#I am unable to reply concisely

[alvfr]

Hi bub! Hope you're having a good day 🤍

I was wondering if you have any published books recommendations for a non native English speaker?

Hiiii 💖

Might be a controversial opinion, but I would recommend any kind of book that you enjoy reading. Not saying quantity over quality, but most published books will have gone through several rounds of editing and will fulfil the fundamental requirements of plot and character development that might be lacking in fanfiction.

So it’ll depend on how comfortable you are with reading in English and what genre you’re into, I guess. I started with YA books (simpler language since they’re intended for a younger audience) like the Hunger Games and Artemis Fowl and moved on to the “big” fantasy books like Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire and The Wheel of Time.

Then I’m a big fan of action-filled chick-lit, because it’s fun and easy to read. My favourite here is the Stephanie Plum series, where the first book is described as: “Funny and light-hearted with a likeable heroine who never loses track of her goal to earn 10,000 dollars as a bounty hunter.”

Other than that, I think “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy is amazing and I think he has a distinct writing style that is easy to read for us non-natives. I also love Clive Barker, especially “Imajica”, but his style is more complex and requires more of me to read, if that makes sense.

Anyway, no matter what you read, you’ll most likely be a better writer for it 🤷🏻‍♀️ You can also read translated books you’ve enjoyed in English; I’ve done that a lot ☺️

Not sure if this was in any way helpful. Others are more than welcome to add their recommendations!

[cavalierious-whim]

Heel (NeuWrioLette)

Wriothesley gets to spank Neuvillette cause he's had a bad day. Part of 'by the strange pull'.

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter, and here on Patreon!

--

“So good for me.”

Neuvillette jerks as Wriothesley’s hand presses against the curve of his spine. There is hesitation from them both as Neuvillette sucks in a breath, nostrils flaring. It isn’t fear. Gods, no. But there is a thrill there, a tendril of exhilaration that claws through his chest as his alpha perks in interest. A little teeth gnashing, a little bit of fight. A low growl bubbles from his throat, unable to be held back.

Wriothesley’s hand stills, thumbing digging into his spine to rub circles. “Is this still okay?” he asks. Not in judgment but genuine curiosity, a need to know. An out. He always gives him an out.

And despite the way that his instincts squirm, Neuvillette wants to see this through. “Yes.” A soft murmur as he tucks his face into the meat of Wriothesley’s thigh, spread over his lap, ass in the air. Mostly naked—from the waist down, his shirt rucked up above his hips. 

Wriothesley is careful as he touches him. Soft, sweeping motions. Gentle. Intended to not spook. He knows the sorts of instincts that Neuvillette wrestles with which makes his submission all the sweeter. And Neuvillette wants to give into him. Wriothesley needs it that day; needs to unwind and let loose, to take pleasure in something that calms him. To gain back a shred of control after a taxing day of work.

The irony isn’t lost on either of them. Neuvillette is often amused that one alpha is soothed by the other because by all accounts it should be the opposite. But they’ve never been the standard—either of them. Their natures have always been contradictory to others but complimentary to themselves. 

Wriothesley’s chambers are chilly. The air is damp and humid. The couch is utilitarian, unlike the posh fair found in Neuvillette’s home. 

“We’ve never done this before,” murmurs Wriothesley. His hand is hot against his back, unwrapped, bare, searing hot against Neuvillette’s skin. A grounding weight. Already Neuvillette feels his alpha shrink underneath it, lulled by the way Wriothesley drags a thumb down every notch of his spine. 

“I’m aware.”

“We don’t have to—”

“Wriothesley.” He doesn’t immediately answer. Neuvillette shifts, turning his face back to look at him. Wriothesley’s face is pinched, contemplative. He still smooths his thumb over his lower back, tracing the edges of each vertebra, as if he’s counting his words alongside each movement.

Neuvillette doesn’t smell distress. Hesitation, yes—but that is standard when they enter new territory. “Wriothesley,” says Neuvillette again, “do you need this?”

Wriothesley’s eyes meet his. “No.” An honest answer. That was something that Wriothesley always promised him—the truth. Even though he’s had a bad day, even though he’s wound tight and frustrated and just wants to let go; he can do that with cuddling, scenting, and a nice cup of tea.

But Neuvillette knows him. “Do you want this?”

Ah, there it is. A crack in Wriothesley’s composure. His nostrils flare. His eyes glint with mischief. He brushes his knuckles down the length of his back, palming over Neuvillette’s ass. Heat rises. Neuvillette’s alpha shifts, but in arousal, not disgust. 

“Yes,” says Wriothesley.

Neuvillette smirks, the subtlest curve to his lips. “Then do your worst, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley’s eyes narrow at that. The tease never fails to land, which is why Neuvillette often abuses it. A surefire way to rile him up. Wriothesley’s fingertips dig into his asscheek, testing the give. “Safe word?”

Most would roll their eyes. Neuvillette does not. “Sigewenne,” he replies, clear and concise. 

Wriothesley snorts. “Be serious.”

“I am.” Nothing would call their play to a stop quicker than crying out her name. Or Sedene—but Wriothesley is still annoyed that she dumped a pitcher of water on him when he last fell asleep on Neuvillette’s office couch. The levity works; Wriothesley relaxes, the tension easing from his form. “This is about you,” continues Neuvillette. “Do as you wish.”

“It’s…” Wriothesley finds himself tongue-tied. Thinking too much. Battling with those inner demons of his. Taking too long. Neuvillette didn’t think himself needy but growls in annoyance. That earns him a sharp pinch against his asscheek and a heated gaze from Wriothesley. 

There it is. That resolve. That edge of alpha that makes Neuvillette’s blood sing, both in arousal and defiance. Wriothesley’s nails dig into the soft flesh of Neuvillette’s backside and he hisses, jerks, bucks slightly to pull away. But Wriothesley’s grip on him is too strong, holding Neuvillette firmly against his lap.

“Should I punish you?” he muses. And no, no, this isn’t punishment; he’s just teasing, which only makes the alpha in Neuvillette’s chest bristle in annoyance. Wriothesley hums, loosening his grip, thumbing over the red spots Neuvillette knows must be there. 

“I do believe that it’s my job to dole out sentences,” says Neuvillette in a low purr. 

“And if it’s you? Who doles out your sentences?”

Neuvillette’s chest burns, itching to fight back at the question. But he reels in those instincts and bites out, “No one.”

Wriothesley squeezes his asscheeks, spreading them slightly. Neuvillette shudders, feeling exposed and on edge. But pleasure curls, too, heat rising in his gut at the way Wriothesley stares and takes his fill. “Oh?”

“I am the law.”

Wriothesley’s expression shifts, his mouth curling into a feral grin. “You have no jurisdiction here—which was something you gifted to me.”

Neuvillette clicks his tongue. “And yet you don’t use it—”

A crack slices through the room. Neuvillette’s ass cheek burns, white-hot, aching in the wake of Wriothesley’s palm against it. He grunts, sinking forward, chest against his thighs. Ow. But then he groans as Wriothesley soothes out that twinge, kneading at the muscle. 

Hesitating again. Gauging Neuvillette’s reaction. The space is thick with alpha pheromones and mildly tense. But it’s good. Gods, it’s— Neuvillette tilts his face, cheek against Wriothesley’s thigh as he inhales, drowning in the leather and tea scent that he’s come to crave. 

His instincts flare. Claws dig into the meat of Neuvillette’s thigh—but that is it. He shifts, those fingers curling into the fabric instead. 

Wriothesley’s thumb is gentle as it sweeps over the swell. “More?”

Yes, yes yes. Neuvillette lifts his hips and bites out an affirmative, which makes Wriothesley chuckle.

“Should I make you count?”

Neuvillette blinks at the thought. Oh. His knee-jerk impulse is to pull away but there’s something about the request. And the other part of his brain, that rational part, the part that’s laden and thick with lust—he wants that. There is power in giving up control and there is no one that he trusts aside from Wriothesley. A game of cat and mouse as they explore boundaries and to what lengths they can milk their vulnerability. 

Want curls in Neuvillette’s gut. He’s about to reply when Wriothesley beats him to it. “Yeah, count them for me. I want to hear it.”

Another smack, this one against the other cheek, one that leaves stinging pulses. It burns through Neuvillette’s being, heat coiling in his core, winding tighter and tighter. 

“One,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed as Wriothesley’s hand soothes the hit. His palm is cool against Neuvillette’s ass, light-handed and sweet—and then it lifts to lay another hit across the upper end of both cheeks. A fresh spot, one not yet marked red. Neuvillette moans, head tilting forward to rest against Wriothesley’s leg as he manages a breathy, “Two.”

His ass is hot. Rippling, stripes of pain pulse through his backside, setting his nerves alight. Neuvillette’s nostrils flare. Sensitive, so, so sensitive. 

“Look at you,” murmurs Wriothesley, admiring the pink tint to his skin. Another strike, this one lower, against the underside of Neuvillette’s ass. 

“Three,” he hisses, the word choked off. His cock twitches. He—he shouldn’t… This is for Wriothesley, for him to let loose some of that tightly coiled aggravation. And while Neuvillette didn’t think he’d be uninterested in such affairs, he underestimated how quickly he would rise to the equation. His cock hangs between his thighs, half-hard, aching as it slowly fills out. 

Wriothesley sighs, his tone caught between awe and fondness. “You’re actually counting,” he says quietly.

Of course he is. It’s what he asked, for no? And even if Wriothelsey had been teasing, even if he didn’t actually expect it, the entire point of this is for Neuvillette to submit to his whims. The further their play wears on, the easier that becomes. He craves Wriothesley’s hands against his ass, the bite of his spanking, fingers sinking in and squeezing at his flesh.

Neuvillette could look at him; he could twist to the side and knows Wriothesley would look like a wreck if they locked gazes. The tension has melted away from his body. His touches turn sharp as he settles into his role, delighting in how Neuvillette squirms in his lap. 

Two competing alphas, one at the mercy of the other. A rumble rolls through Neuvillette’s chest and he tamps it down—

But not before Wriothesley hears it. 

He spanks him again, this hit against his right cheek, striking a place that is already tender. Neuvillette gasps, surprised at how the pain radiates, spreading from the center of impact, outwards. He throbs—both his ass and his cock. 

The touch pulls back. Neuvillette chases it. The juxtaposition is too good, the mixture of pain and pleasure. His cock is fully hard now, heavy as it hangs, dripping from the tip. Neuvillette shifts, twisting just so, grinding his length against Wriothesley’s thigh without thinking about it. 

“What’s this?” Wriothesley traces a finger down the smooth curve plane of Neuvillette’s perineum and the seam of his balls. 

“I—” Neuvillette groans, legs spread and Wriothesley's arm slips between his thighs to drag a knuckle down his cock. 

“Oh, you like this.”

“I—”

“Distracted. So desperate. Is that why you forgot to count that last one?”

Fuck, he didn’t— 

“Four,” says Neuvillette. “Four—”

Wriothesley instantly relaxes, his hand falling away to cup his cheek. “Sweetheart.” The endearment curls annoyance in Neuvillette’s chest as his alpha snarls, but he sinks into it nonetheless, tilting his face to kiss Wriothesley’s palm. “I was just teasing. A little fun.” Wriothesley’s thumb traces his bottom lip. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Neuvillette finally looks at him and finds Wriothesley watching back with a half-lidded, libidinous gaze. He’s just as affected. Arousal spices the air, and not just Neuvillette’s ocean-spray scent—no, the tang of lather and black tea lingers too. 

“Do you want more?”

The expected question, the out that Neuvillette is always given if his alpha isn’t in the mood. Tension coils through him, hackles half-raised, claws tight around Wriothesley’s thighs. Neuvillette didn’t expect to be so affected by this but Wriothesley’s hand, firm against his ass, has him writhing in his lap beyond the point of no return. 

“Please.”

Wriothesley’s throat bobs. “Fuck,” he curses. “You’ll be the death of me, won’t you?”

There are worse deaths to have. They both know it. Wriothesley squeezes Neuvillette’s cheek sweetly before his hand pulls away. “Come on, Sweetheart—”

“Wriothesley.”

A chuckle. “One day,” he says, combing through Neuvillette’s hair, mussing it. 

Never, thinks Neuvillette, even though the name has grown on him. Even though he loves the soft and gentle way Wriothesley says it. Stripped bare as he lays out his intention. It’s quiet, how he does it. Underhanded. Subtle. 

But Neuvillette is no fool. 

Wriothesley’s thumb dips into the cleft of Neuvillette’s ass, pressing against his hole. Rage flutters through him—just for a second. The gnashing of teeth as his alpha jerks, recoiling. “Easy there,” says Wriothesley, stroking from his hole, down to the smooth strip of skin below it, digging his thumb into it.

Just like that, all those instincts that rage settle, far too drunk on lust to put up a fight. Neuvillette moans as Wriothesley’s thumb works its magic, moving back to press against his rim. The barest pressure, not enough to sink in, but enough to be felt, the promise of more lingering there.

And then Wriothesley spanks him with his other hand. It’s jarring. So different from the sweet words that drip from Wriothesley’s mouth and the soft-handed touch of his thumb that rubs his hole. Neuvillette’s skin is hot. It stings, red from his hand, Neuvillette knows. 

He forgets to count, mind fogged as his hips roll, grinding his cock against Wriothesley’s lap. Anything for friction. Neuvillette’s cock aches, his ass stings, his entire body a live wire ready to tip over the edge. 

Wriothesley too. Neuvillette can feel the hard line of his erection straining Wriothesley’s trousers. He rubs his cheek against it, inhaling the musky scent of Wriothesley’s arousal. He moans, a wanton keen that earns him another spank.

“Gods, you’re—” Wriothesley brushes his bangs back and takes in the sight of him. Neuvillette must be a mess, sweat beading on his brow, lips dry as he lips them. He rolls his hips again, his breath hitching as the tip of his cock catches against the rough fabric of Wriothesley’s clothing. “That’s it, Sweetheart. Just like that. ”

Neuvillette is close. Between the white-hot pain that sears through his backside, the thumb against his hole, teasing a promise, and the way his cock is trapped underneath him against Wriothesley’s leg, he’s nearly gone. Wrung thin. Wasted. 

“I—you—”

“Don’t worry about me.” 

How can he not? This was supposed to be about Wriothesley unwinding and instead, Neuvillette humps his thigh like an omega in heat, like he’s desperate to be bred, like he needs to be fuck full with his knot. His alpha snaps at that thought, finally baring its teeth. He should roll them over and pull at Wriothesley’s clothing. Give him his cock instead until he��s settled nice and deep. All those thoughts back from his blasted rut come barrelling back.

Wriothesley tugs at Neuvillette’s chin harshly. “Heel,” he says, authoritative. 

And fuck if that doesn’t—

Neuvillette whines, nodding, realizing just how deep his claws had sunk into Wriothesley’s thighs. He eases off, murmuring an apology, which is promptly ignored.

“So good for me,” says Wriothesley instead, back to palming his sore ass, relishing in the way that Neuvillette hisses at the praise.

And it hurts—but it hurts so good, the sort of pleasure that pricks the base of his spine. He shudders, rutting against Wriothesley’s lap. “Archons.” Neuvillette’s voice is raspy with his. Wriothesley encourages it, lifting his thigh against him. That thumb still rests against his hole, tracing Neuvillette’s rim, a fucking tease. “Please—”

“No, like this,” cuts in Wriothesley. 

“Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley dips close and brushes an errant lock of hair behind Neuvillette’s ear. He nuzzles his temple, inhaling, moaning at the smell of him. “Against my leg,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think you’d get off on the spanking but shit, it’s hot. Almost as hot as you grinding against my thigh.”

He’d rather be fucked. Neuvillette aches to be filled, Wriothesley plastered against his back, heavy and hot. He’d choke on his addicting scent and the heft of this cock. Drown in the feel of him, in his need for him—and even Neuvillette’s alpha has calmed, purring at the idea. 

Heel, indeed, he thinks. Happily so. And maybe it’s because he’s spent an eon training his beast, but Neuvillette feels safe like this. Even with his alpha pushing back the tiniest bit, it always eases, always gives in because Wriothesley is safe. 

Neuvillette rolls his hips, seeking out more friction. Precome stains Wriothesley’s trousers, making a mess of them. Claws dig into his ass, dragging down the swell, leaving red welts in their wake. 

“I should fuck you,” says Wriothesley, that damned thumb of his tugging at Neuvillette’s rim. Not enough to sink in, but the pressure is blinding all the same. “Later. We’ll tuck into the sheets and I’ll slip in and fuck you nice and slow.”

Another spank, a light-handed slap that sings through the air makes Neuvillette come suddenly, spilling all over his trousers. He groans, drunk at the thought of dressing down for the night. Of staying over, wrapped in Wriothesley’s arms.

He hasn’t done that yet. Their trysts and affairs are always cut short, their duties more important than their wants and needs. They haven’t had the chance to explore such things, but Neuvillette thinks that it would work out fine. He buries his face in Wriothesley’s lap, desperate to just feel him, a churring whine caught in his throat.

“Hey.” Wriothesley’s hands leave his ass in favor of Neuvillette’s face. “Hey, come back to me. Are you okay?”

“I’m—”

“Does it hurt?”

Neuvillette hums. Yes and no. The sting has buried itself into his skin and he knows sitting will be uncomfortable. But it’s a good ache, the sort that sinks into your bones, the kind of reminder that stays with you in the most delicious of ways. 

Wriothesley is too kind. Neuvillette moves, twisting, and curling into his lap. Uncaring of the mess he’s made, he just needs to be close, to press his face against his nape. He nips at Wriothesley’s scent gland, nosing at it, licking it.

And Wriothesley just sighs, tilting back against the couch, giving him all the access that he needs. 

Instincts both rage and settle. A contradiction. Neuvillette is pulled in two directions as he mouths at Wriothesley’s neck, fangs catching on his skin, desperate to sink in. A tug at his hair; not hard, just enough to bring him back too. When Neuvillette meets Wriothesley’s face his gaze is sweet, amused, even. The scar underneath his eye crinkles as he laughs, his grip on Neuvillette’s hair loosening. 

“Needy thing,” teases Wriothesley before pulling him forward for a lingering kiss. 

Neuvilllette’s blood lulls, heavy in his veins. Exhaustion wafts over him like a tidal wave, jarring in how hard it hits. “You��you’re—” Neuvillette paws at Wriothesley’s cock, only for his hand to be caught around the wrist. 

Wriothesley tugs it to his mouth, pressing a kiss against his pulse. “No need for that.”

“I want—”

“Oh, I know you do.” Wriothesley presses into his space, nosing at his nape. “Gods, you always smell so good. But you should rest. We can deal with me later.” Then his voice dips lower near his ear. “And don’t think I don’t want you. It’s taking everything that I have not to roll you over and fuck you right here. But.” That tone is gone the moment he pulls away. He brushes Neuvillette’s bangs back and sighs at the sight of him. “I think you’d be a pillow princess.”

Neuvillette narrows his eyes at the accusation. “Not if I fuck you into the bed instead. You’d look so good on my cock.”

A challenge. They always have these little half-hearted spats. Wriothesley gives him a wolfish grin. “Want to find out?”

Time comes to a standstill. Neuvillette sits across his lap, his cock soft, half-naked, thighs smeared with come. His heart is in his throat. His alpha, though—oh, there’s interest. Desire spreads through him, heady and hot. 

“It isn’t fancy,” says Wriothesley then, hesitant. He drags his thumb down the length of Neuvillette’s arm over and over, in a repeated fashion. A nervous gesture. “Meropide. Celestia knows it's cold and damp. My bed is too small too. It’ll be cramped, but—”

“I want to stay.” Wriothesley blinks. Neuvillette’s lips part and surprisingly, his words come easy. “Wriothesley, you don’t need to talk me into staying. The idea appeals to me. I was thinking about it when—”

Wriothesley kisses him again, harder, longer, tongue slipping between his teeth to seek out his own. Neuvillette sinks into it, kissing him back, fingers digging into the back of his neck.

