#Perhaps this sounds childish - but if you have nothing kind to say then do not say anything at all.

[unofficial-fhr-polls]

A reminder.

Please keep comments, posts, and tags civil and please keep propaganda related to the one you are advocating for only. Do not bash or talk negatively about the opposition. I do not deem that in the spirit of this tournament. which is for FUN. And not SERIOUS.

Jokes are allowed, but have them clearly marked to be jokes and in good faith.

If I see more of it this week I will be cancelling this tournament. I reiterate that this is for fun, there are no actual stakes here.

[kingconia]

TWISTED WONDERLAND'S HOUSEWARDENS WITH A READER, WHO IS INSPIRED BY THE PROTAGONIST FROM THEIR STORIES

A/N: I didn't add Kalim or Jamil, because I feel their storyline is too much Aladdin & Jafar inspired already to do anything else with them.

Riddle Rosehearts. ❤️

— That was definitely a dislike from the first sight. He predicted you to be his future reason of headache as soon as the mirror sent you to the Heartslabyul;

— Riddle sees you as an air-headed fool, who only asks too many unnecessary things, daring to question the wishes of the Red Queen, instead of serving to your dorm as a proper student would do;

— You, from the other side, struggle with understanding what makes Riddle hate you so much. You were nothing but kind towards him, always suggesting to eat some sweets together, and trying to ask him to take a break from his studies to hang out with you or others;

— When he overhears that your signature spell makes you others to tell you the truth, Riddle is... Intimidated. He is afraid that you will use is against him, and so, he starts ignoring you more often.

•

”Housewarden acts like an asshole towards you, though.”

Riddle doesn't even need to think twice to recognise a loud voice of Ace Trappola, another troublemaker in his form. He knows that he should just give him a punishment and leave for a lesson, but instead, he hides in the nearest bush, waiting to hear the rest of the conversation.

”Oh, Ace. You are being rude,” you mutter softly, sighing at your classmate. ”Perhaps, a housewarden doesn't like me, but this feeling is not necessarily mutual.”

Riddle raises his brows in surprise. Why, though? He is aware that his attitude is nothing but awful when it comes to you. He doesn't have a proper reason for that, either.

”You should, really,” Ace rolls his eyes. ”Dude has a problem with you liking white. And what else? Being nice?”

That isn't true. He is fine with you liking white—though, he admittedly got frustrated when you asked him on your first day why painting roses red, if they are prettier when they are white—and being nice. He just considers you too naive for this world.

”I think, you are... Misjudging him.”

That is right, Riddle mutters mentally. Tell him, Y/n.

”I think, the reason why housewarden is so... Let's say, annoyed by me, it is because I am everything he grew up hating and being restricted with. And it is harder, when something you should never be interested in, is nice and interesting. I think, housewarden is just confused.”

He feels his cheeks blushing furiously.

What did you say—

”And I think you are just being delusional,” Ace chuckles, patting your shoulder softly. ”Now, please, let's get out of here. I want to find Deuce.”

Riddle listens to the sound of your rushing steps, but he can't care less about it now. All he can do, is to recite your words, again and again.

Does he really think you as a nice and interesting?

Yes.

Does it make him hate you even more?

No, but he wishes it could work this way.

Until now, though, he merely returns to his studies. Maybe, you can be honest with yourself and everyone, but this kind of thing is not for him at all.

Leona Kingscholar. 💛

— Leona didn't notice you at first. Honestly, never planned too, until you started to cling to him in some idiotic attempts to be... What? Friends?;

— You remind him so much of Cheka, but he actually likes his nephew deep inside. And your presence is absolutely insufferable;

— You are too childish and annoying, and all you do is sway your tail as you try to befriend him, while pretending that you actually like him. Leona knows you have ulterior motives. Stop lying to him!

— He finds it stupid how someone so moronic as you managed to pull out such an interesting signature spell. Manipulating dreams of others? How cruel.

•

”Stop doing that,” Leona hisses, digging in your wrist as you try to touch his hair. ”I am seriously going to kill you, if you keep doing this. Do you hear that?!

A few weeks ago—approximately since you figured out your magic—Leona started saw dreams. Very colourful ones, cheerful even. And each, with the same meaning: he becomes the king, and his family and people adores him.

He hates it.

And he hates you for doing that.

Because, of course, he doesn't need your fucking pity. Your condescension. Your gifts. He doesn't need to be mocked!

”Ah? Leona-sama, what is it?” You blink, confused.

”What is your problem, huh?” He hastily jumps on his legs, towering on you. ”Don't you have anything to do? Go and mind your business, brat!”

Your lostness shifts in sadness. You are not scared of him, you are never are—another proof that you don't take him seriously—but you dare to look at him like that. As a kicked puppy.

”What did I do?”

”Stop sending me these stupid dreams! I don't need your pity, do you hear me?!” He yells, still gripping your wrist tightly. ”Go and dream of your family or something, instead, would you?”

”I... I am sorry,” you mumble, and your eyes dart on the floor.

Leona closes his mouth, when realisation dawns on him. You don't have a family to dream about; you are an orphan. Yours, the previous crown family, were killed by his great predecessors.

He doesn't know why he feels bad, when you picked the fight first.

”I will never bother you again, Leona-sama. I apologise.“ You repeat, and your voice suddenly sounds numb.

That is not the sight of you he, or anyone else, was used to. Not a single emotion on your face. You just snatch your wrist from his hold, before leaving him alone as he asked to.

”You are such a jerk,” Ruggie whistles from behind, appearing almost from nowhere.

”Shut up.”

”You know that they can't send any control dreams, right?” He continues, hands on his hips.

”What?” Leona unwillingly turns head on his vice.

”Dunno, but they only can adjust if it is going to be nightmare or a good dream,” Ruggie yawns. ”They are just a first-year, so... It is your brain that decides where is where for now.”

Fuck.

Leona hisses furiously.

He is so fucked up.

Azul Ashengrotto. 🩵

— Oh, so this is love? He notices you in the crowd of other students, as you flinch from loud voices from dynamics, clearly knowing very little of this world, and he is amused. Someone is clearly more social awkward than he is;

— Azul thinks you don't like him that much, though, because you only wave at him, and when he once tried to speak, you merely nodded and smile all the time without answering him properly;

— It is until twins tell him that you don't have a voice. You were brought to this world completely mute, because of the family curse, and though you hear everything, your only way to communicate with others is writing. Or a sign language;

— But if anything gods blessed you is your magic. Everything you touch turns to gold, and that is actually the main reason why you were kept isolated over years. Azul is over heels for you now...

•

”I am glad that you took time to accept my invitation, Y/n.”

Azul locks his hands together, looking at you with unhidden excitement. He is always too nervous in your company—luckily, you can't read a room—but today is a special day.

You smile at him, instead of answering.

”The reason why I asked you to came here, it is because I have a deal for you,” he continues carefully, weighing his every word. ”Do you see that?”

He points with his finger at the middle of the table. There is very beautiful necklace with pearls and a little seashell, looking quite normal and mundane. You nod again.

”That is something that could break your curse,” he explains, enjoying the way your eyes widen in the poor shock. ”Yes, yes, you heard me right. With that, you could speak easily.”

Azul can't help but soften as you tear up instantly. There is a whole minute, when he fights an urge to give it to you for free, but... He built his reputation too long to break it so easily.

”But, of course, I will need something from you in return.”

You tilt your head in question.

”I...”

I need you to love me.

”...I need you to use your power for my business when it will be required.”

And with that, Azul quickly shoves another contract to you. You blink a few times, but there is no back thoughts in your head. Quickly, as if afraid that he will change his mind, you took the pen, and leave your signature on all places, where it was needed.

Ah... Angelwish, why are you so naive! It kills him! What if he tried to use you? You didn't even read a contract! You really should be glad that Azul loves you so much.

Before he realises that, you are already putting a necklace on yourself.

One second, two. Three.

You are staring at him.

”Well?” He asks, anxiously.

”A... Azul?”

His heart drops.

Your voice is amazing. And hearing you saying his name is even better than he expected. He blushes.

”Azul... Thank you?”

”S-sure.”

Seems, like it is his turn to be speechless...

Vil Schoenheit. 💜

— He originally had nothing against you... Until other students didn't start to call you the most beautiful person in the world, following you everywhere obsessively, and suggesting you to become the next housewarden;

— Vil now officially hates you. Each time you come to him ends up with short anger impulses that he hardly hides from you, and he wishes you could just disappear;

— He is quite... Cruel with you. He wants you to change your dorm, actually, so he desperately pushes you to the edge by giving you impossible tasks to fullfil, and turning others against you;

— And he thinks your signature spell, speaking and controlling animals is another proof that you should leave Pomefiore for Savanaclaw.

•

“I don't think you are stupid, un petit entraîneur.”

Vil narrows his eyes, leaning slightly forward from his balcony. The sight of his vice speaking with you—hunter's interest in you was his another concern—annoys him instantly.

”What do you mean, Rook?” There is a big cat in your lap, clearly another of your minions.

”You know that our dear housewarden wants you out of here,” he murmurs, moving closer to you. ”A fair exchange with Savanaclaw, I would say. He doesn't like you here.”

You sigh.

”I figured it out, trust me. He made it very clear by always putting me in dangerous situations and giving me outdated products for skin, making me look like a fool in front of others.”

You don't mention how he makes you clean dark and messy rooms of other students.

”Yet, you are not willing to give up?” Rook touches the strand of your hair curiously.

”You know, I actually liked him a lot,” you admit suddenly, patting the cat behind its ear. ”Vil was the world for me. I was so amazed by him. By how collected he was, how hard he worked. I was excited to become his student... I wished to show him what he is worthy of. That others see his hard work.”

Vil's breath hitches. He remembers you mentioning that you were his fan, but he punished you for this remark; he didn't need to be so violently degraded. But... Was it a truth, then?

”...It is in the past now. I witnessed his true colours, and I will not tolerate it,” your smile twists in something more vicious, a ghostly fondness leaving your pretty face. ”He doesn't need to be scared of me being better anymore. Because I am going to be so much worse.”

He shudders as he hears that, your voice cold, and eyes gleaming dangerously. And as if Rook addresses him, he sighs suddenly, with the strange excitement in his voice:

”Oh, mon doux karma. What had you done?”

Idia Shroud. 💙

— From the minute you open your mouth in his presence , Idia knows he will hate you desperately... It is not serious, though;

— You are unbelievably loud, and too cheerful, and too proud, and you are so self-centred? Also, a fucking bimbo. Idia has no idea why everyone so into you, and what you are even doing in Ignihyde! Go away!

— You annoy him so much, and he actually hates the way you try to befriend him and make him more normie! Stop be like that! You are not welcome!

— Idia is absolutely not impressed that your signature spell is an instant tactics creation. Fuck you, by the way.

•

“You do know, that doors exist, right?” Idia hisses, not even stopping his game to spare you some attention.

”I do!” You say, climbing through the window with a loud thud.

”Then, why don't you use them, idiot?!”

Idia has no the slightest idea why anyone, let alone you of all people—he means, since you genuinely think that it is healthy to spend all your time outside of the room—would want to become his friend. But here you are. Trying to befriend him for a month already.

”Because you never open the door, Idia-sama,” you shrug easily.

”Take a hint, maybe.”

You close the window behind yourself, taking place behind his chair. Putting elbows on it, you hum thoughtfully, glancing from Idia to the screen of the computer, where the game flashes on. Another few minutes, and familiar yelps fill the room:

”Shit!”

Game over.

”Idia-sama,” you frown, ”maybe, I can help you?”

Idia snickers, rubbing his tired eyes. As if.

”Have you ever played this game, even?”

”No,” you murmur shyly, scratching the back of your neck. ”But I am good at tactics. And it is combat game, correct?”

Idia ponders for a while. That is surprising, because... You are actually absolutely correct. For once.

”Sit down, first year,” Idia exclaims, suddenly excited. ”I am going to teach you how to play this game.”

You smile widely, doing as it was told.

Finally, you cracked the code! And they said you weren't for this dorm...

Malleus Draconia. 💚

— Of course, he missed you as the new student at first, since he forgot to arrive at the orientation day. But it is not that long as he starts hearing others praising you, Lilia especially;

— You are quickly becoming the part of the school life as everyone loves you, and calling you ’the heart of the school’. And while Malleus wants to befriend you, too... He also can't help but feel envious of how easy it is for you. The socialization;

— You are quick to fall asleep everywhere, much like Silver. And since Malleus can't find courage to speak to you, he wanders around, when you are asleep at the strangest places, instead;

— When the first overblot incident happens, your signature spell kicks in. To everyone's horror, it is absolutely terrifying. Your magic is about thorns. Thorns, that wrap around Riddle's weakened body, when he touches you. He almost dies. And the same thing happens with Ace, who accidentally brushes your skin. Now... Everyone shun you away.

•

”Hello, Malleus-sama,” you mutter, eyes sleepy as you look around. ”I apologise.��

Malleus doesn't quite mind you falling asleep in the class, where his gargoyle's researches are going currently. He is the only member, anyway. But he nods.

”I had never seen you here before,” he notices in a poor attempt of the small talk.

You shrug.

”There is no other students here. And it is better for me not to show up around them.”

What a familiar thinking process... Somehow, he finds it easier: to approach you know, when you are not everyone's favourite anymore.

”I see. You can stay, then. I am not welcomed by them either, so no one is going to enter this classroom.”

You offer him a smile. It is short, strained at the edges, but still sweet. Malleus thinks he understands how you so easily charmed others in the last months; you are much like sunshine, when you are happy. It is a shame you are not, anymore.

”You know, Malleus-sama, I always wanted to become your friend,” you admit suddenly, making him open his eyes in surprise. ”And, I think, you wanted to be mine friend, too.”

You? Why would someone like you want to have him as your friend?

”And why would you think that?”

You fold arms on your chest slowly.

”You are always here, when I am sleeping,” Malleus feels blush touching the tips of his pointy ears. You elaborate. ”I am not sure people realise, but I sleep too much not only because I am lazy, but also because I feel surroundings better like this. I remember everything I hear in my sleep, and I do feel if someone is around.”

Ah. So, that is the secret of yours. And he wondered how you master in all your classes, when you sleep all the time...

”...I see,” Malleus mutters, ashamed. ”I apologise, then.”

He reminiscences of how often he whispered you some nonsense when you slept—childish complaints about how he hates you for being so easily loved by others, random poems that came to his mind as he sat down by your side, stories from his childhood—and feels like disappearing in the shame wouldn't be that bad.

”You know, Malleus-sama, you and I... We are not so different. We both do what we have to do to keep our loved ones to ourselves,” you sit down on the couch beside him slowly. ”But it leads only to one thing.”

Malleus gazes at you curiously as you suddenly curl on his lap, much like a cat. Your eyes met as he helps you to settle more comfortably.

”To destiny?” He asks aloud, tilting his head.

”To pain.”

There is a beat of silence in which your smile suddenly appears to be more bitter, less serene. Malleus doesn't know what happened with you in details, and how awfully these changes in your reputation affected on you, but he can say that it was hard.

”Now, if you don't mind, and I believe, you don't, Malleus-sama, I would like to dream a little bit.” You warn him, already closing your eyes, not really waiting for the answer.

Still, Malleus nods. Though that is not something you can see.

”Sleep, then... Beastie,” he sighs, patting your hair gently.

You snicker, before your breath slows down, alarming that you completely drifted off.

Malleus stares at you openly now.

Ah, who would've thought? He had finally made a friend.

Part two with Leona & Vil is here.

[moonstruckme]

perhaps whimsical!reader x one of the marauders (you choose) who’s being made fun of but doesn’t realize it? And they defend you or talk to you or something?

Thanks for requesting <3

Remus Lupin x whimsical!reader ♡ 745 words

Remus watches as your eyes drift out the window beside his couch.

“I think you’d like it,” James continues, unaware that he’s lost your attention as he tells you about the shop he’d gone to with Mary the day before. “They’ve got incense and crystals, all that stuff.” 

When you don’t react, Remus nudges your leg with his. 

You look at him. “Hm?” 

“That does sound like someplace you’d like,” he tries to clue you in, “doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes.” You give James a breezy smile. He returns it with ease, not a lick of pique about him. “Thank you, James, I’ll have to go. Where is it?” 

James’ thick eyebrows come together. “You know, I’m not actually sure. Mary led the way there and I just sort of followed, but I want to say it was on fourth.” 

You nod, and Remus smiles at your obvious expertise on the matter. He doubts there’s a shop of that kind that you haven’t been to, but you’re humoring James just to be kind. “Right, there’s a string of them on fourth street. Maybe I can ask Mary sometime and see if—oh, the fawn is standing up!” 

You grab Remus’ hand excitedly, turning in your seat to get a better view out the window. Your eyes are very nearly heart-shaped as you coo over the baby deer wobbling to its feet a few yards from Remus’ home. “Oh my goodness, it’s so precious. Do you guys see it?” 

Remus shoots James an apologetic look, but his friend smiles and shrugs it off, coming to lean over the couch beside you. 

“It is really cute,” he agrees.

Sirius laughs. “You’ve really got yourself a goldfish, haven’t you Moony?” You don’t pay him any mind, but Remus regards him quizzically. “She can’t seem to talk to anyone for more than two seconds before she’s distracted by something shiny.” 

Now, you turn, your head tilting like a puppy’s. “It’s not shiny, Sirius, it’s a fawn. Do you want to come see?” 

“It’s a figure of speech, love.” 

“Pads.” Remus’ voice is hard. “Don’t.” 

Your brows pucker at your boyfriend’s tone. “Remus,” you sound almost hurt, “what’s wrong?” 

He wraps a protective hand around your thigh, but James speaks before he can. 

“It’s nothing,” he says cheerily. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re always squabbling like this, they’re like an old married couple. Best to do as I do and stay out of it.”

“Oh, please,” Sirius guffaws. “Like you’ve ever stayed out of anything in your life.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” James says. Remus relaxes as the beginnings of a bemused smile touches your lips. “I don’t partake in any such childish quarreling.” 

It’s only after his friends leave and Remus is cleaning up his kitchen from all the snacks they’d left strewn about, that he says quietly, “Don’t mind Sirius, dove. His sense of humor can be mean, but he wouldn’t tease you if he didn’t like you.” 

You pause sweeping up the floor, looking at him curiously. “What do you mean? I thought they were both really nice.” 

“They are,” he says, “but I just want to make sure you understand that when Sirius was making fun of you, he didn’t really mean anything by it.” 

“He was making fun of me?” 

