in her head, watches her bite her lip and she looks at him like she can see right through him, see every thought and dream and regret he’s ever had before she breaks her gaze and looks back down at his chest.

“I want…” she begins, and another hint of emotion brushes by him, half gone before he can identify it - embarrassment.

“What do you want?” he asks again, covering her hands with his and she looks at him again with a desperate, starving look.

“I want us to stay together.” Her voice is soft and sad but hopeful. “Please.”

(He wasn’t expecting that.

Not at all.)

“I want that too,” he manages hoarsely.

And she looks at him, her face a portrait of unfiltered surprise. He doesn’t ever want to lose her, to let her go. To let her down. He wants… he wants to find her somewhere safe and peaceful, where her dresses fit properly and she smiles. He’s spent so many years using her as a crutch, as a way to keep himself functioning and alive, with no knowledge that she was already protecting him the very best she could, that he wants to repay her, desperately.

“Okay.” She nods and curls against his shoulder, threading the buttons through each buttonhole of his shirt. Pushing the sides of his shirt aside until he sits up long enough to peel it off and fling it onto the floor, she lies half-sprawled across him, occasionally wiping dirt and blood off him.

(For a moment, he feels her - skin to skin, in the dirty bathwater. They are fragile, her emotions, ephemeral and easily missed. But it is more that he ever felt from her before - little flutters of hope and reassurance, relief and a deep well of devotion; devotion to him.)

They sit there, tangled up in each other, for awhile - until she goes rigid for a few moments and then blinks up at him.

“We’ll be together,” she says, shifting against him, and he wishes they could sleep, just so they could do so curled in each other’s arms. “I can see that.”

He doesn’t know why (or won’t admit it) but he presses his lips to her forehead; despite the amount of times they’ve been together (on his terms, always), this gesture is strangely intimate, oddly binding.

They’ll be together.

That’s a future that will never change.

—

He finally strips off and they sink into the dirty water entangled, sponging off dirt with the use of his shirt, when he insists he found a cleaner one. She drags the comb through his curls so gently; her fingers teasing out each piece of debris, each snarl and knot. He attempts to salvage some of the soap for their hair, but it is a disgusting and futile endeavour.

(And maybe it’s worth it because she almost laughs; the mirth bubbling faintly as they both eye the mess.)

He wants to ask her questions about what she has seen, what was lost, and what comes next. But he doesn’t want to, not yet. There’s something more tangible between them now; soft and almost new, unlike what they’ve had in the past. He already likes this little bubble they’ve found themselves in - the way she wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him like she’s going to be torn away from him. The way she presses her face against his neck, he can feel her inhaling, nuzzling closer. He loves that already, that she wants to get closer, that despite everything, she’s so open about taking her comforts from him.

(He wants to press kisses to her cheeks, and cradle her in his arms properly. He wants to watch her spin in new dresses and memorise every mark and every scar on her skin. He wants this peace, this conviction that they’ve both finally found each other in the right place at the right time - a new certainty that has settled into him out of nowhere - to stay forever.)

Her lips quirk against his skin, and he thinks she might have smiled, and he tightens his arms around her.

(The next kiss he gives her will be one she asks for. He promises himself that.)

[nuttyrabbit]

Hey Nutty, can you tell your opinions on Archie Sonic's main cast relatives like Sonic, Tails and Antoine parents, Sally's family, Bunnie's uncle, Amy's cousin, etc?

This has been sitting in my inbox for months and I've wanted to answer it for a bit so here goes, have some rapid fire answers.

Jules and Bernie- Honestly very underrated. Sonic having parents is a hard concept to sell but writers like Bollers and Flynn make it work to a degree. Helps that they have likable personalities and some genuinely great moments

Armand and Marie D'Coolette- Marie is a non character. Armand has some okay moments but only really made an impact on me with his death, which was really well handled (at least his actual death scene. What led up to it wasn't)

Amadeus and Rosemary- God I get what Ian was trying to do with them but everything involving them (especially Rosemary) fell horrifically flat to the point of dragging down the comic. Rosemary especially is so insanely unlikable it makes you wish Tails never got his parents back. Frankly them being dead would serve the story better

Alicia and Max Acorn- Alicia is mostly a non character which is a shame. Max is a terrible character by virtue of him doing heinous shit for most of his existence and it either being excused, him never getting called out on it, or both. Ian did his best to salvage something from him but honestly by that point he was just fucking rotten to the core. A shame because the concept behind him being a jackass upon his return and forcing Sally to confront her rose tinted view of him is a fantastic idea, but it's never actually followed up on in a satisfying way.