“You’ll have to share my clothing,” murmurs Wriothesley when they part. “And I can’t cook here—I don’t have a kitchen. We’ll have to get breakfast at the canteen. Everyone… they’ll…”

“We are a terribly kept secret.” Everyone knows. They couldn’t possibly not, not with the way they stink up the space together, with the way they smell of each other, drenched in shared scents. Not that they were hiding, to be perfectly honest.

Wriothesley smiles, the tension easing. And then he smirks. “So? Spanking?”

Neuvillette scoffs. “What happened to ‘Wanting to let loose?’”

“No, no, this conversation is about you now.”

“It is not.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.”

More laughter. More lingering kisses. Wriothesley’s hands smooth over Neuvillette’s sore ass, making his alpha roll over and keen. For now, he’ll indulge. Let Wriothesley’s hands wander before draping himself in his clothing. 

Tomorrow morning though, the game resets, and Neuvillette has his sights set on revenge. 

[justplainwhump]

4 for tyler

When scared, does your OC fight, flee, freeze or fawn? (from this ask game)

Oh this is a very good question, as in, I am somehow unable to answer it. Firstly, he just isn't usually scared. He's tall and muscular and pretty chill, and he just doesn't find himself in situations that would scare him.

I would generally say, flee. Not outright run, depending on the situation, but just like, getting himself out of it. Second option, fight, because that seems like the appropriate thing to do in his worldview. However, while he may be rather strong, he isn't a good fighter at all. So that approach won't get him far.

These are the general responses however; facing the bigger, more chilling and constant fear that has been creeping into his life in the form of his scary employer, it's, in fact, fawn (too long) - fight (too late) - freeze.

I'm sorry this is probably not as concise a reply as you were hoping for, but I still had fun thinking about it - thank you so much for asking!!

[mydarlinglaszlo]

Uhmm - happy birthday!

I hope you you had as nice a day as possible to this point, even if Imodna didn't become canon in CR just yet, and that you got a chance to rest for a while. Here's to your "new year" bringing more rest and peace of mind overall!

awww anon thank you so much, you definitely made me smile you're so sweet 🥺🥺 I really appreciate it! and yeah, my day has been pretty good so far, got to finally rest from work and watching the cr3 ep was great even if we didn't get imodna canon lol (i do appreciate the mention tho sdnjfdkjsd, and yeah yet is the key word. hopefully xD they did have some nice scenes tho). And i'm gonna play some harry potter board game with friends now which is fun :D And yeah again thank you so much, also i'm a bit taken aback by you knowing it's my bday dfjkndfjks but i guess i did mention it while rambling in some of my tags, just didn't think anyone actually reads them xD so yeah that was really nice of you to send an ask about it, hope you have a great day too :')

[novantinuum]

Hi, I was just wondering if you had ever thought about what would have happened in your story "Hollowed Moon" if you had continued it. I always thought it was such an interesting setup that could have gone in so many different directions. And there really aren't other stories focusing on Stevonnie and Spinel, so it was unique!

Hiya!

So, I do have some half-written, half-plotted out material to share. I gave this story some consideration the other day, and came to the decision that I don't have the desire to finish it out, alas- I have far too many other active WIPs to add it to the list. There's a few good reasons why I discontinued it, anyways... intimidation over the huge surge of attention it was getting back in 2019, some rude comments from overzealous Spinel fans, (I know everyone isn't like this, but a certain segment of the Spinel side of the SU fandom kinda burned me over time, hhh), and a future chapter containing a sensitive topic that I wasn't in a good headspace to write about at the time.

But! Anyways! Below the cut is all the existing material I have for Hollowed Moon past chapter 14, consisting of a mixture of descriptions, sketchy dialogue, and prose. It honestly feels nice to finally be able to put this story to an official rest.

__

Chapter 15

“I... I saw her.”

“Who-?”

“I saw Pink Diamond. I saw you, in this exact garden, in a dream. I- it was like I was experiencing everything through her. She explained your game, tapped your nose and told you to smile, then warped away—“

“That’s it, that’s what happened, almost exactly! But how could you even know that, I never—“

“I don’t know,” they blurt out. “I have empathic abilities, and sometimes that makes dreaming a little weird, but I have no idea how or why I saw any of this.”

[Pause for Stevonnie to think]

“Spinel, I’m so, so sorry,” they whisper brokenly. “But I think... she left you here.”

“What...?”

“She said she’d return, but before she warped away she whispered goodbye, like she didn’t actually intend to make good on that promise. She was lying to you,” they choke out, voice thick.

“No. No,” she says in clear denial, “no she’s not. She can’t be! She told me she’d come back! I can wait! I just have to wait—“

“But she’s not! She... she can’t, because Pink Diamond is gone. She- she was shattered, Spinel. Five thousand years ago, on the Earth. I- I should’ve told you this from the beginning, and I didn’t, and I- I’m so, so sorry—! But she left you behind, and now she’s never coming back.”

[Silence. Tears brim in Spinel’s eyes. Her eyes grow dark, pained, and then she glares at Stevonnie with such venom it almost knocks them backwards in alarm. ]

“NO!” she screams, tears streaming down her faded pink cheeks.

[She tears her feet up from the roots and runs away, using her arms like an orangutan to vault herself forward super fast so Stevonnie can’t catch her.]

___

Chapter 16

AN: Content warning for self-shattering attempt. Part of the reason why I had to stop writing this story at the time. I considered pushing the plot another way, but it didn't feel authentic to how I believed this scenario would play out for Spinel when she didn't have a direct target for her anger. Without someone to actively be jealous and upset AT, I could only imagine her breaking inwards instead of outwards, feeling that she's utterly failed in her life's purpose. Nothing more than a description for this chapter... and it'd be a short one.

[When Stevonnie finds her, she’s smashing her fists against her gem in her sheer anguish. She’s already cracked it. She’s glitching. It looks terribly painful. She’s about to strike her gem again when Stevonnie intervenes.]

___

Chapter 17

[Post timely intervention. Spinel is still cracked at this moment, though... her form glitching as she cries.]

“I was... her best friend,” she cries, fat, glistening tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was supposed to make her happy! Why wasn’t she happy? Why didn’t she come back?“

[Spinel reasoning that maybe if Pink came back for her, she wouldn’t have been shattered in the first place]

“What did I do wrong?” she whispers hoarsely, gazing pleadingly into Stevonnie’s eyes. “Wha- what am I doing? Why do I wanna hurt myself so badly?”

“Shh, now,” they reply, tears of their own brimming at the crease of their eyes, and pull Spinel’s head to their chest. “I’ve got you...”

___

Chapter 18

They know their throat is tight, and their voice scratchy. They know they’ve never sung this song in front of another living being, since it’s something personal they composed alone on one of their late nights back on Earth, thinking about all the difficult days Steven and Connie have had to face over the months. Pair this with their active crying, and there’s no way their singing will be anything pretty.

But pretty doesn’t matter right now.

Stevonnie opens their lips, and— clutching the broken hearted Gem close, rhythmically rocking with her back and forth— lets the wandering melody emerge from within.

“I guess I have to face That in this awful place I shouldn’t show a trace Of doubt...”

“But pulled against the grain I feel a little pain That I would rather do Without...”

“I’d rather be Free, free Free...”

[Hoarse, Spinel starts singing with them.]

“I’d rather be Free, free Free...”

“Free, free Free...”

“From here...”

[Stevonnie holds her tight while crying, their tears healing it back up.]

___

Chapter 19

AN: Don't have anything but a single bit of dialogue in this chapter note- I'm assuming I intended it as being a good few hours after the events of chapters 16-18... when Spinel has calmed down a little and has a moment to reflect on the upsetting news she's just received.

“I think... I always knew,” she says, voice hoarse. “In a way. It was so obvious how she felt about me.

___

Chapter ?

AN: From here on out, the plot hasn't been split into individual chapters.

[At some point shortly after chapter 19, Lars and his crew locate Stevonnie in the garden, and pick them and Spinel up. The next few bits of dialogue and description takes place on the ship.]

Rutile twins: “I haven’t heard of Spinels being produced in over five millennia.” “Me neither!”

Rhodonite: “Yeah, I heard they stopped making them entirely after the rebellion on Pink’s colony.”

[A bit of overwhelming conversation later, no one really noticing Spinel's conflicted emotional response to so many Gems hovering around her at once.]

Padparadscha: “I predict that you’re both going to make Spinel feel very uncomfortable aboard this ship.”

Rhodonite: “I’m sorry, we don’t exactly meet new Gems every century.”

Rutile twins: “Yes!” “It’s just been us until we met our captain!”

Fluorite: “Our new huuuuman friend helped us escape the tunnels on Homeworld. Now... we’re slooowly making our way back... to Earth.”

Spinel: “Earth?? You’re going to Pink’s world? But why? I heard she... was shattered.”

___

[Spinel feeling a sense of kinship with the idea that there’s other Gems who didn’t serve their rightful purpose and are now escaping their life on Homeworld to be free of that. Because now, without her Diamond, since she was unable to keep her happy, she’s an Off Color too. She failed her given purpose same as them.]

[Discussion of Earth, and the rebellion, and how there’s Gems living free there. And how Pink’s colony was siphoning life away, and that’s what these Gems were fighting to protect. Stevonnie points out all the plants and wildlife that used to live in the garden, and asks her if she felt happier when it was around. Spinel says yes. Stevonnie says that this is what the Diamonds are destroying, with each lifeless colony they forge. Everywhere they go, dead wildlife lies in their wake.]

Spinel: “I... guess I never thought of it that way.”

[(Stevonnie adds...) And while they’re very sorry for the personal connection there, and can’t imagine how painful that must be, that’s why Pink Diamond was shattered.]

[Spinel is given an open choice... Lars gives the invitation to stay with him and the Off Colors, and Stevonnie offers for her to come with them back to Earth. It's not a hard decision for her in the end, though. She's always dreamed of seeing what was once Pink’s planet, ever since she heard the Diamonds bequeath it to her.]

___

Stevonnie: “Okay, so… before we go, I need to be honest with you about something." [deep breath] "I’m actually a fusion of two separate people who are close friends. You... know what fusion is, right?”

Spinel: “Duh, o’course! What, d’ya think I was made yesterday?”

[...]

Stevonnie: “But even with that, I can’t be together as me all the time. Steven and Connie, the two who come together to form me... they love hanging out with each other so much, but they also have their own lives! Other friends, other hobbies, their own families. They still talk when they’re apart, but they know it’s okay to do things alone, too. Do you know why I’m telling you this?”

Spinel: [shakes head no] “No...?”

Stevonnie: [sighs] “I understand you’ve been left behind. Believe me, I know how bad that feels. So the last thing I wanna do is make you think I’m doing that too.”

Spinel: “Y-you— you’re going away?” Stevonnie: “Unfusing, yes.” Spinel: “But Stevonnie, you—“ Stevonnie: “Spinel. No matter what, you are my friend. Steven and Connie consider you a friend, too. And my hope is that you’ll keep making a whole bunch more on Earth, so you’ll always have people around who know and love you. But that can’t always be me, okay?“

___

[At home... on Earth. There's a bit of a close call for Pearl when Spinel arrives, and recognizes her as Pink's second pearl. This is news for Garnet and Amethyst and Steven, the first of which had somewhat suspected that Pearl used to be in the diamonds' service, but never knew for sure. Pearl, of course... can't say much on this due to her gag order... not that anyone else knows about that yet... but does manage a very concise and PD=RQ free explanation about her past in Pink's court, and her transition towards being a Crystal Gem:]

Pearl: “Rose Quartz set me free, and I’ve been a part of the rebellion ever since.”

___

[At some point between the last scene and the next, mention how Spinel had a bit of a relapse... she ended up poofing herself, and reformed differently. A little bit closer to the smudged mascara and frayed pigtails look of canon, but no rotated heart. Unlike in canon, she has a solid support system amongst the Crystal Gems, and she's working hard to recover from the heartbreak of Pink's abandonment.]

___

[Final scene is set post A Single Pale Rose. Steven and Connie fuse, and Stevonnie goes to find Spinel to check in on how she's taking the news. The final line of the fic is as follows:]

Spinel: “I know you’re not her, not really. And I know you’ll always be a better person than she ever was. But in some silly cyclical way... back in that garden... it’s almost like Pink came back for me after all.”

[stingslikeabee]

psa asking threads length/multiple threads

I just wanted to take some time to address my mutuals in relation to my threads - I am aware I write more than most, and that long replies can get discouraging or intimidating or just demand more time (and where does one buy time, right?).

If you ever find yourself unable to carry forward a thread because of length - please let me know. Threads are my favorite writing method (and I tend to view asks as drabbles all over the timeline or fun ‘what ifs’, if you may) - but I don’t want my partners to be thrown off or to lose muse if my writing is leading to such outcomes - for whatever reason.

Anyone is more than welcome to message me to have shorter interactions taking place simultaneously, or to ask me to be more concise (although no one is ever required to match the length, of course) - I am willing to adapt if it means my mutuals will be more comfortable, really.

Thank you! :) Mari.

[erinxneil]

3. Please hold my hand.

I didn’t forget about prompt #2! I just had an idea for #3 and I’m doing these prompts in whichever order I feel like. If you have any requests for the next prompt, as you want to see it sooner than later, simply message me! The prompt list is here and I am more than willing to write it! :)

this is going to be a long one, so I hope you enjoy, I spent a long time on it <3

masterlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid X Reader

TW: Graphic depictions of crime

Summary: Spencer gives up hope for himself way too easily.

>>>These will all probably be Spencer Reid X Reader unless someone requests something different :) Also, this one I will leave up for interpretation- if you want to view it as romantic, it can be, or if you want to view this as platonic, it can be!

“So, we know that our unsub tends to kill quickly. He uses a long dagger, and slits the victims throats from just below the jaw and drags it all around. The victims die almost instantly.” Hotch spoke.

“Well, then I guess we can rule out sexual sadist. There’s no sexual component to the crimes, and the kill is quick.” I replied, examining the photos on the board in front of us.

“Yes, but also the autopsy report from the past three victims shows that they were missing for eight hours before they were killed, so we don’t know what he’s doing to them during that time.” Spencer rebuked my claim. Of course, the genius has something to say.

“While that may be true, there are no obvious wounds on the victim other than the slit throat. While one of the three victims also had a stab wound in her side, this was likely just to slow down the victim, as there was skin beneath her fingernails. She probably tried to escape. But none of the other victims have any other wounds, so while he held them for 8 hours, he didn’t touch them.”

Spencer chuckled. “Yes, Y/N, but I think we can both agree you don’t need to physically touch someone in order to torture them.” I nodded. That’s very true.

Morgan coughed. “Well, now that we’ve discussed the possibility that our suspect is a sexual sadist and have been unable to agree on a concise point..” He trailed off. “What’s next? Why does he target females in their forties?”

Emily glanced up. “He probably had some sort of rejection from a female in his life, who fit the description that his victims have in common. Tall, white, brunette. Maybe a girl he liked, or his girlfriend, or even his mother. Either way, some sort of traumatic life event caused him to strike out like this.”

Hotch intervened. “We can discuss this more on the jet. Grab your go-bags, wheels up in 30. We’ve been asked to come to California, where these crimes are occurring.” He left the room without another word.

“Well, this should be an interesting case.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

I took my usual seat on the jet between Prentiss and Reid. Morgan sat across from me with Hotch and Rossi on either side of him, and JJ generally sat to the side alone, since she liked to catch up on her sleep the moment we were able to.

After debriefing for a while, the team had come to the conclusion that the killer was likely a male between the ages 20 to 30 who had felt rejected by his mother at a young age. She likely kicked him out of the house, where he found solace in some hobby that would hopefully be identifiable at the scene. Due to the precision of the cuts, the unsub likely has knowledge in the medical field, and may even work in a hospital. This would be the first place we would check when we landed.

“Good work, team. Try to get some rest in before we land.” Hotch stood and moved to the front of the jet, where he probably wouldn’t take his own advice.

I squirmed in my seat, trying to get into a comfortable position. Everyone around me had already fallen asleep. Or so I thought.

“Having trouble, Y/L/N?” I sheepishly glanced up at the voice, coming from none other than Spencer Reid.

I sighed. “I can’t get comfortable. I’m exhausted and got no sleep last night, yet I can’t seem to fall asleep.” Spencer offered me a small smile and patted on his shoulder, nodding down at it.

I blinked. “Are you sure? I really don’t want to be a both-” “I really don’t mind, Y/N.” I smiled in thanks and rested my head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Reid.” I murmured, already sleepy. He was so warm.. and smelled like strong cologne.

I fell asleep quicker than I’d like to admit.

-*-*-*-*-*-

“This is gold.”

I woke to the sound of giggling and photo shutters. Still dreary, I groaned quietly and attempted to burrow myself deeper into my pillow.

However the pillow felt a lot more solid than usual.

I slowly opened one eye to see Emily, JJ, and Morgan peering over me. Morgan held his phone, taking countless photos, while Emily chuckled quietly and JJ rolled her eyes in amusement.

“What’s going on? Did we land?” I rubbed my eyes tiredly before looking beside me and realizing I was practically straddling Reid. I jumped in surprise, scrambling off of him, which caused him to wake and the others to laugh. 

“Morning sleepyhead, sleep well?” Morgan teased.

“Actually, I did. Did we land?” His groggy voice took me by surprise. I felt my cheeks tinge, knowing the rest of the team had caught me basically cuddling into him as we slept. Screw Reid’s chest for being so comfortable! I usually sleep with a body-sized pillow, and in my sleep, I must have mistaken Spencer for it.

“Yes, lovebirds, we landed.” Emily laughed at us, walking off the jet, JJ following shortly behind.

Reid shot me a look of confusion. “Lovebirds?” He looked to the side, trying to recall his memory, before his eyebrows likely shot up in realization. “Right, uh, well... I’m just going to go meet the others.”

Spencer walked away, scratching behind his neck in embarrassment. Morgan sent me an amused look. “Got anything you wanna admit, Y/N?” He shoved his phone in my face, showing me the photo of me sprawled across Spencer. I had one leg stretched across him, my head on his shoulder, and a hand on his chest. Meanwhile, Reid was resting his own head on mine, while his free hand was wrapped around my waist. If I had seen this photo of anyone else, I would have immediately assumed that they were a couple. Even looking at the photo, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t adorable. But this was Spencer and I. That would never happen.

I rolled my eyes. “So childish. There’s nothing going on between us.” I shoved him playfully before joining the rest of the team outside the plane.

Hotch stared down Morgan and I as we left the jet. “Alright, is everyone all set? No more groping before we leave?” His face was deadpan however there was a hint of humor to his eyes. My jaw dropped, trying to hide a smile. JJ, Emily, and Morgan burst out laughing, while Reid covered his face with his hands to cover his red face. We walked toward the car that was waiting for us, Morgan highfiving Hotch as he passed him.

“Not cool, Hotch..” Reid grumbled.

-*-*-*-*-*-

When we arrived at the crime scene, all traces of humor were lost. The jokes had been forgotten, as we strode up to the police tape and began analyzing the scene.

Hotch turned toward us. “Alright. Y/N, Emily, Reid, and I will analyze the scene, while Morgan, Rossi, and JJ will go to speak with hospitals around the area. Anything you can find will help.” We all nodded and set off to begin our tasks.

Emily looked at the photos as she examined the scene, to ensure that nothing had been moved. Emily, Reid, and I headed toward the bedroom, where the crime had been committed. I fell behind slightly, pulling Spencer back with me to talk as we walked.

“Hey, about earlier, I’m sorry. I guess I get kinda handsy when I sleep.” I chuckled. Spencer grinned. “It’s fine, Y/N, in case you hadn’t noticed, you weren’t exactly alone.” We laughed and nodded. There were no hard feelings, and we both were content. It was time to focus entirely on the case.

“Hey, I found something!”

Reid and I quickly moved into the room. Emily was on the floor, below the victim’s desk.