Remus swears he feels his heart fall right out his ass. 

“Yes, sweetheart, but like I said, he was only teasing.” He gives you a small smile, but at your puzzled look, reluctantly clarifies, “You remember when he said you were a goldfish?” 

You nod. 

“That was it, dove. That was the joke.” 

“Oh.” You smile funnily, one side of your mouth quirking up more than the other. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing? I’d love to be a goldfish.” 

A little laugh startles out of Remus. “Really?” he asks.

You nod happily, resuming your sweeping. “They can see more colors than humans, did you know? And they’re really very pretty.” 

It’s all Remus can do to keep from crossing the kitchen to squish you in a hug. He’s grinning ear-to-ear. “Well,” he says, trying to match your serene tone, “then it suits you, dove.”

“I think so,” you say lightly. “You should be a goldfish too, Remus. Or actually, I think I see you more as a seahorse. We could both be seahorses, if you like.” 

“Don’t seahorses mate for life?” 

“Mhm. Suits us, don’t you think?”

[kichiyosh1]

"I made it with you in mind"

wanderer x reader

to think he'd end up finding joy in such a childish activity

✧: he ends up being mean at the beginning but he apologizes in his own special way, slight hurt/comfort but nothing major

(I'm back ig? idk :3)

He couldn't believe the absurdity to which you and the young archon were subjecting him to.

The sins committed by the former harbinger are things he won't refute or deny. Indeed such actions musn't go unpunished, but perhaps he's underestimated the extent of the dendro archon's mercy.

Mind explaining what all of this is supposed to be?" he knows, with just a single glance, he grasped what was about to unfold, he just couldn't believe it. There displayed before his very eyes, a colorful assortment of beads lay scattered across a wooden table.

"You've dabbled in arts and crafts before, haven't you? You could say I proposed the idea to Lord kusanali as a way to keep that evil little brain of yours occupied"

'What evil is there to be done in bracelet crafting of all things, huh?' he deadpanned while simultaneously picking up a bead, examining how it reflects the light that's passing through the crystalline windows.

He let out a scoff.

"Have you forgotten who I am? A being of celestial creation, lessened to do recreational activities such as these? how amusing." Pathetic was the word he was looking for. Seriously, do you really expect him to just sit down quietly and start passing beads on a string without complaint to how this is a hit on his pride? It'd be more fitting if you locked him up for all of eternity, but this, this was just mockery.

It was the warmth of your hand that snapped him out of his thoughts. Eyes widened before squinting, but he dared not move, curious to what it was you were doing. You had started to fasten a piece of string to his wrist, gentle with your touch, measuring it so that it'd fit securely, but not too tight to be uncomfortable.

"Who gave you permission to lay your hands on me?" The warmth of your touch was strangely starting to get to him. He swatted your hand away, any more of that and he wouldn't know how to react.

Both of you were now glaring at each other. "Is it that hard for you to accept someone's act of kindness? I'm just trying to help." You could've sworn there was a slight change in his eyes when you said that, but was quickly replaced by an irritated smirk on his face. "I don't recall ever asking for your help, go give it to someone who actually needs it." He waved you off before plopping himself down on one of the stools before suddenly picking out random beads and charms like he wasn't against the idea a moment ago.

With furrowed brows and your mouth left slightly agape by his rude behavior, your face settled on a frown. You were used to the wanderer's arrogance and unpleasant attitude towards people, but there are times where even you are left puzzled. You went out of your way to make sure the activities kusanali planned out wouldn't overwhelm him, she'd ask you if you were doing this out of pity for him. You firmly shook your head.

You simply cared for him, that's all there was to it, but it didn't seem like he reciprocated the motion. The last he's heard from you was a sigh, before the sound of your footsteps slowly leaving faded.

You haven't visited him since. I mean how could you? if he was going to act like a brat while you spent your time there then might as well steer clear out of his way. No, you weren't being petty, and even if you were, you most certainly had every right to be. You nodded to yourself, justifying your actions as wanderer just being an asshat and you being the more mature one in this situation.

It wasn't easy. There were times where you would cross paths when he was on break from his duties (and bracelet crafting), or times where he himself is actively seeking you out, and before he could even call out your name, you're already making a bee line towards the exit.

You sat yourself down, exhausted from all this running around. Another successful day of not coming into contact with the wanderer.

"Doesn't he have other businesses to attend to?" If he had time to be going around looking for you then surely he was slacking off, right?

"As far as I'm concerned, you are my business." Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"So how long do you plan on avoiding me?" he was standing behind you, face leaning down above your head as you met his gaze from your position on the bench.

You put on an air of annoyance before flicking his forehead, causing him to hiss and reel back from your attack as he rubbed the spot. "Hey! you deprive me of your company for days and now you dare assault my face? you-" you were already walking away, with the esteemed wanderer quickly following closely behind you.

"Hey", he reached for your hand, but you batted it away. It was definitely worth it to see the offended look on his face, but there was a small pang in your heart when you saw how his face faltered. "Who gave you permission to lay your hands on me? don't go acting all buddy buddy with me now." you crossed your arms, throwing back what he had said to you a few days ago.

"ah, you're upset with me about last time." You kept a stern look on your face, expecting for more, but if he failed to deliver then you'd have no trouble turning away from him again.

His mouth kept opening and closing similar to that of a goldfish, but no words came out. He looks conflicted. It took him a whole minute to sort out his thoughts, and with a deep sigh he spoke.

"The way I reacted, it was uncalled for. Like you said, you were only trying to help and I should have, I, it's just the way you held my hand, it made me feel weird." his gaze turned downcast feeling a little embarrassed by getting riled up by something so minor as physical contact.

you don't know that of course, you'd just assume he was really really ticklish in some areas

Would you mind closing your eyes for a moment? I promise It'll only take a second", the soft spoken tone he's taken on is foreign to you, but not unwelcome. You were hesitant but complied. And if he does anything funny you'll make sure to write a full on report about it to kusanali.

You could only feel how he softly held your hand, how he delicately glided his dainty finger in order to tie what you assumed was a,

a bracelet?

You opened your eyes and that's when he leaned in, his soft breath near your ear "It was supposed to be a surprise gift, but an apology gift works too." your face felt warm, and your hand did too (to which he was still holding). Was this the weird feeling he was talking about.

A moment after, you examined the accessory on your wrist.

and my was it beautiful.

The main colors of the bracelet were your favorite colors, accompanied by beautiful white pearl beads and crystal flowers and cute charms. Truly something you wouldn't expect the wanderer himself to make.

You released a small laugh, happiness spreading throughout your system. "Did you really make this?" You were starting to look too happy for his liking, but of course you always looked more beautiful with a smile on your face. He scoffed in order to hide the ever creeping happiness that was also starting to spread across his face.

"Is it that hard to believe? I had you in mind when I made it after all, so if you're going to complain about its design then the person used as reference is at fault." You were just about to complain to him about him complaining that you'd not dare complain about it when he added on.

"again, I'm sorry for disregarding your help. Whether I needed it or not, I wanted to make the bracelet solely on my own so that it'd be more meaningful of a gift to give to you." This time he held your gaze, determined and truthful about what he said.

It seems you had judged him wrong, well not entirely. True he had a unique character, but that's just what made him, him. You held his hand, and the colors from earlier are returning to both of your faces. You held it there before pointing to his wrist, "It's only right I make you one as well, right? that way we'll be matching." You then intertwined your fingers. He was gonna combust.

EXTRA:

"I didn't think wanderer would be that into bracelet making" Kusanali peaked from the corner of the room. He was deeply concentrating on what he was doing and she did not want to disturb. "A little peek into that mind of his wouldn't hurt". After using her skill, a flurry of thoughts from wanderer flood her mind.

'Is this too much? or maybe too little? is [y/n] a minimalist or a maximalist?'

'This reminds me of you, this one too, and this one.'

'This charm is cute, like you. Wait no you're most definitely more cuter'

'this bracelet should be honored to be worn by you'

'maybe i'll make you a necklace next'

'I hope you'll like it'

[cactusdrinkstea]

─ ‧ ִ ۫✭ Heart on his hand

Riddle Rosehearts x Reader

Summary: You studied with Riddle and decided to draw a heart on the back of his hand.

Word count: 1009

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It was another quiet studying session. Exams were coming soon and Riddle had to study to get the best grades possible. Anything below perfection would be a disgrace to him. He had started to be more gentle on himself and took breaks once in a while, but his focus was always set on perfect academic results. 

He usually studied on his own, but when you had asked him to do a study session together he didn't say no. Usually he didn't mind. He was used to giving help to others, although many couldn't withstand his tough studying regime. Many would already be done with him. It was thanks to you that he had tried to be more flexible with his studying plans. At first he was very strict and had to follow a specific schedule and amount of subjects, but when he started to notice the tired look on your face or hearing those soft yawns he realized maybe he had chosen the wrong approach. Thanks to that, now he saw actual progress in your grades. 

He knew he relished studying with you more than he would admit out loud. Sure, if he was asked about it he would say this was just a small favor for the sake of studying. After all, what kind of prefect had bad grades? He couldn't allow it. 

But if he had to be honest, he would say that he liked to spend time with you. These quiet moments without your chaotic duo of friends, or without that cat. Just the two of you in a quiet setting with the right flavor of tea at the right time. That was utter bliss. Not a singular noise aside from the occasional question. He loved it. Riddle knew it wasn't the most efficient way of studying, because more often than not, he was staring at you. Looking at your eyes and how sometimes your brows furrowed when you didn't understand something, or how your leg would bounce under the table occasionally, which he usually would find annoying on others but on you it was surprisingly endearing. 

Whenever he noticed he was starting to get distracted, he had to snap out of it and return his focus to his history notes. At this rate he would forget anything he read if he kept thinking about that errant hair strand of yours that he itched to fix with his own hands. Riddle’s focus went back to the papers, he was good at focusing and this was a piece of cake, nothing he couldn't handle. 

Perhaps he had focused too much on his notes, because by the time he felt something on the back of his hand, it was already too late. There was a heart, painted with black ink.

“What did you just do?” Riddle inquired, eyes squinting in displeasure at the sight of a small doodle on his skin. 

“It's a heart. You were so focused on your notes you didn't even feel me peel your glove” You replied with a grin on your face. 

How could he be so careless? He didn't even feel the ink with how focused his eyes were on the paper. Riddle didn't look pleased, having drawings on someone's body was extremely distasteful and inappropriate. 

“I don't recall giving you permission for such a childish thing” Riddle said, his eyes returning to the notes on his desk. 

“I thought you would like it, hearts are your thing aren't they? Sorry, I won't do it next time” You sheepishly apologized and went back to read. 

“It's fine. I won't collar you for this, I am not that savage. Just try to ask next time” He gently scolded you trying not to sound too harsh. It wasn't a terrible thing, of course he wasn't going to get mad. He also had his gloves. It would only take pulling them up to hide the silly heart doodle. 

The rest of the evening was uneventful and the studying session ended not so long after. You thanked him and left. Riddle went back to his usual schedule but his mind was elsewhere. 

He couldn't stop looking at the heart on his hand. It was just a heart made out of ink, nothing more. It didn't even look symmetrical, was it really that difficult to draw an even heart? He would need to correct your pulse because that was terrible. 

Even with those petty mistakes, the drawing was so endearing. He had never allowed someone to touch his skin in that way, he would nag at anyone who even dared to try. He still remembered the happy look on your face and your reply. You thought he would like it. It was dumb, such dumb thinking to even consider he would enjoy a foreign drawing of something as simple as a heart. The worst part was that he did! It felt special, as if you thought about him specifically to give him that. You even went through the effort of moving his glove. 

It was a shared secret between you two now. No one else would know the heart was under his dark gloves, just you and him, and that simple thought filled him with delight. A temporary gift from the prefect to him. 

Days went on and he attempted to make the inked heart stay intact there for as long as possible. He was careful every time he washed his hands, but no matter how careful he was, the heart would fade. It only lasted three days. He felt distraught when it was gone. 

Now how could he ask for another one? It would be mortifying to even request for such a thing. He was above childish drawings on his skin! He didn't even need one. Why would he ask again? 

“Today we are studying again. Don't be late, prefect” Riddle said to you one day, and he made a mental note to forget his gloves and bring red ink this time and keep it as close as possible. He hoped you would get the hint. 

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┆彡   ✩          

[blossomarlia]

heyyyy hope ur having a good day, just requesting a drabble (if ur up to it) w maybe like James and a reader who feels like she has bad fashion taste, kind of niche so don't worry if u don't want to write it!

hii tysm for this request, it was so fun to write! hope your day is wonderful too <3

summary: james finds you stressing over your fashion sense

james potter x fem!reader

warnings: mild sexual implications

“Hey, sweetheart?” James calls as he comes out of the shower. You look up from your spot on the bedroom floor glumly, barely even able to make the most of this opportunity to look at your boyfriend with his shirt off. Perhaps if you ask him later on he’ll take it off again, just to make up for lost time. 

“Hi,” You say, unsuccessfully attempting to insert some cheer into your voice. “Sorry, not dressed yet.”

“We’ve ages before we need to leave- you can go like that, if you want to.” He shrugs, eyebrows knitting together as he takes in your expression. You look down at your outfit; track-pants and a t-shirt out of James’ drawer. Definitely not appropriate attire for meeting friends for dinner and drinks. “Everything alright?”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” You sigh, sounding pathetic even to your own ears. The countless skirts, pants and tops strewn across your bedroom floor are evidence to the opposite, and you know you have nice clothing. Supply isn’t the issue, it’s your apparent lack of ability to select the right combination. “I can’t put together a nice outfit.”

“Sure you can,” James says easily, pulling on boxers and a t-shirt before joining you on the floor, his knee pressing against your thigh. “What about that lovely wrap skirt you wore to my parents’ house for lunch?”

“I don’t know what to wear it with.” You stare dejectedly at the offending item of clothing, which you’ve tried on with about six tops- including the one from last weekend- and taken off again. Nothing looks right, nothing feels like something you’d want to show up to dinner in. Shamefully, you’re struck with jealousy towards your other friends; Lily, with her grown-up outfits that might as well live in a fashion catalogue; Marlene always so effortless and cool; Mary in figure-hugging fabrics that make her look like a goddess. You don’t have the same ability, it seems, instead left totally incapable of even pairing jeans with a top that won’t make you feel as if you’re doing an impression of someone with taste vastly different to yours. 

You sigh, growing more frustrated by the second. James, noticing, shuffles closer and wraps a strong arm around you. His wet hair sprinkles you as he turns to press a kind kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t stress over it, honey-girl. What’s got you so upset?”

“I don’t know.” You press your face to your knees where they’re pulled up, feeling stupid. “I don’t feel very… good, at this. Picking outfits. It’s silly.”

“It isn’t,” James is quick to correct. “But it’s not true, either- you have fantastic outfits, sweetheart. Did someone say otherwise?”

The truth is, nobody’s mentioned your fashion taste at all, really. That’s the problem- silly as it seems. In groups of friends, you’re nobody’s first choice for outfit advice, never the receiver of compliments on your clothing choices. You try really hard to wear clothing that’ll suit you, mimic outfits you see online or from the various stylish people in your life, but none of it feels or looks right. You always look so awkward, you think. Never quite correctly proportioned, never cohesively coloured or textured. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, you only see the result of it in the mirror each morning. 

“No,” You shake your head. “I just… feel as if none of my clothes look right, when I put them together. I haven’t got good style.” 

It feels like such a shameful thing to admit, both for the childishness of the confession and the truth of it. You can hardly look at James- not for lack of trying on his part, as he squeezes you and presses a kiss to your cotton-clothed shoulder.

“That’s not the case at all!” 

“It is a bit. It’s alright, Jamie, I’m being dramatic. It’s only frustrating me right now because I can’t find something good to wear tonight,” You assure him, voice muffled against your legs. You’re not trying to sound quite as sad as you do. “Sorry.”

He cups your cheek in one hand, so gently that you don’t realise he’s bringing your face up to his level until he’s done it. You blink quickly. “No sorries, my darling. C’mere.”

You’ll go crazy before you reject a cuddle from your boyfriend, so it’s with little resistance that you let him pull you halfway onto his lap and wrap you in his fresh shower smell and warmth. You’re almost lying down, head nestled under his chin and arms around his middle as he rubs gentle lines down your back. 

“You,” He says thoughtfully, “Have really lovely taste in clothing. I know it’s true because I think it each time you come home from the shops and show me what you’ve bought, or try on things before we go out. I particularly love your taste in things during the winter time- not just because you use several of my jumpers- really, because you do such a wonderful job of choosing things that are lovely and interesting. I also love it when you mix colours, especially in the summer, because I know that I’ll have a much greater chance of matching flowers to your outfit when I buy them for you.” 

You laugh despite yourself, sitting up a little and accepting the sweet kiss he offers you. James’ thumb draws soft circles on the skin on front of your ear, his fingers comforting in your hair. 

“I’ve been the sillier of the two of us, really,” He goes on. “Not telling you how much I like all the things you wear. I didn’t realise you weren’t feeling pleased about your clothes, baby, I’ll be sure to let you know from now on.”

“It’s not something you’ve done wrong,” You frown, not wanting to fish for compliments. James gives you plenty of them; it’s not his fault if your specific fashion choices haven’t caught his attention, and you don’t want him to feel bad about it.

He considers this. “S’pose not, but it’s hardly going to be an issue for me to externalise a few more of my thoughts. Do it plenty already, don’t I?”

You breathe out another giggle. “Maybe.”

“‘Maybe’, she says,” James teases, digging his fingers into your ribs and laughing when you squirm away. “I mean it, though. I’ll only be being honest, and I hear that’s rather healthy for relationships.”

“Crazy,” You say sarcastically. There’s a brief lull, and you’re perfectly happy to stay in his arms like this as long as he’ll have you. “You really think it’s not so bad? My style?” “Not in the slightest, sweetheart. I love your style, I love all your clothes.” He confirms. You search his handsome face, his dimples, his kind eyes, and find only patient assurance. “Still, it matters quite a lot less what I think; if you’re unhappy, we can go shopping and find some new outfits for you to wear.”

You sigh. “I’m not sure that’ll help. I’m worried that I don’t have the ability to pick the right stuff, I… I don’t even think I really know what my style is.”

“Well, we could ask for help if you’d like it. I’m sure our friends would be happy to lend a hand- or if you’re not keen on it, we could spend a little while trying out different styles to find what suits you the best. Whatever would make you happy, angel.”

