#also doesn’t help that greys is boring as all hell

[mayasdeluca]

Definitely disheartening but unfortunately not surprising…this is what happens in the 10pm time slot and it certainly doesn’t help when the network does everything in their power to act like the show doesn’t exist. For those who can, please stream the episode as much as you can the next few days and hopefully we can get that number up and let’s try to improve it over the next few weeks.

[cranberrv]

enchanted

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ in which dallas winston falls for the new girl

( a/n : i love this request sm!! reader is fem by the way, also not proofread also ooc! still cute tho! )

not many people wanted to move to tulsa, but for some people, it was their only option. that was the first similarity spotted between you and dallas.

of course, you and dallas were on different sides of the track, different chapters in a novel. you moved to tulsa for your fathers work, you were perfectly happy back at your old city, but you didn’t have a choice. dallas moved to tulsa to escape from the new york police.

you thought tulsa was bland. it was only your first week here, your first week emerced with all the other teenagers at school, but everyone here was grey. especially the east-side kids, the greasers. they were all broke and it looked like all the life was sucked out of them.

you, on the other hand, were fresh from los angeles, with a feminine flare to yourself and a genuine kindness that was rare in tulsa. even the rich kids were rude, but you were anything but.

it was the start of your second week of school, and your least favourite class was science. not because of the subject, it was just that the people in your class gave you dirty looks and the teacher had a voice that could put you to sleep. and your lab partner in the seat next to you had been away the entire time, leaving you to do projects alone.

today was supposed to be the exact same as usual. at the start of class, you walk in and sit down alone. the teacher does the attendance, and marks your mystery lab partner absent. today is independent work, finishing up a lab report and then doing a worksheet on protons and electrons. you want to fall asleep, it’s so boring. you’re listening to every silent conversation and looking out the window for a source of entertainment. you got your wish soon enough, as the door creaks open.

“hello,” your teacher greets to the boy that enters the room. “you are?”

“dallas winston,” he answers, throwing his burnt-out cigarette in the trash.

your teacher nods her head. “ah, you’re dallas winston,” the voice is slow as she pieces it together. you wonder why the words are said in such distaste.

you’ve given up on your work, watching dallas winston. he looks like an east-side kid, his hair is a bit messy and he radiates confidence. he certainly puts out an energy unlike anyone in this school.

they talk for a bit longer, the teacher obviously telling him it’s not okay to skip class. dallas tries to argue back for a little bit, but eventually gives up and holds his hands up in mock-surrender. the teacher takes a breath then points to you, giving him a worksheet and telling him to go sit next to you. he follows the teachers finger, and he tilts his head when he looks at you, trying to figure out if he knows you or not. his eyes light up a bit when you make eye contact with him. you like the way he looks at you.

dallas walks over, and sits next to you. there’s a few moments of silence as he gets himself settled. spitting out his gum, taking off his leather jacket, and finally landing his eyes on his sheet. he reads over the questions, and realizes has no idea how to do any of this. “you got a pencil?” he asks you.

“yeah, in my pencil case, help yourself,” you answer, and he grabs your pencil case and sifts through it to find one.

he takes one out and hands it back. you say thank you, and he thinks it was unnecessary to be polite about a simple thing but doesn’t say anything. “mechanical, huh?” he says about the pencil, pushing on the bottom to get the lead out. “expensive. what, you a soc or somethin’?”

you look from your worksheet up at him. he has a nice jawline, you notice. “a what?” you ask. an innocent question in your eyes, but one that has a lot more meaning for dallas.

who the hell doesn’t know what a soc is? he stares at you for a second, eyebrows furrowing. not out of annoyance, but out of genuine confusion about why you don’t know about the class-status that built up the entire reputation of tulsa. you know what a greaser is, but not a soc. and you barely know what a greaser is, anyway. you’ve just been told to stay away.

“you know, a rich-kid. a west-side kid.” you still look confused, and he comes to the conclusion that you’re not from here. so when he notices the confused look in your eye, he changes the subject. “where ya from, sugar?”

“i just moved from los angeles,” you tell him. his eyes drift down to your cute lace pink top. he thinks it’s totally something that someone from LA would wear. there’s a speck of silence as he analyzes you, and you feel the need to break it.

“i shoulda guessed,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows. you don’t know if he’s being mean or not. you hope he’s not mean.

“what do you mean?”

“i mean you look like you’re from hollywood or somethin’, with all the lace and the flashy bows and shit..” he’s poking at the lace lining your top. you can see him thinking about something while he’s looking at your lace. “christ, your lingerie collection must be insane, huh?”

there’s a blink of silence and a look of slight disbelief on your face. “what?”

“i’m messin’ with ya, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

“oh,” you say softly, cheeks going a bit hot.

“so,” he starts, switching the topic to a different note. “why’d ya move to fuckin’ tulsa?”

“my dad got a job here,” you explain, fiddling with your pencil in your hands. “why?”

“just curious,” he shrugs. “you know, most people don’t move to this hellhole.”

“you did,” you say, and he tilts his head. you think he’s looking at you because you’re just assuming things, and you’re probably wrong, so he’s judging you. “did you not?”

he cracks a smile. he wasn’t judging you, simply curious as to how you guessed he wasn’t from here. “yeah, i did, sugar,” he nods, leaning back in his seat. “how’d ya know?”

“your accent,” you explain. “very new yorker.”

“yeah? you like it?”

you mirror his smile. “yeah, i do.”

the class falls silent as the teacher insists everyone quiets down and focuses. dally's voice drops to a whisper when he responds, playfully pushing you away. “alright, miss hollywood, go do your work,” he teases. “gonna tell the teacher you’re distracting me,” he threatens, obviously playing around because he knows that he’s the one distracting you.

you smile and turn your head back to your sheet to finish it up. you begin peacefully working. dallas can’t help but stare at you as you do so. nibbling at your pencil while you’re thinking, constantly adjusting your top, brushing your hair out of your face every now and then, he notices it all. he can’t help it, he thinks you’re the sweetest person he’s ever seen.

you look up at him, feeling his intense gaze on you. you make eye contact and instantly turn away again, cheeks going pink like a tulip. why is he looking at you? do you have something on your face? you don’t know. you subconsiously wipe your cheek to make sure, and adjust your top again.

dallas finally looks away, and you take a breath and relax your shoulders. as much as he was acting sweet towards you, you could tell he had this rough edge that you should be worried about. but what truly worried you is the fact that his edge didn’t worry you. if anything, it lured you in. you wanted to learn everything about him. he was like the ocean, he was calm and beautiful but you had to swim out far and dive deep down to find out everything about him. and it felt like no one had, yet. he was a mystery. you liked that.

as you’re working, you hear the rip of lined paper beside you, then the scratch of a pencil. a few moments later, dallas hands you a piece of paper with a note on it.

“how do you do question 1?“ it reads.

you read the note and look up at him, smiling. you write down your answer, saying that he needs a calculator. you hand him yours, assuming correctly that he doesn’t own one.

he slides you another note a few seconds later. “it keeps saying weird shit on the calculator”

“what does it say?” you write back.

he takes longer than usual to write. you wait in anticipation. after what feels like forever (but was probably 15 seconds) he hands you another note. you read the numbers. you don’t understand how he got that answer. you read over it again, and then it clicks. it’s his phone number.

he’s looking at you as you read it. you look up at him and gently nod, putting his number in your pocket. you rip another piece of paper and write down, “i’ll call you.”

he reads it and writes back, and is about to hand it to you, until he quickly takes it back and adds something. then he hands it to you.

“good. (p.s. your little lace top is kinda cute)”

you read his little p.s. and smile to yourself, then to him. you mouth thank you to him. he mouths “anytime” back.

you have a feeling this won’t be the last time you and dallas winston say hello to each other in science class.

[feyascorner]

11 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. In his honest opinion, the artist who drew your portrait should be fired, even if he’s no expert in the arts. Your softer features are far too sharp, and your sharper features are far too soft, in what he supposes is an effort to ‘enhance’ your appearance, but now it just looks plain uncanny. They also forgot to take into account the scars of battle on your skin, a part of your hair that he remembers sticking out more, the sheepishness of your smile looking straight at the painter, the two puncture wounds on your neck…

Ah. He wonders if you still have those. The last time he saw them, they’d nearly faded. And nowadays, you make it a point to keep your neck tucked under your collar, which leaves everything to his imagination.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. it's been a while! this isn't the longest of chapter but it's to kick my creative juices back into gear :) thank you sm for your patience friends <3

He knows he hasn’t returned your cloak yet. Unfortunately for you, Astarion has taken a special liking to the dull fabric.

Despite its dreary grey shade and the tears from being worn relentlessly, it’s of surprisingly good quality. It’s the only reason it's survived this long, he reasons, and also why the sun can never pierce through its sewing job and burn into his own skin.

When he felt the tadpole leave him, he thought he would never see the sunlit streets of Baldur’s Gate again. But this cloak of yours has brought him a new sense of freedom he hadn’t had before—free of Cazador, free of an unwelcome visitor in his skull, free of the looming fear of death…and most importantly, free of his fear of the sun.

Being “stuck” in your home has given him too much time. Too much aimless staring at a book he’s already read four times over. Moreover, the others have become somewhat accustomed to his presence again…meaning some (Gale, specifically) don’t mind leaving Astarion by himself. And as much as he hates admitting it, Astarion would rather Gale’s incessant lectures rather than the boring silence you leave behind at the break of dawn.

An outing or two couldn’t hurt, surely.

So he embarks. Where to, he doesn’t know. But he leaves the house, making sure to lock the door behind him when he remembers how Shadowheart had scolded you for the mistake of not doing so. It’s not that he’s afraid of the cleric, of course. He’s a damn vampire, for heaven’s sake. He’s only being cautious.

The cloak makes it feel as if he were in an oven, especially with the weather becoming more sunny by the day, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s finally standing in the middle of a bustling street, staring unblinkingly while others rush past him, all seemingly having a place to be. A newspaper boy here, a maid there, a circus performer somewhere there. He suddenly feels surrounded by too much life, and it’s not much help when he begins noticing fleeting glances in his direction. Wearing a thick winter cloak in the middle of the summer isn’t exactly common, after all.

“Baldur’s Mouth? They just started printing papers again, if you’d like a peek.”

Astarion glances down at the newspaper boy with squinted eyes, and his voice sounds snarkier than intended—not that he cares. “Who in the hells would pay two silvers for a newspaper that sucked up to Gortash just a few months ago? Does anyone really pay for this abomination?”

The boy frowns, crossing his arms. “If you didn’t want one, you could’ve just said so.”

“Really? Your incessant yelling around the market says otherwise,” Astarion snatches one of the papers, much to the boy’s distaste. He eyes the front cover for a split moment before realizing the very front page has a supposed ‘Exclusive Interview from the Hero of Baldur’s Gate! Never seen before!’

He finds himself reading.

“Mister, if you’re going to read, you have to pay!”

Though Astarion gives him a sharp glare that has the boy swallowing the lump in his throat, he relents, tossing one silver coin in his direction. Not without a click of his tongue, however, and the coin lands in the boy’s palms with a plop. “It’s two silvers.”

“I’m fully aware, don’t worry.”

The Baldur’s Mouth is full of cheap stories, surely paid off by its snotty writer as always, but Astarion acknowledges improvement where it’s due. Gortash’s death must’ve struck some sort of moral chord in the newspaper because a few of its columns are filled with mundane updates on the rebuilding of the city, even if they don’t provide as much entertainment as it surely could’ve if they stretched a few truths. He doesn’t read much into them, though, because he’s soon found himself a corner in Elfsong Tavern where he’s practically boring holes into the damn paper. The cover, specifically.

In his honest opinion, the artist who drew your portrait should be fired, even if he’s no expert in the arts. Your softer features are far too sharp, and your sharper features are far too soft, in what he supposes is an effort to ‘enhance’ your appearance, but now it just looks plain uncanny. They also forgot to take into account the scars of battle on your skin, a part of your hair that he remembers sticking out more, the sheepishness of your smile looking straight at the painter, the two puncture wounds on your neck…

Ah. He wonders if you still have those. The last time he saw them, they’d nearly faded. And nowadays, you make it a point to keep your neck tucked under your collar, which leaves everything to his imagination.

He wonders if you’re ashamed of them as he’s ashamed of the ones on his own neck.

Astarion tears his attention away from your portrait and resumes reading the actual paper.

The questions the interviewer asks are laughable, almost. They’re painfully boring or painfully intrusive, with nothing in between, resulting in awkward short answers or whatever filler the writer put in place of your answer. Half your words, at the very least, must’ve been altered, as they don’t sound much like you.

One question catches his eye.

‘So what does the hero of Baldur’s Gate plan to do after the city is rebuilt?’

Astarion lifts the paper closer to his face.

‘’This city is my home…but I don’t think I could stay here any longer than I have to. I’ve made some precious memories here, but I’ve also made ones that I’d rather move on from. People I want to move on from. For that reason, as much as I love this city, I’d have to embark for elsewhere.’’

His eyes widen. You’re leaving? When the hells did you decide that? 

‘Truly a sad day for the citizens to see their beloved bard leaving. Knowing our readers must be curious as to what their next step is, we made sure to discuss more on this matter.’

‘’Where will I go? I mean…I guess I’d just wander. Explore. Faerun is a vast continent. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to do. Plenty of people to meet.’’

Astarion’s gaze reaches the end of the page. The rest of the sentences babble on in flowery language praising you, which he doesn’t even bother reading before shoving the newspaper into one of the pockets of your cloak. He’s not sure if he would’ve preferred simply not reading the damn paper, but he tells himself that this is an improvement. A reason for celebration, even! Without you, he won’t have to tiptoe around the city any longer, nor will you need to worry about having to continue a months-long argument with him.

This is exactly what the two of you need. Space. For a while. Maybe forever. He stares at the beer stains on the table. Forever sounds like a long time, even if it’s only a few years to him and the rest of your life to you.

Forever sounds too long, yet not long enough.

He’s always wanted to be immortal. Even before he’d grown fangs and his eyes turned red. Sure, the path he took to get here…left a lot to be desired, but with Cazador gone, he supposes it’s not so bad, being a vampire—-besides the whole ‘not-being-able-to-see-the-sun’ fiasco. Sure, he has nightmares every other night about his time spent under his master, but without him, he’s essentially invincible as long as he doesn’t find a cleric who specializes in radiant magic. Sure, wine tastes like vinegar. Sure, he has to wear this suffocating cloak everywhere, but is it really so bad?

He sighs. It could be worse. He could be dead, for all he knows. Actually, dead.

Astarion stands to leave. This damn tavern is even more suffocating than his cloak, especially filled with patrons already half passed out from booze before noon. There’s a reason why he’s always preferred wine over whatever’s filling their cups.

He paces toward the door, but just as he’s halfway there, it swings open. And much to his horror stands a familiar cleric who nearly chucked a fork into his eye just this morning.

“Shadowheart,” the bartender smiles, ceasing his hand midway, polishing a cup. “What brings you here this morning?”

She certainly won’t miss her mark this time if she sees him out in public.

Astarion immediately turns on his heel and heads for the stairs. He practically shoves through multiple patrons in the process, but he manages to get there just as Shadowheart joins Alan at the bar, her arms looped around two large fabric bags as she greets him. They’re just within earshot, even as the spawn scrambles to get upstairs. “Just picking up our attire for the celebration and your tavern was on the way back. My friends and I do apologize for our inconsistent appearances…”

He doesn’t wait to hear the rest of their conversation because he’s already trying the doors to each of the rooms to figure another way out of the building. Most doors are locked shut, but there’s one he tries that slides right open.

Much to his distaste, it’s occupied.

He slams the door back shut just as the woman shrieks.

He peeks out the window. He could jump down, technically, but there are far too many people on the street in broad daylight to go unnoticed. And if there were to be a commotion, no doubt the damn cleric would come rushing out, thinking it’s another attack. So, instead of returning downstairs, he opts for the ladder leading to the rooftop, higher up into the building.

The warm air of the summer breeze hits him like an axe to the face.

Still, he climbs out, grateful to even managed to have escaped the same room as Shadowheart. Thank the heavens. And for a moment, he thinks he’s alone, until there’s another shrill voice rushing at him.

“There you are, Tav! I’ve waited days to see you here agai—" the tiefling stops, her smile dropping. "You’re not Tav.”

Way to state the obvious.

Clearly, he wants to spit back. But he’s too occupied trying to figure out why she looks so familiar to do so. He merely squints at her, which some might consider rude, but she doesn't seem to mind at all. Noticing his confusion, she blinks. “Wait, you’re Tav’s friend!”

Friend. He hasn’t been considered your friend in a long while.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on house arrest?” she tilts her head. “Did you maybe make up with Tav?”

Ah. You must’ve told her about his—peculiar arrangement.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Alfira. We met at the grove and Last Light Inn, didn’t we?” she offers him a smile, which he doesn’t return. She doesn’t wait for an answer either. “I wasn’t expecting you here…Did Tav send you?”

Astarion scrunches his nose as she squints at him, hands on either of her hips as she gauges how he seems to sink further into your cloak, hesitating to kiss the sun’s radiant glow. She doesn’t seem to think much of it, though, as she taps her foot impatiently. “Well?”

“I—yes,” is all his damn brain can spit out.

“Oh,” her face softens, and a soft small stretches across her lips. How gullible. It wasn’t even a particularly good lie. “You should’ve just said so. In that case, I must ask you how they’re doing…I haven’t seen them in weeks. Are they well? Have they started reading up on my lyrics? Have they got a message for me? Ah, scratch those, where are they right now?”

Hells. He’s already itching to jump off the roof.

“Does your head ever implode with all those questions racked inside of it?” he grumbles. “And I’m afraid I don’t know half the answers. Sorry to disappoint.”

Alfira’s shoulders relax as she leans back on her heel, eyes falling to her shoes before she looks back up. “...Well, that’s a shame. Then, what brings you here?”

This time, he’s prepared.

“Seeing the state you’re in, my appearance was warranted. They only wished for me to ensure they’re doing well. It’s a busy time of year, you see, and they haven’t had the time to indulge your—-outings up here.”

“That’s good to hear.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air like a deathtrap, and he wishes he could say something—anything else about what you’ve been up to, but it comes up empty. It’s not like the two of you are on terms to sit down and have a chat every week over tea, but he’s not sure if he knows any more about what you’re doing than this bard standing right before him. You don’t play music anymore. You don’t frequent the bars as much as you used to. You don’t do a lot of things anymore. But what do you do?

It irks him: not knowing, that is.

He only realizes moments later that the bard has been talking this entire time.

“---and I’d really appreciate it if you could take it to them. I can’t imagine anyone else using it as well as they did,” she reaches behind her bag perched against the stair rails, and lifts something in his direction. He’d be a fool not to recognize it anywhere. It’s a pretty thing, the lyre. Your lyre. “I don’t know how I managed to find this at the market, but I like to think it’s fate. Tell them it’s a gift for helping with my songs.”

Astarion stares at the instrument. He runs the tips of his fingers against its familiar strings, taking note of indents he’s all too familiar with and the chips from months running in the wild. The last time he’d held it like this, it felt like it brought him closer to you. Now, it only feels like the cold dead wood it is.

“Were you looking for it?”

“No. Like I said, it must be fate.”

How cheesy.

His lips quirk downward even further, if that’s even possible, as he narrows in on a multitude of new dents and cracks in the wood. The lyre is yours, without a doubt, but it’s clearly seen a different level of care than what you would’ve given it even while fighting to the death. He glares at a particular blemish, and Alfira sighs.

“It’s seen better times, I know. But I’m sure they’d appreciate it even if it’s not how they left it.”

Wouldn’t you? No. He doesn’t know if you’d appreciate it. Why would you? You don’t even play the damn thing anymore, much less produce any music. He contemplates just tossing the object, but the second Alfira sees the glint of hesitation in his eyes, she pounces, shaking her head.

“Please,” she pleads. “Give it to them.”

His brows pinch.

And because he doesn’t want to entertain this tiefling any longer than he has to, and because he’d much rather get out of the sun and no other reason, he huffs. “Fine. I will.”

The smile she gives him doesn’t prompt him to do the same.

Months prior, he could see himself in the reflection of the gloss glazing over the wood. At least, that’s what he thinks because he could see your own expressions reflecting off it when you played it in the sun. It doesn’t hold a glow anymore, much less a reflection.

The lyre weighs heavily in his hands.

“I won’t pry,” Alfira says. “They never really told me what happened between the two of you…I respect your privacy, so I won’t ask. But whatever it was…I do hope it won’t happen again.”

It’s a weak one, but it’s a warning. He’s had plenty of those to figure it out.

“It won’t,” he mutters. 

He’ll be long gone before it can.

Sleep is a luxury you can't afford nowadays.

Surely, the bags under your eyes are enough of an indication if it weren’t for the sluggishness of your every step. Still, you manage to offer your guest a lopsided smile out of respect. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, I’m alright. Thank you, though,” Yevir says, eyeing you up and down, obviously noting your disheveled state. “Is now not a good time?”

You shake your head, straightening your back against the dining room table with a cough. “It’s alright. I’m only tired. With the preparations for the celebration next week, I’m a bit overwhelmed. I was meaning to speak to you again anyway.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but you can’t be bothered to deny your exhaustion further.

“You’ve been busy. I’ve seen the dead spawn that they retrieved from the Blushing Mermaid.”

Quite frankly, you feel terrible for the folk who own the place. A hag and then a horde of vampires in their basement in the span of a few months? You think it’d be a sign to close the tavern down.