“...Um, Em? What are you doing?” I stepped closer to her, raising an eyebrow in confusion. Emily took a photo with her phone, before crawling out and showing us the picture. Beneath the desk, there were strips of paper, seemingly cut out of a book, glued to the underside. We read the quotes, trying to decipher them.

The first quote read. “Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to feed us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.“ “This is from Hamlet.” Emily and I gazed at Reid expectantly. “This quote is known to reference the morbid obsession with death that Hamlet holds. These quotes weren’t chosen randomly. I’d assume that not only has our unsub read Hamlet several times, he’s also analyzed every line in order to fully comprehend what each segment means. He’s basically saying that death is inevitable, as we all will succumb to it eventually. Our unsub is confident, and is flaunting the control he has in causing the deaths of his victims.”

“That explains the single slice to kill them.” Emily comments. I nodded. “True. The unsub seems to have some sort of obsession with control, as if he prides himself in it.”

We moved on to the next quote, that read, “You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.” Emily and I looked over at Spencer. He paused for a moment before nodding. “When Breath Becomes Air. Dr. Paul Kalanithi wrote this. It’s the autobiography of a neurosurgeon.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “He reads books related to medicine, as well? He must be very dedicated to his job.” Spencer skimmed through the rest of the quotes. “Or self-taught...” He trailed off. “The rest of these quotes are also from medical books. Either we were scarily on point with out assumption of his job, due to how much he studies them in his spare time.. or the profile is wrong. He may not even be a doctor at all.”

We all looked at each other.

“The only other quote that doesn’t belong to some sort of book about medicine is the quote “It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden.” Lamb to the Slaughter. “All of these quotes are somehow related to him and to murder. He wanted us to find these.”  Spencer announced.

Emily sighed. “Isn’t this a bit too much effort for a serial killer focused on revenge?” “Not if he was psychotic already. Perhaps that’s the reasoning behind his mother kicking him out when he was younger? He might have shown some sort of signs of psychopathy and due to the differing times, there was more of a stigma around mental issues. She likely made him feel as if he was alone.”

I paused, looking at Emily’s phone when something caught my eye. They both glanced at me. “Y/N?”

Grabbing a tissue, I crawled on the ground and looked around, spotting what I had seen in the photo. I picked it up with the tissue, and showing it to Reid and Prentiss. Peeking slightly from beneath the desk, as if it had slipped from the unsubs grasp, was a small slip of paper, tallied with 18 marks. The pen color changed throughout the paper.

They furrowed their brows and looked up at me. I sighed.

“There’s more victims than we are aware of.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

After informing Hotch what information we gathered from the victims bedroom, he called JJ, expecting that they wouldn’t have found anymore information.

However, surprisingly, they had.

Within the past 8 months, there had been atleast ten victims who came in with similar wounds as our victims, however the cuts weren’t as clean. There were mistakes, such as jagged marks, or the slice wasn’t deep enough, or there were several slices around the body rather than one slit in the throat. They had never tied the murders to our current investigation because of the differences in attacks.

“He was practicing...” Reid realized. “Y/N was right. There’s more victims than we initially realized.”

Hotch dialed Garcia.

 “Your brilliant and beautiful is speaking, how may I be of assistance?” “Garcia, I need you to look for any cases of stabbings in the past 12 months in our area, primarily attacks that are focused near the throat.”

“Your wish is my command, my gorgeous friend.” The sound of typing ensued. “Alright, in the past 12 months, the furthest attack was 9 months ago, and there are 26 documented attacks, 22 of which are focused around the neck.” Hotch spoke, “Alright, now can you narrow that list down to brunette females between the ages of 35 and 45, above the height of 5′6″.” “13 results.” The team shared a look and nodded. 

“That sounds about right, as we can’t assume that all of his attacks went reported. Before he became serial, he probably began covering his tracks.”

I thought for a moment. “If our unsub is attacking victims that resemble his mother, wouldn’t it be likely if his mother was one of his victims?”

Reid glanced at me and nodded in agreement. “It’s common that serial killers who kill for revenge often kill people who resemble their actual target, however over time the high dies down as they know they aren’t killing who they actually wanted to kill. Our killer probably killed a few victims before killing his mother herself. After killing so many people, he’d gotten a taste for it and became unable to stop.”

Hotch spoke again to Garcia. “Garcia, can you look for how many of those victims have children in their 20s or 30s?” “Of course I can... There are 4.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

Hotch gathered the information from Garcia regarding where their families lived, and we decided that we would split up and speak with them in the morning. In the meantime, we would spend the night in a hotel. We all got separate rooms, and we were told to rest well, as tommorow would take a lot of strength.

I got to my room and took a shower, taking my time and enjoying the feeling of the burning water on my back. Today had been a long day, but the trip over was the best I slept in ages, so I couldn’t really complain.

After showering and getting into pajamas, I slid under my covers, although unsurprisingly, I was unable to sleep. I settled for scrolling on my phone in bed, hoping that sleep would eventually take over me. While looking at Rossi’s Instagram photos from a party he went to last weekend, I heard faint shouting from down the hall. I checked the time to see it was nearly 1 in the morning.

Confused and worried, I grabbed my robe, and my gun, and walked over to the door. I opened it, to find none other than Spencer Reid, fist hovering over the door as if about to knock.

He jumped back in surprise at my appearance at the door. “Uh!- Y/N! You’re awake!” I raised an eyebrow at him and took in his appearance. He wore a friendly smile, however the creases in his brow and the bags under his eyes were impossible to not notice.

“Spencer? What are you doing here?” He looked down at the ground. “I uh.. I couldn’t sleep.” I tilted my head to the side in confusion and he continued. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come over, it’s just that I know you’re always up late and you have trouble sleeping yourself sometimes and I-” I cut him off. “Spencer, did you want to come in?” He smiled softly and walked in as I stepped aside.

“Thanks. Sorry again.” “There’s no need to apologize, Spencer. Are you okay?” He grinned tightly. “Of course. I’m just exhausted, yet can’t sleep and I didn’t really want to be alone. I can just crash on the couch.” 

I scoffed. “Spencer, don’t be ridiculous. You can take the bed.” He shook his head. “No, Y/N, it’s yours, I can’t ask you to sleep on the couch in your own room.” I thought for a moment. “Would you be okay if we slept in the bed together? Obviously nothing would happen, but we both can’t sleep and I think we’ve realized that we sleep better near eachother.” 

Spencer’s cheeks tinged at the mention of this morning. “Y-Yeah, that’s okay with me.” I smiled and sat beside him in the bed.

He looked over at me, tilting his head in surprise. “Y/N, do you sleep with your makeup on?”

I laughed softly. “What are you talking about, Reid?” He ran a hand through his hair, unsure how to proceed. A smile spread across my face as I realized what he was implying. “Spencer, I’m not wearing makeup.”

Reid’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh!- Uh, sorry then. I just... thought you were.” I grinned before sliding down, staring at the ceiling above us.

“Spencer, how long have you had night terrors?”

He froze for a moment, before shifting uncomfortably. “What happened to not profiling our coworkers?” I turned to face him. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine. I’m just worried about you.” He sighed before turning to face me as well. 

“I’ve always had them, they just got a lot worse once joining the BAU. And it seems like the more cases we do, the worse they get.” I nodded. “Have you ever seen someone about it?” “Once, but I had to stop because I criticized their techniques since I knew more about what they were doing than they did.” 

Laughter bubbled in my throat. “Only you, Spence.” We laughed together for a bit before a comfortable silence settled between us. 

“Y/N?” “Yeah?” “Thank you.”

I smiled. “Of course, Spencer.” He hugged me, and we remained in the position, and I fell asleep to the scent of pine and cinnamon.

-*-*-*-*-*-

“Alright, the groups will be as follows- Emily and Y/N, Morgan and Reid, JJ and Rossi, and I will go alone. We will split up to interview these families. Keep in mind that they’ve just lost a loved one. If anyone happens to find anything, inform us and we will meet up. Do not engage with the unsub if you happen to find any information. Your reasoning will fall upon deaf ears. Understood?”

We nodded, and set off. I sipped my coffee, reminding me of the events of this morning. When I woke up, Spencer was gone. I assumed that he left so that things weren’t awkward again in the morning, until he returned. He had brought all of us coffee, and thanked me again for last night. I grinned at the coffee he gave me, as he remembered that I take it black. Beside the fact that he has an eidetic memory which helps him remember these things, it was still a sweet gesture.

After about an hour or so of speaking with the family, we realized there was no way that this was our unsub’s family. Their dynamic was too loving and there was no resentment that could be seen between any of the children. All of the children were also present, and none of them gave any noticeable reaction or indication that they were guilty when we discussed the murders.

As Emily and I headed back to the car, we received a call from Morgan. “Hey, girls. I think we’ve found our guy. The dude had one sibling who explained that his brother always had a tense relationship with his mother. His name is Chase Matthews. Garcia’s currently trying to locate him right now. His brother said he would be at work at this time, but he isn’t sure where he works because he isn’t necessarily involved in his life. Chase was also kicked out of their house when he was younger because his anger tended to scare their mother. If we can find where he works, then we can find him. “

I thought for a moment before a realization crossed my mind. “A butcher-shop.”

Emily looked at me. “What makes you say that?” “He’s done extensive research on the quickest way to kill someone, and has been using test subjects until he perfected his technique. If he isn’t a doctor himself, a butcher is the perfect job for practicing slaughter. He even tried to tell us with the quote from Lamb to the Slaughter.”

Morgan responded, “Good work, gorgeous. I’ll tell Garcia to look for butcher-shops in the area and I’ll text you and the others the address.”

When he hung up, I received a text moments later.

Only butcher shop in the town. Gotta be here.

We left to the address and arrived only moments after Reid and Morgan, as we were closest to the location. We met up with them, to see Morgan on the phone. 

“Are you serious? Ugh. Thanks Garcia.” He hung up before turning to us. “Garcia says that for this shop, Matthews’ shift ends in five minutes. We can’t risk him coming outside and seeing the cop cars when they arrive along with all of the agents standing outside of the building. We can’t wait for the others. We have to move now or we’ll lose him.”

Spencer interrupted, “But didn’t Hotch say-” “I know what Hotch said. But this is our only shot.” 

We nodded before heading inside. Emily showed her badge to the worker at the front. “We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for a Chase Matthews.”

Immediately, clashing sounded from the back, and a door slammed. We all rushed toward the noise and followed him out the door. 

“Chase Matthews!” Morgan screamed. “Stop right there!”

And stop he did. Behind the butcher-shop was a town park. Chase grabbed hold of a woman walking the path and held her against him, butcher-knife against her throat.

“Another step forward and she’s dead.”

We all stopped in our tracks, guns aimed toward him.

“Everyone get out of here!” Emily yelled out to the others in the park. They quickly abided, leaving the park in a panic.

“Don’t come any closer. I can kill her quicker than you can shoot me.” We froze because we knew he was right. He could kill her in just a matter of moments. Regardless, Spencer stepped foward.

“Reid what are you-” “I’ve got this.”

We watched in anticipation, worry across our features.

“Look, Chase, I know how you’re feeling.” The unsub scoffed. “No, I’m being serious. I know how it feels to feel betrayed. I understand how it feels to be rejected. Unwanted.” My heart sunk at his words.

He continued, slowly walking foward.”It doesn’t have to be like this. I know that you felt that killing your mother and anyone who reminded you of her was your only choice. But look at this girl. She looks nothing like your mother. This isn’t neccesary, and you know that. I don’t think that you want to hurt her.” Chase glanced down at the terrified woman and seemed to be considering his words.

“Just let the girl go, and we can talk about this.” Cautiously, the unsub let the girl go. Emily quickly pulled her away from the man and comforted her.

“Thank you. Now please, there’s no need for weapons. Discard your knife.”

Chase glared at Reid. “I’m not an idiot. All of you have guns.”

Spencer paused for a moment before placing his gun on the ground before him, and gesturing for us to do the same.

Morgan scoffed. “Reid, don’t be stupid.”

Spencer glanced at us. “Please. I know what I’m doing.”

“This is a bad idea, Spencer.” I scolded.

“Just trust me.” I frowned and placed my gun on the ground beside me, Emily following suit and Morgan, several glares later, also did.

“Thank you. Now please, give me the knife.

The unsub seemed hesitant but nodded, and held out his hand. Spencer slowly took steps forward. As I watched what was about to happen, the faint hint of a smile on Chase’s face mixed with the knife’s placement on his hand lead me to understand what was about to happen.

“Spencer, wait!-” But it was too late.

We watched in horror as the unsub gripped the knife in his hand before stabbing Reid just below the ribcage. He fell to the ground, blood pooling out from him, as the unsub sprinted in the opposite direction.

“Reid!” I screamed and rushed toward him. Morgan and Emily grabbed their guns and ran to him aswell. “Go, chase after him, I’ll stay with Spencer. What he needs from you right now is to catch him.” Morgan was terrified, but his anger took over and he sprinted after the man faster than I’d ever seen him run before. Emily followed shortly after.

I quickly dialed 911, and then took off my shirt and placed it over his wound, applying pressure in an attempt to stop the blood-flow. “Reid, you’re an idiot, but you’re going to be okay. Hold my hand.” I reached out the hand that wasn’t pressed against his abdomen for him to hold. 

He closed his eyes. “Don’t waste your time, Y/L/N. The man knows his anatomy. He’s probably pierced some sort of vital organ. If the bleeding out doesn’t kill me, that will.”

I shook my head, tears glistening in my eyes. “Shut up, Spencer, for once you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re going to be just fine. Just hold my hand.”

When Spencer mentioned that someone can be tortured without anyone physically touching them, this is exactly what that feels like.

Reid coughed. “Lets just face the reality, Y/N. It’s not going to happen.”

I shushed him, voice becoming higher with fear.��“Reid, stop talking. Save your energy. You are going to be fine. Just, please, for the love of god, please hold my hand.”

Whether it be out of his own fear or pity for me, knowing it would make me feel better, Spencer finally let his hand fall in mine. I kept strong pressure, tears falling down my cheeks, until the paramedics arrived.

-*-*-*-*-*-

“You’re an idiot. If you weren’t in a hospital bed I’d be slapping you right now.”

Reid laughed weakly. “Jeez, it’s great to see you too, Y/N.”

Morgan rushed into the room at the sound of Spencer’s voice. “I can’t believe you! Do you understand how worried you made me? I didn’t think you were going to wake up!” The anger in Derek’s words were clear and Spencer cringed, knowing he had messed up. His expression softened. Morgan sighed. “I’m just glad you’re okay, kid. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The team all rushed in and comforted Reid until the doctors came in and told us we all needed to clear out the room. Spencer played dead for a moment, which the doctor found humorous and allowed for one visitor in the room. After much deliberation, I was allowed to stay.

The team left and I was alone with Spencer and the doctors. I grabbed his hand and squeezed softly.

Reid chuckled, recalling the moments after he was stabbed. “You really just wanna hold my hand, huh, Y/L/N?”

I gasped and feigned offense, laughing with him. “I mean, come on, was it really that hard to just hold my frickin’ hand?”

The laughter died down and I sighed, taking in his appearance. “I feel like this is my fault.”

“Y/N, please. It’s nobody’s fault but myself. I’m the one who made you guys drop your weapons. I didn’t listen to Hotch saying we wouldn’t be able to reason with the unsub, and I paid for it.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, that was pretty stupid.”

Spencer turned his head to face me. “The doctors tell me you saved my life. The knife had just missed a vital organ, so I was wrong again, it really would have been the blood loss that killed me.”

“Wow, it must be my lucky day, proving Dr. Spencer Reid wrong twice in one day.” I laughed to which he smiled softly. “I’m serious, Y/N. Thank you.”

I smiled back at him. “Anything for you, Spence.”

-*-*-*-*-*-

God this took me so long to write. I hope you all enjoyed and as always if there’s a prompt you’d like me to do next let me know!

P.S. Out of curiosity I put this into a machine to count the words and there’s almost 5000 words in this. Just putting that out there ;p

[ruined-my-dramatic-entrance]

Hat’s Off to You

Platonic fluff, a bit silly or OOC but not a crackfic lol, 1659 words TW: S!Janus

“What’s going on here?” Patton asked as he popped up.

 After rolling his eyes and a moment of hesitation, Virgil replied, “Princey brought up some dumb idea about Janus having some weird secret hidden under his hat and now he and Logan are debating it.”

 “Well, what’s all hat about?” the moral side inquired further with a grin.

 Though Patton had expected Virgil to at least smirk at this, the latter instead protested, “Please, just get them to stop for now or something…”

 “Okay, kiddo. Sorry about Pat — uh, I mean that,” Patton corrected himself quickly before turning his attention to the other two.

 “I still think it’s probably something weird and evil, like some devil’s horns or — or pointed ears,” Roman insisted, gesturing to the vague areas that those body parts would be placed on himself.

 “If Janus were to be hiding something underneath his hat — which I still have very significant doubts about — then it would probably be a result of his half-snake composition, such as a lack of hair on that side of his head, covered by scales,” Logan chimed in with an even tone.

 “Well, yeah, maybe, but it still could be something… much more sinister that reveals how Thomas truly visualizes Deceit in his mind,” the prince suggested with a deep curiosity.

 “Wouldn’t that be you, Roman?” Patton asked with an innocent smile.

 “Wha—? No, I’m not a liar! I’m an actor but I am not Deceit,” Roman dismissed, clearly offended.

 “No, that’s not what I meant, and I was talking about Janus, not evil,” Patton said, subtly reminding Roman to be kinder about the side in question. “I meant that the way Thomas views Deceit as a concept would be your creativity, kiddo,” he explained.

 Roman paused for a moment. “I… suppose you’re right,” he agreed.

 “That would make sense, though it would still have the influence of how Thomas feels about the concept of Deceit in genera—” Logan tried to elaborate, but was cut off by Roman.

 “By Artemis’s beautiful bow, I think I know!” the creative side exclaimed with a wide gesture.

 “You’ve… decided on a guess?” Logan prompted, frowning slightly in curiosity and pushing his glasses backwards as he scanned Roman with his eyes.

 “Oh, brother, what is it now?” Virgil groaned, pulling his hood up over his head.

 “That’s the spirit! What do you think, Roman?” Patton encouraged excitedly.

 “Wolf ears,” Roman answered simply, as if the answer was obvious.

 “Uh… might’ve misheard you there, Kiddo,” Patton fretted, leaning in a bit closer in hopes of understanding Roman’s words better.

 “That… is an interesting guess. I suppose I could see some reasoning for this,” Logan mused, placing his knuckle against his lips in thought.

 “Please tell me you’re not actually considering this, dude,” Virgil pleaded, pulling his sleeves over his hands.

 “No, no, I’m serious!” Roman persisted, holding out his hands in a “wait” gesture. “From my best understanding of how Thomas views deception, he gets consistently stuck on the phrase ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ and sometimes he imagines liars as having certain wolf traits,” he finally explained. “Though, he usually only does that past 3am,” he added with a slight shrug before looking towards the rest of the group for approval.

 “In addition to that, Janus does seem to... work alone, if you will, with his varying goals for Thomas — a lone wolf, perhaps,” Logan elaborated, “Wolves are also regarded for their intelligence and have very complicated social dynamics, maybe tying into Janus’s ability to use charisma to his advantage. Symbolically, wolves are also regarded as confident, which he definitely exhibits.”

 “Come on, you don’t actually think Janus would have something as… as stupid as that,” Virgil disagreed, rubbing the back of his neck. Logan narrowed his eyes at the way he stumbled over his words.

 “Virgil, I expected you to be less… concerned about this matter ��� furthermore, to mock him for it,” the logical side deduced, tilting his head slightly in confusion. “So… either you’re embarrassed about something similar or something is wrong here,” he declared, causing the room to fall silent for a few seconds.

 “What’s wrong with Virge, Logan? Don’t just leave it all… ominous like that! It’s scary,” Patton fretted, looking at the side in question with worry.

 At that moment, Virgil showed up, shoving aside the “Virgil” that had been there before, who was pushed into the wall and reverted back into his true form.