You’re a little overwhelmed with how much you like and love your boyfriend, so instead of attempting to express it you press your lips to his, pleased as ever when he moves his hands to your waist and pulls you closer to his chest. You’re sure you could stay like this forever, happy and together on the floor of your bedroom, but your phone’s alarm reminds you that it’s time to get ready. You pull yourself reluctantly off James, who’s looking a little dazed himself, and let out a long breath. 

“You’re very kind, Jamie,” You say. He grins. 

“Could show you how kind, if you-” “Mm-mm.” You shake your head before you can be too tempted by the tickle of his calloused fingertips under the edge of your t-shirt. “We have to leave in half an hour, and I do have to decide on something to wear tonight.”

He groans as if you’re telling him you’ll never kiss him again, sitting up properly and letting you climb off his lap. “You’re far too responsible, sweetheart. It’s your sole flaw.”

You pat his cheek. “I’ll make it up to you later. For now-” You survey the piles of clothing around you- “I suppose I’d better just choose something I’ve worn before.”

James gets to his feet, looking at the sum of your side of the wardrobe and humming contemplatively. “Well, nothing wrong with that.” 

“Mm,” You half-agree.

He bends down and grabs a black longsleeve in one hand, your jeans in the other. “This always looks good, don’t you think? I could lend you one of my jackets to go with it.”

You nod without giving yourself time to stress about all the other times you’ve worn something similar, smiling fondly up at James’ hopeful expression. “That’s a good idea. Thank you.” “It’s no hardship, angel,” He says lightly, handing you the clothes. “Just don’t overthink it, yeah? You’re so pretty.” You look away to hide your blush, still shy when he compliments you so earnestly, and James makes a happy sort of sound. “And cute, I mean-”

“Okay, enough!” You laugh, taking the clothing just to shut him up.

[ghostsstolemymoxie]

Why'd you only call me when you're high?

Logan x Fem!Reader "You've both been off as much as you have been on, so why do you both keep crawling back?" Divider credit @cafekitsune Tags: NSFW insinuation but no explicit smut, angst, pre-established relationship and breakups, no use of Y/N and no OC, bittersweet ending WC: 2k words+

It's as if you know it's coming. Your spine dances beneath your muscles, and you let out a shaky breath. Precognition isn't your mutation, but at times like this, you wonder if you have some sick, sixth sense to know the exact moment when he's going to call.

As if by magic, your phone buzzes beneath your pillow, and you can see a ring of light poking out from beneath.

"Don't answer." "You'll only hurt yourself again." "Don't keep picking up - he'll keep calling." Your own warnings go unheeded, as you sigh, slipping your hand beneath the pillow. You don't even need to see the name as you answer and bring your phone to your ear, with a breathless, pained whisper of his name.

"I know it's late," he grumbles from the other end, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue. "Too late," you say, your words followed by a heavy silence. You can almost hear him cringe at your response, his displeasure evident in the gruff noise that escapes him. You hear him taking another deep draw from his cigar, picturing the tendrils of smoke swirling around the face you knew by heart as he ponders your reply. "But you answered."

With a deep, resigned breath, you slowly rise from your bed, giving up on the idea of getting any sleep tonight. "What do you want, Logan?" you ask wearily. A long, deliberate drag is taken from the cigar at the other end of the line, the sound of it cutting through the silence. You recognize the familiar exhale that follows, a noise you've grown accustomed to after countless late-night calls. You know he always takes a deliberate sip of his drink before speaking. And he does just that. The gentle clink of the glass meeting the table is the precursor to his response. When he finally speaks, his voice is heavy with emotion, revealing the rawness and roughness beneath his words. "You," he says, his declaration hanging heavy in the air. He means it. He always means it. In the dark, lonely nights when he calls, drowning in smoke and whiskey and beer, he wants you. There was a time when he always wanted you. There was a time when his hands would roam and explore as if he wanted nothing more than to grasp at you forever, giving you all the earthly pleasure a man so broken could offer.

Perhaps if the day hadn't been so long you'd have refused. Perhaps if the week hadn't been so hard. Perhaps if your bed wasn't so cold, as your fingers skimmed along the cotton.

"Where are you?" "Dive bar. Not far from the Institute…" "I'll come for you." His chuckle at the other end is childish. "You always do, Princess." It's not malicious, so it's clear he isn't mocking your innate desire to crawl back to him when he calls, though that differentiation isn't immediately clear in your mind. You hang up and wish you hadn't said that all over again.

Logan bought you the car you rolled up in, though that was about three breakups ago. It was a birthday present and an apology, rolled into one. Just as kind as it was vile. It's not something fancy - he'd have rather bought you a motorcycle. But the car suited your life better, so he bought you the car.

As you parked up, you saw him, lingering outside like a dog on a chain, punished for some deed he didn't understand. At the sight of your lights, he pushed off from the wall, stubbing out his cigar on the wall and tossing it aside before getting in. It sagged beneath his weight, the way it always did as he entered.

His intense gaze lingered on you, tracing the familiar paths where his kisses used to roam. From the hollow beneath your ear, down the curve of your neck, and further down to where your breath caused your shirt to rise and fall over your swelling breasts. What made the situation even more unbearable was the overpowering stench that enveloped him. It was a cocktail of cigar smoke, alcohol, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of blood. It was evident that his night had taken a dark turn. One he had hunted as if it was game.

He had gone looking for a fight, and he had found it. Now, reeking of his vices, he had returned, reveling in his self-proclaimed triumph. The only indulgence left for him was you.

"Why?" His brow furrows at your question, gaze returning to your face. "Why what?" "Why do you only call me like this? When you've hit rock bottom again. You call me to come pick you up, put you back together again… then you leave." Against your will, your hands tighten on the wheel, even though you haven't yet pulled out of the car park. "I didn't ask you to come get me." Logan snarled in return, glancing back to the bar. "I just told you I wanted you. Never said it was forever." "Once upon a time, you did." "Once upon a time you didn't nag me like a bitch and get on my case. Once upon a time, you were fun for me for more than just a fuck."

You know he doesn't mean it. You hope he doesn't mean it. You'd been a younger woman when you first started dating him. Your first relationship was the longest. Two years, total. Your friends were horrified to hear you dumped him in a fit of rage after finding him in a bar, cosied up next to another girl. They'd thought he was the one. So had you, back then. You got back together again and again. Each time he found a new way to hurt you. Once he was even the one to dump you, though he never gave a reason. He just said he didn't want to be with you anymore and left for a few weeks. Then, again, he came crawling back. Or was it you who crawled that time? It's hard to remember. Your friends would never forgive you if they knew how you kept breaking your own heart like this, over and over.

"Sorry." That was new. Your head snapped to face him, eyes wide and shocked as you took in his expression. His warm, hazel eyes were downcast, his jaw clenched tightly, and his hair had fallen over his forehead somewhat, matted by sweat. At your silence, he glances up, sneering at the expression on your face which he clearly thought was pity, as he turned away. "I don't know why I do it. I don't know why I lash out at you. I just do. It's just easy. Natural."

Unspoken pain hangs in the air in the car, though now you can't tell whose. Instead of saying anything, you just pull away, driving with him back to the Institute.

He knows the way to your room by heart. From nights he skulked there alone in the dark, or when he'd had to find his way whilst still grasping you in both hands with his eyes closed into your fervent embrace and needing to find it by intuition alone - he'd learned the way. You opened the door, flicked on the light, and he walked in without an invite. He never needed one before, why would he need one now?

Hasty fingers soon reached for you, coiling around the back of your neck, craning you to look up at him, before another set came to rest on your hip. His touch was like fire, a heat that danced along your skin and ignited a hundred memories of his touch, and the way it made your heart race. Memories of kisses and whispers and touches, that once would have made you burn with your desire, yet now they just brought the taste of ash to your tongue. "Princess," He murmured. "C'mon. Where are you right now?" He'd hesitated, it seemed. Normally by now, his lips were on yours, all-consuming, all-burning, and you took whatever scraps he had left for you, his loyal girl waiting for him to realise that you loved him beyond all his cruelty. Then again, this time didn't feel normal. "You can sleep in here tonight. Sleep it off. Then neither of us will have anything to regret in the morning."

Right now, you regret not melting into his touch. Not running your fingers up the veins of his bicep and succumbing to his wants, even if just for the night. Just so you could pretend that when you woke up, he'd still be around. But in the morning, you'd regret it. The way you always did. You'd already regret picking up the call, and bringing him here in the first place. These days, the fewer regrets in the morning the better.

"I said I was sorry." Logan pressed, not letting go, that notch still creasing between his brows. "I don't mean it, I never mean it, Princess. I… You knew who I was when we started this. You're the only thing that makes me feel like I'm a man anymore. Makes me feel like I'm not an animal…" Every word oozed with pain, and for a moment, your resolve shuddered, on the verge of breaking, of shattering like a pane of glass. But you hardened yourself. You had to. You had to harden yourself now, or you never would. "I'm not here to make you feel like a man, Logan. My purpose in life isn't sitting on the sidelines waiting for you to call. We're done, we've been done over and over. This is… it." "This is it." He repeated, as his grip tightened on you for the briefest fraction of a moment, the sound of metal scraping echoing in your room from his bones grinding at the effort. There was no better pain than his touch these days, no greater delight than his touch, even if it hurt. But then he let go before you could relent, and he stepped back. For a moment, you stepped forwards, as if to chase him, to beg him to stay, to ignore everything you said just so you could feel safe in his embrace again.

"I'll sleep in my own room." He said, gruffly, halting your movements with a gesture of his hand. "Thanks." In only three strides, he had left, slamming the door loudly behind himself, leaving you teary and reeling. Maybe it was 'thanks for the ride', or 'thanks for the wake-up call', or 'thanks for nothing'. But something in his resigned, agonised tone told you it was something more.

"Thanks for everything."

(This is the first angst fic I've written in a long time and TBH I don't know where it came from TT~TT I might write a second part and aim for a happy ending idk)

[crownedtargaryen]

might i request some modern bran where he's been in love with his best friend the past few years but hasn't said anything because he doesn't want to make things weird in their friend group with meer and jojen? 👀with these staying the staying the night prompts mayhaps?

❝  i know this might sound weird but,  do you wanna stay over?  i guess ‘sleepover’ sounds kind of childish but.  i think it’d be nice.  ❞

and

❝  chivalry is overrated,  get in my bed.  ❞

fruits. - modern!bran, modern!jojen

MASTERLIST pairing: modern!bran & modern!jojen x reader (a/n): i appreciate this request so much thea 🥹🥹 you know how much i love bran 🤍🤍 REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! also he isn’t in a wheelchair in this cause i just think it’d be easier to write a sexual scene where he’s dominant if he can walk CW: jealousy, p in v sex, unprotected sex, jojen is on the phone, slight food play?, degradation mixed with praise (words like slut, whore, all that jazz are kinda used), possessiveness, bran takes some pictures and videos of you while having sex all notes are appreciated. words: 3k tag list: @fairysluna @twizzy123 @hopelesswritergall @howyouloveyourdragon @clairacassidy @ad-astra-again

Years slip from Bran's fingertips, his love for me growing daily.

We'd met when we were around nine, being insufferable ever since. Bran followed me like a hopeless puppy, chasing me as I slipped from his fingertips. I always found someone new and would come to him crying, heartbroken that yet another disgusting person had shattered that loving heart of mine. He held me for years, always being there when I needed him the most. He did struggle with showing his affection toward me, coming off as merely friendly and caring to me, never showing any signs of feelings. I grew hyper-aware of my blossoming affection for Brandon Stark when I reached sixteen but stayed silent due to his stiffness when I brought up romantics. I'd always assumed he was in love with Meer since after she and her brother Jojen had joined your group, he seemed weirdly tense and much quieter than previously. I never wished to press, but some underlying jealousy burrowed within me. Or perhaps, he loved Jojen? It was definitely on the table with how he looked at the boy, and Jojen grinned awkwardly in return.

I'm affectionate, always hugging Jojen and Meer as they flush and laugh, returning the affection. However, Bran seemed uncomfortable with my love since they joined, significantly pushing himself away from my touch since his voice had dropped. It may be a puberty thing; I was still determining. That was until this particular night when I realized I had misread his signals drastically. That he, in fact, craved my affections, but not in a way I so thought.

We walked to Bran's car since he was my ride; Jojen had been riding with Meer since she got her license. I could tell Bran was extra tense today, his breathing staggered, and his cheeks grew pink as he clenched the right strap of his bag. We say nothing, getting inside the vehicle as I toss my bag into the back seat and look over to him, watching as he clumsily shoves the key into the hole and turns it, his left hand stroking over the wheel slowly and then clenching it. The way his calloused fingers traced the material of the wheel, so tender as he then gripped it as his thumb rubbed over it, seemingly soothing it as if it was a person.

That stirred something inside me, more than I wished to admit.

I was brought out of my trance as Bran spoke, looking at me nervously. "Look, I know this might sound weird," he starts, inhaling shakily and avoiding eye contact. "Do you maybe wanna stay over? I guess 'sleepover' sounds childish, but. It'd be nice." In all our years, he's never invited me to sleep at his house, and my parents are always surprised when I come home. They seemed to be waiting for the day I just stayed the night with Bran, given we've known each other for ages, and they trusted him not to do anything inappropriate. Boy, were they wrong. He starts awkwardly apologizing and insisting if I feel uncomfortable, I don't have to come over, but I merely laugh. He stops talking, cheeks red with embarrassment.

"Hey, hey! Breathe," I laugh, raising a brow. "I'm gonna stay the night. Let me text my parents." The tension in the car eases as he drives off to his house, seeming quite ambitious and unreasonably excited about this.

The drive is long and drawn out, the silence in the car prominent. I look at him out of the corner of my eye ad see a bit of sweat rolling down his brow, noting his shuffling as he purses his lips. He pushes up his glasses with the back of his hand, noticing me staring and smiling sweetly at me in return to my gaze. I glance at his phone, and he catches the hint.

"Oh, right. Music," he laughs, stopping at a red light and quickly putting on a tune. Bran was a huge Hozier and Weezer fan, which was weirdly fitting. His voice fits so well with Hozier, but Weezer fits his personality. We'd gotten into countless arguments over if you could consider Weezer music, and he's turned me to his side every time. Though, to each their own. I hear the soft tune, relieved he decided to put on Hozier instead of the latter, Bran murmuring the words as he turns up the radio and continues to drive.

That's when I notice the song playing- Someone New by Hozier- a brow raising. He pats the drum beat on his wheel, nodding to the words and singing quietly. I take in every word, knowing Bran focused on lyrics rather than the rhythm and pacing of his music. This song had to be directed to Meer. I'll need to ask him sometime tonight about his feelings toward her.

We'd pulled up to his house, all his siblings and cousin out, besides Robb, who was home sick then. We walked in and immediately were met with Robb Stark walking out of the kitchen, shirtless with shorts on and a bowl of cereal in his calloused hands. I look up at his face, trying to avoid staring at his chest, lined with faint scars and a tuft of chest hair, his happy trail visible right above the waist of his pants. His eyes scanned me, then Bran. I watch his hand run through his beautiful curls, then scratch his facial hair with a slight smirk.

"Brought your girlfriend?" Robb coos, making my cheeks burn. When I look at Bran, I see a faint warning glare across his eyes. My eyes trail down, widening slightly at the strain between his legs on his pants. I quickly avert my gaze. No fucking way; he was hard as all hell right now. "Don't have too much fun." Robb's remark makes Bran audibly grumble, leaving me mildly offended. What was that for? Did he not find me appealing? I look back to his brother, who is now lazed on the couch and turning on the TV, eyes lidded as he watches and munches on his cereal without worrying about the world around him.

Trying to brush over the remark, I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge, grabbing some strawberries and grapes.

Before I could ask if he wanted anything, Bran grabbed my hand and tugged me to his room, slamming the door and sighing loud, running his hands down his face. "I'm sorry about him; you know how he is," Bran grumbles, making me chuckle as I sit on his bed. "Did he make you uncomfortable?" I notice the worry crossing his face, a sincere smile coming to my lips.

"Nah, not at all. Didn't know I was your girlfriend though, coulda been consoled on that," I tease, watching as Bran rolls his eyes and sits next to me, lying back as he looks at the ceiling.

Hours pass of idle chitchat and playing some board and video games together, but then it comes to a game of truth or dare.

"I dare you," I drag out, smiling at him as I lean in. "To kiss me." Bran's cheeks flush as he swallows hard, glances at my lips, and then back into my eyes. "Don't worry; it can be just a peck."

His kiss catches me off guard, his lips suddenly on mine without warning. It's deeper than I thought it'd be, his hand cupping my cheek as he presses his chest to mine for a moment. As he pulls away, I feel dizzy and breathless.

"Truth or dare," he whispers, lips hovering over mine. I take my lower lip between my teeth, slowly pulling from him and examining his features. "Truth." Bran liked my response, wetting his lips with flushed cheeks.

"You like anyone?" He asks as his brows knitted anxiously. I see a sense of hope in his eyes, making my heart ache.

"Of course I do," I play it cool, laughing weakly and pretending to lack understanding. "Truth or dare?"

"Hit me with a truth," he smiles. I can tell he's happy by my response.

"Do you like Meer?" I blurt out without a second thought, a question I've held in for years. Surprise corrupts his previously playful expression.

"What? Why would I like Meer?" Bran asks, making me feel humiliated at such a question.

"I don't know, you just are constantly with her and always being weirdly flirty. I sometimes feel pushed aside, you know?" I murmur, fiddling with my hands and avoiding looking at him.

I hear him chuckle as he moves his hand to my cheek, palms soft as he makes me look at him. "I thought you liked Jojen; why are you acting all jealous over the possibility of me liking Meer?" he murmurs as I widen my eyes.

"Jojen?! Heck no! I've been in love with you, you idiot!" I rush out the words, realizing what I'd just admitted. My breath hitches; time feels as if it's frozen. Holy shit, I just ruined my friendship; he hates me; this is it.

My thoughts stop when his lips are on mine like before. I whine into his loving action, moving my hands to his hair and inhaling shakily against his lips, his tongue brushing my bottom lip. Our tongues dance in a forbidden tango, saliva mixing as he pulls away much sooner than I wished.

"Let me lock the door," he pants out, pecking my lips as he scrambles. My eyes trail to the fruit resting on the bedside table as I reach over and eat a grape, the juice spurting out and down my chin. I laugh, going to wipe it off but hearing Bran's stern voice. "No, no. Stay still." his tone is calm as he trails over to me, grabbing my chin and licking the juice trailing down my neck. The lick lines my neck, up my chin, and to my lips, where he feverishly kisses me. I stand closer to him, trailing my hands up his shirt and gently clawing at his back as he picks me up and lets me hook my legs around his waist.

