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covenofagatha · 2 days ago

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Saw you're taking requests and decided to toss one your way!

Agatha x reader, reader has had a really tough day and Agatha helps put her into subspace to relax. Some soft!dom Agatha with a splash of praise, degradation, mommy and maybe some size kink? And of course some fluffy aftercare after reader has been thoroughly fucked out of her mind❤

Hope you enjoy! (Disclaimer: I've never written subspace before so hopefully I did it justice, along with everything else you wanted)

Bad day

When Agatha comes home to find that you had a bad day, she takes it upon herself to make you feel better

Word count: 2600

Warnings: praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, size kink, mommy kink, oral, strap-on, aftercare, smut, and fluff (I may have missed one)

You’re on your last nerve when you get to your afternoon class on Wednesday.

Your car didn’t start in the morning so your girlfriend, Agatha, had to drop you off at work, which you’d never complain about, except she had still been asleep when this happened so you were almost late because she had to get ready.

And then work was awful. You had a shift at the popular retail store in town and it seemed like every customer who came in was on a mission to personally ruin your day.

From dissatisfaction with the prices to vomit all over the restroom floor, it seemed like nothing could go right.

Agatha had been at work herself so you had to call one of your college friends to give you a ride after.

And now you had to sit in a class on Personality Theory for the next three hours and listen to your professor drone off on tangents. You would be getting your tests back from last week though, and you were hoping you had done well.

“Alright, before we get started, I’ll go ahead and pass out your exams. Once I call your name, you can come up and look at it,” your professor says and you anxiously tap your fingers on the desk while you wait for your turn.

Finally, he says your name. Butterflies in your stomach, you walk to the front to look and it’s like you’ve been punched in the gut.

There must be something wrong, you don’t understand how you missed this many.

Red ink stains the page and you have to clench your jaw together to keep your composure. Tears prick at your eyes as you hand the exam back to your professor and head back to your seat, burning with shame.

It seems like it’s just one thing after another.

You barely pay attention for the rest of class, head spinning with thoughts of how bad you did, how everything sucks, how you just want to go home.

Agatha texts you a few times during the three hour time span, just checking in on you, but you don’t even respond. She always says that you get too wrapped up in your own brain and you know she’s right. You do let her know that you won’t need a ride home, not sure you could take the older woman’s softness right now.

You just want to take a shower and lie in bed.

Class finally ends and you order an Uber instead of asking a friend to take you home. When you get in these moods, you don’t want to talk to anyone.

You grunt in response to the driver’s question of asking how you are and then the rest of the ride is spent in silence. It’s not often you get in such a foul mood, but when it does, it’s tough.

When you make it through the front door of Agatha’s home, you immediately collapse on the couch and breathe in the blanket that still has her scent. She’ll be home soon and now you just want her to give you a big hug and tell you that everything will be alright.

You hear keys jingle in the front door maybe ten minutes later and you sit up on the couch expectantly, heartbeat picking up. You’ve been with Agatha for six months now and she still managed to have the same effect on you that she had at the beginning.

“Hey, baby,” she calls out, seeing the lights on, and she makes her way to the living room to find you swaddled in her favorite blanket on the couch. She frowns, instantly able to tell something is wrong. Usually you get up to give her a kiss. “You okay?”

And then it’s like a dam breaks. You start sobbing and telling her all the things that have gone wrong that day and she instantly sits down next to you, engulfing you into a hug and whispering that everything will be okay.

She lets you cry for a bit, hand stroking your hair, making soothing sounds. Eventually, you calm down enough to take slow, shaky breaths.

“I’m sorry, doll. Sounds like you had a rough day,” she says, pressing a kiss to your head and wiping the tears off your cheeks. You nod in agreement. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

You shrug while you think about it. And then you lean in and chastely kiss her lips.

When you pull back, she’s smirking.

“You want mommy to help you?” She coos and instantly, a fire awakens in your belly at the use of your favorite name for her. Your head bobs up and down eagerly but she tuts and grabs your jaw to hold it still. “Words, baby.”

“Yes please, mommy,” you whisper. No one can make you feel as good as Agatha can.

“Good girl,” Agatha hums and the fire gets worse. “What do you want?”

You squirm on the couch, just looking at her, begging with wide eyes.

“Why don’t you show me what you want?” You whine and grab her hand and bring it down to your shorts. “Oh, do you want me to touch you?”

“Please,” you force out again. “Touch me, mommy.”

Her grin is wicked as she lays you back down on the couch, positioning herself so she’s holding her weight above you. Your noses are almost close enough to touch.

“Does my little baby want me to reward her like the perfect little angel that she is?” Agatha purrs and you gasp, feeling your head start to get fuzzy. She plays with the waistband of your shorts and your hips buck up involuntarily. You make a sort of strangled noise from your throat – all you can do, really – and she shushes you. “Just relax, doll. Let mommy take care of you.” You whimper as she kisses your nose and moves down your body to undress you.

You feel like you’re on a different planet when Agatha pats your waist so you can lift yourself up for her to take your shorts and underwear off.

“There we go, so good for me,” she says, leaving kisses against your thighs. You moan, senses heightened. You babble something incoherently and you can hear her chuckling at you. “Baby, you’re absolutely dripping for me.”

Her fingers move up and down your slit, collecting wetness, and sounds are pulled out of your mouth by her administration.

“Does that feel good, hon?”

Your head lulls back on the couch and you try to say something to affirm her question.

“Aw, is my little baby in subspace right now?” Something in the back of your mind tells you that you must be, but you’re too blissed out to answer.

And then her tongue is on your pussy and you couldn’t say a word even if you tried. If you didn’t already feel like you were floating then, you sure do now. Your back arches off the couch as she sucks on your clit but her hands come up to hold you down.

“Be a good girl for me and let mommy do all the work.”

Your moans get louder as she keeps eating you out and you’ve never felt this good before. It’s like all your worries and stress and frustration that built up over the day are melting away to leave you in a puddle of pleasure.

“Mommy, so close,” you slur, hands digging into the couch beneath you. Her teeth scrape against your clit and she moans into you and it sends you into an explosive orgasm.

You’re not sure you’ve ever cum that hard.

She licks you through it and you have to pull her away after a while because you become sensitive.

Agatha comes up to kiss you, long and hard, and you can taste yourself on her tongue.

“Do you want to try something new tonight, baby?” She asks once she pulls away and you nod eagerly before even asking what it is. You trust her more than anyone. “I’ll be right back.” She gives you one last parting kiss and quickly runs upstairs.

She’s up there for a few minutes while you lay on the couch, still in a trance-like haze.

And then she comes back down and your mouth falls open.

Attached to her hips is the biggest strap-on you’ve ever seen. She must have just bought it. You had gotten to where you could take the toys you had pretty easily, but you are certain that this will stretch you out so much more than them.

“Mommy,” you whisper, eyes widening as she comes back over to the couch. You can see that she’s holding lube in one hand.

“Mommy wants to see if your tiny, little pussy can fit her big cock,” she says and a thrill runs through you despite yourself. “Might have to work you up to it.”

Your legs part without thinking and she laughs.

“So desperate for me, aren’t you? My perfect, little slut.” You gasp at the words, feeling yourself get even more wet.

While you loved the praise from her, degradation almost turned you on more.

“You have to relax, baby,” she reminds you, moving to kneel on the couch between your legs and pushing them even more open. She rubs your clit and slides two fingers in easily. You grind up on her fingers, trying to pull them in more. “Look at how well you take my fingers. So good for mommy. You can’t get enough of them, can you?”

You shake your head and groan when she curls them just right.

“Such a good whore for mommy,” she sighs. “Can you take another?”

“Please,” you gasp out, walls clenching around the two already inside you. She pulls them and you feel empty, but that feeling is quickly gone when she pushes three in you. The stretch feels so good and your hips meet her every thrust, the pleasure in you already growing.

And then it’s gone. Your head flies up to look at her wrapping the hand wet with you around her strap and coating it. And then she opens the bottle of lube and pours a hefty amount in her other hand to also stroke the toy with.

“Are you ready, baby?”

“Go slow, mommy,” you tell her, even though you know that she will. “You’re so big.”

“You’re going to look so pretty, sweetheart, stretched around my big cock,” she says and positions the tip at your entrance. “Like a little, perfect slut.

The first push steals all the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” you groan. You’ve never been so full in your life and you barely have any of it inside you. Agatha doesn’t move, just rubs small circles on your thighs and waits for you to tell her you’re okay.

It takes a few moments for you to adjust. It’s definitely easier in the headspace that you’re in right now.

“Okay,” you say and Agatha obeys, slowly moving forward inside you. She stops when your breathing gets strangled and doesn’t move again until you’re back to normal.

“God, your little pussy looks so good taking my big cock so well,” she grunts once she finally bottoms out. If your mind was clearer, you’d tease her about the size kink she so clearly has. “How are you doing, baby? Can I move?”

“Please, mommy,” you beg, still feeling euphoric. Every drag of her cock against your walls now feels like heaven. She smirks and starts to move.

She starts slow at first, just short, slow strokes to make sure that you’re still comfortable, and then she starts to really fuck you.

The pace Agatha sets is rough and bruising and you can hear the wet, squelching sounds that the toy makes as it pushes back inside you every thrust, a mix of your wetness and lube.

“Mommy,” is all you can pant as she fucks into you over and over again, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on her.

“So fucking good, sweetheart, you’re taking my cock so well, such a perfect slut for mommy,” Agatha mutters, never slowing down once. If you were already in subspace before, you’re not sure you have a word for what state you’re in right now. There are not even semblances of thoughts in your head, there is only Agatha and the pleasure she is giving you. You can’t even remember what you were in such a bad mood about earlier.

She reaches down to rub your clit again and you hear someone moan obscenely loudly.

You think it might have been you.

All you know is that you’re getting so close again you can taste it. She seems like she can tell because she somehow speeds up, which you didn’t think was possible. Little gasps are forced out of your mouth with every push and your walls are tightening so much around her that it makes it hard for her to thrust.

“So good, baby, you’re taking me so well,” Agatha chants, a hand reaching up to play with your nipple under your shirt. “So perfect, such a perfect slut, my perfect good girl. Cum for mommy, cum all over mommy’s big cock.”

She angles her hips just right and rubs your clit hard and you spasm, back bowing off the couch. You’ve never felt pleasure this extreme; it feels like you’re having an out-of-body experience. All the tension in your body is gone and you pant heavily as Agatha pulls out of you.

“You okay, baby?” She asks and you wheeze a laugh.

“M’okay,” you say happily, a slow smile spreading onto your face. You can feel your head clearing with the loss of her touch.

“Let me get a washcloth, alright? I’ll be right back, I promise.” She gives you a kiss on your head and she’s back in what seems like seconds with a warm towel. You wince at the feeling of it between her legs but it helps. “Do you want to move to bed?”

You nod, but you’re not actually sure if you can stand up based on the jelly feeling in your legs. Agatha seems to understand this without you saying anything and she scoops you off the couch bridal style and carries you up the stairs.

You giggle and burrow your head into the crook of her neck, breathing her in and feeling her against you.

“You did so good, baby,” she whispers.

“Thank you, Agatha. I really needed that.”

She pauses for a second in the hallway to peck your lips. “I know you did. I’m happy to help, sweetheart. Whatever you need.”

Once in the bedroom, Agatha helps you into some comfy pajamas and makes you take sips of water from the bottle on her nightstand. You lay down and she pulls the covers over you both, pulling you close to her so she can wrap an arm around you.

“You’re so perfect, baby, you know that?” She murmurs. “I love you so much.” She kisses you softly, bringing a hand up to stroke your hair.

“I love you too,” you mumble in-between kisses. No one has ever made you feel more loved than Agatha.

“I’m so proud of you,” she continues and you blush. “I know you had a hard day today, but tomorrow will be better. You’re so strong. You’re my perfect girl. I love you.”

And she keeps whispering the sweetest things into your ear, and you drift off to sleep in her arms, feeling like nothing was ever wrong.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along

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bunnys-kisses · 1 day ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/bunnys-kisses/768349619894861824/im-holding-your-hand-when-im-saying-this-as-a?source=share

people started asking crane (Max’s friend) on stream if Lestappen (Charles and max) is real. I think he was like “I shouldn’t be furthering/entertaining this” (I forgot what he said word for word). People took it as something to be excited about, that the drivers are aware of the ships and all, but idk. I think fandoms are getting too bold for my liking. I have no problem with shipping, but this parasocial behaviour is out of hand. I saw this when 1D was still a group (with Harry x Louis shippers harassing Louis to the point where he got so upset when the ship was referenced in the popular show Euphoria), I’ve seen it with Kpop in which idols have stopped hanging out publicly because fandoms get out of hand (a girl in the group Aespa had a boyfriend earlier this year and fans got very upset because they shipped her and another member and they broke up. A few years ago, 2 members of two different kpop groups (SNSD and EXO) dated and the girl got harassed at the airport even). And now this.

Fandoms get so parasocial so quickly, it’s insane. It’s not new behaviour, but it’s strange.

exactly, this isn't new behavior. but i feel like it's become more emboldened with how much more "online" both fans and companies/groups are.

more under the cut, because this is a long one....

i also think it ties into this notion that i've been seeing online about how fans have this feeling to be "right" both with rpf and fiction as well. that their theories, opinions and whatever else is "correct". i've seen this with like pieces of media like steven universe and even star wars. like fandom isn't fun anymore, it has become this weird one up over each other. i honestly don't know when this changed, my guess is around the pandemic when it seemed like people were more logged into the internet. but, i could be wildly off with that. (if you have an idea, i'd love to know). it just feels stupid in so many ways how fandoms are structured. even if you're not the "best" artist or writer, people can't have FUN in fandom - of course that doesn't mean it has to be absolved criticism. you can have fun and still call out hate within spaces. the issue with formula one (along with k-pop like you mentioned, anon), is that these aren't characters. this isn't arguing in the tags over is finnpoe or reylo is more valid or legitimate within the narrative. these are REAL people, with REAL friends, families and partners.

it's this weird push to have someone's theory - and while i have a soft spot for lestappen, it is at the end of the day nothing more than fan theory - be confirmed. also personally, if hattie (oscar's sister) or crane (max's friend) "outed" them, i would be horribly fucking offended on oscar/max's behalf. to have someone you TRUST just out you like that. it's sick. maybe it's because i worked in queer spaces from high school all the way through uni, and the number one rule no matter WHAT, is you never out someone. even if the question is harmless and the person asking has no ill intention. you never out another person, because it's not YOUR coming out. so the fact that fans are near begging these people to OUT their loved ones, is not only a level of delusion that i can't ever comprehend. but, also it could honestly, ruin that interpersonal relationship.

so like even if a driver is queer, whoever it may be. could be a driver from the 90s, could be a driver today, it could be a driver in five years, i don't want someone else in their life outing them. because that's THEIR story. and fans need to realize that. bothering crane or hattie or alexandra (i've seen that too) - isn't helping anyone and it makes you look unhinged and weirdly alienates not only the driver but their loved ones. YES, they knew it exists, it is EVERYWHERE. but shoving it in their faces doesn't help. and you're never going to get the confirmation because there is a high chance that their not even queer to begin with. and if they are, NOT OUR CONCERN

i don't have a problem writing or consuming rpf, it is not a crime nor do i think it should be stopped. like HAVE FUN. but you have to realize that it's not like debating star wars or marvel or whatever other piece of fictional media. formula one is REAL, they are not actors. they are athletes, and unless you want all rpf to be shut down some how. i suggest the likes of some of ya'll need to understand that there are different boundaries. and respect them.

i know they're all millionaires, but they still breathe and bleed as a friend of mine once said. it's fun to put them in little scenarios in fanworks, but just keep it out of their direct attention. there are unspoken boundaries, that some of ya'll need have said to you apparently.

asking oscar issac if he THINKS that finnpoe is real is VERY different than asking someone's sister if she thinks her REAL LIFE BROTHER is fucking his REAL LIFE TEAMMATE. - people's relationships have turned to ash over insistent rpf in their faces all the time.

my advice at the end of the day is: have fun, don't write or draw it because you want confirmation that it's a real relationship. write or draw it because you're having fun. fandom is about making friends and shipping in whatever context is about finding a slice of community on the vast internet, not cracking the code of if it is a real relationship. - bunny.

#bunny speaks #formula one #f1 #lestappen #max verstappen #charles leclerc #fandom woes #formula 1 #lando norris #oscar piastri #landoscar

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offtorivendell · 3 days ago

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What if the eight-pointed star is a symbol of so much more than the Starborn; on Wyrd, Chaos, the Cauldron and the Archeron sisters...

Disclaimer: this post is just a theory and makes no claims of being canon. These thoughts are definitely not unique at this point in time - I'll link to existing posts where relevant - but I had both a moment and the motivation to get my thoughts down, so here we are lol. Also, I am aware that the bigger stars in the gif above have more than eight points but as it's very pretty, has crescent moons and little motifs with three tear drops each... it stays. A massive thank you, as usual, to @wingedblooms for always being up for some theorising. 💜

Spoilers: the entire Maasverse is fair game, be careful if you're not up to date.

The eight-pointed star is a symbol that exists across the entire Maasverse, in Erilea, Prythian, Midgard.