 “Did someone say ‘scary?’” Virgil asked nonchalantly, giving Patton a quick glance before returning to glaring at Janus.

 “Deceit!!” Logan yelled, pointing at Janus.

 “Yes, yes, we’ve noticed, Logan, no need to sound the alarm, especially not so loudly,” Janus remarked.

 “Virgil!” Patton and Roman exclaimed in unison with smiles.

 “What was he doing here? What did he say?” Virgil asked, voice serious and impatient.

 “Nothing much! Since I got here, he was just denying some of Roman and Logan’s theories about what’s under his hat,” Patton recounted.

 “Yes, padre is right; that’s all the snake has done, nothing particularly evil or sinister,” Roman confirmed with a slight nod as if his valiant watch had kept Janus in check, whereas in reality he hadn’t really noticed.

 Virgil snickered. “You mean ‘cause he’s insecure about this?” he asked with a mischievous smile as he managed to snatch Janus’s hat, revealing a pair of… dark wolf ears.

 “Hah! I knew it! I called it! That was me, I was right. Got it before Logan,” Roman announced proudly before clearing his throat awkwardly and growing quiet to listen.

 “Only because it was your interpretation of symbolism,” Logan muttered under his breath, petty.

 “Aww, you’re like a teddy bear!” Patton commented with a gasp, “Or a puppy! Why would you hide this? We wouldn’t make fun of you for something so cute and nonthreatening!” He paused suddenly, realizing that he had just spoken the exact reason. “Ohh…” He grimaced slightly in guilt.

 “Yes, well, isn’t this lovely. This is exactly what I wanted, Virgil, thank you,” Janus complained in annoyance, shooting the man in question a pointed look. “It’s obvious that this is totally a part of myself that I like and wanted to share with the group.”

 “Janus, we won’t make fun of you for it, especially if you’re so insecure about it,” Patton reassured, looking around the room for agreement and receiving nods from everyone… as well as muffled snickers from Roman and Virgil.

 “Grandma, what big ears you have,” Roman murmured quietly under his breath, unable to resist the temptation.

 “What does it matter anyway? It’s clear I’m viewed as but a beast or a — a monstrous creature. Why would words make that any different?” Janus retorted to Patton, both his eyes and his phrasing giving away his hidden sadness.

 “Well, Janus, you of all sides should understand the power that words can hold,” Logan reminded tersely.

 “Regardless, Thomas could have at least chosen something scarier rather than just… an amalgamation of different animal symbols out of confusion,” Janus griped, gesturing into the air in frustration.

 “Weird is better than scary if it’s constant. Trust me on this one,” Virgil insisted, though his expression turned to one of slight… sympathy?

 “Trust isn’t exactly my strong suit,” Deceit responded, casting an unpleasant glance across the rest of the room. “I wonder why?” he added sarcastically.

 “It’s not my department either but…” Virgil trailed off, sighing. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you of all people,” he muttered. “But… I know what it’s like to feel different and unnecessary and — and like you’re built to just be weird, to just be the outcast,” he admitted, avoiding looking into the half-snake’s eyes. “I know what it’s like but… it’s not like that here, not with them. Not with us,” he assured, fiddling with his sleeves.

 “I think we all owe Janus an apology,” Patton pointed out. “I’m sorry for not respecting your privacy,” he said, looking at the aforementioned man with empathy.

 “I apologize for my earlier behavior. I was curious but not considerate,” Logan chimed in concisely.

 “I… suppose I’m sorry too,” Roman agreed, though he opened his mouth to say something else and closed it a moment later.

 “I guess I shouldn’t have… done that,” Virgil mumbled, handing Janus his hat back. “But you shouldn’t have impersonated me either.”

 “Very well, very well… I’m sorry for taking your place and deceiving you,” Janus replied, “though it did take them quite a while to catch on…”

 “It is indeed odd that Janus’s impersonation of you is much more accurate than of me or Patton,” Logan commented, frowning again in contemplation.

 “And that Virgil already knew about Janus’s ears,” Roman added, looking at Virgil in confusion.

 “Well, I —” Virgil began nervously.

 “— The little brat has done this before, you see,” Janus excused as he interrupted the anxious side. “It was terribly irritating,” he recalled about the false event, examining his nails through his gloves. “And yes, I’m afraid that the emo is the simplest to mimic -- it’s dreadfully easy,” he mocked, though said emo looked up at him when he realized that Janus had just… covered for him and his past as a dark side. That was not anywhere near what Virgil had expected.

 “Ah, that would make sense,” Logan accepted with a slight nod.

 “I, for one, still can’t decide whether his fluffy little ears are scary or, uh, adorable,” Roman admitted.

 Janus scoffed and examined his nails through his glove. “If you’re disturbed by this, wait until you find out what Remus hides under his mustache,” he pointed out.

 After a beat of silence, every other side in the room turned to him in a mixture of surprise, fear, and disgust, all exclaiming some variation of “hold up,” “wait,” or “what?!” Except for Patton, who simply remarked, “Well, I suppose we must-ask him later” with a chuckle.

[sophisticated-creepy]

Raphael hadn’t taken more than three steps into the house before Lola pounced on him, sharing her news exuberantly in a torrent of high-pitched gibberish which took him several minutes to fully process their fervent meaning. He suffered through multiple eye rolls and sighs of impatience when he asked his beloved to repeat herself throughout her storytelling, but eventually he had the needed information to put together what had her so excited and animated.

“Tonight?” he asked at length, the last of her comments still buzzing around in his head as he looked upon Lola’s upturned expectant expression.

“I know it’s a weeknight and that you have work in the morning, so we won’t stay out too late, of course, but I want to strike while the iron is still hot,” Lola bargained. “Please?” She tried for her best impersonation of a pleading puppy dog yearning for treats to pull at his heartstrings in the hopes of convincing him to agree with her schemes.

“As long as we’re home early enough and aren’t going to wind up on the news, we will investigate tonight,” Raphael relented, cupping her face gently whilst kissing her on the forehead. She squealed delightedly, wriggling out of his hold, unable to contain her elation and anticipation at the confirmation to their nocturnal adventure.

“OhmygodI’msoexcited!” she all but shouted. She was like a kid at Christmas in a candy store, bursting at the seams to start delving into the evening’s activity for hunting the supernatural, and the only thing Raphael could do was stand back and watch amusedly as she spun around in a tizzy of excited chatter and flailing arm movements as she made her plans aloud for the night.

“Give me a few minutes to shift out of work-mode and I’ll start dinner,” Raphael recommended, grazing his lips on the top of her head before heading up the stairs as she fluttered past him.

“Good idea,” Lola agreed, now beginning to pace in a small rut in the middle of the foyer, her movements turning concise and compact, the classic signals she portrayed when her brain was narrowing in focus, making her rampant thoughts manageable in order to efficiently game plan while tying up loose ends for the mission at hand. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Modesta and Jack. Want to say we’ll meet them around 8:30?”

“That sounds fine to me,” he confirmed with a nod. Her excitement was contagious, and he felt the stirrings of anticipation for the investigation flutter within his heart once the official time was announced for meeting up with their friends. His mind began to wander, too, on how the night could play out, bolstering his eagerness to have the event begin as quickly as possible, but, seeing as no one person could move time along any faster than what was within their power, he could only smile in curious speculation as he walked up the stairs, Lola’s voice filtering behind him as he heard the chime of her speech as she spoke on the phone to assemble their ragtag team of amateur paranormal investigators.

“Jack, I am begging you, for the love of all things bright and holy, would you please stop fiddling around with that radio?” Modesta frustratingly requested. The constant noise of static underlined with the whine of crossed frequency signals was beginning to fray her nerves. If he could just stay on one station, the sound would be bearable, however, the overlap was too much of a bombardment in auditory information for her ears to withstand.

“I’ve almost got it,” Jack assured, messing with the long antenna of the old handheld radio. “This thing is tricky, and needs a delicate touch.”

“For someone who gave Lola such a hard time about her ancient equipment, where in heaven’s name did you unearth that piece of junk?”

“At Pyrite’s Pawn across the street from the shop,” he replied even keeled, moving now to adjust the dials. “That’s where I got my old-timey radio, too. I really admire his stuff, he has good wares.”

“Wares,” Modesta derided, smiling despite herself at his use of fantastical terms. “Any reason why you’re testing out this ‘new’ radio of yours here and now tonight?”

“Newberry is on at 8:30, and I figured since Lazare has been so spot on in regards to these weird accidents, he might be able to give us a clue about tonight’s affairs, too. Damn. I just can’t get a signal.” Dejectedly, Jack shut off the handheld, collapsing the antenna, tucking it away into its compact form. “I’ll have to play with it later,” he sighed, resting his chin in his hands, his elbows on the picnic table as he sat hunched over the wooden surface.

“Do not fret, Mr. Tech-Savvy Genius,” Modesta consoled light-heartedly as she sat to join him across the table. “You’ll get the radio working soon enough, I have no doubt.”

“Thanks,” Jack smiled, appreciating her good humor. “It’s a hard enough channel to tune into enough as it is. I think we’re just too far out of the broadcast’s radius to get a clear signal.”

“If it’s a local program, shouldn’t you be able to pick it up easily?”

“It depends on how strong the signal is and from where it’s being broadcast,” he said, straightening with a sigh as he looked to the sky. “I didn’t think we were that far away from the station building itself. Must be all these trees causing interferences. Oh, look!” he called, brightening considerably. “I think Lo and Raph are finally here.” The two watched as a car pulled into the parking space next to their own vehicle, and after the engine shut off and the headlights cut out, true to Jack's observation, Lola and Raphael emerged from the automobile. Lola saw the other couple first, waving with her full arm in greeting as she and her companion joined the duo at the picnic table.

“Hey, guys,” Lola called as they neared. “Sorry if we kept you waiting.”

“No worries,” Jack said, waving off the apology. “We had been here all of five minutes before you arrived.”

“That’s good to hear,” she smiled.

“So, what’s on the agenda for tonight, Lola? How do you see this going?” Modesta asked. She herself was eager to get the investigation underway, after all, she would be implementing new techniques of her craft, and any chance she could get to hone in and practice her spiritual abilities was more often than not a welcomed one.

“We’re here to help,” Lola stated. “That’s our main objective first and foremost. In order to help, we need to know what this entity is that’s been our ‘town legend’ for so long. If we can get clues based off tonight’s work, that will help point us in the direction of where to focus our attention next.”

“We need to establish a connection built on trust,” Raphael added. “That means being respectful at all times, and no provoking.” Both Jack and Modesta nodded in agreement, knowing full well the consequences that could arise if the spirit in the woods was treated with unfair copious amounts of disrespect. “That also means if it wants us to leave, we leave.” Again, the group was in solid agreement.

“Remember, we’re here to learn his story,” Lola spoke next.

“I personally don’t want us splitting up, either,” Raphael included in the brief, making sure to give a pointed look in his fiancée’s direction, to which she rolled her eyes. “We should stay as a group at all times for safety.”

“Agreed,” Modesta concurred, matching Raphael’s look to throw Lola’s way.

“I’m beginning to think you guys don’t trust me,” the singled out woman pouted, frowning at being the victim of such chastising looks.

“Ease up, guys, if it wasn’t for Lola’s meddling to begin with, we’d probably never be on this case to help the Hobblin’ Goblin,” Jack supplied, trying to aid his friend as the others gained up on her. He flinched back in his seat as the two soured individuals turned their scowls upon him.

“Thank you, Jack, but I also have to agree with them on this matter,” Lola said. “Did you guys happen to see which building is across the street?” She jutted her thumb over her shoulder where the others followed its direction to observe the old brownstone behind her.

“Holy shit, that’s Mrs. Trevon’s flower shop,” Modesta gasped.

“Which means…is this the park where Lazare said she was attacked?” Jack asked excitedly, pointing to the picnic table where he continued to sit, and when Lola nodded, he nearly jumped up and down in delight. “Hot damn, Lo, now that’s what I call sleuthing.”

“Now, now, I obviously haven’t confirmed it with Mrs. Trevon herself, however, this is what convinced me this is, indeed, the same location.” Lola took out her cellphone, beckoning her friends to gather close. “I took an audio recording today here at the playground. Tell me if you guys pick up on anything…unusual.” She didn’t want to color the others’ opinions, so merely pressed play on her device, allowing the recording to fill the space around the clustered bodies in the tight huddle. Jack and Modesta hovered over the small speaker of the phone, ears bent towards the item as the sound of rushing wind began to play, followed by the sound of Lola’s intake of breath, soft movement, and then came the murmur of a stranger’s voice.

“Whoa,” Modesta gasped, jerking her head back from the intruder’s words. “Play that again?”

“Is it me, or did I hear someone say ‘little witch’?” Jack asked after listening for the second time.

“That’s what I think it’s saying,” Lola shared, stowing the phone back in her pocket.

“Same as me,” Raphael nodded.

“What do you think that means?” Modesta asked the burning question on everyone’s mind.

“It means, we investigate,” Lola said frankly. “This recording should help give us the jump off point we need in establishing communication.”

“Let’s not wait another moment, then. Lola, I’m going to request that you be in charge of the digital recorder,” Jack announced, and out of a rucksack resting next to his thigh, he handed Lola a small audio recorder. “Sorry it doesn’t record on tape,” he teased, relinquishing the object. “Raph, I’d like you to operate the camcorder.” Jack passed along the video camera to Raphael. “Just point to aim, keep it steady, and this goes without saying, but make sure the lens cap is off.”

“What are you going to investigate with?” Lola curiously asked Jack as Raphael adjusted the camcorder settings to his liking.

“I am going to try something new,” he proclaimed proudly. “I downloaded a paranormal investigating app on my phone. This particular app basically traces people, marking their points of motion, turning them into a dancing skeleton.” Jack took out his phone that was secured to a handheld tripod, showing the others what he was describing. “Wave to the camera, Mo.” He pointed his phone in Modesta’s direction, and her outline illuminated the screen with interconnecting lines, circles marking her joints as well as general shape, mapping her movements from her head to her toes. Much like Jack said, her image looked like a wire armature for a sculpture’s base framework, or, as he aptly related, to that of a dancing skeleton.

“The app can also detect figures that the human eye is unable to see, so, if we think there’s movement deep in the shadows, we’ll be able to tell if it’s animal, or human, or goblin,” Jack explained.

“And, Modesta, you’ve got your pendulum, right?” Lola asked.

“I do,” she affirmed, holding up a small velvet drawstring bag. “I’ll stay close to you so when we’re asking questions, the pendulum can answer yes or no in real time while the recorder can capture answers we might not be able to hear in the moment.”

“Okay, team, are we ready to do this?” Lola asked, a wide smile lighting her face. “Let’s stick to the walking trail that goes into the forest. Knowing me and my clumsy feet, I don’t want to snag a root or step on a snake.”

“Lead the way,” Jack encouraged, sweeping his arm out in invitation towards the forest. With a spring in her step, Lola made for the walking path at the start of the tree line, her friends closely surrounding her sides, all with eager anticipation to begin their first ghost hunt together as a collective front. Entering the forest, the moonlight unfortunately became obscured by the thick branches still stubbornly holding onto all their harvest leaves, supplying the band of wannabe ghost hunters without much guidance to see where they trod. The spookiness of their environment began to morph the earlier levity of the jolly party, their pace slowing to accommodate the thicket of trees and the creatures that took refuge in their branches along with the rest of the nightlife hidden in their dwellings of brambles and bushes.

With each passing step, the sobriety of their mission sank in, and each person felt the weight of humble responsibility settle any notions of fanciful exploration, and after a sufficient amount of distance was covered, Modesta spotted a small clearing bathed in moonlight a few yards off the walking path.

“Let’s try for that clearing,” she suggested, pausing the group in their journey. In silent agreement, the four stepped off the path to enter the grounds of dried grass and leaves, the crunching beneath their feet helping to ground the energy, and once all were in the middle of the clearing, Modesta retrieved her pendulum of amethyst held together on a chain of precious stones representing the seven chakras. Dangling the pendulum above the open palm of her free hand, she closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths to center herself and connect with her spiritual guides, the pendulum remaining perfectly still in the space above her upturned hand. When she was ready, she opened her eyes to address the group.

“Go ahead, Lola. See if you can connect with the Hobblin’ Goblin,” Modesta said. Lola turned to the gentlemen behind her to validate they had their recording equipment prepared, and after taking a deep breath herself, she switched on her voice recorder.

“Hello, out there,” she greeted in a clear voice. “My name is Lola. These are my friends Modesta, Raphael, and Jack. Say hello, everyone.” The others greeted the empty space politely. “We’re here to help figure out your story. Could you please start by telling us your name?” She paused, listening to the wind lazily blow through the trees, the night sounds a comfort backdrop to the clear, starlit sky above.

“My friend Modesta is holding a pendulum that can help us communicate with you. You can make it swing in any direction for yes or no. If you understand, would you make that pendulum swing ‘yes’ for us, please?”

All eyes turned expectantly to the pendulum hanging delicately in the air, waiting for the object to start moving, but after a lengthy pause of stilted non-motion, the novelty of the suspense began to wear off.

“It’s not moving,” Jack stated the obvious, the disappointment clear in his tone.

“I understand it can take a lot of energy to move that pendulum, so it’s okay if you can’t,” Lola said into the clearing. She, as well as the others, had slowly begun moving about the open space to try and capture all angles for potential activity, Modesta staying motionless, however, to keep her movements from any accidental potential interference with the swaying of the crystal.

“Sometimes we have a hard time seeing and hearing you, so we have these equipment devices that will record you for us, so, keep talking as much as you are able,” Lola continued to encourage.

“We’d like to speak with the entity known as the Hobblin’ Goblin,” Raphael called out next. “Is he in the forest with us? Who is the little witch?” Slowly, he panned the camcorder around the clearing, but all was uneventfully calm. A twig snapped off to his right, and he turned in that direction, aiming the camcorder into the darkness, but the shadows from the cluster of trees were too thick for his eyes or that of the video camera’s to discern the source. Getting Jack’s attention, he gestured him over to his side of the glade.

“Got something on camera?” Jack asked upon meeting Raphael.

“Not that I can tell,” was the other’s reply. “Do me a favor and aim your phone in that direction for me, please,” he requested, pointing to the place he heard the movement. “Does your app see anything peculiar, by chance?”

Jack slowly moved the phone over the spot Raphael indicated, yet no dancing skeleton or otherwise appeared upon the screen, and Jack shrugged, the two separating, continuing to sweep the area.

“Any hits from the pendulum?” Lola asked Modesta, circling back to her friend.

“It’s as steady as a rock,” Modesta sighed in reply, “and my arm is starting to grow tired.”

“Can you hold on just a little bit longer? We’ll probably wrap things up here soon anyway if nothing starts happening.”

“Don’t forget, we have multiple pieces of equipment recording, so just because we aren’t having any personal experiences, doesn’t mean the cameras haven’t picked anything up.”

“Let’s try a few more questions to feel out the area. If we still aren’t seeing results, we’ll try a little deeper into the woods,” Raphael commented.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Goblin? We’re going to leave if you don’t make your presence known somehow. Not to pressure you or anything, but it would just be super nice if you could let us know you’re here so we can help you,” Lola called out once more into the forest. “Please, can you give us a sign that you’re even here?”

“Uh, guys? How many of us are investigating tonight?” Jack quietly asked. He was standing on the opposite side of the clearing having venture back to stand at the walking trail, his camera pointed in the direction of the two women, Raphael standing off to the side but still within sight of the viewfinder.

“Four,” Lola answered hesitantly.

“Well, there are certainly four of you on camera,” Jack replied. “Except, I’m behind the camera.”

“No way! You’ve got something on your app? A dancing skeleton?” Lola excitedly asked.

“Maybe? It’s more deer-shaped than anything, with these pretty big antlers, and on all four legs, but, in a person sort of way, too. It’s really hard to tell what it is.”

“What’s it doing? How far back is it?” Raphael asked, moving closer to the women, focusing the camcorder in the same direction Jack was picking up the anomaly.