"I'm gonna love you right, sweetheart," he murmurs into the kiss, biting my bottom lip tauntingly. "You're fuckin' beautiful." I laugh softly, moving from his lips and raising a brow.

"Well aren't you chivalrous?" I tease, watching as he rolls his eyes and huffs.

"Chivalry is overrated; you're getting in my bed," he demands, tossing me onto the mattress and tugging my shirt over my head, taking in the sight of my upper body as his strained cock twitches in his pants. "Holy hell." slowly, he reaches beneath me, unclasps my bra, slips it away from my torso, and watches as it falls in front of the bedside table. Bran's eyes trail to the fruits with a mischievous grin, looking at me with a pleading gaze. "Can I try something?"

"Just be gentle," I plea, watching as he stalks over to the bedside, slipping off his shirt and tossing it down next to my discarded bra. He grabs strawberries and grapes, setting them next to my torso as he slips off my pants and underwear, pausing momentarily to take in the sight of my glistening cunt, dripping with slickness. He nearly audibly gulps, whimpering quietly as his hand strokes up my thigh and to my cunny, rolling his thumb in circles on my neglected bud. I writhe, closing my eyes and whining his name under my breath. My hips desperately follow his touch, thighs trembling lightly as he moves his other hand to the cut strawberries and traces it down my torso with a slight squeeze. The juice traces my left nipple to my right, down my stomach, and then to my aching lower lips. He pops the fruit into his mouth, eating it as he moves down and licks over my sensitive chest, taking in the taste of my sweet citrusy body wash with the tangy strawberry juice. His licks trail from one nipple to the next, massaging each breast when moving between them as he grinds his clothed cock between my legs, making me shiver in delight yet mild frustration. His licks then move down my stomach and to my cunt where I inhale sharply as he trails his tongue between my soaked folds and to my bud, wrapping his lips over it with a soft whimper as he slips off his pants and abuses the clit with his mouth, tongue wandering slightly to my entrance before moving back up, his fingers prodding my hole. The moment he pushes them in, filling me with his middle and ring finger, I hear my phone buzzing. Lazily, I grab it from my side and look at the person in question, showing Bran, who is looking up between my legs, still tending to my lower piece.

Jojen.

"Answer it," Bran demands, seeing my confusion. "Now." He waits until I accept the call before he pushes his fingers in and out vigorously and multiplies the abuse on my cunt, making me moan loudly into the phone, interrupting Jojen's hello.

"Everything okay?" Jojen asks after a moment of silence. I can't stop panting, trying to swallow it down as Bran smiles against my pussy, continuing his tentative actions to my now-swollen clit. "Hey, you hear me?" his voice is now contorted to worry.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm great," I pant out, closing my eyes and whimpering into the phone, hips bucking into Bran's mouth. Jojen goes silent again as I hear a faint rustling from the other side of the phone, then a closing of what I can only assume is his bedroom door. "Gods, I'm sorry… What do you need?" I stifle a moan as Bran's fingers touch a spongy spot inside me, making me gasp shakily and bite my tongue.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jojen asks once more, ignoring my question. I hear shuffling again, the clinking of a belt. I look to Bran, who pops off my clit for a moment. Perhaps Jojen is just changing, right? "You keep making noises."

"Tell him. Tell him who's making you feel this good," he whispers, licking a stripe along my folds and under my clit, then wrapping his lips around the bud.

"I- Uh… You called during Bran's treat," I whine out, hearing Jojen let in a shaky inhale. Bran urges me to put it on speaker, which I gladly do.

"Should I hang up?" He says after a drawn-out silence, his voice weaker. Bran shakes his head, urging me to tease him.

"No, no… Stay. Your voice is driving me crazy, Jojie." I whine out, Bran's gaze becoming possessive and fiery as he pops off my lower piece and slips off his boxers, grinding his cock to my damp cunt. I hear Jojen draw in a long groan, making my insides ache. Fucking pervert, I love it.

"Gods… You sound so sweet, angel." Jojen pants out, a bit of a wetter noise coming from the other line. I grin, biting my lip and inhaling sharply as Bran sheathes himself inside my velvety entrance, making my hips jerk, and my eyes roll back with a pained moan. "I wish I was there, fuck." I'd never heard Jojen swear. I'd be lying if I said it hadn't turned me on even more. I watch as Bran holds himself back from pushing inside, grabbing his phone and fumbling for the camera, angling the photo to capture his cock buried inside me. I hear a faint vibration from Jojen's side, making me flush in embarrassment. Though I can't dwell on such a feeling for long as Bran thrusts his hips and dives deep into that spongy spot, he took advantage of earlier, making me see stars and cry out his name.

Jojen's breathing grows incredibly labored on the other side with pitiful moans and pleas for more, which Bran provides tenfold with videos.

"Such a good girl, baby. My fucking whore." he murmurs, moving down and kissing along my neck, pounding deep into my soaking insides that clamp around his piece. "You're. Mine." he glances at the phone and then into my eyes possessively, making me whimper and nod. I soft moan Jojen's name hearing him inhale sharply and whimper out my name in return. Bran's phone dings and I watch as he opens a video from Jojen.

The video is only a minute, with Jojen stroking his long and weeping uncut cock as his hips stutter and push into his hand. Oh, what I'd give to have that stuffed in me too. Bran and Jojen were both quite large. It's always the lengthy men.

Bran notices my star-struck expression and tosses his phone away, grabbing my chin and making me look at him as I whimper. "Such a filthy girl, thinking about Jojen's cock stuffing that pretty mouth of yours," he coos, smiling down at me. I feel my peak inching closer, his hips slamming into mine as he pants and grows dazed, seemingly obsessed with this feeling as he slows his thrusts and draws his cock in and out, embracing the way I pulse around him and cry out, begging him to move faster. Jojen immediately goes to FaceTime; his camera set him to where I can see his cock leaking with pre. I eye the sight, helpless and whining. Bran helps me set up the camera, then pins me down by the wrists and pounds me into oblivion, hips shaking and thighs trembling as we both near our climax.

"Holy shit, I'm gonna-" he can't finish his sentence, letting out the most pitiful and bottoming-out moan I've ever heard, burying his face in my neck as I reach my peak, watching Jojen stroke vigorously to his own, shooting a long string of cum onto his neck and chest. We ride out this high together, stopping around the same time as Bran pants and grinds his hips, nuzzling his nose into my neck.

"Don't get comfy yet; we're done when Jojen gets to drain his cock inside this filthy cunt too."

[magadauthan]

Ep 25: Live Through

@trigun98watchparty My time has come.

I watched "Live Through" in Japanese and English for this recap. For science. It's not because this is my favorite episode, no. That has nothing to do with anything.

--How did Milly and Meryl get Vash away from LR? Does 1 ile = 1 mile? Did they swipe Legato's Cinderella coach?

--that floppy hair *swoon*

--Some have criticized Meryl for ducking outside as soon as Vash begins to talk. Perhaps that is merited, and she does carry a good measure of guilt for following him, but it felt to me more like she wanted to give him space and / or privacy. Having loud emotions all over the place is frowned on in Japanese culture, and Meryl is very, very polite. Maybe she just doesn't know what to do and panics (Vash has not always been encouraging in terms of having her around, in general). Either way, it tears her up inside to hear him wailing in despair.

--Obviously Meryl has been home tending to Vash while Milly works. It's nice to see Meryl recognize that Milly is busting her butt, but she doesn't know how to address Milly's feelings, either.

--Vash should not be up and about - he's weak and feverish and not a little delirious. Good thing Milly can carry him.

--Get in there, big sis, and tell Meryl it's okay that she loves him. She's absolutely right in that Legato would have found a way to make Vash shoot him whether or not the two of them were involved. Never hold back in matters of the heart.

--My favorite scene. Meryl, alone in the light of the fifth moon, diligently mending Vash's coat. She wants to put him back together and make him whole again, even if she gets hurt in the process. She's desperately in love with him, and she holds the kind person he is close to her heart... but he was the one who put the hole in the moon. How can she reconcile that?

--Vash does look happier.

--He tries to pet the kitty, and Kuroneko gives him a swat, which some interpret as the Trigun Goddess telling Vash to get it in gear. This is incorrect. Cats are just assholes.

--It didn't stop with Legato, now, did it. Knives is pressing harder.

--"Sound Life" must be a song they teach in NML kindergarten. Many people seem to know it, including Kaite and Meryl. (the lyrics really need to scan better, it's so awkwardly phrased)

--This scene is such a tough one. It's lovely - two lovers out under the stars, right? And Meryl is so happy that Vash is considering staying with them. But it's also plain to see that he might have given up. It would be easy, wouldn't it? Let the girls take care of him while he hides. Don't do anything, and wait for an answer.

--What were you doing up so late, Meryl? (we had some ideas)

--There's no way that the townspeople could have captured someone like Vash if he hadn't let them do it. He's so broken that he won't fight back. He's a sinner now, like Knives, like Legato, beyond redemption.

Except...

...Knives assumes that Vash would sacrifice himself for everyone else. Someone else sacrificing herself for him had never been part of the equation.

--So many have stopped believing in Vash, or he thinks they have. They turn their backs on him and he accepts it as the normal course of things. Jessica's crush was childish (I was gonna marry Luke Skywalker when I was four, just saying) but even she ran away after what happened to the ship. That's why it's so important that Meryl loves him. She has made her decision, and she's steadfast in it.

--Maybe Vash doesn't realize how much she loves him until she puts herself between him and the gun, and he hears Rem's words from Meryl's mouth and sees Rem one more time. If Meryl still loves him, then Rem can still love him too. Mistakes happen but you can learn from them, and if you have the right people in your life, they will love you through your mistakes and help you to make it better.

--And finally, Vash realizes that Rem's words apply to him, too, and that he is no less deserving of a second chance and a future than any of the others he's impressed those words on. Does that make Meryl the analogue to Alex? I think it does.

--Awww, such a sweet snuggle. And then Vash has to go doof it up like normal and Meryl has to freak out like normal. It's their love language. (TBH I'd punch my husband too if he rubbed his stubbly face on me like that.)

--What happened after that? (we have some ideas)

--Vash gets ready to go. Seeing him wash up and shave is oddly pleasing, a reminder that despite his Plant-ness, he's a regular dude who has to wash his face and brush his teeth and get haircuts and have breakfast and do all that human stuff.

--Meryl wants to say something to Vash, but she's gotten wiser too. She recognizes that even though there might be a lot that she wants to tell him (and, I think, he might want to tell her too), stating her feelings in the open would be a distraction (or even a burden) he doesn't need right then. Milly is right. There will be time when he gets back.

It doesn't come through in English, but he's so gentle with her in Japanese. He knows what she wants to say. In his own way, at that time, he's saying I love you too.

--Vash takes WW with him, with Milly's love and blessing. May you go with God's protection.

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

VH - Lost Soul

(tw: it’s backstory time for Vampire Hero, and it isn’t very nice. Lots and lots of torture mentions.)

Vampire Hero was in hell, although not for the reasons Villain thought.

According to his watch, he’d been trapped in this maze for hours. Amid the many gifts his vampire nature had given him, a sense of direction wasn’t among them. He’d tried to punch the walls, but that would have taken too long to burst through them. They were even thicker than the skull that had thought of such a stupid thing to build. What he could do was leaving a dent to make sure that yes, he’d been there before. He had his phone on him, but there was no wifi, so no way to use his GPS. He had very little battery left anyhow– he had emptied most of it to send his wife pictures of bats on his way, which was as far as he was concerned a very good and judicious use of it. All of that was already a bore, but to make the game even funnier, the labyrinth was full of traps.

Full of pathetic traps. The ground collapsed under his feet, rocks were falling on him, all of that accomplishing nothing – but it was annoying enough that it disrupted his concentration, preventing him to find a way out. That was not the main problem, though. There were screens everywhere, too high to reach, and Villain. Never. Stopped. Talking.

“What is good and evil ? Do you know for sure what the limit is ? Good is supposed to follow the law, but is the law always good ? Isn’t it pride to do what feels right ? You think you want to stop me, but aren’t you being selfish by doing what you want ?”

She’d kept going like that for hours now. Nails on a blackboard would have sounded nicer. Not only the words were as hollow as a dead snail, but the inflection of that pompous voice was unbearable. Vampire Hero was seriously tempted to hit his head against the wall to stop hearing anything, but that didn’t seem like it’d work in the long term.

At his limit, he stepped up, his lips pinched, and finally yelled back:

“Four words. Grow the fuck up.”

“That’s all you have to say ? You’re not much for philosophy.”

“You call that philosophy ? I hate to break it to you, but knowing that good and bad are social constructs is not some kind of genius insight. All I see is a kid yelling at me that she’s very smart. You don’t give a crap about all of this. You just want to prove to yourself how very superior you are.”

“Do you think you’re better than me ?”

“The bar is low.”

“Oh, because you’re good now ?”

Vampire Hero stopped dead in his tracks:

“Even before, I was better than you."

He raised his arms and bared his teeth, his voice loud:

"You think that you’re bad ? You’ve got nothing on me ! I lured people and made them dance with me over broken glass. I had them rot blindfolded in animal cages for days until they had to lick their own blood. I had cozy nights with them having a friendly little chat in the living room while I was drinking from a corpse, and they knew that if they broke they were next. I made them starve and eat their loved ones. And I loved it ! I loved all of it ! I loved the light dying in their eyes. I thought I was clever ! I am half the reasons you’re shaking at night !”

“Zdiiiiiiiingbonnng,” made the rock on Hero’s head. He sighed in exasperation and stopped talking, wiping gravel from his hair.

“I know about you.” said Villain. “The hero agency’s lackey. Aren’t you ashamed ? You were a great prince, once.”

“Actually, I never was really tall.”

“Go ahead, hide yourself behind this kind of childish retorts. But admit it: you’ve sunk low. You arrest people who weren’t caught like you and you bring them to the authority, like a good dog. Has it ever occurred to you how much of a failure you’ve become ?”

“No.”

“Then why did you stop ?”

“If I tell you the story, will you finally shut up ?”

“Perhaps.”

“Worth it.”

Vampire Hero jumped over a couple of spikes, groaned when he realized that his jeans had a new hole, and said:

“Once upon a time, asshole, I was living happily in my castle all alone. I was rich, I was immortal, I had everything I wanted, and what I wanted was a lot of toys.”

He glanced around him, noticed nothing that indicated he was on the right path, and sighed.

“By toys I mean humans, of course. I chose among the prettiest, kindest, bravest, and I tortured them to death. I hurt them until they didn't have anything to break. I was good at it. I experimented things that would give you and all of you so-called Supervillains nightmares for years. But, you know. Decade after decade, still doing the same thing – I was getting bored. I felt empt- aw man, a dead end again ?”

He turned on his heels, swearing. That was obviously the wrong way to solve his problem. The walls were smooth and impossible to climb, so it had to be arranged. He caught a rock and throw it against the hard surface with a little more strength than necessary.

“Well, anyway. I heard there was a great conqueror who wanted the world. I made my first travel since decades, by curiosity. I wanted to see by myself who could challenge me.”

“And you fought him and you lost ?”

“I told you to shut up. I met her, and not long after I was her lucky, lucky husband. I never had her ambition, but of course I supported her. She encouraged my own little hobby in return, so I became her special torturer. My life was even more perfect, and there was this void inside me, and I hated it, and I didn't understand it. And what happened happened. I tortured the wrong person.”

“Define wrong ?”

“It was the daughter of a vampire hunter.”

“A poor choice.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. The guy was really good at his job. He was already pissed off because of the world-conquering plan, but after I did that, well, he cursed my wife and I – oh, enough with this.”

Punctured by rock impacts, the wall in front of him wasn’t so smooth anymore. Vampire Hero took a run-up, jumped and landed on the top of it. He had a nice view on the labyrinth now. For the first time, he took the right direction.

“ That’s cheating,” complained Villain.

“I don’t care.”

“What then ?”

“What then ? I had a bad century. The hunter couldn't kill me, so he drank my blood to prolong his own life and tortured me. He got good at it, too. I felt what I’d made the others feel, but only at first – after ninety years it was back to nothing. I was 300 years old and reality was fading. I was a leech. I hadn’t made a thing for myself.”

“You mean you went soft because of a little torturing?”

“No. I got old. When you have a couple of centuries, this torture-people-to-death shit doesn’t have the same kind of kick anymore. You try to get creative, but it doesn’t help. You feel nothing. So there’s nothing else you can do but stop. And speaking of stopping, it’s your turn.”

Vampire Hero was now at the center of the labyrinth. He jumped to a silver door, decided he was too done with the whole thing to use the knob, and broke it open.

Villain turned towards him, a small smile on her face, and opened her arms in a welcome gesture:

“Behold, vampire ! This room have been made of silver walls and floor. You won’t be able to enter without squirming in agony and -

Vampire Hero stepped in. Villain braced herself for his cries of pain, but there was none. He still looked bored out of his mind. There was a long silence.

“That’s – that’s not possible.”

Hero laughed. A slow, sinister laugh that made Villain’s eyes open wide.

“What are you ?” she whispered. “You can’t be a vampire. You should be crawling on the ground.”

“Don’t you listen ? I told you I’ve been tortured for decades. You know what an immortal body does when it regenerates back for the hundredth time ?"

He pointed to himself. There was a subtle change in his appearance. He still looked like his unimpressed self, but his usual lightness was replaced by something much darker. It was his eyes. Staring into them was like gazing into some horrible, nameless abyss. There was nothing human about them. They could only belong to some ghastly creature who'd lived centuries, not particularly nice ones.

Vampire Hero chuckled, and Villain shuddered.

"It gets tougher," he only said. "I’ve lost touch and taste. I feel nothing. Nor warmth or cold, and certainly not pain. My body is cut from the outside world. There's not much that feels real to me. You know what it is?”

He walked towards Villain, who took a step back and said:

“I hope you realize you’re monologuing yourself.”

“Habits die hard. I want to go back tonight and kiss my wife on the top of her head, just in the middle. It’s our habit. That’s all that matters. If I have to be on this side to support her, so be it. I don’t care about evil or good, and it won’t prevent me to eat your vocal chords if you’re off again. So, are you going to keep talking or finally shut the hell up ?”

“You know what, I think I’m good.”