Elias Acorn- One of my favorite pre-reboot characters. Bollers and especially Ian took a literal Sally clone and gave him genuine depth and liability. His arc is one of the best in the comic, and he's just a solid character all around. Lowkey missed him during the reboot

Nigel Acorn- Ian literally said "What if Max didn't suck" and made Nigel and it turned out pretty good. He isn't the deepest character but he's extremely likable while also having some really interesting mystery behind him concerning GUN (and his dead wife). Also he's literally just The Cooler Tim Curry.

Rotor's parents (any continuity)- Literally who gives a fuck? Tundra is kinda cool post reboot but that's more for his own stuff rather than being tied to Rotor. And pre-reboot they just serve as an excuse to have Rotor fuck around in the cold and save them from Eggman AGAIN.

Rob O the Hedge- Him being Amy's cousin is the only interesting thing about him and that's just because of the uncomfortable implications.

Beauregard Rabbot- Easily the best main cast family member of them all and one of the best pre-reboot characters period. Ian took a literal throwaway line from Mecha Madness and used it to create a character that added a ton of depth to not only Bunnie, but also the Sandblasters and even Mighty later on. Also helps that he has a really striking design

[r0tten-brainz]

hey do you want my carrie fix it au? no?

too bad!!!

Everything seemed to stop when the blood was dumped on Carrie. All the cheers and applause was cut off by shocked gasps and silence. Wide eyes stared upon the stage at their prom queen, now drenched in red sludge, her beautiful dress ruined.

Tommy Ross, the prom king, was staring at his date, some of the liquid (blood, literal blood, he realizes in horror) splashing all over his rental tuxedo. After the initial shock, anger bubbled in his chest so quickly his ears turned red and he turned to the crowd, searching for who could’ve done something so awful, his shouts of “What the hell?!” cutting through the quiet.

In the front row, George Dawson seemed to have the same reaction, he always was quick to anger but now he had a fair reason to. He was disgusted someone would do this, and almost everyone around him agreed. Almost.

It only took a minute for Norma to snort, and double over to quiet her laughter. A few others chuckled but otherwise they were alone in finding this funny.

The only one who hadn’t moved was Carrie. She was frozen, mouth agape and eyes wide. She only moved when the bucket itself came crashing down, right onto Tommy. She tried to catch him but he just collapsed onto the stage, groaning in pain.

People knew immediately something was off when she stood up straight, shoulders back and arms extending out at her sides. The ones who were laughing decided they wanted to leave, the pungent smell of the stale blood getting gross and killing their good time.

There were a few shouts of confusion and fear when the doors suddenly slammed shut and the room was flooded in red light. When one of the jocks tried to open it, he yelled in pain, like the door handle burned him.

That’s what made Tommy stir on the ground, his head aching and warmth trailing down his face. When he looked up the gym was in chaos, people screaming and trampling each other to find a way out. One guy, someone Tommy knew, had climbed up to try the window, but he was flung off like a bug. A squeaking noise made him look up and the fire sprinklers flipped on.

Murky water fell over everyone, only adding to the rotten smell permeating what with the blood also having its own stench. Tommy’s breath caught as he looked around, his eyes finally landing on Carrie.

She seemed unresponsive, barely even blinking as the chaos unfolded around her, like she was in the middle, stirring up the misfortune herself.

“Carrie- huff,” Tommy started, pulling himself up off the ground. His head spun and he nearly got sick with everything mixing around him, his stomach was never the strongest. “Carrie, we have to get you out of here.”

She didn’t move, didn’t even look at him, just tilted her chin up indignantly. The lights above them suddenly sparked, clearly not mixing well with the water. That frightened Tommy a lot, they could all die, and it seemed that’s probably what Carrie was aiming for.

“Carrie!” Tommy tried again, grabbing onto her shoulders. His breath was getting more frantic as he looked around behind him. “Carrie, listen to me. Look at me, Carrie.”

She blinked then, eyes focusing on the boy in front of her. She looked like she was on the brink of tears. When she noticed the blood flowing down his face it only made her feel worse.

“Is this why?” Her voice was quiet, if Tommy had been any further away he wouldn’t have been able to hear. “Is this why you asked me to go with you?”

A devastated look crossed over Carrie’s face. “So you could laugh at me?” Tommy gulped, really starting to feel sick now, realizing that in some sick way this was partially his fault. “She was right, I shouldn’t have come, I shouldn’t have-”

“No! Carrie, if I knew it wouldn’t have happened! I didn’t know- I swear whoever did this is dead.” He shouted, his grip on her shoulders tightening. “Please, you need to calm down. Just breathe, we can get you out of here.”

Flames caught his eye, the curtain behind them was on fire. They needed to go, now. Carrie sniffled, the tears finally falling. “They all laughed at me, they laughed…”

Tommy looked back at the crowd then back to Carrie. “No one laughed, no one did Carrie.” She let out a breath like she’d been holding it. The heat from the fire was getting unbearable.

“Do you swear?” Carrie whispered, looking up at him. She was in agony, he could see it clear on her face.