“I mean, it’s close,” Jack guessed. “It looks like it’s just standing there, swaying a little bit, but I think it’s looking right at us.”

“Ask another question,” Modesta urged.

“Oh! Erm…thank you, Mr. Goblin, if that is you out there. We, um, can maybe kind of see you, or a deer, perhaps,” Lola floundered gracelessly. “Could you try and make it abundantly clear that this is you we’re seeing, please?”

“Guys, guys, guys, look,” Modesta aggressively whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to frighten away the creature hidden in the dark. The pendulum was swinging in large circles above her palm, the spinning growing wider, expanding as it continued gliding in its gyrating motion.

“Okay! Great! Thank you, Mr. Goblin. Just to be certain this is you, can you make the pendulum stop swinging?” Lola asked next. The group watched in fascination as the pendulum slowed its circular motion in a near complete stop, abruptly halting to once more hang lifelessly above Modesta’s palm.

“Thank you,” Lola repeated. “I’m glad you’re here. Please, can you tell us how we can help you? Is there something you need from us to help tell your story? Are you, in fact, a hobbling goblin?”

“Oops.”

Everyone turned towards Modesta as she made her small utterance. The pendulum, they all noted, was resting in the middle of her hand, one half crumpled in a pile of stones and metal, the rest still dangling from the hand that held the remainder of the now broken chain. “It broke,” was all she could mutter.

“It broke?” Lola rushed to her friend, examining for herself what Modesta claimed.

“One of the crystals broke,” she related, looking closely at the clean-cut orb severed smoothly in half.

“Is that the green one?” Lola asked, pointing to the crystal. “Which one does that represent again?”

“The heart chakra.”

“The camcorder just went dead,” Raphael shared, trying to turn on the equipment that only yielded his efforts fruitless.

“Oh, shit, shit, shit,” Jack swore rapidly, eyes wide as he stared at his phone screen. “It stood up, the deer stood up, holy shit it’s standing on two legs.” The three investigators quickly moved to stand by Jack, all witnessing as the tall image of a two legged deer decided at that moment to melt into the ground, disappearing from detection all together. As the figure made its retreat, a shrill whine of static white noise came pouring out of Jack’s back pocket, the burst of clamor filling the clearing sharply, giving everyone such a fierce start, they all jumped from the unexpected commotion.

“Jack! Turn that radio off,” Modesta shouted as she covered her ears.

“Sorry,” he apologized profusely, fumbling with the radio behind his back. Unfortunately, the radio slipped free from his grasp, clattering harshly to the ground, and as he bent down to reach the fallen artifact, through the airwaves of static, a garbled voice could be distinctly heard.

“…Little…witch….”

The radio proceeded to then fall eerily silent. Jack wordlessly retrieved the radio from the ground, too stunned to form words of any coherence. The others, too, stared at one another, absolutely gobsmacked from what they all had experienced, unsure of what to do or say next, the only aspect of their adventure holding any semblance of normalcy were the very woods they investigated itself, as crickets continued their evening symphony, owls hooting to join in chorus, the moon and stars the constant silent observers of the world beneath them.

“What are we dealing with here?” Lola whispered, the first to find her voice, the sound echoing in the quiet of the clearing.

“Whoever he is,” Modesta began, holding out the broken pendulum pieces in her hand, a moonbeam dancing on the split emerald of the chain, “we know at least one thing about him.”

“What’s that?”