Your tone remains grim. “Were any of them the woman you were looking for?”

He shakes his head, and a breath of relief escapes your lips. “No, she’s…I still haven’t found her.”

And maybe it’s the fatigue getting to your head, but your mouth moves before you can stop it. “You would think she’d try to meet someone she was so close to.”

It’s insensitive, and you wouldn’t blame him if he promptly stood to leave, but all he does is hang his head, dragging his hands over his face. He doesn’t seem like he’s gotten much rest recently, either. “Trust me, I’ve been wondering that for weeks now.”

“And have you come up with anything?”

“No. None. Zero. All I get are nightmares that I might get to one of my patrol shifts, and I’ll find her dead body lying on the ground somewhere,” he groans. “Well, deader body.”

“Maybe she’s afraid.”

“Of what? Me? Who in the hells would be afraid of me? Certainly not her, I must assure you. She’s always been stubborn, and she’s far more determined than myself, believe it or not.”

“Not you, but of herself. Vampire thirst surely can’t be so easy to control, and let’s be honest…” you point at your own neck, and the place where two puncture wounds should be on your wrist burns. “You’re practically a blood pot being offered to her.”

He frowns. “Is it so hard to control their thirst? I will admit that I don’t know much about vampire spawn aside from the obvious…”

You half snicker to yourself, almost in disbelief. “Believe me, they’re beasts when they’re ravenous.”

“Beasts?”

“Do you blame them? To them, blood is essentially liquid gold,” you shrug. “It tastes nothing like actual blood on their tongue. Sure, it might be a bit adjacent to drinking iron, but if they get their hands on prey, they really like…it tastes sweet to them. Would you deny a treat if you spent decades cooped up inside a dungeon cell, starving?"

Yevir’s face pales.

“See?”

His brows furrow as you sigh into your chair. “I’ve done my own share of research, but books seem to overexaggerate things most of the time…Can I ask how you know so much about them? Even if I manage to find her, I’d want to find some way to make her new life more tolerable…it’s not much, but it’s the least I could do.”

You blink.

Shit. You’ve said too much.

What are you supposed to say? You dated a vampire? Let him ravage you on the forest floor and spent months in his tent? That you kissed him just weeks prior, and he’s living just beside your own room? That he told you what your blood does to him, and reveal the bite marks on your skin?

You stand, your chair legs scraping against the ground.

“I have a book you might like. Let me grab it for you. And some tea, maybe,” you smile almost too widely. Fortunately for you, Yevir only nods.

“I’d appreciate it.”

You essentially grab whatever vampire-related book you have shoved under your bed and rush back downstairs to the kitchen. There isn’t much to learn from the thing with how much you already know, but you’re sure it must contain something that he might consider helpful. You know how horrible it felt to be kept in the dark about vampirism, even more so when you realized just how terrible the relationship between master and spawn tended to be…so a small push certainly wouldn’t hurt. Especially with Yevir's own problems with his beloved spawn. This is how you reassure yourself as you pour whatever tea Gale’s left on the stove into a cup.

If you were in Astarion’s shoes, you’d think becoming a spawn would have been the worst turning point of your life. And for a while, you thought he’d felt the same. A part of you thinks he does. But in the time you’ve spent with him and the stories he’s told you sparingly of his life before Cazador, your gut tells you differently. Especially when he’s drenched in the blood of your enemies, holding the immortality he’s long wished for with a sickening smile stretching on his lips. Guilt pools in your stomach for even bringing up the thought, but you can’t deny it, either.

You wonder if it hadn’t been for Cazador’s leash tying him down, he would’ve turned out differently. More twisted. That he would’ve indulged in the most corrupt parts of him as a magistrate. That maybe he wouldn’t have learned the value of a life. That he would’ve become more alike to him—the man he would’ve become if he’d ascended.

That small voice in your head is what stopped the ascension, for you feared he would lose everything he’d gained in his time as a spawn, no matter how trivial he believed it to be.

You hear the front door opening and snap out of your self-tangent. No use dwelling on it now. What’s done is done. No matter how strange the situation between you and the spawn is now, you’d rather have this than what could’ve happened if you hadn’t listened to your gut. You remain firm, no matter how much he hates you for it.

You pour Shadowheart an extra cup.

But as you step back into the living space, you realize the occupant doesn’t drink tea at all.

Astarion stands in the middle of the room, eyes wide as he stares at your guest with an undeniably bloody sack clutched in one hand. His large, red eyes seem glued to the ones of your guest, who stares back even more appalled as he takes one look at Astarion’s pale skin, the shade of his eyes, and the very bloody bag containing what you assume to be his dinner.

You drop the two cups onto the ground, tea splashing against your feet.

“You—Is he—” Yevir stumbles over his words, yet his instincts as a guard have him reaching for his weapon. “He’s—”

Astarion sneers, though his expression strains as Yevir’s hand reaches his sword. “Now, let’s not do anything that could ruin the wonderfully tasteful furniture in here...”

The Fist snaps his head in your direction. “He’s a spaw–!”

The back of a sword hilt hits the side of his head with an audible ‘thud,’ and he’s out like a light.

You stare at the unconscious body slouched over your dining table for a brief moment in utter shock before you gawk at the culprit. Of course. Lae’zel huffs, awfully pleased for someone who just caused a concussion to an innocent man. “Your soldiers are such children.”

Astarion barks a laugh, though it sounds more of a mix of disbelief and amusement.

You wish you could go one day in this house without another headache to add to the growing list.

Tags: @ayselluna @littleenglishfangirl @bg3obsessedsideblog @iwillpissyourpants @cyberpr1m3 @snowlotr @road-riot @spacekidnova @madislayyy @lordfishflakes @nicalysm @djarinsway @tinystarfishgalaxy @brainz00 @hopeful-n-sad @ohdeerieme @madisban @chrismarium @chonkercatto @fanfic-share @bitterbeanren @sleepyred1703 @miskouly @ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @marina-and-the-memes @kiwi-mansanas @woosaaghh @cminr @everybodystaycalm @divineknightmare @bangtanbecks @carolinelec @aelieknox @bluelovesleep @catching-fire-in-the-wind @moonlight-stay @thatbeanieboss @atotalmess-lol @lavender-romancer @roguishcat

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Can you write about James absolutely hating valentines day because it’s a day where he has to keep watching people try to woo Sirius... little did he know, Sirius only has eyes for him <333

Sirius is laughing. 

The audacity of that traitor, just laughing the laugh that’s supposed to be only for James to hear, because of something Luca—or was it Liam?—said. James knows he could’ve come up with something much better, something that would’ve made Sirius laugh even harder, then turn to him with those beautiful, glittering grey eyes and cheeks flushed from the cold and the alcohol and the joy.

But he can’t, obviously, because Liam the utter dipshit is taking over Sirius’ life. James and Sirius were supposed to restock on some of their pranking supplies that day while the rest of the student population were busy locking lips and celebrating at Puddifoot’s when the slimy git decided it would be a good idea to replace James in Sirius’ Valentine’s weekend plans. As if watching people make passes at Sirius wasn’t annoying enough already. And then stupid Sirius with his stupid face that James stupidly can’t say no to, decided to stupidly agree to a stupid date at Three Broomsticks.

James scowls harder, hoping the intensity of his glare could yank the tosser out of the seat that should’ve been his. All that happens is Luca taking Sirius’ amusement as a sign to inch closer, sliding his hand up his knee. And Sirius just smiles at him, all warm and inviting. James wants to throw up. Maybe he could even aim it at Liam and call it an accident. Even Sirius wouldn’t be nice enough to continue entertaining a bloke covered in vomit.

His train of thought is interrupted when someone bumps into him from behind. “What the bloody fuck,”  comes a muffled swear with a faint Welsh accent, telling James that it’s just Moony. Belatedly, he remembers that he’s under his cloak. “What—oh, don’t tell me, Merlin and Morgana, is that you under there, James?”

James pokes his head out and grins sheepishly at an exasperated Remus and a bemused Regulus. “Hello, kind sirs, how may I help you?”

“What are you doing here? And why the hell are you hiding?”

James sniffs. “Well, I would’ve been with Sirius, but seeing as I’m so unimportant that he replaced me, I’m bored. Also, I’m not hiding, I’m just preventing this beautiful heirloom from my ancestors from collecting dust.”

Regulus snickers. “The way that thing gets used, there’s no way it would collect dust, even without you using it to spy on my brother.”

“I’m not spying!” 

Remus hums, quickly looking around. “So you’re just creepily watching his date under your cloak so he doesn’t notice you?”

James sniffs. “I need to make sure my replacement meets my standards.” 

“Salazar’s saggy balls, you’re transparent as fuck. You ought to be ashamed,” Regulus says, dragging them to a secluded booth. He digs his feet under James’ arse for warmth.

“I'm sure I don’t know what you mean,” James replies hotly, poking Regulus in the ribs as retaliation.

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You mean you’re not jealous?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Really?” It should be illegal how Regulus could inflect so much emotion into a tiny word. He had no right making six letters sound so disbelieving. 

“I just want to spend time with my best friend, goddamnit, without a random blonde wanker hanging off of him. Why is that such a big deal?”

“Last I checked, I’m one of your best friends and you never mope around when I go on a date,” Remus remarks.

“First of all, you’re this close to getting removed from my list of best friends, and second, I like Regulus even more than I like you. There’s no need to mope because it’s Reggie. Louis or Liam or whatever is not Reg.”

“As flattering as that is, you still aren’t making any sense,” Regulus says. “If you’re not jealous, then why does it matter who he’s dating? S’not like they’re getting married.”

James, who had resumed glaring at Sirius’ table, swirls around. “You think they might get married?”  he nearly screeches. “There’s no fucking way I’ll let—”

Regulus and Remus each grab an arm to pin him down. “Nobody’s getting married, bloody hell, how can you still be in denial?” Remus grumbles. “You’re even worse than Sirius.”

“I’m going to pretend like I know what that means, only because the alternative is Sirius keeping secrets and I don’t like that,” James says, yanking his arms from their grasp. “I’m calm now, you don’t need to keep holding me.”

The moment the two sit down, James dives under the table and makes a run for it. Regulus nearly gets a hold of him, but James’ Quidditch reflexes are enough to pull away. 

Regulus turns to Remus, eyes wide. “Should we—” 

Remus pauses, then shakes his head. “Not our responsibility to talk sense into those two. Honestly, for two students at the top of the class, they can be such idiots sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Okay, maybe a little more than that,” he concedes with a laugh. 

Regulus smiles. “Do you think they’ll finally confess?” he asks into the crook of Remus’ neck. 

Remus kisses his dark curls. “Not counting on it.”

“Hel-lo gentlemen,” James sing-songs as he squeezes into Sirius’ side of the booth, effectively blocking Luca’s hands from moving further up. “Nice day out, innit?”

“James Potter,” Sirius’ date greets with a smile that’s strained at the edges. 

“That’s me!” James says brightly. “So what’re we having today?”

“Prongs,” Sirius hisses under his breath. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Crashing your date,” James says. “Why?”

Sirius presses his eyes closed, breathes out, and then stands up. “I’m so sorry, Louis, to cut this short. If you’ll excuse us.” He pushes James out of the booth and drags him outside.

“What the hell, James?” Sirius asks, furious. He begins pacing back and forth, hands clenched at his sides. “I was enjoying my date. Why did you have to come and ruin everything?”

Something heavy falls to the pit of James’ stomach. “I’m sorry, I ruined everything?”

“Yes!” Sirius snaps. “You talk about Lily all the damn time, and now that you’re finally dating her, you decided you’d rather spend Valentine’s ruin my chances at having a nice boyfriend?”

James blinks. “I’m not—we’re not—we broke up weeks ago, Pads. And we were supposed to spend Valentine’s together.  Not with Lily or anyone else.”

Sirius pauses, taken aback. “Well, just because you don’t have a date doesn’t mean I can’t. We hang out all the time, why can’t I spend Valentine’s with someone I like? What’s wrong with me dating someone?”

“I don’t mind it when you date all those random birds,” James says, voice quiet. Nothing about this conversation is going as he expected, and he’s torn between equal amounts of anger and hurt. “I just don’t like Liam.” He doesn’t bring up the fact that up until now, he had thought that Sirius had liked spending time with him, preferred it even, to the company of others. He doesn’t bring up that he would rather spend time with Sirius than anyone else because it feels clingy when Sirius clearly doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment. 

“Louis,” Sirius corrects. “What, because he’s a bloke?”

James sputters. “What? No—it’s not—I don’t—Pads, you must know I don’t care about that.”

Sirius scoffs. “Then what is your problem?”

“Louis is,” James says. “I just don’t like him. I don’t want him to be dating you. I don’t want you dating him.  ”

“If it’s not because he’s a guy, then what is it?”

“I don’t know,” James replies miserably. He feels off-kilter and can’t get the right words to come out. “I just don’t know.”

“So it is  because he’s a bloke. There can't be any other reason why,” Sirius sneers, voice icy. James knows the Black’s ability to be cold and aloof remains in Sirius, but he never expected to be on the receiving end of it. It makes his thoughts screech to a halt. A lump forms in his throat, making it impossible to speak.

At James’ silence, Sirius laughs humorously. “Just great,” he spits out. “Of bloody course you’d be a fucking homophobe. As if the universe doesn’t hate me enough.” 

James opens his mouth to correct him, to tell him that that has never been and would never be an issue, that it’s something else but he just doesn’t know what. When he looks up, though, Sirius has already stormed off, leaving behind a cloud of confusion and hurt. 

“Remus told me I’d find you here,” Sirius says. He’s swaying on his heels by the door to the Room of Requirement, which currently looks like the Potters’ living room. He looks hesitant to enter but stubborn enough to not turn back. James turns to look at the dancing flames in the fireplace, knowing Sirius would see it as an invitation to come in.

“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions too fast,” Sirius begins. “Or, well—I mean, I still would like to know why you don’t like Louis, but I didn’t mean to call you a homophobe.”

James doesn’t respond, taking some time to mull over his answer. Sirius sits cross-legged on the ground next to him, knees close enough to touch.

“Pan,” James blurts out. So much for coming up with a thoughtful response. Upon Sirius’ confused look, James clarifies, “I’m pan. Would be kinda stupid to be a homophobe, don’t you think?”

Sirius nods slowly, looking away for a moment and swallowing harshly. “Good for you. Um. That’s—that’s great. Obviously. That would be rather stupid, yeah.”

James looks at him carefully. “Erm, does that change things?”

“No!” Sirius exclaims. “Of course not! No, it’s just great. Now that we established that we’re both single and queer, I can finally take you to those Muggle pubs and hook you up with a gorgeous person of your dreams.” 

James turns away, knowing Sirius’ words are futile. Now that he’d had some time to think since the disaster of the morning, it was obvious why he felt so angry at seeing Sirius on a date. The person of his dreams wasn’t some stranger at a pub, but Sirius himself. He could imagine Regulus and Remus’ gloating faces when he told them. 

“That won’t help,” James says.  

“Maybe not, but as I always say, a good shag here and there can make life a lot better. Even Remy agrees with me now.”

James tries but fails not to think of Sirius in dim-lit alleys with handsome men on their knees. “Remy is a horny little werewolf who gets his back blown out by Reggie on the regular. Obviously now he thinks that’s the solution to everyone’s problems.”

Sirius stills. “Godric’s tits, James!” He summons a throw pillow from one of the sofas to hit James with. “I don’t want to think about what my baby brother does with his boyfriend—Merlin, gross, I need an Obliviate. Why the fuck would you mention that ?”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with them fucking when you’re asking them about it,” James teases. “You ask Regulus himself. Why is this worse?”

Sirius’ pale skin pinks immediately, which makes James’ stomach sink. “Because this is about Regulus and Remus,” he says, voice eerily steady. “When I ask, it’s just about Remus.”

“Oh,” James murmurs. “Oh, hell, I shouldn’t have brought that up. I know you said you’re over Moons, but—"

“Wait, no,” Sirius interrupts. He pushes himself onto his knees in front of James. “That’s not what I meant at all.” 

“Sure,” James says, standing up quickly. He doesn’t believe Sirius, of course, having caught him looking longingly at Remus one too many times whenever they hang out. There’s a tight feeling in his chest that’s not going away, this horrible jealous thing. He wants to hit Sirius and grab him and kiss him, and he wants to punch Remus too for good measure. He likes Remus, he loves him even, but fuck if it wouldn’t be nice if Sirius stopped wanting everyone but James for once. 

“He’s probably right,” James says after a while, Sirius still on the ground. The firelight dances off of Sirius’ handsome features, illuminating the slope of his nose and the downturn of his lips. 

“Obviously,” Sirius says after a beat, fixing him with a calculating look. He’s still blushing, but whether that’s from the heat or the memory of Remus, James isn’t sure. It makes James burn something fierce inside. 

“Sorry,” James says again, once he’s determined that it’s most likely because of Remus. “I know it must be hard, especially with your brother in the picture—”

“Fuck’s sake, Prongs, would you shut it about Moony,” Sirius says, smacking James’ thigh with the pillow again before grabbing his hands where they lay uselessly by his side. “I’m not into Remus anymore. That was years ago, and anyway, I’d never do that to Reg. Do you ever even listen to me?”

James shrugs, looking anywhere but at Sirius on his knees between his thighs in front of him. “You’re the one who still thought I was dating Lily.”

“I know you broke up, but I thought you’d be back together by now,” Sirius admits. “It’s just—you and Lily, I dunno, just work.  It always gave me hope, I think, to see how you two came to be friends. Like maybe I’ll also find someone I love who loves me that much someday.”

James wants to throttle him. Wants to yell at him that he already has someone who loves him, someone who knows him better than anyone else, someone who’s right there if only Sirius wanted him back. Instead, he blurts out, “What Lily and I have isn’t like you and me.” Realizing how that sounded, he quickly adds, “Or you and Remus.”

Sirius groans, letting his head fall onto James’ hip. James’ knees almost buckle at the warm breath on his legs. “You seem awfully insistent that I still fancy Remus when you’re the one who doesn’t like Evans anymore despite being so hung up about her for years. You could just, I dunno,  ask  me like a normal person.”

James jerks back, hating himself for the hurt expression flitting across Sirius’ face at the motion. Sirius blinks up at him for a moment, maintaining eye contact as he tilts his head curiously to study him. Then, seemingly after finding what he’s looking for, he leans forward to follow James’ motion. There’s a determined quirk at the corner of his mouth, but the tenseness in the set of his shoulders betrayed his nerves. 

“Wh—what do you mean?” James manages to ask, voice weak. Sirius rolls his eyes and smiles softly as he reaches out to curl a hand just above James’ knee.

“Jamie,” he says softly. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. You think too much, do you know?” His eyes are lit golden-bright, and James wants to kiss him. Then Sirius’ other hand finds the pillow he had hit James with before and places it under his knees. 

“What are you doing?” James breathes out. Sirius only shakes his head, pulling James closer and brushing his knuckles just above James’ waistband. He hitches up his shirt to expose a sliver of skin, then presses his lips just under James’ navel. 

“Fuck,” James gasps. He realises belatedly that his hands had come up to tangle in Sirius’ hair, gripping him in place. 

“You could’ve just asked me,” Sirius repeats, tongue slipping between his lips to wet them. James shudders. “Instead of using your cloak to spy on my date and be jealous and miserable all day.” His tongue darts out again, sliding hot and wet and perfect up the dark smattering of hair that leads down beneath James’ boxers.

“How—oh—how do you know?” James asks, mind a mess of scrambled thoughts as his world narrows down to Sirius and his slick tongue and clever fingers working his boxers down. He’s sure he’s hallucinating because the Sirius he knows likes men Remus and Louis, blokes who take up less space in a room, who are quieter and more thoughtful and don’t resort to petty things like sabotaging their best friend’s dates because they’re in love with said best friend. Sirius doesn’t like guys like him, who are selfish and hopeless and—

“Stop. Thinking.” Sirius emphasizes each word with a harsh swipe up his cock with his tongue. James whines, high-pitched and demanding, and Sirius smiles up at him. 

“You look so pretty like this, Prongs,” he whispers between sucks. James swallows. 

“Oh,” he gasps. “But you’re—oh, yes, fuck, you’re a natural at this—but you’re in love with—with Remus?” His words end up more of a question as Sirius tongues his slit, but Sirius gets the message and pulls away slightly, glowering. 

“For the love of Merlin and Morgana and all that is holy, would you shut up about Remus,” he tells him forcefully. James nods, unthinking, laser-focused on the line of spit between Sirius’ reddened lips and his dick. Sirius notices and his features soften, an indulgent smile on his face, and squeezes James’ fingers at his sides. 

“In case this doesn’t clarify things, James Fleamont Potter,” he says quietly. “James. Jamie. Prongs. My gorgeous, idiot best mate, my partner-in-crime. What the hell makes you think that there’s ever been anyone but you?”

James stiffens and pulls away. Sirius lets him take his time to gather his bearings. “Don’t joke about this, fuck, Si, if you’re joking—”

He shakes his head. “No. No, Prongs, this is it. I—I love you, okay?”

“For how long?” James rasps. His mind is whirling. 

“Does it matter?” At James’ insistent look, Sirius sighs and looks away. “Fourth year, I think, is when I knew for certain. But it started even before that.”

“You’ve loved me for this long?” James breathes. “Holy shit, Si.”

Sirius turns away, cheeks reddened. “Does it matter?”

James sits on the ground in front of him, taking his face into his hands. “Yes, it does, you bloody mutt. I thought you were in love with Remus this whole time.”