Erilea:

The High Priestess walked onto the stone platform and raised her hands above her head. The folds of her midnight-blue gossamer robe fell around her, and her white hair was long and unbound. An eight-pointed star was tattooed upon her brow in a shade of blue that matched her gown, its sharp lines extending to her hairline. “Welcome all, and may the blessings of the Goddess and all her gods be upon you.” Her voice echoed across the chamber to reach even those in the back. - TOG, chapter 37

Prythian:

There, dead in the center of the Illyrian tattoo snaking down his spine, a new tattoo had appeared. An eight-pointed star, whose compass points radiated in sharp lines across and up the groove of his back, twining with the Illyrian markings long inked there. The eastern and western points of the star shot right onto his wings, black blending into black. A matching one, he knew, would be on Nesta’s spine. - ACOSF, chapter 12

Midgard:

Ruhn held out his phone, the picture of the illuminated manuscript glaringly bright in the thick shadows. The illustration of the carved horn lifted to the lips of a helmeted Fae male was as pristine as it had been when inked millennia ago. Above the figure gleamed an eight-pointed star, the emblem of the Starborn. - HOEAB, chapter 21

“You first.” “Not a chance. I want to hear how you hid the fact that you’ve got a star inside you.” He looked down at her chest then, as if he’d glimpse it shimmering beneath her skin. But when his eyebrows flicked upward, Bryce followed his line of sight. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “that’s new.” Indeed, just visible down the V-neck of her T-shirt, a white splotch—an eight-pointed star—now scarred the place between her breasts. - HOEAB, chapter 95

Bryce has told us that she thinks it's the symbol of the Starborn, but I think it could go much deeper - all the way down to Wyrd/Urd.

She found nothing but open curiosity on Nesta’s face. Nesta said, “The scar your light comes from … it’s shaped like an eight-pointed star. Why?” Bryce peered at where the light was muffled by her T-shirt. “It’s the symbol of the Starborn, I think.” “And the magic marked you in this way?” “Yes. When I … revealed who I was, what I am, to the world, I drew the star out of my chest. It left that scar in its wake.” She glanced to Azriel. “Like a burn.” - HOFAS, chapter 12

As @wingedblooms said in her amazing meta earlier this year, she, @silverlinedeyes and I all think that Urd - who we now know is Wyrd - could be Chaos.

In addition to being significant to the Starborn fae within the Maasverse, the eight-pointed star is also known as a compass rose - or rose of the wind - as @wingedblooms has previously discussed. So isn't it suss that 'The Elain' ship (as pictured below, in the ACOTAR colouring book - far right) has what could be an eight pointed star on its sail? One with empty space - as in void of anything - on either side?

In addition to her thoughts about the compass rose, @wingedblooms has previously discussed how SJM's use of the eight-pointed star could also be inspired by the star of Ishtar. Wingedblooms made great points as usual - so I won't rehash them - BUT I have wanted to add for ages that there is also an eight-pointed star called "the Chaos star." 👀

Is the eight-pointed star a symbol of Chaos?

Source.

Aidas told us in HOEAB that it was the Void who sired the Princes of Hel, and Chaos was their dam. While the Chaos star as a symbol of Chaos began its life in a completely separate work of fiction, it has - apparently - been adopted by other authors and fandoms, so there's always the possibility that SJM might be one of those who has done/will do that.

I think it's interesting that after Bryce and co found Helena's cave under Avallen and dream-travelled to Hel, they wound up in the Temple of Chaos, by boat.

“The Temple of Chaos is a sacred place,” Apollion said sharply. “We shall never defile it with violence.” The words rumbled like thunder again. - HOFAS, chapter 59

Each of the Archeron sisters had a ship named for her (as above). Word and Wyrd are homophones of each other, though I may be clowning with the latter point. Ramiel means "thunder of god" - we'll come back to that later - but Apollion's words "rumbled like thunder"... was SJM linking Wyrd and thunder, or Ramiel, here? Will the Archeron sisters travel by boat - sail the Void - to meet, or free, Chaos?

Pushing aside every raging thought and question for the moment, Hunt kept one eye on the exit behind them as they traded the pebbled shore for the smooth temple steps. As they walked up those steps and entered a space that was a near-mirror to temples back home—indeed, its layout was identical to the last temple Hunt had stood in: Urd’s Temple. - HOFAS, chapter 59

But he tried to at least look like it—back straight, shoulders squared—as he and Hypaxia stood before the Under-King in a gray-stoned temple to Urd. The Under-King lounged on a throne beneath a behemoth statue of a figure holding a black metal bowl between her upraised hands. Symbols were carved all over the bowl, continuing down her fingers, her arms, her body. Ithan could only assume it was meant to represent Urd. No other temples ever depicted the goddess, no one even dared—most people claimed that fate was impossible to portray in any one form. But it seemed that the dead, unlike the living, had a vision of her. And those symbols running from the bowl onto her skin … they were like tattoos. - HOFAS, chapter 81

“And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.” - HOFAS, chapter 81

That "unusual depiction" of Urd in the Bone Quarter sounds eerily similar to the statues in the corridor leading to the library under the House of Wind, as well as the statue of the primal goddess that Nesta found in the same house - the one by which she placed Elain's carved wooden rose.

It's almost like a mix of the two.

“Because the books were full of magic, and things they wanted to keep humans from knowing.” Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, leading me down a corridor lit only by bowls of faelight upraised in the hands of beautiful female statues, their forms High Fae and faerie alike. “The scholars and librarians refused to keep slaves of their own—some for personal reasons, but mainly because they didn’t want them accessing the books and archives.” - ACOWAR, chapter 20

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer. - ACOSF, chapter 56

The Cauldron... the court of thorns and roses?

We now know that Urd is none other than Wyrd, from Erilea - a cauldron of life that is "brimming with the language of creation" (which fits with my theory that Elain might Sing Wyrd, as the language of the universe, through the murky void to See as a parallel to the priestesses in Prythian requiring darkness to commune with the Cauldron), and a force that governs worlds. One with many forms - "high fae and faerie alike"?

Could Chaos actually be Wyrd, given the similarities Hunt noted between the temples of Urd and Chaos?

Chaos the Dam?

The Mother?

But why the notable lack of tattoos - Wyrdmarks? - in the statues at the House of Wind's temple to the Mother, or on the Cauldron itself?

The Cauldron was absence and presence. Darkness and … whatever the darkness had come from. But not life. Not joy or light or hope. It was perhaps the size of a bathtub, forged of dark iron, its three legs—those three legs the king had ransacked those temples to find—crafted like creeping branches covered in thorns. I had never seen something so hideous—and alluring. Mor’s face had drained of color. “Hurry,” she said to me. “We’ve got a few minutes.” - ACOMAF, chapter 62

Could that be the influence of the Daglan/Asteri when they warped the Cauldron so long ago? Wyrd, and Her marks, were removed in the process?

“Unless … ” The boy bounced each finger off his thumb, his hand like some pale, twitchy insect. “Long ago, before the High Fae, before man, there was a Cauldron … They say all the magic was contained inside it, that the world was born in it. But it fell into the wrong hands. And great and horrible things were done with it. Things were forged with it. Such wicked things that the Cauldron was eventually stolen back at great cost. It could not be destroyed, for it had Made all things, and if it were broken, then life would cease to be. So it was hidden. And forgotten. Only with that Cauldron could something that is dead be reforged like that.” - ACOMAF, chapter 18

Before Bryce could contemplate this further, Silene went on, But my mother and father knew they needed the most valuable of all the Daglan’s weapons. Bryce tensed. This had to be the thing that had given them the edge— The snows around Ramiel parted, revealing a massive bowl of iron at the foot of the monolith. Even through the vision, its presence leaked into the world, a heavy, ominous thing. “The Cauldron,” Nesta said, dread lacing her voice. Not a useful weapon, then. Bryce braced herself as Silene continued. The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced … those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage. - HOFAS, chapter 19

And isn't it interesting that Papa Archeron carved the aforementioned rose for Elain - out of a dark, heavy wood that a few of us have wondered was ironwood (just like the bed on which each of the Archeron sisters was born) - while the legs of the Mother's iron Cauldron were covered in thorns?

She plucked another figurine from the mantel: a rose carved from a dark sort of wood. She held it in her palm, its solid weight surprising, and traced a finger over one of the petals. “He made this one for Elain. Since it was winter and she missed the flowers.” - ACOSF, chapter 55

In yet another of her brilliant posts, @wingedblooms theorised that the Cauldron might represent the flower of life; roses* are obviously a flower (shh), so the imagery of the Cauldron being an iron rose on a thorny pedestal is, quite possibly, significant. One of the definitions of the word "court" is "a sovereign's residence." Has the series title "A Court of Thorns and Roses" been referring to the Cauldron all along?!

* Posts involving roses and rose imagery pertaining to Elain are here, here, here and here.

The Ouroboros and Ramiel's black monolith - the "seat" of Wyrd/Chaos?

But let's get back on topic. I have theorised in the past that the Dusk Court - which we now know are the Starborn Fae - may have had four items, or four treasures, similar to the Tuatha de Danann of Irish mythology (my first Dusk Court post leaned heavily into that association).

I suggested that they may have been paired as:

Dagda's Cauldron/The Undry - the Veritas

Spear of Destiny/Spear of Lugh - Narben

Sword of Light/Claiomh Solais - Gwydion

The Stone of Kings/Lia Fail - the Ouroboros

Fragarach - Truth-Teller (as a bonus)

@merymoonbeam has also posted about her own take on the four treasures of the Tuatha de Danann; we agree about the Spear of Lugh and the sword of light, but diverged with Dagda's Cauldron - she suggested it may have been the Cauldron, and I agree that makes sense as well - and the Lia Fail, which she theorised was the stone on top of Ramiel (again, a solid choice that makes sense). Now, I know that the Ouroboros might seem like an odd choice as an in-universe stone of kings, but if you read my four treasures post I still think it fits... but it's not a stone. And Mery's thoughts about the Lia Fail fit, too. Both options made sense to me.

Which brings me back to HOFAS.

As others have suggested already, this sounds like the same black stone monolith that Cassian flew by in ACOFAS.

The conifer forests and ravines that dotted the landscape flowing to Ramiel’s foot gleamed under fresh snow. Empty and clean. No sign of the bloodshed that would occur come the start of spring. The mountain neared, mighty and endless, so wide that he might as well have been a mayfly in the wind. Cassian soared toward Ramiel’s southern face, rising high enough to catch a glimpse of the shining black stone jutting from its top. Who had put that stone atop the peak, he didn’t know, either. Legend said it had existed before the Night Court formed, before the Illyrians migrated from the Myrmidons, before humans had even walked the earth. Even with the fresh snow crusting Ramiel, none had touched the pillar of stone. A thrill, icy and yet not unwelcome, flooded his veins. It was rare for anyone in the Blood Rite to make it to the monolith. - ACOFAS, chapter 3

* A quick aside: conifer forests and ravines surround Ramiel; who smells like night-chilled mist and cedar, and may be associated with/related to Thanatos, the prince of the Ravine? Azriel!

In @wingedblooms brilliant post about Ramiel as the heart of the Night Court, she wondered if the black monolith and Cauldron together may have been a complete depiction of Wyrd, and then something clicked (and now I'm finally getting to the point lol, sorry for the wait); what if the black stone and the Ouroboros were combined as the Lia Fail/Stone of Kings? Or Wyrd/Chaos (as the Queen)? If the Cauldron is the "court" (residence) of Wyrd, and it once "sat" at the base of the black stone Monolith as @wingedblooms suggested, it checks out.

And there, against the far wall of the chamber, snow crusting its surface, its bronze casing … The Ouroboros. It was a massive, round disc—as tall as I was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail. Ending and beginning. From across the room, with the snow … I could not see it. What lay within. I forced myself to take a step forward. Another. The mirror itself was black as night—yet … wholly clear. [...] Up close, the surface of the Ouroboros was like a gray, calm sea. Undisturbed. Sleeping. - ACOWAR, chapter 68

So now we have a black monolith as a (hypothetical) statue of Wyrd, with the Ouroboros being held high above Her head... sound familiar?

But wait, there's (possibly) more...

Despite the plush furniture, the room definitely belonged to a witch: a small crystal altar to Cthona adorned the eastern wall, covered in various tools of worship; a large obsidian scrying mirror hung above it; and the fireplace built into the southern wall had various iron arms, presumably to hold cauldrons during spells. A royal suite, yes, but a workroom as well. - HOSAB, chapter 56

Ithan crossed his arms. On the desk itself sat a statuette of Cthona, carved from black stone. In one arm the goddess cradled an infant to her bare breast. In the other, she extended an orb—Midgard—out into the room. Cthona, birther of worlds. He touched it idly, gathering his courage. - HOFAS, chapter 13

Ithan was carefully setting down a figurine of Cthona giving birth on all fours—the planet Midgard crowning between her legs—when Jesiba’s phone rang. The shrill sound shattered the silence, but Ithan’s sunball reflexes kept him from dropping the fragile marble. - HOFAS, chapter 44

Could the Ouroboros represent the moon associated with the priestesses of the Mother? I mean it's big and round, and I'm a simple person haha. Was there ever a temple to Wyrd/Chaos on - or underneath - Ramiel? Does the black stone monolith represent the goddess/Wyrd, the Ouroboros the moon and the Cauldron the world to which she's giving birth? If black stone/obsidian attracts the princes of Hel, is that because obsidian is a stand in for Void and they are themselves a mixture of Void and Chaos? Is black stone used to depict Wyrd/Chaos because it acknowledges that She is attracted* to the Void? And the Ouroboros, which I have previously thought could be a portal (and hey, it's taller than Feyre, so tall enough), and @wingedblooms theorised it may be a mirror of witch glass... it seems intentional.

* This imagery reminds me of the Embrace of Solas and Cthona.

Sailing the Void

In my post about The Weaver's Song, I theorised that it might be a prophecy suggesting that the three Archeron sisters may sing, or "sail" (for lack of a better term haha) the bat brothers through the Void, either figuratively or (I hope!) literally. Either to Hel or to some other place - I would scream if it's Erilea, as @psychologynerd has theorised for Elain - but ultimately, wherever they go, I think it will be with the goal of finding and freeing Wyrd from whatever (hypothetically) binds Her, thus purifying Her and the Cauldron from the corruption of the Daglan/Asteri.

Which, speaking of, could the Asteri/Daglan have bound Wyrd with wyrdstone as like calls to like? Or did they use a crystal prism - like the one Bryce found in the Autumn King's study - to split Her light into its many facets and bind - tether - each to something or one? Did they create an anti rainbow with wyrdstone to split Wyrd apart, weakening Her?

With a sharp inhale, Bryce rallied her magic. On the exhale, she sent a stream of her starlight into the prism, her power faster than ever before. Starlight hit the prism, passed through it, and— “Huh.” It wasn’t a rainbow that emerged from the other side. Not even close. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing: a gradient beam of starlight. Where the rainbow would have been full of color, this one began in shimmering white light and descended into shadow. An anti-rainbow, as it were. Light falling into darkness, droplets of starlight raining from the highest beam into the shadowy band at the bottom, devoured by the darkness below. Like the fading light of day—of dusk. What did it mean? She was pretty sure her light had been pure before, but now, with Silene’s power mixed in … there was darkness there, too. Hidden beneath. - HOFAS, chapter 39

I've previously spoken about the need for balance to be restored to the universe, and that something may be preventing light (Chaos?) from flowing freely through the Void. If this is true, and it stems from the Asteri's corrupting efforts, it would make sense that purifying their influence on the Mother and Cauldron - who we now know is Wyrd - would help to heal the land, by unchaining the magic, as Feyre hinted in ACOMAF (and @wingedblooms has discussed extensively).

I shivered, craving the moderate winter of Velaris, wondering how it could be so temperate in the far north, but … everything in Prythian was strange. Perhaps when the wall hadn’t existed, when magic had flowed freely between realms, the seasonal differences hadn’t been so vast. - ACOMAF, chapter 23

I have more thoughts on this but I'm getting off track, hopefully I'll post them soon.

I've already discussed the possible significance of 'The Elain' ship flying a sail with the compass rose, or rose of the winds - an eight-pointed star - with nothing (void) on either side. I think it's interesting that 'The Feyre' flies two crescent moons and two diamond-type symbols that represent some of the (hypothetical) wyrdmarks on Wyrd's arms as depicted on the cover of HOFAS, and that 'The Nesta' flies a sail with a dragon and two suns, possibly referring to the dragon Ariadne from HOSAB (in Greek mythology, Ariadne was heavily associated with labyrinths, ie. finding one's way) and the sun being a star with a powerful flame? I know I sound like a broken record, but will the Archeron sisters be like the light from Eärendil's - a mariner! - star contained in the phial of Galadriel, but as the three brothers' most beloved stars? Will they light their way through the Void?

Getting back to the compass rose, Cassian refers to the eight-pointed star as a map for striking with a sword, and we know that light can be wielded as a weapon, as Yrene Towers did in Erilea, to heal Chaol and execute the Valg King Erawan.

“You didn’t ask.” He unsheathed his Illyrian blade. “Enough history.” He drew four lines in the dirt, all intersecting to form an eight-pointed star. “This is your map for striking with a sword. These eight maneuvers. You’ve learned six of them. You’ll learn the other two today, and we’ll start on the combinations.” - ACOSF, chapter 44

Additionally, Nesta suggested that the eight-pointed star was stamped on her heart.