“He has a broken heart.”

~~~~~~~~~~

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

IT’S ALL ABOUT FAMILY HAPPINESS

Nestor Oceteva x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Thanks to my lovely beta reader @chibsytelford 💘

Author comments: I hope you all enjoy, this is part of a dream I had last night. Gif credits: @angels-reyes​.

Tag list: @starrynite7114​ @chibsytelford​ @dazzledamazon​ @mara-mpou​ @sammskellington​ @gemini0410​​ @1-800-imagines​ @briana-mishell24​ @forest-rav3n​💥 (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

Every pound is deeper, hitting your back against the wooden door covered by graffitis and signs of all kind. Outside of the bathroom, the rock music is flooding the bar, covering every loud moan you scream out. He's huge and hard, and make a good couple with your tightness. His lips are sucking and biting your throat, making sure he does a mark on it so you can remember him the next morning. Finally, your tongues meet again in a filthy and desperate kiss, without caring about the shortness of breath.

“Oh my fuckin' god!” You cry out against his mouth, with your eyes closed.

“That is what I am to you, uh?” He chuckles, thrusting your body feeling needy for more.

“Fuck your ego!” You gasp in laughs, putting your legs tightly around his waist.

“No, fuck you”. He replies with stroke straight to your soul. 

“Shit... Do it again”. You beg keeping his gaze and feeling the heat consuming you.

And he does. His dick beats you deeper, enjoying the dry sound his abdomen makes colliding with yours. Kissing him again, you press your hands on his nape, feeling how the tickles gets installed on your low belly about to reach the ecstasy. You don't care if he cums inside you, always taking your pill as every morning, so you don't say nothing when his moans get louder too. 

Your hips starting to move, dancing over his cock wanting for more, needing it. He already knows you're close, hitting you faster against the door, thinking for a while that you're gonna destroy it.

“Fuck, Nestor... Don't stop”. You claim biting his lower lip, before letting him find your tongue with his.

Your most pure and natural groan is drowned in his mouth, closing hard your eyes and feeling that you're choking because of the pleasure, when he fills you with the hot cum. Some thrusts before, he lets you rest, supporting his forehead against you. Taking his chin with two fingers, you lick his lips by giving him a tiresome kiss.

Putting your feet on the floor to clean all the mess and putting your clothes well on, he holds you the opened door.

“Ladies first”. He says with a triumphant smile, doing a gesture with his left hand, the same one that minutes before was between your legs.

“What a gentleman...” You joke on him, walking towards the bar.

The old bartender, Erny, is smiling at you seeing how the man goes back to his table with his friends, while you take a seat on the stool. Without asking, he serves two shots of tequila. One for you. One for him. Cheering on air, you two drink with the burning liquid ripping your throat. Shaking your head for a second you stretch your right arm to take the helmet his offering you.

“Tell your tío I need to talk' him”. He says then.

“I will”.

“It's good to see you back home, niña”. The older leaves a soft and dearly caress on your chin, leaving a kiss on your cheek.

Zipper up on your chest, to adjust the leather jacket, you wear the helmet on before having a last look of the man who has made your arrival at Santo Padre something better. You didn't ask for his number, he either, but this is a small town and you're sure you're gonna meet again sooner or later.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

Waking up after all the shots you drunk last night is an odyssey. You feel like shit, and you also look like this. Coughing and trying to clear your throat, you walk out of your room full of cardboard boxes because of the move from Boston, where you were doing your final MIR at the hospital. The smell of coffee is all around the house that, now, you share with your father and your uncle. You could rent a flat or a house, but be with family is always better. Sitting in front of them, the two men open their eyes more. Then, they look at each other.

“You have fun last night, mija?”

“Uh?” You ask serving some coffee in your cup, finding that your father is pointing your throat.

Using your phone to reflect your skin, you see the red and purple bruise in it. Chuckling and licking your upper lip with the toe of your tongue, you shake your head.

“Fuckin' bastard...” You whisper after having a sip of the hot drink, giving you some life. “I fell in love, what can I say?”

Those words impact them, slightly twisting their heads with curiosity. It's the first time in your whole life that you say something like that, and calling their interest on it. Both men leave away his breakfast crossing their arms on the table.

“He was fucking handsome, shit...” You tell them wrinkling the nose, with your cheeks getting red.

“Do you have his phone?” Marcus ask with pursed lips, deciding to have a bite of his toast.

“Nope”. You reply lying against your chair somewhat comfy on it. “But... he is unmistakable and Santo Padre is pretty small. And, shit! I love his braids”.

Bishop splits the coffee staining the table and your shirt.

“Tío, what the fuck?!”

“Did you say... what?” He asks coughing, noticing how your father is between the rage and the shame.

“Braids. I said ‘braids’. Aren't you too young to be deaf or somethin' like, ah?”

Obispo breaks in laughter almost falling from his chair, palming your father's back with no expression on his face. You start to tremble, not sure if you're feeling afraid or what. Licking your lips and putting away the coffee, you want to know what the hell is happening.

“The fucking Nestor!” Your uncle is drowning between long laughs, having to get up wrapping his own abdomen and leaning forward.

“The fuc' is so funny?” You frown starting to feel upset.

“He's Miguel Galindo's head security. My new boss”. Your father's voice is firm and concise, with his black eyes on yours. And now, you want to be swallowed up by the earth. “And we're gonna have dinner with him tonight”.

“With Nes—Nestor?”

“With Miguel!” He yells at you, hitting the table with his fist. “Stop laughing or 'amma gonna punch you in the face, primo!”

“Mierda, estás jodido, Marcus”. (Shit, you're fucked, Marcus). Your uncle can't stop, grabbing his mug to walk towards his room. “Fucking Nestor, what an idol”.

“Papi, I'm so—”.

“I'm gonna shoot him”.

“Dad! What the hell?”

“No, ‘what the hell’ you?!”

“I didn't know who he was! And I'm not going around saying who my father is”.

“I don' wan' you close to him, you hear me, mija?”.

“Why?” You ask raising an eyebrow, supporting your forearms against the edge of the table.

“'Cause he does what he does”.

“You too! And 'am sure the granddad didn't had this talk with my mother”.

Good point. A good one he can't reply. Snorting, the mexican rubs his face with both hands, shaking his head after that. He doesn't say anything else, getting up of his chair to let you have your breakfast alone.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

Your father opens you the car door, offering you a hand to go out, holding the long white skirt of the satin dress to facilitate your first steps. You're nervous, that's a reality, and Marcus can notice it. With his fingers tangled in yours, you walk towards the front door. The mexican opening it, leaves you some space to come in, being received by his boss.

“Hermano!” He says, hugging your father and palming his back.

“Miguel, she's (Y/N), my daughter”. Marcus, feeling so proud of you, push you sightly into him.

“Nice to meet you, mister Galindo”.

“Call me Miguel”. He says with a gentle smile on his face, narrowing your hand in a salute. “Más hermosa de lo que dijiste”. (More beautiful than you said).

You smile him back, placing the fine gold chain around your neck in a nervous gesture. You have had to do an exhaustive work to cover the bruise on your throat with makeup, and you're praying that it won't fade. With shaky legs you walk on your high-heels being guided by the younger to the living room. The house is huge and luxurious, the kind one that would have a man like Galindo. But when your eyes finds Nestor's, you feel like you don't have any air inside your lungs.

“I need to talk' you, hermano”. Marcus says to Miguel, calling for his attention.

“Sure, let's go”. He replies, putting a hand on your low back. “Sírvele una copa a la señorita”. (Serve a drink to the lady).

“Tequila, if it's okay”. You need it. 

“Didn't you drinking last night enough, mija?” Your father is joking on you, with a serious gesture on his face and a raised eyebrow.

“She's young, Marcus! Let her drink!” Miguel laughs, gesturing to Nestor to serve you. “We will be back soon”.

You stand in the middle of nowhere with your hands behind your back, letting your gaze travel around the living room connected to the kitchen, watching sideaways how Nestor serves the glass, a soft tremble runs through your body. And it gets worse when you feel his fingertips touching your forearm in a ephemeral caress. 

“Thank you”. You mutter taking the drink, unable to look at him, even if he's staring at you. “Last night was sensual... Now is creepy”.

He chuckles shaking his head, putting his hands inside the pockets of the black trousers.

“Your father knows?”

“I'm drinkin' tequila, what 'you think, ah?” You ask then, with your eyes on the horizon through the huge window, and desert behind it. “I'm sorre', I didn' know...”

“It's ok. These things happens”. He says shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, really? You usually fuck your mates' daughters in the bathroom of a bar?” Raising an eyebrow you turn to him with feigned curiosity.

Nestor place his forefinger under your chin, having a look of your neck. Seems like someone is disappointed, whilst you have another sip enough to burn your throat.

“I have never done it before”.

And you believe him, every word, because of a hunch stuck in your chest. And that fact makes you feel more edgy.

(Meanwhile at Miguel's office)

“¿Bromeas?” (Are you kidding me?). The boss of the Cartel is containing some laughters, supporting his waist against the edge of the desk.

“No bromeo, hermano. Solo quiero saber si estás bien con esto. Si mi hija quiere hacer algo, lo hará de igual manera”. (I'm not kidding, brother. I just want to know if you're okay with this. If my daughter wants to do something, she'll do it anyway). He sighs shaking his chin.

“It's okay. If they want to... have something, I can't refuse”. Miguel shrugs his shoulders cross-armed. “It's all about family happiness”.

“Well, I'm gonna torture him a little. I'm sure my daughter already told him, but he doesn't know that you know”.

“This only gets more interesting”.

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

“I went outside to ask you for your number, but you left so fast”.

“Yea', I had a meeting at the hospital this morning”.

“The hospital? You ok?”

“I work there”.

He draws a surprised gesture on his face nodding some times, and when you're about to continue talking your father comes back wrapping your waist with an arm. Marcus leaves a kiss on your cheek, glaring at Nestor with his eyes. He swallows heavy with his throat going up and down.

“So, where is your wife, Miguel?” The older asks.

“In Santa Madre, with my mother and Cristobal. The house is all ours”. The man replies, making a gesture with his hand to indicate keep walking to outside.

Sitting by your father's side with a leg crossed over the other, the man places a hand on it, marking his territory. Miguel, by the other hand, sitting in front of both serves some whisky for them. 

“So, tell me 'bout you, (Y/N). Why you left Boston?” Galindo asks, adopting the same position as yours, lying against the back of his sofa.

“I finished my MIR and I miss my home, that's all”. With pursed lips you shrug a little. “My boss offered me to continue here, so I couldn't say ‘no’”.

“Amazing. Which speciality?”

“Emergencies”.

“Wow! Brave! It's the most complicated part of a hospital”. He says, sounding very interested.

“Well... More or less, yea'”.

“And you have fun last night, on your way back home?”

You squint at the man, licking your lips with a funny smile drawing in them.

“Pretty much, actually. I went to a bar regented by a good friend of my family. Got some shots, some beers...”

“And she also...” Your father palms your tight, staring at you causing your heart to skip a beat. “Drove my bike, rai', mija?”

“Ye—Yeah... Right, right, dad...”

“She always loved it, so I gave it to her. She likes to... ride. What can I say? It's something hereditary”. Miguel and your father laugh so rhythmic that scare you.

“Are you single, (Y/N)?”

“Why you ask?”

“Just... curiosity. I mean, I'm sure you broke a lot of hearts when you left Boston”. He comments then, with feigned innocence.

“I don' think so, but you can ask my fan club in the geriatric area”. The men laughs loud again, with your father narrowing your knee gently.

“What do you think, brother?” Miguel turns his head to Nestor, next to the glass door with his hands tangled down by his abdomen in a typical security ward position.

“About what, Mikey?” He asks trying to maintain composure.

“Don't you think she's beautiful?”

“No. I mean. Yes. No. I don' know, I didn't look at her”. You could swear he's sweating, getting worse when your father stares at him.

“Don't you think my daughter is beautiful?” Nestor swallows again heavier.

“Ye—Yes, she is... She is”. He answers cleaning his throat with a fist covering his mouth.

“Then, why did you say ‘no’, ah?”

“I didn't wanna be disrespectful, Marcus. It's your daughter”.

“‘Be disrespectful’...” Your father nods one time, having a drink of the whisky in his hand. 

“Oh, sweet Jesus Christ”. You mutter rubbing your right temple.

Miguel and your father start to laugh again, and now you know what it's happening. He already know and Nestor looks more terrified than before, living in his ignorance. You hit your father's ribs with an elbow, getting up of your seat and leaving the glass with tequila on the table.

“You two are like fuckin' children... Pendejos”. You growl very upset walking towards the inside of the house.

“¡Vamos, mija, no te enfades!” (C'mon, mija, don't get angry!) You can hear your father laughing from the sofa, while you walk straight to the front door, taking your phone to call your uncle.

Closing in it loud, you continue to your father SUV, supporting your back against the huge front of the vehicle. At the third tone, the voicemail talks. Shit. You hang up the call, typing this time Angel's number. He finally answer.

“What's up, mi dulce. Everything is goin' ok?”

“Can you please pick me up at Galindo's house?”

“Yea'course, you okay?”

“Please, get me out of here”. You beg, provoking his laughter.

The front door is opening by Nestor, walking next to you and leaving some distance between both till you finish the call.

“'Amma on my way, gimme' some minutes”.

“Thanks, Angel”. You sigh rubbing your forehead with the head down.

“'You leaving?” He asks confused and cheerless.

“Yeah. My hangover doesn' let me deal with bullshit”. You reply somewhat angry. He nods biting his inner lip, looking away. “Listen, I'm sorre'. I didn't mean to give you tro—”.

“Mikey says he's okay”.

“About what?”

“About us. And your father's too. Well, he actually told me that if I make you cry, he's gonna tie me to his car and run me by the desert”. Typical of Marcus, overprotecting. “I'll finish... tomorrow at seven. By evening. If you want... we can go somewhere”.

Raising you gaze at his, finding it in somewhere, you can see he's feeling a little shy. Alcohol always makes everything easy.

“Are you tryin' to fuck me in another bathroom?” You ask then, getting up from the car whilst he's chuckling because of your words.

“Who knows? Maybe. You enjoyed it a lot”.

“You too. My father freaked out when he saw your bruise in my throat”.

“But you don' have it”.

“I'm using makeup to cover it, genius...” You roll your eyes, walking towards him as he does to placing his hand on your lower back.

“So... tomorrow at eight?” A triumphant smile is making an appearance on his lips, before pressing them against your in a dearly kiss, leaving some caresses on your back.

[godkilller]

WRITING SWORDFIGHTS

Roleplay Thread Tips - SWORD EDITION. Because you all voted for this and are enabling me.

If your character is actively using a battle-grade katana in actual combat, IT IS KENJUTSU. If your character is wielding a wooden sword, or bokken, and they’re studying or practicing the ways of swordsmanship via sport, it is KENDO. Think of Kenjutsu as the technique of swordsmanship, especially in battle, which includes outright the ability to kill an enemy. Kendo is an artful performance, an armored/padded and relatively safe competitive sport. Aim to be as respectful as possible when pertaining to the katana, this is a centuries-old weapon with deep cultural ties. As eloquently once put by a Space Wizard, a sword is “an elegant weapon” -- they’re not toys.

There are nine basic cuts in kenjutsu that all characters who wield a katana likely adhere to -- with or without outright training to do so. KESA GIRI: a diagonal strike across the shoulder starting at the right shoulder and down to the left hip. This is mirrored for the left shoulder down to the right hip. Alternatively, KIRIAGE: an upward cut from the right hip to the left shoulder, mirrored again for cuts made from the left hip to the right shoulder. MEN: a straight downward strike to the head and across the torso. KOTE: the cutting of the opponent’s wrist, duplicated for each one. DO: a horizontal cut across the abdomen, in either direction, but most often left-leading. These cuts are almost all fatal if wielded to be so, or lead to the forceful disarming of your opponent. 

Katana are meant to cut, slice and otherwise take down their targets via a razor edge and a precise swing. If wielded improperly, they can utterly fail a cut to the point of damaging the katana, or rebounding sloppily.

You don’t need to get into specifics, like what exact angle a cut is being made, but most diagonal cuts are around 45 degrees, upward or downward strikes. If your character is slashing down at an opponent, they’re likely performing a diagonal cut at the shoulder to the opposite hip. Always think about where you’re positioning your character during attacks to be considerate to the fact that you may be leaving them wide open, and realistically unable to block or parry an attack made at that possible opening.

Writing a swordfight should contain skirmishes, not prolonged spats. Try to pace yourself out. A style choice I make when writing a sword fight is making the descriptions more ‘fast’ and concise during the actual attacks, keeping things simple so that the sentences are read at a faster rate which gives the illusion of quicker moments, then becoming more descriptive and lengthy, ‘slowed down’ during the moments following -- to signify that contemplation, the lull that happens like a tide to shore. In and out. This, also, makes it easier to feel out your fight’s pacing.

Speaking, earlier, of Star Wars... lightsaber battles showed us the beauty of kenjutsu-inspired combat with unnecessary and often fatal twirls and spins added in. Unless your character REALLY can move themselves and their blade FAST, any time they spin themselves during combat is a perfect opening for their opponent to strike their back, their sides, and really.. just about everything. Try not to spin around like a Beyblade. Twirling a sword can be strategic in making an opponent struggle in attempt to keep track of your blade, its range, and everything in between, but it also makes your character vulnerable. The more time spent with your cool color guard spinning, the less time you have to react and move your blade in a way to defend yourself.

 Sometimes it’s the smaller strikes that matter more than the grand sweeping motions of a blade. Making your character constantly make big swings means they’re using way more energy behind each swing, and also causes momentum to work against them in some cases: the harder and bigger their swings, the longer it’ll take for their blade to come to a stop and then return to a position that can defend. 

Swordfighting is all about footing and distance. Your character should be thinking about their reach, their range, in comparison to their opponent’s. If your character is skilled with a sword, they should never be caught vibing within arm’s reach of their opponent, because that’s well within the range of the other’s sword. THE SWORD BEING AN EXTENSION IS NOT A SAYING TO BE TAKEN LIGHTLY. This sword should feel like a part of the wielder, an addition, not a blunt object to flail around with. For reference: most katana-length swords have blades that are roughly three feet long. Factor that into your character's arm span. Range is everything, distance and gap-closing is everything.

A katana’s sheath is made from wood, and therefore cannot fend off a full-force swing from an attacking sword, which is sometimes shown in popular anime / manga as something that can be done. Maybe, yes, the first swing or two, it can be used to defend against. Sometimes a saya may be reinforced with iron or steel or even tempered clay. Those aren’t as common, or will be used almost exclusively for show, and will add weight -- which should be factored into the entire katana’s heaviness when settled at your character’s side. Wooden saya may expand and contract during humid and hot days as well as in the cold, or other weather conditions. Painted saya may eventually show cracks and other wear and tear on their decorations due to this. What does your character’s sword situation look like? Are they proper and polished, or does their weapon have blemishes?

On that topic: If your character returns their sword to its scabbard without cleaning off any blood or other fluids that touched it during battle then I am personally hunting you down. Blades, supernatural or otherwise, shouldn’t be sheathed when dirty. Especially if they’ve made contact with skin or made a full cut that spilled blood. THERE’S AN ENTIRE ART OF “RETURNING THE BLADE” AFTER MAKING A CUT, it’s specific in removing anything from the blade via wiping or ‘shaking the blood’ from it. Blades can become rusted or otherwise damaged if not cleaned, and sheathing a dirtied blade means that now the scabbard is caking that shit onto your blade. Both need cleaning, now, you absolute idiot. I’m crying. For reference: a single thumb print on a blade left uncleaned for a week can begin showing signs of rust due to the oils of your skin residing unhindered on the blade.

Swords aren’t featherlight. Over time, a character who regularly wields a sword should have weathered hands due to the weight and grip of holding their katana, specifically this should roughen their palms. Katana are meant to be wielded with TWO HANDS. The dominant hand rests closer to the guard, and the non-dominant hand resides lower, near the end of the hilt. The two-handed grip must be separated, but not too drastically, to offer a driving force to your swings.

Writing a swing is simple, but describing the speeds and aim can require a little bit more: the fastest series of cuts were made using BATTOJUTSU, or iaijutsu, the art of drawing the blade swiftly, for example. Cuts that land will face resistance, primarily muscle and bone if they’re deep, and only should cleave cleanly if your character has invested the arm strength and drive to slice through a person like so. What style of swordsmanship does your character use? There are many different ones.

Standard katana move slowly in comparison to tanto and wakizashi, shorter blades. This is in part due to being wielded with two hands as opposed to the short swords being single-handed, and also in part due to the katana weighing more and taking up more space whilst swung.

A sword should be worn at the hip, on the side that is opposite of your character’s dominant hand, because that’s how it’s drawn: using your character’s non-dominant hand to grip the scabbard whilst the dominant hand draws the blade. There are various artful and skillful ways, including deadly teachings specifically about unsheathing the blade, surrounding this pivotal moment. Your character can get a little fancy here, or they can stay simple.

Typically, a character should not draw their blade unless they are prepared to kill, or to defend themselves via the act of killing a threatening enemy -- the traditional meme of samurai contemplating Many a Thing before drawing their swords dramatically, in slow-mo or suddenly with great lagging pauses is kind of a play on the fact that this is no silly little feat. Even if your character is perceived as careless, reckless, they can still fit in that moment of contemplation, of focus. Is your character respectful to this concept, or do they not give a shit? It’s considered disrespectful, dishonorable, to conceal your blade and draw it without indication of wanting to attack. 

Sometimes that moment before or during the draw is so LIGHTNING FAST, it can be easier to simply describe the sound of the draw rather than focus on writing the actual method of unsheathing a blade in your reply. NEVER FORGET SOUNDS when describing fights: breathing, the rustling of clothes, the ‘woosh’ of a blade being swung in full through the air, the scuffing, skidding, and sliding of feet across the ground. If your blade achieves your opponent, then the cutting of fabric, of skin, and even bone can be factored in. If you ever feel unsure of what to describe, visually, during a fight -- sometimes the sounds can save you.

Clashing blades, IF YOU MUST, shouldn’t ‘spark’ like sometimes shown in anime during heated moments of swords scraping against one another. These swords aren’t meant to smack into one another, they’re meant to cut, but if your character’s sword is supernatural / enhanced, then go for it. Swords should not obnoxiously and loudly clang together, they’re not heavy slabs of metal, they’re refined and folded steel meant to be narrow and thin for optimal cutting. There is some measure of recoil on impact, your character should be absorbing some of that blow whilst the blade gathers the rest. Yes, katana can wobble and bend when in combat, but they shouldn’t be excessively doing so. This isn’t fencing.

Stabbing is pretty fucking fatal. If your character gets slashed, there’s a chance the wound is relatively shallow -- yes, it’ll sting, it’ll hurt, it’ll bleed. But a stab from a katana will be a deep wound, and will most likely mean the full blade impaled you, meaning there will be an entry and an exit wound to freely bleed from. This also ups the chance that a vital has been struck.

It’s relatively uncommon to attack your opponent’s feet when in combat, but then again most swordfighting in anime isn’t standard. Not everyone plays by the rules -- does your character? Keep in mind that if your character wants to fight dirty and strike low, this may very well leave them wide open; low strikes imply your character is leaning over or crouching, with their blade lowered too, this can be a great time to strike for their head.

A decisive moment can be a single strike coming through and ending the battle, or it can be a numerous amount of smaller strikes slowly causing your opponent to tire and succumb. Don’t always assume your character can end a fight in a single strike: this takes immense strength and accuracy, most characters can and will go down swinging.

Katana aren’t small, consider this if a fight begins indoors. ASKING TO MOVE A FIGHT OUTSIDE ISN’T JUST FOR KICKS. Prepare to wreck walls, knock over furniture, and other obstacles to obstruct your katana from making wide proper strikes. Try swinging a broom in a hallway, it just doesn’t end well. Wakizashi are more suited for close-quarters and confined fighting, which is also why samurai would wear them in tandem with their main katana to avoid being vulnerable.

Katana, even when sheathed, can still be considered hindering in small spaces or when sitting. It’s commonplace to remove the stowed sword from the tie at one’s hip and place it at their non-dominant hand’s side when seated, especially if one is in the seiza position -- known as literally the ‘proper sitting’ position where one sits on their knees, their legs folded beneath them.

Just because an experienced sword-wielder is seated doesn’t mean they’re defenseless. In fact, there are many different cuts that can be made from a seated position which actually gain more power and momentum due to the added force of half-standing during the draw. Does your character do anything special to really enhance their speeds, their strikes? Gin hides his sword in his oversized clothes, particularly his sleeves, or will strike when in a noncombative stance.

IT’S COMMON TO USE CLOTHING TO OBSCURE FOOTING, in fact that’s the main function of the hakama, the flowing garment that resembles oversized pants. The skirt-like legs of the pants hide the more detailed positions of the legs, giving the appearance of stationary poses, or gliding movements, when more is going on underneath.

What steps does your character take in order to get a solid advantage in any given fight? Do they prefer upward strikes or downward, do they prefer striking left or right? Do they like getting all up in the other’s business or are they more of a touch and go type? Is this their first time not slicing at some soaked bamboo? Have they ever drawn a live sword at another person before? Think about all of these things.

Ultimately, as long as you’re being respectful, you can really have fun with it!

[artificialqueens]

These People in This Room (Don't Shine Like You) (Diamond Chaney) - Ortega