*

Vampire Hero is a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

[eleanorblythe]

Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - Chapter 2

This has been so much fun to write. I had honestly just intended to write some filth and call it a day, but the more I wrote the more I cared about these characters. I promise filth is coming, but right now it’s a whole lot of angst and emotions.

You can STILL use this as a reader insert because I STILL haven’t given her a name, but I think at this point it’s more of a deliberate choice than the lack of a good name, it gives her some mystery (and maybe makes me a little pretentious??)

I don’t think this will be a fully fledged fanfic, like I said this was meant to just be some disgusting smut, but apparently I need foreplay and I have ideas in the back of my mind for one off scenarios - so if I do continue this I would be open to any suggestions you have or want to see - requests will be open.

Also on Ao3 with author notes and translations - here

When she rose the next morning it was almost easy to forget there was anyone else in the house. When she walked through the dining room and peered into the bathroom to get to the kitchen, everything was exactly as it was meant to be. There was no mess, no blood and no glass. She couldn’t help but look over at her cabinet and see the empty spot where her sixth rocks glass ought to have been, but there were slightly more important things to worry about.

But first. Coffee.

Like with everything else in her home, she had the best (his) money could buy. So she was lucky enough to have a coffee machine that came with all the bells and whistles. This included a steam wand that was used for frothing milk. She quickly filled a small cup with milk and turned on the steam wand, letting it make the most awful noise. Screeching and wailing while she simply turned on her stovetop and placed her stovetop coffee maker on it to make a pot of black coffee.

She never has milk with her coffee.

Her antics did the trick. Before long Anton came wondering into the kitchen, somewhat bleary eyed and wondering at the hideous cacophony of sounds emanating from her kitchen. Her eyes tracked him from the dining room and once he set foot onto the linoleum of her kitchen she switched the steam wand off and poured her cup of frothy milk directly into the sink.

Anton clenched his jaw as his eyes bore into her. He watched her pour black coffee from her stainless steel pot into a rather elegant looking glass coffee cup.

She raised her cup, in the form of a mocking cheers or toast and kept steely eye contact with him as she sipped her coffee with one hand, and proceeded to pour the entire pot of freshly brewed coffee down the sink with the other.

Anton exhaled through his nose, whether it was with amusement or frustration or derision, she could not say, his face betrayed nothing.

But his eyes did. There was anger, exhaustion and…hurt? With her or at the loss of a very nice cup of coffee, she wasn’t entirely sure.

She made a satisfied sound as she savoured the first sip before she wondered out of the kitchen to go about her usual morning routine, once again leaving him with barely an acknowledgment of his existence.

She knew she would eventually have to confront the issue head on, but for now he would have a small taste of the type of existence she has lived through these past months.

Or perhaps he would prefer it this way?

She dressed and readied herself for the day. She had nowhere to go, but she contemplated whether to take herself off somewhere for the next eight hours, until she realised she was being childish.

This was her home, why should she be the one to leave it?

Instead she granted a small kindness, by calling Andrews from her bedroom and asking him to visit discreetly, as she was not convinced Anton had the skills to mend his arm on his own - skilful as he was.

She stepped out onto the front porch to collect the mornings’ paper. She noticed an unfamiliar car sitting on her driveway behind her own car. She thought he might have had the foresight to park it far away from the house, but the pain must have overridden all else. She took a moment to look out at the rest of the neighbourhood. Quiet. Calm. Private. She surprisingly found herself suited to the suburban life, what a difference a few years can make. She could have done without the snobbery of some of her neighbours, but she found that she was able to combat them in other, more creative ways now, that didn’t involve guns. Or knives. Or ropes. Or explosives…

She was not entirely sure Anton could. But she was sure once his arm was mended he would be back on his way again. The only sign he was alive being the regular cheques found in her mailbox. There was never a letter or note accompanying the cheque. Ever. Just a rather large number and his signature.

She looked along her fence and saw one of the boards had splintered slightly. She resolved she would have to replace the whole fence. Ridiculous. She knew, but she kept up hope believing that one day she would finally have wasted too much money on all these frivolities and open the door to find Anton glaring down at her and be given the dressing down she so dearly deserved.

And needed.

And wanted.

Desperately.

She shook herself out of her reverie and came back into the house to find Anton sitting in the living room staring at the television - that wasn’t on. It was her turn to exhale through her nose, her derision quite clear. She turned on the tv as she passed before seating herself at the far end of the farthest chair and opened up her newspaper making as much unnecessary noise as she could possibly make.

Anton’s deep, withering gaze slowly made its way from the screen to her, but by now she was completely covered by the broadsheet with only her hands peaking out holding up the sides. He noticed she still wore her ring. Not all hope was lost then.

The newscaster quietly droned on in the background, Anton wondered if this was what domesticity was. Well it would have been, he supposed, without the arsenal of weapons they both had buried under the floorboards.

There was now a reporter standing outside a motel in El Paso, surrounded by police and caution tape. He talked about the bloodshed that occurred there and linked it back to similar incidents in other motels within the surrounding area.

At the mention of El Paso, the newspaper came down a little until she was peering over the top. She knew that was one of the places Anton had been and wondered for a morbid moment whether they would show any of his handiwork on the screen. The reporter mentioned something about locks being punched out of doors. From behind her paper she allowed herself to smirk, knowing his trademark.

“Your work, dear?” She finally asked, after raising the newspaper back up when the report was over.

“Some of it,” he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the television. He couldn’t help but hear the bite in her voice at the word “dear”

She offered no other comments or conversation and for a while they remained in this seemingly blissful image of home life. Until there was a knock interrupted the quiet.

Anton snapped his head towards the front door and wished he had his pistol to hand. She curled the corner of the paper down and peered out of the window.

“You’d better get that, darling, being the man of the house and all…” she said as she folded her newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table. The sarcasm dripping from every word.

He was skeptical, but she didn’t look too concerned so it was probably a neighbour. He rose slowly and stalked his way to the front door glancing through the peephole before releasing a long suffering sigh, recognising who was at the door.

He opened the door just wide enough to poke his head around. Andrews met his eye and his grip tightened around his medical bag.

“Mr Chigurh.” He gave a a tight smile and a nod.

“I didn’t call you.”

“N-no sir, but your wife did.”

“Why?” He practically seethed.

“Because you were half delirious and drunk when you attempted to fix yourself.” Anton heard behind him. She stepped forward, ushering Anton out of the way with a limp wave of her hand. “Come in, Andrews. Use the back room, keep him quiet, not that, that should be a problem,” she opened the door further to allow Andrews to enter.

Andrews squeezed himself between the small gap left by the couple who had both at one time or another been “patients” of his, as they entered into something of a stare off. He hurried down the hall and began to set up in the back bedroom. She had given him a brief explanation of what had happened and while he was aware Anton was more than capable of taking care of himself, it did sound like a rather serious incident that needed at least some modicum of professional care.

Anton eventually came into the room, with her in tow. She remained in the doorway as he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed.

“We’ll start with the arm, if you please, but I’d like to take a look at your leg too,”

“My leg is fine.”

A quiet scoff pulled their attention.

“Just do what the man says, Anton.”

Anton saw from his peripheral vision, Andrews gulp and exchange a tense and worried look between the two, then pretend to busy himself with his latex gloves.

She continued to stare at him, like a teacher deciding whether he needed admonishing. She must have known what he knew. The bone wasn’t set properly.

He needed help.

He did contemplate rolling his shirt sleeve up but it was too tight to do so without causing pain and he didn’t want to cut up yet another shirt. He slowly began to unbutton the first two buttons before stopping and flicking his eyes up to her. Her eyes narrowed in questioning then widened and barked out a laugh at his apparent shyness.

For a single moment, Anton saw warmth, even tenderness creep into her eyes. It quickly dissolved and she looked on in that cold and dispassionate way of hers. The whole moment reminded him of watching her at work, the way she could switch between different people, different personalities like a switch.

Once Anton begrudgingly finished unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, Andrews helped carefully peel off the shirt and started to examine the red and swollen area, all under the watchful gaze of her.

He tried. He tried so hard to show no weakness. Not in front of her. But with every poke and prod, he could feel his mask slipping. At one point Andrews must have struck a nerve because Anton flinched violently and let out a small shuddering gasp. He couldn’t help but look back at her.

She had the most inscrutable expression. Her eyes obstinately on his arm, but she could feel his eyes on her. Her eyes were moving, almost frantically, between Anton’s arm and whatever Andrews was doing with his hands.

After rummaging around in his medical bag, Andrews drew out a scalpel, he cut through the stitches Anton had obviously done the previous night and she watched as the deep crimson seeped out and started to bleed further down his arm and drip onto the plastic sheet spread over the bed and floor.

She was reminded of another time - all that blood, all that pain…

Anton gritted his teeth and kept his reactions to the pain as minimal as he could. He decided to anchored himself to her, tried to find his strength in her. His eyes never leaving her face as he waited for her to look back.

When she did finally look up at him, he was a little taken aback. Her jaw was stern, her mouth drawn in a thin line, her nostrils flared, her eyebrows drawn. But her eyes…

There was no anger, no contempt, no mocking, just total understanding, empathy and…fear. He watched as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Her lips parted as she drew a sharp inhale, like she wanted to say something, but snapped her mouth shut and immediately left the room.

Andrews muttered something of an apology followed by an almighty crack. Anton gave a chocked off scream mixed with a groan. He gripped the edge of the bed, the rustling of the plastic sheet almost deafening.

There were other cuts, other breaks that had to be made and throughout he felt weaker and weaker. At one point he had passed out.

He awoke to the pleasant relief of a cool towel being dabbed against his forehead, he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him. She met his gaze and lay the towel against his forehead. He felt the faintest brush of her fingers down his temple and cheek as she reached for something he couldn’t see. He then felt the unpleasant stab of a needle in his uninjured arm.

“Morphine.” She said quietly. “I found some, in your stash,” she pulled the needle out and placed a cotton wool ball over the small bead of blood that escaped the puncture wound.

“How long?” He all but croaked.

“A few hours. Andrews said it was worse than he thought, but it’s done. He suggested a cast, but,” she glanced over at his left arm, so did he. He saw instead of a plaster cast, an arm brace; “I thought this would be a better alternative,”

“What else?”

“The gunshot wound to your leg is already healing quite well, he didn’t need to do too much, the laceration on your other leg has a few stitches as well as the one on your forehead. You broke 3 ribs, but I imagine you already knew that, you’re to remain here for the next six weeks. After that…” she gulped as she tidied away the morphine and needle “You can go back to what you’d like,”

Anton now knew what was wrong. He never pretended to know about people and their seemingly unnecessary emotional ways - that was always her strength, but he always thought he’d at least be able to read her well enough. Perhaps the reason for his problem was the very reason she was upset and trying desperately to hide it behind her cool and facetious exterior. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here. For months. A wife needs her husband, and if he was honest; this husband needed his wife. The work gave him purpose, but she sustained him.

It was, perhaps, easier for her when they were both in the field, the fleeting moments when they might cross paths on separate jobs and frenzied, passionate nights in dirty motels when the adrenaline was coursing through both of them. It had been enough then to sustain them both, but after what happened, when the tables were turned on them, on her…

They both knew they always had to be prepared to die to do what they did, it was an inevitability and reality they confronted everywhere they went, but for her, it was not the fear of death, but a deep betrayal that had forced her to step away and after months and months of recovery, almost slipping into death’s arms so many times, she found that she would not - could not - return to that world, even after her arteries stitched themselves back together and wounds and scars faded to faint lines along her skin(Anton had counted and treated every one of them, with rapt attention).

He had stayed throughout her recovery, made sure she had everything should could ever need or want. He was the one who had saved her from bleeding out. He was the one who stitched her up. He was the one who relentlessly hunted down the ones who did this to her. He was the one who suggested marriage. He was the one who gave her the home he was currently laying in.

And yet despite it all.

He was the one who needed her.

So why did he stay away for so long?

It was something he continued to turn over in his head while she cleaned and tidied up her equipment. When she rose from her perch on the bed to leave, he attempted to sit up.

“Mi querida…”

“No.” She said, finally broken. She gently pushed him back down and picked up a tin tub that was filled with murky red water. “Ve a dormir.” He always enjoyed hearing her speak in his native tongue, but now she sounded so fragile, so heartbroken, so alone.

She left without looking back and closed the door behind her. She emptied the tub, put away the morphine, did the washing up. She did anything to keep herself busy, but the second she stopped a loud and horrible sob ripped it’s way out of her and she could do nothing but slide herself to the floor and try to silence her own cries.

And from his bed, Anton heard it all.

[rainbowsky]

Hi RBS. Have you noticed a trend in c-dramas where the FL is portrayed as clingy, childish, jumpy, needy, desperate for attention etc. I haven't even listed all the adjectives here. So I began watching The Longest Promise and I am predicting the same characteristics. Other examples, to name a few: Bai Feng Jiu in TMOPB, the FL of Love and Redemption, Little Bone in Journey of Flower, Lin Xi in Love and Destiny.

Do directors and producers think how they portray FL is romantic, socially accepted of ladies? Sometimes the good acting of ML is washed down by the portrayal of the FLs. Of course I have seen some FLs being strong and independent minded like in A Dream of Splendour. Liu Yufei did a fantastic job there.

Is it a cultural issue when females are portrayed like that?

Kindly share your thoughts on this.

Hi Kathomi! 😊

This is a topic I feel incredibly underqualified to comment on. I don't know enough about it, and I don't have anywhere near enough experience with C-dramas or with women's issues in China (or with how these characters are received by audiences in China) to be able to have any sort of intelligent response.

However, I asked my sister who has watched dozens and dozens and dozens of C-dramas, and this was her response:

There are several different genres and I don't know enough about the different categories (I am just not a category nerd) but there are definitely distinct genres that span a "coming of age" storyline for the FL. The ones mentioned here are good examples.

In these, the FL is adorable and mischievous and naive at the beginning, and her quest leads her to grow and become formidable in her own way. Bai Fengjiu is actually less this way than say, Orchid in Love Between Fairy and Devil.

The adorable, cute FL is pretty much the equivalent, in my mind, of Manic Pixie Dream Girl (RBS note: she's talking about this). It's really present in every culture's media, as far as I can see. It's just one of many tropes out there.

There are loads of dramas out there with kickass FLs.

Who Rules the World has a strong female lead and she's played by the incomparable Zhao Lusi, and the ML is Yang Yang, so there's one to watch. Also Lu Zhao Yao and Xu Kai in The Legends. Legend of Fei has a strong FL too, of course.

If there's anything that I personally can say about this topic I know nothing about, it is that it is never a good idea to paint with too broad a brush. I think that actually it's always wisest to narrow our statements/assumptions down as much as we can.

For example, instead of saying "It seems like Chinese dramas tend to have these kinds of characters, and it might be reflection of Chinese culture" it is better to say, "It seems like the Chinese dramas that I have seen so far have these kinds of characters. Perhaps I'm watching dramas that have characters that are incompatible with my interests."

I think that it is almost always a good idea to avoid assuming something is cultural that could be explained in some other way. When we make cultural assumptions, that begins to rub elbows with stereotyping or worse.

Not to say that is where you were coming from or that this isn't in fact a cultural trope - like I said, I don't know anything about the particular issue - but it's something that came into my mind when I read your ask.

I'm going to sound like a broken record here, but I've been watching The Youth Memories and the story is outstanding. There are characters with real depth and who face struggles that are realistic, interesting and emotionally compelling. The acting is great, the writing is great, and the women are strong and interesting.

So maybe try watching a different story if you're not into the one you are watching.

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Ooh I’m torn but 1 simply because I was rewatching Rocky and the thought of Jane the boxer sounds too good to pass up

Boxer AU with a twist! I know nothing about boxing except that it is fun to watch! I am shaming my army boxer grandfather right now, but here we go.

“Listen to me,” Barry Frost starts the conversation like a father, cutting the engine of his Buick and turning to Maura with a large hand to her shoulder. It’s a scorcher outside, and turning off the car means turning off the air conditioning, which Maura regrets almost as much as the kind look in his brown eyes. The worried look. “I know the elbow’s set you back, and we’re graspin’ at straws here.” 

“So you’ve brought me to the one gym in Boston to which I’ve vowed never to return? By tricking me into it? You can’t just tell me we’re going to Hannah Grisham’s office. She’s one of the best physical therapists on the eastern seaboard, Barry. You don’t dangle a carrot like that in front of a fellow doctor. Especially when its a lie.”

“I’m sorry, but desperate times, Maura. The scans are clear - the inflammation is pretty much gone, the pain is…”

“Psychosomatic,” Maura admits, possibly for the first time. She leans said elbow on the windowsill and lets her gaze drift to the bright blue sky above them. She thinks of the missed punch that hyperextended the elbow, which handed her her first loss. 

She got hurt and she lost the fight.

The line from point A, failure, to point B, the mental block preventing her from getting back in the ring, seems clear now. Repetitive hyperextension trauma has been with her since she’d abandoned her medical practice to fight full time. Perhaps it makes sense that such a banal boxer’s reality would be the thing to undo her. 

“I was gonna say elusive, hard to pin down, but yeah,” Frost says quietly. He rubs his chest, hand in a circle against the ribbed tank under his cream-colored guayabera, an unconscious thinking habit he’s had since Maura’s known him. “It sure as hell is eluding me.”

“But you’re my trainer. Why do I have to be… here?” Maura succumbs to a wave of petulance. She knows why she’s here. She just hates that here is the best place to get her… what does Barry call it? Mojo? To get her mojo back.

“Because I’m stumped, Doctor Isles,” he confesses. “I’m stumped and maybe a fresh pair of eyes’ll help us get you back into fighting shape.”

“Jane’s eyes are not fresh,” Maura, now drowning in waves of childish defiance, breathes. That’s all she can do, because she’s not sure she wants to be an adult about this. She’s not sure she wants to be friendly, even if… christ. Even if Jane might be the best thing for her at the moment. “Jane’s eyes are the opposite of fresh.”

“Might as well be, for how long you’ve iced each other out,” Barry grumbles. “I got you a session. She agreed to clear the gym for you. I’ll even circle the block, or go get a drink or somethin’, so you two can hash it out in private. But this is a big ask of her, after all the shit you two went through. I owe her big. I’d at least like to get something out of it.”

“And you didn’t think to consult me before asking for this favor?” Maura counters.

Barry laughs. “I knew you woulda said ‘hell no.’ C’mon. Let’s get this over with.” He steps out of the car with one last smack to her shoulder, and she shakes her head. He’s right. She would have definitely said hell no. But the only thing she wants less than seeing Jane again is losing her career.