Nesta lifted the sword and executed a perfect arcing slash. Her weight shifted to her legs just as she flipped the blade, leading with the hilt, and brought up her arm against an invisible blow. Another shift and the sword swept down, a brutal slash that would have sliced an opponent in half. Each slice was perfect. Like that eight-pointed star was stamped on her very heart. - ACOSF, chapter 50

This sounds incredibly similar to Bryce carrying a star in her chest - her star tattoo was over her heart - so I would not be surprised to learn that Feyre and Elain had something similar, too. It makes sense. Each Cauldron-Made sister carrying one third of a whole star, to replace Theia's protective magic that Bryce took with her to Midgard (as she didn't return it when she did Truth-Teller, Prythian is currently unprotected). And if the Cauldron is Wyrd's vessel, as it appears to be, this makes Feyre, Elain and Nesta supremely important. Perhaps they're not the "scum" Vesperus suggested at all.

Perhaps they are the wyrdkeys to everything? At least in Prythian, if each sister holds within her one third of a whole star that Wyrd planted Herself.

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unconventional-lawnchair · 21 hours ago

Text

We're Always Shifting {Chapter Three}

Barty Crouch Jr. x Reader

WC: 7.5k

Masterlist

Summary: After a small fight and a make up session, Harry and the reader stumble upon a room that finally harbors some answers.

<--Prev/Next-->

The week following the disastrous attempt to steal from Snape had been a whirlwind of sleepless nights and desperate attempts to make sense of the hollow ache inside you. Hermione, Draco, and Luna had thrown themselves into the task of helping you, their worry manifesting in different ways. Hermione had suggested Legilimency, but Draco had shut that down immediately, his voice sharp with protective indignation. You had almost forgotten what he had gone through; his main argument being it wouldn’t help with memories you claimed not to have- but you know what it was. He didn't want you to feel that pain. Luna had brought you a collection of oddities- an old mirror, a battered music box, a tattered vinyl sleeve- swearing they would spark something, but they only left you feeling more adrift.

Even Draco, normally so quick with a biting remark, had grown strangely subdued. His silences spoke louder than his words, his usual bravado giving way to an unspoken concern that settled heavily between you all. It was like they could sense the cracks forming in you, but none of them knew how to mend them.

You’d tried to distract yourself. Hours spent in the library with Hermione, feigning interest as she scribbled notes with the intensity of someone trying to outrun her own thoughts. You let Luna’s voice wash over you as she rambled about magical creatures, her whimsical theories like threads of light in the dark. And when Draco had dragged you to the Astronomy Tower, pointing out constellations with a confidence that made your heart twist, you let yourself get lost in the stars, searching for answers you couldn’t name.

But nothing worked. The ache remained, gnawing at you like a shadow you couldn’t outrun. And then there was Harry.

He’d been watching you all week, his gaze a quiet weight you felt even when you tried to ignore it. He didn’t push, not at first. But his presence was constant, lingering at the edges of your world like an unanswered question. Every time his eyes met yours, there was something there- something raw and yearning, something you couldn’t face.

By the time Monday morning arrived, you weren’t surprised to find him waiting for you outside the courtyard steps. His tie hung loose, his hair as perpetually messy as ever, but his expression was different. He looked... tired. And the sight of him hit you like a punch to the gut.

“Hey,” He forced a smile, his voice softer than you’d expected. “Do you want to skip class? Go down to the Black Lake like we used to?”

The question was so simple, so Harry, that it almost broke you. Memories of stolen afternoons by the water flashed through your mind; his laughter, the sun on your skin, the feeling that nothing else mattered when you were with him. The sounds of Draco's snark remarks about you actually getting into the water- with Hermione’s fussing about getting caught- You wanted to say yes. You wanted to let him pull you back into that world, even for a moment. But the thought of being alone with him, of facing everything you couldn’t explain, was unbearable.

“I’d… rather be alone right now,” You muttered, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Harry stepped in front of you, his brows furrowing in frustration. “Don’t do that,” He huffed, his voice sharper now. “Don’t shut me out. It’s not fair.”

You blinked, startled by the edge in his tone. “I’m not shutting you out, Harry. I just-”

“Yes, you are,” He cut you off, his hands clenching at his sides. “You’ve been doing it all week. Hell, longer than that. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice.”

His words hit like a slap, and you looked away, guilt twisting in your chest. “I’m not trying to shut you out,” You muttered softly. “I just… I need space.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Space,” He rasped, his voice laced with disbelief. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve had plenty of space, haven’t you? Space from me, but no one else.”

“That’s not fair-”

“No,” He interrupted, his voice rising. “What’s not fair is you disappearing into your own head and leaving me here, wondering what the hell I did wrong.”

The rawness in his voice made your breath catch, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. His green eyes burned with something you couldn’t name- hurt, frustration, desperation- and it cut deeper than you expected.

“Do you have any idea how much I miss you?” He strained, his voice breaking. “I miss us. I miss how things used to be. And I don’t understand why you don’t. It’s like… the second this year started, you wanted nothing to do with me. I need my best friend back.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple, Harry.”

“Why not?” He demanded, stepping closer. “Is it because of Ginny? Because of Malfoy? Because I swear, if it’s about them, I’ll-”

“It’s not about them!” You snapped, your voice rising in frustration. The words hung heavy in the air, and Harry flinched, his hurt etched into every line of his face.

“Then what is it about?” He asked, his voice quieter now, trembling with something fragile. “Because I feel like I’m losing you, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a storm, and you felt your walls crumbling. You wanted to tell him everything- the flashes of memories, the way your chest ached when you looked at him, the fear that you were unraveling piece by piece. But how could you, when you didn’t even understand it yourself?

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, your voice barely audible. “I just… I don’t know how to fix it either.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged, but the determination in his eyes didn’t waver. “Then let me help you,” He huffed. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together.”

His words should have been comforting, but they only made the ache worse. You didn’t deserve his loyalty- not when you couldn’t give him the answers he deserved.

Harry reached out, his hand brushing against yours for the briefest moment before he pulled away. “Take your space.” He sighed softly, his voice tinged with resignation. “But don’t forget… I’m still here. I’m always here. I'm not going to just leave you behind.”

You nodded, unable to speak, and watched as he walked away. His shoulders were hunched, his steps heavy, and you felt the tears spill over, hot and unrelenting.

As the courtyard fell silent around you, you realized how deep the chasm between you and Harry had grown. And yet, his words lingered, a promise you weren’t sure you deserved but couldn’t let go of.

"I’m not going to just leave you behind."

If only you could believe him. If only you could believe in yourself.

~~~

The days that followed your conversation with Harry dragged like wading through deep, endless water. You’d catch sight of him in the halls or across the Great Hall, and each time, the quiet anguish in his green eyes clawed at you. It made your chest ache, and no amount of distraction could dull the weight of it.

His words hung in the air, a constant echo in your mind. And yet, how could you tell him the truth? The flashes of fragmented memories, the visions that felt like whispers of another life. The image of Harry with a jagged lightning scar carved into his forehead- it haunted you. But how could you explain something that felt more like a dream than reality? How could you put that burden on him when you didn’t understand it yourself?

You tried to busy yourself, anything to drown the noise in your head. Hermione’s endless study sessions became your sanctuary, though her focused quill scratches only reminded you of your own restless inaction. Draco’s sharp comments- usually a source of irritation- started feeling oddly grounding, like he was trying to anchor you in his own backhanded way. And Luna, sweet Luna, would sit beside you, offering her peculiar trinkets and theories, her voice laced with a gentleness that made you want to cry.

But no matter how hard they tried, and no matter how much you wished you could let them in, the ache in your chest remained, pulling you under.

And Harry.

He didn’t push, not at first. He lingered at the edges of your world, his presence always there, quietly waiting. But his patience wasn’t infinite, and you’d felt it begin to fray. The tension between you grew heavier with every passing day until finally, it all came to a head.

~~~

It was late one evening when you found yourself in the library again, the quiet hum of the room interrupted only by the occasional rustle of parchment. Hermione was beside you, her focus unwavering as she tackled Advanced Transfiguration. Across the table, Draco flicked lazily through a Potions text, his sharp features cast in the warm glow of a lamp. And then there was Luna, perched on the table’s edge, humming softly as she dangled a peculiar dried herb in front of her like it might hold all the answers you sought.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” Hermione said finally, her tone cautious but kind. Her eyes flicked toward you, her quill pausing mid-scratch. “Still thinking about what Harry said?”

The question hit you and your thoughts came to a halt, though you tried to hide it. You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of your book. “Yeah,” You admitted, barely above a whisper. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated is putting it mildly,” Draco hummed, his voice cutting but not cruel. “Potter’s as subtle as a Hippogriff, but at least he’s honest. You? You’re like some impossible bloody riddle, and I, for one, am tired of trying to solve it.”

You shot him a glare, but Luna chimed in before you could retort. “Maybe it’s not about solving.” She said dreamily, tilting her head. “Maybe the answer is already there, and you’re just scared of it.”

Hermione sighed, closing her book with a soft thud. “Look, no one’s asking you to figure it all out right this second. But pushing Harry away isn’t fair. You know how he is. He’ll wait forever if he has to, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

The words sank in, the guilt clawing at your insides. “I know.” You murmured, your voice barely audible. “I just don’t want to hurt him.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Draco said bluntly, though his tone lacked its usual bite. When Hermione shot him a glare, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “What? I’m just being honest. Someone has to.”

Luna’s voice was soft but steady, her gaze piercing in its own ethereal way. “Maybe it’s not about whether or not you want to hurt him. Maybe it’s about whether or not you trust him enough to let him help.”

The words struck a chord deep in your chest. Trust. That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Trusting Harry to stay, to weather the storm of your fractured mind when you couldn’t promise him any clarity. Trusting him not to crumble under the weight of what little you could offer.

Without a word, you closed your book and rose from your chair, the scrape of wood against stone drawing all eyes to you. “I need some air,” You mumbled. “I’ll be back.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Luna placed a gentle hand on her arm, stopping her. Draco simply raised an eyebrow, though for once, he said nothing. You left before their collective concern could smother you.

~~~

The corridors were quiet, the late hour cloaking the castle in stillness. You wandered aimlessly, your thoughts a tangled mess of guilt and confusion, until your feet carried you to the Astronomy Tower. The crisp night air hit you as you stepped outside, the stars above sprawling endlessly, like an invitation to lose yourself in their vastness.

Leaning against the cold stone railing, you stared out at the dark silhouette of the Forbidden Forest. Your mind raced, memories you couldn’t place flitting just out of reach. The ache in your chest felt heavier here, the weight of it almost unbearable.

“You’re not the only one who hides up here, you know.”

The voice startled you, though it shouldn’t have. You turned to see Harry stepping out of the halls, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked as exhausted as you felt, the moonlight casting sharp angles across his face.

For a moment, you said nothing, the silence between you thick. Then Harry stepped closer, leaning on the railing beside you. “I didn’t mean to push the other day,” He said quietly, his voice raw. “I just… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help.”

The vulnerability in his tone twisted something deep inside you, but this time, you didn’t look away. “I don’t know how to do this either.” You admitted, your voice breaking. “And I’m terrified that if I tell you what little I do know, it’ll make everything worse.”

Harry frowned, his green eyes searching yours like he could will you to let him in. “Worse than this?” he asked softly. “Worse than watching you slip further away every day?”

You swallowed hard, tears threatening to spill. “Harry, I saw something the other night. It wasn’t real, but it felt real. It was you. But… not you.”

“What do you mean?” His voice was steady, but his brow furrowed with confusion.

You hesitated, the memory of his scar flashing in your mind. “You had a scar. A lightning bolt, right here.” You gestured to your own forehead. “And your eyes, Harry… they looked so tired. Like you’d been fighting something- something I couldn’t see.”

Harry stared at you, his confusion deepening. “A scar? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” You confessed, aspirated, your frustration bubbling over. “I feel like my mind is playing tricks on me, showing me things that just don’t make sense. And I don’t know how to make it stop.”

As the silence settled between you, Harry’s hand remained steady on your arm, his warmth grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. His eyes searched yours, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe he could take on some of the weight that had been suffocating you.

“Alright,” He said softly, his voice tinged with that steadfast determination you’d always admired. “Let’s talk about it.”

You hesitated, then nodded, letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The two of you turned and began walking, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet corridor. For a while, neither of you spoke, the stillness giving you time to gather your thoughts.

“It’s hard to explain,” You began, uncertain. “It’s not just the visions. It’s this… this feeling that something’s missing. Someone’s missing.”

Harry glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Missing? Like you’ve forgotten someone?”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “Or maybe it’s like they were never here to begin with, but they should’ve been. I don’t know, Harry. It’s like… there’s a gap, and I don’t know how to fill it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you talk without interruption, his attention fully on you in a way that made your chest tighten.

“And it’s not just that.” You continued. “Sometimes I look at people- Pandora, Draco, even Luna- and it’s like I’m seeing two versions of them at once. One that feels… right, and one that doesn’t. Like they’re slightly out of focus. I can’t explain it better than that.”

Harry tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “And me? Do I… feel out of focus?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “No,” You said quietly. “You feel… solid. Real. But it’s like there’s another version of you, one I can’t quite remember but still… know. It’s the you with the scar.” You glanced at him, searching his face for any hint of recognition, but he only looked more confused.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Harry murmured, shaking his head. “But if you’re seeing this, if you’re feeling this… it’s got to mean something, right?”

You nodded slowly, your steps faltering as the ache in your chest deepened. “It has to,” You whispered. “Because if it doesn’t, then I’m just losing my mind.”

Harry stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re not losing your mind,” He validated you firmly. “You’re going through something, something none of us understand yet. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

His words settled over you like a balm, and you felt a spark of hope flicker to life amidst the chaos. You gave him a small, shaky smile, one that he returned with a quiet confidence that made you want to believe in him.

“Come on,” He said, his tone lighter now. “Let’s keep walking. Who knows, maybe you’ll start seeing something that makes sense.”

You snorted softly, the sound startling both of you into a brief laugh. “Unlikely,” You muttered, though a tiny part of you dared to hope.

The two of you continued down the corridor, your steps falling into an easy rhythm. You talked in fits and starts, describing the strange flashes of memory that haunted you, the sensations that tugged at the edges of your consciousness. Harry listened intently, his occasional questions thoughtful but never pressing.

As you turned a corner, you felt it. A tug, faint but insistent, pulling you toward the stretch of stone wall ahead. You slowed, your steps faltering, and Harry noticed immediately.

“What is it?” He asked, his voice low.

“I don’t know,” You murmured, your gaze fixed on the blank expanse of wall. The ache in your chest intensified, sharpening into something almost physical, and before you could say anything else, the stones began to shift.

Harry stepped back, his hand brushing yours as the wall transformed before your eyes. The bricks rippled and rearranged themselves, forming a tall, intricately carved door that hadn’t been there moments ago. You exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Harry, his expression mirroring your own mixture of awe and unease.

“What… is that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I… don't know.” You whispered in a shaken voice. Then, your jaw tightened and you turned sharply to smile at Harry. He seemed confused.

“But I know someone who might.”

~~~

The quiet corridors of Hogwarts grew heavier with the weight of secrecy, and you found yourself pacing just outside the newly formed door in the stone wall. Your heart raced, caught between the tension of discovery and the uncertainty of what lay within.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew your attention, and you turned just as Harry came into view. He wasn’t alone. Hermione trailed close behind, her expression sharp and curious, while Draco and Luna followed at a more casual pace. Ron brought up the rear, his hair an unmistakable mess, and his face reddened as if he’d just been caught in a compromising position.

“Bit late for a study group, isn’t it?” Draco drawled, though his curiosity was evident as he eyed the strange door.

“Late-night adventure,” Luna corrected him dreamily, her gaze flicking between the door and the stars peeking through the high windows.

Ron, rubbing at his neck, muttered, “What’s this about, anyway? Harry practically dragged me here. Interrupted my… er, reading session.” His ears turned even redder, and Hermione huffed, though a faint blush tinged her cheeks.

“Reading session,” Harry repeated, his lips twitching with amusement. “Right. That what we’re calling it these days?”

Ron shot him a warning glare. “Not the time, mate.”

Hermione, either unwilling to entertain the teasing or simply too intrigued by the door, stepped forward. “What is this place?” She asked, her eyes narrowing as she inspected the intricate carvings on the door. “It wasn’t here earlier.”

You hesitated, glancing at Harry before turning back to the group. “I was hoping you'd know,” You explained softly. “It just showed up when I was telling Harry.. Everything.”

Hermione’s brows knit together in confusion, her logical mind clearly racing to process this revelation. “The Room of Requirement? I’ve read about it, but I’ve never actually seen it. Why now? Why would it appear for you?”

“I don’t know,” You admitted, your voice tinged with frustration. “But whatever’s inside… I think it’s important. I think it might help.”

Draco crossed his arms, his gaze flicking from you to the door with guarded skepticism. “And we’re just supposed to waltz in there, are we? What if it’s a trap? What if it’s not what you think?”

“Draco,” Luna said gently, her voice soft but firm. “The room appears when someone truly needs it. It wouldn’t trick her. It’s here to help.”

Hermione nodded, her curiosity winning out over caution. “Luna’s right. If the room has appeared, it’s because it has something to show us. Something you need.”

Ron, less convinced, muttered under his breath, “Great. Another magical mystery to solve right before curfew. What else is new?”

Harry ignored the grumbling, his gaze locked on you. “If you think this will help, then we’re with you. All of us.” His eyes softened, the vulnerability from your earlier conversation still lingering. “You don’t have to go in alone.”

You felt a surge of gratitude, your chest tightening at the unspoken solidarity between them. Even Draco, for all his snark, looked ready to follow you inside. With a deep breath, you turned to the door and reached for the handle.