summary: Lawrence has just been crowned the winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race UK, and Ellie is right beside her. Just like she’s always been.

a/n: omg HIIIIII! here’s my entry to the fic challenge (will it be my only one? who can say). in a shocking turn of events this is not a drabble asdfghjk but would we have expected anything concise from me? this fic was inspired by Shine and Starstruck, both by Years and Years. they are very diamond chaney songs so pls do give them a little listen for full effect! standard procedure, she/her pronouns bc they’re in drag, u know the drill. this has taken me entirely too long to write but pls enjoy some diamond chaney from the night of the crowning! (pls also collectively pretend they had an actual dancefloor to celebrate on and not just a hotel room bc i had already started writing at the point Ellie posted her BTS. fic is just one big serving of pretend anyway xo)

***

It’s somewhere around midnight, the sun has set on Thursday and Friday has crept in, and Lawrence is sitting in a booth with the dancefloor flashing bright colours in front of her, only just daring to believe that this is her actual life.

There is not a single moment that seems real. Even being one of the top four took her essentially since filming stopped to come to terms with. But hearing her name being read out, hearing the other girls cheer for her and being able to do nothing but stare at the screen in disbelief with her hands over her mouth and sob like a baby…that’s not sunk in yet. Maybe it never will. She’s still feeling the after-effects from the way the shock and euphoria had kicked seven shades of shit out of her pulse, the way the serotonin had crashed over her like a wave and the absolute unbridled lack of control she’d had over any of her emotions.

When the cameras had been cut off and they’d been given the all-clear from the producers that they could hug each other, Lawrence had only managed to stand up from the chair, still in floods of tears as Bimini bundled their arms around her, Tayce had jostled them all with the way she’d jumped up and down and yelled in delight, and Ellie had looped her arms around her neck and murmured into her shoulder, words Lawrence couldn’t hear but felt the love from regardless.

It had to be Ellie, really, that crowned her. It was a full-circle moment. She still remembers the night they met for the first time; Dundee in 2016, some time in the early hours of the morning (she’d probably called it ‘bastard o’clock’ or something similar), coming out of the bar and being stopped by a boy in half-drag similar ages with her who spoke rapidly and excitedly and told her that he’d messaged her about starting drag and she’d replied to him. The way realisation had dawned on her and the way she’d been her usual loud and boisterous self to cover up the fact she’d actually been quite bashful about the fact they were meeting for the first time.

There was no alternative, not least because of everything they’ve been through together; the years leading up to this moment and the rollercoaster it’s all been. She’s glad that they’re on a high because they’ve seen each other at their lows (been the cause of each others’ too, sometimes) and pulled through only slightly scathed, but always stronger. The producer had asked Lawrence who she’d wanted and when she, still speechless, had pointed in Ellie’s direction, seeing the tears start to stream down her face had only made Lawrence’s start all over again. They’d hugged- just the two of them this time- and the way Ellie had immediately felt like a safe place in the crazy chaos of reality reminded Lawrence so much of when they had filmed. The way even just hearing Ellie’s voice would stop her feeling homesick, the way she was a living comfort blanket.

She’d never tell that to Ellie, of course, because she’d never hear the end of it if she did.

It’s been a couple of hours and Lawrence is expecting everything to suddenly sink in any minute now. Something will click like the last piece of a puzzle and she’ll finally accept that she’s won, that the whole thing isn’t a giant and premature April fools’ prank. She turns her phone over in her hand, wondering what all this nervous energy is doing to her body chemistry. She’s got messages from her family, her friends, Kiko, the girls she works with back home. Well…some of them. But apart from reading them and frantically replying, Lawrence hasn’t checked anything else; hasn’t opened Twitter or Instagram, where the notifications are piling up like pizza leaflets through a letterbox and are equally as unwanted. If she thinks about them she can feel her stomach twist, wrung out like a wet towel.

Forty thousand likes. The Team Bimini tweet had forty thousand likes. What did her own get? Eight thousand? Lawrence thinks about the sheer scale of forty thousand people, compares it to the population of towns in Scotland. Almost Airdrie. Just under Coatbridge. She imagines a whole town of people, angry and furious and disappointed, and all of them tweeting her to let her know exactly that. She remembers in high school when she thought the whole of Hermitage was against her. She wants to tell baby Lawrence that that was fucking small fry. A thousand kids? Try the sheer scale of Bimini’s fanbase. Her breath is shaky when she tries to breathe in, like her lungs have reduced in size. It reminds her of that time in school camp when they all had to jump from a pier for some unknown-fucking-reason, how freezing the water had been and how her chest felt tight as she gasped for air. Lawrence supposes it was character building in the sense that it prepared her exactly for how anxiety would make her feel later in life.

In for four. Hold for five. Out for six.

“There she is!”

An ever so slightly slurred and wobbly voice breaks Lawrence’s reverie, and when she looks up she sees Ellie approaching her, a little unsteady even in the flats she’s changed into with a glass of prosecco in each hand. It says a lot that even at the top of a helter-skelter of an anxiety spiral, Lawrence’s heart still gives a little swell when she sees her friend. Ellie has always been able to make her feel better. She feels an almost silly sense of relief that she’s here.

Lawrence takes one last little breath in before plastering a small smile to her face. “Awrite? Where’s Mumma Diamond?”

“In her room conked out. Just got back from putting her to bed, she couldn’t hack it. Letting down the family name, that one,” Ellie huffs, sliding into the booth and squashing up right beside Lawrence, even though there’s enough space for two metres distance even if they had still been under strict instructions from the BBC.

“Tayce?” Lawrence asks, gratefully accepting the prosecco glass and hurriedly downing a too-big gulp in an attempt to calm herself down.

“Facetiming A’whora. Of course.”

“Of course. Maybe a bottle and a half of prosecco is gonny be the love potion she never knew she needed.”

“Fuck, we can only hope,” Ellie grins, already laughing through her words. “If we’re gonna be touring with them I don’t wanna have to karate chop through five layers of sexual tension every time I have to walk past them.”

Lawrence chuckles, tired but humoured and unable to not make the so-obvious joke. “You couldny fight sleep.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’ll fight you in a minute!” Ellie nudges her with her shoulder and spills both of their prosecco from the glasses in their hands. The gesture is affectionate and out of place with the impending threat. “Where’s Bims? Thought they were with you.”

Lawrence shrugs. “Went out for a smoke with one of the runners about twenty minutes ago and never returned.”

“Good for them. Always thought there’s something inherently sexy about a winch in a back alley.”

“Well, you would know.”

“Eh, so would you!” Ellie cries, nothing short of incredulously offended. Her expression makes her look even more like a cartoon character than usual, and it’s entirely too endearing.

“Yeah, forgot that popular phrase. It takes two to winch in a back alley,” Lawrence jokes, but her heart isn’t in it. It’s too heavy and her ribcage feels like someone laced her into a corset and pulled it too tight. She’s hoping Ellie is too drunk to notice.

Ellie sips her prosecco with her eyes on her, then scrutinises her as she swallows it. She frowns, her nose wrinkling up as she prods Lawrence with an acrylic-nail finger. “What’s up?”

Fuck.

“The sky,” Lawrence says without conviction, and the raised eyebrow Ellie gives her in return is enough to unlock her. She deflates like a balloon and brings her phone up so Ellie can see it, turning it over in her hands. “Just…as happy as I am, and as much as this is all a dream come true…I keep psyching myself up to open any social media, and I can’t, because this one fucking brain cell of anxiety keeps telling me that everyone out there hates me and hates the fact I’ve won.”

Ellie’s face falls into a frown. She gently pries the phone out of her hands and places it on the table, takes one of Lawrence’s free hands in hers and rubs her thumb over her knuckles. “But all your other brain cells know that’s wrong.”

Lawrence sighs. “So why’s that one louder than all the rest?”

Ellie presses her lips together in a badly-suppressed smile. She’s giggling as she speaks. “Because you’ve only got two brain cells.”

Lawrence splutters a laugh, shoving Ellie with her free hand. The other is still laced together with hers. As the laughter dies down and the momentary serotonin wears off, Lawrence can feel her brow furrowing involuntarily. “Forty thousand people wanted Bimini to win, Ellie. Forty thousand. You know that’s like a whole town? That’s like the population of Coatbridge?”

“ Fuck Coatbridge!” Ellie exclaims, affronted, and her shock and insistence makes Lawrence snort all over again. “Okay, forty thousand people is a town but really, what’s that to the rest of the world? Think how tiny that is in the grand scheme of things, Lawrence! Honestly, give a fuck about what any bastard who wants to send you anything vile thinks of you! You’re so amazing! You won! Fuck everyone else!”

Lawrence wants to feel cheered up. The prosecco Ellie’s drunk is making her all the more animated and lively, giving her words a determination and a passion that her speech so rarely possesses most of the time. Ellie is calm, and she doesn’t get wound up easily. There’s something about the fact she’s growing this animated over getting Lawrence to believe in herself that warms her heart a little.

Then again…

“It’s not just that, though. There’s girls from home that haven’t even said well done. Girls I’ve always supported and couldn’t do enough for, and it’s like…really? You can’t be happy for me when I’ve actually managed to do the one thing I’ve wanted to do for years?”

“Well maybe they have said well done, and you’ve just not seen it because you’ve been hiding,” Ellie gestures matter-of-factly at her phone. It doesn’t convince her.

“They won’t have. You’ll know who I’m talking about, Ellie.”

Ellie sighs a little, clearly conceding that Lawrence is right. Her grip on her hand tightens a little, and when Lawrence looks up at her in response her blue eyes hold a glint of assurance.

“Well, even if they haven’t…fuck ‘em. Onwards and upwards, chick. You’ve got ten new sisters out of this who’re always going to know what it’s like, they’re gonna be here for you no matter what,” Ellie says comfortingly. Lawrence knows why she’s said ten and not eleven, but Ellie affirms this with another squeeze and a slightly shy smile. “And you’ve always got me. You’ve always had me.”

This is true. She’s always had Ellie. Before the show, doing gigs with her and hanging out with her and going to DragCon with her. On the show, always there to reassure her or pull her out of a negative spiral or just lean against her shoulder and squeeze her hand. And after the show. Whatever that might look like. Whatever that might be.

She supposes that neither of them know yet.

“C’mon,” Ellie says decisively, holding out a hand for her as the song changes. It’s some sort of Paolo Nutini dirge, and Lawrence has to laugh at how obviously whoever is in charge of the music has rushed to attempt to find something Scottish. Lawrence can only blink at Ellie’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Come on! ” Ellie laughs. Lawrence doesn’t know if she’s blushing or if it’s just the lights.

But she does know that she can’t leave Ellie hanging when she’s looking at her like that.

So Lawrence lets herself be dragged out to the dancefloor and pulled into a hug as Ellie sways them left to right ever-so-slightly out of time with the song, tipsy and full of affection given the way her arms are locked around Lawrence’s waist. It should feel stranger than it does. In reality, being held by Ellie feels as simple as just existing.

Or perhaps simpler than that, given the fact that Lawrence’s existence feels entirely surreal right now.

“You have to be in drag for half past se-ven,” Ellie sing-songs, bringing one of her arms out from around Lawrence’s waist and tapping her on the nose. Lawrence immediately misses it, so it’s a relief that it’s not gone for long.

“Because I wo-on,” Lawrence imitates back to her, and the way Ellie squeezes her waist in response and affirmation causes a smile and a blush to bloom on her face without her even being to control it. She rests her head against Ellie’s chest so she can’t have the satisfaction (ammunition) of seeing how she makes her feel.

It’s little moments like that that she needs right now. Anchors to keep her down on earth, to let her know that this isn’t just some really prolonged lucid dream and it’s all actually happening because currently reality is so absurdly ridiculous; she’s just won Drag Race and she’s slow-dancing with Ellie to the song that’s blasting through the speakers in the background, a parody of some American high school prom where she’s just been crowned the queen.

Moments like these- where Ellie’s holding her close as if she’s literally trying to protect her from the world- remind her that not everybody is against her. Not everybody hates her. Not everybody is wishing her a slow and painful death because Bimini didn’t win, least of all them. She knows that Ellie was never able to share what team she was on even though she hadn’t had a chance at the crown, but she didn’t have to. Not really. They’ve always been on each others’ team.

Ellie jolts Lawrence out of her daydream with the way her chest is shuddering, and Lawrence momentarily thinks she’s crying again before her soft giggle becomes audible over the music.

“What?” Lawrence tilts her head up, meeting Ellie’s scheming, smirking face.

“Can’t believe RuPaul Charles asked if you wanted to move to London, city of dreams, city of a thousand opportunities…” Ellie begins, Lawrence already laughing as she knows what the conclusion to her sentence will be. “…and you said, ‘yer awrite pal, am fine in Glesga wi the jakes an’ the Blue Lagoon chippy an’ the guy that stands on Buchanan Street and yells at everyone that they’re going to hell!’ ”

Lawrence would normally roll her eyes at Ellie’s impersonation of her accent, but she’s laughing too much at the joke that’s forming in her head to commit to it. “RuPaul asked if I wanted to move to London, and I said…”

The pair of them are almost giggling too much to get the punchline out, Ellie clocking on to how it’s going to end. In sync, the pair of them splutter out a “… NNNNAAW! ”

Giddy and happy, Lawrence rests her cheek against Ellie’s chest again. “London’s got junkies too, anyway.”

“This is gonna sound really selfish, but…don’t actually move to London,” Ellie’s voice murmurs from above her, and there’s something plaintive to it that makes Lawrence refrain from replying with a joke or a barb like she normally would. The way Ellie follows it up cements that fact. “It would probably be so good for you, but like…Glasgow would be lost without you, genuinely. And so would I.”

Lawrence can’t cry again tonight, even if it’s only because she thinks it’s physically impossible, so she just squeezes Ellie tight until she worries about her ability to breathe. “I’m not going anywhere, hen.”

Lawrence doesn’t even really know what they are, her and Ellie. They both still have Grindr and they talk about their hookups and raised hopes and broken hearts with each other like friends. But they’re not really just that. They’re affectionate, and they open up to each other with the same shared unspoken understanding of something Lawrence doesn’t understand. They hug for too long and cuddle up to each other when they’re together, and Lawrence can’t count the amount of times during filming that she’d find strength in the way Ellie would squeeze her hand without a word. They’ve woken up together too many times (why she’d felt the need to remind Ellie of that while the cameras were rolling, she’ll never know) and kissed each other more than that. Every time they say I love you they mean it, but they also mean a little bit more. There’s no butterflies or fast pulses or fluttering hearts- they’re past that stage. Everything is just natural and normal and easy.

She wonders if they’ll ever put a label on what they have. There’s a part of her that doesn’t ever want to.

“If we’re both still single by the time we’re forty,” Lawrence begins, leaning back to look at Ellie through her glazed, half-drunk half-tired eyes. “…we should just say ‘fuck it’ and get married.”

(She doesn’t even know if it’s a joke or not.)

Ellie laughs as if it is and nods as if it isn’t. “Drag wedding. We’d need to upstage Tayce and A’whora, though.”

Lawrence realises something. “I’ll turn forty two years before you.”

There’s a pause as the song starts to fade out, and it makes Ellie’s murmur seem louder than it is. “That’s okay. We don’t need to wait for me.”

The jolt her words give Lawrence’s heart and the way Ellie’s talking as if it’s an actual plan makes her think maybe it wasn’t really ever a joke after all. It’s ridiculous though, and it’s all theoretical, and it’s a totally hypothetical scenario, and they’re both drunk , for Christ’s sake. So Lawrence pulls out of Ellie’s arms and takes her hands in her own, the song that’s started playing more upbeat and the opening chords inciting some sort of hope and optimism in her heart for the future that’s unfolding for the pair of them.

“One more song then bed?” she suggests. Ellie raises her eyebrows as she looks down at her.

“Whose bed?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dirty Diamond,” Lawrence shoots back without missing a beat, and as the first lines of the song fill the room she leans back and begins to spin the pair of them in a circle, both of them laughing as if everything is as simple as just that room, and the music blaring out from the speakers, and the lights flashing above them drenching them in purple and pink.

[pumpkinlass]

I related a lot to the ask you got abt how to art while ADHD and while im not officially diagnosed yet i noticed I did/do a lot of the stuff u mentioned in that ask and i guess what i want to ask is how do you make yourself sit down and draw if you're not using it focus on other things? For me drawing now feels like a chore, like I want to get better at art and practice anatomy and shit but i either can't focus on it or it just feels like dragging myself through sludge.

Hey friend! I’m sorry it took me so long to reply. I kept clicking into this all week and thinking about how I wanted to respond but would get exhausted imagining it so I’d just put it off and then another day would pass. There are some VERY long thoughts below because I am unable to be concise and I apologize for that.  

You have no idea how badly I want to give you a good answer, give you the one you’re looking for!! I thought about it all week on and off, trying to see if I could phrase it good. But the truth is, ADHD is a bitch and I don’t have an answer for you. I want you to know though, that I cannot ‘make myself sit down and draw’. I literally can’t. And while it’s true that sometimes I just end up fixated on my art and I’m productive for a few days..... it’s also true that I then spend the rest of the week beating myself up for not being able to do that again on command.

I know that it can feel that others around you are doing it better then you,  It’s an easy trap when you’re looking at someone else’s profile to think “how are they so productive?” But there are days (many in a row) where I can’t bring myself to draw at all.

And that’s not something you’d necessarily be able to tell by my page

A lot of times I have a vicious cycle that goes something like this “I’m going to draw at 7am” --> I overslept --> “okay after breakfast I’ll draw!” --> “It’s 9:30 and I missed that time, so I’ll just do something else for a bit and then I will DEF do draw at 11″ --> “It’s 12:40 -- okay well I need to eat, I’ll pick it up after lunch” --> “It’s 4pm” --> okay well I can’t draw at this time, I’ll wait until evening and then I’ll feel like it --> it’s 8pm, --> well the day’s almost over so I’ll just watch youtube or something --> It’s 11pm. --> time for sleep. I’ll pick this up tomorrow at 7 am. And this will go on for days. And the worst part is that while I’m in this cycle I will punish myself. I won’t let myself play the game I want -- because I’m supposed to be drawing. I won’t let myself start a show --because I’m supposed to be drawing. So I’ll just browse tumblr or scroll for hours. or dissociate. or watch youtube videos without substance. And all the time I feel guilt.guilt.guilt.

But over the years I’ve learned that doing this has never once helped me. I’ve come to recognize my own patterns of behavior and on days that I can draw I draw, on days that I can’t I don’t punish myself for being unable to.

I am who I am, and I am fine with that! Maybe other artists out there don’t get like this, but I cannot be them. I can only be who I am. And you can only be who you are. You find what works for you and you don’t put yourself down for not being able to reach ‘xx’ mark or ‘xx’ goal. Your progress comes in your own time, any practice is good practice and forcing yourself won’t help anything.

Additionally, I have never sat down and thought ‘this is practice’ I just draw what I want, and overtime, that becomes my practice. I become better each time that i do a piece and it’s gradual and then you just look back and go ‘omg. i can draw that now.’ 

[briapia95]

Wangxian arranged marriage AU part 5 

part [1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [master post]

Carp Tower has been burned down, Sect Leader Jin is gravely injured and the sect heir is missing.  

The message was concise, but it told Lan Wangji everything he needed to know. Qishan Wen was done with passive demonstrations of power, sect leader Wen was now actively and forcefully trying to exert control over the other sects.

“What are the actions the sect is to follow?” he asked, looking in-between his brother and uncle, complicated expressions in both of them.  

“There’s nothing we can do for Lanling Jin now,” his uncle finally spoke after a few moments of what could only be considered as hesitation, “Sect leader Wen has decreed that any sightings of young master Jin are to be informed to them. They suspect he’s flown to Yunmeng.” He stroked his beard, his previous countenance intensifying.    

Wangji felt put off as he considered his uncle’s words. Were they really going to stand and watch as Qishan Wen attacked another sect without doing anything?

Something must have shown in his expression because his brother was quick to speak. “There is something else, Wangji,” Lan Xichen waited until Lan Wangji turned completely towards him before continuing, “we have received a missive from Qishan.”

A foreboding feeling took root inside Lan Wangji, whatever that missive said it could not be of any good.

“Sect leader Wen has stated that the major clans have tricked him in the past discussion conference they held last year, and again in the conference held at Qinghe three months ago,” Lan Xichen continued, this time curtly, “that’s the reason you were summoned, Wangji.”

He knew his brother was stalling whatever he needed to say. He nodded as a way to reassure him, he would support his brother with anything Xichen needed.

His brother took a deep breath, “Wen Ruohan has demanded at every major sect to send their respective disciples to Qishan.”

He briefly closed his eyes, nodding once in acceptance. It was clear that the missive was nothing more than a way for the Qishan Wen sect to take hostages. His brother could not go, he would go in his stead. It was probably why his brother looked so bothered.

It was not really a hardship to Wangji, he would do anything for Lan Xichen, the same way he knew his brother would do were his positions reversed. He needed to speak to Wei-

Lan Wangji’s thoughts came to a halt, rapidly drifting from his brother towards Wei Ying. He turned towards his brother, gaze filled with trepidation, “Wei Wuxian?”

In the last six months, they've reached a better understanding between them, Lan Zhan was gladdened by the progress they’ve made in their relationship. Which is why when he considered the prospects regarding Wei Ying’s future at Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji could not get rid of the lingering agitation brewing inside him.

Would Wei Wuxian be forced to go along with Gusu Lan disciples? Would he go willingly despite his sect treatment towards him in the previous year? Did Lan Wangji even want him to go and put himself in that kind of danger? He was so focussed on those thoughts that he almost missed Xichen’s answer.

“Young master Wei, he is not obliged to go.”

The words washed away his worried thoughts, letting loose a breath Lan Wangji had not noticed he’d been holding. However the relief was short-lived, as that was the point his uncle decided to speak once more, “he is not obliged, but it would be remiss for him not to go.”

“Wei Ying is not a disciple of Gusu Lan,” he replied instantly, belatedly realizing the slip he made at calling Wei Wuxian by his birth name in front of his uncle.  

His uncle became incensed, from which part of his last statement Lan Wangji didn’t know. Frowning at Lan Wangji, he drove his point further, “he is married to you, the second young master of the sect. He is the former first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. Him not going might spark conflict with other sects in the future.”

He was about to talk back once again to Lan Qiren when his brother intervened. “As I previously stated he is not obligated, Wangji,” a pause, “but he won't be forced to stay in Cloud Recesses should he decide to go.”

Something turned unpleasantly in his stomach at that last sentence. Because he knew deep down that Wei Wuxian, ever eager to help and not able to stand any sort of injustice, would choose to go with him and the rest of the disciples.

-----

“Lan Zhan, of course, I’m going!” Wei Ying spoke even before he finished the retelling of what had transpired with his brother and uncle.

There were at the back of the mountains, the place favored by the bunnies Wei Ying had long gifted him, a few others joining the original pair as the years passed. He had thought best to break the news to Wei Ying in a place he was more comfortable.

He sighed, “Wei Yi-”

“Lan Zhan,” the other cut in, “I can’t just do nothing when the people I care about are putting themselves in danger. You are pretty much giving yourself as a hostage, I can’t accept that. I can’t accept Jiang Cheng being there with me not being able to support him.”

And that was the core of the matter. Wei Ying was unable to stay put when other people were faced with unjustness. He had seen it before, with Jiang Wanyin at the last discussion conference, and with Wen Qiongling in the one before, with young mistress Jiang when Jin Zixuan spoke ill about her in the past, and many other chances when the man had stood up against what he thought was wrong.

It was who Wei Ying was and nothing would change that. Still, Wangji selfishly wished that for once he would stay out of trouble, out of danger.

He felt the other man tugging at his sleeve, realizing he had closed his eyes he opened them only to be faced with a pleading look from his husband, “Lan Zhan, please don’t be upset.”

“Not upset. I am worried,” he whispered.  

“Don’t be.”

At his frown Wei Ying placed himself right in front of Lan Wangji, eyes earnest yet expression now soft. “That’s not exactly what I mean,” Wei Wuxian linked their little fingers before continuing, “Lan Zhan, you’ll be with me, and Jiang Cheng will be there too. We’ll have each other's backs, and nothing can go too badly.”

It was better than nothing, he knew. Just as he knew he had to believe in Wei Ying’s words, else he’d be too distressed to properly focus on the coming threat. “Mn”, he uttered at last, gaining a small smile from Wei Ying.

“I need to send a message to shijie,” Wei Ying spoke again, mouth tensing, “her engagement with the peacock might be broken but she must be really worried about him. I kind of hope he’s at Lotus Pier if only because his presence would appease her.”

Lan Wangji nodded once, “Go first, I’ll join you in the jingshi after I talk to brother.”

Wei Ying reached to him once again, softly squeezing his hand before letting go, a close-mouthed smile directed at him this time.

It filled Wangji with a soft feeling inside his skin, tingling pleasantly in a way he was not sure he could entirely describe. The same feeling that qualified alongside all of the different sorts of sentiments the other man continuously awakened inside him and that Wangji was sometimes afraid to explore in more depth.

Perhaps in the future, he would have a chance. At a time when the threat from the Wen sect was not looming as close to their lives as it currently was. 

[tameila]