So she steps out into the oppressive July sun and approaches the storefront of North End Boxing with trepidation.

“Hey Jane!” Barry shouts into the gym space, leading Maura in. 

Maura adjusts her duffel higher on her shoulder, taking in her surroundings. The ring sits in the middle of the floor plan, Jane’s crown jewel- some things never change. There is some updated strength training equipment in the back, and the bags to the left side boast some replacements. The treadmills and rowing machines mock her from her right, conjuring up times Jane punished her with cardio before sparring. “I shouldn’t be here,” Maura whispers to Barry.

“The hell you don’t,” Barry counters. “You used to run this place.”

“The Rizzolis have always run this place,” Maura says. She nods to the giant banner of Frankie Rizzoli, Junior holding up a championship belt with a shiner and an exhausted smile on his face. Action posters of Jane in title matches, just as victorious, twice as vicious, hang on the back wall on either side of a trophy case. That trophy case also contains a framed, signed picture of their father delivering the knockout blow to an opponent already halfway to his knees.

Jane herself comes from around the corner where the private owners’ area. “Been a long time, Frost,” she says. Her face is still handsome. Even more so when she smirks at him and shows her perfect teeth. She’s got her usual training look on: black Nike sports bra, black running shorts with compression leggings sewn in. There is one glaring difference: she wears white training Nikes, instead of her high ankle boxing shoes. The stretch of Jane’s crew socks over her too-thin legs, halfway to her calves, has always captivated Maura, but this time it’s out of place. 

Jane catches her staring. “You’re boxin’ today, not me,” she says, reading Maura’s mind. She holds one foot out to put her shoe on display. 

“No one’s boxing, not yet,” Maura refuses to smile. Jane’s effervescence hasn’t faltered, and it shines despite the darkness of her features. 

“Maura-” Frost tries.

“No no, she’s right. You got her in the door, but she’s gotta wanna be here if this little plan is gonna work,” Jane crosses her arms. Maura detests the challenge leveled at her in Jane’s brown eyes, though her belly flips when she glowers right back. Barry stands to the side of them with a hesitant little half-grin, like he doesn’t quite know what to offer to the conversation. 

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “She’s not wrong, Maura. Work the pain out on her. Punish her,” he motions toward Jane.

“That’s not the temptation you think it is, Barry,” Maura tells him. 

“Yeah, she already did all that,” Jane teases. “A year ago.”

That sours Maura’s mood again. “You know what? Maybe a little sparring would do me some good,” she responds. She gets close, fingers still tight against the strap of her bag, and even though she has to look up at Jane, it’s still one of defiance. 

“Frost? Get out,” barks Jane. 

“Jane, I drove Maura here. She’s-”

“You can go,” sighs Maura. She walks over to the ring and sets her bag down, rolling her neck. It’s the first stretch that signals the beginning of an entire routine and Barry looks excited enough to wet himself. 

“You got it. There’s a salami sandwich over at Graziano’s that’s callin’ my name. You just text me when you need me to come get you, a’right?” He says with his hand already on the front door, whole demeanor altered. “Have a good workout.”

He leaves the two women alone, and they’ve already begun to pace around each other in routine. Maura ties her honey hair up in a pony tail, unzips her windbreaker meant more to guard her fair skin from the sun than to keep her warm. When she straightens up, Jane already holds a jump rope in her hand, outstretched towards Maura.

Maura narrows her gaze again. “Where’s the other one?”

“This is your workout, not mine,” Jane says. “I already got cardio in. At five. This mornin’. Like I always do - I didn’t think you’d forget.”

Maura breaks the icy exterior for just a moment of whining. She might even stamp her foot. She hates the rope. “I didn’t forget, but you know how I feel about jumping rope and so you should have saved yours to do with me in miserable solidarity.”

Jane guffaws, her belly laugh deep and booming. Maura rubs her lips together so she doesn’t join in. “I can’t argue with that except that Frost didn’t call me until like nine.”

“Meaning Frankie had already worked you out and served you your breakfast of raw eggs,” Maura gags for show.

“I don’t do that anymore,” Jane tells her with a tinge of red on her cheeks. “Now stop stallin.” 

Maura snatches the rope with disdain and drops it on the floor while she runs through her stretches. She sits and pulls one foot against the opposite thigh, leaning forward to get a nice, strong tug in her calves. She runs through it for both legs, and then stands to do some hip rotations, and Jane watches quietly. “What?” Maura asks to break the silence.

“Legs feel good?” Jane answers, sort of. She leans one elbow on the closest ring post and stares at the legs in question. 

Probably Jane’s favorite part of her, if Maura had to guess. Jane had always praised Maura’s footwork, but with the way Jane looks at her legs now, in skin tight yoga leggings, she’s not thinking about footwork. She’s thinking about they feel wrapped around her waist, the only clothes on either athlete the layer of sweat built up from a workout between the sheets.

And now, Maura’s thinking about it. She starts with the rope just to send all that noxious sexual energy somewhere. “Legs feel fine,” she says as she starts slow, reacquainting herself with the whistle of the rope, with the jumpstart of her heart when her feet start to dance.

There is art in the torture, she’ll concede. 

“Legs’ve always been fine, legs’ve never been the problem.” Maura likes how the rope makes her normally verbose speech choppy and efficient. She likes how it makes her sound like Jane. 

“It’s the elbow,” Jane says that part for her. “I’ve dealt with it before. The dead arm is fuckin’ demoralizin’.” She talks while she backs away from Maura, and goes to the lockers toward the back of the gym. She pulls out a pair of white pads and slams the locker shut. “You bring your own gloves?”

“Of course,” Maura calls out, and the volume of it burns her lungs. Jane is annoying for having made her do it. 

“Well leave ‘em in your bag. You’re usin’ some of mine,” Jane says, and she grabs those from another cubby area.

“I like my gloves,” Maura huffs. “I want my gloves.”

“Too damn bad. They’re all wrapped up in your psychobabble bullshit right now,” Jane argues. She drops the gloves on the side of the ring and adjusts the pads until they’ll fit just right. 

Maura wants to snark back but she catches sight of Jane’s hands. Those capable, deadly hands, with a scar in the middle of each one. They didn’t talk about the obsessed fan, about Hoyt, before they got together, when Frank Senior was training both Jane and Maura. They didn’t talk about him after, either, when they dominated their respective classes. They didn’t even talk about him following the blow to the head that ended Jane’s career, when they said awful things to each other and devolved into an ugly type of resentment.

And now, they haven’t talked at all since Jane drank herself into a stupor and climbed drunk into a car with her brother. They haven’t talked since Maura walked out with statistics about concussions and alcohol on her lips, love mysteriously absent. A year ago. “Psychosomatic,” Maura corrects weakly, her own voice quiet in the face of the flood of memory washing over her. 

Soon enough, Jane’s scarred hands disappear in to the curved focus pads. “You got two more minutes,” says Jane, busy again with preparation.

“We’re doing padwork already?” Maura asks.

“Yeah,” Jane says. She thumps the pads together and rolls her own neck. “You get all mixed up when you’re punchin’, accordin’ to Frost. So, while I would normally send you straight to the weight rack, punchin’ is the only way we’re gonna break you outta this.”

Maura is pleased with the words coming out of Jane’s mouth for the first time today. “Ok then,” she says. She wants nothing more than to throw fists at her ex. “You won’t get any argument from me.”

“Didn’t think so,” Jane says. She grins to let Maura know she’s seen the saucy glint in Maura’s eyes. “Ok, enough of that. Get some water and let’s go.”

Maura, thankful for the reprieve, drops the rope and throws her head back. She puts her hands on her hips, sweat already dripping from her neck to her chest, already staining the front and back of her gray tank. After she squeezes water into her mouth from her bottle, she realizes Jane is studying. She licks her lips just to be a tease.

Whether consciously or not, Jane bites her own lip. 

“You know I’ve never been fond of Everlast,” Maura grumbles like she can’t be pleased when she grabs the gloves waiting for her.

“How can you be a boxer and not like Everlast? You have never made sense, Princess,” Jane tells her, holding up the pads.

“It’s the limited weight-”

“Aht! Save it,” Jane interrupts. “I don’t wanna argue before you even get started. Now c’mon. Show me what you got.”

Maura takes a deep, eyes-closed kind of breath to clear her mind. Instead, she smells Jane, lavender perfume and gym equipment. Her mind races. 

“Quit overthinkin’ it,” Jane goads. “Hit me.”

Maura throws her first punch. She barely registers that she does it, but the pad sings and Jane whistles. “You asked,” Maura says.

“And you delivered,” Jane replies. She takes Maura’s slow combos with some grace. “But stop pussyfootin’ around. It’s me. You know I can take it.”

“I don’t want to reinjure myself, Jane,” Maura chides, and continues her methodical warmup.

“Bullshit. Timid and tender is what got you here. Time to get a little messy. A little mean,” Jane blocks, finding the rhythm of Maura’s work quickly. 

“That’s your style,” Maura responds. 

“So? Try it on,” Jane says. Each hit on the pad, Jane catching them dead center, reminds Maura how lucky she is she never had to fight Jane. It’d be the hardest fight of her life. Jane knows it, too, which makes her insufferable. “Won’t kill ya.”

“It just might,” Maura quips, but she adds a little more power. Imagines being Jane, controlling Jane’s arms, what that would feel like. The dissociation lessens the tingle in her elbow and she slips into a 1, 2, 3 combo. Huh. “Faster,” she demands.

“Been awhile since you said that to me,” Jane chuckles, winking when Maura glances up at her. 

Maura speeds up, glancing a blow on Jane’s forearm as a warning shot, but she smirks. “And it’ll be a lot longer yet,” she says, “especially in that context.”

“But not never again, huh?” Jane gives her that pretty boy smile that she knows is Maura’s weakness. Well, one of them. Another is when she talks shop. “Remind me to work in some dumbbell shadowboxing next time. Get your speed back up.”

“Am I telegraphing the hook?” Maura asks.

“Little bit,” Jane answers. “But maybe I’m just good at reading your body.”

That pesters Maura. The innuendo is unprovoked, more pointed. “Watch yourself,” she growls. She punches harder.

“I’ve been takin’ care of myself in the time you’ve been away. After you bailed,” Jane says. “You ever need to blow off some steam, you know, the old fashioned way, I’m around.” Maura lands a vicious jab from which Jane should recoil, given its force. Jane doesn’t. She leans instead, steps forward. “That was never the problem between us, huh?”

“You didn’t hear me say ‘watch it?’”

Jane continues. “Not a drop to drink in a year. I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you,” she leads. “Who could?”

“You’d need… a lot more than sobriety,” Maura cuts. 

Jane doesn’t seem to mind. “I thought about you so much, I watched your last fight. Gotta tell ya, you stank it up. No guts in that performance.” Maura’s pulse pounds in her temple, her body so worked up that she didn’t realize how fast she’s been fighting. Jane’s faster, though. “No speed, either,” Jane says, and she proves it by smacking Maura in the face with one of the pads. 

Maura’s right hand thunders in from the side, already in motion before Jane could even finish the taunt. Glove connects with Jane’s cheek, and another blow explodes against her ribs just before Maura lands the next face punch that flattens Jane on her back. 

“Jane!” Maura calls out when the anger dissipates with the sickening thwack of Jane’s body on the hard floor. She tosses her gloves off and straddles Jane’s torso, stabilizing Jane’s head between her hands.

Jane smirks, however, gaze alight and alert. “For someone who was so worried about my concussion, you sure got no qualms about a blow to the head.”

“You provoked-! You provoked me on purpose,” Maura realizes mid-utterance. “From the gloves to the comment about the guts.” She stills holds Jane’s face, and of their own accord, her thumbs stroke the crow’s feet just starting to come in around Jane’s eyes. 

“Any pain?” Jane presses, cocky as ever.

Maura blinks, and then gasps. “No. None.”

“Hatin’ me’s a good look on you,” Jane tells her, nodding to Maura’s figure. “It’s pretty good for your fightin’, too, apparently.”

“Do you think you can get me to feel like this all the time?” Maura asks, serious.

“Pissed off? Murderous? I think we’ve established I’m pretty good at that,” says Jane. 

“No. Well, maybe. Pain-free,” Maura pleads.

“No guarantees,” Jane replies. She puts a hand on Maura’s thigh and pats softly. Maura lets her. “But if you wanna try it, wanna try fightin’ pissed, this is the gym for you.”

Maura chuckles and is shocked to find that it’s wet, that she’s crying. “I’ll say.”

“Missed you, kid,” Jane tells her. Her voice trembles with its own wave of emotion, but her eyes stay dry. Maura’s thumb trails to Jane’s lower lip, and rubs the plumpest part of it.

“Is this going to work? Are we going to kill each other? Are you going to resent me for doing what you can’t?” Maura asks, one after the other. 

“Don’t tell anyone that works here,” Jane begins with a theatrical whisper, “but takin’ care of myself might include seein’ a shrink. From time to time. And I think that trainin’ you would be the honor of my life.” Jane finishes. Maura hiccups with new tears. And the broadest smile she’s sported in weeks. “So I’ll do it for free - on one condition.”

“For free, hmm?” Maura asks, buys herself some time to wipe her face, “what’s the condition?”

“You go on a date with me,” Jane says with a smirk.

“Absolutely not,” Maura, assured of Jane’s well-being, smacks her shoulder. 

“One date. C’mon,” Jane pleads. “Anywhere you wanna go.”

Maura sighs. “Just one? After that I don’t have to go on any more?”

“Well, after one you’re gonna wanna go on a lot more, but sure, I’ll keep my word. One date,” Jane answers.

“Then we go to Maison de la Mer,” Maura asserts. Jane glowers. “And you eat what I order for you, and then we never speak of it ever again.”

“Really? The fancy French place with the plate of oysters that costs a rent payment?” Jane gripes, but then she props herself up on her elbows. “Y’know what? Deal. Now let’s seal it with a kiss.”

Maura scoffs and pushes her back down before getting up. “You’re intolerable.”

“Whatever. Still pickin’ you up at seven tomorrow,” Jane sits up while Maura throws her things in her bag.

“It takes weeks to get a reservation,” says Maura as she zips and tosses it on her shoulder.

“I know a guy who knows a guy. Who would love a Frankie Rizzoli, Junior autograph. You don’t think I called that in as soon as I knew you were comin’?” Jane retorts.

Maura’s jaw drops for a split second, and then she throws the towel she’d just used to wipe her face at Jane’s. “In. tolerable,” she repeats.

“And I better see your ass here at four thirty tomorrow morning!” Jane yells, and Maura chuckles quietly now that she knows her face can’t be seen. She pushes out into the rippling heat without another word, and pulls her phone out to call Barry. She can’t believe she’s looking forward to getting her ass kicked in the morning. By Jane fucking Rizzoli.

[purefandomonium]

It's The Thought That Counts Chapter V

Despite his words as he told Rody to take a day off, Vincent ends up being the one who can’t sleep that night. Hey lays awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling so intently it may as well catch fire. The featureless paint does little more than act as the perfect canvas for the pitiful image of the broken waiter that’s been haunting his thoughts for hours now. His heart clenches with a deep pain he’s forgotten he could feel as he recalls how hurt Rody had sounded. It had taken every bit of willpower he had not to pull the sobbing man into an embrace right then and there.

He can’t help but ponder when he’d become so damn soft. There’s no denying his favoritism for Rody; he can’t argue against his obvious concern for the man as he cried his eyes out in an otherwise peaceful scenario. And even if he could come up with reasonable excuses for either of those points, he doubts he can craft a rebuttal to the fact that he’s laying awake into the wee hours of the morning thinking about what should be just another employee.

…Just another employee that can never seem to do wrong no matter how badly he screws up. Who gets away with so much while anyone else gets shown the door for breathing the wrong way. Who’s barely put together enough to be considered an adult and yet Vince allows the childish and brash behavior to exist in his perfect little world. Rody is just another employee, but one Vince actually enjoys having around somehow.

Ugh, what is he doing?

He shuffles over under the covers with a grunt and turns his glare to the curtained window. No answers await him there either. He wants to just fall asleep, worry about all this nonsense tomorrow or, preferably, never again. His tangled thoughts won’t let the matter go, however. Even if he could calm his jaded mind enough to sleep, he knows the cycle will start over the moment he wakes up.

Because try as he might, he can’t fight against the long-forgotten emotions that have blossomed in his heart, let alone their cause.

So what is it then? What should he do? What can he do in this frustratingly difficult situation? His fondness for Rody extends from the part inside himself he thought he smothered years ago, and it refuses to be shoved into darkness again. Pretending nothing has happened and treating Rody like any other employee is out of the question. Firing him an impossibility that wouldn’t occur even if hell itself froze over.

That leaves him with only two options. Either he follows his logic and continues to give Rody additional chances, free baking lessons, and his own hidden kindness while still keeping him at arm’s length. Or…

Or he follows his twisted heart and lets himself get closer. He’d take small steps at first—test the waters and all that. If things remained calm, then perhaps that would mean he’d have a chance. Maybe he wouldn’t be pushed away, thrown overboard into his flood of emotions and left to drown.

…………

“I… You’re disgusting! I can’t believe you!”

The force of the shove isn’t hard enough to send him to the ground, but the words hit like a truck. His knees buckle and suddenly he feels like he weighs a thousand pounds.

“I always knew you were a freak, but this is-“ it cuts off, as though no words can describe the disgust. “You’re sick… I don’t even know what to say!”

Something inside himself darkens then, and he clenches his fists tight enough for his nails to draw blood. His chest feels heavy and numb as defensive vines wrap around his bleeding heart. “Then don’t say anything.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife and silences any further complaints. “If you do, you’ll regret it for every second of your miserable life.”

…………

Vince gasps and bolts upright at the sound of his alarm. He shakes the hazy memories from his mind with a tired sigh. His arm instinctively quiets the beeping as he sits there, wondering when the hell the time passed so quickly. He groans at having spent a sleepless night thinking about Rody of all things. The damn fool is probably still sound asleep, no doubt about to be late today-

He stops partway out the bed as he recalls giving Rody the day off after his surprise breakdown. He sighs again at the thought of being down his only waiter and hopes there are no call offs. One of the cooks can fill in for Rody and it’s not like they have a ton of reservations today. Still, it’ll be bothersome to deal with. His day’s already less than great and he hasn’t even gotten dressed yet.