The moment your fingers touched the cool metal, it gave way. As the door creaked open, a cool draft escaped, carrying with it the faint scent of old parchment and something metallic, like the tang of magic that had been left undisturbed for years. The room beyond was vast, its high, vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow. It resembled a library, but not one you’d ever seen before- this one had a strange, disjointed quality, as though the room itself couldn’t decide what era it belonged to.

Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that ranged from pristine to crumbling. Scrolls were stacked haphazardly in some corners, their edges yellowed with age. A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface littered with papers, letters, and strange objects. Some were covered in thick layers of dust, while others gleamed as if they had just been placed there.

Luna was the first to step inside, her wide eyes taking in the scene with quiet awe. “It’s beautiful,” She murmured, her fingers trailing along the edge of the nearest shelf. “But... sad.”

“Sad?” Ron asked, clearly uneasy as he peered into the room. “It looks like someone’s attic exploded.”

Hermione ignored him, her gaze locking onto the table. “This isn’t just clutter.” She said, her voice hushed with the kind of reverence she usually reserved for particularly rare books. “It’s... research. Someone’s been experimenting here.”

“Experimenting with what?” Draco asked, his tone sharp as he moved cautiously into the room. His eyes swept over the objects, his posture stiff with suspicion.

Harry stayed close to you, his presence a steady anchor as you stepped further inside. Your heart raced as your gaze flicked over the table, the scattered papers and artifacts drawing you in like a magnet. There were pieces of broken clocks, small vials filled with swirling silver liquid, and diagrams that seemed to map out the flow of time itself.

“Time magic,” Hermione whispered, her fingers hovering over a series of intricate sketches. “Whoever worked here was studying time manipulation.”

Draco snorted, though his eyes remained fixed on a glowing hourglass perched precariously on the edge of the table. “Brilliant. Messing with time never ends well. Just ask anyone who’s ever gone near a Time-Turner.”

“You think someone was using a Time-Turner here?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Not just using,” Hermione said, shaking her head as she picked up one of the papers. Her brow furrowed as she scanned the text, written in a spidery hand. “This is advanced. Far beyond what a Time-Turner can do. They were trying to... change something. Or maybe... restore it?”

“Restore what?” You asked, your voice trembling as you moved closer to the table. The ache in your chest had grown sharper, almost unbearable, as though the room itself was reaching out to you.

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted, her frustration evident as she rifled through the papers. “But it’s clear they were trying to fix something they believed was broken.”

Luna had wandered to a shelf near the back of the room, where a dusty mirror hung on the wall. Her reflection shimmered strangely, as though the glass were rippling like water. “This room remembers,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “Whoever was here... they left pieces of themselves behind.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Ron muttered, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Draco reached for a stack of letters, his movements careful as though he were afraid they might crumble to dust. “These are addressed to... someone named P.R.” He said, holding up an envelope. His eyes flicked to you. “Does that mean anything to you?”

P. R. The letters echoed in your mind, familiar yet elusive. Your breath hitched as your fingers brushed against one of the objects on the table- a locket, tarnished with age but still bearing the faint engraving of a crest you couldn’t place. The moment you touched it, a wave of dizziness washed over you, and the room seemed to blur.

“Are you alright?” Harry’s voice cut through the haze, his hands steadying you as you swayed.

“I... I think someone I knew was here.” You whispered, your voice barely audible. “Someone important. But I can’t... I can’t remember.”

Hermione placed a hand on your shoulder, her expression softening. “Take your time,” She said gently. “We’ll figure this out.”

As you steadied yourself, your gaze fell on a journal lying at the edge of the table. Its leather cover was worn, the edges frayed, but something about it called to you. You reached for it, your hands trembling as you opened it to the first page.

The handwriting was familiar, looping and elegant, though the words themselves made little sense at first. But as you flipped through the pages, fragments began to emerge- notes about fractures in time, the consequences of changing the past, and a name that sent a chill down your spine.

Bartemius Crouch Junior.

Your breath caught, and the room seemed to spin around you. The locket in your hand grew heavier, the pieces falling into place with a clarity that was almost painful.

“He was here,” You furrowed your brow, your voice breaking. “Someone- Bartemius. He... he was trying to fix something.”

The others exchanged glances, their confusion evident, but Harryreached for your arm. “What do you mean? Fix what?”