He shrugs. “That was just an excuse to hide that I was in love with you since I first knew loving blokes was a thing.”

“Damn,” James whispers. “Oh my god, Si, how did you manage? I only just realised how I feel about you today, and I already lost my composure, like, twenty times.”

Sirius laughs, and James feels something inside him settle into place. “Well, as a reward for my patience, can I continue what I started?” he asks, gesturing to James’ lap.

James smiles. “Sure,” he says. “As long as I get to return the favour. And first, I want to do this.” He takes his glasses off before turning Sirius’ face to his and tentatively pressing their lips together. He’s sure he’s never felt anything half as wonderful until Sirius wraps an arm around him and presses in close. And then he’s finally tasting Sirius, and can identify a hint of himself, and then his brain stops working. 

Sirius pulls away, after what could’ve been hours or minutes. James chases after him blindly, sparking a chuckle out of Sirius. “Prongs?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” When James looks up at him, he’s grinning cheekily. His eyes are sparkling and his cheeks are flushed, and James idly thinks, I made him look like this.  A surge of affection bubbles up in him, and he quickly places kisses all over Sirius’ face, prompting more laughter and kisses. 

“I love you,” he whispers into Sirius’ back, hours later when they’re both sated and sticky and riding the high of requited love. Sirius turns to face him, hair wild and face open. 

“I love you too, James,” he murmurs, and James feels giddy with the knowledge that Sirius was only in love with him, not Louis or Remus or all those other people he’d pulled in bars. That this was just for the two of them. James and Sirius, Sirius and James. As it always had been, and as it always should be.

[multistanisms]

Opportune Moment || Teen Wolf

FANDOM: Teen Wolf

PAIRING: Stiles Stilinski x Peter Hale

WORD COUNT: 5,817

RATING: PG-13

POTENTIAL TRIGGERS: N/A

SUMMARY: Scott joining the alpha pack, Lydia and Danny dating the twins and the body count of Beacon Hills rising from a darach has Stiles unable to enjoy the Winter Dance. Getting air leads to a brief conversation with the one person Stiles doesn’t want to talk to right now - Peter Hale.

TAGLIST: @no1likemybbgcharlie, @spookidema

♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦♢♦

The music had been fine, the punch still as blandly boring as the previous two years. But when Lydia got up to dance with freaking Aiden, Stiles had officially given up on enjoying the dance. There was no possible low lower than watching her dance with someone who had tried to kill his friend (although he doubted Cora considered him a friend) and had helped in killing another. He’d grabbed a cup of the punch and found his way outside. With a sigh, he hopped up, moving to sit on the railing outside of the back of the gym. Tonight had been a total failure in terms of romance. Again. Or well, that was the cover he was still trying to force himself to play. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another getting in his way. He stared at his cup of punch for a while, then shook his head. “Maybe I should give up,” he wondered, taking a long drink of the beverage.

“Giving up isn’t much like you, Stiles.” The voice made Stiles flail and almost caused the teen to fall backwards off the railing. What didn’t almost happen was the remainder of his punch splashing over his outfit. Turning his eyes towards the source, he laid eyes on the one person he wasn’t sure he wanted to see at the moment. Dark jeans hugged the male’s body perfectly, as well as a long sleeved grey shirt, which was a surprisingly normal piece of the wolf’s style, clad the form of the oldest wolf in town; Peter Hale. Sighing and rolling his eyes, Stiles jumped down, looking at the now ruined clothes, shaking the punch off his hands as best he could before wiping them on the pants of his suit.

“Seriously?” he grumbled. He looked back at Peter and gave an irritated look. “Are you happy now? My suit is ruined.”

The wolf raised his hands, giving a soft shrug. “My apologies. I didn’t expect you to throw punch all over yourself if I said hello.” He gave a chuckle as he moved to get closer to the little platform. Despite being a wolf, the movement made Peter look more like a cat. The image of a glowing eyed kitten hissing made Stiles laugh to himself before he realized what Peter had said and frowned a little.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t say hello, Peter. You spewed a bunch of crap and scared the living hell out of me.” Stiles snapped a little, letting his eyes return to his punch soaked clothes. He looked up a moment later, to see the wolf’s brow arched. “What?”

“I was honestly expecting you to at least try to enjoy yourself this year.” Peter said calmly, raising his eyebrows together and kind of swaying his head.

Somehow, Stiles found the will to roll his eyes and exaggerate the movement with a slight movement of his head; a clear knock off of what he had dubbed the ‘signature Hale eye-roll’. “Yeah, because that’s so easy to do when your best friend is siding with killers, your dad is missing and your friends are dying.”

“Is part of it perhaps also Lydia?” Peter inquired, eyes glancing at the cracked door, where a slow song was playing from the dance.

“No, no, NO. Don’t you dare say her exquisitely beautiful name, alright? You have no right, and I mean no right whatsoever, to have her name even blink across your mind. Not after what you did to her.” He crossed his arms defiantly. Yes, he might have started moving on, but he would also always see Lydia as beautiful, and he would defend her; no matter the cost.

The oldest Hale’s head cocked to one side as he arched his brow again. “Stiles, technically I did nothing. I just tapped into her abilities.”

“Abilities she wasn’t even aware she had until you used her to bring your wolf ass back to life.” Stiles said, making a point by cocking his own head and shooting the wolf a look that was clearly daring the were to argue.

“It was a move of strategy, Stiles.” Peter said. “And it worked out pretty well, seeing as my coming back saved Jackson. And yourself. Or have you forgotten that?”

“Yeah, well, even if you did save everyone’s collective asses by helping with Jackson, your strategy sucked, okay?” Stiles said, clearly annoyed that Peter was sticking around. His head shook as he thought about it. “You made people think she was crazy.” He leaned back on the rail and huffed a little. “Basically ruined her life.”

“I wasn’t aware that being Queen Bee made or broke a person’s life. Especially someone as brilliant as Lydia. And if we’re being honest, Stiles, anyone who thought Lydia was crazy were the actual crazy ones.” Peter said. He didn’t seem to notice Stiles faltering as he defended the redhead, giving a shrug. “But, I didn’t come for Lydia. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Well, as okay as it can be given our current, blood thirsty visitors…” he amended, giving a look as if he was scolding himself for a second. “But clearly everything is not okay if you’re out here moping.”

Stiles gaped at the older wolf for a moment and scoffed, looking away. “I can go in whenever I’m ready.” He then glanced back at Peter. “Shouldn’t you be like, trying to form a plan of action with Derek? I didn’t think he’d let you out of his sight due to a third of you dying in a coma-like state.” When he got an arched brow as a reply, he paused. Shit, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Cora had been a godsend for Derek and Peter both, and now they were losing her slowly. He looked down. “I mean, with Isaac here, and Scott, what’s the point of you hanging around?”

“Isaac came tonight because Derek explained it would make him feel better if Isaac didn’t miss it because of him.” Peter said, shrugging a little. “Although I doubt Isaac is having much fun himself at this point.”

“Wait, why would Isaac have missed the dance because of Derek?” Stiles asked, giving a confused look as he tilted his head.

“He didn’t want Isaac to miss something like this because Derek couldn’t attend as his date.” Peter answered simply. “Believe me, dragging the kid out for a tux was no easy task.” His eyes were once more at the door, as if he was waiting on a reply from the formerly abused beta, and when they returned to Stiles, the human was giving him a droll stare, as if he was speaking a known fact. “Something wrong, Stiles?”

“That just confirmed my suspicions…” Stiles rolled his eyes. He supposed it could happen – falling in love with someone who was loyal to a fault. His mind kind of trailed off from there though, becoming distracted by helplessly erotic images of the alpha and Isaac. He was so lost in his head that he jumped and flailed when Peter reached to touch his shoulder. Of course, the force of his jump and the flailing put him off balance, and he flinched as he waited for the ground to smack him, but instead he felt himself grabbed about the waist. Opening his eyes, he blinked upon realizing Peter had actually caught him. ‘Okay, seriously, it’s getting increasingly harder to hate this guy!’ He thought as he stared up at the wolf for a moment. “Uhm, thank y-” his voice was cut off as the older male leaned in to kiss him. A soft, gentle connection; not forceful or demanding, just…tender. Perhaps even a little needy and uncertain. That kind of connection between their lips made the teen’s heart pick up in rhythm a bit. He liked it, and as much as he would deny he had even entertained the thought, it wasn’t like what he’d thought it would be. Dep down, he knew he wanted more. So much so that he tilted his head, trying to deepen the kiss. Of course, it was at this moment that he realized he was kissing Peter freaking Hale. Flailing again, he shoved at the wolf, almost frantic to get away before he asked Peter to take him home. “Let me go, now.”

“Stiles-”

“Let me GO!” Stiles snapped, to which the wolf sighed, rolled his eyes and promptly released the human without a word. Stiles fell back, ass meeting concrete and a soft hiss leaving him at the pain. “What the hell, Peter?”

“You said to let you go.” Peter said innocently, although the hint of the smartass Peter that Stiles had come to know was evident in the tone. Stiles wasn’t sure if it pissed him off or it made him want to smile. So he forced his face still and replied as he stood up and dusted at his clothes.

“No, I mean what the hell was that? Before you dropped me.”

“I believe it’s called a kiss, Stiles.” Peter replied, once more back to his usual sarcastic self and shrugging a shoulder up. “Unless that terminology has been eradicated by your generation at some point.”

“Okay, let me lay this out here for you, wolf man. I don’t want you. At all.” Stiles said, clearly angry. But was the anger at himself or Peter? He couldn’t tell. He really didn’t care at the moment. The anger would cover the lie with ease.

“Then why did you kiss back?” Peter asked, head tilting. Stiles could see the slightest curve of a smirk on Peter’s lip. Damnit, why did he have to do that?

“You caught me off guard.” Stiles replied firmly, raising his eyebrows together and rolling his head in the tiniest way, almost like a twitch of annoyance.

“Or you actually wanted to kiss back and now you don’t want to admit it.” The wolf said with a slight tilt of his head in the same direction. The smirk was becoming a bit more prominent in the wolf now.

Stiles gave an aggravated sound, his hands clenching in front of him as if he might try to strangle the wolf. “Okay, you know what? Rule number one of me not killing you with wolfsbane. You will not, under any circumstance, scenario or matter of life or death, kiss me with those talented but murderous and lying lips. Understand?” His voice raised a little in volume and pitch, arms flailing as he spoke, as if he needed to gesture to make his point more valid.

Peter actually seemed offended at the little speech. His head even straightened to its proper position. “So says the human that returned the kiss. Although, if I’m being honest, that murderous and lying bit hurt…”

“I’m gonna show you hurt if you ever even think about kissing me again.” Stiles said seriously. He didn’t need this. He couldn’t get involved with Peter. But as with all irony in life, he had to move on from his affection for Lydia by falling for Peter Hale. He’d been pushing it out of his mind for almost a year. Why did he have to be reminded with such a trivial thing as a kiss? Damn, his luck was shitty these days. Right now though, he wanted to rip his hair out in frustration. He didn't need that intrusive thought to win. For one thing, it wasn’t attractive. Another reason was that he kind of liked his hair long.

“I get the feeling you’d return another kiss if I could manage to steal it.” Peter said with an all out smirk. He shook his head as he chuckled, reaching to help the human up. He saw the reluctance in the teen and rolled his eyes in the perfected version of Stiles’ previous attempt at the roll of eyes the Hale family had. “Oh come on, Stiles, I’m not that predictable. Although it would probably make you feel better if I was.”

Stiles kept quiet at the comment, because Peter was right; it would make him feel better if he could easily predict Peter's moves. Instead, he let his eyes move between Peter’s face and the extended hand, and reluctantly took the wolf’s hand, only to be yanked onto his feet and have the wolf lean in again. He tensed on pretext before deciding it would be best if he just turned away when the wolf whispered into his ear.

“If I kiss you again, Stiles, it won't be until you ask for it.” Peter’s voice was so soft, so undeniably sexy, that a shiver ran through Stiles. There was most definitely a need of some kind behind those words. And Stiles certainly didn’t understand what the hell it was. Before he could reply, Peter pulled away, reaching up to fix the tie and continuing. “Go back to the dance, Stiles. Ignore the twins as best you can. Try to enjoy yourself at least a little tonight?” Stepping back when the tie was straightened, he gave the human a soft smile and nodded his head at the gym door. “Go on.”

Stiles openly gaped at the wolf for a moment. Then his body began moving backwards, as if responding to the suggestion without Stiles’ conscious agreement to do so. His head tilted to one side, although whether mocking Peter or just curious, the human couldn’t tell. He jumped as he bumped into something and turned, flailing, to see a trash can knocked against the brick wall of the school. He silently asked who put a trash can so close to a rail, although in any other moment it would have seemed a stupid question. Stopping to glare at the receptacle for a moment, he made sure to right it properly before turning back to look at Peter again. Although he’d deny it if asked, he felt a sudden sadness in his chest to find that the platform was empty of the wolf. Giving a sigh and lightly shaking his head, he sidestepped the can and moved for the door to the gym. As he laid a hand on the frame of the metal door, he paused and looked back, hoping that he would catch another glimpse of the wolf. But still, there was nothing. Not even a trace that Peter had been there with him just moments before. He’d just turned around to finish entering the school when he jumped, startled by Scott standing in front of him, yanking at his sleeve and tugging him over to the side of the door. By the grin on his best friend’s face, it was something good. Thank god. With everything going on, they needed good news of some kind. “What is it, man?”

“Allison!” Scott said, his grin beyond excited as he watched his friend. “I overheard her telling Lydia she still loves me!” The pure excitement was damn near palpable, and it made Stiles feel a range of emotions in one moment. The human sufficed to roll his eyes at his best friend.

“So go talk to her, man.” He said. “I’ll be fine.” He waved his hand dismissively when Scott seemed to hesitate, brown eyes watching Stiles doubtfully. Stiles sighed and shook his head. “Look, seriously, Scott. Something has to go right for us here. And I am not going to let you sit it out with me when you could be getting the girl of your dreams back. Now go.” When the wolf still seemed unsure, Stiles gave a sigh. “Scott, if you don’t go talk to Allison, I’m going to lace your drink with wolfsbane and shoved mistletoe down your throat.” His look and voice were serious, and finally Scott nodded and left to go find the huntress. Going to the long table of snacks, Stiles scooped up a fresh cup of punch, then found his way around the gym until he was at an empty table in the back corner. Sipping at his cup before setting it on the table, he sat in the very corner chair. From this new position, the human could see all of his peers. For roughly five or six songs, maybe even seven, Stiles sat quietly, watching and trying to pay attention to his surroundings. Yet all he could do was get lost to his thoughts. As much as he tried to ignore it…he couldn’t. Or rather, his brain wouldn’t let him. The entirety of his focus kept getting sidetracked to one thing; or the aspects of one thing, bringing with it the conflicting mix of emotions that was spawned by the memory his brain wouldn’t let him ignore.

Peter’s kiss.

Surprised by it or not, it was a default action in Stiles to try and cover it up in his mind. To hide how much he’d liked that contact. But his mind had other plans tonight, and just kept dragging him back to that moment. Like a scratched DVD that only played to a certain point and then replayed one scene over and over. Everything about the kiss was embedded in his brain, and he couldn’t not think about it. The warmth of Peter’s lips, how gentle the wolf had been in kissing him, the way his heart had sped up and his body had ached to draw Peter closer and never let go. Most of all, the emotion that the kiss had drawn out of him. Taking a deep breath, he let it out as a sigh, his honey eyes falling to stare at the glass of punch. Raising one hand, he traced his middle finger around on the rim as he thought about it. He’d been denying it when it made itself known for nearly three years, since he’d been offered the bite. The affections for Peter that seemed to do anything except go away had been ignited when Peter first saw right through him in the midst of his originally playing cool for his best friend's sake. He had, at one time, thought he’d liked Derek, but then the alpha had started turning everyone and Isaac was soon almost constantly with the older wolf. And it wasn’t until he’d seen Peter helping kill – cure, Stiles reminded himself - Jackson that he even realized who his feelings were for. He’d built up sturdy walls on purpose; anything to keep from acknowledging his growing emotions for Peter. However, now it seemed as though the base of those walls was faltering in the design…and they were weakening faster than Stiles could repair it. As if the kiss had blown a hole in his defenses and it was only a matter of time before they finally crumbled into dust. All that was left now was a aching lingering in his body, his mind, of what he wanted. More. Another kiss, to soak in the warmth of the safe feeling he had when he was with Peter. Being honest with himself for the first time with the situation, he just flat out wanted Peter. The closest he could assimilate it to was how much Scott wanted, would always want, Allison.

With that comparison, Stiles raised his eyes to look around the gym floor. It took him a moment to observe the amount of happiness on the dance floor. Allison was holding Scott, her head on his shoulder as they whispered to each other. Aiden was twirling Lydia gently, the banshee’s eyes closed as she smiled. And Danny was tucked against Ethan as the two shared their own moment, laughing quietly together. Stiles actually shook his head. ‘This is ridiculous.’ He thought and moved to stand. Whether he meant himself or watching the happiness around him, he didn’t know or care anymore. Taking the last bit of punch from the cup in a single drink, he set the now empty cup on the table of confetti and glitter. Hand reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keys, twirling them on his finger and catching them each time they fell towards his palm. Moving to the parking lot and heading for his jeep, he was prepared to go home; the only sound as he walked was the jingling of his keys as he twirled them. Finally looking up as he neared his car, he froze in place, his eyes widening a little as he stared at where his jeep was sitting parked. He wasn’t staring at the vehicle so much as the figure leaning against the back of it in such a calm manner. Waiting casually, as if he belonged there. Even yards from the man, Stiles could feel his body react, his skin warming as if an electric charge had filled the air and made his blood move faster. Everything Stiles wanted was standing right there, as if he had known he would be leaving. That thought alone had the teen’s heart changing into a much more erratic beat, and he stood in place, frozen by indecision. But then Peter turned his head as if sensing he was being watched, and blue hues found Stiles’ gaze with ease. In that moment, the indecision broke and Stiles couldn’t help himself. Starting forward at a brisk pace, he made his way to where Peter was and upon stopping in front of the man, reached up to pull the wolf into another kiss. A delighted little hum escaped him as he was kissed back, his arms moving naturally to wrap at the man’s neck as he tilted his head and was granted permission to deepen the contact. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away until his lungs burned with the need for oxygen, and as he gulped it in, he looked at Peter with a serious and hungry expression. “Take me home with you, Peter. I want you to.” When the former alpha only arched a brow at him, Stiles motioned his head in a ‘you have got to be kidding me’ manner. He then raised his hand with the keys, dangling them a few inches from the wolf’s face. “Don’t make me say it again.” The tone in his voice made it clear there were no negotiations, no debating. He wanted this, and Peter had damn well better give it to him. For a moment, Peter watched him, and then the brow fell from its arch and Peter took the keys. With a light smile and a nod, Stiles moved to the passenger side, opening the door and sliding in.

Seeing Peter slip into the driver’s seat made Stiles smile a little more. When the wolf paused and looked at him, he tilted his head as the other spoke. “Stiles are you-”

“If you ask me if I’m sure, I swear to God, Peter, I will poison you with wolfsbane, mountain ash and mistletoe.” The teen cut him off, turning to stare at Peter with raised brows. He was daring Peter to argue, but the wolf only laughed softly and started the jeep. Relaxing into his seat, he tugged his phone from his pocket and hit the volume button until it was set on vibrate. It was a kind of personal insurance that he’d be left alone for a while. Right now, hell for the next few hours or even the rest of the damn night, he needed to be away from the others. To have who he wanted for a change instead of trying to hide it. To forget about anything and everything going on. To just be a young man in love. That thought made him smile to himself. He was in love with Peter, even though there was a small part of him, the part that hated the idea of because it didn't fully trust the wolf, that kept asking, begging if he was sure. Turning his honey gaze towards the wolf as Peter drove, he gave a minute kind of nod. Yes, he was sure. He loved Peter, more than anything. And he didn’t fully understand why or how, but he knew he always would, that he would always need Peter. That if he gave himself to Peter, trusted him, the wolf would never let him go and would protect him instead of asking to be protected. That thought made a real smile curve his lips for the first time in a long while. 

The drive to the apartment downtown was quiet. Only the sound of the jeep kept the utter silence at bay. Stiles wasn’t sure what to say for a while. So when Peter let his hand fall, the teen glanced at the wolf before reaching with hesitance to take the slightly bigger hand in his own. He looked away as Peter squeezed his hand gently and looked over to give a soft smile. It wasn’t the usual kind of smile he’d come to know from the wolf. This one was soft, gentle, and it made the older wolf look more relaxed and calm. He had needed the contact, to feel truly connected, and it was clear that Peter had no problem giving him that. All the simple gestures, paired with the words the former alpha had said outside the school, their kiss and the fact that Peter had been waiting for him…Stiles suddenly realized Peter had been hinting at a confession without saying it. It was a vague way to do so, and frustratingly so, yet Stiles knew that it was also so very like something Peter would have done casually. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading the way but never giving the answer outright. Pulling into the complex, Stiles took a moment to look around. He was about to turn and look back at Peter when a familiar car caught his attention just a few spaces down from the jeep’s place. “You have the Camaro? How did you get Derek to give it to you?”

Peter looked over at it, shrugging nonchalantly. “Better than giving it to a total stranger that no one knows how well they’ll treat the car.” He mused. “I forget I have it from time to time.” His blue eyes finally tore from the car to look at Stiles. Tilting his head in a way that kind of read ‘not a big deal’, he opened the door and climbed out, going to the passenger side to open Stiles’ door.