I used to be on tumblr but I gave it up and I'm afraid to log back in but i'm DESPERATE to know what was up with Vax and Percy (and Percy's backstory) from TSAR - also I binged it all in one night, and you'll get a review on ao3 in a bit - it may be 4:30 in the morning here, and one of my contacts fell out while I was reading because eyestrain oops. Just please, I'm so desperate to know!

first of all, I hope you got a nice, long sleep after reading!! It doesn’t matter how many times I hear someone say it; it humbles me to this day that my fic can be the kind that people wanna read straight through without stop. 🥺💜☀️

also, thank you so much for leaving a comment, which I shall reply to asap, because I was literally lamenting just the other day that I was sitting pretty at 398 comments and all I needed was one (1) more comment - to which I could reply - and I could have a nice even 400. thank you for making my dreams come true!

now, onto your question...I always say that eventually I’m going to get around to writing out the story of Perc’ahlia and Vax in TSAR ‘verse. I do have a prequel of sorts to TSAR planned that is the story of Perc’ahlia, but...I’m gonna be completely honest, I don’t see it being written in the next decade. so, while I usually answer this question with a general overview, I’ve decided to go a little more in-depth and I’m gonna try to lay out the whole story of Perc’ahlia in TSAR as concisely as I can...

TL;DR (in case you don’t wanna read the bullet point novel i’m about to write): Vex’s story of finding Percy in the woods is the truth. She found him in the woods while on fire watch. Percy, by all legal means, is a man that died years ago. Vax, being a reasonable brother, does not trust that shit. I originally planned for Pike to find this out in chapter 16 during her convo with Vax with Vax again mentioning how he does not truly trust Percy but knows he has to respect Vex’s decisions. Pike, unable to control her curiosity, weasels the story out of him. but, in the end, taking their convo in that direction didn’t feel right for the story, so I took it out.

and, now, the main course!

Vax and Vex left home as soon as they finished high school and began traveling together across the country. Vax loved traveling, and Vex went along with it. She wanted to go where Vax went but, deep down, she longed to settle somewhere. As the years went on, it became clear that Vax did not share that want. Eventually, that divide in their wants for the future led to an argument and a falling out between the siblings.

This is when Vex took up the fire watch position in the mountains near Westruun. She figured it would be good - to be off the grid so she could really think and consider what she wanted - and, selfishly, it was nice to finally be on her own for once in her life. With her, she took her newly found lifelong companion, a Newfoundland puppy named Trinket.

About two weeks into her fire watch, while making her way back to her post at sunset, Vex stumbled upon a man who appeared to have been lost in the woods and mountains for some time. However, as she reached for her comms, the man stopped her and begged for her to not turn him in. He only asked for a place to rest for the night. Swayed by his pleas, Vex agreed, and that night he slept on the balcony of her post while she lay awake all night in fear that he might reveal himself to be some wild woods murderer. He didn’t and, in the morning, he accepted the breakfast that Vex offered and then disappeared back into the woods.

Over the next month, Vex would continue to run into Percy or traces of him. They began to build a rapport. Vex would leave him food and clothes and other supplies. Percy, in turn, offered connection, a human touch point in a vast wilderness, that Vex found she needed as she struggled with missing her brother but accepting that she needed to sever her dependence on him if she wanted to grow on her own.

Eventually, Vex invited Percy to just stay at her post with her. He refused at first but, slowly, over days and days, he came by everyday until he just never left again.

For the rest of the summer, they grow together and closer. Percy comes out his shell more and more. Vex discovers who she is in the woods and the fiery sunsets and muggy summer nights. Vex definitely has at least one more moment where she’s like,”holy shit what am I doing? this man could turn on a heel at any moment and murder me” but, as she reaches for her walkie to call hq, she finds she just can’t do it.

and eventually, she does get the story from Percy: He’s a ghost, a dead man walking. Legally dead, that is. See, there was a horrible tragedy some years back, the de Rolo family of Whitestone Enterprises - the Mr. and Mrs. and their seven children - all died in a house fire. Well, all seven children as far as the news knows, but Percy claims to be the third child and says that it was not a tragic accident but a murder instead. He has been on the run ever since.

When the summer ends, Vex tells Percy that she plans to move to Westruun and start her new life. Percy asks, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, if he might go where she goes. He’s tired of running. Maybe it’s time to live again. Maybe it’s time to see what comes next.

Now, imagine this story from Vax’s side, he has an argument with his sister. She leaves to go off into the woods for a whole summer and, when she comes back, she comes back with some random guy that she found out in the woods. Vex tells him that he can trust Percy, but...Come on! That’s sketchy as hell!

It gets even sketchier when Vex asks him if he still has contact with people who can get fake documents and IDs. He knows they were teenage runaways, but -- damn, he’s an antiquer now!!

He does get the full story eventually. Not that it helps Percy’s case. and Vax spends years, up through TSAR as you know, not sure of Percy’s intentions and never fully trusting him.

there is more to the story! I am planning to reveal a bit about it in the TSAR sequels, whenever I get around to them, but I hope this was enough to satiate your curiosity for now 💖

[valentino-red]

sinnerman

Chapter 2

take me to the hamptons, bugatti veyron

Ralph looked over at the backseat, where Nicky was looking at Soledad like she was a mountain he needed to move. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and the kid seemed to know that she was in a pickle. It wouldn’t do to have a government agent so close to Nicky; Ralph knew this, which is why he had brought out the gun he hid in the Royce.

Little Miss Diaz-- Captain Diaz, who would have thought-- sighed; and suddenly, Ralph could see it. There were the tear-troughs, the eye bags, the stress lines; Soledad suddenly looked older than him.

“I have to admit,” she began, “that I have worked as an… intelligence officer after I was promoted to captain.”

“You mean a spy.”

Nicky’s voice cut through the tension and he was suddenly the head of the Valentino Family, not the love stricken puppy of ten minutes ago. This was the Nicky that Ralph dealt with everyday, and it was the Nicky that he saw the most of right until last night. But now that Ralph knew how his boss could be (a little bit soft, yeah, but so much happier) he sort of wished that he never saw Nicky Valentino, mafia boss extraordinaire, ever again.

“Not exactly,” Soledad said, “but that’s close enough. I would go to the indigenous tribes and make deals with them on behalf of the government, try to make sure that they wouldn’t side with the communists in the region, or ask if they knew the whereabouts of the New People’s Army. So it wasn’t really spying, it was… negotiating. Investigation, if you will. Intelligence gathering.”

The kid was eerily calm, with no trace of emotion on her face or voice. Ralph supposed that maybe this was the Soledad that existed before Nicky.

 Her gaze flickered to the gun as Ralph’s side. Her eyes didn’t widen, and she didn’t panic. No; she seemed to relax at the sight of it.

“Threats and guns,” she sighed. “Brings me back to my glory days.”

Nicky shared a look with Ralph that said ‘she’s crazier than I thought.’

“Marone,” he muttered. “Look, Sol. I don’t wanna hurt ya, ‘cos I know that I’d regret it. So give your story to me straight.”

“Fair enough,” she said, settling into the plush leather seats. Sol was the most relaxed of the trio even with her hands cuffed behind her back. Ralph had to respect how composed she was, seeing to the fact that she was unarmed with two men that she barely knew, and was in possession of firearms. 

“I guess I should start from the top. My grandfather was a general, so when I was a child I wanted to be just like him. This, of course, led me to the army; except I was twenty-one with an inferiority complex, so I decided to join the Marines.” 

Nicky watched her smile, as though she was recalling fond memories. 

“We were the elite; the best, the brightest, the few. I saw the frontline three times in my career, where the army had skirmishes with rebel groups. These are the NPA, the New People’s Army-- communists that tell poor farmers and idealistic college kids that the system is corrupt and the only way out is a makeover. All good and well, except their leader isn’t even living in the Philippines, and their higher-ups are just as corrupt as government officials. So they’re a bunch of rapists and thugs that profit from their hypocrisy.”

Ralph glanced at Nicky, who had his complete focus on Soledad. The Rolls Royce had been at a standstill for five minutes now.

“Then,” Sol said, “the rebels attacked a city in the south of the country, Marawi. I served there, got promoted to captain. My grandfather died shortly after, and that’s when I was offered a slot in the intelligence division. I agreed, got new assignments. Usually, the army uses ‘retired’ officers to gather data and intelligence. Like James Bond-- he was a commander.”

“James who?”

“Oh,” Soledad said. “He’s, uh, a fictional character. Hasn’t been created yet.”

Nicky gave a slow nod; it was surprisingly easy to believe everything that Sol told him, so easy that it felt almost like cheating. But everything she told him was too bizarre to be anything but true.

And he knew what she looked like when she told the truth; people lie in many ways, but tell the truth in one. Nicky noticed that she spoke slowly when she was talking about herself, as if she wanted to be clear and concise-- as if she didn’t want to be misunderstood.

‘I’ve got a wide skill set.’

Well, Nicky thought to himself. I guess I know what her skill set is now.

And to wrap his head around the fact that she had seen war-- it felt like having a secret that they both shared, a sudden kinship. Because Nicky himself had been at war, and had led it, had scars from it.

He didn’t know if this was what drew him to her-- but then, there were many things about Soledad that he adored. Nicky loved the way she made him laugh; he loved how her hair curled under her chin; he loved how she said the plain truth, how she didn’t mince her words. Nicky didn’t know everything about her, but he could spend his lifetime doing that.

So did he mind that she didn’t tell him about her past? No, not at all. There were things that he did that he didn’t tell her yet, and somehow, Nicky knew that Sol would understand his silence on a few spots in his life.

“Hey, toots,” Nicky said. “Ya need a pin? ‘Cause those handcuffs don’t look like they’re gonna unlock themselves.”

“Oh,” she looked surprised. “I forgot about that.”

Nicky snorted, “how could you forget being handcuffed?”

“I don’t know, maybe I was worried about the fact that a certain someone was maybe mad at me?”

Nicky got a pin that he had in his jacket, and Sol turned her back to him. He was touched at how ready she was to trust him with unlocking her handcuffs, even after his open hostility.

“I already told ya, sweet thing.” There was a metallic pop, and the handcuffs were out. “There’s no need to worry. I got you.”

She turned to face him, and the afternoon sunlight that came in through the car’s window somehow made her look more golden, made her brown skin look deeper. For the first time since he met her, Sol looked like she didn’t know what to say. Nicky placed his hand on top of her’s, both sticky from sweat; suddenly, he couldn’t see anything but her dark eyes and the curl of her hair. All at once, he realised that she had been what he was waiting for, body and soul.

“Looks like we need ‘ta get outta here,” he said, voice lower than he intended. “What do you say, toots? Wanna go to my place at the Hamptons?”

***

If Sol was going to ask if she could drive the car one more time, Ralph would explode. He had a little vein in his forehead that didn’t exist until last night. It was crazy, how bullheaded someone could be; crazier still that Nicky was looking at her like she hung the stars and the moon.

It was dark already outside, and the air was getting colder, whipping at cheeks and turning exhales into wisps of smoke. Outside the world of the Rolls Royce trees were shedding their leaves into dark green heaps that could barely be seen in the lack of light. Inside the Rolls Royce, at the backseat, Nicky had his arm over Sol, and she was resting her head on his chest.

Ralph rolled up to the driveway, noticing, somewhat smugly, that Sol barely batted an eyelash at Nicky’s mansion. He had been waiting for some girl that wasn’t impressed with Nicky’s spending habits.

Said man nudged Sol at the ribs, smiling. “Do I know how to spend money, or what?”

Said girl chuckled. “I’d go for the ‘or what’, but I don’t wanna hurt your feelings.”

Nicky put a hand on his chest, acting as if someone stabbed him. “Too late,” he rasped, collapsing into her. “I may never recover.”

Sol pecked his cheek. “There,” she smiled widely. “A kiss to make it better.”

Ralph gagged, parking at the entrance as quickly as possible.

“Get out,” he said. “I got a date with a pair of dancers tonight, and I don’t wanna have to explain why I got a toothache.”

Nicky raised an eyebrow, but Soledad slid out of the car laughing. Ralph wanted to snort-- at least someone knew how to take a joke. Nicky could be a bit sore sometimes.

“Have fun, Ralph,” Sol said. “Don’t stay out too late, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That’s not much,” Ralph rolled his eyes, walking to his car and leaving the two love birds behind. Nicky gave a small wave, his eyes warm and smiling. Sometimes the man showed his affection in small ways.

Sol paused to look at the house, with its cream colored bricks and French design. Somehow, it reminded her of her family, and a way of life that was lost to her. Homesickness settled at the bottom of her gut; that’s how she knew it was shit.

“Honey,” she said, “it ain’t that bad, but I gotta tell you. It's pretty obvious that a young man with new money owns this place. But not to worry, when the ivy grows it will look distinguished. Ivy gives everything an air of gravitas.”

Nicky peered down at her. “And how exactly are you an expert on gravitas, toots?”

“Well, I’m with you aren’t I?” Sol said it like it wasn’t flirting, but a fact. “Besides, my family is so old money that we have no money. I saw it, but it never reached me.”

“Well, honey,” he grinned, “you can reach for all the money you want. My treat.”

She punched his arm playfully, and Nicky winced at the force of it. Sol was an army captain alright.

“Hey,” he said. “I’ve got a swell place that’s perfect for stargazing. You can see entire galaxies up there. Wanna check it out?”

Sol shook her head, and Nicky tried his best to not feel disappointed.

“It’s a cold night,” she replied, “and I am physically, psychologically, socially, culturally, genetically and spiritually unable to stand the cold. I’m from the Philippines, and that’s at the middle of the equator.”

Nicky chuckled. “Well, I have some mink that I could lend you for New York in the winter.”

Soledad groaned. “Just throw me to the sun, please. I hate winter.”

Nicky didn’t mean to grin at her despair, but he couldn’t help it. “Too bad, toots, ‘cause I love snow.”

“Hay, susmariosep,” she muttered to herself. Nicky blinked at her, and she sighed, stepping into the house-- she was cold already, standing in the evening air.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she clarified. “But we Filipinos take revenge on our colonizers by bastardising their language, hence: susmariosep.”

Nicky led her into the mansion, and Sol was struck with how immaculate everything was. The marbled floors were shinier than a brand new Ferrari, the decor was a tasteful creme color, and the chandeliers gave a welcoming golden light to everyone under it, with Nicky’s brown eyes looking like a setting sun over still waters.

“Care for a quick drink?”

Soledad nodded, and her favorite mob boss led her to a study furnished with heavy mahogany shelves and plush velvet seats. She carefully mapped the layout of the house in her head, a habit of her’s that was born from paranoia and grew into a faint buzz at the back of her mind, like how some people ran their hands through shelves in the grocery. 

Nicky mixed her an Old Fashioned as she sunk into an armchair, tucking her legs under her. It was difficult for her to be on her guard with Nicky for too long; there was something about him that made her feel at ease, like how one feels after a good massage.

Soledad nursed her drink in its perfect crystal tumbler as Nicky told her of his place, his position, before she stumbled into the Twenties. His eyes were a hard amber as he talked about being the head of one of New York’s Five Families, of being on the cover of every paper in town, of being young and dangerous and flaunting cash. Soledad could see it happening; she could see how the very same man that made her drink and called her cute pet names was also the kind of man that dipped more than his toe in bootlegging and crime. Maybe it was in how he carried himself, or the way he talked-- whatever it was, Sol knew power when she saw it, and Nicky Valentino oozed it.

“Look, Sol.” His brows were set and stern. “I got a lot of regrets about the things I done. There’s a lot of wrongs I can never right, and that’s why I got out. The big house never scared me more than the big sleep.”

His face softened a bit, as if he was sharing a fond memory. “But becoming a man; seeing the consequences of my actions…”

Nicky Valentino’s wandering eyes settled on Sol’s, and she could see forests of unexplored secrets in their depths.

“That’s why I left. Easier said than done, though.”

Sol watched his face get flustered, ears heating up, as she took a final sip of her drink, tilting it back.

“Trouble just seems to find you, huh?”

“I have myself to thank for that. But worst comes to worst, I still got my secret headquarters.”

Sol smiled, cradling the crystal glass in her hands. “You’ll have to show me, someday. Just in case.”

Nicky returned her smile. “Of course,” he said, almost whispering. “I got one last place to show you, if you’d let me.”

Their footsteps were quick in the quiet night, as if they were teenagers slipping from shadow to shadow, scared of being found out. Nicky held her hand like it was glass, idly taking note of how light it was, and where her hands were calloused and where it was smooth.

The night breeze was fierce, blowing white curtains into the house like spectres, half-alive and half in love, reaching for something. Soledad walked beside him, and under the moon she looked like she was dreaming, in another place that didn’t exist. He brought her to a swimming pool, smiling under the stars. 

“I’m going to dip my feet in for a hot second,” he said. Soledad followed him, and they sat at the edge of the pool’s deep end together.

“Trust me, Nicky,” she muttered. “Every second with you is a hot second.”

“Yeah,” he blushed. “But you’re cold aren’t ya? Here, take my coat.”

He took his black coat off, wrapping it around her; Sol was grateful for the sudden warmth that it gave her. She breathed in deeply; it smelled like smoke and cognac.

They spent a few minutes in silence. Sol knew that there wasn’t a need to say anything. It had been a long day, and she was grateful for quiet moments like these. The oceans in her stomach settled when Nicky held her this way, when they both looked at the deep blue pool together.

“My ma used to tell me, ‘Your soulmate is somewhere out there looking at that same moon.”

Sol smiled. “Oh? And did you listen to her?”

“I was more concerned about finding out how I could sneak into the Polo Grounds and catch a ball game.” 

They shared a smile. 

“But now,” Sol said, “you’re a romantic.”

“Yeah, now I am.” They were both quiet for a heartbeat. “What about you? Is you a romantic?”

Sol looked away from Nicky and the moon, her smile getting sadder. “I never let myself think about romance,” she said. “Like I said, you don’t get to be twenty-nine years old with no boyfriend, ever, without a bit of paranoia.”

“How about me?” Nicky’s gaze was heated, focused on her. 

“What about you?”

“What happened? You met me and figured out the power of true love?”

Soledad snorted, rolling her eyes. “Not everyone goes out and buys jewelry for their future lovers, Don Juan.”

“When it comes to love, everyone’s got a chip and a chair,” he chuckled. “So long as you got a single chip and a seat at the table, you still got a shot.”

“You really are a romantic,” Sol huffed, grinning.

Nicky wrapped his arm around her; there was something behind her eyes that was still closed off to him, but he could see that she was keeping something close to her chest. He had seen that look before in the mirror, and he knew that whatever she was keeping close to her, she didn’t want to let go of yet. Nicky didn’t want to take it from her hands.

“It’s been a long day,” he said, not noticing how his voice dropped to a lower octave. “We should both hit the sack.”

Sol nodded, and the new goosebumps on her arm were not from the cold. “Where’s my room?”

“Take a hard left down the hall,” he replied. “You can’t miss it.”

***

Soledad had changed into an oversized polo shirt and baggy shorts that she had found in the dresser, and had already settled on a makeshift bed on the floor. There was something about fluffy mattresses that made her feel like she was drowning, so she took the heavy comforter from the bed and a pillow, fashioning a spot that vaguely resembled a sleeping bag.

There was a gentle knock on her door, and Nicky’s face peeped in. Surprise colored his face, and Sol smiled back sheepishly. She didn’t know why she felt embarrassed at being seen trying to sleep on the floor-- she did it many times back home, never caring about other people’s perception of her. But the way that Nicky looked a little bit concerned had her face flushing. 

It’s because it’s his house, she thought to herself. 

“Force of habit,” she explained, sitting up from the floor. “I, uh, don’t really like soft beds.”

Nicky nodded, pretending as though he understood. “Army training, huh?”

“Army training.”

He hummed lightly, rolling on his heels. “Would you like a quick nightcap?”

Nicky showed her the two mugs he was holding.

“What’s that? Coffee?”

“Coffee? At this hour? Do I look like a barbarian to you?”

“Sorry if I have a caffeine addiction,” Sol muttered. “It takes three cups to wake me up. Besides, coffee can be had any time.”

“Not if you’re Italian.” Nicky looked mildly embarrassed. “No coffee after breakfast. That’s how it’s done in the old country. So what will you have? Tea or hot chocolate?”

“The hot chocolate, please. I may be a coffee addict, but my true love is hot chocolate. I should really make you a cup some time. My recipe predates the Americans.”

Nicky smiled at her rambling as he walked over to her and gave her the cup. “Something sweet for my something sweet,” he said.

Soledad took a sip. “It’s good, but trust me when I say that mine is better.”

“Oh? And what’s it like?”

“Thicker.” Soledad blushed, hoping that he didn’t notice the double entendre. “Less sweet, more bitter. But the cacao from Davao? The best, the absolute best, I tell you.”

“My ma used to make hot coco, too.” Nicky sat on top of the bed, which was stripped of its blankets. “And I remember that she did make it thick. But my pa didn’t like it, because apparently anything that brings any kind of joy didn’t make you a man in his eyes. The irony, coming from a man whose soul was crushed by the factory.”

Nicky’s eyes were still tender, and Sol was jealous that he was able to talk about his father that easily. 

“Well,” Nicky said, standing up. “We best get to bed already. It’s going to be busy tomorrow.”

Sol remembered some things that Ralph had mentioned on the trip to the Hamptons. “Long day at your lawyers’ office?”

Nicky shrugged. “Can’t always be getaway cars and police men on your tail.”

They shared a look with each other before Nicky headed to the door. He opened it, and Sol memorised the way he looked like, before pausing. Nicky held her gaze one more time.

“I’ve chased it before; that danger. You can get hurt. Go after it long enough and you will get hurt.”

“I know,” Soledad said. She said it so quietly, she wasn’t sure if Nicky heard her.

“I just wanna be honest with you, as someone who’s been there, done that. I just don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

Soledad sighed, sitting up straighter. She wondered what he thought of her, sitting on the floor wearing what might be his shirt.

“I’m here for you,” she told him, and it was as simple as that. “I’m not here looking for a thrill, or for money. I’ve had enough of that in my old life, and I’m used to it and the demons that come along with it. So I’m here for you, Nicky, and I’m ready to stay with you.”

“You’re one of a kind, you know that?”

They smiled at each other, and Sol forgot how to breathe.

“Takes one to know one.”

Nicky turned off the light, closing the door behind him as gently as he could.

***

That night, Soledad dreamt of the midday sun on the top of her head. There were gunshots, but she couldn’t hear them. She only knew how they felt, because with every beat of her heart a new one was fired. There was a familiar weight in her hand, and her trigger finger squeezed. Bullets flew and people died like leaves falling from acacia trees.

***

She woke up to orange stains in the sky. The sun greeted her, as though they were lifelong friends. Her hands folded blankets and fluffed pillows with no thinking on her part. This was routine, and Soledad knew the rhythm of it. The only thing that was missing, she thought to herself, were small lizards and the occasional cockroach. Sol smiled; she didn’t miss those things.

She changed back into her yellow dress, for propriety’s sake, before setting off to the direction that she deduced the kitchen was. As luck would have had it, she was right, and before she set foot in the place she could already smell breakfast.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “Can I help you in any way?”

A stout woman with wild curly hair came up to her, wiping uncooked batter on her white apron. “And who might you be, missy?”

“Soledad Diaz, ma’am.”

The older woman shook her head, muttering something about a new hire, before ordering her to chop onions. Soledad smiled, not wanting to correct the chef, and got to work.

There was something about holding a knife that she enjoyed, and she did her part in making breakfast. There were four of them working; the stout woman, a younger black man, an old hispanic lady that spoke in broken English, and Soledad. She had traded a few words with the woman (“de donde eres?” Sol asked. “Cuba,” the old lady replied, smiling through the steam that rose from a nearby pot. “Cuba.”).

Bridget, Joshua, and Mamita. Soledad enjoyed working alongside them, but soon excused herself, saying that she needed to go to the bathroom. Bridget had let her go with a wave of her hand, not taking her eyes off the sausages that she was frying.

Sol went back to her room, humming a song from her youth. She idly wondered if Mamita knew any Spanish songs that she knew, and suddenly Sol missed the guitar that she left back home in the Philippines.

Her thoughts came to a stop as she spotted a familiar face holding a basket full of petals, back facing her.

“Nicky?”

He turned to look at her, blushing harder than he ever had since she met him. It was adorable, and she laughed, only a little bit sorry that it was at his expense. He scratched the back of his head, and Sol idly looked him up and down. He was only wearing dark blue slacks and a white button down, but he looked good. Better, even.

“I didn’t know you were already up, toots. Army training?”

Soledad nodded. “Army training. Anyway, what are you doing? That’s going to be a pain to clean up.”

Nicky crossed his arms, and she could see his muscles underneath. “I wanted to surprise you when you woke up, but I guess you’re the one that surprised me. Breakfast’ll be in an hour yet, so maybe we can move to the veranda? It’s got a view of the pool.”

“Trust me,” she smiled. “I know that breakfast is coming in an hour.”

...

A/N: no beta we die like men. literally just finished this five minutes ago. i have no idea where this story is going, so i’m just sprinkling seeds for future angst that may or may not sprout. uh, in this chapter i tried to go for a more prose-y style, and i wanted to sort of start a bit the nationalistic streaks of sol here, since i figured that she’d have to be somewhat in love with her country, since she was a soldier.

i’m a little concerned that the romance part between sol and nicky is fast, but since it’s fast in canon, i suppose it’s alright for now. especially since they both have skeletons in their closet, that again, may or may not pop up later.

if yall have any suggestions, or anything that u wanna see, please tell me!!! do yall want scenes that are mainly canon compliant, or divergent? should i include more of the canon dialogue? i love feedback, mainly because i don’t have a lot of people to brainstorm with, so pls dont hesitate to drop me a dm!!!

Prologue | Chapter One