“Carrie, I swear.” Tommy holds out his arms for her, finally stepping back to lead her away from the gym. He could hear sirens approaching.

Carrie looked out a final time before the doors swung open and the students flooded out. The air was cool which was relieving to everyone. She took his hands then, and he led her off the stage out to the cool evening air.

Sue Snell pushed her way through everyone, Frank Green (notoriously known as the Beak) and George at her side, searching through the scared faces for Tommy and Carrie. “There they are!” She shouts, grabbing her friends and making their way over to the pair.

Tommy perked up at the sound of Sue’s voice, carefully leading Carrie to the grass so they could sit. Further away from everyone. Sue ran over and pulled Tommy down into a hug. Beak and George made their way over a second after, clearly left behind in the madness behind them.

Whispers were exchanged between the group, everyone sparing sympathetic glances to Carrie every once in a while. Carrie just sunk in on herself, Trying to calm herself down enough so she could walk home, figuring she messed up their night enough.

It surprised her all when they all sat around her, Tommy to her left and Sue on the other side. Beak and George settled across from them.

They didn’t talk, no one really knew what to say. It was Carrie who broke the silence. “I ruined your plans with your friends, didn’t I?”

Tommy just shook his head as he shrugged off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders. “No,” he assured her. “You didn’t do anything wrong at all, actually.”

Carrie blinked up at him, tears threatening to fall again but she willed them away and sank into the coat. If it was salvageable before, it’s definitely ruined now. Tommy wondered if the rental place had it in their hearts to cut them some slack.

“Carrie I- we- are so sorry,” Sue spoke up, reaching to hold her hand. “I tried to stop it, if I knew they were planning something I wouldn’t have asked, that was so cruel.” She whispered the end of her apology, like she couldn’t believe it had happened.

Carrie ducks her head. “I shouldn’t have come,” she says back. “Mama was right I shouldn’t have.” The group share worried glances, but they’ll unpack that later.

George sneers. “Don’t you think like that, it was fun at the beginning right?” Carrie glances up to him and nods. “Right! Don’t you worry, whoever did this will pay.” Frank nods along beside him, patting him on the shoulder encouragingly. “So inspiring.” Beak always did like to make a joke, to lighten the mood when things were heavy.

Tommy’s arm tucks around her, pulling Carrie closer to comfort her. “Even if it all ended bad, we’re all together, right?” He looked down to her, waiting for the response. Even now he’s pushing her gently, to get her out there. Maybe this is Tommy’s super power. She had telekinesis and he was good at making anyone comfortable, even Carrie White.

“Right,” she finished for him, which made Tommy smile. In return it made Carrie smile. Sue reached and brushed some bloody hair out of Carrie’s face.

“Wow, Sue,” Beak starts. “Before too long Carrie might steal Tommy from you curled up to him like that. Sue laughed and Carrie smiled, cheeks flushing red under the caked up blood.

Tommy grinned and shot him a look. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you beat her to it and steal me yourself, smart guy?”

Beak opened his mouth but was quickly cut off by George. “Oi! Don’t be comin’ onto my man y’ hear?” He shot back, elbowing Frank with a grin.

Tommy felt Carrie’s shoulders bouncing, but when he looked to her to see if she was crying, a small grin graced her face and quiet giggles bubbled up. Despite it all she was laughing. It made something twist in Tommy’s chest, he had to make himself look away.

“It isn’t much,” Sue starts. “But if you all wanted to stop by my house to get cleaned up, maybe we could still go to the Hive.” Carrie perks up, of course Sue was invited, why wouldn’t she be?

George whooped excitedly. “You’re a lifesaver, Susan, I really need a shake after all this.” Everyone cheered in agreement.

“Carrie?” Tommy said quietly. She looked up to him, still smiling a little. “Would that be okay?” He was so patient with her.

Commotion caught her attention though and she looked past Tommy towards the gym. The flames had been dealt with it’d seem, but that’s not what she’s looking at.

Two police officers were taking Chris Hargensen and Billy Nolan out of the school, Chris kicking and shouting the whole way to the car. Miss Collins watched them go, nothing but anger in her eyes. It only made Carrie’s smile widen. She hoped she’d never have to see Chris ever again after this.

“Yes,” she finally replied. “That seems fun.” Tommy grinned and stood, offering his hands to Carrie first to help her stand, then to Sue. “No help for me?” Frank joked. “Shut up, Beak,” Tommy joked back.

The rest of the night was filled with similar jokes, everything being kept lighthearted (lucky for Carrie, she may fall apart if anything else bad happened). The Hive was so much better than she imagined. They had delicious waffle fries, and soda flavors she didn’t know existed, she and Sue even shared an ice cream. Everything was perfect. She prayed to God that come Monday morning she wouldn’t be forgotten by Tommy Ross, or any of them.