“Like tonight?” Stiles asked as his door opened and he arched a brow at the wolf. The devilish smile on Peter's lips sent a shiver through him.

“No, tonight I left it here on purpose.” The older man said, holding up the jeep’s keys in front of the teen. “Something told me I wouldn’t need it.”

Stiles blinked as he looked up at Peter, unable to keep from smiling as he took the keys into his hand. “I'm glad you listened to that instinct.” 

“So am I.” Peter replied, reaching to run his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “ Are you staying the night or should I be ready to take you home?”

“I don't want to go home tonight.” Stiles surprised himself as he spoke, free hand moving to guide Peter's hand to his waist. “I want to stay with you, Peter.” He was fully aware of the way Peter stroked his fingers along the suit jacket. “Take me inside?”

“Happily,” Peter responded, the hand at Stiles’ side moving to lace their fingers together and walk with the teen up to the building. Stiles stays as close as possible as they moved, and Peter is grateful for the proximity of the younger man. “Thank you,” he voices quietly as he leads them into the elevator. 

The words catch Stiles’ attention, making him tilt his head. “Hm? What for?” 

“For being yourself.” Peter responds, lifting their entwined hands to kiss the back of Stiles’ hand. “For being, well…human.”

“Being human isn't so great,” Stiles countered,his tone sad as he leans into Peter's side. 

“Please don't say that,” Peter begged softly. “You are so important, Stiles. Don't ever doubt that.”

“Everyone always has to save me. I can't do anything like you or Derek or even Allison.”

“You're the reason everyone has survived, though. Your plans almost always work. You always think of something or find something we need.” Peter's voice is quiet as he speaks, reluctant to move when the elevator opens but leading the way to his apartment door. “Whether the others show it or not, I will do everything in my power to make you are yourself the way I do. To make you understand how important you are to me if nothing else.” He's aware of Stiles’ attention on him, his inner wolf content to have that much at least, and steps aside to let Stiles’ inside. 

As soon as the door closed, Stiles felt safer than he had in over two years. It seemed into his body like a hot shower when you're cold, and he finds himself sighing in relief. He takes the time to look around, eyes slamming in the difference of Peter's living space versus the loft where Derek and the rest of the pack resided. “It's so calm here.” He let his fingers brush over the mantle of the fireplace, pausing to take in the slightly charred images in new frames. “Is this…?” His voice died, unable to form the words. 

“Some of the few photos I could save.” Peter finished with a nod. “My nieces and nephews, my sister and brothers. I have the remaining ones in the hall. My parents, a family one from Christmas the year before the fire…” He points at each of them, his own voice twinging on ache as his lips barely curve up; not quite a smile from the weight of his memories. “This is what's left of them.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Sometimes. I didn't have the best family environment, but they were family, and you only get one, you know?” He can see the curiosity behind Stiles' eyes, is very aware of the effort the young man takes to not ask. “That part of my past is for another time, Stiles. Tonight isn't about that.” He doesn't move when Stiles steps closer, allowing himself to be pulled into an emotional kiss, his hands finding purchase at Stiles’ hips. 

“You aren't alone anymore, Peter. I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere, I promise.” Stiles murmured, honey eyes locking on Peter's blue ones. “I love you, and I'm sorry it took so long to realize it.” 

“You don't have to apologize, Stiles.” 

“Maybe not, but I still want to make it up to you.” 

“Oh? What exactly is going on in that clever mind if yours, hmm?”

“Kiss me again and find out.” Stiles remarked with a smirk, fingers tugging at Peter's shirt, laughing out a moan when the older man obliges with ease. The rest of the night is little more than a blur, but Stiles is aware of the way he's practically worshipped over and over. He eventually falls asleep, curled securely against Peter with his head on the wolf's chest. 

The room is still dark when Stiles stirs, but there's just enough light behind the curtains to reveal that the sun was rising. Stretching, he relaxes and looks up at Peter, taking in how peaceful the man looks. His lips curl up into a smile, lifting his hand to rest it on Peter's cheek, thumb brushing over the stubbled skin. “My wolf,” he hums quietly, startling when Petered eyes open. “Good morning, handsome.”

“Only yours.” Peter promised, adjusting to steal a kiss. “And good morning. I didn't think you'd still be here.”

“Peter, why would I leave?” Stiles blinked in confusion. “Haven't we been building to this since we met?” He grins at Peter's responding arched brow, laughing quietly. “I know all about the mate thing with wolves; had to learn it when it came to Scott and Allison.” He answered, shrugging his free shoulder. “I just didn't think it could happen-”

“Don't doubt yourself, Stiles.” Peter pleads when he interrupts. “Please don't. You are so loyal, smart and fierce. You never give up, even when it looks terrible. You are the real backbone of the McCall pack, and you would be the perfect wolf.” 

“Wolf or not, I'm not sure how Scott will handle this. He may not want me in the pack.”

“Then he's a fool and doesn't deserve you.” Peter countered, pressing his lips to Stiles’ forehead. “Without you, I would not be here, same and calm. That darkness held me for so long, I'd given up trying to fight it. And then you came along.” His hand rests at Stiles’ side, fingers brushing over the soft skin there. “You are priceless to me, Stiles. Nothing is more important than you.” He lets Stiles tuck his head into his neck, eyes closing as he took in his mate's scent. 

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers, k owing Peter will hear the emotion regardless. 

“What for?” Peter teases, fingers still mindlessly tracing over Stiles’ skin. 

“For seeing me.” Stiles answers, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “When everything started, it was so much, and I've always been on the sidelines of it all.”

“You fail to realize the significance of your role in Scott's survival, then. He would never have made it this far without you.”

“I should have said yes when you were alpha.”

“No.” The word is firm when Peter speaks it, pulling away just enough to lock his eyes on Stiles’. “I'm glad you said no, even if you were lying when you said it. Had I turned you, in that state, stuck in my own despair and darkness? I could have hurt you, and that I would never forgive myself for. I would rather die than hurt my reason for living.”

“No death talk,” Stiles scolded, tapping his index finger at Peter's lips. “You, Peter Hale, are not allowed to die. You are absolutely not allowed to leave me alone.” A pout distorted his face when Peter laughed quietly. “Don't laugh at me, I'm serious.”

“I'm not laughing at you, Stiles.” Peter countered, resting his forehead against Stiles’. “You're just so much like a wolf, that's all.” 

“Shut up and kiss me.” Stiles huffed, smiling when Peter listened. He was content to just stay like that the rest of the day, to shut the world and all the terrible things happening in Beacon Hills out for just a little longer. He wanted to just be happy for a little while longer, but the moment was shattered by his phone ringing, followed shortly by Peter's. “Damn it,” he cursed. 

“Don't worry, Stiles. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right at your side.” 

“Promise?”

“I swear it.” Peter assured, stealing another long kiss before reaching to hand Stiles his phone. “We're in this together.” 

“At every opportunity.” Stiles added, grinning up at Peter as he swiped to answer the call.

[we-will-be-reun1ted]

─── ⋆⋅Personality ⋅⋆ ───

These are my own headcanons for how I think Aether and Lumines personalities are like.

Lumine

Okay starting off with my personal favourite character 🫶🫶 she’s a BITCH

Not the kind of bitch like, constantly insulting and talking shit about someone bitch. The more witty and condescending bitch

Though she would talk shit about you to your face if she was in a particularly bad mood

Morally grey, though a darker shade of grey

The kind of person you don’t see laughing often apart from at other people’s misery (Aether falling down the stairs)

Judgmental, but fair in her judgment. Most of the time anyway. Sometimes she’s petty af

She’s kind of like an extroverted introvert if that makes sense? She’s completely socially confident and can talk to people if she wants to - she just doesn’t want to

Incredibly assertive and confident in herself in general and isn’t afraid to say whatever she’s thinking, no matter how harsh it may come across

Brutally honest

She’s cold and calculating. Doesn’t smile much aside from when it’s just her and her brother

Deffo has a resting bitch face

She gets irritated pretty quickly, but is also quick to calm down after

Very much a forgive but never forget person

Also very much a revenge person

She won’t stay mad at something for too long unless it’s a huge thing. If it is then 😬

One of the worst people to piss off. If she doesn’t like you, you’ll know. It won’t be pretty. If it’s that big of a thing she would most likely go out of her way to make their life a living hell until she gets bored or Aether steps in

Has a little bit of a God complex I’m not gonna lie

In the sense that she sees herself and her brother as a lot more powerful and therefore - important than the average person

Which they are far more powerful dont get me wrong, but it’s led Lumine to the mindset where she sees those below her as weakish

I’ll get more into this in a future post. It links up to quite a few other headcanons I have

Very very brave though. And not a complete asshole, she will go out of her way to help people sometimes

If she sees someone being attacked by hilichurls she will jump in to fight, no questions asked. She may be a little huffy about it if she’s trying to go somewhere but still

It would take a long long time to become friends with her aside from if shes particularly interested in someone, but when she is genuinely someone’s friend she’s incredibly loyal and protective of that person

She’s interested in people who are strong willed and know exactly what they want and aren’t afraid to go for it

Also she admires those who are logical, don’t freak out over the littlest things and are usually calm and co-ordinated

If they know how to fight that’s also a plus

She doesn’t like making friends often as she and Aether never stay in once place. They travel from world to world and she feels horrible leaving them

(Attachment issues)

DTF. She likes pleasure and is quite a sexual person. If she finds someone attractive and they both want it then she will take it

She’s a badass and girlbossing her way through life fr I love her so much

With Aether -

She’s a much different person around her brother than she is with anyone else

First, she’s a lot more active and playful with him. Out with other people she’s usually quiet

Not completely silent at all, she certainly lets her presence be know, but she prefers to sit back and listen

Oh she’s fantastic at reading people that’s something I forgot to mention

Anyway, with Aether she seems a lot more happier and outgoing

Smiles an awful lot more, though still has her resting bitch face

Aether likes to make fun of her for it

They both like to make fun of each other a lot. Nothing serious or mean or anything. Just little things

Okay they are twins so occasionally mean

She trusts him entirely and it’s evident with the way she acts with him, she’s protective. Not Aether level protective but still quite protective

Trusts him to the point which he knows every single weakness of hers. Every struggle she faces, every thought she has

No one else would ever come close to getting her to reveal any of her weaknesses. Including her friends

She’s properly herself around Aether. Not just cold and confident as she is around anyone else

She’s still confident, but she’s very warm around him

Drags him around everywhere she goes. The two are attached one the hip. It’s like they are one whole body sometimes

Teases him ALL THE TIME

Though it’s a ‘I can make fun of my brother but if anyone else does it they will pay’ kinda thing

Same goes for Aeth

As much as she loves him, the two get on each others nerves

While not usually petty around others, Lumine is PETTY around Aether

Aether makes an off handed comment about Lumines hair one time and completely forgets about it afterwards? Okay! Lumine does his braid rough and too tight on on uncomfortable angle for a month. Making offhanded comments about it every day that sound suspiciously like what he said to her three weeks ago

She forgives Aether a lot faster than she does with anyone else though

Aether

Now Aether! He’s somewhere in my top three I don’t know if he’s second or third but probably second??? Idk

Huge golden retriever energy

Usually a pretty polite guy. Opens doors for people, says thank you and that

Pretty much polar opposite of Lumine when it comes to people, he really really enjoys talking and social interaction with almost anyone

Introverted extrovert, loves being around people but he can’t do it 24/7 without feeling a little drained. Needs some time on his own or with just Lumine to charge up

Super social though, the kind of guy who can go up to someone and just strike up a conversation

Has definitely been invited to a wedding in the first ten minutes of meeting someone before

He just likes getting on with people in general. It’s nice talking with people and can benefit him and Lumine

People are interesting to understand and they can benefit them both by giving them food if they need it, shelter etc etc

Like Lumine - he’s socially confident

After being around people for eons he’s learned how they work, interact, how to talk with them etc etc so he’s pretty confident in that regard

He and Lumine never stay in one place for very long so there’s no good in being nervous around people

All this goes out of the window when he’s crushing on someone

The dudes a big romantic unlike Lumine. He likes romance, she likes pleasure

It’s not really often but when he likes someone romantically he usually becomes a bit more nervous and says a few more awkward things

Laughing at unconventional times

He still knows what to say and is pretty confident, just a bit more dorky and such

Hard to piss off but when you do he gets very very snappy and sarcastic

Surprisingly he holds grudges for longer than Lumine

He’s a revenge person but nothing like Lumine. Usually it’s small revenge like saying something back or trying to embarrass the person a little bit

He’s a little bit immature at times, nothing major but just little things. Usually pretty mature in general

In public Lumine seems like the most mature out of the two when really with each other they both have the maturity levels of bloody children

Morally light grey

Can be a bit overly selfless at times

Has the tendency to overwork himself to the point of debilitating

Please he’s so tired he’s been trying to stop Lumine from annihilating someone for looking at her wrong when she accidentally set the stove on fire, give him a break

He’s a really nice and good guy in general don’t get me wrong but he doesn’t really care as much as other people think he does

I mean that in the sense that he doesn’t have a deep and meaningful connection many things when he travels to other worlds

He doesn’t care about being a hero and actively helping people it just happens - though he’s certainly not complaining

He finds it a lot easier letting go of people when he and Lumi leave to other worlds

In his eyes he’s come, made a good impression and now it’s time to go

It’s different to Lumine as he doesn’t have an emotional connection to anyone there apart from his sister so it’s easier to let go. Lumine doesn’t have as deep emotional connections with anyone aside from her brother, but she still has some form of connection to them

Like I said, she makes very few friends but when she does she gets to know them and like them more just because she spends more time with them individually rather than a lot of people as a whole like Aether does

With Lumine -

Surprisingly, Aether is actually the slightly calmer twin when it comes to their personalities with each other

Only slightly. They are both very much a chaotic duo when they are together

That’s why the had to be separated 😔 causing too much mischief

His personality with others isn’t as different as it is with Lumine aside from he likes to tell a lot more jokes and gets really sarcastic

Sometimes his jokes are to try and gross Lumine out as much as possible

One time he ate a raw egg. Absolutely no prompting at all. Lumine had gathered some food for them to eat in a world once and was starting to cook over a fire, when Aether looked her dead in the eyes and took a bite out of a raw egg

He will always say out of all the years they have been travelling together, he has never seen her with a more disgusted expression at that moment

To make it worse he ever tried to grab hold of her face and give her a kiss on the cheek straight after, leading to the both of them wrestling on the floor

Aether will say he won, Lumine will say she will. Either way Lumine now has egg trauma.

The two bounce off each other in both the worst and best ways

Like he does with Lumine, she also knows every weakness of his, struggle and thought

The two know absolutely everything about each other

He’s much more emotional around her than he is with others

Usually he limits himself to the ‘hero’ prototype people see when they think of him, he doesn’t intend to be a hero but it’s what he usually accidentally ends up being

But not with Lumine, with Lumine he’s completely honest about what he’s thinking and feeling

If he’s stressed he will tell her. If he’s upset he will tell her. If he’s mad he will tell her

He knows he doesn’t have to worry about being seen differently around her

His role with her is to try and get them both out of trouble after she gets them into it

6/10 times it backfires and they end up landing themselves in even more trouble

You can just tell they were both an absolute menace together when they were children

Even though he’s only mere milliseconds older than Lumine, he likes to take the self proclaimed role of big brother very very seriously

Fake scolding her when she gets into shit, always keeping an incredibly close eye on anyone who comes near her. Especially men

He’s really protective of her. Usually he plays it off as a joke but it has led to them having arguments before

When they argue Aether gets more sad then angry, while Lumine is more frustrated

Like usual though, they are both quick to forgive each other after

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Slarole things

She tries to kiss him Christmas 1986 but he pushes her away and says she’s not in the right headspace

She's annoyed but eventually get it, she was just trying to fill the goose shaped hole in her life

It's only 2 years later when she's still grieving but is getting sick of everything being grey so she starts forcing herself to try and feel better, goes swimming because Bradley's scared of water and won't go if she’s not there

Ron visits her after work because he's bored, they go grocery shopping and he doesn't hate it

He visits more after work, picking Bradley up or going for coffee, or even coming over for dinner

He starts developing feelings but stops himself because she’s still grieving and it's only been two and a half years and you killed her husband even if she doesn’t blame you, you still did and you were friends with her dead husband

Until after dinner, Bradley's watching cartoons, Ron's just finished helping her clean up when she comes over, says she's been enjoying spending time with him and kisses him, this time he kisses back

They start dating, he takes her out for lunch one day, he comes over to watch horror movies only for him to cower behind her. He even spends time with her and Bradley

And he stays over, a few times, more than a few, and when Bradley's in bed kisses lead to touches lead to something more, sometimes they stay making out on the couch, other times they just about stumble to the bedroom

And when he's away, she sends him letters with her perfume on it

The guys notice that he’s almost acting like Goose with his pent up lust and longing after a girl that none of them know. This sets off Iceman's alarm bells

Next, he spots Ron haggling for an ornate hair clip for Carole when they're on shore leave in the Philippines, when asking who it's for, Ron says his grandma

Carole gets said hair clip in the post a few months later when her mother and sister are around and they immediately want to know who her admirer is

Also he gets Bradley a toy which he loves

Tom sees Carole wearing the hair clip when they get back, she says it was her grandma's and he puts it all together

He corners Ron, Ron panics and admits it, Tom asks why he's hiding it and he says partially because they want to take it slow for Carole but also because he hasn't been a big relationship like this ever

Tom keeps their secret until one day when Ice and Mav are taking care of Bradley for the night, they go to drop him off only to have Slider answer the door in his pants and Carole come up behind him in his t-shirt

Mav freaks out, partially because he's the last to know but also because he doesn't like the idea of Slider dating Carole, he doesn't think he's good enough because they're only really friends through Iceman

Mav says she’s moving on too fast and she freaks out about how she's trying to be happy, trying to prioritise herself and her happiness instead of grieving someone she’s never getting back. Because she knows Goose would want her to be happy and why the hell can't she move on with someone who holds her when she cries about her dead husband and likes her son and makes her feel like she's worth it again and storms out

Slider says he knows he doesn't like him but he thought he respected Carole more than that

Pete apologises and says he just wants her to stay safe and she forgives him but there's always a little bit of tension about Carole and Slider that's there for a while

Goose comes to Slider in a dream saying he approves and as long as he looks after his family then he's happy for them, because they're becoming his family too

I have more but I'll save these for later if anyone else wants to hear them

[captain-lessship]

Roommates Pt.3

The entire campus was buzzing with talks about a school dance and you were working on your outfit. White was the color and you were usually your embroidery skills to spice up an old dress vest you had. The plan for your outfit was white pants, light grey shirt and the white pearly vest that you were embroidering gold into. As you sat outside and sewed the threads into the vest. You heard a voice. “Well if it isn’t Friday?”

Bianca. You turned to look at her, “Hi Bianca. And you know I have a name.”

“I know. Just playing, what are you doing?”

“I am just fixing up a vest. It looked boring as hell.”

She welcomed herself to sit down, moving your box of threads, “So you and Ajax?”

“Yea… crazy.”

“Oh my god-“ she paused, waiting for you.

“They were roommates.” You finished with no hesitation.

You both laughed. She pulled a tiny spindle of blue thread. “So… I might need your help.”

“With?”

“My dress. A few of the scales are loose and I was wondering if you could fix it? I could definitely pay you.”

You had gained a reputation for being the school tailor so you expected this, “Yeah and no, you don’t have to pay me. I have a lot of blue thread I need to get rid of. I am also fixing Yoko’s dress and repairing a button on several guy’s suit jackets.” You motioned at the pile of clothes beside you.

“Wow. How are you going to get yours done?”

“Well, I can sew the buttons on quickly, then I will do yours and Yoko’s dresses and then finish mine up. I still got two days.”

She nodded and handed you her dress and a small pack of the scales in case some were too damaged. “Hey…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” you said smiling, “You’d do it for me.”

You continued finishing the patch of your best you were on when you felt a pair of hands cover your eyes. “Guess who?”

“Hmm. Enid.”

“Ding ding!” The girl said, moving her hands and walking to sit beside you. “Can I ask you something? And like my life depends on it.”

“Yea?”

“Does Wednesday like girls?”

“She hasn’t said she doesn’t.”

Enid smiled, “Alright, one more question: would you like, gut me if I asked her to the Rave’N?”

You thought for a moment, “No. no I wouldn’t.”

She hugged you, making you slightly jump, “You are the best! Thank you!” She then looked down, “I also have a favor to ask…”

“Which is?”

“Can you fix this sleeve?”

You were brushing your hair, getting all the sand you could out of it. You were laser focused as you put in your gold hair clip that would keep part of your bangs out of your face. You looked at it from every angle , you decided it was good.

You then got the small eyeshadow palette Enid had let you borrow as thanks for fixing her coat. You openly it and looked at the gold and silver color. You grabbed one of your brushes and started to put the silver on the upper eyelid, then blending it with the gold that was along your eyelash line. You decided to add a little black eyeliner to sharpen the corners of your eyes. 

You took a steps back from the mirror and for once, you felt handsome. You smiled as you slipped off your robe and grabbed your button up shirt and began buttoning like your life depended on it, you tucked it into your pants and grabbed your vest. You were finally ready. 

Ajax was waiting by the entrance for you. He’d gotten ready in Xavier’s room. He was getting a little anxious but then he saw you.

You were walking quickly to him, “I am so sorry I am late. I couldn’t find my earring.”

“It’s,” he looked you up and down, “Fine.”