You shook your head, tears spilling over as the ache in your chest became too much to bear. “I don’t know,” you choked out. “But I think... I think P.R. was supposed to help him.”

~~~

The hours passed in a haze as the six of you combed through the room, its strange, timeless air wrapping around you like a cloak. Scrolls and letters were examined, diagrams poured over, and objects handled with the utmost care. The weight of unspoken questions hung heavily in the air. Luna, ever practical in her whimsical way, had vanished at some point, returning with an assortment of snacks and a steaming cup of tea, which she set in front of you with a soft smile.

“You’ll think better with a clear head,” She cooed simply, her serene confidence somehow soothing.

You wrapped your hands around the tea, the warmth grounding you as you turned your attention back to the journal on your lap. Harry sat beside you, his presence steady and reassuring as he sifted through a pile of letters. Hermione and Ron were deep in discussion across the table, their voices low but urgent, while Draco stood by the shelves, his sharp eyes scanning the spines of books as though they might hold the answers you sought.

It was Draco who broke the silence, holding up a stack of letters with a triumphant smirk. “These are addressed to someone named ‘Vixen,’” He announced, his tone tinged with curiosity. “Bartemius seems to have been quite... devoted to her.”

The name sent a shiver down your spine, and you exchanged a glance with Harry. “Vixen?” You parroted, your voice barely above a whisper. “That sounds... familiar. But it feels important.”

Draco flipped through the letters, his expression shifting as he skimmed their contents. “He wasn’t just devoted,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “He was... obsessed. Listen to this.”

He cleared his throat and read aloud from one of the letters:

My dearest Vixen,

How am I meant to live in this fractured, hollow world without you? Every breath I take is a cruel reminder of your absence, every sunrise an insult, every hour stretching into eternity without the warmth of your presence. You were my heart, my hope, my soul- and without you, I am unmade. Even now, I feel the edges of myself fraying, the darkness creeping in where your light once shone so brightly.

Do you know how often I find myself reaching for you in the quiet moments? When the silence becomes unbearable, I think of our laughter- the way it echoed in the halls as Regulus teased us or as Dorcas argued over some absurd plan we all knew we’d follow anyway. I think of Pandora’s curiosity, her unyielding faith in the impossible, or Evan’s snark, always ready to rally us when the world seemed set against us. We were unbreakable, weren't we? Together, we had something the rest of the world couldn’t touch. And now... now that unity feels shattered, like glass crushed underfoot. They won't look at me. Call me mad.

But it wasn’t the world that took you from me, was it? It was him.

Dumbledore.

I see his shadow in every crack of this broken life. He played his games, weaving his manipulations like an old spider, and we were caught in his web. You, most of all. He didn’t see you as a person- not the fierce, vibrant force of nature that you were- but as a pawn, something to be sacrificed for his grand design. And now you are gone. He stole you from us. From me.

I hate him for it. I hate him with a fire that burns hotter than any magic I’ve ever known. He will pay for what he’s done- I swear it, my love. He will answer for the hole he has torn in this world, for the family he has destroyed. But my rage, my grief, my hatred- they are nothing compared to the love I still hold for you. A love that will not, cannot die.

And so, I refuse to let this be the end. I refuse to let Dumbledore’s schemes, his lies, and his arrogance win. I will defy him. I will defy the laws of magic, the constraints of time, the will of the universe itself if that is what it takes to bring you back. Whatever the cost, I will pay it. Whatever the consequences, I will bear them. Nothing matters but you, my Vixen.

I will find a way. Regulus, Dorcas, Pandora, Evan- they deserve to see you again. To feel whole again. And I deserve to hold you in my arms, to hear your voice, to live in the world as it was meant to be- where you and I were unstoppable.

I will not fail you.

Wait for me, my love. No matter where you are, no matter how far you’ve been taken from me, I will find you. I will tear down every barrier, bend time itself, and defy the heavens to bring you home.

Forever and always,

Bartemius

The room fell silent, the weight of Bartemius’s words settling over you like a heavy fog. Your chest ached, the same gnawing emptiness that had plagued you all week surging to the surface.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, breaking the silence. “That’s not devotion. That’s... that’s desperation.”

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. “Whoever this Vixen was, she must have meant everything to him. And it sounds like something happened to her. Something he blamed Dumbledore for.”

Draco set the letters down, his sharp gaze shifting to you. “And you think this is connected to you? To what you’ve been feeling?”

“I don’t know,” You admitted, your voice trembling. “But it feels... tied to everything. To the visions, the ache in my chest, even the gaps in my memory.”

Luna, who had been quietly examining a small box filled with trinkets, spoke up then, her tone calm but pointed. “What about the initials? P.R. Whoever Bartemius was writing to, they must have been important too.”

Harry hesitated, his expression thoughtful. “P.R.,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It could be a name. Or a title.”

“Pandora Rosier,” Draco said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

The room stilled, all eyes turning to Luna. She didn’t flinch under the weight of their gazes, her expression serene as always, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes- something deep and unknowable.

“Pandora Rosier,” Draco repeated, his voice firmer now. “Your mother. What if P.R. stands for her?”

Luna tilted her head, considering this. “It’s possible,” she said softly. “But my mother never mentioned Bartemius Crouch Jr. Or anyone named Vixen.”

“But he mentioned her,” Hermione interjected, her voice filled with quiet urgency. “If there’s a connection, it might not have been something she wanted to share. Especially if it involved time magic.”

“Wait a second,” Harry said, frowning. “If Bartemius was writing to Vixen and working with P.R., then where does this locket fit in?”

You looked down at the locket still clutched in your hand, its weight suddenly overwhelming. The crest etched into its surface seemed to shimmer in the dim light, and for a moment, you swore you saw something shift within its tarnished depths.

“I think...” You began, your voice barely audible. “I think this locket was hers. Vixen’s. And somehow, it’s tied to everything.”

Draco leaned closer, his sharp features etched with determination. “Then we need to figure out who Vixen was. And what Mrs. Lovegood’s role was in all of this.”

“And how it connects to you,” Harry added quietly, his green eyes filled with unwavering resolve.

You kept staring at the locket. It seemed old, older then most things in the room. You ran your thumb along the engravings, more stars.

Mindlessly, you lifted the tea to your lips and took a sip, immediately hit with a bitter- almost sour taste. Your expression shifted and you frowned into the cup like the liquid would apologize for it’s flavour, earning a laugh from Harry.

You huffed at him and leaned forward to take a sniff of the steaming mix and your face fell, the smell reminding you of the humid musty smell of the potions classroom. Then the memory hit you, it all hit you at once.

“I have been nothing if not fair tonight, Vix!”

“You guys.” You whispered and set the tea down. “Vix. It's what Professor Snape called me. That night we got caught in his storage closet- he called me Vix. What if.. it's Vixen? Short for Vixen?”

The room went quiet as your words hung in the air, the revelation settling heavily over the group. Hermione’s quill paused mid-scratch, and Harry’s gaze sharpened, a mix of concern and curiosity etched into his features. Draco, ever the skeptic, leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied your expression.

“Vix,” Hermione repeated, her voice soft, but insistent. “That’s what he called you?”

You nodded slowly, the weight of the memory making your chest tighten. “That night in the potions storeroom... it didn’t make sense at the time. I thought it was just Snape being... Snape. But now...”

“It’s a nickname,” Draco interrupted, his tone edged with skepticism. “One he used like he’s done it before. Like it’s... familiar.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his hands clenching into fists on the table. “And you’re saying it’s short for Vixen. That Snape knows something about this... about you.”

“It would explain why he’s been so cagey,” Hermione murmured, her eyes darting to the journal in front of her. “If he’s connected to all of this, then he’s been keeping it from us on purpose.”

“Typical Snape,” Harry muttered bitterly, running a hand through his messy hair. “He’s always holding onto secrets. This one just happens to be about you.”

Luna, who had been quietly observing, tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s protecting something,” she said, her voice lilting and serene. “Or someone.”

The words sent a chill through you, a nagging suspicion worming its way into your mind. “What if he’s protecting me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that followed was deafening. Hermione was the first to break it, her tone hesitant but thoughtful. “It’s possible,” she said, glancing around the room. “If you’re tied to this Vixen, and she was important enough for Bartemius Crouch Jr. to risk everything for her... then Snape might be trying to keep you out of harm’s way.”

Draco scoffed, though there was an edge of unease to his voice. “Or he’s just doing what he always does: sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong and making things worse for everyone.”

“Draco,” Luna said gently, her eyes meeting his with quiet certainty. “Not everything is as it seems. Especially when it comes to memories.”

Your grip on the locket tightened, the cold metal grounding you as your thoughts swirled. Snape’s words from that night echoed in your mind over and over.

“I need to talk to him,” You said suddenly, your voice steady despite the anxiety bubbling under the surface. “If Snape knows something- if he’s been keeping this from me- I have to confront him.”

Ron furrowed his brow, shifting uneasily as he crossed his arms. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered, voice edged with skepticism. “But if Snape’s trying to protect you, you really think he’s just gonna spill everything the second you ask? He’s not exactly known for being... forthcoming.”

Harry gave a curt nod, his jaw tightening. “Ron’s right. Snape’s a master at keeping secrets. If he doesn’t want you to know something, he’ll find a way to shut you down.”

Draco’s sharp laugh broke the tension. “Oh, please,” he drawled, leaning against the edge of the table. “Snape’s not some untouchable genius. If he’s hiding something, we’ll find a way to pry it out of him. Subtlety isn’t Potter’s strong suit, but-”

“I’m sitting right here, Draco,” Harry cut in, his tone clipped.

“Enough!” Hermione snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t about who’s better at manipulating Snape. The question is, how do we even get him to listen? Confronting him outright might not be the best idea if-”

The sound of your head hitting the back of the sofa interrupted her. Everyone turned to you, their conversations faltering as they noticed your sudden shift. You had sunk deeper into the plush cushions, eyes fluttering closed, the tension in your face softening as if the fight had drained out of you entirely.

“Hey,” Harry said, his voice low with concern as he stepped closer. “Are you... okay?”

“Just tired,” You mumbled, your words slurring slightly. Your head lolled to the side, and you let out a long, heavy breath. “Really, really tired...”

“That's strange,” Hermione murmured, exchanging a look with Harry. “You were fine just a minute ago.”

Luna, perched on the arm of a nearby chair, tilted her head with an almost serene expression. “Oh, that’s the sleeping draught,” She said simply, as if announcing the weather.

“What?” Draco straightened, his sharp gaze snapping to her. “Sleeping draught? What are you talking about?”

“The tea,” Luna explained, her tone light and airy. “I added a touch of sleeping draught. She’s been so restless, and I thought it might help her relax.”

“You drugged her?” Ron yelped, his voice jumping an octave. “Without telling her?”

Luna shrugged, her dreamy demeanor unbothered by the growing alarm in the room. “She needed it. And it’s not as if it’ll harm her. It’s just a gentle nudge toward sleep.”

“Luna!” Hermione’s voice was half-scolding, half-exasperated. “You can’t just-”

“She needed it,” Luna interrupted, her voice gentle but resolute as she looked at you, now fully dozing against the sofa cushions. “You’ve all seen how exhausted she’s been. This will give her a chance to rest. The Galanthus Nivalis I put in will help her memories.”

“The what now?” Draco hissed and snapped his entire body toward Luna. But she just smiled.

“Snowdrop. We planted it in Herbology weeks ago. It finally dried.” She hummed blissfully. “She needs it. It will help her memories, with her thoughts. And the Sleep draught.” She muttered before turning to smile at your sleeping form as Harry took off his cloak and laid it over you. “Encouragement.”

The group was silent for a moment, everyone staring at Luna in bewilderment.

“Bloody hell, remind me to never cross you, Lovegood.” Ron muttered with wide eyes.

Luna tilted her head, her serene smile unshaken by Ron’s comment. “Oh, I would never do anything harmful, Ronald,” She said sweetly. “Unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“That’s somehow not reassuring,” Draco muttered, narrowing his eyes as he took a seat beside you, watching your steady breathing. His tone was sharp, but the tension in his posture betrayed his concern. “What exactly is this supposed to do, Luna? Beyond putting her to sleep?”

“The snowdrop is for clarity,” Luna explained patiently, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “It’s said to bring light to the shadowed corners of the mind. Combined with the sleeping draught, it should help her relax enough to let her thoughts surface. Sometimes, the mind holds on too tightly to things it isn’t ready to let go of. This will give her space to remember.”

“Or,” Draco countered, leaning forward with a glare, “it’ll just mess her up more, and we’ll be left cleaning up the pieces. Did that thought cross your mind, Luna?”

Hermione interjected, her tone exasperated. “Oh, stop it, Draco. You’ve seen how much she’s been struggling. Luna might actually be onto something. Snowdrop has restorative properties- Professor Sprout mentioned it in class. If this gives her a moment of peace, we should be grateful.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Luna said dreamily, her gaze flickering to you again. “I thought you might understand.”

Harry, who had been silently watching over you, let out a soft sigh. “Luna’s right. She’s been pushing herself too hard- too much guilt, too much pressure to figure this all out. If this helps, even a little, then it’s worth it.”

Draco let out a frustrated huff but didn’t argue further, his eyes lingering on you as if searching for any sign of discomfort. “Fine,” He muttered, leaning back in his chair. “But if she wakes up confused, crying, or worse, I’m blaming Lovegood.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Because that’s new.”

“Enough,” Hermione snapped again, rubbing her temple. “The important thing is that she’s resting. Let’s use this time to figure out our next move.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances before nodding. Harry shifted closer to you, adjusting the cloak he had draped over you to ensure you were warm. His gaze softened, and he muttered under his breath, “She’ll be alright.”

Luna, who had been humming softly to herself, smiled warmly at him. “She will,” She said. “You’ll see.”

For a while, the room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of parchment as Hermione returned to her research and the occasional muttered comment from Draco as he sifted through the letters. Ron, looking thoroughly unsettled by the turn of events, busied himself by examining one of the dusty bookshelves, while Harry remained by your side, his unwavering presence a silent promise.

As you lay there, your breathing even and your features peaceful, something in the air seemed to shift. The magic of the room, subtle but ever-present, seemed to hum in response, as if waiting for the moment you would wake. Waiting to come alive once more when you returned.

Taglist: @bmyva1entine @edb954 @juniorlore @milunalupin @ailoda @ellipsisspelled @nessielovesfood @yannew @schrodinger-ka-billa @rory-cakes @rubyboobie17 @jennapancake @vilentia @derbygracie

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runraerun · 1 day ago

Text

AO3 | WC: 7.8k | Rated: E | CW: Internalized homophobia, references to the death of a parent, lots of swearing and general vulgarity from the both of them. Drug usage. Discussions of trading sex acts for drugs. Billy being an asshole but hey that’s new. | Tags: ADHD Eddie Munson, Semi-closeted Eddie, Fully-closeted Billy, One-Sided Steddie (or is it? We don’t know because of unreliable narrator reasons) Bully Billy Hargrove, Bullied Eddie Munson, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Eddie calls Billy ‘m’lord’ in here god help him, Happy Ending, some angst sprinkled throughout, but overall quite fluffy.

(Title is inspired by a song of the same name by Chromeo.)

Summary:

“I’ll cut you a deal, Munson,” Billy says, his icy-pop blue eyes and dark lashes illuminated by the end of his stolen cigarette. “I’ll let you have something. Y’know, as payment.”

But pretty as Billy is, Eddie’s no sucker. “I don’t do trades either.”

“You’re gonna wanna hear this trade.” Billy exhales a cloud of white smoke between them.

Eddie doubts it, but the sooner he hears it the sooner he can shoot it down. “Spit it out then.”

Billy Hargrove stands there, half-smirk on his face, hips tilted forward. Like he’s God’s fucking gift. “I’ll let you suck my dick.”

And that.

Well.

Eddie isn’t exactly sure what he was expecting but it sure as hell isn’t that.

Or, Billy tries to pay for drugs by offering to let Eddie blow him.

Of all the mugs Eddie expects to see in his neck of the woods, the one attached to Billy Hargrove, resident bad boy slash heartthrob with a notoriously short fuse and a mean right hook, is not one of ‘em.

The fact that he’s alone isn’t much of a comfort, but it’s… well, it’s something. It means if Billy’s planning on jumping him and stealing his stash, then at least Eddie’s got a shot at running and actually getting away with all his teeth intact.

Eddie sucks back on his cigarette, grateful he has something to do with his fidgeting hands as he eyes Hargrove’s approach. Tries his best to keep still—something he’s always been absolute dog shit at. Even as a little kid. They tossed words at him like Attention Deficit Disorder and Hyperactivity ’til the cows came home. Never changed anything, though. Mom always just called it ants in his pants. For Uncle Wayne, it was worms up his butt. All said in love, of course. Eddie was ant and worm-free, far as he knew. Just had a lot of energy is all. And a lot to say too. That isn’t a crime! But right now, under Billy Hargrove’s slow approach, he tries his damndest to get all his ants and his worms to settle down. No sudden moves in front of ticking time bombs.

“You’re Munson, right?” Hargrove asks in a low, slightly nasally voice. He’s stopped a few feet from the picnic table that Eddie’s perched on, his canister of goodies sitting unassumingly beside him.

Eddie fights his nerves—bulldozes over them, more like, and smiles wide, holding out his arms in a display of showmanship. “The one and only.”

Billy scoffs as his eyes travel around the clearing. Doesn’t seem too impressed by the ol’ Munson razzle-dazzle. “You alone out here?” he asks, eyes finally returning to Eddie’s.

Eddie shifts, leaning forward slightly—literally on edge. Why the hell did he have to say that so fucking ominously? “I was ‘til you showed up,” Eddie answers.

Billy hums noncommittally and doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s looking Eddie up and down. Sizing him up. Double-checking to make sure Eddie’s not a threat, maybe. Eddie fights the urge to duck his head and pull his shoulders in to assure Billy that he isn’t one. He’s a lover, not a fighter. In theory, anyway.

“Now what can I do for you on this fine evening, Mr. Hargrove? I don’t keep everything on me…“ Eddie trails off before he continues, “But I got anything you’d want.”

Billy snorts, “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“You’re from Cali, right? I got weed from there. Stuff that tastes like blueberries,” Eddie leans forward and bounces his brows, “I got some shrooms from the coast too that could even knock someone like you on your ass. So, what’re you into, Hargrove? What’s your poison?”

Billy’s got an amused look on his face. He’s smirking, but no part of it’s warm or welcoming. It sets Eddie even further on edge than he already had been. “You sure know a lot about me.”

Eddie shrugs, feigning innocence. He takes another pull from his cigarette. “It’s a small town; people talk. Especially around people like me. Y’know, the kinda people who don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. And you, Billy Hargrove, you’re, well…”

Eddie bites his tongue before he continues to embarrass himself. Clears his throat instead, tries to think of something not entirely stupid to say, but the words rush around his noggin so quickly that he can’t seem to catch and pin down any one of ‘em.

The forest floor crunches under the sole of Billy’s heavy black boots as he takes a slow, purposeful step forward. “I’m what, freak?”

Eddie swallows. Feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. Jesus, does this guy ever blink? Fucking blue-eyed people and their zombie stares…

He smiles despite his nerves. Then, with a tilt of his head, he answers. “You’re hard to miss.”

It’s grounds to get punched, Eddie knows. Innocent as the comment is, Eddie’s been hit for less. Shit, he got shoved into a locker for looking too long that one time in middle school. Spent the whole fucking lunch break with no one but his ripe gym socks to keep him company. So yeah, maybe Eddie’s a little jumpy around jocks like Billy Hargrove who look like they could fold Eddie into a pretzel without breaking a sweat.

Billy doesn’t look like he’s gearing up to punch Eddie, though. Not yet anyway. He just looks sort of… amused.

It’s getting late. The sun’s low in the sky, and every few seconds it catches on Billy’s earring or his chain, both temporarily blinding him. Eddie doesn’t let his eyes wander, though. He’s got enough self-discipline for that at least.

“I’ll take some of that blueberry kush,” Billy finally says, checking over his shoulder one last time before he flicks his head towards Eddie. “But I don’t got any money. Not until Monday. I’ll have to owe you.”

“Sorry pal,” Eddie leans back, palms against the flat of the picnic tabletop. He blows the smoke from his cigarette up towards the sky. “I don’t do I.O.U’s.”

The air shifts between them. Eddie can feel it. The blue-eyed zombie stare darkens, and Billy takes another step forward until his hip nearly knocks up against one of Eddie’s bent legs. “What? You don’t think I’m good for it, pal?”

“I don’t know you, man,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, shifting uncomfortably. He always hates this part of the job. He’s been a punching bag on and off for most of his life, but that doesn’t mean he’s gotta like it.