***Sunday Morning***

The restaurant’s hours are shorter today, giving patrons enough time for breakfast or brunch before they go about the rest of their weekend. Things should still run smoothly. If they don’t, Vince will find himself out of a few more staff members.

The stifling intensity surrounding their boss doesn’t go unnoticed by the cooks. They go about their routine as Vincent barks at Sebastien to stop his prep work and get to waiting tables. Though they speak as little as possible to the man, they can all tell he’s had a rough night. He’s tired and exceptionally grouchy, not to mention almost eager to berate even the tiniest of offenses. While they get a collective earful for the egregious mistake of allowing a single blueberry to hit the floor, the sound of breaking glass comes from the dining area.

Vince is out of the kitchen doors in an instant, teeth grinding and a vein about to burst as he reminds himself not to yell at his staff in front of the guests. The sight before him gives him pause.

Sebastien is standing at the far end of the dining area, and the cause of the racket is an elderly couple near the front. He gives the fill-in a look before moving to stop the husband from attempting to clean up the glass.

“Please, sir, don’t worry about the mess. I’ll have my waiter bring you a new drink right away,” he says, customer service smile warring against tight muscles. Though his teeth aren’t about to crack anymore the vein in his head is still taut with pressure. He sweeps up the mess before cleaning up the liquid. He tries to ignore the way Sebastien’s hands shake as a fresh glass of wine is placed atop the table above him.

Floor spotless, Vince stands and breezes past Rody’s substitute, ignorant to the way the man nearly melts in relief as he disappears back into the kitchen.

He spends several minutes looking over the cooks and making sure they don’t screw up before the nagging ache behind his eyes gets to him. That vein still feels ready to burst. “I need a minute,” he says before he barges out the back door for air.

No one knows if they should expect him to be calmer or angrier after this.

***After Closing****

Vince bids the cooks farewell with little more than a grunt as he holes up in his office to go over the weekly hours and payroll. This is perhaps his least favorite thing to do, yet he refuses to let anyone else handle the inner workings of the restaurant. Much like a cat hissing at an attempt to take something from it, Vince snarls and sneers whenever anyone dare suggest he hire someone to crunch the numbers for him. This is his restaurant and he doesn’t need some outsider handling it.

A couple hours later and everything is in order, paychecks ready to be given out. He’s tired, not that he’s ever not tired, but today is worse than usual mostly because of the sleepless night he had. He’s ready for a hot bath before collapsing into bed to sleep the remaining day away. He should probably eat too, it’s been—he glances at the clock—several hours. Despite the hunger in his gut, the disgust he feels at having to choke down yet another tasteless mess on a plate makes him consider skipping the meal.

He sighs. This isn’t any better for him than getting hung up on Rody is. Speaking of, he wonders if he’ll be alright for tomorrow’s shift. He’s had a whole day to pull himself together—still does, as it’s only five-thirty. If it were anyone else Vince would say they’d be fine. However, this is Rody, and he’s about as put together as a box of loose Legos at the best of times. Considering last night’s display, it’s probably safe to say the box has been kicked down the stairs. Perhaps he should check up on him, just to be sure.

He brings a hand to his face and lets out a tired groan at letting his thoughts wander back to the waiter. This is getting ridiculous. In all his years, he’s never been so sure of something yet so lost on what to do. He removes his hand to reach for his cigarettes but stops when he catches sight of the landline.

It’s stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid and childish of him to be doing this, and yet…

He dials the number before he can stop himself.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Rody.” Vince’s eyes widen when he hears his own voice. Clearing his throat, he speaks louder and firmer, like he’s not at all relieved to talk to the man. “How are you feeling? I wanted to make sure you were fine to come in tomorrow.”

Rody sits up, the shock of being called by his boss out of the blue bringing him to full alertness. He mutes the TV before responding. “I’m ok. Better,” he adds as the embarrassing memory returns to him. “I’ll be in tomorrow.” ‘With a surprise,’ he thinks, glancing at the tray atop the counter. “How were things today? I hope it wasn’t too bad without me.” He grins even though Vince can’t see it.

Maybe it’s his exhausted mind, or even the faint distortion of the phone, but there’s something about the sound of Rody’s voice that makes him want to hear more of it. “It was fine. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” What else is there to say? He’s never been one for conversation, not that he and Rody are close enough for small talk. He doesn’t even feel like talking, he just wants to listen. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better.” He swallows the sudden tightness in his throat as he shoves down his idiotic thoughts. In retaliation, they prevent him from speaking a goodbye.

Rody listens to the awkward silence on the other end, unsure of how to remedy it. “Everything alright, Vince?” he questions the receiver.

At last his voice returns to him. “Yes… I was just… reading over some papers. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rody. Take care.”

“Bye, Vince.”

He hangs up and holds his head in his hands with a sigh. He just knows that tonight will be another long, sleepless endeavor.

Sure enough, his mind roils with difficult emotions and confusion.

***Monday Morning***

Vince raises a brow at the sound of the back door and is met with a nervous smile from Rody. His eyes soon find the tray he’s holding. “Did you-”

“I didn’t stay up late this time, I promise! Besides, they’re just muffins.”

His smile is much too eager for ‘just muffins’ but Vince relents and peels back the foil. “You frosted them.” It’s messy, and it’s clear he didn’t let them cool enough as most of it has melted or slid off the tops. He still smiles at the sight, though it’s laden with fatigue.

“You good, Vince?” Rody asks as the man takes a bite. “You look more tired than I did the other day.”

He chews slowly as he thinks of an answer. He can’t outright admit he’s been losing sleep because of him. “It’s nothing. I just haven’t slept well.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“You should let these cool first before you attempt to frost them,” he deflects as he takes another. He stops suddenly.

Rody wants to call him out on the redirect, but before he can Vince interjects.

“You added less lemon,” he states plainly. Beneath the thick goo that can only be store bought frosting he can tell there’s not as sharp a twinge of lemon as there usually is in Rody’s desserts. He’s neither here nor there about it, he just happened to notice.

He sets the tray atop the counter and scratches his head, further messing up his already unkempt hair. The thought of upsetting Vince ends up being the thing that derails his train of thought. “Yeah… I, uh… I wanted to be able to eat some too,” he says meekly.

The image of Rody sputtering and gagging as he chugs two glasses of water reenters his mind, and Vince can’t stop the laughter. In his tired state, it’s infinitely more amusing. “I suppose that’s fair,” he says after he regains control. “Especially since I ate the rest of the pie.” It made for an interesting dinner yesterday, but he has no regrets.

Rody’s taken aback at the unusual display of humor before him. He can’t recall having ever heard Vince laugh, even when he tried to get a reaction with jokes. It’s… weirdly nice. Endearing even. The light smile across his features almost cancels out his exhaustion, and it reaches his eyes with ease. The same eyes that are normally filled with malice and irritation are full of mirth that’s directed at Rody of all people.

And there’s a part of him that likes the attention, that’s just over the moon at how he’s the cause.

The two of them smile at each other in a comfortable silence. Rody snaps out of it first, saying he’s glad Vince still likes the food before he starts getting the dining area ready.

Vincent, having been up much earlier than normal and already finished with his morning tasks, pretends to work as he discretely watches Rody through the kitchen window. Whenever he passes by or turns around, Vince’s focus is on some trivial task that doesn’t need doing. He knows it’s childish and better suited to a schoolgirl than the successful adult he is, but he can’t help it.

Rody knows something’s off with Vince. He might be a little oblivious sometimes—ok, maybe all the time—but he’s not that stupid. Vince laughing is already Twilight Zone levels of bizarre, but the way he’s watching him with an odd level of gentle intensity is just plain unusual. Whenever the waiter chances a peek back at the kitchen window, Vince is looking elsewhere and acting like he’s got better things to do.

An idea pops into his head and he checks the time. They’ve still got twenty minutes before the cooks show up.

“Hey, Vince?” Rody calls as he finishes polishing the last table to the chef’s desired level of perfection. His ears catch the questioning grunt from somewhere in the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, can we maybe do another baking lesson tonight? I found this recipe for cake pops that sounds fun.” The tastiness of cake in the convenience of a bite-sized treat, what’s not to love?

Vince hummed, mentally listing the tools needed for such a recipe. “Do you have the proper trays and sticks for those? Because you can’t just use a regular baking sheet.”

“You can’t?”

He doesn’t stop the eye roll as Rody’s naive confusion reaches his ears. Before he can retort, the waiter reenters the kitchen and Vince is met with the matching expression. His brows knit together as he realizes the idiot means it. “Rody… It’s cake batter you’ll be working with.” He doesn’t bother to hide the incredulity in his voice.

“Well yeah but… Can’t you just, like, shape it a little and then put the sticks in?”

“Wha- No! Rody, it’s…” He glances over at the tray of muffins on the counter. Rody made those and many other treats, and he still hasn’t learned how batter works? “You have to bake it in the shape it needs to be in otherwise it’ll just be a puddle.” There’s no denying his feelings, but he’s certainly questioning how Rody of all people is able to make him feel anything other than irritation. This fool will be the death of him.

Rody shrivels a bit under Vince’s judgmental stare. “Oh,” he says plainly, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Needing a break from the pure ridiculousness, Vince’s eyes go to Rody’s tie—or rather, the loose fabric that’s supposed to be a tie. He thinks about it and realizes the waiter’s never once worn the thing correctly. “Fix your tie,” he says to the silence between them.

“Oh! Uh, right.” Now that he thinks, he’s pretty sure it’s never been tied. Oops. His fingers fumble with it as he struggles to figure it out.

He watches the awkward movements keenly. “Do you… not know how?” he questions.

Rody gives a sheepish grin as his hands falter. How can this get any more embarrassing? “I…” He has no excuses to give Vince’s firm stare. “…No,” he sighs. “I never learned.”

He says nothing as he moves closer. Slowly, he brings his hands up. He watches Rody carefully for any signs of discomfort. “Honestly. I don’t know how you still manage to breathe on your own.” The quip is said in his usual flat tone to maintain what little sense of normalcy he has left in the situation.

The waiter flinches a bit at the hands reaching for his neck, only to freeze in place as they begin fixing up his tie. He can't read the expression on the other man's face and his thoughts seize to a halt as he debates if he should be nervous or not. For half a second too long, he finds his gaze hyper focused on Vince's features.

“You know,” Vince begins, expert hands finishing the task in moments, “you do have a dress code to follow.” He keeps his eyes focused on anything but the waiter's as he straightens his collar before smoothing out his shirt and vest. Job done, he lets his hands linger on either of the waiter’s upper arms and is too aware of the firmness beneath the skin.

“Heh… Yeah…” The weak words are all he can get out amidst his confusion at Vince’s sudden act of domesticity. When the chef finally looks at his face and their eyes meet, he swears he sees a flash of something before the younger man backs away. His arms feel cold in his absence.

“I’ll let you know what I figure out for another lesson since you apparently don’t understand anything about baking.” Though his tone is a bit harsh, the small smirk that tugs on his lips is a dead giveaway he doesn’t mean it. His mind roars with inconvenient hopeful thoughts and he goes to move the tray of frosted muffins to his office before they can seep through his mask of indifference. The tray gives him an idea. “How about we try cupcakes this time? Muffins are fine but they aren’t technically supposed to be frosted.”

“Isn’t that what makes them cupcakes?” Rody asks as he snatches one before Vince can cross the threshold. The sigh he receives tells him he’s wrong and the chef is disappointed in his ignorance. He gulps down a bite as he tries to figure out the other man’s flip-flopping emotions. One second he’s sweeter than the cheap icing he bought and the next he’s cold as ice. He doesn’t know what to make of it but the mystery is strangely intriguing. It makes him want to figure it all out.

“Cupcakes and muffins are different, Rody. Perhaps we’ll work on that next.”

He swallows the last bite and wipes the icing smudges from his fingers. Guilty smile in place, he asks, “Can we maybe try strawberry flavor?” He knows he started all this for Vince and his penchant for sour citrus, but he’s getting real sick of the scent and taste of lemon. Any more, and he thinks his sense of taste will be ruined.

Vince ponders that for a moment. ‘Strawberry, huh? I can work with that.’ To Rody, he says, “Sure. Let me get some stuff in order, and perhaps tomorrow night we can work on it.”

“Cool.”

As if on cue, the cooks file in and the restaurant soon finds itself in its usual rhythm.

***

Later that night, after making a run to get the needed goods for their next lesson, Vince lies awake in bed once more. Only this time, his thoughts are a mix of nervous excitement rather than worry and confusion. He might actually have his answer, his motivation to continue to encourage the emotions that have spent too many years buried.

Rody didn’t pull away. He didn’t pull away. Does he suspect anything? Why else wouldn’t he have shied away from his touch? Didn’t he see Vince’s actions as weird? Vince certainly did. He was all too aware of the disconcerting strangeness the moment his hands acted of their own volition. Yet Rody didn’t say or do anything that suggested he found the action offensive. 

He doesn’t know what to make of it. How is someone as hopelessly obvious as Rody so hard to read? He sighs and tries to settle his frantic thoughts. There’s no benefit to getting worked up like a teenage girl with a crush. All he can do is continue along with his original plan of testing the waters and seeing how the waiter reacts. He looks forward to tomorrow’s baking lesson with an odd sort of glee he hasn’t felt in well over ten years.

[talentdelunecomic]

Arc 2.5

(Part 2) (foreword)

“...Nice one, Chu,” he mutters a couple minutes later, squashed into the corner of the elevator shaft. You’d think a booming business like this could build wider elevators, damn. “We can kiss that dream budget goodbye thanks to—” He gestures at the blood on Ambre. “—all this.”

“Sorry for having scruples,” Sarah grumbles back. The adrenaline crash has left her disappointed and low. She’s stuck in close quarters with two people she’s quite upset at, currently, and she still can’t even see.

Ambre seems to lean over, audibly shuffling in place. “Are you mad at us, Sarah?” She seems younger than she is, like this, her voice disembodied and childish. Granted, Sarah really can’t vouch for her maturity, and that’s not even considering the child-rearing acumen of a top-secret, governmental, child-soldier factory.

When she thinks about that too hard, a buzzing sense of anxiety rises in her chest. Is she a hypocrite, for raising a stink about Talent technology restrictions while averting her eyes from the moral crisis of Ambre’s entire thirteen years of life?

“I’m kind of mad at you,” Sarah responds, curling tighter into a ball and clutching her suitcase like a blanket.

Ambre huffs unhappily.

“Mostly I’m mad at Penwood.”

He’s unbothered. “Great, ‘cause I’m mad at you too. We can all be mad at each other.”

He’s infuriating, sometimes. Sarah has never expected emotional heavy-lifting from Penwood, not even when they first met and she didn’t know him—he was her boss, after all. He was practical and unconventional enough to immediately promote her to the highest position he could bargain for, but it had nothing to do with sentiment. Though he seems to have grown fond of her over these past six years, he hasn’t changed. He’s as stubborn and selfish as ever.

“If I’m that troublesome, why not just let me get killed?” Sarah attacks, and then immediately regrets it. She sounds like a moody teenager. She sounds like his disregard for her objections hurt her. It’s true, but it’s pitiful.

Penwood seems to soften, just a bit. “You’re both troublesome, but I’d get bored if either of you died or disappeared. You’re more important than fully-funded mad science.” He says the last bit with reluctant resignation, but as a whole…

Those were pretty kind words, coming from Penwood. Sarah cracks a smile.

“Yeah,” she says, “you guys need me around to keep you in check.”

“Aww, I hate being in check,” Ambre sighs.

“So what now, kid?” Penwood asks. “You’re the one with the sense of propriety—you decide what we do next. We’re essentially blind, definitely trapped, and every single person in this building wants to track us down and kill us.”

Ambre grins. “The dead ones don’t. Want me to make them all dead?”

Penwood contemplates it.

“Not this time,” Sarah says, and her smile begins to grow as she gets to her feet. “I’ve got an idea.”

---

Sarah stands before the Power Room. The only thing between her and that plasma is a 20-character passcode and three feet of solid steel.

…That sounds more intimidating than it actually is.

Hey, the three of them made it out of that elevator shaft and down to the basement with zero tools!

A little clumsily, perhaps, but they made it down. Now they just need to get inside that room.

Sarah examines the digital lock, Penwood and Ambre hovering over her shoulders to watch. She doubts she’ll be able to guess the passcode, even if she did catch a glimpse when Sec. Malla let them in on the tour. She’s going to have to crack the mechanism open manually and determine a course of action from there.

“Ambre.” Sarah turns to her. “Help me with–”

“Wait.”

The three of them freeze.

“…Just let us do this,” Sarah pleads.

Secretary Sarah Malla offers no sympathy, dry and unforgiving. “What are you planning to do in the Power Room?” she asks.

“You know it’s not right to give this tech to people who might misuse it.” Sarah steps forward and Sec. Malla moves the gun in her direction. Ambre tenses, glances between them, and deliberately untenses. Sarah slows way down.

“When you say things like that, it makes you sound like a child,” Malla says. Sarah is quietly offended. She’s 23. “You think the government won’t misuse your technology? You think they aren’t misusing it right now?”

“I…”

No, she wants to say, I trust them. They’ve taken care of me since I was 17. But even without saying it aloud, suddenly the words don’t feel good enough.

“I’d still choose one group with scary-ass lasers over two.”

Sarah turns, surprised. Penwood ambles forward, hands in his pockets and genuinely pretty unconcerned by the gun. He sighs at her. “You’re catching flies, kid.” She closes her open mouth.

He continues. “The FHTC’s not perfect, but our boss is actually a total goody-two-shoes. It’s annoying, but in terms of—” He rolls his eyes and finger quotes. “—society’s ethics, she’s a decent person, I guess. And a hard worker.”

Sarah’s heart warms. He’s actually kind of getting it. He’s actually trying to help.

“Well! None of that matters to me,” Ambre chirps, “but Sarah is a grown-up woman! Don’t call her a child, she tries really hard to be responsible!” By the end of the sentence, her voice goes affronted on Sarah’s behalf, and she drops into a rare angry frown. “You’re a woman too, so you should know it’s annoying when people act like you don’t know anything while you’re trying to make a point.”

Malla stares at all of them, unwavering for one heartbeat, two. Then she stops aiming at them and lifts the pistol like she’s showing it off. It’s got the safety on, Sarah realizes. Malla was bluffing.

She sets the gun down and points at the door to the Power Room. “Don’t mess with the digital lock. If you input the wrong code or force it open, it’ll tase you.”

Sarah breaks into an incredulous laugh. Ambre is already grinning, and Penwood huffs in amusement. “So you’ll help us?” Sarah asks, just to be sure.