You breathed and straightened your up, you put your arm around Ajax’s shoulders and walked in with him. 

“I love the outfits!” Mrs. Thornhill said, smiling. You liked her and her smile radiated.

“Thank you, did you get new boots?”

“Oh! Yes! Thanks for noticing. Have a dance for me you two!” 

You were mildly amazing when you walked in and saw the decorations. Climate Crisis was the theme. Everything was icy and crystalline, sparkling in the lights. You looked at Ajax, “Do you wanna walk around and grab drinks? Then we can dance?”

Ajax nodded, he was talking louder than really needed which made you laugh. Ajax and you made your lap, laughing and joking with friends as you walked, bopping to the music.

“Enid?” Ajax asked, looking at a guy and someone on the floor in front of him. Sure enough, the girl peered past the guys legs.

You were confused on where Wednesday was but you didn’t want to embarrass or intrude on Enid’s night so you and Ajax walked to the dance floor. 

It was a very loud pop song but you and him just bopped along, sliding past each other. It was awkward but it was fun. Ajax reached for your hands and you both pulled each other’s arms, making a see-saw motion. He then spun you out and pulled you back, making you laugh was you collided with his chest a little harder than he expected. He steadied himself as you turned to make sure you didn’t break your date.

“My bad, I never was a a dancer.” He said, getting back into the groove.

You just smiled, “It’s fine! I should’ve slowed myself. “

You began to sway more as you got into the groove but the song ended. You huffed, “Hey, I’m going to get some drinks, want one?”

“Yea! I think imma see how Xavier and Bianca are doing.” He said, turning.

You walked to the punch bowl and poured up a drink for Ajax first and then yours. A voice made you jump, almost spilling your drink.

“Mr. Addams, enjoying the dance?”

It was Principal Weems, you looked up at her, “Yeah! I think it’s going well. Who all decorated?”

“Several members of the student body and Ms. Thornhill. I have a question, is Wednesday planning on attending?”

“I-To be honest, I haven’t really talked to her in the past two days. I got distracted.”

Just as you finished your sentence, Principal Weems looked up. “Ah, there she is.” You turned around to she her, dressed in black and followed by the Normie from the Weathervane that ruined Xavier’s mural. You got an off vibe from him. 

You picked up your glasses and walked to Ajax. “There’s something up with him.”

“Wednesday’s date?”

“Yea… there’s just something off. Ya know?”

Ajax looked at him, “I mean, it’s what I am not getting from him that’s off putting.” He took a sip from his glass.

You raised your eyebrow, “Which is?”

“He doesn’t have the normal normie vibe.”

“Yea… I guess that’s it.” You sipped from your drink, “So, after we finish this, wanna dance again?”

“Yeah. But like, I’m a really bad dancer.”

You looked at him, “No, you’re not.” 

“Sure.”

You scoffed playfully, “I plowed into you and no body knows how to dance to those pop songs. It’s just hopping and yelling til it’s over.” You downed the last of your drink, “I can teach you how to slow dance if they play one of those.”

“It’s a school dance. Of course they’re going to.”

You laughed a little, “Yeah” you yawned after. Ajax looked at you.

“Are you getting sleepy?”

There was a consequence to your power: you never truly knew when you were tired and could stay up for days and then you’d crash. Yawns were a telltale sign of a crash. 

“No, no. I’m good. Maybe if I move around or something.” You turned to the dance floor.

Ajax grabbed your hand, “Then let’s move.”

You softly smiled, you followed him and when you got to the dance floor, a slower song began to play. Perfect.

You showed him where to hold you and you set the movement slow so he could get used to it. It was so peaceful.

“Ajax?”

“Yea?”

“I’m sorry I’m getting tired.” You yawned again.

“It’s fine, babe. Remember the time I stoned you?”

“Which one?”

“Exactly.”

You smiled as your rested your head in his shoulder, slowing your breath, closing your eyes.

Ajax knew you were out. He sighed happily. It was easy to dance with a sleeping person but he knew he’d better get you to a seat. He looped his arm under yours and walked to the table where Xavier sat.

“Hey dude.”

“Hey you… two? Is he asleep?”

“Out like a light, man. Do you mind if I sit him in the chair? He just needs a few minutes.”

“Yeah. It’s just me here… how do you’d do it?”

“Do what?”

“Have a seemingly loving relationship? Doesn’t you two being two different species mess with things? Like I don’t wanna overstep but… I dated Bianca and I was always worried about her powers.”

Ajax looked at his friend, “Well, yea we love each other and well, that kinda just makes it worth it” he looked at you, your upper body slumped over on the table, “While we’re both outcasts and we can relate on that, we are both very different and there are a few struggles. Like I have stoned him and he’s put me to sleep but neither of us would do it to be rude. That’s what you were worried about? It being used to prevent you from feeling fully?”

“Yeah… Deep down I know she loves me and I love her but it’s the thoughts that get in my way. Don’t you ever think that he wants to put you to sleep?”

“No, I don’t think he does. And I trust him not to. I think you just need to trust her. She really does care about you. She wouldn’t put up with this shit if she didn’t.”

Xavier looked at him, “He’s a bad influence on you. You’re becoming too honest.”

“It is what it is, dude.” He said, shrugging, “Now go find her and tell her. I gotta take care of sleeping beauty.” 

The DJ made the final dance announcement, Ajax looked at you: no sign of waking so he decided to stay seated beside you. He watched them dance for a few minutes then he saw red drip on the table. He stared at it, then up and at that moment the sprinklers turned on, spraying something red all over the place. He shook you awake.

You jerked up and saw him covered in red and screamed. “Ajax! Blood? What happened?”

[miniscule-meow]

Something Unexpected (20)

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: Alcohol Mention, Angst, language

Masterpost

First Part | Last Part | Next Part

~*~

It was a bad idea, but it felt good when she did it. Leaving him there stewing in his dilapidated apartment. Flying freely for the first time since she hurt her wing. No oppressive giant hands crowding in on her, no watchful eyes boring into her, no leash keeping her pinned down. She’s free and it felt good. It felt like a victory.

Of course, that was then, and this is now.

Decidedly, it wasn’t worth it. For one, she had no plan. At least Deckard had one of those, even if it was based on rumors. She would try to tell herself that she didn’t know where she was going to end up if she trusted him, but she’s a little preoccupied with just trying to stay alive right now.

Lark had gotten all of two blocks away when she ran into another spell of bad luck. She was flying up above the rooftops, to avoid being caught by another human, when she had a run in with a bird. Either the birds in this realm are unaffected by her communication magic, or this bird in particular is just very stubborn. She doesn’t have time to ponder that, as she’s flying for her life. She dips down and next thing she knows, she’s palmed out of the air.

She had flown too close to a rooftop, where a human was out, smoking a cigarette. She didn't see him, standing in the shadows until he swatted her out of the air.

~*~

Deckard decides that he isn’t going to sit in his room feeling sorry for himself. He picks himself up, and takes himself out to the tavern down the road. That’s one good thing about his shitty apartment, it’s right in the middle of everything.

“Evening, Bethany.” He grins at the bartender, she's an older woman with greying hair and a wiry frame. At the sight of him she comes around the bar, immediately shooing him off with a dish towel. She’s surprisingly strong as she grabs his shoulder and shoves him back towards the door.  

“Deck, I swear to God if you don’t get your good-for nothing ass out of my bar—”

“I’m here to pay my tab! I’m here to pay it, I swear!” He raises his hands, disarmingly. She stops in her tracks, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“You. Pay a tab? What, did Hell freeze over?” She eyes him suspiciously.

“It must have.” He says with a slick grin, slowly pulling out a pouch of coin and handing it out to her. She snatches it from him and goes back behind the bar to count it out.

“I’ll be damned. It’s all here.” She says after counting it, twice. “Alright, kid. We’re square. What can I get ya?” She grins as he settles down at the bar.

~*~

He stares into what remains of his third drink of the evening when one of the tables in the back starts getting rowdy. Glancing over he sees someone bustle over to the table, his face full of mischief, his hands cupped close to his chest like he’s bringing in some kind of bird or something. It’s none of his business, but his curiosity is piqued. Glancing over again, he sees her. The fairy princess. Shit. He looks away quickly. This is bad.

Well.

Is it? She made it very clear that she doesn’t want his help. This isn’t really any of his business anymore. He orders another drink, watching the table out of the corner of his eye.

They pass her around, each taking a turn holding her, poking and prodding at her however they please, until she’s passed on to the next guy. They aren’t even trying to be discreet about it. Notably, they're also not trying to be gentle with her either. Every time he looks over, they're dangling her upside down or pinching her roughly between two fingers. He finds himself growing increasingly concerned about her wings. If they break her wings, she’s screwed. They would be right back to where they were when he found her in the woods.

They. There is no them. He reminds himself, taking another swig of his drink. Though, he can’t help but feel a little responsible for this, since he did take her from the relative safety of the castle-No, it's none of his business. Then the table erupts into cheers, one of them had dumped her into his glass and begins drinking it with her inside it. Deckard sighs, downs his drink, and saunters over to the table, before he can talk himself out of one of the worst ideas he’s ever had.

This fairy will be the death of him.

~*~

The liquid is freezing cold, frost is coating the outside of the mug. There is a chorus of drunken laughter as she scrambles to grasp the edge of the glass. She clings to the edge, the frost uncomfortably gripping her skin. As soon as she finds purchase, the giant hoists his mug into the air. She’s pulled under the sloshing liquid and slammed up against the side of the glass. She surfaces, sputtering, but not before swallowing a good mouthful of the bitter liquid. It burns down her throat, and gets in her eyes.

She doesn’t have any time to get her bearings before her whole world tilts. He’s raised the mug to his lips and begins gulping down the liquid. Everyone at the table roars with laughter and cheers. She’s pulled under the current of amber liquid, swallowing more ale in the process. She tries to swim away, or to brace herself on the sides of the glass, but despite her efforts she’s pulled towards his monstrous, gaping maw. She catches glimpses of the grinning faces of giants all around her, warped through the glass. Over their laughter she hears the sickening noise of the giant swallowing mouthfuls of ale at a time. Just as she’s about to reach his lips, everything pauses. The glass is pulled away, and she hears a familiar voice.

“Now, you look like the type of gentleman who would fancy a bit of magic.” She looks up to see Deckard, unfortunately.

The group responds with unsure mumbles.

“It’s honestly a dream of mine. I’ve been working on a bit of a routine, and look, I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll buy your next round if you’ll just be my first audience.” Deckard offers. The lilt of his voice is different than it typically is. He doesn't sound like his typical cocky self, he instead sounds timid and unsure.

“I’m not gonna turn down a free drink, mate. I say go ahead.” One giant laughs and the others chime in, agreeing.

She looks up through the glass to see a Deckard shuffling a deck of cards above her. He can’t be serious. For a split second they lock eyes before he looks away, leaving her to tread helplessly in the glass. The giant didn't drink nearly enough of the ale to allow her to touch the bottom, so she has to keep swimming if she wants to breathe. Deckard launches into an array of magic tricks dealing with cards and “mind reading.” If she wasn’t so focused on not drowning, she would be impressed.

In a flash his fingers dip into the mug, pulling her out before he stuffs her awkwardly up his sleeve. Apparently, whatever distraction he caused was good enough that none of the giants at the table caught his sleight of hand. He continues his routine with her pressed against his wrist. Eventually, he deposits her from his sleeve to the inside pocket in his jacket. He moves around the table, finishing his little show and even winning a round of applause from his audience.

Their next round of drinks arrives, and Deckard slips away. He leaves them in their drunken merriment, not yet aware that they have been left one fairy shorter than when the magic show began.

He pays for the drinks quickly, then he’s out the door. He walks casually, confidently. But from his pocket, being pressed against him so closely, Lark can feel his heart is racing. He maintains a steady pace until he’s out of sight, but once he rounds the corner, he takes off running. It’s terrible for her as she’s jostled roughly in the pocket. He pounds up a flight of stairs, then slams his shoulder into his door to open it, then again to close it. The movement was bad when she was in his satchel, this feels like a shipwreck.

Muffled swears come up from below as his downstairs neighbor slams their ceiling with a broomstick.

“Shut up!!” Deckard stomps on the floor, yelling to his neighbor below. “Tell management to fix the damn door if it bothers you so much, because they won’t listen to me!” His neighbor shouts back something unintelligible. Deckard continues grumbling to himself under his breath. He staggers over to his dresser, his breathing shallow and uneven. His fingers plunge roughly into his pocket, quickly fishing his alcohol-soaked princess from inside. He pulls her out and plops her soggy form back down onto the dresser, right where she was just a couple hours ago.

His steadies himself by bracing his hands down against the dresser on either side of her. He heaves a heavy sigh, and much like the giants at the tavern, his breath smells strongly of liquor.

“Well.” He says gruffly, his eyes search over her intently. “You made it down the street. Congratulations.” He raises an eyebrow, studying her. “Do you want to try again, see if you can make it across town this time?” He waves a hand over toward the still open window, and waits for her to start yelling insults up at him again.

Before she can stop herself, she’s crumpling. She draws her legs in close and buries her face in her knees. The giants in the tavern had ripped her beautiful blue gown, nearly tearing the skirt away completely. She's left with a small scrap of fabric, exposing her legs all the way up to her thighs. Her body is wracked with sobs that she’s been trying to hold back for days now. She doesn’t need to look up to know that Deckard is watching her fall apart. It’s embarrassing to cry in front of him. She’s left feeling so helpless, so violated, so… small. She hates it.

“Shit,” he says under his breath, after simply looking at her for a quiet moment. “I am…” He hesitates. She supposes he’s trying to find the words for a proper apology, but it never comes. Instead, he finishes with a sigh, “I am not sober enough for this.” He groans, pushing himself away from the dresser and walking off into his apartment.

[aparticularbandit]

Of An Endless Infinity: Prologue

Summary: What does it mean to be the Ultimate Hope?

Is it only hope on the big scale? That the world is not so dark and depressing and destructive as the villain in front of you says it is? That you can win, even when everything else says that you can't? That maybe it is better to live your life, even afraid, than it is to keep yourself sequestered away, alone?

Does it not also mean hope on the small scale?

Or: Makoto sacrifices himself in the hope that the other survivors might be able to help Junko. It remains to be seen whether this will actually succeed.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

AO3

next chapter

This is the end.

She savors it, the sweet taste of their despair, the crestfallen expressions on their faces filling her with joy as she….

Okay, explaining everything is boring as hell.  Not gonna lie, that part sucks.  A lot.  Even switching from one persona to the other doesn’t make it better; she’s just exposition, and she hates being nothing more than exposition.  Even if it is pretty exposition.

That’s when it comes – unbidden, unexpected, unwanted.

“If we leave, will you leave with us?”

Makoto says the words so softly that, in all honesty, she shouldn’t be able to hear him.  Not over the ruckus she’s caused, not over the bubbling of the hope he’s inspired in every single one of the others, every single one of his friends.  (They were her friends, too, once.  They still are now, even if they don’t remember it.  Even if they don’t know it.  This is a gift that she is giving to them.  If they don’t understand the gift, that isn’t her fault!)

In the midst of all that internal chatter, Junko laughs, haughty as a queen.  “You don’t want us with you!  And what is a trial without a punishment?”

There is no fear without hope, but there is no despair without hope either.  Which means, in these moments, she can feel a thrill of fear but calm herself by knowing – fear is the beginning of despair.  If she’s afraid, then that only means one of her hopes is about to be denied, even while the other comes to fruition: if she hopes to feel despair, then she always feels both in communion.  Despair at hope deferred, joy at despair fulfilled.

Her blue-grey eyes note as Makoto’s expression shifts.  How he doesn’t look away from her, how there’s something like…like pity there, but softer.  Nonjudgmental.  Warmer, if such a thing could even be called that.�� (Sometimes she looks at her like that, too.  It always feels like centipedes are crawling over her.  Uncomfortable.  Wrong.  Matsuda never looked at her like that.  Not even at the end.  That’s how she knew he understood.)

“And if we stay,” Makoto says, meeting her eyes, “will you stay with us?”

She flinches.

For a moment, the persona she’s wearing fades.  It isn’t as though she hasn’t thought this through.  She has.  It’s only—

(She will never see the real world again.  Not with her own eyes.  A part of her knew that.  The despair of acknowledging that once more fills her, and she calms.)

“Of course, I will stay with you.”  Her voice is calm, sure, steady.  “You would break your promise, you would follow me if I decided to leave.”  Her lips curve into a cruel grin.  “Do you really think I would leave you here?  Alone?”  She chuckles lightly.  “What fun is there in that?”

Makoto sees something.  Or he feels something.  Or he hopes something.

Whatever it is, she needs to end it.  Now.

“Time for the vote!”

~

What does it mean to be the Ultimate Hope?

Is it only hope on the big scale?  That the world is not so dark and depressing and destructive as the villain in front of you says it is?  That you can win, even when everything else says that you can’t?  That maybe it is better to live your life, even afraid, than it is to keep yourself sequestered away, alone?

Does it not also mean hope on the small scale?

Hope that an individual – any individual – can change?  No matter how dark they’ve gotten?  No matter how much despair fills their heart?  No matter how much that despair has warped them, has changed them, has twisted their mind into…into this?

Makoto looks at Junko and, despite everything, feels that small thrill of hope curling around his heart.  It’s a blind, foolish sort of thing.  But then, he’s sometimes a blind, foolish sort of person, and it’s always worked out in the end.

The thing about hope is that it comes paired with faith.  Hope means nothing if you don’t also believe that the thing you hope for can – and will – happen.  Makoto will always have faith in his friends, even if that faith kills him.  Even if he walks into that death with his eyes wide open.

Even when Junko’s dark eyes light up with the joy of her success, Makoto feels no fear.

He made the right choice.  Not to punish hope, as Junko says, but for something…for something better.

And as Monokuma leads him away to his Ultimate Punishment, Makoto meets Kyoko’s eyes.  I’m leaving this to you, he tries to get her to understand.  To all of you.  It’s just another phase of the game.  And you’ll win it just like we won this one.

We won.  You know that we won.  You know that I would never—

There’s not enough time.  But of all of them, she’ll understand that.

She has to understand that.

(He hopes she does, after all.)

~

Of course, the Ultimate Hope would lay down his life for the Ultimate Despair, if he had reason to believe that she, too, could be redeemed.  If he had reason to believe that in that redemption, the world could be filled with even more hope, a hope that overcomes the despair in which it dwells.

(Makoto is not thinking of filling the world with hope.  He is thinking of one person.  The only one who would have died in despair if they’d gone through with it.)

This is the way we win.

….

Or so he hopes.

[infernal-house-demon]

Idk why I’m on such a writing/reading advice kick today but I’ve got so much to say.

This post’s topic: Fig’s guide to reading the classics

I’m was an English major, so of course I am here to tell you that many of the classics are classics for a reason: they’re really fucking good. But I also understand that I’m a big nerd with a special interest and not everyone has the same motivation as me. Hell, sometimes I don’t have the motivation. So, here are some tips for having an easier time with them.

DONT READ SHAKESPEARE

Before anyone freaks out, I am not advocating for you not to consume Shakespeare’s plays. I adore Shakespeare with all my heart. His plays are phenomenal—but they are just that. Plays. If you read the script like it’s a book, of course it’ll feel boring and confusing. That isn’t how they’re meant to be consumed. Obviously the best way is to see it is performed live, but not everyone has that opportunity, myself included. However, you can find lots of recordings online for free. If those aren’t for you either, try listening to them! BBC has a lot of them as audio for free online, many with notable actors you’ll recognize! (Nothing better than hearing David Tennant perform Shakespeare directly into my ears. I love it.) It makes so much more sense to see/hear it performed. It flows so much easier, the emotion carries through in the performance, I promise you you’ll have a far easier time understanding the plot.

2. GOOD TRANSLATIONS

If you’re reading something that was in another language, find a good translation. I thought the Odyssey would be tough to get through in school, but when I actually read it, it was an easy read! I personally like the Robert Fagles translation. Do some research, see what people recommend, and find one that’ll be best for you.

3. ADAPTATIONS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

Find other ways to get yourself excited about the story. If there’s an illustrated version of the book and you’re a visual person, get it! My brother got me an illustrated version of the Divine Comedy and while my reading is still going pretty slow, the pictures absolutely help me engage more. Additionally, if a book seems daunting to you, try an adaptation first. (I am typically a read the book before the movie type person, but if doing it the other way around will get you into it, do it!) Keep in mind adaptations will be different (I’m looking at you Epic: The Musical, my beloved) but if they get you interested in the story and themes then use that as your way in.

4. TAKE YOUR TIME

I kid you not when I say that it’s been five years and I still haven’t finished the Great Gatsby. It’s because I only read it when I’m at the airport. It’s my airport book. I don’t read it on the plane (motion sickness), I only read it while I’m waiting to board. For whatever reason, that’s the context where it’s easier for me to get into it. I will finish it someday. Probably. There’s no rush.

5. SUMMARIES

Summaries are your best friend. I read A Tale of Two Cities in high school. I thought it was fantastic. There were absolutely chapters where I had to look up the spark notes to figure out what in the fuck was going on. Especially with writing from this time period, sometimes you encounter a sentence the length of an entire paragraph, and suddenly it’s four semicolons later and you can’t remember where you started. Language evolves and changes; you’re not stupid if it doesn’t come naturally to you, and you should give yourself whatever help you need to in order to still engage with it.