“You just went on and on about how you did.” Billy spits, and Eddie flinches as it hits his cheek. He doesn’t dare raise a hand to swipe it off though, lest it be interpreted as a move to strike.

“Look, I can hold it for you until Monday, but that’s the best I can do.” Eddie offers, but it’s not enough. He knows it’s not even close to enough. Guys like Hargrove aren’t used to being told no.

“C’mon man, there’s gotta be some deal you can cut me. I just wanna have a good fucking night. You can understand that, can’t you, Munson?” Billy asks, his voice going soft. Smooth. Breathy.

And even though his insides are fucking liquifying in real time as he does it, Eddie shakes his head, his long hair curtaining his face as he does. “Can’t do it, man.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just beat the shit out of you and take your shit anyway, huh? How about that?” Billy asks, his bottom lip caught between especially sharp-looking teeth. Eddie looks up, his dark eyes lock onto Billy’s salt-water blue ones. Stormy fucking seas. Eddie sure as hell doesn’t want to get beat up tonight, but if he starts cutting deals and giving special treatment to everyone who threatens him he’d be intimidated right out of business. And he needs the cash. Can’t leave all the bills to Uncle Wayne.

Before Eddie can think up a clever answer, Billy’s got his head thrown back, and he’s cackling. “Shit, I’m fucking with you, dude. Put that face away. I swear, no one in this fucking town can take a goddamn joke.”

Eddie doesn’t bother defending himself, just takes his cigarette from his mouth, knocks off the ash and gives a shaky exhale before putting it back between his lips. He barely starts in on his next inhale when the damn thing is plucked out of his mouth.

Lightening fast. Eddie hadn’t even seen his hands—but there was his cigarette, half-smoked, between Billy’s lips. Eddie feels his face heat at the idea of Billy’s mouth being where his own was, just a second before.

“Ha ha,” Eddie mutters, his eyes narrowing. He’s feeling somewhat brave, despite feeling distinctly like a mouse that’s being battered by a cat's paw. “Very cute.”

Billy tips his head, accepting the comment as if it were a compliment. He doesn’t give Eddie his dart back though—the guy just keeps smoking it with a swarmy fucking grin on his tanned, well-proportioned face.

Because the truth is that Billy is easy on the eyes. Nice to look at. It’s entirely counteracted by the fact that the longer you look at that aforementioned face the higher your chances are of getting a knuckle sandwich sent hurtling your way… but Eddie’s still got functioning eyeballs. He can see that Billy’s… well. Beautiful.

In a weird way, though. Like how Eddie pictures the elves from Middle Earth might look.

Fucking ethereal and shit.

“I’ll cut you a deal, Munson,” Billy says, blue eyes and dark lashes illuminated by the cherry of that stolen cigarette. “I’ll let you have something. Y’know, as payment.”

But pretty as Billy is, Eddie’s no sucker. “I don’t do trades either.”

“You’re gonna wanna hear this trade.” Billy exhales a cloud of white between them.

Eddie doubts it, but the sooner he hears it the sooner he can shoot it down. “Spit it out then.” He sighs.

But Billy doesn’t ‘spit it out’. Instead, he shifts weight from foot to foot, looking suddenly agitated again. Billy sniffs and scratches his nose with the nail of his thumb. Like he’s tweaking. Eddie waits him out. Curiosity officially piqued.

Finally, after doing his little dance, Billy leans forward, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. “I’ll let you suck my dick.”

And that.

Well.

Eddie wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting but it sure as hell wasn’t that.

The shock is written all over Eddie’s face, he’s sure. He’s never been good at concealing his emotions—an open book, his mom called him. Shit liar, is what his dad called him. Either way, he knows the surprise of what Billy’s offered up plays across his face by the way Billy’s eyes dance around it, looking pleased.

“What?” Eddie squeaks out, face suddenly on fire.

“You heard me,” Billy snaps, “I ain’t sayin’ it again.”

Eddie blinks, looks away from Billy Hargrove’s icey freeze-pop eyes. It’s no easy task. “You’ll let me…?”

Eddie motions towards the crotch of Billy’s exceptionally tight jeans. Jeans that leave very little to the imagination, Eddie might add.

Billy grins, his pink tongue caught between his teeth as he leans back, jutting his hips out a little.

“I’ll let you,” he confirms. Standing there like he’s God’s fucking gift.

Though he’s got very little air left in his lungs, Eddie gives a weak scoff. “Shouldn’t this be the other way around?”

And for the first time tonight, Eddie does feel at risk of being sucker punched. Billy’s eyes flare, and just like that his beauty melts into something ugly. Like a spell is cast over him—beauty to beast. “I’m no cock-sucker.” He spits out.

In a show of surrender, Eddie raises his hands. “I didn’t say you were. I just—usually when someone is offering sexual favors it’s… Y’know what? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I’m not—I don’t trade in pleasures of the flesh, ‘kay? That’s not what I’m doing here, Hargrove. It’s cash only.”

But Billy’s either got a hearing problem or a comprehension problem because he rolls his eyes and just keeps on bartering. “Fine, I’ll give you a handjob. After my blow job.”

Now. Eddie isn’t a prude. In fact, he’s probably something of a pervert if his porno of choice is any indication of that, but this—with Billy?

Eddie’s spent this entire interaction scared fucking stiff, and now Billy’s offering to go and get him into an even more vulnerable position—with Eddie’s pants literally around his ankles?

“No.” Eddie aggressively shakes his head, sending his curls in motion. No no no. Fuck no. As hot as Billy is—no. The decision is final. Take it or leave it, Eddie thinks stubbornly. Heels successfully dug in.

Billy sighs through his nose, takes a step back and chuckles dryly to himself. “I know you’re a queer, Munson. Don’t—!” Billy snaps, pointing a finger in Eddie’s face when he dares open his mouth to deny it, “don’t fucking lie to me.

Eddie swallows, promptly shutting the fuck up.

Is he really that obvious…?

Billy continues, “I know you’re a queer. I saw the way you used to look at Harrington, back when we were all in school together. Gym class,” Billy leans forward, back in Eddie’s space, their shared cigarette bouncing between them as he speaks, “the showers. Remember?”

It’s been a year since Hargrove and Harrington both leap-frogged him out of Hawkins High, diplomas in tow. A full year, but apparently Billy’s got a fucking photographic memory. Eddie feels his t-shirt stick to his back, slick with sweat. “Whatever, man. It’s not a crime to look.”

“It is in this shit hole of a town,” Billy chuckles, dark and humourless, “so you get it now? I know you like dick. And I like pot. So, let’s work something out, here, Munson.”

Billy claps his hands together between them, loud and jarring. “Time’s a’wastin’, amigo!”

Jesus this guy…

“Even if I did like dick,” Eddie tilts his head and scrunches his nose, “it doesn’t mean I want your dick, Hargrove.”

“A dick’s a dick, man. And trust me, I got a nice, big fat one for you to choke on, trust me, you’ll love it,” Billy laughs as he speaks, watching in amusement as Eddie rubs a hand over his heated, blotchy face. “C’mon, you’ve sucked cock before, right?”

The simple answer is yeah, a couple of times. Every time it ended pretty much the same though. With him being shoved off after they’d finished. Being told they weren’t gay, that if Eddie were to ever tell anyone about the encounter they would deny it, call Eddie a liar, or worse, beat the shit out of him.

He’s not a dummy; Eddie knows being queer in Hawkins is a risk, so it made sense to want to keep it hush-hush. Eddie’s the rumoured gay kid, so if you’re gonna experiment with someone, why not let it be with him? But after a handful of times being treated like trash—something people needed to wash their hands in Javex from after simply touching him—he stopped. It didn’t feel good.

“You don’t gotta answer. I already know you have.” Billy mutters, smug. “Mouth like that.”

There’s no way Billy knows, but Eddie ducks his head, tired of how this entire fucking conversation has him feeling like he wants to crawl out of his skin. Tired of how the darker the sky gets, the brighter Billy’s eyes seem to turn.

And what the fuck’s wrong with Eddie’s mouth..?

“Cash only,” Eddie repeats. Monotone. Suddenly overstimulated as fuck.

Billy finally pulls the last bit that he can from the cigarette, down to the butt, before he flicks the remains of it into the grass. He gives one final, frustrated exhale of smoke. “Fine. Jesus, Munson, you drive one hell of a bargain. But I’ll sweeten the deal for you, alright?”

“Jesus, Hargrove, are your ears not working? Or did you get hit one too many times with the basketball during your jock days? I said I’m not interested. In your cock or your hand or whatever else you try and offer up.” Eddie exclaims, voice going high with strain.

But it’s like the more worked up Eddie gets, the more Billy wags his fucking tail. He’s all lit up, shiny white teeth built for puncturing. He gets back to crowding Eddie—Eddie, who’s one hair’s breadth away from raising his hands and shoving this smug asshole away from him, not caring if he gets his ass kicked as a consequence, but then Billy’s talking again. And Eddie… Eddie’s listening.

“We could kiss a little,” Billy drawls out, angling his mouth towards Eddie’s ear. He lets his voice drop to a low rumble, his words vibrating in that wide chest of his. It sends a chill down Eddie’s spine. “Y’know, make out. You got a van, right? Nice and private. You’d like that.”

Eddie turns his head towards Billy, so close they’re nearly touching each other. His mouth hangs open, slack, but Eddie can’t get a fucking word out. His whole fucking life, all he’s ever heard is ‘Jesus, does this kid have an off switch?’ ‘Eddie, give mommy’s ears a break, please,’ ‘Eddie is very disruptive in class with his constant chatting’. And now he can’t make a single goddamn sound!

Billy, on the other hand, seems entirely pleased at rendering the great motor-mouth-Munson to a mute. “I’m a good kisser, too.” He adds, eyes dropping down to Eddie’s mouth. Like he’s gonna do it right here and now. Eddie’s throat clicks when he swallows.

The embarrassing part is that, well—Except his Mom and his Meemaw and his weird cousin that one time, he’s never… y’know. Been kissed.

Sucked cock? Sure, yeah. That ship has sailed. Sayo-fuckin’-nara.

But kissing? On the mouth? Romantically? It hasn’t happened for Eddie yet. Not that any of what Billy’s propositioning here is in any way romantic, of course, but…

Eddie watches as Billy darts a pink tongue out between his lips, wetting them so that they glisten. Jesus Christ. How can he say no to that? Rules or no, Eddie’s only fucking human. Does he not bleed if he’s cut? Does he not get hard if he’s presented with an absolute fucking smoke show like Billy Hargrove offering to make out with him? All for the low low price of his dignity and a couple of ounces?

“You… actually want to?” Eddie frowns, counter to the nervous smile that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Billy clicks his tongue and shrugs a shoulder, eyes scanning the horizon for like, the hundredth time. “What I want is for you to cut me a deal. That’s enough, ain’t it?”

No, is Eddie’s knee-jerk answer. It’s not enough. Not even close. But, maybe the first kiss fantasy he’s got built up in his head wasn’t ever gonna happen. Especially not for someone like Eddie. He’s probably lucky. Billy’s hot. Willing. And Eddie’s… well, there’s not exactly anyone lining up at Eddie’s front door for the pleasure of his company, let’s just say that.

He feels himself nodding before his brain has even had a chance to catch up. “Yeah. Fine. Okay.”

“Yeah?” Billy grins, canines flashing, “Guess I should’ve started with the chick stuff first, huh?”

Chick stuff? Eddie makes a face. Suddenly emboldened, he shoves a hand against Billy’s shoulder, which just makes him laugh harder. “Don’t be a shithead, Hargrove, or deal’s off. Got it? I’ll walk, I swear to Christ!”

Billy doesn’t agree nor does he disagree, he just leers after Eddie like a fucking bonafied weirdo. And as someone who’s all but cornered the market on being a bonafide weirdo, that’s saying something. He hops off the picnic table, scooping up his lunch box of goodies as he does, not daring to turn his back on Hargrove. “I’m parked just through here.”

Eddie starts towards his van, stealing glances over at Billy as he trudges on after him, only a step behind. Just enough to make Eddie nervous. “Don’t you have like, a job?”

“Two of ‘em, actually.” Billy answers, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Why?”

“How do you not have any cash on you?” Eddie asks, blunt as always.

Billy stiffens, just a little. “That’s none of your business, Munson.”

Eddie raises his hands in yet another mock surrender, “sure, whatever. Remain a man of mystery, I don’t care.”

Just seems stupid, is all. Billy must be fucking terrible with money. Probably spends it all on his obnoxiously loud car. Eddie doesn’t voice any of his many theories though. Billy’s covered in live wires, and Eddie’s not overly eager to start touching and testing ‘em.

The woods aren’t especially dense, but it’s new growth—the old forest chopped down a few decades back and left to grow back all weedy and skinny. There’s lots of branches to duck under along with dirt holes to roll your ankles in. Eddie knows his pathway like the back of his hand by this point, but Billy; not so much. There’s a bundle of eye level branches that always used to smack Eddie in the face when he was focused on his footing, so he makes sure to turn and holds the offending branches back for Billy so he doesn’t totally eat it.

Thinking back, maybe it’s a weird thing to do for another guy, but Eddie’s radar for what’s weird and what isn’t has been busted since he first got cut out of his mom. Always difficult, even back then.

So yeah, Eddie doesn’t get a thank you, or whatever—instead Billy just eyes him with an air of suspicion as he ducks under Eddie’s arm. Like he’s waiting for Eddie to let the branches go or something. Who knows.

Either way, it’s the last great hurdle before they’re back at Eddie’s van, which is right where he left her; parked in the middle of the small gravel lot behind the watershed. Nobody came back here, especially not at night.

His hands shake when he takes out his keys, feeling Billy’s eyes on him. Briefly wonders what kind of mess was waiting for them in the back, but whatever. It’s not like Billy’s expecting The Ritz.

He gets the doors unlocked, and because he’s a gentleman, he holds the door open for his hook-up.

Despite his nerves rattling around under his skin, Eddie gives a little flourish for good measure, holding out an arm for Billy to take. “After you, m’lord.”

Billy scoffs, blue eyes rolling back in his head. And as dim as the light is, Eddie swears he can see two pink spots form on the apples of Billy’s cheeks. He counts it for a win.

“You’re so fuckin’ weird.” Billy mutters as he crawls into the back of Eddie’s van, pointedly ignoring Eddie’s offered arm, the whole thing shifting with the heft of him.

“Wow, y’know what, Hargrove, I had never heard that one before.” Eddie says, hot on Billy’s heels. He swings the door shut behind him.

The back of Eddie’s van is pretty spartan, but only because he’d just finished using it to lug a shit ton of gear to and from a Corroded Coffin gig. What’s left behind is a couple of ratty blankets, some old sweaters, a scattering of sheet music and some candy bar wrappers. It could be neater, but overall it’s not terrible.

Billy sits with his back to one side of the van, his legs spread, knees bent. He sits like a man. One used to taking up room and not apologizing for it. Eddie backs himself up against the opposite wall of the van’s interior, knees bent to his chest, legs crossing at his ankles. There’s not much light back here, but Eddie’s eyes adjust quickly to spot Billy’s agitated-looking face.

“Well?” Mr. California barks, one of his legs begins bouncing restlessly. It shakes the whole van.

Eddie swallows, “well?”

“Where’s the weed?” Billy asks.

Oh.

Right. Wake up, Munson.

Eddie scrambles to get his feet back under him before he squeezes his upper half into the front of the van, reaching into the glove box to grab a baggie.

“Here y’go.” Eddie winces as he pulls himself back through. He sits on bent legs, closer to Billy now. He bestows upon him the sacred sandwich baggy of goods. “Premium blueberry kush, 100% indica. So it’ll mellow you right out. Not that you need to chill out, of course, but, y’know. It should, in theory, help with that scary vein you get in your forehead sometimes.”

Billy glares at Eddie as he swipes the bag out of his hands, the scary vein threatening to make an appearance right there and now. He turns that glare toward the bundles of dried herbs.

“You got a bong or a pipe or somethin’?” Billy mumbles.

“Duh,” Eddie scoffs, breathing entirely too hard, “Why?”

“What’d’ya mean, ‘why?’ To smoke this shit with.” Billy gives the baggy a few vicious shakes in front of Eddie’s face.

Eddie feels his eyes cross as he follows the weed. “Right now?”

“Unless you feel like rollin’ it.” Billy shrugs, sounding like his already thin patience is beginning to wear even thinner.

“No—uh, I just thought you’d wanna smoke at home or whatever.” Not with Eddie.

A crease forms between Billy’s eyebrows as he frowns. “What, you don’t wanna smoke with me, Munson?”

Eddie snorts, shakes his head, “hey, I’ll smoke with anyone—“

“Then shut the fuck up and get the bong already!” Billy shouts, fuse burnt down to the quick.

And if there’s one thing about Eddie, is he responds well to yelling. Or, not well, per se, but shouting always seems to snap him out of whatever fog he’s in. It works on him. So, yeah, he responds. Jumps to attention. His mom used to have to snap her fingers in front of his face to ‘bring him back’, she said. No one else seems to bother with that sort of gentle touch with Eddie though, except Uncle Wayne, but he usually just gives Eddie’s hair a tussle instead of a snap.

So back to the front he goes, sliding the keys into the ignition and starting the old girl up while he’s there so that they’ve got some music to fill the silence. And if memory serves him correctly, Billy’s got pretty decent taste, music-wise.

When he sits back down, bong in hand.

“Ta-da!” Eddie sings, holding the contraption up by the neck to Billy in victory, careful not to tip it over. Billy looks entirely unimpressed as he grabs it out of Eddie’s hand and slots it between his thighs.

Lucky bong.

Billy starts grinding up some pieces between his fingers and packing the bowl with a familiarity that Eddie can respect.

Technically, it’s still Eddie’s weed that Billy’s prepping, since he hasn’t exactly gotten payment for the pot yet, but… maybe Billy needs the vapour courage before he can face the idea of kissing another dude. Of kissing Eddie.

Eddie watches from behind the hair he’d let fall in his face as Billy lights the bowl, inhales, and takes a hit. It’s sort of pretty, the way he slowly exhales the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Away from Eddie.

Then the bong is being pressed into his hands. Eddie’s turn.

He takes a rip, then another one once Billy’s taken another hit of his own, and that’s all it takes for the both of ‘em to get laid out on their asses. They end up flat on their backs, the round part of their shoulders touching, both staring up at the ceiling of the van, with rolled-up sweaters and blankets under their heads in the way of makeshift pillows. They’re the kind of high where time feels like it’s barely moving. Something made up. A concept. Like there’s a very real possibility that Eddie and Billy have been lying here for an eternity, and then some.

And Eddie still hasn’t gotten any kisses from Billy.

But he also hasn’t gotten any punches by Billy either, so there’s that…

“You ever seen the ocean, Munson?” Billy murmurs in a voice that’s gone a little rough thanks to all the smoke still floating around the van. Now successfully hot-boxed. Drawing out their high.

Eddie’s arms feel heavy. “No.”

Billy turns his neck to look at Eddie like he’s re-evaluating his idea of him paired with this new, disappointing information. Eddie turns his head away from Billy, just a little, feeling weirdly embarrassed. “Never even left the state.”

Small town, trailer trash… that’s probably what Billy thinks of him. Billy, who’s been everywhere. Especially compared to Eddie. He expects to get laughed at, but Billy keeps surprising Eddie. He just looks… bummed out.

“You’d probably hate it,” Billy states, sure of himself, eyes dancing across Eddie’s face. “You’d burn right fuckin’ quick. Get sand all up in your shorts. D’you even know how to swim?”

“A little.” Eddie means to say defensively, but it comes out as little more than a sigh.

“Not in waves, though, I bet. You’d end up swallowing your weight in seawater before I hauled your ass out,” Billy’s smiling at the strange little fantasy where Eddie’s tormented by the elements. Eddie’s giggling along too, though he’s entirely unsure as to why.

“A crab might even,” lighting fast, Billy reaches over to punch the barely-there roll on Eddie’s stomach, “get’chya.”

Eddie yelps—or maybe he squeals. He can’t be sure. Either way, whatever sound he lets out isn’t in any way charming or cute. Which; no surprise there. Instinctually, his hand’s gone and encircled itself around Billy’s wrist, but he’s too fucking blitzed out to do more than just squeeze it, trying to appear threatening. Sort of tough when you can’t stop fucking giggling. “Stop, stop—I’m gonna piss myself, dude.”

Billy’s got his tongue caught between his teeth, laughing along, low and rough in his throat, but to his credit (and probably a desire not to be covered in piss) he releases his hold on Eddie’s stomach.

They settle back on their backs, one Metallica track leading into another. It’s the only way Eddie can be sure the clocks haven’t all stopped entirely. Proof the passage of time is still in working order. He exhales in relief, staring at Billy’s profile.

For someone so fucking scary, he’s got deceptively cute features. An honest-to-Christ button nose, along with some ridiculously long eyelashes. Golden ringlets fall around his face. Freckles too, all over his cheeks. Even a Cupid’s bow. When Billy fell from heaven, he didn’t hit like, a single ugly branch on his way down.

Eddie blinks before his brain catches up with what he’s looking at; Billy, staring back at him. When did Billy turn his head? How long have their eyes been locked? A second? A year? Time’s fucking with him so hard, Jesus…

“M’not really an outdoorsy kinda guy.” Eddie admits, unable to keep from smiling.

Because of the weed.

Billy gives a lazy snort as if what Eddie had just said was the understatement of the year. “That’s weird, because you kinda look like a bug.”

It shouldn’t make him laugh as hard as it does, but Eddie feels the rumble of it in his chest, and he can’t help but let out a series of very unflattering sounding laughs. Billy’s not laughing along, but he seems entirely entertained by Eddie’s fucking display.

When he finally catches his breath, Eddie indignantly squeaks out, “How do I look like a bug?”

“Because,” Billy flicks his chin towards Eddie’s face, teasing half-smile still firmly in place, “you got them big buggy eyes.”

Eddie blows a low-energy strawberry, rolling his eyes before they land back on Billy. Can’t seem to take his eyes off of him for long. “I’ll have you know that my ‘big buggy eyes’ are my best feature.”

Billy narrows his eyes, clearly amused. “You think so?”

“I know so. It’s what everyone tells me.” Eddie widens his eyes to drive the point home.

Everyone being his mom when she was still alive, and… well, just his mom. But she was a real smart lady. And like, super pretty. A total knock-out. She knew about this sort of thing. He remembers how she used to go on and on about his big brown puppy-dog eyes, about how they’d break hearts one day. And no one, especially not Billy Hargrove, can take that away from him. Even if it is something all moms say to their funny-looking kids.