Malla shrugs, and a small, warm smile settles on her face. “We do have the same name,” she says.

Sarah’s cheeks hurt from smiling in return. “I suppose.”

---

A loud thud echoes through the chamber. Then again, and again. With a lot of repetitive effort, the main door finally slams open.

“Goodness, people!” Bright shouts, beaming angrily. “Take a little longer, why don’t you? How hard can it be to ram down a door?!”

“It’s three feet of solid, electrified steel,” a security guard points out.

“Regardless!”

A crowd of employees and guards swarm into the Power Room, sweeping through the aisles. Bright follows, dusting off his already immaculate suit. “Find Sarah Chu and her little friends,” he commands. “And for god’s sake, watch out for that red-haired gremlin! She’s ruthless!” He shudders.

“Hey, Bright!”

His head snaps up, and then his expression drops with dawning horror.

“How’s it going?”

“Now hold on…” Bright is sweating. “We can talk this out!”

Sarah’s jerry-rigged the control panel for the plasma vats. With one press of a button, the glass covers preventing their contents from ‘evaporating into the air and wasting a million dollars’ will pop open.

“I apologize for trying to kill you!” Bright calls to her, inanely. “Why don’t we renegotiate? I’d love to have you on my payroll, even now! And…and we would be very responsible with your technology, oh yes! Tell her, Malla!”

“He told me he wanted to make Talent suppressor water-guns,” Malla says. “For the youth.™”

“I never said that!” Bright lies. “Listen, I don’t think you understand how much money we’re willing to offer you! You could do anything you wanted! No rules, no restrictions, no one standing in your way. You’d be set for life; your great-great-great grandchildren would be set for life! You don’t need to worry about anyone else!”

Penwood and Ambre listen to his speech, open-mouthed. Of course they would; as much as they care about Sarah on a personal level, Bright’s pitching them their wildest dreams. But this decision isn’t up to them, it’s up to her.

They may be selfish, but Penwood made things clear—they like her better than mad-science and power trips.

And that sort of selfishness is just fine with her.

“No one’s forcing me to worry about people,” Sarah calls down. “No one’s forcing me to worry about anything! And all those rules and restrictions, they don’t bother me. If they make the world a better place, why would I have a problem?”

“They…!” Bright sputters. “They make the world a boring place! They make it a safe place! Don’t you understand, Ms. Chu?!”

“Yeah, better than you!” Sarah yells. “And that’s Doctor Chu!!”

She pushes the button.

Bright clutches at his skull, gibbering in disbelief while his employees freeze at the loss of guidance. Ambre laughs and tries to grab at the mist like a child. Penwood sighs, grumpy as usual, but he watches the air glow with a sort of wonder. Malla nudges Sarah’s arm.

“Hey. Is this stuff going to poison us?”

Sarah chuckles, “Probably not!”

“How reassuring.”

The air is still purple as the four of them descend to the main floor. Bright is scrambling, trying to push the glass covers back into place, for all the good they’ll do now.

“You…” He turns to Sarah, his expression the utter picture of despair. “Look what you’ve done. I’ll— I’ll sue you! I’ll ruin your life! You’ll be fired!!”

Sarah crosses her arms. “Of course I won’t,” she huffs. “You literally tried to kill me.”

The words seem to spark something in him, and Bright lunges for a nearby guard’s holster. He shoves the gun right in her face, hand shaking with rage, and Sarah’s stomach drops into her feet.

If moments like this move in slow-mo on TV, Sarah realizes that in real life, they’re like a blur. She catches glimpses, Penwoods hair in front of her, his elbow jabbing into her side on accident. Ambre’s hand outstretched, close to the barrel, about to throw his aim up to the ceiling.

Before Bright can fire, however, a raised voice gives him pause.

“When you called me, Chu, I can admit I was hoping to discover that the mess you three have landed yourselves in was the result of a misunderstanding. Clearly, my hopes have been dashed.”

All of them turn. Framed in the main doorway is Miriam Bosser, the head of the science division, and Sarah, Penwood, and Ambre’s direct supervisor.

The goody-two-shoes.

“Stand down, Brandon Bright,” Miriam says. From behind her, FHTC officers file into the room, and the Bright employees quickly surrender their weapons.

“This is…ridiculous,” Bright wheezes, the gun dropping from his hand. Sarah spares it a glance, then does a double-take. Oh yeah, he’s an idiot. It’s got the safety on.

Malla sets a hand on Bright’s shoulder. He stares up at her, pleading, like she can summon up a miracle and fix the disaster he caused.

“Mr. Bright,” Malla says. “I resign.”

Bright’s head drops down in defeat.

It’s over.

---

“You are not getting off scot free,” Miriam says sternly. “Not this time.”

The chaos is settling down. Sarah’s heart rate has returned to normal. Ambre is back to being bored. All in a day’s work!

“Sure, sure,” Penwood says, obnoxiously. “Just give us a slap on the wrist and let us get back to work.”

“I don’t think you realize the magnitude of this screw-up,” Miriam insists. “Bright Industries is our main supplier of Talent Plasma, and guess what they no longer have any stock of? Crale is going to rip my head off for allowing you three to run around unsupervised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sarah asks, offended.

“You’re like children. When the three of you join together, the results are explosive. You’re the black sheep of the FHTC. If you weren’t so important, we’d have fired you—”

“Okay! Damn, that’s harsh!”

Miriam sighs. “My head is going to be ripped off.”

“Sorry for being so troublesome!”

“Don’t apologize.” Penwood grins. “You talk a big game, but you like rushing into danger as much as me and Ambre do. That’s why Miriam’s lumping you in with us.”

“That’s silly,” Sarah sputters. “I do not like danger!”

“You were the one who wanted to destroy all that plasma,” Ambre muses, “instead of running away.”

“I just—!”

Miriam’s eyes laser in on Sarah. “Is this true?” she asks, low and dangerous.

Sarah freezes. No other choice. She turns and runs. “Maybe-it’s-true-but-you-can’t-judge-me-I-was-under-duress-okay-see-you-later!!”

“Sarah Chu!” Miriam yells after her. “Get back here! You are actively being troublesome right now!”

It’s easy to forget her worries, with Ambre and Penwood cackling and the wind in her face and the adrenaline of the day still simmering under her skin. It’s easy to ignore the questions she faced and the answers she couldn’t give.

When you say things like that, it makes you sound like a child. You think the government won’t misuse your technology? You think they aren’t misusing it right now?

Hey, she said it herself! Sarah isn’t the most righteous person in the world.

Eventually, she’ll have no choice but to face herself. She isn’t quite sure what she’ll do, when that day comes. Will she run away again? Will it be right to run?

In the meantime, a few more mistakes can’t hurt.

---

Later that month, Sarah will have her first encounter with her dream girl. …Maybe her nightmare girl. How ironic!

Well, she does like danger.

[windblume-wishes]

Game of Thorns - A Twisted Wonderland Story

Every rose has its thorns, and with every stab one will bleed bright crimson from that thorns very touch. Riddle is no different, he is a rose with many thorns, but who's not to say even the rose himself will be stabbed brutally with his own protective thorns.

Chapter 3: Loving Arms

Riddle stirred in his sleep, though one may not exactly call what was happening to him any normal sleep as he found himself in a starry void laying atop a watery ground. The realm was peaceful and despite the night sky it was bright thanks to the stars and the reflective ground. He opened his eyes to see the realm he stumbled into, he felt nothing but peace, overwhelming peace.

But yet, he felt frightened, how did he end up here?

Surely this was not the end, right?

A soft voice could be heard in the distance, the voice of what sounded like a girl. Riddle sat up, looking around for the owner of the voice to which he saw no one. He stood up from the ground and looked around, confused and scared despite the peaceful aura of the realm.

"H-Hello? Who's there? Show yourself!" He called out.

"Riddle?" The girl's voice came again, the direction of the voice became clear and he began running to her. "I'm over here! Come on now!"

There she was, a beautiful young girl with hair of sunshine gold, beautiful bluebell eyes and a blue dress with a pristine white apron. Her smile was nothing but kindness and eyes full of purity. It was her, it was young Alice. The girl in his country's history and the history of his dormitory. She held out a hand to the boy before her, smiling happily at him.

"I-It's you... Alice...!" Riddle gasped, taking her slightly smaller hand in his. "What are you doing here...?! Am I dead?!"

Tears filled Riddle's eyes as he stared at her, she shook her head and wiped away a stray tear from his porcelain cheek. "No silly, your magical pen brought me here to guide you, when you went into your Overblot state your magical crystal called me to you."

"M-My pen summoned you...? But why? Why must you guide me? Guide me where? I-I want to go home... I want my mummy..." Riddle hated how childish he sounded, begging to see his mother even after everything she did.

"Even after everything she did? Well, I suppose I understand your position. You see, my older sister was quite like your mother. Always keeping me in studies and quite annoying, though I'm sure you know my story." Alice replied as she lead Riddle on a walk. "You learned my story multiple times, did you not?"

Riddle nodded, he knew Alice's story far too well, it was a story of his country's history and had quite the significance in his own dormitory. He remembers all the times he read about Alice and her adventures in Wonderland. Oh how he loved her story, and oh how he envied her chance of an adventure that made history.

"You were kept far from a world of your own. Kept locked away all day studying on nonsense, you were forbidden to play and be a child- a happy little girl... do I have that correct?"

Alice sighed with a nod giving Riddle a knowing stare. "You and I are more similar than you think, you know- then again I suppose that is expected of one of my own blood."

Riddle stopped in his tracks, stunned at what he heard. Alice was his own blood? How was that possible? Why has mother never said a thing?! Was she embarrassed?! Or perhaps it was his father- was he embarrassed?! Why would he need to feel shame, was this truly something to feel shameful of?

"Indeed, you are my great, great, grandson! I know I may look young but that is because I am here, I am within a realm where such an appearance is possible even after all these years. My purpose now is to guide you to the correct path... you are neither dead nor fully alive, you are in the realm between."

The realm between? Whatever could that mean? Curiouser and curiouser...

"The paths of sleep and death touch here and one cannot completely escape the occasional crossover. Someone or something in the world outside this realm is holding you back from completely crossing over, and to put it lightly you are hanging by quite the thread..."

"W-What?! But- but I still have so much to do! I have not grown up yet! I'm... I'm still young..." Riddle broke down into tears, he felt so lost and oh so broken.

"Riddle, I want you to understand this, the world of your own you seek is right through the light, that light will take you to the world where your friends are, where those that love you are. You had that world, a world of your own, a world where you could be but a boy and have fun and play."

"But my mother- what if she-"

"She cannot take that from you. You have the ability to stand up and tell her that you want to be where you are, where you can learn. Where a balance of work and play is possible. A boy needs a chance to play and have fun, to let loose and maybe even scrape a knee every now and then."

Riddle fell to his knees and cried, he knew what he had to do but he was uncertain if he has the strength to do it. He had to remain strong... he had to face her thorns, her cold poisonous thorns...

"Would you like to see what is happening while you are here? You may be surprised." Alice smiled softly, taking a graceful seat beside him and pointing at the watery ground, a glow emitted from the pool and there he could see his mother, his mother was at Night Raven College with his father talking to Headmaster Crowley.

"She's been holding you in her arms for some time, she may be a rose with dangerous thorns but here she is but a frightened mother holding her son in her arms worried for his life. Would you like to greet the world again?"

"To the world of my own, Grandmother Alice?" He asked softly, looking her in the eyes pleading for her to say yes. Alice nodded, placing a kiss on his forehead and helping him up.

"Yes, to a world of your own. A silly little world where cats and rabbits would reside in fancy little houses and be dressed in shoes and hats and trousers~"

"A world that would be my own wonderland..." Riddle let out a laugh and walked towards the light that appeared behind him to his world, the world of his own, the world where he was loved.

——————

"Honestly, Dire I want to know what caused this! Surely you know!" Cora growled, holding her son's weak body closer to her frame. "My child nearly died! I want to-"

Riddle began to feel himself awaken, his eyes felt lighter, allowing him to attempt opening them to the world around him once more. He was greeted by a bright light, the light of day peeking in from the infirmary window. Everyone in the room stood still watching closely as he attempted to greet the world again. His grey eyes fluttered open weakly and he let out a pained whimper, he heard a gentle shush and felt a gentle and familiar hand touch his face.

"M-Mama...?" Riddle mumbled weakly, allowing tears to flow freely from his eyes. "P-papa...?"

"Riddle! Oh my baby! My darling boy... my precious boy..." Riddle, still not fully awake, could hear his mother's voice in an unfamiliar way- was she crying? Crying about him?

"I best leave you three be, I will be out-" Crowley announced softly but was stopped by Cora.

"N-no, stay." She replied, trying to stop her tears. "Just wait there for a moment, we need to discuss what comes next..."

"Mama... Mama, I-I'm sorry!" Riddle began to bawl loudly and uncontrollably in her arms, hiding his face in her shoulder and allowing himself to just let everything out.

Pathetic, utterly pathetic! Crying in front of her, father and the headmaster!

"Riddle! Goodness, what on earth, son! What is with all the tears, my child? You are never like this..." Cora exclaimed loudly and in a shocked manner, despite her tone she allowed her clearly stressed son to cry his heart out. "Riddle, your tears and runny nose are going to soak my blouse, dear! Boys should not cry, son- o-oh dear, Henry-..."

These tears... these tears will not stop... it's too much! I can't- Mama, mama, your thorns are gone... I do not feel them now but...

Henry smiled softly and reached for Riddle, gesturing for Cora to hand him over to his awaiting arms. "Cora, my queenie, let me have him for a bit, hm? Come here, son, I've got you, Papa is right here, tough guy."

Cora sighed softly, but nodded, allowing her husband to take Riddle and hold him for a bit. Riddle latched onto his father, his face nuzzled into his sturdy neck as he cried heavily. Cora, clearly exhausted sat down and watched her husband comfort their son. The last time she saw Riddle cry like this was when he was caught for sneaking out of the house when he was eight. It has been so long since she had seen her son cry, then again she was the one who constantly told him boys were forbidden to shed tears as it was seen as weak and pathetic.

Mother is not yelling at me for crying? I thought years were for weaklings? Am I really that weak, mother? Mama, mama please I will do better!

Riddle's inner voice screamed at him to cease his tears at once but he refused to, he could not- he only cried harder, his small, weak body shaking with every pained and remorseful sob.

"I-I AM SORRY! WHAAAAAAAAAA!!" He never sounded so childish in his life, wailing on his father's shoulder and being held tightly. He could see Headmaster Crowley offer a sympathetic smile to Henry who returned with his own soft smile as if to tell the old headmaster he was trying his hardest.

"Oh Riddle, I know what happened was likely very frightening for you, I do not think you are to blame, this was probably an accident. Shh, deep breaths now, Shh." Henry gently swayed himself as he carefully stroked his small teenage son's hair and back in calming motions with the occasional gentle shushing and kiss on his head. "Even if you were the one to blame, we can work this out and your mum and I would not love you any less."

It is warm and loving, I feel no thorns piercing my flesh. I feel my father's arms holding me with nothing but gentle love... I feel safe...

"Henry, you must not coddle him too much, you know. It is unbecoming of him to act like so, you know. Boys should not shed tears over their unsightly behaviour, he knows better." Cora sighed tiredly, trying to fully control her emotions, she did not want to break down again, it was so pathetic of her to even do so, and in front of Crowley nonetheless! "B-but I suppose- he is a bit shaken..."

Henry gave her a look that clearly meant that he had everything covered and for her to just rest. "Cora, how about you rest for a bit, you are clearly tired, dear, just rest. I will speak with the Headmaster and take care of our boy."

"Henry, I-" she started in protest, clearly not wanting to be told what to do, her thorns emerging ever so slightly. Henry bent down and gave his wife a kiss, reassuring her that everything would be alright. "Oh fine, I suppose you win. Goodnight then- and make sure Riddle goes to bed as soon as he is done! I do not want him falling ill! Please..."

That please must have been painful for her to say- Riddle thought as he hiccuped a bit.

"Yes dear, now sleep, you should sleep too, Riddle." He whispered, gently trying to coax his still crying son to sleep. "Still crying? Hmm, ah, Headmaster Crowley let's step outside for a bit."

The headmaster nodded softly and lead the two outside the private room. The old fae headmaster laid a hand atop Riddle's head and gently patted the boy's soft hair, causing him to look up with his big teary eyes.

"Riddle, look at me, it is alright." Crowley coaxed softly as Riddle sniffled and turned to face him, his head still on his father's shoulder. "There we go now, I know that everything that has transpired has been unbelievably stressful for you and that you are still in shock but I think we all need to talk things through when you are ready."

Riddle had no energy to speak, he was tired, far too tired but still, he knew an answer was needed. He nodded sleepily in response, hoping that us all he would need to convince Crowley that he would be open to talk everything through.

"I-I'm not in trouble am I...?" Riddle mumbled, staring at the headmaster with fear in his eyes. "I-I'm not a terrible person I swear! I did not mean to be trouble... I just... lost control..."

Crowley sighed, he knew Riddle was not a what one would necessarily call a bad child but the fact remains that he did cause quite the magical ruckus and injured people.

"Riddle, I know you are not a trouble maker, in fact, you are one of the most well behaved boys at this institution who respects rules no matter what-" The bird fae smiled softly, trying to relieve the boy of any fears he may have. "I cannot speak on behalf of the board but knowing the kind of student you are expulsion and suspicion will likely not happen, worst case scenario is you will have detention and some counseling sessions."

Riddle exhaled in relief, and his father gave him a gentle head pat before turning to the headmaster.

"This will not go on his permanent record, right?" To which the headmaster shook his head.

"No, overblot will not go on his permanent record but on a medical record for any upcoming medical related visits your son may have." Crowley then looked over to Riddle who was struggling to stay awake on his father's shoulder. "Speaking of your son, it seems someone here is in need of a nap. Sleep well, Riddle, may no nightmares plague your weary head."

Riddle slowly closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, his left hand loosely gripped to his father's sleeve and a small smile appeared on his tear stained face as he slept.

No thorns, no stabbing pain, for once he felt safe- he felt secure and oh so loved. There was no thorns stabbing his body from head to toe- no crimson fluid leaking its way from the brutal punctures- just peace and the feeling of warmth and softness...

But what could another day possibly hold? Could those thorns return and capture him in their brutal vines? Could he be pulled back under that suffocating weight of pain and agony...?

No, he just needed to dream happy thoughts about a world of his own.