6. TAKE YOUR TIME (Part 2)

You don’t have to read them all. Ever. Read the ones that sound interesting to you. If people try to say “oh my god you haven’t read (insert famous literature here)” just ignore them. I haven’t read the Picture of Dorian Grey. I still haven’t read the Iliad even though I’ve read the Odyssey. Maybe I’ll get there someday. I’m certain I’ll like both of them. But I’m not in a rush. They’re in my pile of books to read and I’ll get there when I get there. There’s nothing wrong with having a collection of unread books. And again, you do not have to read all of them. They’re not all worth reading anyway, which brings me to my next and final point.

7. IF IT SUCKS, HIT THE BRICKS

There are a lot of books touted as classics, many of which we have to read in school, that I think are stellar. There are other ones that I think have no right to be held up as anything worthwhile. This is about my personal beef with the Scarlet Letter lol. I had to read it in one of my university classes. And let me tell you: I could not finish this book. Now, not to sound full of myself, but I have good reading comprehension and a wide vocabulary. My nerdy ass was explaining what was going on in Shakespeare to my classmates when I was 13. English is where I thrive. When I tell you that reading the Scarlet Letter felt less interesting to me that reading a car manual, I am not exaggerating in the slightest. It felt like raking my brain over hot coals. It was boring. I hated it. I straight up don’t think it’s a good book and I’m certain there are better ones out there that cover the same topic and themes. So I didn’t finish it, and in fact refuse to ever pick it up again. Just because something is a classic, doesn’t mean it’s good, and doesn’t mean you have to read it. Find the ones that work for you (I have so many recommendations). Also, look at other stuff from the same time period that isn’t considered “classic.” Ask yourself why. When I personally look back at what we were given in school, a lot of it was white male centric. I was lucky to have professors at university who showed us voices outside of this.

All this to say, reading stuff from different periods of time is such an enriching experience, but if it isn’t something you’re deeply interested in, it can be hard to get into. I hope some of this is helpful and makes the idea of engaging with these stories easier for people.

[resisteverything]

There’s the racism:

One of the main villains does voodoo, a slave religion with a history of racist demonization, and there’s no acknowledgement of how he’d feel about being in christian hell despite being part of a not christian religion with a different belief in the afterlife, showing that she did no research aside from “Ooo voodoo evil and scary let me staple that onto my character” and then never did anything to fix this after four years of people telling her what it was, even though it had nothing to do with his character. She didn’t take the time to try and learn a better depiction of the concept either, because why try and fail when you can instead just not try.

Most black characters are just white people but grey, and the main confirmed POC character has no confirmation as such in-universe and is a fully nonhuman entity in a world where a lot of the characters used to be human.

The only black coded male characters are the demon of lust and a wolfman, both the only teo buff characters, and both kind of defined by their desirability to one of the more important white coded characters.

I don’t know any asian characters in this series. That’s a bizarre omission.

Then there’s the sexism.

Millie’s character sheet can be summed up as:

Angry, Wife, will kill you, pegs her husband.

Charlie is just disney princess and her reason for doing anything is because daddy.

Vaggie is Charlie’s lapdog basically. She only does things because she wants to help Charlie. That’s her only motivation for doing anything ever and it’s boring.

Secondary female characters are consistently demonized/punished for what men can get away with, or have their feelings disregarded. The only reason we root against Verosika and for Blitz is because he’s the protagonist, she’s less bad than him (the wager was for her team to have consensual sex with as many men as Blitz could murder) and also the victim of his behavior (which they play off as a joke). I’m on her side, why are we meant to enjoy the implication that she was raped by a police squad? Stella is in the same boat as Stolas and doesn’t do anything worse to Stolas than Blitz would do to Moxie. Yet we’re supposed to hate her and like Stolas and Blitz, characters that are either as bad as or worse than her.

This got too long so… whatever, it’s done now. This series has consistent issues with representation of all forms.

Vivziepop Stans: Why the hell do you hate her so much? What did she ever do?? Me and the critics:

[narcolini]

redecorating

angel reyes x gn!reader, 1095 words, fluff fluff fluff

a/n: i dont know what this is i really dont, i blacked out and there it was - its just domestic angelito for the soul (also first mayans fic hello??)

‘This isn’t what I had in mind when you picked me up, Angel.’ You flick the sign as you pass, Paints & Varnishes. ‘It’s a hell of a change from dinner dates.’

‘You ain’t bored of that yet? Feels like all we ever do.’ He dawdles down the aisle, hands in his pockets, chin dipped as he scans the shelves. ‘Is it just me, or are there way too many fucking options for this shit?’

‘Not really,’ you muse, ignoring him. ‘What if I like going out to eat? It’s nice.’ You aren’t particularly bothered either way. It’s the time you appreciate, you and him, no-one else, and not one mention of club business. If you weren’t so hungry, you’d probably be dragging him around the store just for the fun of it. ‘Will we be here long?’

His brows shoot up. ‘Why? You wanna go home?’

‘No,’ you scoff, ‘course not.’ 

‘Cause I can drop you home, y’know.’ He throws his thumb behind him, the gesture so grand it’s almost attracting attention. ‘We can go home, like, right now, my bike’s only-‘

‘Okay, okay,’ you quiet him, ‘stop it. I’m not complaining.’

‘Sounds a lot like complaining to me.’

You wait, give him your best stubborn eyes and watch him fold, a smile replacing the scrunched expression. His arm loops over your shoulder comfortably. Fine, it says, no more play-fighting. 

‘So, what d’you think?’ he asks, turning you both toward the paint-stacked shelves. 

‘You’re asking me?’

‘Yeah, I’m asking you. I don’t know shit about this.’ He shrugs. ‘What looks good, what doesn’t…’ 

You can’t even picture the way his home is now, what colour the walls are, how patterned the furniture is. The image gets sparser the more you try to recreate it; all you find is him, his shirts over the couch, his shoes by the door, the dim warmth of his bedroom when you wake up before him. ‘Well,’ you mediate, ‘what do you like?’ 

‘What do you like? I’m asking you, corazón.’

You smile. Yes, he’s insistent on that. Always knows so much about everything, but goes shy in Home Depot, like picking a colour is something you can fail at. ‘Okay,’ you start, ‘I think greens are nice. Like, for on the couch, or curtains maybe, but not the walls. And kitchens should be a light colour.’

He taps a finger to the can in front of him. Cream, with a blue tint. ‘Like this?’

‘Yeah, I like that.’ 

‘Alright, I’m seeing it, I’m seeing the vision.’ He nods, then nods again, free hand smoothing over his beard. 

You laugh, you can’t help it. 

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. It’s fun, actually. You’re fun.’ You rock against him, pushing into his side. ‘This is nice.’ 

He looks proud of himself, for a second, and then he tucks it away with a faux-frown. ‘You’re weird,’ he says, pretending to mean it. 

‘And you need help decorating your own house, Angel.’ You kiss your teeth, shaking your head as you pull from under his arm. ‘Grown ass man.’ 

You laugh, both of you that time, and walk further down the aisle. He doesn’t follow. You scan the options, trying to place them. Grey behind the TV. Or brown, honey, white that’s not white. It almost makes no difference. You could paint the walls black and it wouldn’t make it any less welcoming, the place would still breathe with him. Become him. He makes the home, you think, him and all his baggage. 

‘What if it was our house?’ he asks, still standing where you left him. 

‘What?’ You turn and see him shrug, hiding a smile. Not here, surely, he’s not asking you that here. 

‘What if it was ours?’ he says again, glancing between you and what’s in front of him, like he’s only giving a suggestion, offering samples on a card. 

‘Are you asking me to move in with you?’ 

He’s staring at the paint in front of him like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, like there’s a math equation printed across it and he just can’t work it out. ‘I mean, it would save us a fuck-load on gas,’ he says. ‘You’re always there anyway, and we been doing this for a while, you know. Back and forth all the time.’ He looks at you sideways. When he finds your growing smile, he mirrors it. ‘You gonna say yeah, or what?’

‘If you can find some room for me.’ It’s your turn to go shy now, opting for jokes over sincerity. ‘It’s pretty cramped in there.’

‘I got some shit I’ve been meaning to throw out.’ He closes the gap between you and puts his hands on your waist. ‘Could clear you a drawer or two,’ he offers. 

‘Two? Wow.’ You lean against his chest, arms winding around his neck. ‘You spoil me.’

He tilts his head away, overly gracious, smirking as always. ‘Ah, it’s nothing.’

‘So humble, Angelito.’

‘I think you mean charming.’

You hum, agreeing with him, really, and pull in to meet his mouth. The kiss is the yes, the acceptance. He matches your lips like he knows it, smiling against you. When you pull away, his hands are twisting in your shirt, his eyes shining with desire, victory.

‘This one, then.' You pick up the can you’d been eyeing and put it between you, into his chest, over the heart. It wasn’t far off the colour he’d pointed at earlier. ‘For our kitchen,’ you tell him, emphasising the our, leaning into the word.

‘Yes, boss.’ He kisses you again, before taking it and turning away, his hand catching yours in the same motion. He tugs you after him easily. ‘You paying, then?’ he throws over his shoulder. ‘Seeing as it’s not just-hey! Ow? Violence, baby, really?’ 

He didn’t get to finish the joke. You’d chased him from the aisle, kicking at his leg lightly. You’d aimed for his ass, but couldn’t reach, so settled for the dip in the back of his knee instead. 

‘That was your plan all along, yeah?’ You laugh, watching his gait recover. ‘Fucking cheapskate.’ 

He scoffs, eyes rolling. ‘Yeah, you got me.’ Then he smiles, warm, satisfied, and pulls you closer ’til you’re against him again; one arm around your shoulders, the other swinging the paint-can by his side. ‘What did you say about curtains? Green?’

You nod, cheeks aching from smiling so much. You won’t tell him, but this is better than going for dinner. Way fucking better.

[h0tchner]

Any Age, Any Day, Anywhere (Part 1) - aaron hotchner x fem!reader

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: WRITTEN FOR AN ANON REQUEST: "ok hi so u already wrote a jealous reader and was wondering whats your take on jealous hotch? i mostly see him in fics as possessive and yeah being the leader type i would think he could also be possessive but i also think that he would just be sad like ya know he doubts himself as we saw in some episodes and i think he would need assurance and a lot of convincing that u only love him but if you’ve given that to him then thats the time he would be possessive and god i would love to imagine a possessive and feral aaron hotchner"

word count: 3.5k

includes: kissing, so much freaking adorable fluff, talk of body insecurities, insecure!hotch, protective!hotch, wifey reader, super brief mentions of pregnancy, alcohol, confrontation with a drunk asshole (derek & hotch are all over it tho dw), party at papa rossi's!, smut to come in next chapter...

rating: 18+ (technically there is no smut in this part, but there are adult themes such as drinking, kissing, etc.).

a/n: HELLO BESTIES! This is part one of a two-part fic! The next part will be pure filth, so keep your eyes peeled for some feral hotch content... ALSO! PLS (!!!!!!!!!!!) interact if you liked this, rb, comment, like and/or send me a request if you have ideas for future fics! i love y’all! - rivka💞

“Aaron! Can you come here for a sec?” you call out to your husband from the bathroom, muttering curses under your breath as you try (and fail) for the third time to zip up the back of your black cocktail dress.

“Sure, I just need a minute,” he replies from the bedroom closet, securing the last opalescent button on the arm of his white dress shirt. He looks at himself in the closet mirror, zeroing in at the bags under his eyes and the sprinkling of grey in his stubble. He looks… tired. Tired and old. And he hates it.

Even though Aaron is only in his late-40s, he has lived lifetimes; years of working as Unit Chief of the BAU will do that to a man. Every horror he’s seen and every person he’s lost has weighed on his body and mind. In the past few months, amidst work changes and a new baby, he’s been exhausted and in fear that he’s letting himself go. Of course, being the stoic man that he is, he’s done his absolute best to hide these feelings from you. Tonight, however, he doesn’t know if he can. It’ll be your first night out together as a couple since welcoming baby girl Hotchner to the family four months ago. With no pressing family or work distractions, he just knows that you’ll be able to sense his apprehensions. It’s only a matter of when.

Taking in a breath, he turns a little to the side, frowning at his profile. Aaron winces a little at his “dad bod,” but quickly recovers from the discomfort, milliseconds after it flashes across his face.

“Aaron Hotchner get your handsome butt in here and help me zip my dress! We’re gonna be late,” you exclaim, trying one last time to reach the zipper before giving up and crossing your arms in defeat. You lean back lightly against the countertop facing the door, letting the fabric slip off your shoulders, and wait for your husband to rescue you from the hell that is this dress.

At the sound of your voice, Aaron snaps out of his trance. He shakes his head lightly, as if to physically erase the intrusive thoughts, and clears his throat. Grabbing his suit jacket off the hanger, he flicks off the closet light and closes the door behind him.

Languidly, he meanders from the closet toward the bathroom. He drags his feet a little longer than he normally would, still feeling off and a little bit shy about his appearance.

“Aaron,” you sing, “I’m waiting for –,” your jaw drops mid-sentence when Aaron appears in the doorway.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe out before you can stop yourself, eyes widening at the sight of the gorgeous man in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, crossing over to you, searching your face for any ounce of reprieve.

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” you’re quick to reply, standing from your leaning position to meet him, holding out your hands.

He takes them in his own, cocking his head slightly, his soft hazel eyes boring into yours.

You shift forward, moving up on your toes to peck his soft pink lips.

He sighs into the kiss, feeling the warmth of your lips against his own. It feels so good that it almost makes him forget about how he is feeling… almost. But the dark thoughts come back, and he pulls away from you a bit, reluctantly.

Aaron clears his throat.

“You called me?” He questions, but it sounds more like a fact.

“Yeah,” you give his hands a squeeze. “I needed you to zip up my dress, but now,” you lean in again, “I kinda want you to rip it off me.” You offer him a sultry smirk, moving your hands up to rest on his broad chest. He moves his hands to settle on your hips.

You lick your lips and let your eyes rake over his body, taking in every ounce of his sexy frame. The way his crisp, white dress shirt hugs his solid body makes you go weak in the knees. His strong, toned legs in those black dress pants? Yes please. His soft black hair and salt and pepper stubble on his face are practically begging to be touched. He looks good. Damn good.

“You look…” you pause, tapping a finger lightly against his pectoral, searching for the right word, “…delicious.”

Aaron blushes lightly at your ogling, offering you a sad smile as he squeezes his eyes shut out of embarrassment.

You sense the falter in his demeanor, knowing that there’s something else nagging at him far beyond his usual flustering when you vocalize your attraction to him.

“Honey,” you implore, looping your hands around his neck to bring his forehead down to touch yours. “What’s going on in that big, beautiful brain of yours?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, swallowing, rubbing soft circles into your sides.

“It’s something,” you counter, carding a hand through his hair at the nape of his neck. You scratch lightly at his scalp, waiting for him to speak. You’ve learned that the best thing to do when Aaron gets in a mood is to give him some time to gather his thoughts. Keeping him close, physically, is a way to show him some comfort without pressuring him to speak. It encourages him, without words, that your arms are a safe place.

“I don’t…” he starts, and then stops himself. His dark eyebrows furrow and his mouth presses into a thin line.

“Mhm?” you question, fingers still tangled in his thick, black locks.

He pulls his forehead away from yours and locks eyes with you. You let your hands be still now, a silent gesture to show him that you’re listening.

He takes in a breath.

“I don’t look the way I used to,” he says quietly, shifting his eyes away from yours.

“What do you mean,” you urge him to continue.

“I mean, I don’t look like I did five years ago. Two years ago. Four months ago. I mean, I was practically a different man when we first met. I was younger, fitter…” he trails off, visibly upset.

“Yes, Aaron, you were,” you agree, keeping your tone temperate.

His eyes snap to yours, confused. It’s clear that was not what he was expecting you to say.

“You were a different man,” you continue gently, resuming your pacifying touch in his hair, “and I was a different woman.”

Aaron lets out a huff.

“Do you love me any less now than you did five years ago?” You ask him.

“Of course not,” he’s quick to answer.

“Why is that?” You prod.

“You’re gorgeous, inside and out. You’re funny, smart, loving…” he begins, but you interrupt him before he can go on.

“And,” you butt in, “if I were to go completely grey, gain thirty pounds, and only wear a potato sack to work every day would you love me any less?”

Aaron huffs again, but this time he’s fighting a smile. He’s starting to catch on. You watch as a spark of levity returns to his eyes. He holds you a little tighter.

“No. There’s nothing you could do or say to make me love you any less,” he grumbles in annoyance, but his upturned lip and matching eyebrow tell a different story.

“Ditto, baby,” you smile up at him. “I love you at any age, any day, anywhere, and there is nothing in the world that can make me change my mind.”

He dips down then, capturing you in a kiss, grinning against your lips.

You giggle as Aaron works his way down your jawline and neck, gasping as he kisses the soft skin at the junction of your neck and shoulder, thick fingers gripping the sides of your hips. He moves his lips back up to your earlobe, nipping at it lightly as you let out another soft gasp.

“You always know the right thing to say,” he whispers into your ear, pressing another kiss right underneath it.

“Aaron, I know I said I wanted you to take this dress off me,” you say breathlessly as Aaron nips at your shoulder again, “but Rossi will kill us if we don’t show up tonight. Plus, I really want the chance to show off my super sexy FBI husband. It’s been far too long.”

He lets out a low groan into your skin and gives your hips a squeeze, nuzzling his head into your neck.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “you’re right.”

“Aren’t I always,” you snort, eliciting a chuckle from your husband as you turn around in his arms to let him zip you up.

He takes his time, letting his fingers brush lightly over your spine as he draws the zipper over your back. When he’s done and the clasp is latched, he kisses one shoulder lightly, and then the other.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning back against his warm body.

“No, honey,” he kisses the top of your head, “thank you.”

_____________________________________________________________

By the time you and Aaron arrive at Rossi’s mansion, the party is already in full swing. Judging by the number of cars in the makeshift parking lot on his spacious front lawn, there must be at least fifty, maybe even a hundred people here.

Despite the bustle of the evening, it doesn’t take long for you two to find Emily, Penelope, and Derek in the living room, drinks in hand, snacking on some very expensive looking food.

“Hey, look! It’s the Hotchners!” Emily cheers, teetering on the arm of the leather couch, wine glass in hand.

“Hello beautiful BAU power-couple!” Penelope chimes in from the seat next to her, cuddled up into Derek’s side.

You laugh and let go of Aaron’s hand, walking over to greet your friends.

“Hey hot stuff, look at you, look at you!” Derek chimes in, eyeing you up and down before standing to shake Aaron’s hand.

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at him as you give Emily a big hug.

“And you don’t look bad yourself, boss man!” Derek adds.

You shoot your husband an ‘I told you so’ look over your shoulder, before untangling your arms from Emily and giving Penelope an equally enthusiastic squeeze.

“It’s good to see you all,” Aaron smiles lightly, all dimples in the low light. He steps in to give Emily and Penelope soft hugs.

“Let’s go get you a drink,” Derek says to Aaron, clapping him on the back.

“White?” Aaron looks to you, even though he already knows the answer.

“Yes please,” you respond, “thank you.”

“Be back soon,” he smiles easily, kissing your cheek, making your heart ache.

Aaron and Derek turn and exit the room together.

Penelope drunkenly pats the seat next to her, and you plop down on the couch.

“We’ve missed you like this!” Emily exclaims, gesturing between the three of you and around the room. “I can’t believe we’ve had to wait nine whole months plusanother four just to have a drink with our best friend again.”

You laugh at her, tilting your head back lightly. “Well, you guys got a beautiful little niece out of it, doesn’t that make up for all the wild girl’s nights I missed?”

Emily sighs, dramatically, “I guess so,” she jests.

“Oh, for sure.” Penelope adds. “You look freaking gorgeous, by the way. I mean, I would have never guessed you were creating a tiny human in that body only a few months ago!”

You blush lightly at her words, “You flatter me far too much, Pen. I owe this,” you gesture down at your figure, “all to Spanx!”

“Amen!” Emily toasts. You raise an imaginary glass to theirs and pretend to clink, taking a swig of invisible liquid.

“Are J.J. and Will here?” You ask them after they’ve had a few more sips of their wine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emily nods, “they’re around somewhere.”

You take a moment and look around the room, taking in all the sights and the sounds of the party. You see some faces you recognize from around the bureau, but others you don’t. Just as you’re about to turn back to your friends, someone catches your eye. One face stands out from the crowd: he’s a young, suave-looking man in a sharp navy suit. Sandy hair perfectly gelled, shiny brown loafers, and bright blue eyes looking right at you. In another life you would have been exhilarated by his attention, apparent charm, and good looks, but now? Now, you’re married to the love of your life with an amazing stepson and a wonderful baby girl. His wolfish gaze means absolutely nothing to you. You simply flash him a curt smile and turn back to Emily and Penelope without a second thought.

You and your friends resume your chatter, waiting for the men to return with more drinks... only they don’t. Perhaps its “new mother anxiety” talking, but the longer your husband is gone, the more you start to grow concerned. A few more minutes pass of antics, laughter, and catching up until the nagging voice in the back of your head turns into an all-out scream. All you know is that you’re suddenly feeling very overwhelmed need to be with Aaron. So, you announce to your friends that you’re going to hunt down Derek and your husband.

You stand from the couch and smooth out the skirt of your dress with the promise to be back in a few minutes.

You walk out of the living room and into the grand foyer, following the same route as Aaron had earlier. Your black kitten heels click on the marble flooring, the skirt of your dress swishing lightly as you walk with purpose towards the kitchen. You’re so concentrated on reaching your destination that you don’t realize the man who had been watching you in the living room was now hot at your heels, following you through the house. It’s only when a hand reaches out and jerks your arm backward that you stop, startled, just past the grand staircase, turning face to face with him.