“Well, everyone’s lying to you,” Billy says, in that casually cruel way of his.

Eddie drops his jaw in an exaggerated show of the offense. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” Billy confirms, smug. A true blue asshole; through and through. “Your best feature’s your lips, no question.”

And. Well, no one’s ever said anything about his lips before. Not his mom, not his hook-ups—no one.

They’re just… lips. Not especially big or small. Kind of right in the middle. They’re even kinda chapped right now.

“Gee, thanks.” He murmurs, from lips that Billy Hargrove apparently approves of. Maybe even likes. His fingers twitch at his sides, palms growing sweaty.

Billy just looks away, like Eddie’s caught him doing something wrong. Caught him being nice. Guess it probably hurts the ol’ bad boy image to compliment other boy’s lips. Eddie resists the urge to raise one of his hands and feel along the ridges of his mouth, to map ‘em out. Try and figure out what Billy likes about them enough to say it out loud. He’s buzzing with the compliment.

“So, you still want… y’know, payment or whatever?” Billy asks, keeping his words to little more than a low murmur between them.

The song playing through the speakers stops—a brief pause before it leads into the next one. It’s deathly quiet in those tense few seconds.

Eddie doesn’t answer Billy right away. He can’t. So instead, he just… lets the questions hang between them. Because the thing is, God help him, he does. And yeah, maybe he didn’t plan on his first kiss being with big bad Billy Hargrove—maybe instead of golden curls and freckles Eddie had envisioned dark, fluffy hair and a splattering of moles. Big brown bedroom eyes instead of sharp, icy blue ones. Either way, he’s way out of his depth. Out of his league. In fact, Eddie should be on his hands and knees thanking Billy for even considering sucking face with a guy like him. He should be psyched. And he is!

Fuck, this weed is making it hard to keep his thoughts linear. He stares back at Billy, realizing suddenly that he’s been waiting for an answer to his question.

“Nothing is ever free, Hargrove,” Eddie answers, cryptic, even to his own ears, “you should know that.”

Because it’s the truth, isn’t it? Nobody just does shit out of the goodness of their hearts. Everyone expects something in return. Everyone’s gotta pay the piper. And if something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. So yeah, Eddie gives what he can, but he also takes what he can get. Same as Billy, Eddie suspects.

Billy’s got a real perplexed sort of look on his face. Golden and tan, even in the cold, sterile light of night. His eyes momentarily dart to Eddie’s lips, just for a split second. But split second or no, Eddie’d caught it. The tiny motion sends his beat-up little dime-store heart all a’flutter. Billy likes these lips.

“Close your eyes,” Billy tells him, voice cigarette rough.

Eddie does it, trying to keep his breathing even. Shallow, so he doesn’t puff hot air in Billy’s face when he approaches. His hands lay limply by his sides, with his hair splayed around his like some expanding ink blot on the floor of his van.

He has the sudden and quite frankly embarrassing image of Snow White lying dead in her glass coffin, pale-skinned and raven-haired, waiting for a kiss of her own.

It’s so stupid that he ends up snorting.

“What? You think this is funny, Munson?” Billy growls, voice sounding like it’s still to the right of him, but that he’s propped up on an elbow or something.

Eddie shakes his head, keeping his eyes closed. A smile tugs at one of the corners of his mouth, totally beyond his control. “No, no, it’s stupid. I. Just—fuck. Sorry. Forget I did that.”

“If you think this is stupid, then I can go. I don’t need this shit—“

”No! Stop—“ Eddie reaches out and grabs the front of Billy’s shirt, his eyes popping open in panic. “You’re not stupid—I’m… shit, you’re gonna laugh.”

“Just tell me, shithead.” Billy snaps, face getting more and more red as his temper rises.

“Fine. Jesus.” Eddie squirms under the intensity of Billy’s gaze. All hard edges and intimidation now. Eddie’s only had the Billy that tickles him and tells him nice things about his lips for a fucking millisecond, but he already misses him.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before, alright?” He blurts out, quick like a bandaid.

And with that, Billy’s eyes go a little funny. The icey shards in his eyes melt back to tumultuous waters. “Seriously?”

“No, dude, I’m lying about being a total loser with no game.” Eddie snorts, emboldened by his buzzing high.

Billy frowns, “Aren’t you like, two years older than me?”

“Look, I had opportunities, okay? But mostly… It was, y’know. With girls. Pretty ones, too!” his brows shoot up, attempting to emphasize the point, “but I just… I never wanted to.”

Billy’s stone-still while he listens. Looking like he’s hanging off every word that Eddie’s stumbling over.

“So, you can’t even fake it?” He asks.

Eddie blinks, suddenly lost. “Fake what?”

“Liking chicks.” He answers quickly.

“Nah,” Eddie huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, “I’m a shitty liar.”

“Poor bastard.” Billy mumbles, mostly to himself. Then he clicks his tongue, “That’s a real tough break, amigo.”

Eddie’s shoulders twitch. “I get by.”

A corner of Billy’s mouth turns down and he tilts his head like he’s allowing Eddie some small, indiscernible mercy.

“I just feel bad,” Billy says, low and smooth, “you starting at the very top like this. Everyone else after me is gonna feel like a major fuckin’ letdown.”

Eddie snorts, looking up at Billy, who’s got himself propped up on an elbow and is sort of hovering above him. “Big talk, Hargrove.”

Canines flash. “Well I got a big game, Munson.”

“You’re a real cocky b—” Eddie’s words are smushed back into his mouth when Billy suddenly leans forward and presses his lips against Eddie’s.

Billy’s got a hand against Eddie’s neck, the pad of his thumb against the edge of his jaw, tilting his face up just so. Eddie can hear his heart thundering in his chest, white noise overtaking For Whom the Bell Tolls.

His first kiss.

It’s warm and soft. Drier than he expected it would be. The stubble of Billy’s moustache scrapes against his upper lip, sending shockwaves up and down Eddie’s spine. Billy smells like cologne. Or maybe that’s aftershave—he can’t tell. Eddie fills his lungs with it, breathing deeply through his nose.

The thumb resting against Eddie’s jaw begins stroking along his cheek. Delicately. Like Eddie’s something fragile. Precious, even. He’s gone all tingly everywhere Billy touches him—like magic.

It’s about this time that Billy parts his lips, sliding a tongue along the seam of Eddie’s mouth, gentle prodding—like he’s looking for a weak point. Somewhere to gain entry.

Or maybe he just wanted to taste Eddie’s lips.

Hey, can’t a guy dream?

Billy shifts his weight, further encroaching into Eddie’s personal space, his broad shoulders caging over top of Eddie’s narrower ones. Then Billy raises a leg and swings it over before letting his hips drop over top of Eddie’s own. It’s like touching a fucking live wire. He can’t help the way he reflexively gasps and bucks up into the solid bulk above him. And sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph… he’s rock fucking hard in his jeans. When did that happen?

Flood gates open. Billy—clearly emboldened by the discovery of what he’s doing to Eddie’s body—deepens their kiss by sticking his tongue down Eddie’s throat. The sensation is weird as hell—Eddie’s only ever had his own tongue in his mouth, but there Billy’s is, swirling around, dipping in and out as the sound of their smacking lips fills the van, harmonizing with Hammett‘s insane, face-melting guitar solo.

There are teeth involved now too; Billy’s biting Eddie’s lower lip and pulling, stopping right before it gets painful. It brings sounds out of Eddie that he’d never heard himself make before. Didn’t even know that he could make. All breathy and moany. Maybe he should be embarrassed about how loud he’s progressively getting, but it’s hard to think straight when Billy’s slowly grinding his hips down against his. And Billy’s—fuck, Billy’s hard too. That’s gotta be what that is, right? Jesus H. Christ…

Their hips move in tandem now, the same way their tongues seem to. It’s like Eddie’s body just knows what to do. It’s fucking incredible. He’s never been naturally good at anything in his life. Nothing comes easily to Eddie Munson. Every talent he’s got has been hard-fought, earned through blood, sweat and tears.

But this… Eddie might actually be kinda good at this.

Or maybe Billy’s just a really good teacher.

He’s a cocky asshole, but Eddie fears he might have been serious about everyone else being a letdown after him. Because how the hell is anyone else going to compare to this? To Billy Hargrove. Mr. California King. Eddie could swear he’s glowing right now—like Billy’s spent so much time laid out in the sunlight that a couple of rays got trapped just underneath his skin. Dude can’t help but shine.

Yeah, he’ll be a tough act to follow.

But that’s another Eddie’s problem. Future Eddie. Meanwhile, the here and now Eddie, is getting kissed. He’s got Billy’s big arms wrapped around him, like Eddie’s somehow worth something to someone like him.

Down south, there’s just the right amount of pressure on his denim-trapped dick. He can feel the line of Billy’s own cock bump against his own when he pushes hard enough. He could fucking weep. It’s almost too much—too good. Too perfect. What’s he gonna do with himself now that he knows he could be doing this? God, how’s he ever gonna jerk off when this—when Billy… oh fuck-!

His orgasm hits him like a goddamn freight train. The switch on his brain had gone off and it didn’t even have the courtesy of letting him know!

Eddie’s jaw drops open, mid-kiss, and he pants—moans—into Billy’s mouth. His hips go stiff, stuck in its lifted position, trying to drive upwards into Billy as hard as he can. He can feel himself shake all over as the waves crash over him, one after the other in quick succession, nearly whiting out his vision. He shuts his eyes as he finally comes down on the other side of it, releasing a choked-sounding exhale.

He goes limp. Boneless. Buzzing and tingling and vibrating all over. Waits for the feeling of mortification to overtake him. It should be here in 3… 2…

“Did you just…?” Billy asks, lifting his own hips to examine the scene of the crime. Eddie imagines the wet spot steadily growing on the front of his jeans, a little off to the left, is pretty hard to miss.

“Holy shit, you did,” Billy chuckles, slightly awed sounding, “you just creamed your fuckin’ pants.”

Eddie whimpers. The sharp contrast of absolute bone-deep humiliation paired with the fluttery, intensely content feeling he's still got working its way through his nervous system is enough to make his head spin.

“Sorry.” Eddie blinks his eyes open.

Eddie didn’t think it was possible for Billy to look any more smug than he did before, but somehow, he’s achieving the impossible.

“Don’t be,” Billy insists, a chuckle still at the edge of his words. He grunts a little as he rolls off of Eddie and drops down onto his back. Taking up his previous position of laying shoulder to shoulder next to each other. “I take it as a compliment.”

It’s kinda sweet of him. Because what happened was embarrassing. No two ways about it. Shooting off like that, like Eddie’s some horn dog who can’t control himself?

But, well, if the boot fits…

Billy reaches down and roughly adjusts himself before sitting up. Gentle touches all used up for Eddie, apparently. Then he lifts his ass just enough that he can slide a hand behind him to retrieve a crumpled-looking box of Marlboro reds. Shakily, Eddie sits up too, engaging muscles that still feel jello-like.

Billy knocks out a cigarette and puts it between his lips. Then he knocks out a second one, and without asking, puts it in Eddie’s mouth. Billy leans forward, and Eddie mirrors him—still just trying to keep up—moving until the ends of their cigarettes line up. Billy ignites his lighter, temporarily blinding them both, but he holds it in front of them, and they inhale in tandem.

Smoke fills Eddie’s lungs. The familiar, soothing burn in his throat makes him feel a little more solid. Present. It makes what just happened all the more bewildering.

They smoke in silence.

Well, except for the music from his cassette still humming from the speakers. Billy mumbles something about loving a certain drum solo, but other than that, it’s crickets. It goes on like this until their cigarettes are half their original size and Eddie finally grows a pair.

“What about you?” He murmurs around his dart.

Billy exhales a stream of smoke out of his nose, looking like a sick ass dragon before he answers, “What about me?”

Eddie flicks his chin towards Billy’s general direction. “You wanna get off too?”

Billy just snorts and shakes his head, like Eddie had said something prosperous. “Nah.”

A pit forms in the center of Eddie’s gut. Souring any of the leftover post-nut happy chemicals that were still rolling around his noggin. That sting of rejection. The knowledge that Billy doesn’t actually want someone like Eddie touching him. Like Billy’s itching to go take a shower and wash all the Eddie-cooties off of him, before heading back to his actual life. Like being with Eddie is something embarrassing. It’s a sinking fucking feeling, one he knows no post-high buzz or cigarette is going to touch. Sometimes Eddie forgets that he’s just a detour. Never anyone’s destination point.

“Maybe next time.” Billy mumbles, so low that Eddie almost misses it entirely. He finishes his cigarette before stuffing the butt of it into one of the many makeshift ashtrays Eddie’s got kicking around back here. Then he starts making his way to the back doors, slipping out into the Indiana night.

Next time.

The words echo in Eddie’s head. Bounce off the walls, does couple of cartwheels, spins. The letters get all scrambled up before he’s able to make sense of them.

Next time.

“Pleasure doing business with you, California.” Eddie hollers out a split second before Billy can close the door.

A half-smile forms on that Cupid’s bow-tipped mouth. Pretty as a picture. How did Eddie never notice before? And how’s he supposed to think about anything else?

“See you around, Eddie.” He purrs, knows exactly what he’s doing, Eddie’s sure of it—then slams the door shut between them. He’s engulfed in darkness again. His eyes are back to their unadjusted state, while specks of nothing flit across his blackened vision. He gnaws on his bottom lip to keep the laugh that’s threatening to bubble up from his chest at bay.

Next time.

—

Permanent Tag List: (dm me if you’d like to be added or removed—OR if you’d only like to be tagged for specific ships. ie, ONLY Steddie or ONLY Harringrove, etc.)

@stervrucht @dame-zoom-a-lot @lawrencebshoggoth @morallyundefined @thepossummoldypasta @wheneverfeasible @sanctumdemunson @chaotic-waffle @bookworm0690 @lifelessstar

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fandom-reader · 1 day ago

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My mind is occupied by timebomb and timebomb only last few days and I just wanted to put my thanks out there for all the amazing artists and writers who heal my shattered heart after the end of arcane. You are doing an amazing job, I can get through the days thanks to you and all the beautiful stuff you give all of us, all the drawings, graphics, music videos, animations, fanfics and theories I read every day ♥️

My mind is racing with all different scenarios and imagines but I can't write it in a good way and I'm not artist in any way so you all is saving my life right now!

#timebomb #arcane #jinx #ekko #jinx arcane #ekko x jinx #league of legends arcane #arcane lol #jinx league of legends #jinx x ekko #ekko league of legends #this is just my way of saying thank you

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victoriansnakearts · 1 day ago

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In all honestly, perhaps this might be tinfoil hat time, but I'm just going off what I've seen. It just feels like Viv wants to be popular/have a giant fanbase following her and so she's always going with what is most popular or doing something that won't give her that much negative feedback.

Example right? Blitz n Stolas being together....this clearly wasn't planned out(nor was the whole show from what she herself has stated, twice as well as changing things around in one of the panels) and them meeting as children was fanart. Considering the fanbase was all about this pairing....well putting two and two together, she went with that.

Same thing with Chaggie. (As well as Vaggie being an Exorcist, this was a popular fan theory...)

Also Alastor being race swapped, despite the fact years ago, there was fanart of him as being white, with I believe brown straight hair, glasses and red(?) vestments, stating that was the closest of his appearance. But now he's mixed because of the whole Voodoo backlash thing she got.

Cherrisnake, another popular ship that wasn't built up at all...just thrown together because fans liked it.

It's all about getting the most positivity, it really feels like nothing else other than that. She just wants to be popular, getting all these famous VAs and so forth that.

Maybe all tinfoil hat, but it's honestly what I've just been seeing and if you criticize anything, you get blasted by the fans for it.

So it goes with the most popular thing and BOOM, it gets into the shows...at least that's what I've seen.

I don’t think your too far off when it comes to that theory lol

Viv is known to take head canons and put them in the show. I’m certain that the exorcist plot twist was 100% not vivs original plan for vaggie.

Vaggie already was confirmed to be a sinner in the pilot and was going to have a tragic death based on artworks viv did in the past.

It’s fine sneaking things in for the fans adding lil Easter eggs or building hype, but to change the narrative for the sake of adding a ship or confirming a theory ??

It’s just so weird to me, you’d think the number one priority would be to have a a cohesive story.

But then again viv has always been about style over substance.

#helluva thoughts #helluva boss critical #hazbin hotel critical #tumblr ramble

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vir-tanadahl · 2 days ago

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If I’m being honest, writing A Wolf’s Redemption is far more challenging than I initially expected. I knew finding a "lore-friendly" solution—one that makes at least some sense within the broader context of Dragon Age—would be the toughest hurdle. And, as it turns out, it absolutely is. But it's not the only hurdle.

TL;DR: I’m definitely overthinking this. I probably don’t need to be putting this much effort into making the fanfic sound believable—because, let’s be real, is anyone going to notice once we get there?

Me complaining below the cut, because it also has DATV spoilers.

Solavellan Hell:

- Striking the right balance in the narrative to ensure that Solas fully owns his responsibility while Lavellan supports him without taking over his role - Because this is his path to redemption, not hers. She is there to support, to help, to guide, to connect...but not actually be the ONE to solve the problem.

Portraying Solas:

1. Showing him being vulnerable/uneasy about working with others, while keeping his composure and doesn’t overall appear visibly nervous to others. 2. Avoids coming across as whiny (though, honestly, I don’t think he does—but readers may have differing opinions). 3. Balancing him still being a bit arrogant and instinctively being pulled back to his old ways out of habit, but also trying to show that he is resisting this pull.

Weaving together the established lore of DA with the new developments introduced in DATV.

Tackling the Blight:

- The shifting nature of the Blight in DATV, especially with Antoine and Evka discussing changes to the song. - The idea that it might now be harmonizing adds an intriguing and complex layer to address. - Concepts from lore and fan theories based on lore that talks about curing/weakening the blight and adding that into as a foundation for how Solas will cure/weaken/soothe the blight.

Harding's Companion Quest + Titans + Lyrium:

- The red lyrium they encountered is just angry lyrium, clarifying that it isn’t simply blighted lyrium. - Then connecting this information to information we learned about how the blight is created. - Taking information learned from Harding's companion quest and integrating it in to the theory of curing/weakening/soothing the blighted lyrium.

The 'Veilguard' and Rook:

I’m going to be honest—I’m completely ignoring them. There’s absolutely zero indication of what they’re doing afterward (besides presumably helping Thedas recover). The Veilguard was created by Varric to stop Solas. Solas was stopped. So… now what? I don't want to even try to touch that.

It’s just so much information to sift through and connect the dots to create something that sounds plausible. Honestly, I’m not even sure if it’s worth the effort—but I’m also a menace, and I need it to sound plausible. At the end of the day, making it plausible is more for my own satisfaction, with the hope that it also benefits and resonates with readers in a meaningful way.

#vir talks #datv #datv spoilers #solas #solavellan #dragon age #i’m just complaining #ignore me lmao

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sobx9 · 12 hours ago

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Season 5 theories

What I would love to see, what I would like to see and what I think might actually happen. Kudos to this show for still occupying my brain three weeks later. Should I be working right now? Maybe…

Scenario 1 - would love this

This one only really works, if the season 4 ended a little differently. The Pogues don’t actually see JJ dying and they only assume he’s dead. I did a post about it earlier, here’s the plot:

I think it could be really powerful and fans would love this.

Imagine the tension in a hospital scene where JJ is being treated and the Pogues almost find him, but at the last second they don’t. JJ maybe even sees them through a hospital window while he’s in bed and tries to get their attention but he’s too weak to do. JJ freaking out and trying to scream Kiara’s name would be so good and give us all the angst.

Once they finally reunite, again that could be really powerful. reuniting with someone you thought was dead? Peak cinema if you ask me. You still have the villains from the season 4, the crown hunting, the revenge plot and happy ending to top it off.

This will not happen unless they ignore some of the things done and said in the finale + Rudy would have to want to do one more season

Scenario 2 - would like this

I will be honest, I don’t like supernatural stuff, it’s just not my jam. And even though this show hinted at it at times, I am not convinced that’s the direction the show runners want to go. But reading some fan fictions about JJ being resurrected actually made me change my mind. Again, could be really powerful. Them not believing he’s actually alive, Kiara worried it’s only a dream she could wake up from any minute, Pope trying to find a logical explanation and JJ giving them shit for burying him in Morocco and leaving him behind. All good stuff.

This could only happen if they decide to go fully supernatural AND Rudy is willing to do one more season.

Scenario 3 - might actually happen

They get their revenge and the crown, and they wish for JJ to return. Either it ends with them wishing for it, leaving an open ending and for fans to interpret it how they want to, not showing us if the crown is actually magic and can grant wishes or not. Or there could be a scene where they wish for it, nothing happens but then they are back home, sitting around a fire and we see a blond man approaching them. Or they wish for it over his grave and we see a hand sticking out of the sand. You don’t need Rudy for that, a stunt double could do it. A happy ending montage could be then made with the stuff they cut from the previous seasons so that JJ is actually seen alive.