“You’re not an easy woman to get alone,” he smirks, reeking of alcohol, still gripping your arm, tight. Up close he is decidedly not as handsome as the low light of the living room made him seem. In fact, he seems… creepy. Really, really, really, creepy.

“Can I help you?” You blink at him, pulling your arm out of his vice grip.

“You sure can, baby,” he steps closer to you, voice oozing with sleaze. You gag at the liquor on his breath.

Moving away, you scowl at him, crossing your arms across your chest.

“What’s say you and I head upstairs for a little while? I’m dying to get my hands on your body.” He jerks his head toward the staircase, reaching out to grab your arm again.

You’re fuming at this point, ready give him a piece of your mind when a stern voice beats you to it.

“Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?” Aaron articulates, approaching you both with Derek not far behind.

You breathe a sigh of relief as your husband glares at the drunken man vengefully, coming to stand by your side. Aaron pulls you into him, roughly, hand tight around your waist. The anger radiating off your husband is equally terrifying and HOT.

“Take a walk, man,” Derek adds in, coming to stand next to the drunken asshole. The man looks from you, to Aaron, then over to Derek, and finally back at you.

“Whatever,” the man grumbles, putting his hands up, “she’s not worth it anyway. Not pretty enough for the hassle. I just thought she looked like an easy lay.”

“That’s enough,” Aaron snaps, seething. “Leave now, before I make you,” your husband growls. He angles his body forward so you’re slightly behind him. A shiver passes through you at his fierce protectiveness.

“Fine, I’m going to get another drink,” the man utters.

“No,” Aaron interjects, “the party. Leave the party or I’ll have you removed.”

“What’s your problem?” The creepy man retorts, this time, more confrontationally.

“My problem?” Aaron says, angrily. You feel his entire body tense at the accusation.

“Hotch,” Derek warns, “I’ll take care of it. You guys go enjoy yourselves. Forget about him.”

“Come on, Aaron,” you tug on his suit jacket lightly, eyes pleading… but Aaron doesn’t budge from his spot. He only holds you tighter as he continues to stare down the man as Derek ushers him away and towards the front door. He doesn’t falter until they are out of sight.

“Aaron?” You repeat.

He looks down at you, finally, blinking away the fury until all that’s left is an all-consuming love. He releases you from his protective hold, and you face him.

“I’m okay,” you assure him in earnest, letting out a shaky breath.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” he breathes, bringing his hands up to cup your face.

“Aaron, it’s okay, really,” you bite your lip, shifting your eyes away from his.

“You’re so beautiful,” Aaron kisses your forehead, and then the top of your head. “So, so beautiful, and I’m so sorry.”

“Aaron, can we just go home?” You ask.

“Sure,” he kisses your head one last time before weaving his fingers between yours and guiding you gently toward the back exit.

_____________________________________________________________

The car ride home is quiet. The only sounds are the occasional click of the turn signal, and the hum of the wheels on the road. Aaron is still upset, and so are you, but you’re also… something else. Something you can’t quite put your finger on. You feel guilty for ruining the evening, guilty that you FEEL guilty for something you had no control over, hungry, tired, and… horny? Oh, and guilty for feeling horny.

It isn’t helping that one of Aaron’s hands is planted firmly on your thigh. He lifts it only to adjust the air conditioning or to scratch his nose, but otherwise it remains on you the whole way home. When he pulls into the driveway of your shared house, and shuts the car off, he still doesn’t move it.

“Honey?” You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are closed. You take in the strong features of his profile, noting the prominence of his nose and the way his eyelashes rest on his high cheekbones.

“I almost punched him.” Aaron whispers, opening his eyes to look over at you sheepishly.

“You what,” you exhale, mouth slightly agape.

“That guy,” he continues, bringing his left hand up to pinch his nose. “I almost punched him for saying that about you.”

You snort, amused by his confession.

Your husband lets out a short laugh, squeezing your thigh as he does.

“I would’ve liked to see that.” You’re grinning now and so is he.

He flashes his eyes at you and laughs again, this time less anxiously. You join him, feeling the tension dissipate with every passing moment.

“My big, bad FBI man decking a barely-legal drunk dickhead for making a move on his wife? Where can I get my tickets?” You joke.

As you say the words “his wife,” Aaron’s breath hitches in his throat. His hand on your thigh presses down instinctively. Neither of his reactions go unnoticed.

You lay a hand over his where it rests on your leg.

“You know, Aaron,” you begin.

He looks over at you, jaw tight, but this time it isn’t from anger.

“This is the first time we’ve had the house all to ourselves in months,” you pull his hand off you and bring it up to your lips. You press a kiss to his palm, and then to his wrist.

“This… is true,” he breathes out, studying you, taking you in.

“So, I’m just wondering:” you grin, linking your fingers with his, “are you going to carry your wife into our house, Aaron? Or do I have to walk myself?”

[quindolyn]

Hey I was wondering if you could write a sub!regulus X Dom!fem reader fic?

One where it’s angsty as Regulus had been acting different around the reader, and eventually after being questioned about it alone, Regulus breaks down and admitting his parents forced him to get the dark mark (there was nothing he could do about it), and the reader comforts him while they fuck. Regulus had been through a lot and the reader wants him to know that they love him.

Including: praise kink, subspace regulus, scar/mark kissing, aftercare for regulus, riding, and anything else you think would suit this situation <3

Resilience || Regulus Black

Word Count: 6154

A/N: Do I hate this? Yes, most definitely, without a doubt. Did I only proof read 5/15 pages. Yes, again, certainly. But I'm tired and I'm with my friend so it's not gonna get better than this. I love you all and hope you enjoy it

warnings: pretty much included in the ask, can't really think of anything else

Being light on your feet it doesn’t appear as though Regulus notices you tip toeing your way across the Slytherin common room. As you come up behind him you peer over his shoulder; he has his legs tucked beneath him with what appears to be his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook resting in his lap. Standing over his shoulder you let your eyes scan across the pages laid open and what you first believed to be a chapter on counter curses you realized was actually detailing how to cast the curse.

Realizing what you’d just read you let out a small, involuntary gasp that catches the attention of the boy sitting in front of you.

“(Y/N)!” Regulus quickly exclaims, glancing over his shoulder before slamming the book closed and sliding it into his book bag which sits next to him on the plush, green velvet sofa.

“What was that Reg?” You ask, brow furrowed as your eyes lock onto Regulus’ grey ones.

“Just a book love, that’s all.”

“Your Defense textbook?” You ask, hoping he would slide it back out of his satchel to show you the familiar scarlet cover you’d scratched your initials into on the bottom right hand corner.

“Something of the sort,” He answers vaguely, pushing himself off the couch to face you. Instead of making his way around the couch to meet you he stayed on the other side of the piece of furniture. Feet planted, hands fiddling with each other while instead of making eye contact with you his gaze seemed to be directed just past your right ear.

“Don’t lie to me Regulus,” Your voice is clipped, when you’d come to check in on Regulus after he’d come home from winter break at his dreaded family’s house this wasn’t what you had expected.

Regardless, it was what you’re met with, “What the hell is that book?”

Your voice jumps and you can hear the panic rising in it. Regulus had spent the weeks up to his departure date dreading the time he would have to spend at the Black Mansion. You’d stayed up countless nights, wishing you could somehow keep him from having to go to that hellish house but when it came down to it there was nothing either of you could do.

Finding him pouring over some dark arts book the first time you saw him after nearly two weeks apart wasn’t exactly the reunion you’d been picturing in your head. Nor was it comforting.

You can barely make it out but you believe you hear him whimper something about “it’s nothing” as his gaze drops from just over your shoulder to his toes.

You two stand there for a minute, then two, each waiting for the other to say something, anything to break the tension currently hanging heavy over the room. Regulus silently begging you to let it go, to leave the room and give him some time to stash the book before coming to find you to act as though nothing had happened and it was all fine.

Unwilling to yield, you hold your ground, maintaining your silence while your eyes bore into the top of his head, awaiting his explanation as to what you’d walked into.

You’re the one to finally break the silence.

“If it's nothing, then I’d like to see it Regulus.” It's the second time in the span of five minutes you opt for his full name instead of one of the nicknames coined by his brother, who he’d recently mended things with, and made popular by yourself. You knew it would strike a cord for him but you were scared, you were on the offensive.

With a deep sigh Regulus retrieves his bag from the spot it’d fallen to on the floor, pulling the book from the bag, bound in emerald green, Regulus hold it both far from his body and with a surprisingly tight hold, somehow both wanting it as far from him as possible and not wanting it to leave his grasp.

Though visibly ancient the book appears to be in remarkable condition, engraved on the front cover in gold leaf reads “Mendel's Most Malicious Curses”.

Studying the cover you don’t recognize the book’s title but based on what you’d glimpsed inside of its pages you hadn’t expected to. Even as a fifth year you doubt this would ever be included in O.W.L. curriculum.

Despite knowing better you can’t help but feel a strange, strong attraction to the book, an overwhelming urge consuming you to take that book. Your fingers itch at your sides as you imagine getting your hands on the book, wondering how hard Regulus would fight before relinquishing it from his grasp.

Somewhere in your subconscious you register that these thoughts are not organically your own, that somehow that book is influencing you and that in reality you want nothing to do with it. Frightened thoughts simmer at the back of your mind but they are lost in the shadows of your curiosity regarding the secrets that lie beneath the ornate designs swirling over the cover.

Expectantly you extend your arm, a nonverbal signal for Regulus to hand you the book but your movement throws him into action and has him clutching it close to his chest, both arms cradling the text.

“No no no no no,” He chants frantically, shaking his head as though to shake off the thought of relinquishing the book to you. “I can’t give you this (Y/N),” He swallowed deeply, shining silver eyes seaking out yours, ablaze with conviction.

“And why’s that?” You challenge with a raise of your brow.

Inhaling deeply he seems to be bracing himself to respond, “Because you’re a muggle born, it’s not meant for you to touch.”

You can feel rage bubbling up in your stomach, threatening to spill out your mouth in a flurry of angry words admonishing Reg for his remarks, “What? Is my simple muggle born mind not worthy enough to read words in that precious little pureblood book of yours? Do I need my pedigree intact to understand what it says? Not meant for mutts, is that it?”

You thought you were past this, you thought you’d left the aloof little third year you’d first met who’d called you a mudblood and asked you to move to a different table in the library because he didn’t want you looking at his charms homework behind.

Had the past year and a half of apologies and growth on Regulus’ part all been a lie? Was that hate not as small a part of your boyfriend as you’d thought? Did it really only take just shy of two weeks back with his biggoted relatives for him to start spewing this pureblood nonsense again?

Bouncing around in your head those questions overwhelm you as you try to ignore the most pressing one, pushing at the forefront of your mind.

Does he even love you?

“B-because you’re not a pureblood, this book (Y/N), it can’t be held by anyone not of pureblood,” Reg’s shaking voice broke through the flurry of questions wreaking chaos in your mind.

“God damn it Regulus! I thought we were past this! I thought-”

“It’ll kill you (Y/N)!” His voice is frantic and you pick up on the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, threatening to leak over.

Those words that seemed to carry a fatality in themselves cleared away the din clouding your mind, everything went silent. Too silent even as the implication of those words wash over you.

That book may as well be a gun, cocked and being held steady at your temple as you feel tears of your own begin to well in your eyes, distorting your vision.

The mess of questions doesn’t return to your mind, instead they begin thumping one by one at the base of your brain though they all carry through the same theme.

How could he have brought that near you?

“Kill me?” You curse yourself for how obvious your voice is shaking but the book that just moments earlier you were dying to get your hand on seems to have cast an oppressive air over the room and has you recoiling away from your boyfriend.

Regulus nods, holding eye contact with you as he slips the book back into his bag, sliding it under the sofa before cautiously striding towards you.

“That's why I can’t give it to you to look at, it's cursed and if you so much as bump it you’ll…” His voice trails off, the words too terrible to speak aloud.

Your arms wrap around yourself, clutching as hard as they can as you fight to wrangle your thoughts under control. His response revealed to you that he doesn’t intend to hurt you, not with the book anyways which has dozens of other worries popping up in your head. You’re desperate for answers as to what happened to Regulus at his house. He seems ready to give them to you as he offers to take you back to his dorm away from any prying eyes or ears that may lurk about in the Slytherin common room.

You’d both agreed to arrive back at school two days early hoping to get some alone time in but that didn’t mean that the castle was empty and that anyone couldn’t walk into his common room at any moment.

You stall as he lets you into his dorm, you’ve been there a thousand times, often under the mask of night but your usual spot, atop his always made perfectly bed, seems wrong now. Without answers to your countless questions the entire room feels foregin to you and leaves you standing by his desk, not quite leaning against it but also not quite supporting your own weight.

Regulus seems equally awkward but eventually settles on his bed, perched precariously on the edge of the mattress, he barely looks comfortable.

You stay there so long in silence that after a while your breathing syncs, the singular sound becoming the only noise in the drafty room.

Long after it becomes clear Regulus isn’t going to speak first and you finally tire of the silence you find your voice, somewhere deep inside of you summoning the words to your most pressing worry; “What happened at your house Regulus? What did they do to you?”

Your words have him crumbling, your usually stoic boy folding in on himself until he is but a ball hanging off the bed.

You hesitate for a single second before you’re racing towards him, dropping before him at his knees to cup his face in your palms. Directing his visage upwards to meet yours you feel your heart wrench in your chest as you take in his puffy, red eyes, red nose and flushed cheeks already marred with twin trails of salty tears cascading down his face.

“Regulus,” You choke out feeling tears from earlier resurface as you push yourself off the ground to take your place next to the scared boy beside you.

Pulling him into your lap as much as his size permits you too you take great care in cradling his head, clutching him to your chest as your rock gently back and forth humming into his hairline in hopes to calm his sobs. Raw and ragged they each tear at the fragile, brave exterior you’ve erected in hopes of comforting the boy, giving him something solid to hold onto.

Whispering sweet nothings into his ear you feel him melt into your touch, slowly the breathing becomes stronger and his sobs quiet to weak sniffles swallowed by the occasional gulp.

Feeling him shift under your touch you can tell he’s working himself up to something, he always gets fidgety when he’s trying to summon the courage to do something hard, his movement triggers a memory.

It floods through your mind as you’re reminded of a similarly terrified Regulus, knees bumping against the table at breakfast one lazy Sunday as he repeatedly bounced them, seemingly unable to sit still. He’d spent weeks working himself up to speaking to his brother for the first time in far too long.

The memory of him being so strong and brave even as the entirety of the Great Hall tracked his movement from the Slytherin table to the Gryffindor had you drawing a deep breath. The strength the memory provides you has you summoning the breath to prompt Regulus into some sort of explanation, anything.

“Reggie, your mother gave you that book didn’t she?”

He goes still at your words and even involuntary actions seem to still, his lungs draw no breath and his pulse seems to fade away under your touch.

“Bellatrix,” His voice is hoarse from crying, “Her idea of a Christmas gift.”

“That bitch,” You spit.

“Walburga’s was worse.”

You pause at the mention of her name, there is no doubt in your mind that he is the one who’s actions have sent Regulus into this downward spiral of despair and fear. You’re not even sure if you wanna hear what he has to stay but what you want stopped being important a long time ago.

“Do you wanna show me Reg?” You ask, breathless.

“No,” Comes his meak voice, “But I need to.”

You nod understandingly as you regrettably allow him to slip from your grasp so he can turn to face you, one leg tucked under his bum and the other hanging over the edge of the bed.

His eyes are downcast before he peaks them up through thick, dark lashes to meet your gaze, “Do you promise not to hate me (Y/N/N)? I don’t know if I can do this if you hate me.”

Your brows are drawn together as your response comes emphatically, “I could never hate you Regulus, I could never and I will never.”

“You can’t make that promise,” He says through a watery chuckle, leaving you wondering where the hilarity in the situation was. “I shouldn’t have asked you to.”

“Regulus,” You latched onto his hand before he could turn away from you, “I am incapable of hating you my love, please. Tell me what happened.”

Silver eyes locked with yours as though they would reveal the solidity of your promise. You’re not sure what answer he found in them but regardless he broke your gaze as he snuck his hand out of yours.

You watch as he slowly rolls up his sleeve and an idea as to what he’s going to show you begins to form and you find yourself regretting ever demanding to know what’s going on. You quickly shove those thoughts back down, there's no use in even entertaining them, ignoring your problems won’t make them go away.

Your worst fears are confirmed as Regulus rolls the sleeve of his black sweater to reveal swirling black ink sunk deep into his skin. Even just by looking at it you could feel the permanence of the ink, the meaning behind it causing a chill to shoot through your bones.

In the back of your head this had always been a possibility but not one you’d ever truly considered. You always thought that you would be able to get yourself and Reg away from everyone, from everything. Blood purity, the ministry, his family.

You were going to get out and you’d thought you’d have plenty of time, half way through his fifth year neither of you ever expected him to be forced to take the Dark Mark before his eighteenth birthday.

You were supposed to have until his eighteenth birthday.

Staring at the ink that seemed to pulse with life against the pale white of Regulus’ skin you suppose that it doesn’t really matter what you were supposed to have, what was supposed to happen. Regulus has taken the dark mark.

Godric, Regulus has taken the dark mark.

“Y-Your mother did this to you?” Your voice wobbles, anger, confusion, and terror evident in your voice, each betraying the strong front you’re trying to keep up for Regulus.

“She came for me in the middle of the night, (Y/N/N). First time I’ve ever been woken by her instead of Sirius or a house elf and she forced me up, made me get dressed before taking me downstairs and they were all there,” His voice cracks as a silent sob racks his body, you can only imagine how difficult it must be to relive the horrific events of that night. Hoping to provide him with any sort of comfort you inch closer to him, throwing your arm around his shoulder allowing him to rest his head on yours before continuing.

“They were all there (Y/N), not just her and Father. Bellatrix, Cissa and her husband, the Lestranges,” He pauses to swallow, “ And him. He was there.”

Regulus needn’t clarify who “he” was. The idea that he had even been near Regulus made you sick to your stomach and you could feel the distinct sensation of bile rising tickle at the back of your throat.

“Shhh, it's okay Reg,” You soothe, tightening your grip on him as sobs shake his body, “It’s going to be okay Red we’re going to figure this out.”

“He did this to me,” He sobs as he shakes in your lap, letting the enormity of his circumstances finally sink in after suppressing it for the past week, the fear of your response keeping him occupied.

To say you aren’t scared would be a lie, you’re fucking terrified but holding Regulus’ trembling form you know that this decision was not his. He would never swear allegiance to a group hell bent on destroying you and people like you, a few years ago maybe but not today. Not the Regulus you’d come to love, even if it began despite yourself.

Without hesitation you reach out, wrapping your hand around the skin now stained by dark magic.

Regulus let’s out a hiss at your touch and you feel him tense under your hand, afraid you’ve hurt him you start to pull away, “Does that hurt Reg?” You ask warily.

“Yes,” He spits out through gritted teeth, “But don’t let go please,” He pleads, raising his gaze to meet yours, “Please don’t let go.”

“Not gonna let go,” You promise, keeping your hold on his forearm tight.

Dipping your fingers under the strong bone of his mandible you turn his visage upwards to meet yours, heart breaking at the sadness and pain swimming in those beautiful grey eyes of his. Slowly you lean in before your eyelashes are brushing against the soft skin of his cheeks and your eyes flutter closed as you watch his do the same.

Your lips brush each other’s gently as your hand cups the side of his face, giving you complete control of the kiss as you keep the swipes of your lips light, you can just barely make out the taste of the pomegranate lip balm you’d given him as a part of your holiday gift to him.

“I didn’t wanna take it (Y/N/N),” He sniffles against your lips, “I don’t wanna be a Death Eater, I don’t wanna hurt you.” The sincerity in his voice has more tears welling in your eyes, you just can’t bear to see your beautiful boy in so much pain.

“Oh I know you don’t bubba I know,” You calm him, throwing a leg over to the other side of his lap so that you can perch yourself atop the hard smooth surface of his thighs. Gently pressing kisses along the canvas of his face you feel his arms wrap around your waist and the tips of fingers graze against your ass as his hands hover above it.

“Can I touch you please?” His words are barely audible but his desperation is loud and clear.

You grant permission as you lean forward to capture his lips in another kiss, this one more passionate than the last. Posing little, if any, challenge before letting your tongue delve into his mouth, quickly claiming dominance over his as you feel his palms clutch the globes of your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he holds onto you as tight as possible.

With care you slowly guide him onto his back as your lips trail from his down the column of his throat, in your journey down you leave sloppy hickeys along the delicate skin of his neck. Pulling away slightly you smile to see the various shades of purple and blue painted along his pretty ivory skin.

You know you’re going to have a real conversation about this later, what it means, what the two of you are ready to do about it but right now all you can think about is how you can make your pretty boy feel better, how you can show him that your love for him hasn’t changed. And there’s one way you know how to do that best.

“Do you want me to make you feel good Reggie?” You whisper against his skin as your lips ghost over his collar bone, drinking in his scent.

“Please,” He whimpers, “Need you.”

That’s all you need to hear before your hands are delving under the hem of Reg’s sweater, hands sliding against the smooth planes of his abs, your hands gliding over the occasional ridge of a long healed scar.