Or they can leave JJ’s character out of season 5 completely and let fans be even more disappointed

Thoughts? Opinion? Your ideas? Would love to discuss

#outer banks #obx #obx season 4 #obx4 #jiara #jj maybank #jiara obx #rudy pankow

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rosewood-multifandom-writer · 2 days ago

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Whoa, hold on, my theory is theorying (idc if it’s not a word, I love this, and I’m coping right now).

Remember in the trailer that immortality is mentioned? I’m convinced Sylus is immortal. He’s met MC in a different life, she died, he did not die because he CAN’T die, hence why she does not remember their ACTUAL first meeting but Sylus does but chooses to be vague.

He does not show it, but it pains him a lot to talk to MC and thinking about the possibility of losing her again. That is why he risked his life and got badly injured in Searing Touch.

He also remembers MC in her past life coming to him with the intent to kill him at first, only for the two to fall for each other, with him falling hard, hence why he willingly gave MC a gun and made her shoot him. It was a reminder of his past with her. And because he most definitely feels like maybe if she tries to him and give him that same adrenaline he felt when she (from what I saw in the trailers) was trying to sneak kill him and even strangle him. Then again, I think the strangling part is just MC getting her freaky on like usual, lol.

His eyes in the second gif when MC encounters Sylus for the “first time” (because it’s from her perspective) say a lot. You can tell the actual feelings of a person just by paying attention to their eyes. I studied psychology and I learned the saying, “The Eyes Don’t Lie.” Sylus’s eyes are not lying when he says that he and MC met before. His eyes do not lie when he sees MC.

Despite the lack of light in his eyes, I can tell that he’s experiencing a mix of different feelings. He’s feeling melancholic, because here is the love of his life in front of him, but she does not remember a single thing, but at the same time, he feels somewhat happy he sees her again. He’s also feeling guilt because in a way, he feels responsible for what happened to MC in her past life, so if she wants to kill him, he’ll happily let her do so. And the hand gesture, as pointed out by OP, is also the same gesture he does physically expressing his love.

Sylus is also the most touchy out of the four love interests currently in the game because he is touch starved and has not experienced love in a very long time. That’s why in so many of his 5 star cards, he’s very touchy feely with MC. He has moments where he feels like if he lets go for even a split second, he’d lose her again.

As for how he went from dragon to human, he probably has the ability to shapeshift.

THE HAND GESTURE 😭❤️

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #ramble #fan theory #and this fan does not even play the game she’s just lurking #like the lore is interesting and I like all of the characters especially Sylus #but gacha games ain’t for me I don’t have that patience #if that bothers you as an actual love and deepspace player you can just ignore me lol #but I’m hoping you guys pull this card before it ends (assuming that it’s a limited card)

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egophiliac · 2 months ago

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still ruminating over Lost In the Book With Spooky Skeletons Part 1, so here's a selection of some of my favorite little bits! (...some more loosely paraphrased than others) (I just feel like Idia has no room to criticize in general, okay)

anyway, I'm sure we're just going to have a fun time celebrating Halloween and nothing bad is going to happen whatsoever! :)

#art #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #lost in the book with nightmare before christmas #hajimari no halloween #calling dibs on skeleton kisses as the name of my band #man scully is just a delightful little weirdo and i'm enjoying him immensely #(i'm going with scully until we get something official just because it makes me think of x-files)#(スカリー is also how the agent's name is transliterated and i don't know if it was intentional but i love it as a bonus reference)#(i want to believe™)#gosh though #'no one at school likes me because i won't shut up about halloween and jack skellington' i'm feeling VERY attacked right now twst #look scully your people are out there #just get on the forums and -- oh wait you're probably from like the 1800s or something #(my theory is that he's from the past and there's just some Book Magic going on to bring us together)#(LOOK they made a point of saying that the book fair has been held annually for a super long time)#a hot topic goth born before hot topic was invented...so sad 😔#i dunno i could be wrong but that feels like a good working theory for now #if it wasn't for mal sensing twsty ~magic~ on him i would think he's like. a christmas elf who's going to kidnap jack in a reverse-nmbc #(not ruling that out though because it would be amazing)#god all the sprites in this event look AMAZING. loving the desaturated colors and the extra drawn-on lines 😍#i'm genuinely kinda sad that we aren't gonna get to see every character like this #who knows...maybe halloweentown will be imperiled again next year...#come back and destroy my keys again please #(that said i'm doing weirdly well so far?)#(i promised i'd save for sebek and just do cursory pulls to get the SRs and not hope for the SSRs)#(...but then leona jumpscared me four coffins in anyway. halloween magic is REAL)

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r0semultiverse · 1 year ago

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Digital Circus AMA Notes

Digital Circus is getting a season 1 at some point!!!!

#webcore aesthetic board for the series design

Pomni was going to be a frog originally. 🐸

90s toys Zooble inspo

Caine is an antagonist, but not by active choice, he doesn't know he's not helping. He doesn't feel a whole spectrum of human emotions (he's an AI).

"Caine canonically just lets things happen if he thinks it's funny."

Characters eat like Chao in Chao garden in Sonic. The characters can eat the food, but they can't digest it.

Jax's favorite food is spaghetti.

Pomni likes salmon.

Q "Was the ending a 'Last Supper' reference?" A "in a very superficial kinda way yeah." Religious stuff is sometimes just used for the funny.

Gooseworx tumblr sketches MAY or MAY NOT be canon to the series, so it's up in the air for every single one.

People can abstract from feeling too much pain if it breaks their mind from it being too much. Characters feel pain from things, but not as intensely as they would in real life.

Zooble is gonna swap parts every episode (implying they have spare parts) except their body & head.

Jax chose his own name & gooseworx likes to think he chose Gangle's name.

Ragatha was named "Emmy" originally.

They (the cast of characters trapped in the circus) can't change their clothes but Caine can. It's part of their skin sorta kinda.

There's empty space under Pomni's hat because video game model physics.

Spamton was partially inspo for Caine, Caine's VA did Spamton dubs.

Gangle only has 2 masks. Why's it (her hapiness mask) break all the time? Mental state, but the "real her" is "harder to break."

Kaumfo was gonna be part of the main cast originally before Jax.

Kaufmo's model has nothing below the waist at this time, but was made for that promotional image on twitter.

Q "What kinda person was Kaufmo?" A "He was the same as Ragatha in a sense, goofy & cheery, sometimes toxic levels of positivity."

I'm paraphrasing for the sake of note taking in real time, go watch the stream playback for more context & details if you want.

#these are all from GLITCHX 2023 on the glitch productions youtube channel btw #for anyone curious as to where I got the screenshots & details #theory crafters pop off with this #someone else can reblog this with time stamps if you want I'm pretty tired #I'm not going back through that stream right now; I'm sure someone else will put timestamps in the comments maybe #but yeah consider the amazing digital circus officially greenlit for a first season I guess! :D #tadc season 1 eventually baybeee!!#I'm hyped! I wonder if the pilot will remain canon into season 1 or if we'll get a new introduction into the series.#Wonder why Jax called Gangle... well Gangle 👀 maybe he just thought it sounded silly or something i'm curious as to what gooseworx thought #Caine's AI really thought Pomni running around looking for him & Kaufmo abstracted in his room was funny 😐 or his AI is glitchy #(we saw him glitching out already in the pilot) alternatively I think Bubble could be distracting Caine on purpose but idk just yet #imagine how much pain Ragatha was in since they can all actually feel that though like being body slammed & thrown against walls & stuff 😬#also excited to see some Gangle-centric content in the future based on that comment about the 'real her' 👀#Kaufmo would probably make jokes at really dark moments when it wasn't appropriate because that was a coping mechanism for him poor guy 😭#mine #op #the amazing digital circus #tadc

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greenerteacups · 3 months ago

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oooh please someday tell us what you think of GOT

oh, no, it's my fatal weakness! it's [checks notes] literally just the bare modicum of temptation! okay you got me.

SO. in order to tell what's wrong with game of thrones you kind of have to have read the books, because the books are the reason the show goes off the rails. i actually blame the showrunners relatively little in proportion to GRRM for how bad the show was (which I'm not gonna rehash here because if you're interested in GOT in any capacity you've already seen that horse flogged to death). people debate when GOT "got bad" in terms of writing, but regardless of when you think it dropped off, everyone agrees the quality declined sharply in season 8, and to a certain extent, season 7. these are the seasons that are more or less entirely spun from whole cloth, because season 7 marks the beginning of what will, if we ever see it, be the Winds of Winter storyline. it's the first part that isn't based on a book by George R.R. Martin. it's said that he gave the showrunners plot outlines, but we don't know how detailed they were, or how much the writers diverged from the blueprint — and honestly, considering the cumulative changes made to the story by that point, some stark divergence would have been required. (there's a reason for this. i'll get there in a sec.)

so far, i'm not saying anything all that original. a lot of people recognized how bad the show got as soon as they ran out of Book to adapt. (I think it's kind of weird that they agreed to make a show about an unfinished series in the first place — did GRRM figure that this was his one shot at a really good HBO adaptation, and forego misgivings about his ability to write two full books in however many years it took to adapt? did he think they would wait for him? did he not care that the series would eventually spoil his magnum opus, which he's spent the last three decades of his life writing? perplexing.) but the more interesting question is why the show got bad once it ran out of Book, because in my mind, that's not a given. a lot of great shows depart from the books they were based on. fanfiction does exactly that, all the time! if you have good writers who understand the characters they're working with, departure means a different story, not a worse one. now, the natural reply would be to say that the writers of GOT just aren't good, or at least aren't good at the things that make for great television, and that's why they needed the books as a structure, but I don't think that's true or fair, either. books and television are very different things. the pacing of a book is totally different from the pacing of a television show, and even an episodic book like ASOIAF is going to need a lot of work before it's remotely watchable as a series. bad writers cannot make great series of television, regardless of how good their source material is. sure, they didn't invent the characters of tyrion lannister and daenerys targaryen, but they sure as hell understood story structure well enough to write a damn compelling season of TV about them!

so but then: what gives? i actually do think it's a problem with the books! the show starts out as very faithful to the early books (namely, A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings) to the point that most plotlines are copied beat-for-beat. the story is constructed a little differently, and it's definitely condensed, but the meat is still there. and not surprisingly, the early books in ASOIAF are very tightly written. for how long they are, you wouldn't expect it, but on every page of those books, the plot is racing. you can practically watch george trying to beat the fucking clock. and he does! useful context here is that he originally thought GOT was going to be a trilogy, and so the scope of most threads in the first book or two would have been much smaller. it also helps that the first three books are in some respects self-contained stories. the first book is a mystery, the second and third are espionage and war dramas — and they're kept tight in order to serve those respective plots.

the trouble begins with A Feast for Crows, and arguably A Storm of Swords, because GRRM starts multiplying plotlines and treating the series as a story, rather than each individual book. he also massively underestimated the number of pages it would take him to get through certain plot beats — an assumption whose foundation is unclear, because from a reader's standpoint, there is a fucke tonne of shit in Feast and Dance that's spurious. I'm not talking about Brienne's Riverlands storyline (which I adore thematically but speaking honestly should have been its own novella, not a part of Feast proper). I'm talking about whole chapters where Tyrion is sitting on his ass in the river, just talking to people. (will I eat crow about this if these pay off in hugely satisfying ways in Winds or Dream? oh, totally. my brothers, i will gorge myself on sweet sweet corvid. i will wear a dunce cap in the square, and gleefully, if these turn out to not have been wastes of time. the fact that i am writing this means i am willing to stake a non-negligible amount of pride on the prediction that that will not happen). I'm talking about scenes where the characters stare at each other and talk idly about things that have already happened while the author describes things we already have seen in excruciating detail. i'm talking about threads that, while forgivable in a different novel, are unforgivable in this one, because you are neglecting your main characters and their story. and don't tell me you think that a day-by-day account tyrion's river cruise is necessary to telling his story, because in the count of monte cristo, the main guy disappears for nine years and comes hurtling back into the story as a vengeful aristocrat! and while time jumps like that don't work for everything, they certainly do work if what you're talking about isn't a major story thread!

now put aside whether or not all these meandering, unconcluded threads are enjoyable to read (as, in fairness, they often are!). think about them as if you're a tv showrunner. these bad boys are your worst nightmare. because while you know the author put them in for a reason, you haven't read the conclusion to the arc, so you don't know what that reason is. and even if the author tells you in broad strokes how things are going to end for any particular character (and this is a big "if," because GRRM's whole style is that he lets plots "develop as he goes," so I'm not actually convinced that he does have endings written out for most major characters), that still doesn't help you get them from point A (meandering storyline) to point B (actual conclusion). oh, and by the way, you have under a year to write this full season of television, while GRRM has been thinking about how to end the books for at least 10. all of this means you have to basically call an audible on whether or not certain arcs are going to pay off, and, if they are, whether they make for good television, and hence are worth writing. and you have to do that for every. single. unfinished. story. in the books.

here's an example: in the books, Quentin Martell goes on a quest to marry Daenerys and gain a dragon. many chapters are spent detailing this quest. spoiler alert: he fails, and he gets charbroiled by dragons. GRRM includes this plot to set up the actions of House Martell in Winds, but the problem is that we don't know what House Martell does in Winds, because (see above) the book DNE. So, although we can reliably bet that the showrunners understand (1) Daenerys is coming to Westeros with her 3 fantasy nukes, and (2) at some point they're gonna have to deal with the invasion of frozombies from Canada, that DOESN'T mean they necessarily know exactly what's going to happen to Dorne, or House Martell. i mean, fuck! we don't even know if Martin knows what's going to happen to Dorne or House Martell, because he's said he's the kind of writer who doesn't set shit out beforehand! so for every "Cersei defaults on millions of dragons in loans from the notorious Bank of Nobody Fucks With Us, assumes this will have no repercussions for her reign or Westerosi politics in general" plotline — which might as well have a big glaring THIS WILL BE IMPORTANT stamp on top of the chapter heading — you have Arianne Martell trying to do a coup/parent trap switcheroo with Myrcella, or Euron the Goffick Antichrist, or Faegon Targaryen and JonCon preparing a Blackfyre restoration, or anything else that might pan out — but might not! And while that uncertainty about what's important to the "overall story" might be a realistic way of depicting human beings in a world ruled by chance and not Destiny, it makes for much better reading than viewing, because Game of Thrones as a fantasy television series was based on the first three books, which are much more traditional "there is a plot and main characters and you can generally tell who they are" kind of book. I see Feast and Dance as a kind of soft reboot for the series in this respect, because they recenter the story around a much larger cast and cast a much broader net in terms of which characters "deserve" narrative attention.

but if you're making a season of television, you can't do that, because you've already set up the basic premise and pacing of your story, and you can't suddenly pivot into a long-form tone poem about the horrors of war. so you have to cut something. but what are you gonna cut? bear in mind that you can't just Forget About Dorne, or the Iron Islands, or the Vale, or the North, or pretty much any region of the story, because it's all interconnected, but to fit in everything from the books would require pacing of the sort that no reasonable audience would ever tolerate. and bear in mind that the later books sprout a lot more of these baby-plots that could go somewhere, but also might end up being secondary or tertiary to the "main story," which, at the end of the day, is about dragons and ice zombies and the rot at the heart of the feudal power system glorified in classical fantasy. that's the story that you as the showrunner absolutely must give them an end to, and that's the story that should be your priority 1.

so you do a hack and slash job, and you mortar over whatever you cut out with storylines that you cook up yourself, but you can't go too far afield, because you still need all the characters more or less in place for the final showdown. so you pinch here and push credulity there, and you do your best to put the characters in more or less the same place they would have been if you kept the original, but on a shorter timeframe. and is it as good as the first seasons? of course not! because the material that you have is not suited to TV like the first seasons are. and not only that, but you are now working with source material that is actively fighting your attempt to constrain a linear and well-paced narrative on it. the text that you're working with changed structure when you weren't looking, and now you have to find some way to shanghai this new sprawling behemoth of a Thing into a television show. oh, and by the way, don't think that the (living) author of the source material will be any help with this, because even though he's got years of experience working in television writing, he doesn't actually know how all of these threads will tie together, which is possibly the reason that the next book has taken over 8 years (now 13 and counting) to write. oh and also, your showrunners are sick of this (in fairness, very difficult) job and they want to go write for star wars instead, so they've refused the extra time the studio offered them for pre-production and pushed through a bunch of first-draft scripts, creating a crunch culture of the type that spawns entirely avoidable mistakes, like, say, some poor set designer leaving a starbucks cup in frame.

anyway, that's what I think went wrong with game of thrones.

#using the tags as a footnote system here but in order:#1. quentin MAY not be dead according to some theories but in the text he is a charred corpse #2. arianne is great and i love her but to be honest. my girl is kinda dumb. just 2 b real.#3. faegon is totally a blackfyre i think it's so obvious it may well be text at this point #it's almost r+l = j level man like it's kind of just reading comprehension at this point #4. relatedly there are some characters i think GRRM has endings picked out for and some i think he specifically does NOT #i think stannis melisandre jon and daenerys all will end up the same. jon and dany war crimes => murder/banishment arc is just classic GRRM #but i think jon's reasoning will be different and it'll be better-written.#im sorry but babygirl shireen IS getting flambeed. in response stannis will commit epic battle suicide killing all boltons i hope #brienne will live but in some tragic 'stay awhile horatio' capacity. likely she will try to die defending her liege and fail #faegon will die there's zero chance blackfyres win ever #now jaime/cersei I do NOT think he knows. my brothers in christ i don't think this motherfucker knows who the valonqar is!!#same with tyrion i think that the author in GRRM wants to do a nasty corruption arc + kill him off but the person in him loves him too much #sansa i have no goddamn idea what's going to happen. we just don't know enough about the northern conspiracy to tell #w/ arya i think he has... ideas. i don't think she's going to sail off to Explore i am almost certain that the show doing that was a cover #because the actual idea he gave them was unsavory or nonviable for some reason. bc like.#why would arya leave bran and jon and sansa? the family she's just spent her whole life fighting to come back to and avenge?#this is suspicious this does not feel like arya this does not feel right #bran will not be king or if he is it'll be in a VERY different way not the dumbfuck 'let's vote' bullshit #i personally think bran is going to go full corruption arc and become possessed by the 3 eyed raven. but that could be a pipe dream #the thing is he's way too OP in the show so the books have to nerf him and i think GRRM is still trying to work out #a way to actually do that.#i don't think he told them what happened with littlefinger or sansa. i think sansa's story is vaguely similar #(stark restoration through the female line etc)#but the queen in the north shit is way too contrived frankly. and selfishly i hope she gets something different #being a monarch in ASOIAF is not a happy ending. we know this from the moment we meet robert baratheon in AGOT #and we learn exactly what GRRM thinks of the people who 'win' these endless wars of succession #and they are not heroes #they are not celebrated #and they are neither safe nor happy

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