Sliding the hem up all the way to his collarbone you look down to see the beautiful lines of his chest and stomach. The scars you’ve become used to seeing a dark but faded pink now shine an almost brilliant purple as though the dark magic imprinted upon his arm had somehow interfered with scars caused by Walburga, most of them when he was much younger. You know for a fact that there are more ones on his back, deeper and darker from taking longer to heal.

“Come on pretty boy,” You coach, propping him up so that you can slip the soft sweater over his head before discarding it over your shoulder, “There we go, that’s a good boy.”

He lets out a low whine at your praising words as his hips thrust up towards yours which are perched directly atop them.

While removing your own sweater you smile, realizing it’s actually one of Regulus’ old Quidditch jumpers from the year prior. With no bra beneath your top your tits are left bare for Regulus’ viewing. His eyes gloss over as lust creeps into the stormy grey of his irises, they’re locked on your tits as though they’re the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“Do these hurt more than normal baby?” You ask as your fingertips graze over the raised scars on his chest, if the dark magic of the dark mark made his scars more sensitive you wanna be careful not to hurt him.

“A little.”

Frowning you lean down to press your lips against the puckered scars, your kisses light and fleeting as you trace the dark lines with your lips.

Dancing from one scar to another you hear him exhale deeply and the tension seems to be slowly leaving his body as he settles into the mattress and he becomes malleable under your touch.

“You’re so beautiful Reg,” You praise against his scarred skin, needing him to understand just how much you love him.

“I love you so much,” You look up through your lashes to see Regulus’ eyes already locked on your body.

“I love you too.”

With that your lips are ceasing his once more as you feel the overwhelming need to comfort your boy. Gently, you grind your hips up against his as you become lost in the kiss, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours before you feel a familiar bulge pressing on you.

Your hand ventures back down the hard muscle of his stomach before you bump against the bulge of his erection, straining against the soft material of his sweatpants. You palm gently over his cock as your face buries itself in the crook of his neck, giving him sweet, light kisses while teasing his throbbing member.

“Please,” Comes his choked pleas at being teased, “Please, need more.”

“Of course pretty boy,” You promise as you lift yourself off of him, giving him one last kiss at the waistband of his sweatpants before helping him ease off his bottoms and boxers.

Once he’s devoid of all clothing you too strip down so that you’re both bare naked, your eyes are fixed on the red, weeping head of his half hard cock, sitting against the inside of his muscled thigh.

He whimpers as your hand wraps around his member, pumping up and down his hardening length, brushing your thumb along the sensitive tip of his cock.

“Wanna be inside of you,” He whimpers, hands grappling for your wrist to stall your movements and pull you on top of him but all he succeeds in doing is making you stubble closer to him.

You release your right hand from his cock, instead taking his hand in yours while your unoccupied hands resumes stimulating his member.

“I know you wanna be inside of me, pretty boy, but I gotta get you hard first.”

“But I am hard,” He argues in a pretty little whine, and now that he mentions it you realize that he is harder than he was when you’d pulled him from the tight confines of his pants.

“Your cock’s so gorgeous,” You murmur watching the way he twitches in your hand, “Think you’re hard enough now, yeah?”

He nods his head, squirming as he fights the urge to buck up into your hand.

Making sure that he’s comfortable, propped up against the pillow at the head of the bed you brush away the hair that’s fallen into his face as you straddle his lap, the shaft of his cock pressing against the warmth of your cunt.

Lifting yourself a few inches off his thighs your help guide his prick to your entrance, slowly sinking onto him you allow yourself to take your time accepting each and every inch of him inside of you.

Reg’s eyes are glued to your pussy as he watches himself disappear inside of you, all the way down to his base. His eye brows furrow from the overwhelming pleasure that swims through his veins, sinking deep into his every nerve at the bliss of being completely surrounded by your warm pussy.

Pleasure shoots up your spine at the sensation of slowly becoming full, once you’ve finally taken every inch of him inside you you throw your head back, mouth dropped open as the breath is stolen from your lungs. It feels so good to be so full with him you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“Good boy,” You say breathlessly, rubbing your arms up and down his flexing arms, fists furled with the sheets between them as he too adapts to the sensation that comes with being inside of you.

“You ready for me to move?” You ask once you finally become used to the full feeling.

Desperate nods answered your question, it takes you a minute to find your rhythm but soon you’re grinding his hips against his, lifting yourself slightly off his cock before grinding back down onto him.

Your movements are slower than usual when you fuck Reg, but after the terror he’d gone through in the past weeks you’re deliberate in your gentle movements.

As your hands grip the muscles of his arms you hear him take a sharp breath, your eyes fly open, landing on his face, your movements stalling before you realize that you’re clutching the newly marked skin on his left forearm.

“Oh baby I’m so sorry,” You apologize, loosening your grip on him as your lips frace the dark lines of the ink against his skin.

Seeing that mark on anyone else would’ve made you recoil, have ice shooting through your veins as fear petrified you. While you would’ve preferred never to see that symbol of hate tattooed into Regulus’ skin it didn’t evoke its usual reaction from you. The only fear you have is fear of the future, fear of what lies in wait for the two of you beyond the walls of Hogwarts, but it doesn't matter right now. All that matters is comforting your boy, all you think about as you press your lips to his mark.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when you hear sobs break through Regulus’ lips, quickly you abandon the stain of ink , moving to cradle his head so that your tits are right in his line of vision.

“I thought you were going to hate me,” He cries into your chest, tears wet the soft skin of your tits.

“No baby, I’ll never hate you, not ever.”

You feel the wet warmth of his mouth brush against your right nipple, gazing down you see his tongue lazily circling the pebbled flesh and you’re reminded just how cold the room actually is but pressed up against Regulus it feels like your entire body is on fire.

“You wanna suck on my titty Reggie?”

He responds with a weak nod and quickly you’re easing your nipple into his mouth, helping him find the correct angle all the while stuttering your hips against his.

“You fill me up so good Reg,” Your praise, fingers tangling in the dark mess of curls.

At your praise he begins lifting his hips in times with your thrusts, helping you as you fuck youself on top of him, wanting so desperately to make you feel as good as you make him.

“There we go, that’s a god boy.”

“M’getting close,” His words are muffled by the soft flesh of your tit stuffed into his mouth.

You too are nearing your orgasm as your clit brushes against the hard bone  of his pelvis pulling a sharp whimper from you. To better grant Regulus access to your breast you’ve settled on rolling your hips in circles, ceasing the up and down movement from earlier so as to not disturb him.

A familiar tightness is brewing in your belly as Regulus’ hands run up and down your back before gripping the globes of your butt, maintaining as much physical contact as possible.

“Go ahead bubba, go ahead and cum. Fill me up pretty boy, want your cum. Need your cum. Godric I love you,” You ramble, seizing his lips again, needing them against yours as you feel him cum inside you.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He mutters as your cunt grips around him with the tell tale signs of your quickly approaching orgasm.

“Y’gonna cum with me baby?” You ask as you press your lips to his forehead, his mouth having once more found the plush of your breast.

“Yes,” He nods, “Please.”

You throw your head back in ecstasy as your orgasm washes over you, wave after wave of pleasure racing through your veins as you ride out your orgasm, continuing to move your hips as you simultaneously help Reg through his. Stars flash behind your closed eyelids as the pleasure building up finally releases, sending you into euphoria so intense it seems to cloud your every sense.

The second he felt your cunt squeeze around his cock it tipped him over the edge and as he lost himself in pleasure, rope after rope of cum releasing inside of you, he tried his best to match the movement of his hips to yours.

You flutter your eyes open as the warmth of his cum floods your pussy as you come down from the height of your orgasm, letting yourself collapse so that your chest is pressed up against his.

With your chests pressed so close together you notice the exact moment that your breathing syncs, feeling as Regulus’ arms wrap around your bare torso keeping you close to his body.

“How are you feeling?” You murmur against the ivory skin of his chest, keeping your voice hushed.

“Better. A little happy.”

Glancing up you catch the smallest smirk slink across his lips as he stares up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Happy?”

“You make me happy,” His eyes flicker to yours as he pulls you closer to him causing his softening prick to slip out of your tight hole. You both hiss as the cool air hits his cock and the cum he’d emptied into you begins flowing out yout pussy.

Regrettably you push yourself off of him, pulling his sweater over your head before waddling into the connecting bathroom, being ever so conscious about the sticky white mess between your legs as you wet a washcloth using warm water from the sink before applying it to the insides of your thighs. Ginger touches hastily cleaning up the excess cum before rinsing the wash cloth to take it to Reg.

“Hey pretty boy,” You coo upon reentering the room to find him in the same position you’d left him in, “You ready for me to clean you up?”

“You look so beautiful in my clothes (Y/N/N),” He responds instead of answering your question, pushing himself onto his elbows so that he can watch you, his black sweater enveloping you all the way to your lower thighs.

“And you’re just beautiful,” You smile, sitting next to him on the mattress. You aren’t lying, he looks absolutely gorgeous leaning back, mop of dark hair in tangled tresses, grey eyes glossed over, abs sheening with sweat as are his equally toned thighs. Merlin bless the poor bastard who invented Quidditch.

Dragging up his muscled legs your eyes settle on his softening member, just as pretty as the rest of him.

With care you make quick work of cleaning the cum off his cock, resting your hand on his thigh when he tries to squirm away from your over stimulating touch.

“I know baby, I know but I gotta get you all nice and clean for me.”

“Hurts,” He mumbles in a pathetic pout.

“I know it does pretty baby but look,” You say, pulling the cloth from his skin, “All done already.” Pressing a kiss to his temple you go to stand but you’re quickly pulled back down to the mattress by cold hands wrapped around the warm folds of your waist.

“Don’t go,” He mumbles into your hair as he keeps you tucked into his side.

“Just gotta go put the washcloth back Reggie,” You explain trying to slip from his hold but he’s not having it and just tugs you back against the hard planes of his chest.

“No,” He says simply before reaching over to the bed side table where he’d set his wand, mumbling a quick banishing spell the rag flew from your hand before flying into the bathroom.

Resting your head against his strong shoulder you yank a blanket from the end of the bed up to throw it around your bodies, nestled close together.

“You said you were happy Reg.”

“Mhm,” He responds with a noncommittal hum.

“What else are you feeling, love?”

You hear him take a deep inhale, as his own answer seemed to overwhelm him, “I don’t know. I’m scared, I’m really scared but not so much now that I know that you don’t hate me.”

You nod against his chest, you can only imagine how petrifying that thought must’ve been for him and you can’t deny the tug you feel in your chest at the idea of Regulus ever thinking you would hate him.

“I’m still terrified but I think I’m gonna be okay.”

“I know you’re gonna be okay Regulus, you are capable and strong and smart and the bravest boy I have ever met,” You can feel the blush radiating off of him at your words.

“Thank you (Y/N/N),” He mumbles bashfully into your hair once more.

You were telling the truth, if there was one thing that you know for certain its that Regulus is just as resilient as he has proven to be and if Walburga, or anyone else for that matter thought he was going to take this lying down. If they thought you were going to take this lying down, they have another thing coming. There is no doubt in your mind that Regulus will fight for what he knows to be true and if there was ever a point that he would have obeyed his mother’s every command without question that time was long past.

Reg isn’t to be underestimated. He’s just as every bit courageous as he’s proved to be over and over again. To underestimate him is to dig your own grave; and unlike Walburga you aren’t ready to count him out quite yet. On the contrary actually, your boy wasn’t about to take this lying down and even if it meant total self destruction, the two of you are about to raise hell.

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[gothamsaved]

` 𝑯𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎��𝒐𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕    &&.   𝒍𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓-𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒎.

[ … ] But he knows it’s not a guaranteed promise given how tumultuous trauma had the habit of being,  how unpredictable,  how explosive.  He was no stranger to it,  just as much of a victim when any small thing triggered an internal onslaught of memories to flare like a fast-forwarded film reel behind his mind's eye.  Not much could stop it once it started,  all the flowing recollections,  the darker moments left to haunt well after the moment itself had passed.

They’d continue on,  only able to be endured through   &&.   processed once they’d quelled.  He knows what Harvey’s been through,  has garnered his own view of what lie beneath,  between the fragmented parts of his mask where something darker,  wounded lay.

Bruce sits neatly in place,  back straight,  shoulders slackened,  hands folded delicately in his lap in what he can only hope is a picture of patience as he hums quietly,  ink darkened brows coming to a furrowed knit as he eyes his friend in thinly veiled worry.  The sight he sees is far too familiar one to leave it alone or pretend he doesn’t see it.  But he also has a strong inkling that depending on how it’s brought up,  it could cause things to escalate or fall apart.  Like an old wound barely healed over enough to be skimmed over with a fragile touch,  it bore the same attributes of a raw bruise,  a painfully open gash.

He’d have to save the discussion for another day,  but for the moment,  he feels some company helps,  if nothing else.  Even if not much talking happens,  Bruce knows better than anyone that sometimes just knowing you weren’t alone helped offer some stable ground to cling to when it felt like you were at risk of drowning at such a darkened sea.

For him,  he had Alfred to thank for that.  He had his family,  makeshift,  carefully found,  trust built to fall back on.  Though it wasn’t perfect,  the knowledge he wasn’t alone helped when things felt too dark.  Too hopeless.

For all Harvey had done as Two-face,  Bruce still stubbornly,  strongly remembers all the good he’d done as Gotham’s Apollo.  What he stood for,  what justice had looked like even when he’d been off taking matters into his own hands since the accident that’d caused all of this.  That relentless pursuit of stopping crime,   before that turned obsession had burned so strongly it consumed everything else in its wake.

Bruce grunts at that,   thoughtfully wondering if he could do something to help.  It’s a momentary struggle where he knows his own sentimental feelings are getting to him.  Pale wolf-greys stay locked onto the former lawyer,  studying the way his expressions twitched,  fell,  strained as he continued.  His words seem to be vaguely shared,  hinting at a hell of a lot more than just the state of his food.  Bruce holds his tongue,  that pinched look softening as he waits for the man to share what he looks like he wants to.

He’s never been the best with words of comfort or more vulnerably shared honesty.  He hid beneath his own twin masks,  one of the Bat,  cold,  calculating,  blunt but just   — meanwhile his mask of Bruce,  crafted up to be something likeable,  something friendly,  public approved    &&.  charming…   What lay beneath was its own shattered mess of both though the parts were ill fitting.  He was reckless,  impulsive,  emotionally-driven.  He’s unsure what Harvey’s entire perception of his is,  what pieces of everything Bruce’s build conveys or displays.  But the tether of friendship,  of shared understanding was something he still cherished.  Could sympathize with even now,  maybe more with the tragedy the other had consistently undergone.

Why did he still do this?  Make time to visit his old friend,  do what he could to try giving him hope or a sense of normalcy?

❝ It’s not pity,  Harv.  Never.  It’s not a sense of duty either.  I’m not obligated to keep visiting or… keeping this up,  no. You’ve never given up on me in the past   &&.   always come through when needed.  You’re still someone I consider a friend regardless of whatever happens.  That’s not gonna change. ❞

With ‘Twos’ though…   His lips press together a bit,  gaze staying pinned on Harvey’s eyes to avoid straying or potentially sparking his more aggressive counterpart forth like the devil called.  He wasn’t fond much of Bruce or the Bat…  from the encounters conjured to mind,  the best he could describe it as was a wounded dog biting with the intent to drive away.  Almost like a defensive,  self-protective measure to swallow up in isolation,  but…   more self-destructive as well.  The longer Harvey speaks,  the more that wild sense of desperation seems to brim behind his eyes.  Drowning,  panicked tidal waves threatening to overturn.

He doesn’t flinch or move away when his old friend’s hand clamors for some form of purchase on the table space, as his words continue to spill like a doleful confession.  All Bruce can see hanging over Harvey like a grim stormcloud is the crushing presence of loss.  The loss of Gilda,  the loss of his old life,  the loss of control,  the loss of hope.  He sees the spills of it peeking from between like a stubborn but passing storm,  but…

` ❝ Hey,  hey. ❞

He tries,  patting at the space between in an attempt to grab attention in as gentle a manner he can manage.

❝ Harvey…  I know things seem bleak now.  You’ve lost a lot.  Been through a lot.  It’s terrifying to face alone,  especially when it feels like you’ve got nothing else there.  We’ll get through it.  You won’t go down,   &&.  if you do,  we’ll find a way to pull you back up again.  You’re not alone in this.  I promise. ❞

Guilt  washes  over  him  ,  weighs  him  down  ,  deprives  him  of  air  .  He's  worried  Bruce  ,  worried  his  only  friend  because  he  can't  centre  himself  for  even  a  half  hour  .  He's  paddling  out  their  in  the  waters  of  his  mind  ,  lost  out  at  sea  .  Stuck  within  the  tides  of  whether  he  wanted  to  be  so  exposed  ;  to  be  seen  by  his  friend  ,  or  forgotten  &&  left  to  sink  further  into  himself  .  He's  ashamed  .  How  could  anyone  believe  in  hope  for  a  murderer  ,  for  a  man  once  great  now  shrouded  in  his  own  darkness  ?  Was  Bruce  so  bold  ?  Was  he  so  naïve  ?

That  -  was  not  the  question  afoot  &&  once  again  he's  having  to  lean  towards  that  chiming  echo  in  the  distance  ,  the  lighthouse  calling  him  back  to  some  semblance  of  sanctuary  .

❝  𝚃𝚑𝚎  𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍'𝚜  𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚎  𝚊𝚝  𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝  𝚋𝚞𝚝  𝙸  𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎  𝚒𝚝'𝚜  𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  .  ❞    Sometimes  even  the  blandest  of  taste  was  enough  to  nourish  him  ,  make  him  feel  alive  ,  none  such  like  he  had  on  the  other  side  of  this  cell  ,  freer  ,  younger  ,  halcyon  nights  spent  with  the  familiar  face  mirroring  his  own  .  They  had  some  good  times  .  The  absence  of  them  was  killing  him  ,  that  little  river  boat  out  at  sea  during  a  storm.  Though  presently  it  floats  on  tamer  waters  .  Just  lost  ,  lost  so  far  from  land  .  So  far  from  himself  .  ❝ 𝙸𝚝  𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝  𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍  𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎  𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛  𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝  𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝  .  ❞    His  state  of  mentality  or  the  food  .  Both  were  the  same  .

A  moment  passes  ,  there  was  always  so  much  &&  yet  so  little  on  his  tongue  -  what  could  he  say  ?  Anything  ,  he  supposed  he  was  in  the  asylum  ,  he  was  here  on  account  of  his  own  insanity  .

❝  𝚈𝚘𝚞  𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠  ,  𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛  𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜  𝚊𝚛𝚎  𝚊𝚕𝚕  𝙸  𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛  𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔  𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍  𝚝𝚘  𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎  .  𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎  𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚋𝚒𝚝  𝚘𝚏  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎  𝚒𝚗  𝚊𝚗  𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜  𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍  .  -  𝙸  𝚊𝚜𝚔  𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏  𝚠𝚑𝚢  ?  &&  𝙸  𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛  ;  𝚠𝚑𝚢  ?  𝚆𝚑𝚢  𝚍𝚘  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕  𝚍𝚘  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜  ?  𝙸𝚜  𝚒𝚝  𝚊  𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎  𝚘𝚏  𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚢  ,  𝚘𝚛  𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚢  ...  𝚘𝚛  𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎  ?  𝙸  𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠  𝚠𝚎'𝚟𝚎  𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗  𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜  𝙸  𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝  -  𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛  𝚒𝚏  𝙷𝙴  𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚜  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚊𝚜  𝚊  𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍  𝚊𝚜  𝙸  𝚍𝚘  ,  𝚒𝚏  𝙷𝙴  𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜  𝚢𝚘𝚞  -  𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎  𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍  𝚘𝚏  𝚢𝚘𝚞  ,  𝚘𝚏  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢  ,  𝚘𝚏  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍  𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎.  𝙾𝚛  𝚒𝚏  𝚑𝚎'𝚜  𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚎  &&  𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚊𝚛  ,  𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎  𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢  -  𝙸   𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛  𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝  𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎  𝙸'𝚕𝚕  𝚜𝚎𝚎  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎  𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕  𝚋𝚎  𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎  𝚑𝚎  𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢  𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜  𝚖𝚎  𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎  𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗  .  𝙸  𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛  𝚑𝚒𝚖  ,  𝙸  𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕  𝚑𝚎'𝚜  𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎  𝚢𝚎𝚝  𝙸'𝚖  𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚑𝚒𝚖  𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔  𝚊𝚜  𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝  𝚊𝚜  𝙸  𝚌𝚊𝚗  ,  𝚑𝚎'𝚜  𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝚖𝚎  .𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚢  𝙳𝚎𝚗𝚝  .  ❞    Hand  braced  to  what  little  contact  there  is  between  them  . 

❝ 𝙸'𝚖  𝚊𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍  .  𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚎  .  𝙰𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝  𝙸'𝚕𝚕  𝚛𝚞𝚗  𝚘𝚞𝚝  𝚘𝚏  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎  ,  𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜  -  𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎  .  𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜  𝚊  𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎  𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎  𝚒𝚗  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜  𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍  ;  𝙸  𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝  𝚐𝚘𝚝  𝚊  𝚕𝚘𝚝  𝚘𝚏  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎  𝚝𝚘  𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗  𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑  .  𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎  𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜  𝚝𝚘  𝚋𝚎  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚖𝚎  𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎  .  𝙸  𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝  𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝  𝚝𝚘  𝚐𝚘  𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗  .  𝙱𝚞𝚝  𝙸  𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝  -  𝙶𝚘𝚍  ,  𝙸  𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝  - ❞