#and because she was mean to his statue when she was little

[misscherry-26]

For: @numberoneartisanwizard

I just want a story about John being a father please!!🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️like how is he going to handle his child if they had a tantrum, especially in public Or his child being naughty.

(Dividers made by me)

John with his son, Luke ~

"Luke Price!" John shouts, dragging the "u" more longer than anyone else.

John Price isn't the most sympathetic person when he goes to sleep. No. Sleep time for him is sacred. He can get very grumpy is just the slight inconvenience affects his schedule.

It's why this is the third time this week that his toothbrush isn't in the bathroom. And he knows the deal here.

"What?" Your seven year old casually says as he—again, casually— walks to his room, who happens to be next to John and your's.

"Here, now." John's tone is short, clear.

"Wassup?" His son says, hands in his— rocket space themed—pajamas pockets.

John's standing in the bathroom doorway of your room, shirtless, and absolutely done with the day—and it’s barely past 9 p.m. His plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips, his hair an unruly mess.

“Where is it?” He stares him down.

Luke blinks. “Where’s what?”

John’s jaw flexes. “Don’t.”

You’re curled up on the bed, half-asleep, book in hand. You look up the moment you hear that tone. That’s not a drill-sergeant shout. That’s the worn-thin, late-night dad voice that means someone’s just made one very poor choice.

John crossed his arms. “My toothbrush. Where is it.”

Luke hesitated, shifted his weight and glanced behind him like he was making sure an escape route was still viable.

John followed the glance. "Luke,” he said slowly, turning to face his son.

Luke opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. “Okay—I used it.”

"You used it?” John’s voice was level, but his eyebrow was climbing into dangerous territory.

Luke nodded, then mumbled, “On Max.”

John stared.

“He needed a good brushing!” Luke defended, his little hands flying. “Mum said dogs get plaque too!”

“Oh my god,” John muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

"Max’s teeth were all… yucky. And he licked me earlier. And you also said hygiene is critical to operations. So I fixed the situation." Your son explains.

You’re already wheezing with laughter, turning your face into the pillow as John freezes like a statue.

“You brushed the dog’s teeth. With my toothbrush.” he repeats.

Luke shrugs like he’s being perfectly reasonable. “He eats socks. And cheese. And he found a Babybel wrapper under the couch—”

John puts a hand to his chest. “That toothbrush was new. She still had the tag on her!”

You lose it, laughing so hard you have to sit up, tears in your eyes.

Luke tilts his head. “She?”

You smirk, leaning on your elbow. “Wait—so your toothbrush gets a name, but I don’t even get a proper pet name? We've been together for 10 years”

John squints. “What? I call you love.”

“That’s basic.”

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his beard. He handled wars, negotiations, attacks... He handled all that (still does), yet this feels worse than anything. Because there's no manual, no school—hell, don't even training—on how to handle a situation with a seven year old.

There was a beat of silence. Then John pointed to the hallway.

“Go. Bed. Now.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Luke scampered off mumbling something about It’s called sharing... And He liked the minty part...

John turned toward the bed, deadpan. “He used it. On the dog.”

You reached for his hand as he sat at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply like a soldier just back from war.

“You survived,” you said, teasing.

He grunted. “Barely.”

John with his daughter, Sarah ~ Years later...

“No,” John said flatly, holding the massive unicorn plush out of reach with his left hand while deciding the kind of toilet paper he needed. “This thing is bigger than you. We’re not bringing it home.”

“But I need it,” his daughter—of only six years old—declared, hands on her hips, chin tilted high.

“Need?” he echoed. “You said that about the flamingo with roller skates yesterday.”

“That was different.” She narrowed her eyes. "She begged me to take her home with me."

John blinked. “It’s a stuffed bird.”

She didn't budge.

“Put it back,” he said giving it back to her, trying to stay calm. Firm. Soldier-mode. “Final answer.”

He gave her The Look. The Dad Look. The one that had made grown men freeze on the field.

Sarah blinked.

And dropped to the floor.

Like. Dead weight. Plop.

“NoooOOOOOO!” she wailed, legs kicking wildly. “You never let me pick anything! I’m just a little girl in a world full of sadness!”

John stood frozen, clutching the pack of toilet paper he’d been seaching for. The words slowly processed in his brain.

Did she just say—a world full of sadness?

People walked by, offering him the kind of glances usually reserved for emergency situations—some sympathetic, some mildly amused, some very clearly relieved it wasn’t their kid.

Further down the aisle, a young store employee in a neon vest pretended to tidy a shelf but was absolutely watching the spectacle unfold.

John gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling for strength.

“Get up,” John said through gritted teeth.

“NO.”

“You are not doing this here.”

“I am doing this here! I LIVE HERE NOW.”

He crouched, leaned close. “If you don’t get up right now, you are grounded.”

Her eyes narrowed, teary but calculating. “Fine. Then you don’t get hugs anymore.”

John stared at her, stunned. “You’re—threatening me?”

“I’m emotionally negotiating!” she shrieked.

John groaned and stood up, running a hand down his face. “I’ve led teams through enemy territory with less resistance than this.”

She flopped again for dramatic flair. “ I want the Unicorn!

"You have a dozen of stuffed animals!" he barked without thinking, completely unraveling.

A pause.

More silence.

John took a deep breath. “Right. That’s it. Let’s go. No unicorn, no toilet paper, no nothing. We are going home.”

His daughter screamed in protest—an opera of despair—and grabbed the nearest shelf in protest like a protester chaining herself to a tree.

“No! Daddy, NO!"

John carried her like a sack of potatoes, screaming into his ear.

She finally quieted once they got to the car.

Sniffling, arms crossed, cheeks red and blotchy.

John sat in the front seat, eyes blank, hands on the wheel.

“Deep breaths... Deep breaths." he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed.

You: Everything good?

He stared at the message for a long moment.

Then replied:

John: She staged a coup over a stuffed unicorn. I lost. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

He looked in the mirror at her in the back seat—now quietly singing to herself like nothing ever happened.

She met his eyes.

Smiled sweetly.

“Daddy?” she said, innocent as sunshine.

“What?” he said flatly.

“I think you should take a nap when we get home,” she said matter-of-factly, kicking her little feet in the back seat. “You look like your head’s about to explode.”

John blinked, staring at the dashboard like it might give him the answers.

John exhaled. Slowly.

How did one go from clearing buildings with breachers to losing an argument to a six-year-old in light-up sneakers? Well, more like a manipulative, scheming, tiny sorceress with pigtails—and the emotional range of a Shakespearean villain— six years old.

He rubbed his face. He wasn’t even mad anymore.

He was… impressed. Horrified, but impressed.

He finally turned the key. The engine rumbled to life beneath his hands.

“Can we get ice cream?”

He blinked, head turning slightly.

“I was very brave,” she added, completely serious.

John didn’t answer. Just stared at the road ahead, trying to remember who he was before this moment.

[arkaiveofurown]

Hii! How are you

So I'm new here, idk if you take requests, but if you do, could you please write something about katakuri? Like big mom arranges Katakuri's secret lover's marriage with oven or cracker. But katakuri speaks up (for the first time) against his mom.

Braver Than Silence

Pairing: Charlotte Katakuri x Reader

He was raised to hide everything soft and vulnerable—his mouth, his thoughts, his love. But in your light, Katakuri found something he never thought he deserved: freedom. And when Big Mom threatens to take you away, he learns that some truths must be spoken, even if it means defiance.

Word Count: ~2,900 words

tag: fluff, secret relationship, family conflict

my masterlist here ♡

——

a/n: this is such a nice request——thank you so much! it’s my first time writing about katakuri and i really hope i did him justice (⸝⸝╸-╺⸝⸝)

——

Katakuri doesn’t speak much.

He watches. He calculates. He acts only when necessary.

But you know more.

You know how his eyes soften when you smile. How his shoulders relax when you brush his hand. How his scarf sometimes slips when you’re alone and he doesn’t rush to pull it back.

He doesn’t say, I love you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because when you sit together on the cliffs just outside Totto Land’s borders, you rest your head against his shoulder, and he lets the silence hold the meaning.

“Do you think she’ll ever know?” you ask softly, referring to Big Mom.

Katakuri is still. “If she finds out, she’ll take you away.”

You nod.

And neither of you say what you both feel—because even in your secret, the danger is real.

Still, he brushes your pinkie with his, letting it curl around yours.

He’ll protect you.

Even if he never says it.

⸻

It happens at a banquet.

The room is filled with laughter and sweet, dripping wine. Crackers crunch under feet and the table overflows with frosting, pastries, and fresh meat.

You’re helping Smoothie with the seating arrangements when Big Mom’s voice cuts across the room:

“I’ve decided it’s time. You’ll marry into the family officially.”

You freeze.

“I’ve chosen Cracker,” she continues, smiling wide. “He’ll treat you well. You’ve been around long enough to be trusted. This is good for Totto Land.”

The room goes quiet—except for Cracker, who gives you a smug little grin.

You feel Katakuri’s stare before you even look.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course he doesn’t.

Of course he will always put the Charlotte Family first. He upholds their pride and status above all else. That’s how he was raised. That’s who he’s always been.

Of course it’s them over anyone else.

Even over you.

Even over himself.

⸻

You don’t cry—not until you’re alone.

When Katakuri finds you that night, he says nothing at first. He just closes the door behind him, the click of the lock soft, heavy.

You face away from him, staring at the cold mirror in your room.

“I can’t marry him,” you whisper. “I can’t even pretend to want it.”

He steps closer, and you feel the heat of his body behind yours.

“It’s not your fault,” he says quietly.

“It’s yours?” you snap. “For not saying anything? For always hiding me like I’m a shameful secret?”

The air thickens.

“If I told her, she’d hurt you,” he says. “You know she would.”

“So what?” Your voice breaks. “I’m just something you visit in the dark while your mother decides my future?”

He flinches—but doesn’t move.

“I love you,” you say finally, trembling. “But I won’t survive this if I’m treated like nothing.”

Silence.

Then, low:

“You’re not nothing,” he says.

You turn your face halfway toward him.

“Then why are you always quiet when it matters?”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then:

“I wasn’t afraid she’d say no.”

You look at him.

“I was afraid she’d say yes.”

He steps around you slowly, enough for you to see his eyes. Not just shadowed by his scarf, but guarded. Worn.

“I’m afraid of what she’d do if she knew.”

You stare at him.

“To her, love isn’t sacred. It’s… strategy,” he says, voice rough. “Everything personal is a tool. If she knew how much I loved you, you wouldn’t be safe. You wouldn’t be yours anymore. You’d stop being someone I chose—and become someone she controls.”

He looks away, jaw tight.

“She’d use you against me. Or worse—decide to ‘correct’ me by handing you to someone she could command more easily. Someone obedient. Someone like Cracker, just so she could show her dominance.”

You blink hard, something cold crawling down your spine.

“She wouldn’t be giving you a place in the family,” Katakuri says. “She’d be taking you from me.”

You stay quiet.

He lowers his voice even further. “That’s why I never said anything. Not because I’m ashamed. Not because I doubt you. But because the moment you’re exposed, you’re no longer mine. You’re Mama’s… ”

His eyes lift to meet yours again—something raw flickering in them now.

“I didn’t want to lose you to her.”

⸻

Katakuri doesn’t sleep that night.

He stands on the balcony, arms crossed, scarf pushed down. The moon reflects off his sharp features, jaw tight with thought.

Brûlée appears behind him.

“You’re thinking about her.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Brûlée sighs. “You always protected your siblings. Even when you hated them. But this—this is different.”

Katakuri doesn’t answer.

“Are you going to let her go?” she asks softly.

And his jaw clenches.

“No,” he says. “Not this time.”

⸻

It’s rare for Katakuri to speak in front of the family.

Even rarer to challenge Big Mom.

The room is full again—this time for a wedding announcement feast.

You’re standing beside Cracker, your face numb, hands clenched behind your dress. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but the cold weight of the moment makes it hard to breathe.

Katakuri enters late, his scarf half-lowered, his mouth visible.

Gasps echo as he speaks.

“She’s not marrying Cracker.”

Big Mom’s grin falters, eyes narrowing.

“What was that, Katakuri?”

“She’s not marrying anyone,” he repeats, his voice like steel. “She’s mine.”

The room goes dead silent.

Then chaos.

Cracker shouts. Smoothie drops her drink. Perospero starts laughing.

And Big Mom stands, her towering figure looming over the room.

“You went behind my back?” she roars.

“I protected her from you,” Katakuri replies, his voice calm but unwavering. “Because I knew what you’d do if you found out.”

Big Mom’s eyes flare with rage.

“And you thought I wouldn’t control you?” she spits, her voice dripping with venom.

Katakuri takes a step forward, his presence growing more intense. He stands taller now, his usual reserve slipping away for the first time in years.

“I’m not your soldier anymore,” he says, his tone full of finality.

The tension in the room is suffocating—everyone watches, breath held.

Big Mom’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You think you can just defy me? After everything I’ve done for you?”

“I’ve spent my life protecting this family, but this time… I won’t let you control her,” Katakuri says, his voice softer now, but no less fierce. He’s speaking from the heart. “I’m done letting you decide who belongs to who. She isn’t a pawn in your game.”

He pauses, his eyes now searching for yours, as if he draws strength from you.

“And she’s never been a pawn,” he continues, voice thick with emotion. “She’s the one who’s always accepted me—all of me. My flaws, my imperfections, the things I’m not proud of. She loves me for who I am. Not because of the family name, not because of what I represent, but because she sees me. For the first time in my life, someone sees me for who I am, and that is what I won’t let you take from me.”

You stand there, stunned by his words, feeling a warmth spread through your chest despite the storm that rages around you. But it’s the way he looks at you that holds your attention the most—the quiet, raw tenderness beneath all his resolve.

Big Mom’s face contorts with rage and disbelief. “This is the son I raised? A traitor who chooses his love over his family?”

Katakuri doesn’t flinch. “I choose her because she’s made me see something you never let me have—freedom. I choose her because I finally know what it means to be myself, not just the thing you made me into.”

Big Mom’s fists clench, shaking with fury. “You are my son. My right hand. You owe everything to this family. And you—”

Katakuri interrupts her, his voice finally cracking the surface of his usual calm. “I don’t owe everything to you. I owe my loyalty to the family, yes. But I owe my heart to her.”

The silence is deafening now.

Katakuri steps closer to you, his hand reaching out for yours. “Come here,” he says, his voice quieter now but full of an undeniable pull.

You move before you think, your feet carrying you to him instinctively. His hand takes yours, fingers firm and grounding, as though they’re the only solid thing in the room. His grip tells you everything—you’re not a secret. You’re not something to be hidden anymore. He’s done hiding.

And for the first time, you see fear in Big Mom’s eyes.

Because she’s losing control.

Of him.

⸻

You’re sitting beside him in his private quarters, the storm long passed.

He didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

You rest your head on his shoulder now, feeling the way his heartbeat finally begins to slow.

���Do you regret it?” you whisper.

“No.”

A pause.

“I should have told her long ago,” he murmurs. “But I was afraid.”

“You’re not afraid of anything.”

“I’m afraid of losing you.”

You tilt your face up to him.

“And you didn’t,” you whisper.

He pulls his scarf down completely.

And kisses you.

Not in secret. Not in shadow.

But in light.

Braver.

[yanderes-galore]

Can you do yandere Ancients Hero reaction when they figure out reader marry them only because of their status, power and wealth not because reader love them ? I crave for some angst.

I usually don't do this many characters so the HCs will be short... However, I feel certain CRK characters are a package deal.

Yandere! Ancient Heroes with Darling betraying them

(Small HCs - Excludes White Lily due to plot)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Self depreciation (Pure Vanilla), Delusional behavior, Angst, Kidnapping/Imprisonment, Worship yandere (Pure Vanilla), Denial, Possessive behavior, Isolation, Golden Cheese is your sugar mommy, Dubious/Forced relationship.

Pure Vanilla

Pure Vanilla attempts to be understanding of your betrayal.

It does break his heart into just about a million crumbs... However, Pure Vanilla seems like he'd just blame himself for your betrayal.

After all, if you used him... Then he must have done something wrong.

Pure Vanilla is probably the easiest one to manipulate.

He's so caught up in what feels like 'true love' that he doesn't notice you aren't genuine at first.

Ever kiss, every hug... it all felt like you loved him.

He's convinced you love him.

He values your input and consent, he dedicates himself to you fully.

Even the wedding is rather traditional, him kissing you by the altar as you become united.

At first, Pure Vanilla is deep in his fantasies.

He's convinced you're perfect, practically worshipping the ground you walk on despite being a king.

Although... Soon you show your true colors.

You become distant and only act affectionate to fool those around you.

Pure Vanilla quickly becomes... delusional.

Maybe you're just in a mood?

Maybe he's done something wrong?

He's unable to think that you're uninterested in him.

He's given you so much... yet he's so willing to give you everything just so you love him.

He's a submissive yandere, constantly buying you gifts and offering affection just for your attention.

He doesn't want to lose you.

In fact, he allows you to have anything you want as long as it means he won't be alone.

You want power and fame? Fine...

Just don't leave him... Please love him

He's not manipulative, you're the one manipulating you.

He'll be your submissive husband and toy if it means he doesn't feel alone.

While it hurts him that your love isn't exactly as he imagined...

Pure Vanilla will be compliant, willing to be your little pawn and be used in whatever way you wish...

All he asks for in return is for you to at least pretend to love him... or love him genuinely at some point.

Hollyberry

Hollyberry is delusional, just not believing you're using her.

Part of her probably knows better, telling her a sweet cookie like you was just using her.

However, she's always been a rather jolly soul.

She's a cookie who loves to party, who cherishes friendship and happiness above everything else.

She no doubt met you at one of her grand parties and fell for you.

You were such a sweet cookie for her... She couldn't help but want to smother you.

Hollyberry is an intense lover, alway dragging you for drinking and dancing.

You were simply putting up an act, knowing if you tolerate her behavior you can have access to her kingdom.

Hollyberry is overwhelming, giving you all sorts of courtship gifts.

She's affectionate and loud... Especially when she proposes.

She wants to wed you, to make you her sweet spouse!

You accept, after all, you're after power.

Afterwards you become apathetic to Hollyberry's many parties and affection.

She doesn't understand it, it probably doesn't occur to her that you're trying to use her.

She just assumes you're feeling insecure and tries to help you feel better through more parties and contests.

She's all sweet smiles, holding you close and claiming loudly that she adores you.

It isn't until you break her fantasy by snapping at her that you don't love her that she gets upset.

She doesn't want to believe that.

She tells you that you must just be... overwhelmed.

She'll try to give you your space... but she'll be back to love you!

Hollyberry is either oblivious or willingly ignoring the fact you're using her.

Who cares? She has you and she can love you all she wants now!

Sure, maybe you don't love her now...

Yet maybe she can change that with enough dedication to show you you're perfect together!

Dark Cacao

Dark Cacao is stern and no doubt forces you to be corrected.

He's a cookie focused on protecting his subjects and kingdom.

He has had his fair share of usurpers in his long life.

I imagine it takes a long time for him to get attached to you due to all of his experiences.

Unfortunately, you abuse such trust.

You whisper sweet words to him, giving him soft smiles that melt his cold heart.

The stoic ruler's facade cracks around you, making him go a bit soft as he speaks with you.

Dark Cacao thought he could trust you, he thought he could finally find someone to love after so many years.

You two would spend many long snows together, perhaps even sharing kisses in secret.

Soon enough Dark Cacao gives you what you want... He marries you to make you his.

All he really wants is to make you his, to protect you like he does his kingdom.

Things went well... the wedding was dark and small, yet it meant so much to him.

Yet... months later you snap his trust in half, like it doesn't matter.

As time goes on, you become colder to him, often trying to take over his duties.

It isn't long before you slip up and Dark Cacao realizes you're simply another usurper using his vulnerability against him.

While he'd normally have you executed... He can't.

Even after you betrayed him, he still married you because he loved you.

So... He takes a different approach.

He punishes you... forcing you to be isolated and only allows himself to see you.

He orders for you to be sealed in a private cell in the dungeons.

Guards often watch you unless Dark Cacao is there.

He didn't wish to imprison his love... He was hoping he could take a chance.

He was hoping he could find someone to love and support him.

However... If you're simply going to betray him...

He'll force you to crave him.

He'll isolate you, he'll be the only cookie you properly see.

If you don't love or need him like he does with you...

He'll just mold you into the way he wants you to be, just to have that happy ending he craves.

Golden Cheese

Golden Cheese may make things transactional between you if it means she still garners your attention.

After all, you both have a certain greed to you.

Sheesh... if you just wanted riches, you could've told her!

Golden Cheese is willing to smother her obsession in golden riches as long as you love her.

Essentially, with no other way to say it, Golden Cheese would just be a sugar mommy to you.

If you marry her, be a part of her kingdom, and pledge yourself to be hers as her most beloved treasure...

She'd practically give you anything in exchange for your worship.

At first when she's courting you she's already giving you all sorts of gold.

She pampers you in affection, sitting you in her lap as she peppers you in kisses.

It isn't surprising that she proposes to you, wanting your hand in marriage.

She does it out of greed, no doubt to keep you in her kingdom.

So, this is just two greedy people benefiting from each other.

When she notices you acting colder or prioritizing riches over her... She's both hurt and impressed.

Ah, no wonder she fell for you...

You're just as greedy as her.

She'll confront you, tell you she knows your whole plan... then give you a choice.

She could simply have you thrown into the dungeons until you learn to respect her and her kingdom... or...

She could make this so you both benefit.

You can have anything you want but her Soul Jam... in return, she just asks you to worship and love her.

You're both greedy cookies, yes?

Why not satiate both of your desires?

While she is originally hurt... Golden Cheese is quick to use your greed against you.

Sure... you can have fame and riches...

So long as you promise yourself to her and no one else, she'd practically give you the world.

[ikea09]

@messymoonmad I have the goods(sorry, ik I said I would be done by the end of February and I would have multiple drawings but uhh life) anyway hope you like it drops this and runs:

(No sound btw)

(Not part of the au)

Also beard telemachus

Also also I need to know what you thought of my storyboards for this +bald eurymachus.

And here are more details on my good suitors AU

First off, I played around with the ages cus I imagined more of a father-son /older brother-younger brother relationship between Antinous and telemachus(I do not ship sharpwolf) so I imagined antinous and the rest of the suitors come to the palace when Telemachus is around 15 and antinous is older by about 8 years (still young enough to not be conscripted into the army). So it starts in the cannon manner where the antinous and the suitors bully telemachus but what I noticed in most antinous bullying telemachus fics is that antinous often offers fake comfort and I always wondered what he would do if telemachus responded seriously. So that is exactly what happens here, telemachus runs away from the suitors' bulling when he runs into antinous who promptly begins making fun of his tears and mockingly putting a hand on his shoulder. What he doesn't realise is how desperate telemachus is for anyone to give him some type if affection In this moment so he just throws his arms around antinous and starts crying into his clothes. Antinous is shocked and ready to push him off when he has an epiphany. If he starts treating telemachus like a son, penelope will be much more likely to want to marry him so he starts comforting telemachus, wiping his tears, speaking softly, taking him to his room and holding him untill telemachus stops crying. Then he leaves and telemachus thinks. He wonders why he accepted comfort from a bully and why the bully gave him comfort in the first place. He realises it's just to get closer with his mother. He also realises antinous finds his approval to be worth gaining. He can use that, first to influence antinous's behaviour into being better if he can't make him leave and second,antinous is a much better fighter than his instructors and knows quite a bit more so if he can get antinous to train him, he will be better equipped to defend his mother from the other suitors. So he asks antinous to train him, antinous agrees and slowly over the course of a few months, their mutual friendliness becomes more genuine and less of a pretence. All the other suitors take antinous's example and become more neutral and even nice to telemachus. All of them have their own little thing they liked to do with him, eurymachus refuses to let him leave the castle if his hair and clothes are the tiniest bit messy and when Telemachus returns eurymachus is already got a bath with bubbles ready(idk what the other suitors' things could be) but shock, as antinous gets closer to telemachus, he actually becomes meaner and stricter because now he actually gives a damn about wheather or not the Prince can defend himself and reaching his full potential whereas before he was just being nice so telemachus would like him and didn't care if the prince actually improved but this is not doing good things for telemachus's self esteem. Penelope comes to talk to antinous about it and advises him to be a lot less mean during their lessons. Antinous thinks she's just being overprotective and doesn't plan on listening to her untill he hears telemachus crying behind a statue. He goes in to hug him and telemachus confesses how he doesn't feel like he's making any progress at all (antinous didn't tell him). Antinous resolves to be kinder after that. Antinous also meets argos who he is mildly terrified of (cus taphian pirate trauma)so he just stands smiling awkwardly and patting his head. He gets used to him eventually.(I have a lot more to this AU but this is already really long)

[mjrtaurus]

Making my way through the One Piece Heroines novel and so far Robin's chapter where she's traveling with the Revolutionary Army is my favorite! And it was set during Robin's journey to Sabaody, which means all kinds of stories like this could have happened over those two years she was with them!

Robin didn't used to like looking at the ocean at sunset because it reminded her of Ohara burning (cries)

Sabo hates being excluded from chores and regularly puts himself in the roster. In this story, he's the chef for this voyage because its a short trip that doesn't require a professional chef. He seems to be a decent cook, though he ends up botching a recipe with bitter mushrooms but nobody says anything because a) food is too precious to waste and b) they don't mind rubbery shrooms if Sabo was the one who made them.

Part of the Revolutionary Army's duties include preserving historical ruins, texts, and artifacts in conflict zones and transporting the relics to universities where they'll be safe (Teacher Dragon intensifies)

Koala is willing to study a stone tablet all night, analyzing symbols and comparing them to languages she's found in other texts simply because she wanted to understand what it was this person from centuries back wanted so badly to preserve on a stone tablet that was buried underground where it was sure to last. There's a direct parallel established between her and Robin who felt that same joyful sense of discovery and connection when she was learning to decipher inscriptions at Ohara.

Apparently Rome or some Roman equivalent exists in Blue Planet since the language system is divided into two categories : pictographs like the Caligraphic strokes in Wano and the letters of the Roman alphabet.

The tablet came from Eucaly, a city-state that had formed in between the friction of its two surrounding nations that maintained its independence for a while until it was absorbed into the World Government. Even though their script was different, their spoken language was unified with the common tongue, Kayogo, which meant Koala was able to use a phoneme grid called Soncrucian to translate the tablet. And what does it turn out to be?

A recipe for mushroom and egg soup.

A mushroom soup that they make the next morning which everyone loves and even Dragon, who was holed up in his chambers for the past few days, comes out for a bowl! 😭😭

I adore the insight we get in novelizations of visual media because this shit is GOOD.

Robin learning to overcome trauma induced avoidant behaviors? Amazing, excellent showing of character development from the inside.

Sabo having a pathological need to be helpful/useful? Delightful, he either needs therapy, or he has learned to recontextualize this need as a self-soothing behavior for restlessness through therapy.

The Revolutionary Army Indiana Jones-ing this shit on the regular? Beautiful, also in line with the Amaru being depicted in places of knowledge but that’s the tinfoil hat talking.

Koala being a little nerd oh my god I love her. Archeological romanticism is fucking awesome because how many recipes in the world have been rediscovered in this way?

Also One Piece Rome? Interesting. I wonder of if it was near Dressrosa, or had some entwined history with Dressrosa.

And finally…

If Dragon being batshit insane enough to build an entire army that’s putting a helluva lot more than a dent in the 800 year status quo within twenty or so years isn’t proof enough that he’s a Monkey D, being lured out of his den by the promise of yummy food definitely is. Give that man a bowl, paperwork don’t get done on an empty stomach!

[thollandsgirl2013]

Hello Q,how are you doing mate,I luv your Tom holland stories i was wondering if you could do one with mob tom where they were exploring places since reader feel absolute super bored fr all day,so he take her Out and have fun when they were returning she spot a small juice shop She request him kindly to get her smoothie and he's like a little shocked reader asked With little nervousness.Thanks to you

Hey! Thanks for the cute request. Hope you enjoy the fluff!

------------------®©®©®©®----------------

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞

Parings → Mob! Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings → Mild language, possessive behavior, suggestive implications (non-smutty), implied violence (off-screen), light hurt/comfort.

Summary → Bored Reader asks mob boss Tom for a smoothie; he’s shocked, soft, and obsessive—dangerously willing to give her anything.

You were bored.

Not like “Ugh, there’s nothing on Netflix” bored. You were existential crisis, I might die of dullness bored.

For the past three days, Tom had you on lockdown in the penthouse because of something “unstable” going on with one of the rival families. Something about “a rat,” “a message,” and “your safety being non-negotiable.”

Which all translated to: you don’t leave the damn apartment.

Even worse? He barely left his office either, always whispering into phones and looking like a Calvin Klein model with a hitman complex.

So you tried everything—dancing in the living room, baking cookies that turned into inedible bricks, annoying his guards, reorganizing your lingerie, and now… flopped dramatically on the soft couch like you were starring in your own drama.

“Tom,” you groaned, your voice dripping with tragic sorrow, “I’m dying.”

“Of what, princess?” He called lazily from the other room.

“Boredom. Terminal stage.”

He appeared a moment later, dressed in head-to-toe black—tight slacks, open collar, gun holstered under his jacket, and a gold ring gleaming on his pinky finger. Dangerous. Delicious. And definitely not amused.

“You’re so dramatic,” he smirked, walking over and brushing a kiss across your cheek. “You wanna do something?”

You blinked. “Wait… are you seriously offering freedom right now?”

Tom shrugged. “Nothing too far. I’ll drive. You’ll behave. Wear that little sundress I like.”

You grinned so hard your face hurt. “You are the best mob boss sugar daddy in the world.”

“Don’t call me that. Now go get ready.”

---

The afternoon was golden.

Tom took you out—his men in a second SUV trailing behind. You went to an antique bookstore, a tiny rooftop café, and even strolled through an empty art gallery where Tom kissed you in front of a marble statue and said something cheeky like “You’re prettier than any of these overpriced rocks.”

It was the first time in days you felt… free.

As the sun dipped low and you both headed back to the car, the roads started to clear of people. You passed little alleys and corner stalls—the real side of the city, not the glittering front Tom usually showed you.

And then you saw it.

A tiny juice shop. It wasn’t even a proper shop—more like a fancy shack with wood-panel counters and fruit stacked in gleaming steel buckets. The air smelled like oranges and watermelon, sugar-sweet and fresh. A striped green awning flapped overhead, two old fans spinning lazily behind the counter. Chalkboard menus hung crooked above the stall, scrawled in colorful handwriting: Strawberry Sunrise. Energy Booster. Melonberry Bliss.

A guy in a faded tee worked the blender with practiced ease, pouring pink smoothie into plastic cups like it was the most serious job in the world.

You froze.

God, that looked so good.

The craving hit like a truck. Something cold. Something fruity. Something real.

But this—this wasn’t Tom’s scene. Not even a little.

Still… you tugged his sleeve. “Tom?”

He was mid-step, distracted, eyes scanning the street.

“Hmm?”

Your fingers curled nervously around his wrist. “Can we… I mean—could we stop for a smoothie?”

You said it so softly. Almost like a secret.

Tom stopped walking.

His head turned, his brows furrowed just slightly.

“A what?”

You instantly felt heat crawl up your neck. Great. Stupid. He probably thought that little shack was filthy. You stepped back, suddenly embarrassed.

“Nothing. It’s stupid, sorry. Forget I—”

“Did you just ask…” he cut in, eyes narrowing as he stared at you. “…for a smoothie? From that place?”

Your heart dropped.

Shit. He was mad. He looked mad.

“I—I didn’t mean to upset you, I just saw it and thought—”

But instead of snapping, he just kept staring at you. Like you’d short-circuited his brain. His mouth twitched slightly, not in anger, but something like… disbelief.

“You never ask for things,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you again, this time a little softer. “You never ask for anything like that. Not with that voice.”

You looked away, chewing your bottom lip. “I didn’t want to seem… demanding.”

Tom reached out, lifting your chin with two fingers.

“Sweetheart, you’re allowed to want things. Even stupid little smoothies from questionable street vendors.”

You opened your mouth, but he was already snapping his fingers at one of his men.

“Jay. Get her one of whatever she wants.”

You flinched. “Wait! I didn’t mean—he doesn’t have to—”

“I’m not letting you walk up to that germ-ridden stand, are you insane?” He said flatly. “You’d touch something and I’d have to burn the building down.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Tom!”

But sure enough, poor Jay walked over to the confused vendor while Tom stood beside you like an overprotective watchdog, his arm around your waist, watching the transaction like it was a weapons deal.

Minutes later, Jay returned, placing a cold pineapple smoothie in your hands.

You beamed, sipping it with a little happy hum.

Tom just stared.

Like you’d just solved world peace.

Or maybe like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.

“What?” You asked, blushing.

He looked away and muttered under his breath. “Gonna need you to never make that sound again unless you want me to lose it in the backseat.”

Your knees almost gave out.

---

Back in the car, the mood had changed.

Tom had his arm slung casually over your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder, but his eyes were still on you. Not talking. Just… watching.

“You’re quiet,” you teased.

“You’re dangerous,” he shot back. “Walking around looking like that, asking me for things with that voice.”

“It was just a smoothie, Tom.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was you asking me for something sweet. Nervously. Softly. You never do that.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“I’d burn down the whole street if you ever asked me like that again.”

Your thighs clenched together.

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“I’m yours,” he replied simply. “Same thing.”

You stared down at your empty cup and giggled. “Guess I should ask for things more often.”

He chuckled darkly. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because next time you do it, I won’t be able to control myself.”

---

Later that night, you curled into his chest, safe and full of smoothie, while he ran a hand through your hair and muttered something about setting up a private juice bar just for you on the rooftop.

You laughed, kissed his jaw, and said, “You know, normal boyfriends just buy flowers.”

Tom just smirked.

“Yeah, well… normal boyfriends don’t carry guns, princess.”

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Ardence

Prologue

To whom it may concern:

The following is a report I have collated across approximately two months. For the sake of internal security, all names (including my own) have been changed. 

I hope you understand why it had to be done.

Part 1 — Amelie

[VIDEO LOG 1: Interview]

[A young woman, with dirty blonde hair and eyes like faded dollar bills, stares right into the camera. Her gaze is sharp, like the rest of her features. A second person, almost entirely out of the camera's view, sits on the other side of the table.]

Interviewer: Your name is Amelie Quentin, yes?

Subject: Yeah. What's it to you? 

Interviewer: We would just like to ask some questions. Call it a friendly interrogation, if you will, Miss Quen-

[Subject lunges forward, arm outstretched. A yelp is heard, and she withdraws her hand, nails dripping blood.]

Subject: Friendly interrogation is an oxymoron, Council bitch. And stop calling me that. My name is Amelie, you got that? Or Ames, if you wanna be all chummy.

Interviewer: …Understood. I will refrain from using that name again. In return, however, please do not call me a bitch. That is a very impolite term.

Subject: I'll do as I please. And I call you a bitch because you are the Council's bitch. Look at you: shock collar on your neck, all poodled up in your cute little suit. They despise you, you know that? How can you just roll over and accept it?

[There is silence.]

Subject: Guess I hit a nerve, eh?

[More silence.]

[A chair scrapes. A door closes. Two minutes pass, and the interviewer returns.]

Interviewer: …I am going to ignore that comment of yours. It is none of your business, Miss Amelie. I am the one asking the questions here, after all. Now, to start off: Where were you when the invasion occurred?

Subject: What's your name, Council bitch? I'm not gonna call you by it, but it'd be nice to know which of their bloody attack dogs were sicced on me. 

Interviewer: I am afraid that is confidential information, Miss Amelie. Now, answer the question.

Subject: Fine, fine! Don't get your panties all in a twist. If you've gotta know, I was on the other side. In Bim' territory, if you know what I mean.

[She grins. Her teeth are yellow and crooked.]

Interviewer: I see. And what were you doing there?

[Subject freezes up. Any semblance of amusement disappears.]

Subject: I think we both know what I was doing there, Council bitch. And I don't want to talk about it. 

Interviewer: I understand. It has been hard for you, has it not, Miss Amelie? 

[There is no sympathy in his voice.]

Interviewer: I will not push you any further. We have rooms set up for you. I shall call a servant to take you to them, and let you rest. Please— use the facilities as if they were your own.

[Subject does not respond.]

[End of tape.]

****

[TEXT LOG 1: Report]

Subject Details

Name: Amelie Quentin

Species: Human

Sex: Female

Age: 18

Height: 1.56 m

Weight: 40 kg

Birthdate: 27-10-2005

Occupation: Unemployed

Marital Status: Single

Nationality: British

Next of Kin: Unknown

Address: 78 Kitchener's Lane, Greensdale Children's Home

Subject Condition:

Subject displays psychological distress, physical injury, and self-harming tendencies. Most prominently, subject suffers from persistent nausea, expelling of pus from open wounds and frequent vomiting. 

Subject also has abrasions on wrists, likely from bindings, as well as a stab wound in the lower abdomen, which she claims is self-inflicted. The veracity of this claim is unknown.

WARNING: Patient is hostile and resistant towards treatment. Do not approach patient without security assistance.

****

[VIDEO LOG 2: Interview]

Subject: Hey, Council Bitch. Did you miss me?

Interviewer: Hello, Ms Amelie. Did you sleep well?

Subject: Well? Ha! That's one hell of a joke.  Check your security tapes if you're so curious. I know you freaks put cameras and tapes in my room.

Interviewer: It's for your own safety, Ms Amelie. Your behaviour has been… erratic, to say the least. We feared you would harm yourself.

Subject: So restrain me. I know you Councilmen are useless, but come on- I'm a sitting duck. Half dead. Shit outta luck. What the hell, drug me while you're at it, why don't you?

[Subject laughs. It is not a pleasant noise.]

Interviewer: Please, Ms Amelie. Understand that you are not a prisoner here. You have done a wonderful thing, and we wish to repay you. That is why we have prepared your rooms and fine clothing. Nonetheless, you attempted to assault-

Subject: One, a gilded cage doesn't make me any less of a prisoner. You of all people should know that. Two, I didn't assault anyone. They were trying to pry, Council bitch. When they gave me bandages and antiseptic cream, I patched myself up, didn't I? Same deal as you've got— don't touch me, don't insult me, and we'll be fine. And three? Go fuck yourself, and your masters to boot.

Interviewer: The Council is worried, Amelie. They- No, I am worried for your safety. Why do you refuse medical care?

Subject: I want to go home. That's all I want. Do you understand, Council-bitch? Just let me go home, and put all this behind you.

Interviewer: You know we cannot do that.

Subject: I know. So go on and ask me the question, then. You know you want to.

Interviewer: It is not that I want to, Amelie. They need to know. What, exactly, was the role you played in the events that led up to the failure of the Enemy's Invasion?

Subject: You'll never find out. The Bim' are all dead. Their mothership is detached. I'm all that's left. 

Interviewer: You do realise that we cannot release you until after you agree to tell us everything, right? 

Subject: So we're at a stalemate. I could do this all day, Council-bitch. What're you gonna do about it, hmm? Break out the chains?

Interviewer: Please, Ms Amelie. We are not your enemies. The Council is at a loss of what to do. We need your recount to understand how best to prevent future incidents.

Subject: Do I look like I give a fuck about the Council?

Interviewer: Then at least care about humanity, Ms Amelie. Millions could have suffered unthinkable fates, if it were not for your intervention. And millions more could still fall prey to the Enemy unless we take action to secure our people. The first step in doing that lies in understanding what you just did.

Subject: Again, I don't give a single shit about humanity. You think I did this for them? Don't be stupid. If you want the information so bad, force it out of me. 

[The Interviewer sighs. One may begin to suspect that is a common response to the Subject's behaviour.]

Interviewer: As I said, that is not happening. I do not know why you are so obsessed with having the information tortured out of you—

Subject: Because I know what your kind are. So you can drop the pretenses, and start with the torture. What's it gonna be? Drugs? Torture? Truth serums? Ooh, maybe you'll do it the old fashioned way and rip my nails off.

Interviewer: I see you remain uncooperative. Fine. If you will not believe our words, perhaps our actions shall convince you. What do you want for dinner?

Subject: Poison.

Interviewer: Your roommate said you often bought food from a local Italian restaurant. The chef there claimed you liked the calzone. Shall we get you that for dinner?

Subject: Go to hell, Council Bitch.

Interviewer: Calzone it is. We will meet again soon, Ms Amelie. I shall also have the last three years worth of copies of Yellow Ranger delivered. I understand you are a fan of that series.

Subject: Like bloody fuck I am. That comic's for kids.

Interviewer: There is a complete collection of all the first editions of those comics up until the appearance of the Enemy. That suggests that you were rather invested in the story.

Subject: It was three years. A lot of things have changed since then, least of all myself.

Interviewer: I see. I will have them delivered all the same, okay?

Subject: Whatever, twat.

[End of tape.]

***

[VIDEO LOG 3: CCTV footage.]

It is a comfortable room, one of the penthouse suites of the Ritz-Carlton repurposed to house the most important guest humanity has had in perhaps all time. The decorations there are done up to resemble a certain teenage girl's bedroom back in a certain children's home, all band posters on the walls and black bed sheets.

Said certain girl paces her room, ignoring the cold calzone sitting on her dining table. There is a stack of comics, more than fifty of them, piled into a corner. The girl's lips are twitching, murmuring. It's too soft to hear what she's saying but there is a nearly obsessive repetition to the movements.

Two steps up, stare at the comics. Two steps down, stare at the bed. Two steps up, stare at the comics. Two steps down, stare at the bed. Two steps up, stare at the comics. Two steps down, stare at the—

And suddenly she's screaming, less of a battle cry and more of that raw, throat-rending sound a deer in a trap makes just before it gnaws off its leg to escape. 

She rushes forth, not to the bed, but to the window. Her forehead makes contact with the glass, and it cracks. 

Her knuckles are white against the windowsill, and she's silent once more. Again, she slams her head into the glass, and it cracks some more. By then, her forehead is bleeding.

She does it one more time, and the glass shatters, slicing up the skin of her face like a thousand ugly papercuts. Still, she's not satisfied. Her feet bring her to the plate of food, and she throws it at the door, taking a grim pleasure in the way the shards of plate cut into her calzone and make it bleed.

Her lips are spread in a twitching grin, eyes wild, all but foaming at the mouth. She opens her mouth to scream again, then thinks better of it, cackling madly instead. The girl stumbles to the door, picking up the biggest shard of porcelain she can find. Her diced up fingers press it to her wrist, cutting herself as deep as she could.

Two strokes in, the door bursts open, and Council security appears. The girl takes one look at them and turns, making a mad dash for the window.

The fastest of the security men grabs her hair and yanks her back. Cornered, the girl goes right for his face with her glass shard, a flurry of teeth and nails and makeshift blade. He stumbles back, startled, though his bulletproof vest and helmet protect him from any real harm. 

She puts up a good fight, the girl does, but they are strong and they are many, and she is only a scared little girl, so in the final steps of a dance she knows all too well, she is overpowered and helpless. Their hands are on her, rough, uncaring, gripping her until her stitches rip and her skin bruises. A needle full of sedatives— drugs, always drugs— slams into her arm painfully, and though she struggles as hard as she can, it is futile, as always.

The girl drops like a stone, unconscious.

[End of tape.]

***

[VIDEO LOG 4: Interview]

[Subject is all but covered in gauze, bloodied scratches poking out from under medical tape and bandaids. She watches a remarkably high-quality video of her in a hotel room. When the video is over, she laughs a shadow of her cackle the previous night.]

Interviewer: Care to explain what that little outburst was?

[Subject's face is covered in band-aids, and her eyes retain that mad cornered-animal gleam. She's smiling, though there's no joy in the expression.]

Subject: I think you know, Council-bitch. Just tell your Council to put me down at this point. I'm not gonna play the nice obedient pet for them, like you are, and I'll kill myself before I let you turn me into a doll again.

Interviewer: That's not what anyone wants, Ameli-

[Subject lunges forward, revealing bandaged hands. Her nails are too short and dull to do damage anymore.]

Subject: Don't call me that. Don't pretend we're buddies, that your people even see me as a person. Don't you fucking dare. I'll kill you. If it takes me a thousand years of torment, I'll crawl my way out of hell and rip your throat open myself. 

Interviewer: I see. What would you prefer to be called, then?

Subject: Call me whatever it is you and your Council use in private. Subject. Specimen. Doll. Who cares? Just be honest about it.

Interviewer: I'm afraid I can't refer to you as any of those. 

Subject: Go fuck yourself.

Interviewer: I am going to be honest with you: You need help. Though the Council does not know what exactly you experienced, what happened to you was undoubtedly traumatic, and I suspect it is manifesting in the form of these destructive behaviours.

Subject: So you wanna put me in the looney bin? Lock me in a padded cell and hook a tube up my nose so I can't starve myself? Bring back the good old ten point hold to keep me down while some arrogant old fuck who calls himself Doctor rambles about my daddy issues?

Interviewer: No, that is not what we mean at all. Look, Amel- Look. I know it is hard to believe, but nobody is out to get you. You are safe now, finally. It is all over. But it is also clear you need to heal, and you need more than just yourself for that. Let us help you, please.

Subject: Ha! What kind of fool do you take me for? Don't pretend you want to help me, bitch. Even if you did, I'm not going to let you.

Subject: Do you think I don't know I'm broken, hmm? Look at me! I'm mutilated. I've been taken apart and put together a thousand times. I'm barely a person anymore. 

Subject: You're not gonna like my version of these events. You're really not gonna like my escape plan. Because I didn't even want to escape. I just wanted to fucking hurt them. I wanted them to bleed, and to bleed with them. 

[Subject rises out of her chair, gripping the table, and laughter bubbles out of her.]

Subject: They kept me in a cage, just like yours. Honestly, the cold bars of my cot made more sense than that fucked up fascimile of my room over in the penthouse. 

Subject: Actually, you know what? Fuck you. That wasn't my home either. My home, the one I lived in when I was thirteen, was nasty and grimy and had two parents who were busy sticking fucking dirty needles up their arms to get high off their nuts! I'd gladly go back there and see the two of them one more time. I miss them.

[Subject giggles.]

Subject: I was cracked even before the Bims found me. They just found the gaps in me and shattered me real good. I wanted to shatter them back. So let me tell you what you gotta do to save the world the way I did, bitch. 

[The interviewer stays silent. This was what he wanted all along, after all.]

Subject: One, you need a little girl who can't go home ever again. Two, you need just enough cleverness to bomb a ship. And three, you need to be willing to die to kill even one of those bastards. 

[Subject begins to shake as she speaks. Whether it is with rage or angst, one cannot tell.]

Subject: Happy now? Will you let me go home now? I don't want your medals or your drugs or your filthy fucking help, Council Bitch. I want to fall apart for one last time, in the comfort of my home.

Interviewer: ...You do not mean that, Amelie. You are just frightened and overwhelmed.

Subject: Yes, I do! You don't know what it's like, to wake up every day with your head throbbing and your arm aching, and to fight through the horrible haze to rip a little bit of your soul and stuff it into some god-forsaken corner of an alien mothership, just in time to put on a fake smile as they-

[Subject chokes on her own words, and begins to cry. Her shoulders slump, and she sits back down.]

Subject: Just kill me or let me go. That's all I want.

Interviewer: It does not have to be like that, you know. You are free from those monsters. You have escaped the Bim'nactius, a nigh-impossible feat.

Subject: Physically perhaps, but not in spiri- Wait.

Subject: What did you just say?

Interviewer: I said you are free from those monsters. You escaped.

[There is a strange lull to the interviewer's normally unaccented voice, and Subject clutches her head.]

Subject: I- that's, that's not right… I know what you said, you didn't say that.

[When the Subject regains her senses, her pupils are blown wide, and her eyes are unfocused.]

Subject: Fuck, what were we talking about? My head hurts. 

Interviewer: You are suffering from blood loss, Amelie. I was saying that you might benefit from therapy. I understand you were seeing a therapist before you were captured?

Subject: I- Yeah, I was. And I'm not going back and listening to that smug bitch rattle on some more. If I have to hear the phrase ‘self-compassion’ one more time, I'm going to snap and kill someone. 

Interviewer: Then, would you be open to seeing a different therapist? The Council has a great deal of resources at its disposal, you know.

Subject: No. Just no. What part of broken didn't you get? All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put me together again, you stupid man. I just want to be left alone.

Interviewer: Alright.

Subject: Huh?

Interviewer: I said alright. If you have nothing else to say to me, then I suppose this interview is over. Would you like another calzone today, or perhaps a lasagna?

Subject: That's it? No ‘court mandated therapy’? No ‘it’s for your own good’? Nothing at all?

Interviewer: You do not trust us. I do not see how forcing you to open up will lead to you trusting us. The Council may be unhappy, but I will deal with them.

Subject: Oh. Then… Lasagna, please. Their carbonara one. You can't get it anywhere else.

Interviewer: Very well. And, one last thing, Amelie?

[Immediately, the Subject braces, as though she expected it all along.]

Subject: What?

Interviewer: Do not hurt yourself like that again.

[Subject scoffs.]

Subject: Why the fuck do you care, bitch? It's not your body, and it's not like your precious Council cares about me, except to pry my secrets out of my mouth and parade me like a doll for ‘saving the world’. 

Interviewer: What happened was not your fault. 

Subject: Speak for yourself.

Interviewer: Do not punish yourself for what those—

[The interviewer pauses for a long moment, as though forcing the words through unwilling teeth.]

Interviewer: For what those monsters did! It is they who should be screaming like that, not you. It is they who should be covered in bruises and cuts. It is they who should regret every single moment they've lived until they hurt more than you have.

[His voice cracks, and it's the first display of emotion he's shown since they met.]

Interviewer: I can see the shadows they have cast over your soul, Amelie. Do not mistake it for cracks. Do not let them lay claim to your heart even after their deaths. Do not do them the honour of hurting yourself for them.

Subject: How nice of you to say, bitch. I'm not gonna make any promises I don't intend to keep, no matter how pretty your words are. 

Interviewer: I do not say it to convince you. I say it because it is true. The ones who hurt you— they are monsters, the whole lot of them. What they did went beyond experimentation, beyond just tactics. That was just plain evil.

Subject: And what would you know about evil?

Interviewer: I know more than you suspect, Ms Amelie. More than you can even guess at.

[End of tape.]

***

[VIDEO LOG 5: Interview]

[The interrogation room holds two trays of food today. It's a wholesome breakfast, french toast drizzled with maple syrup, fruits piled high alongside whipped cream, and a steaming cup of tea.]

Interviewer: Amelie. I hope you do not mind our sharing breakfast together, do you?

[Subject has deep rings under her eyes, and does not appear to be fully awake.]

Subject: Oh my god, why the fuck are you so chipper? What is this new torture you crazy bastards have invented for me?

Interviewer: It is called ‘human interaction time’, and it is a part of the compromise the Council and I reached so that you may temporarily avoid therapy.

Subject: You're kidding.

Interviewer: No. Now, sugar or milk in your tea?

Subject: Two spoons of sugar, no milk. Nice toast, by the way. Did you pick it, or did your precious Council choose it for us?

Interviewer: They consulted your consumption habits, as well as your nutritional needs, and came to the conclusion that this would be the most appropriate breakfast to serve.

Subject: Fucking hell, of course they did. I bet those bastards took the opportunity to stock up on all their precious data while I was out. Tell me, bitch: How big's the team? How many nosy fucking doctors and nutritionists and spies are on my case? Just how much have the Council invested on me? 

Interviewer: I cannot say. Not because I do not wish to tell you, Amelie. I genuinely do not know. Believe it or not, in many ways I am in much a similar position as you.

[That admission takes the Subject aback. Her eyes widen, and she cocks her head. It is a curious expression on her, one that seems to fit uncomfortably on her face, like it has forgotten how to wonder.]

Subject: Really?

[Then she smiles.]

Subject: Oh, you're talking about that.

Interviewer: Oh?

Subject: Your collar. Think I'd forgotten about it, had you? The only people I've seen wearing that are bad guys. I'll bet you're one of those genius criminals, aren't you? Useful for the Council, but kept under lock and key otherwise. Just like me.

[There's something genuine in her smile this time.]

Subject: Less like a bitch and more like an attack dog, aren't you? A nasty little drug sniffer terrier out to gnaw the bloody secrets from my heart. I suppose I understand, Cou-bi. Maybe I even empathise. 

Interviewer: Cou-bi?

Subject: Yeah, Cou-bi. Short for Council Bitch. It's a pet name, see? Because you and I aren't so different after all. But don't think I'm going to spill everything just because we're in the same boat. Everything we say here is being recorded, after all.

Interviewer: I thank you for the name. And do not worry, I did not tell you this in an attempt to win you over. I do believe we are past that. Remember to eat your toast, it is going to get cold.

Subject: Then why bother chatting me up like this? Surely you've got better things to do than hang out with a fucked-up teenager.

Interviewer: As a matter of fact, I do not. It is my job to interact with you, and I intend to do my job.

Subject: Ah, so this is a new manipulation tactic. Horrify me with boring, dry conversation until I cave and start telling you about every little horror I experienced while in captivity? I'll give you points for creativity, at least.

Interviewer: Please, Amelie. I am suffering far more than you are. After all, it falls to me to carry the brunt of this conversation.

Subject: Oh, really? So what are we starting with- the weather? Local politics? The latest soap opera?

Interviewer: Let me check.

[The Interviewer pulls out a set of flashcards. From the perspective of the camera one can see that different topics of conversation are written on them. Conspicuously, ‘the weather’, and ‘television shows’ are included.]

Interviewer: …how about comics? Have you been reading the ones delivered to your room?

[Subject's face darkens.]

Subject: No, of course not. Didn't I tell you already? I don't want to read Yellow Ranger anymore! It's childish. It's fucking stupid. It— it just rings hollow, now. Everything does.

Interviewer: What do you mean?

Subject: You should know damn well what I mean. All that conflict, wrapped up so neatly. Yellow Ranger always saves the day. Yellow Ranger always rescues the innocents. Yellow Ranger always gets her happy ending. That's just not how reality works.

Interviewer: Many people find such fantasies comforting, but if it is not to your taste, perhaps we could find other activities for you to engage in. What would you like to do?

Subject: Be killed or go home.

Interviewer: Of course you would say that. We have been doing this song and dance for two weeks, Amelie. Are you not tired of it?

Subject: Don't be stupid, Cou-bi. I've pretended to be a drugged up little doll-slut for three years. Two weeks of being an unrepentant asshole is nothing. I could do this for centuries. Go have my nails ripped out and some truth serum shoved down my throat if you want a quick solution.

Interviewer: Amelie, why are you so insistent on not talking about what happened on the spaceship? You should know we will not judge you for what you did to survive.

Subject: Seriously, go fuck yourself. I don't want to talk about it. That's final. I don't want to think about it, I don't want to discuss it, and I certainly don't want these interviews aired for all the world to see. Don't think I don't know some fucking reporter won't get their hands on this and spill everything to the public in a heartbeat.

Interviewer: I… I cannot guarantee that will not happen. Much is out of my power, after all. But what if you talked about it with the camera off?

Subject: What if you just drugged me and forced it outta me? I don't trust you fucks to not have a hidden camera somewhere around here.

Interviewer: And we have reached another impasse. Very well— if it is the freedom to wander you wish for, then I shall do my best to have it granted.

[Subject scoffs.]

Subject: Yeah, right. Those old farts are never gonna grant that. Hey, Council fuckheads. If you're watching this— and I know you are— then how's about you go stick your dicks up your own asses, hmm? That or let me go to the mall. I wanna see how the fashion's changed in the past three years.

Interviewer: I shall see what I can do. Perhaps we could even arrange a meeting with your old friends, too?

Subject: No. Anything but that.

Interviewer: Why not?

Subject: Are you fucking stupid?

[She gestures to herself.]

Subject: I'm mutilated. Unchanged from three years ago. Everyone's moved on. I'm stuck like this, a doll dressed up in someone else's skin and someone else's clothes, stuck in someone else's bedroom. I don't want anyone from the life I lived to see me. They deserve better than to witness the ghost I've become.

Interviewer: I understand. In the meantime, however, would you like some more comic books? 

Subject: Nah. If your Council's as willing to spend money on me as I think they are, then a new game console wouldn't go amiss. PlayStation 5 should've come out like two years ago, right? 

Interviewer: …I will check. These game consoles do not cost millions of pounds, yes? The Council informed me that as long as you do not spend millions, any expenses are acceptable.

[Subject bursts into laughter.]

Subject: Of course not! Where've you been, stuck under a rock? They're like a hundred, max! That's like one night at the fancy shithole you've got me set up in. While you're at it, get me some games, too. Make it a variety. Dating sims, RPGs, visual novels, whatever new Harvest Moon's come out, I'm not picky.

Subject: And maybe- a two player game?

[For a moment, an almost guilty twinge of hope appears on the Subject's face. She squashes it with vicious ease, however.]

Subject: I just don't wanna get bored during our ‘human interaction’ sessions, after all. Wouldn't do to have you go crazy from spending too much time with me, after all.

Interviewer: I think I would like that very much, Miss Amelie. Now, eat up the rest of your food. You are underweight, and that must be fixed.

Subject: Yeah, yeah. Whatever. See you ‘round, Cou-bi.

[End of tape.]

***

[TEXT LOG 2: Email chain. Names have been censored for privacy.]

SUBJECT: FAILURE TO ACHIEVE PROJECT [CENSORED] GOALS WITHIN GIVEN TIMEFRAME 

Dear Dr [CENSORED],

It has come to my attention that our experiment is heading in an unexpected direction. Subject 001’s fondness for Subject 002 may result in some difficulties in accomplishing our objectives. 

To that end, I propose that we introduce new factors into their relationship, before their bond cements itself and prevents us from bringing the experiment to its natural conclusion. From previous reports, it seems the directors have acquiesced to far too many requests. My recommendation is that we immediately halt the provision of all non-essentials for both subjects. Let us see if that will push them towards a more favourable conclusion. 

Furthermore, I fear that 001’s refusal to admit the truth is inadvertently resulting in the slowdown of the project's progress. It appears to be mostly cooperative, but these ‘outbursts’ of its are giving me great cause for worry. I suspect that it is becoming wise to our true plan, and hence suggest that we force its hand before it becomes too unruly.

In other news, local and international representatives have been clamouring for the appearance of our planet's ‘saviours’. I strongly recommend we push forward [CENSORED], rather than either of our subjects. Neither of them are fit for public presentation, after all, and it would deal a massive hit to the Council's reputation if something were to occur. Better to let them have a polished lie than the ugly truth, would you not agree?

I do look forward to your reply.

Yours sincerely, 

Dr [CENSORED]

SUBJECT: RE: FAILURE TO ACHIEVE PROJECT [CENSORED] GOALS WITHIN GIVEN TIMEFRAME 

Dear Dr [CENSORED],

I agree with your conclusions, and will authorise all of your suggestions. However, I do worry about the physical statuses of the subjects. Neither of them show much willingness to eat, or much trust in any external parties. Should we put them under more stressful conditions, I fear that they may prematurely expire. That is not a good look for the Council.

I understand Dr [CENSORED] has suggested force-feeding them. Unfortunately, as an organisation we still have standards to uphold, and if nothing else we cannot subject Subject 002 to that. The press will have our heads if they find out we have so flagrantly disrespected the law.

My proposal is that, should your plan fail, we seperate the subjects for a while and put them under mental conditioning. Remember: we must endeavour to paint 002 as the unfortunate victim of 001’s aggression, so as to have an opportunity to put 001 down. And whatever we do, we must avoid unwanted scrutiny.

Stay strong, and know that this is all for the greater good.

Yours sincerely,

Dr [CENSORED]

SUBJECT: RE: RE: FAILURE TO ACHIEVE PROJECT [CENSORED] GOALS WITHIN GIVEN TIMEFRAME 

Understood. Let us begin the final phase of the project.

[End of email chain.]

***

[VIDEO LOG 6: Interview]

[Subject looks even more haggard than usual, though the bandages have come off. Her face is scabbed over, eyes rubbed red and lips cracking. When she speaks, one can see the blood on her gums.]

Subject: I can't believe I trusted you. That was your plan all along. To win me over and rip the carpet from under me?

Interviewer: What?

Subject: Please, don't play dumb. Look at me. You know what you did.

Interviewer: I- No, I do not. Truly. Amelie, you look awful. What happened?

[There is a long pause, and Subject stays completely still the entire while.]

Interviewer: Amelie? There's something I need to tell you. Something the Council instructed me to reveal, against my better judgement.

Subject: Shut up, dude. I'm thinking.

Subject: Your cheekbones are awfully prominent, you know.

Interviewer: I'm sorry, what?

Subject: You should be an awful lot better fed than you actually are. 

Interviewer: Amelie, I am not sure what you are talking about. As I was saying-

Subject: I said shut up! They're watching. They're always watching. 

[Subject gets up and crawls over the table.]

Interviewer: Amelie? You are rather close. Please take a few steps back.

[Subject laughs.]

Subject: I worked it out. I've worked it all out. Oh, and those bastards thought they were so smart, didn't they? But nobody gets the better of Amelie Quentin. I'll make them realise that.

Interviewer: Amelie, you're frightening me. Please distance yourself, or I will call security on you.

Subject: Don't bother. You're bait, Cou-bi. Bait to catch a fucked up little fish.

[Subject hops back over the table and starts dragging her chair over to the door. She wedges it under the handle.]

Subject: There. That should keep them for a while. Listen— I worked it out. They're trying to bait us.

Interviewer: What do you mean?

Subject: They put you in a fancy schmancy hotel suite too, didn't they? And then suddenly dropped you in a padded cell like a day after our last conversation?

Interviewer: I can neither confirm nor deny that.

Subject: So that's a yes, then. They're trying to get me to snap and attack you, see? The Council doesn't wanna reward a crazy bitch. They don't want everyone to know I saved the world. They want me locked up in some corner so they can present one of their own as the hero of the day!

Interviewer: Amelie, I think you are engaging a line of thought that is not particularly rooted in reality. Your change of rooms is likely a temporary-

Subject: Shut up shut up shutup! I've worked it out, see? They want me to believe this is your fault! They want me to get mad and attack you! This was all about pitting us against each other until I snapped and attacked you, and then they could declare me a threat to society and have me wrapped up in a straightjacket!

Interviewer: Amelie. I am going to need you to listen to this.

Subject: Oh my fucking god, don't you see? Why won't you listen?

Interviewer: I am one of the Enemy.

[This stops her right in her tracks.]

Subject: What in the fuck are you talking about? Do- don't start on that nonsense, Cou-bi. Don't even start.

[The Interviewer sighs.]

Interviewer: At the very beginning of our interactions, I was informed to keep this information private. For whatever reason, however, the Council changed their mind. So, there. I am a part of the Bim'naticus, the creatures who came to invade humanity.

Subject: No, you're not. You're my friend.

[That statement takes her by as much surprise as it does the Interviewer.]

Interviewer: I am sorry, Amelie. If it brings you any comfort, I defected from my people. I was the one who told them your plans to blow up the main hall when the banquet was in session. I was the reason the Council knew when to send in those ships and rescue you. I was half the reason your crazy plan succeeded.

Subject: You- you were one of the ones- who-

[She's hyperventilating, teeth bared in a pseudo-grin, eyes wide with horror.]

Interviewer: No, I was not one of them. I worked in Engineering. But I witnessed what happened. What they did was wrong. I could not stand by and watch it happen.

Subject: No. 

Interviewer: What do you mean, no? 

Subject: I mean no! You're lying. This is a hallucination. I'm dreaming. This isn't real and it isn't happening and it most certainly isn't true. 

Interviewer: Amelie, please-

Subject: No! No! You don't get to do this to me. You said it yourself- I'm free. I escaped. I'll never have to see another one of those things again. So you're not real. 

Interviewer: I understand you feel betrayed, but-

[Subject unjams the door, shifting her chair back to its old position. Bizarrely, she sits back down and plasters on a fake smile.]

Subject: Come on, Cou-bi. Let's play this game some more. Go on, ask me the question.

Interviewer: The question?

Subject: Yea. The question. You know, ‘where were you when the events of the Enemy's invasion occured’? Actually, no, let's start with ‘what, exactly, were the events that led to your bombing of the Enemy mothership’. That's a much better starting point.

Interviewer: Alright, Amelie. If it puts you at ease. What, exactly, were the events that led to your bombing of the Enemy mothership?

Subject: See? You wouldn't ask me that if you were one of the Enemy, right? Because you'd know! So you're not one of the Enemy. You're just a nasty old Council Bitch.

[Subject grins, almost manically.]

Subject: Well, it all started one fine afternoon, three years ago. I was gonna just pop by the dollar store, grab a drink or two, maybe a microwave meal. And then, next thing you know— I see the most gorgeous fuckin’ dude in the world.

[There is a strange light in the Subject's eyes. It is, perhaps, grieving. Or angry. Or harbouring an emotion that no sane man could name.]

Interviewer: One of the Enemy.

Subject: Yea. He was half naked, too. Wearing nothing but a ripped pair of jeans. Looked kinda lost, too.

Interviewer: He was bait. 

Subject: So, like any normal teenage girl, I went up to him and I said: ‘Hey gorgeous’. 

Interviewer: I just want to note, for the record, that that is not normal teenage girl behaviour.

Subject: And what would you know about teenage girls, Cou-bi? After I shot my shot, he actually accepted it. Offered to go tumble with me in a nice dark alleyway.

Interviewer: And you agreed?

Subject: Duh. Wouldn't have ended up in the Enemy's ship if I hadn't. So he led me to the nice dark alleyway, and he didn't bother with protection, and when I told him to stop, he didn't.

Subject: It hurt. I bit him. For some reason, my knife didn't work, no matter how many times I tried to stab him. Took me too long to realise he'd injected me with something. By then, it was too late. He hit me on the back and dragged me home with him.

[Silence.]

Interviewer: He raped you.

Subject: Not exactly. I did ask for it, in a way.

Interviewer: He raped you, then kidnapped you. Fucking hel-

[There is a buzzing, akin to a shock collar being activated, and a yelp. Gasping follows, pained, hollow noises like an animal in a trap.]

Subject: What the fuck?

Interviewer: Ugh- Pardon me. That was… a warning. Council wants to hear your unfiltered opinion, not one manipulated by my words. Tell it as you wish, Ms Amelie. I will avoid interrupting you again.

Subject: That's… 

[She shakes her head, and goes back to smiling.]

Subject: Anyways! So, he dragged me into the Bim' base, and kept me there for two and a half years. They used me as an experiment. And worse.

Interviewer: Worse?

Subject: You know what I mean. 

[She gestures to her stab wound.]

Subject: Not-so-artificial insemination. Repeatedly.

[Subject smiles as she says this, as though the euphemism might make it less real to her.]

Interviewer: To test your weaknesses, and your suitability as an incubator. 

Subject: Yeah. I don't know what they wanted with me. Why they all wore those pretty faces. Why they lusted after me, after all those poor women and men with me. Why they kept touching me, poking and probing and penetrating like worms burying beneath mud-

Interviewer: Slow down, Amelie. You said something about poor men and women with you. There were others?

Subject: …I think so. Or maybe it was a hallucination. Either way, they're dead now. I killed them all. 

[Subject kicks her legs and snickers, earlier upset abandoned.]

Subject: I think it took about two years to carry out the entire plan. First six months I was too badly drugged to even know what was going on. Then I spent a year trying to regain my strength, resist the drugs and the torture and the humiliation. It was despair that was the worst, though. That endless, all-consuming void. Every day, I had to get up and put all my efforts into something that was probably futile.

Subject: I wasn't even sure what I was gonna at first, until I heard about the banquet. That was my chance.

Interviewer: I thought the exact same thing.

Subject: Ha! Good joke, Cou-bi. You couldn't have, because you weren't on that ship. 

Subject: Now! As I was saying, from that day, I mustered every little bit of cleverness I had and set it to one task: blowing up the ship.

Subject: You know how they liked keeping me in the halls to parade me about? I mean, of course you don't. You're not one of the Bim. But they did. And you know how the Martian came out in 2015? I loved that film. My mom brought me to watch it, and I sat next to her while she fed me popcorn and watched a movie that cost her half a day's salary. She was a good mom. She didn't deserve to die.

[Subject shakes her head and smiles.]

Subject: That's not really the point, though. Point is that I remember how Vogel blew up the spaceship's airlock. And I knew where the oxygen supply was.

Interviewer: No, you did not. The ship plans are incredibly well hidden.

Subject: The air leak. The one I caused by making that statue topple over. Some engineer patched it up, but they did a horrible job of it.

Interviewer: Excuse me?! Everyone on the team was more than adequately trained, Ms Amelie, and I will not stand for this slander.

[He pauses.]

Interviewer: Not that it matters anymore. They are all dead, the innocents and the otherwise.

[Subject appears to not have heard him.]

Subject: As I was saying, I dumped all that hateful syrup they kept feeding me into the oxygen tank though the shitty patch-up they made, and I put two wires in for good measure, and then I bumbled my way, pretending to be taking a leak in a corner, and connected the wires to the furthest power socket I could find. 

Subject: And then- wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they were all dead. I should have been too.

Interviewer: But the Council showed up.

Subject: Yep. 

Interviewer: I knew those people. I loved them like brothers. And I saved the one who killed them.

[There's something soft, hurt, angry in his voice, but he forces it back down. When he speaks again, he is kind.]

Interviewer: Do not misunderstand me, Amelie. What happened to you was wrong. Do not think, for even a second, that you deserved it. You are a brave, good child, and I am so very, very proud of-

[Again, the buzzing. Subject's eyes go wide, and she reaches out to steady the interviewer.]

Subject: Fuck, you're bleeding.

[There's anger in her voice. Not just the usual stubborn defiance, but a deeper, more righteous fury.]

Subject: What the hell are the Council doing? I was talking, wasn't I? I was a good Subject, a nice docile little doll. They shouldn't be hurting you. This is all wrong. I was doing everything they wanted.

Interviewer: I think you are ignoring, or have misunderstood, one of the very foundations of this situation. And do not worry, I am not bleeding. That is not blood.

[His words both calm and disturb the Subject, who giggles.]

Subject: No I haven't. Why would you say something so silly? I understand what's going on perfectly. The Council is at a loss of what to do. They need my recount to understand how best to prevent future incidents, because I am the only person who witnessed the inner workings of the Bim spaceship. There was no defector, you hear me?!

Interviewer: Amelie… You know that isn't true. We both know that.

Subject: Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shutup! Gah! Do you never stop talking? I'm telling you the truth. You- You're a mind-reader for the Council, you hear me? And your manipulation is messing with my brain. That's what's happening here. So stop it!

Interviewer: I understand, Amelie. You brave, clever soul. I know it hurts. Do not worry. This is the last we shall see of each other. I do not wish to cause you any more distress. May you knit yourself together perfectly beneath the moon's grace.

Subject: …may the sun warm your bones and smooth your mask. Don't. Please, just tell me a comforting lie. Please, never speak their words again. Please, pretend you're just a regular human Council hire. I don't want to face the truth anymore. I'm not that strong. Put me under the drugs and set the flow to max. Kill me or let me go. 

Interviewer: I am afraid I cannot do that, Ms Amelie. You are going to live a grand life as a hero, and I will see to it that you never encounter another of my kind again. Live your life and go to therapy. Our last interview is over.

Subject: Wait. Just- Just tell me your name. I know what it means to your people. I'll take good care of it, Cou-bi.

[If the Interviewer does respond, it's too soft for the microphone to pick up.]

[End of tape.]

Part 2 (tbc)

[sevrinve]

shapeshifter lavellan and her dreadwolf husband

[recycledraccoon]

What happens next? What happens when The Bad Kids do what they do best and save the world? What happens when the RAGE is suddenly gone?

Would they ashamed of themselves? Of what they did? Of who they became?

.

.

You were a naive teenage freshman, and two teachers you trusted were manipulating you into a monster. You didn't notice, distracted by typical teenage problems and petty insecurities. You didn't fight it. You walked willingly down the easy path and became pawns in their grand plan.

You know how it started. This is how it ends.

(YOU HATE THEM THEY ARE IN YOUR WAY AND YOU ARE GOING TO KILL THEM AND PROVE YOURSELF BETTER FINALLY! THERE IS NO MORE WAITING YOU ARE CROSSING BLADES AND FLINGING SPELLS WITH UNRELENTING WRATH AND DEADLY INTENTIONS-)

They fight you. Their teamwork is flawless in a way your party's has never been. Their awareness of the battlefield and their control over it makes it all the more apparent that this battle is a raging wild thunderstorm trying to break apart a mountain standing tall and insurmountable. The mountain does not so much as bend, for all that you blast holes and carve deep into the rock. The mountain does not bend, nor bow, much less-

The storm will always break first.

It ends like this-

(WHY ISNT THIS WORKING WHY ARE THEY STILL FIGHTING THEY WONT DIE THEYWONTDIETHEYWONT-PAIN. IT HURTS! IT HURTS! NO!! NO NO NONONOPAINNOPAINNOPAINNOPAI-)

You die.

.

.

.

.

Dying like this is vengeance. It is retribution.

.

.

.

But it is not JUSTICE.

.

.

.

Let's try again.

You wake up.

(Doubt shepherds you back through the dark.

Justice and Conviction, like sunlight warm and golden, breaks over the horizon.

The rage implanted inside you dissolves into golden light to join the dawn.)

You are a Dragonborn, no longer little or weak by any means, but it still feels like nothing ever changed at all from that very first day. You feel very small, rubbing at a chest that is incredibly tender and sore.

Before your blurry eyes, are The Bad Kids. Battered, bruised, bloody. Standing tall, heroic, and undefeated.

The Cleric of Doubt and Paladin of Justice both have brought you back to breathing, and you watch in awe and horror as all of your friends are awake too.

Idly, you realise they also rub at their chests near immediately. You look down and find no red star-like gem of rage embedded there. Only ugly, fully healed scars like a jagged star.

(What have you done?)

Later, there will be questions and officials and repercussions. Justice for you will look like second chances, and the hard unending road of righting the wrongs you have done.

Death is the easy way out.

Redemption is hard.

For right now, the heroes before you are wearily celebrating, cracking jokes and rubbing blood off their faces. All the while your party is still gathering your bearings, and you have no idea where your glasses are.

Shame rolls in your gut and even as you and your friends sit together you can barely look at each other.

Finally, words are exchanged, a clearing of the board. It doesn't fix anything of what you've done, but you know without doubt if you ever try anything again they will not bring you back a second time. You settle in to wait for whatever authorities will be coming.

(Later, while you are in a cell waiting to find out what happens next, your party will be told that the friend you killed was brought back, the curse preventing her revival broken. You are not the only one in those cells to weep, loud and ugly and so so relieved.)

A pair of cracked glasses appear in front of you, held by a hand with bloody knuckles. You put them on, blink as you adjust to the cracked glass but vision once more clear. You see the bloody knuckles again, and with a jolt realize those are the hands that killed you. You died under the crunch of a furious fist you never anticipated.

You look up.

When you saw her for the first time, she was a cute, if sometimes awkward, elven girl in your Thursday classes. You kept seeing her, even as she became renowned and remarkable, even as you had been slowly getting angrier.

The first time she ever smiled at you, you had hated her already. She had been very pretty, and if you had been anything less than actively planning to kill her, you think her expert spell craft but awkward stumbling of words and red cheeks would have left you utterly enchanted in truth.

Later, before you fight and die, the look she gives you is cold and piercing, determined. The only red on her cheeks is blood that had splattered there.

You look up.

The Elven Oracle, the most powerful divination wizard you have ever met or will ever meet again, stands towering above you for all that you know logically she is at least a foot shorter than you.

Her blonde hair is a mess, clothes dirty and ripped and stained dark in some places. Her eyes flicker with the magic of the powerful Oracle she is, as she stares down at you.

(You wonder what she sees about you in those flickers.)

She frowns, lips pursed for a moment, but her hands clench and you think for moment she might punch you to death again. Or yell at you maybe, but is biting her tongue.

Instead, with one last look of piercingly cold eyes that could kill, she turns to join her friends, leaving you behind without hesitation or second thought, or even a last word.

(Good for her.)

You are a horrible coward. Selfish and capable of cruelty that makes your shame increase tenfold. She had smiled at you and chilled a drink in your hand. She defended you and called you cool to her friends that day in the cafeteria. You took advantage of that, of those tender early feelings, and crushed them under an angry, undeservingly bitter, heel.

You are a horrible selfish coward, and you don't think you've ever seen anyone more beautiful in your life than her, even as she walks away from you.

You can't ever imagine she will ever smile at you again now. What future will there ever be, where she sees you and her eyes aren't cold and scornful? Nothing more than a bitter memory to be forgotten and set aside for better things. How could she ever see anything you say or do as genuine ever again? You certainly wouldn't.

(The way your heart pounds in your chest, fast and heavy, feels like yet another sin on your sagging scaled shoulders. There is an intense moment of painful, shameful yearning that you swallow down, down, down and away. Watching her back as she walks away will be more than you ever deserve to have gotten in the first place. More than you think you will ever deserve again in whatever life you scrap together after this.)

Life, as ever, continues after that day like it always has and always will.

You go to prison for a time, as what you and your friends did as minors- manipulated or not- are legally responsible for in the aftermath is decided. You go to therapy, serve a very forgiving sentence, and when you go on parole your time is eaten up by both mandatory and voluntary community service.

You try to get better. To be better. You think you and your party are true friends now, bound together by bitter shame at what you've all done and gone through together.

(The first person who visits your party while in prison who isn't a member of any of your families, is Lucy Frostblade. Even as a Cleric of a Sorrowful God, you don't think you've ever seen her more sad than sitting across from all of you, warded glass between. There are no apologies that will ever be enough.

But Lucy has always, always been braver and stronger than any of you. The power of her conviction is something wondrous.

She always tried to be that fire to keep the cold and dark at bay, even as it risked burning her. By all the gods, you had burned her to ash, and yet here she is again. Alive and renewed. A campfire relit and flickering in the distance, promising safety and warmth.

Despite everything, Lucy sits across from all of you and promises to see you through this.)

Days go by. Never again are the seven of you known as The Rat Grinders, except in past tense when speaking the history of your sins. You don't go back to being High Five Heros, but you grow into something new together.

You still fight rage some days. It makes you feel sick and scared. You always are afraid of what is genuine emotion and what is lingering from the star-scar on your chest.

You still think about her sometimes.

(Selfishly you hope you are a distant memory to her, and she never thinks of you and your cruelty to her again. Even more selfishly, even more shamefully, there is a tiny part in your heart where you wish she doesn't forget you like you know you won't forget her. It's better to smother that part of your heart into deeper and deeper depths, hoping beyond hope that painful yearning doesn't overcome you and cause it to rise up again. She deserves a life without having to deal with people like you.)

The thing about The Bad Kids, is how ironic their name is given how genuinely and unabashedly good they are.

Lucy remains their friend, even as she helps the rest of them on their steady journey back from evil.

This means it's inevitable that the two once rival parties meet again. It's awkward at first, but The Bad Kids give them shit and rag on them as easily as they extend kindness. You will meet more people and realize that you are not the first villains in their lives they've forgiven.

You give the beautiful Elven Oracle as a sincere apology for the past as you can. She quirks an eyebrow at you, and as lovely a sight as it is, the shame is greater. You don't know if she believes you in the slightest. You don't want to find out.

You do your best to not bother her at all, on the occasions the two parties meet.

(Try as you might, you are powerless to stop your eyes from locking onto her the second she enters any room you are in. You always look away as quickly and casually as you can, frazzled heart pounding like a traitor. It's harder to not watch whenever she walks away, the memory of the day she walked away from you locked in your mind like crystal glass.)

You keep moving forward. Life goes on. You keep a pair of cracked spectacles in a box in your closet. On the bad days, when you hate yourself the most, you look and remember that you have been given kindness and a second chance by people who hated you. If they gave you a second chance, you feel it would be in poor taste to not extend yourself that same courtesy.

You and your friends become legally speaking, free souls. You get qualifications and find work that feels right for you. There are some things you and your friends never joke about again, but you find new things to fill in those gaps.

You move on. You're not sure if it's working sometimes, but you keep moving anyway. Relationships become easier, you try new things and meet more people. You have a whole life left to live. One day you find yourself capable and confident, which is a bit of a surprise. You try every day to be as sincere and honest as you can.

(Sometimes, you feel a powerful, almost familiar, gaze on you. You were a coward once. You never took on a quest you thought you couldn't beat, the fear of failure hanging above too great. It's been a long time, and you are a very different person now. You are still too much of a coward to ever turn around to find that gaze.)

One day, you agree to go do a job as a favor to a friend. Your field is specialized, and you enjoy working in a field that makes your brain work, writing out pages and pages of complicated maths and spell work. Either way, you have the qualifications and are confident you can get it done and settled far faster and better than anyone else your friend could have asked.

You go to the job, and are caught off guard and flustered when there happens to be a beautiful Elven woman also working on the project. She looks up at you with a powerful gaze, a cocked eyebrow and a smirk that feels a little like a challenge, a dare.

(You want to run away, hide, calm the heart that you find to be a selfish, shameful traitor even after all this time. It pounds in your chest hard enough your afraid it might just kill you.)

You walk in to get started, hands already reaching for a folder of information being handed to you from a college as you gets the run down, ready to work.

Minor thoughts on Oisin and how he seems primed to fuck over Adaine specifically. The flustered ping-pong balls that were a plan all along. The quoting her own words on the previous Elven Oracle back at her in regards to the storm.

I mean...imagine you're a skinny little dragonborn wizard, in a class with a cute elven girl. You don't talk to her, but one of your adventuring party members is pissing thinking that party is getting preferential treatment, so you KNOW about her. You watch from the corner of your eye or from a spot on the back of the class whenever she's actually there. Partway through the year she goes to jail, and when she comes back she and her adventuring party save the world from a dragon. (A dragon of whom your Grandmother had been fond. ((Also, coincidentally, the Vice Principal.))) One of them created a god.

(Your entire party is being groomed into rage by two of your teachers.)

You're in her class again. She is the Elven Oracle, already an accomplished adventurer. She and her friends are popular. She's very pretty. She does not know your name. She does not know who you are, just a skinny dragonborn a few seats back.

You go on your Sophomores Year Spring Break Adventure and don't bother to think about her party at all.

(You and your party are going to kill a god. Your teacher is going to ascend to godhood in their place and you and your party will have Made That Happen. You are angry and determined with each final blow you deal.)

You return from Spring Break angry and with a sore chest.

You find out the elven girl's party has resurrected a dead god and the live streamed the entire fight. They must think they're so much better than you and your party. You'll show them.

(Your friend refuses to change her faith. She cancels the paperwork. The rest of you kill her, confident she will make the right choice and join you again as a proper Champion for your new god. You help kill her. She does not get back up. You hide the body and none of you can say anything. You're so so angry.)

The world descended into darkness and you can do nothing. The sun finally breaks across the sky again right before Junior year. You and your party have made plans and are on the cusp of greatness. You've gained muscles to spare and ink on your scales in carefully selected runes, no longer just a skinny little dragonborn.

(You have a new cleric. He's not your friend. He's a haystack hick from that cult-church from Freshman year, and he's here because the god you're going to kill needs a Champion and he fits the bill, nothing more.)

The first day of school the plan starts to be put in motion. Immediately that party of kids is interfering, in your way. It rackles. You push on anyway, seething inside even as you act the part of being reasonable.

You go to a party at the houses of one of her friends. You've been practicing making spell runes on the inside of ping-pong balls. You're ready.

The pretty Elven girl in your class finally looks at you. She approaches you, gives you a drink, and chills it in your hand. She has to ask your name. You have shared certain wizarding classes with her since Freshman year, tho she was barely there. You have to tell her that.

You chat. She clearly gets flustered, calls you great, and flees back into the house. Your friend teases you for others to overhear. It's a convenient excuse to use your geometry and apply physics to miss every single shot and lay your trap. The drink isn't so perfectly chilled in your hand anymore.

(You talk to her. Play nice. She isn't smooth, but she smiled at you and maybe a part of you is vindictive in seeing her flustered. It's a shame she turned down the diamonds, as dragon madness would have been so poetic. You steal her summons to steal something from the house. She didn't know your name. Didn't remember you. You feel justified. Your anger burns cold like frostbite, like static in the air. You purposely don't wonder if that first miss was intentional or genuine.)

You see each other in class sometimes.

You plot and kill monsters the woods. You will win the battle. You will win the war.

Your parties have a standoff in the cafeteria. You play your part to diffuse the situation, your teacher has been harping on your friends to stop antagonizing the other party. You feel her mind touch yours gentle probing of intentions, her friends all around her as you lock eyes.

(The devil's honey your group gets from that bee girl all goes to your teacher. He is preparing himself to ascend to godhood, and he needs it for his prayers.)

She is searching for your intentions and feelings. You tell her only 'Sorry'. She believes you. You are not entirely sure why. She and her party will hopefully die during their Last Stand exam, and have no way to revive themselves in time, be trapped there until after elections.

Maybe she just wasn't perceptive enough to see the deception.

(You hate her and all her friends. You have had no devil's honey. She believes you. Briefly, you wonder if it was a lie at all.)

They catch you. They know. Your team goes to ground and waits out the remaining days 'til elections and the culmination of everything you've been working for.

It rains at the party, and you have no more masks. You are angry. She must never have been that good of an Oracle at all, and you take joy in mocking her with her own words from long ago.

She's nothing more than an elven girl in your class who was full of herself to remember your name.

(There is nothing left now to stop you from being as openly angry as you like.)

[earlgreylatte]

Variant Madness

You thought he was your Mark.

Omni Mark and Shiesty Mark 2V1 you.

Breathing in, you savour the fresh air of the mountain trail you find yourself on. You had visited years ago, but you decided to come again to enjoy the scenery. Maybe you could find a cool rock for Mark and Oliver, too.

You hope things are peaceful for them too, but even if there is another threat that needs to be taken care of, you’re sure Mark would be able to come find you easily enough.

You feel a bit pathetic that you already miss him, even though you’re going to see him in a couple of hours. You suddenly find yourself understanding Debbie’s usual amusement when she watched you two. You really acted like a lovesick puppy, sometimes.

Feeling your phone buzz from your pocket, you fumble for a second as you’re broken from your thoughts, rooting through your jacket to find it. Just as your fingers begin to pull it out a sudden rush of air hits you from behind, your jacket’s hood suddenly pushed over your head as you drop your phone onto the soil as dirt is kicked up into the air.

You whip around, to find…Mark? He was still wearing his black and blue suit, but his entire head was now covered, making him look a little intimidating, with his mouth and hair covered.

He stares at you wordlessly.

“Were you in that much of a rush to show me your new costume? I mean, you just got a new one from Art just a couple of months ago,” you speak up, rubbing the dirt out of your eyes, “Honestly, you could have caused a dirt storm or something…”

He breathes out your name.

You tilt your head, “Is something wrong? Did something happen? Are Debbie and Oliver okay—!?”

Your worrying is cut off when within an instant he has you crushed to his chest, arms locked around you as he buried his head against your neck.

“I just really missed you,” he whispers.

Looks like he’s a lovesick puppy, too.

You can’t hold back a dopey smile, “I missed you too.”

You jolt in his arms when you realize your phone is still vibrating; a redial, so possibly urgent.

“Mark, my phone—“

You’re interrupted again when he pivots you so your back hits a nearby tree, his mask rolled up enough to reveal his mouth which soon presses against yours.

Anything you wanted to say is forgotten as you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer. He groans into your mouth as his hands plant themselves to your waist as he places a knee in between your legs.

He moves from your lips to your neck, pressing adoring kisses against your pulse point before helping you shrug off your jacket, letting it to the ground as his hands slide under your shirt, gloved fingers brushing against your ribcage.

“Mark,” you breathe, heart swelling at the sweet intimacy he was more than willing to give you.

Your attention is broken again when you notice your phone is still ringing, your gaze sliding from the man nestled against you to the forest floor where your phone laid.

Your body stiffens.

The caller ID illuminating your phone was one you could recognize even from afar just from the amount of heart emojis you set for…your boyfriend.

The boyfriend that was currently with you.

Whose grip on you begins to tighten as your heart starts to hammer in your chest.

You shakily bring up your hands to hook your fingers beneath his mask, slowly pulling it up as he remains as still as a statue. The face is familiar, if not a little more worn, but the brown eyes you held so dear were now filled with a sadness deep enough to drown you.

This wasn’t your Mark.

Mark was definitely lucky he was attractive, you decide.

If he wasn’t, you definitely wouldn’t have tolerated the sheer annoyance his two variants were causing you.

“Were you a virgin or something until now? Because you fuck like a noob,” A Mark with a wild rag mask laughed as the one that was dressed like Omni Man 2.0 pounded into you, your back pressed against an alleyway wall, the area long deserted from the destruction the two men unleashed on the city.

“I doubt you even know what you’re talking about, with how you talk like a preteen boy,” The red and white Mark huffs, tone passive enough that you’d think he didn’t care about his copy’s words if not for his pace speeding up and his thrusts going deeper and deeper until your voice reaches a new octave.

The other Mark scoffs, “Well, not that she minds, already looks cockdrunk off your tiny dick. Hey, sweetheart, bet I can take you to heaven and back with one stroke.”

“I will kill you.” The Mark fucking into you, tightens his grip, turning to death stare the now laughing Invincible.

“Aww, is daddy mad? Scared she’s going to want to run away with me once I slip my dick in her?”

You can’t believe you have to orgasm while listening to their dumbass argument…

“Hey, if you’re going to hog her pussy, at least move her so I can put that mouth to use—“

Annoying people really shouldn’t be so hot.

The invincible tag is so good rn, I’m actually in tears…

Decided to do a 2in1 special because people really want me to make a part two of that other variant post…it will come…

Masterlist

[fromevertonow]

Suzanne Collins is one of the few contemporary writers who realizes the importance of names in her stories and the significance they bear. They add so many layers to the story, additional meanings that otherwise would not have existed.

The original trilogy:

Katniss: named after a plant of which you can eat the roots. Her father taught her where to find it and told her that “as long as you can find yourself, you’ll survive” (quote may be a little bit off, but it’s from one of the early chapters in THG). Additionally, the leaves are in the shape of an arrowhead, referencing her skills with the bow which her father also taught her how to use.

Peeta: literally bread lmao. But bread is one of the basic nutritions humans need, a little bit goes a long way to keep you alive. Peeta’s presence in Katniss’s life also kept her alive, literally and figuratively—the burned bread he threw her in the flashback and their complicated relationship.

Primrose: a plant with medicinal purposes, even more significant in light of her work as a medic in Mockingjay.

Gale: literally means “strong wind” and considering that in every encounter with Katniss he’s caused some reaction, he pulls her into directions she maybe initially doesn’t want to go in. Additionally, his name also represents his determination and steadfastness in his beliefs.

TBOSAS

Lucy Gray: named after William Wordsworth’s poem “Lucy Gray” which is about the titular character of the poem who got lost during a blizzard. She literally got lost in snow. Rachel Zegler sang this poem in two parts on the original soundtrack of the movie. When Snow asked who the girl in the song is, Lucy answers that she’s a mystery, just like her.

Snow: aside from the obvious snow references, I think his name is most significant in relation to Lucy and the poem. The only one who knows what caused her disappearance is Snow. He is the reason that Lucy is gone. But her traces in the snow are still visible. He will always remember her because the memory of Lucy has manifested itself in every part of his life.

Coriolanus: named after the Roman general (and also the titular character of Shakespeare’s play), Coriolanus wanted to attack Rome and become its ruler. He was scorned and celebrated by the people, only to be later exiled from the city by them. In TBOSAS, Coriolanus is the star pupil at the Capitol’s academy but sent into exile to the districts after he won the Games with Lucy through cheating.

Volumnia: Coriolanus mother who played a part in his ascent to power. In TBOSAS, she almost serves like a mentor to Coriolanus, teaching him how to think in terms of power.

(Edit) Sejanus: a roman soldier who was betrayed by the roman emperor Tiberius, just like the future president betrayed him.

(Edit) Plinth: got this info from here, but it was too good not to include here. A plinth is a base for a statue or vase to stand on. After Sejanus’s death, all of the Plinth fortune was given to Snow for being such a good to friend him. It was this money that skyrocketed the Snow family from poverty to filthy rich. The Plinth money was the foundation upon which Snow built his power.

There are so many other names that have historical (mostly Roman and Greek) connotations—Plutarch, Seneca, Cinna—but also regular names like Trinket and Beetee bear meanings that represent the character beautifully.

Names are important. For any lover of literature or (aspiring) writers, please look closely at them. They can shape your story into something unique.

Feel free to correct me if I’ve said something wrong. I know there are many names missing, but I can only add so many examples ✊🏻😔

[morthstaar]

Please, PLEASE Tulpar crew x a very shy/introverted reader who is like crushing on the crew really hard but way too shy and embarrassed to tell them but like the crew starts to slowly catch on to them and the way they act different around them. Also I don't mean the crew as a whole I mean the separate characters 😭🙏🏽

ask and u shall receive 😈

-------------------------------------------------------

OH GOD, YOU CAN TELL?

----------------------------

Captain Curly

-oh.. curly knew from the moment you laid eyes on him that you had the biggest crush on him.

-there is no slow realization.

-not at all oblivious to it.

-everytime your eyes would seemingly uncontrollably and totally unconsciously drift to him he would try to meet your gaze with a friendly, boyish smirk.

-does that happen? HELL NAH. you are much too shy to even look the captain in the eye.

-your little heart almost beats out of your chest at any interaction. little or big.

-"Hey, just the person I needed to see. I have a little favor to ask you."

-oh god. suddenly words seem hard to pronounce and the entirety of the english language is no where to be seen.

-after a few weeks, curly would definitely find this endearing.

-i feel like since curly is so outgoing, he would be very intrigued by someone who is the complete opposite.

-curly wouldn't act much different when it comes to you, due to maintaining professionalism as his role as captain.

-he may due small acts like making a cake simply to indulge in your sweet-tooth that he somehow knew about you.

-"oh, we just had extra packets of sugar. i just thought id bake something. you like cake right?"

-cheeky motherfucker.

Intern Daisuke

-dude is so so so oblivious even though you make it perfectly clear...

-you could be making like.. making out with the guy and he'd be like,

-"yoo, we are literally besties right?"

-deadass, he prolly had no idea you liked him for weeks.

-you could be laughing extra loud at his jokes then realize ur laughing too loud, look at him while he isn't looking at you, sneak an extra sweetener packet on his bed when he isn't around,,,,

-his ass still is clueless.

-it takes either curly or swansea's help to realize that you had a massive crush on him but were just to shy to say something.

-once he realizes, he is now all over you and following you around like a lost puppy. not nonchalant at ALL.

-literally tries to pick up the polle statue to show his 'guns' but the statue moves only an inch..

-now he is hyper aware of your actions and reactions, he finds your shyness just SO CUTE WTFFF.

-compliments you to see what you would do.

-"man, have you always been this hot or is it just the sweetener talking?"

-runs away.....

-would steal sweetener packets just for you two to share :)

Nurse Anya

-i feel like she notices how different you act around her, but she just thinks its because you two are good friends.

-she never assumes anything, just her friend being friendly.

-even though you sometimes make it unintentionally obvious..

-like this one time you recommend her a book from your quarters library and her fingers lightly grazed yours reaching for it.

-oh shit. her soft hands touched yours. oh god what does a normal person do in this situation??

-"thank you for the-oh... book."

-well, they don't smile awkwardly, sweat pouring down their face and leave in a hurry with the book still in their hand.

-anya isn't stupid or completely oblivious by any means. she definitely knew from this encounter of your little crush on her.

-she is quite flattered honestly. someone so similar to her truly likes her?

-when she fully processes this information, she is very subtle with how she shows her affection back.

-during check-ups, she sometimes gives you a treat from one of her desk drawers for being a good patient.

-other times she lets you join her late at night in the lounge to just look at the pretty night time screen.

-"this makes me miss home. it's so beautiful."

-you'd look over at her and her eyes are not on the screen, far from it actually.

-her eyes are on you.

-so this is what a heart attack feels like..

Mechanic Swansea

-unpopular hot-take, swansea is actually a dilf and he often has younger men/women confess their feelings to him.

-so because of that headcanon, swansea definitely knows how you feel from the first time y'all met.

-your eyes would subconsciously peek at his open shirt revealing his chest. suspiciously, whenever he would look back, you quickly turn away shyly...

-he immediately thinks he is way to old for this shit. he just got out of a divorce and prolly never wanted to try again. especially with someone younger.

-"what is with this damn younger generation with old people.."

-he tries to avoid you even though you two are co-workers and.. work together. on the same ship.

-as weeks go by, your shyness starts to grow on this grumpy man. he... he thinks it's endearing in a sense..

-he rather likes how reserved you are, and how are aren't as loudmouthed as daisuke.

-he won't act much different to you, but according to the rest of the crew it is obvious.

-swansea leaves little sticky notes reminding you to eat or sleep because lets be honest.. you are quite neglectful, and the sticky note quotes,,

-"..the crew doesn't need you passin' out while doin' your job. so eat or i will make you."

-swansea is also much more soft-spoken with you than anyone else.

-he has never raised his voice or spoken down on you. his usual brashness and snarky remarks are now toned down (but not entirely) around you.

-"hey. i didn't say you had to leave, did i? stop puttin' words in my damn mouth and sit."

Co-captain Jimmy

-jimmy prolly doesn't even acknowledge you at first.

-you could be looking at him, thinking he doesn't know that your eyes are skimming over his face and body.

-oh but jimmy.. he does know,,, but he never shows that he does.

-he likes the attention on him. your eyes looking him over when she doesn't even know that he is soaking it up.

-im sorry but he definitely gets off to the fact that you are shy and get flustered easily.

-he loves how malleable and submissive you are due to your shyness. and he uses it to his advantage.

-he shows his affection strongly after he knows your crush.like sometimes he would purposefully follow you places and when you turn around he'd be like..

-"do you mind? you're in my way.."

-i feel like he wouldn't know how to properly express his feelings so he would be kind of unnecessarily mean and cruel.

-and after he would be mean he would be nice and extra affectionate so you would still like him.

-like you could be working on something and is critical about your work.

-"are you serious? tsk.. move, since you clearly cannot perform a basic task."

-then later he's like..

-"im glad someone on this ship is helpful, like you."

-basically, he purposefully plays with your feelings to get you to confess bc i feel like he likes when women come to him.....

[rafesangelita]

♡ not only is rafe cameron your mortal enemy, but he’s also, unknowingly, your nsfw tumblr mutual??

warnings: mean!rafe, enemies to ???, sexting, dirty talk, sending and receiving of nudes, mentions of death, very light angst, mentions of social status, insults used as flirting loll, small time skip

a/n: this is sorta canon, only in the sense that ward is dead and rose is off somewhere with wheezie. i might just make this a mini series, let me know what you think <3 part two is out now!!

links: next | mini series masterlist

wc: 1.8k

rafe hated you.

maybe not all of you, because in his eyes, along with everyone else’s.. you were hot as shit. there was no denying that. your bitchy attitude not only amused rafe more than half the time, but it turned him on too. he’d watch you from a distance as you cleared the couch for you and your friends to sit on with a single glance, everyone making way for you like you were some kind of princess. which you clearly were, he just couldn’t understand why.

why did you turn him on so much? his best bet was because while everyone bent to his will, he knew that you’d never even spare him the time of day, and if you did it was because he had to work for every single ounce of your attention. no one else on this island would ever make him do that, no one on this island wouldn’t dare challenge him, but you? he’d take your bossiness and catty remarks any day.

the real question is; why did he hate you at the same time?

for starters; you had your family. your picture perfect mommy and daddy were plastered on every single newspaper in both the island and the mainland, the two of them getting praised for their line of successful businesses and work ambition. you were the only child, which was something rafe fantasized about being when his dad was still here. it irritated him that you had all of the attention and recognition that he never had. he felt even worse about it because unlike him, you didn’t even have to do anything in order to get praise and appreciation from your parents. you just got it for simply existing.

rafe on the other hand was nothing but a disappointment to ward when he went above and beyond just to get nothing, not even a single ‘i’m proud of you, son.’ before his dad up and died. rafe was already fueled by rage, but now? now that he had an entire island looking at down on him everywhere he went with false pity? he was out for blood. getting in meaningless fights, purposely doing stupid things that he knew he’d get hurt doing just to feel something.

he grew reckless and raised hell in every establishment and party he attended, figuring there was no use in keeping the family name squeaky clean with a good reputation when he technically didn’t have any family anymore. rose took wheezie and dipped as soon as rafe got tanneyhill and his hefty inheritance, and sarah decided to leave the island altogether and live her own life in god knows where.

everyone left him.

rafe was simply just a bystander now, an observer, and you had it all. the popularity, the socialite status, the family, the friends, the list could go on. it wasn’t long before he had to find some kind of outlet; something where he could express things and share thoughts to an audience that didn’t know him.. little did he know, you had also seeked out the same thing.

your distaste for rafe came about once you heard he was going around the island calling you a ‘spoiled little brat’ and a ‘prissy bitch’ whenever your name came up in conversations. obviously, what he said was true, but who was he to speak about you? he didn’t even know you. “call me a bitch to my face next time, ‘cameron. i hate pussies.” you had went up to him in the midst of him having a conversation with topper, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the way your hips swayed when you walked away, your mini dress paired with those heels of yours had him tonguing the inside of his cheek.

“did she just bitch you out, bro?” topper looked genuinely shocked as rafe laughed. “nah, she’s flirting.” from then on, you two would shamelessly stare at each other from across the room, keeping your eyes locked on one another even while you had people at your side who were more than interested in taking you home. rafe would pass by, muttering an insult just loud enough for you to hear and you’d laugh, dismissing him as if he was nothing but a fly on the wall.

you’d be lying if you said the so called ‘princess’ treatment didn’t get old after a while. rafe was the only person who seemingly didn’t care about your feelings. and you liked it. naturally, you craved something different, something that no one out here in the real world had the guts to do— degrade you and make you feel small. like you were nothing. turning to the only thing you could in order to keep your anonymity, you made a tumblr blog, easily racking up followers by posting your deepest and darkest desires and fantasies.

not even your best friends knew this side of you. you could be as depraved as you wanted to be on the app, and even if the whole point in you making your blog was to be anonymous, you still posted your own photos on there. of course your face wouldn’t be showing in any of them, but reading the comments as they flooded in filled the void you didn’t realize was there to begin with. a particular user, however, always left comments on your posts that had your thighs rubbing together.

it wasn’t long before you decided to check out his account, deciding to follow him back once you read through some of his posts. truthfully, you were the only girl he followed on the platform, he couldn’t help but feel like a lot of other accounts were ran by robots. you actually interacted with people on your blog, you had a personality. when he got the notification that you followed him back, he wasted no time in sending you a message.

[10:01 PM] countryclub: wsp

[10:15 PM] brattydiaries: ew.

[10:16 PM] countryclub: ???

[10:16 PM] countryclub: i just want to talk to you.

[10:25 PM] brattydiaries: yeah i can see that lol

[10:26 PM] brattydiaries: ‘wsp’ is so icky though. it kinda gives me high schooler vibes

‘high schooler vibes’ rafe snorted when he read your reply, internally cringing as he read back his previous message. you had a point.

[10:28 PM] countryclub: can i start over?

[10:30 PM] brattydiaries: can you?

[10:31 PM] countryclub: may i?

you smiled when he corrected himself.

[10:33 PM] brattydiaries: ugh i guess..

[10:38 PM] countryclub: 1 attachment

[10:38 PM] countryclub: hey i cum to your pictures all the time. here’s a picture of my cock and the mess you made me make.

usually you’d immediately block when an unsolicited dick pic found its way to your dm’s, but this one was unlike any others you’ve received.

your jaw was on the floor.

this wasn’t the ordinary ‘no-effort’ kind of picture. he wasn’t obnoxiously holding his length as if he was presenting it to you, instead he had his fist wrapped around the base, his aching tip standing on its own as his cum adorned his abs. his skin was also glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your chest blooming with pride as you realized just how much your blog riled him up. he was very well groomed, the underside of his cock slick with the aftermath of your most recent photos.

this was just different. you felt your bitchy resolve crumbling down with every second you stared at the details, the sight of the veins in his arms and hands had you pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, your brain going blank as you tried to come up with a response.

[10:50 PM] countryclub: you done being a bitch and acting like i’m not good enough to talk to you? or do i have to send you more pictures of what you do to me?

yeah. you were totally fucked.

from that point forward, you two sexted day and night, your phone basically living in your hands as you went about your everyday life. soon, all of your posts became about him, both you and rafe seemingly dancing circles around each other. while you two lived for pissing each other off and did everything to be a nuisance to one another in real life, you were actually, literally getting each other off behind the screen.

you were surprising him with photos throughout the day, his dirty talk making you fall asleep with a sticky mess between your thighs. it was only a matter of time before he started wanting to hear your voice, even going as far as asking for your number so you could call and actually talk to one another. of course, you were hesitant, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish to hear those filthy things he says in your messages in your ears instead.

so you agreed. you gave him your number and waited for him to call.. and nothing. for the first time in your life, you waited for a phone call from a man, and he never delivered. your ego was in shambles. even after you came up with excuses as to why he didn’t call, none of them made sense. the next day you woke up to no new messages, your heart clenching in your chest when you went to his profile and saw that he deleted all of his posts.

what the fuck?

deciding to stay off of the app for the time being, you hated how a few months of sexting made you think about him every chance you got.

you didn’t even know his name for crying out loud!

if your friends noticed something off about your attitude, they didn’t point it out. even rafe was more irritable, both of you getting in full on arguments if you two spent too much time together in a social setting. your comebacks would have him on the verge of dragging you out of the room by your hair, wishing so bad that he could just put you in your place. it wasn’t until you got home from another one of topper’s parties that your phone lit up with a message.

from him.

[1:00 AM] countryclub: hey

you scoffed. ‘hey’ that was all that he could say? after all of the time that passed, he could only spare you one fucking word? you were about to block him before you got another notification.

[1:07 AM] countryclub: i’m really sorry for ghosting you, alright? i just freaked out.

[1:09 AM] brattydiaries: you sent me a picture of your dick when we first messaged each other and you’re barely freaking out now? don’t you think we’re far past that point already?

[1:12 AM] countryclub: we definitely are, it’s just when you sent me your number, my heart dropped to my ass.

[1:12 AM] brattydiaries: you asked for it and i gave it to you. i’m confused rn.

[1:14 AM] countryclub: no it isn’t that

[1:15 AM] brattydiaries: then what the fuck is it?

[1:19 AM] countryclub: we have the same area code.

[slttygeto]

I'd love to see me from your pov — GOJO S.

synopsis: Gojo Satoru seems to struggle with the idea of love and doesn't quite know where to stand. Luckily for him, you're there to soothe his worries every time.

word count: 2,1k

content warning: a tiny bit of angst, but you know me and my love for this man.

note: hi hello there :)! it's October which means it's the 4th year anniversary since the release of ariana's album positions! I adore that album with all of my being, and what better way to show my love than to dedicate some of my favorite songs to my favorite anime men? enjoy reading!

Satoru has never known what love is. His parents’ marriage was an arranged one, his mother’s good looks and her status along with his father’s powerful technique is what brought them together. And nine months later, the wielder of the six eyes was born. Raised in an environment where his father was barely around, the only warmth he’s ever felt was his mother’s hand holding his smaller one as she walks him around the Gojo estate, showing off the boy whose birth altered the balance of the world. 

Then she was off to do her duties as Madame Gojo. 

Satoru remembers his childhood as being extremely dull. He was forbidden from social interactions, was told that they are useless unless the person was of any benefit to him or his powers—which at the time, six year old Satoru didn’t understand but he had no choice but to comply with his father’s words. 

Bright pair of blue eyes would then follow his father’s figure as he made his way towards the sliding paper door, but before he could leave, the tall man turned towards his wife whose eyes remained glued to her lap before announcing. 

“I’ll be off.” Whether that meant for hours, days or weeks, Satoru never knew. 

Logically, that led to the creation of his image on love and marriage. He avoided the two concepts like the plague. Love was always meant to find others before it could even glance his way, and Satoru was okay with that. 

He was okay with spending the rest of his time alone, maybe he would buy a house on the top of a hill and own a nice border collie dog. Perhaps, that dog would show him a little bit of loyalty and love because Satoru feeds it and takes it on walks, but when the sun goes down and the dog goes to sleep, it would be just Satoru and his thoughts. Dying alone sounded scary, but it was better than ending up like his parents.

“Are you okay?” The tall man feels a gentle squeeze on his large hand. Suddenly, he’s pulled back into the present. 

The smell of fresh roses and the cold breeze overwhelm his senses. He blinks and realizes that he must’ve taken off his blindfold somewhere—Satoru can’t remember where, or why he got so lost in his thoughts.

“Satoru?” That voice. That sweet, warm and honeyed voice, barely above a whisper as it calls out his name and he gets another whiff of something—perfume.

Your perfume.

You’re standing next to him, smaller frame and smaller hand squeezing his own and he remembers why he was pulled back into his childhood. 

You had squeezed his hand the same way his mother did. Except this time, you don’t pull away like she does. In fact, you haven't pulled away in years. 

When Suguru left, Satoru was trying to piece himself back together within the confines of his own place. Quiet, cold and unwelcoming. He despised the feeling, it made him feel like shit and Satoru was usually the type to ignore his feelings—so when they come crashing against him in strong waves, the strongest can’t duck down and avoid them, he can’t swim away and find refuge. He chooses to believe that he is his own refuge, even if he’s messy and selfish and quite literally just a jerk. The strongest was unable to save his own best friend from a fate that is so horrible, one that could’ve easily been avoided had he looked harder. 

Had he not been raised that way. 

“Satoru?” 

On a cold October night in 2007, you show up at Satoru’s apartment with food and homemade sweets. You’re sweaty, clearly having climbed up the stairs since you had no access to the elevator. He sees you, he cannot process the reason for your sudden visit until he sees your lip quiver and your eyes fill with tears.

“I’m sorry.” You say with so much emotion that the teenager can only try to stop himself from digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. 

Although he only realizes it years later, the only person who had shown Satoru that he was worth a bit of love was Suguru. He had been your classmate too, your friend. You’re grieving his absence too, but you choose to stay with Satoru that night. He doesn’t say much, you don’t press him about it. 

He doesn’t understand why. 

A couple of months pass, your visits become more regular. He buys you a mattress and even suggests you move in with him in the guest room of his apartment. And after much consideration, you agree and the two of you become roommates.

What had once been a cold, uncomfortable apartment slowly turns into a refuge for Satoru, a place he looks forward to coming back to after a long day of missions. Was it because of the smell of food that fills the hallway as he approaches the door, or the thought of finding you in there when he inserts the key? Satoru isn’t sure yet.

He’s still a bit confused as to why you want to be around him.

Months turn into years, your presence remains a constant in his and Megumi’s lives when he takes him in. You have your own room that you choose to share with Tsumiki and you treat the two children like your own. The strongest believes that your heart is as big as the oceans combined.

For someone whose youth was stolen away by the Jujutsu society, Satoru tries to make sure that his students don’t meet the same fate. So he takes on countless missions, protects students like they’re his own children and promises them a bright future. Even if it’s at the expense of his own. 

You hate that, and you make it clear to him the day he takes in Yuuta.

“That’s such bullshit.”

“Hey, watch it.”

“No, you listen to me!” This is the most emotion you’ve shown since that one night you came to visit him. Satoru looks up from his phone where he’s sitting, and is a bit taken aback when he sees your eyes fill up with tears. “Do you realize how dangerous it is to be going around and doing shit like that?” 

“What–saving them?”

“Ruining your future!” You raise your hands in the air. 

“I don’t have a future.” 

The room falls silent. Suddenly, you’re glad that Megumi and Tsumiki weren’t home. Your eyes meet his, and the white haired male watches as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There’s a thousand expressions on your face—betrayal? Hurt? Worry? He can’t decipher them.

He is overwhelmed. His six eyes are screaming at him that your cursed energy was elevating, your body temperature was rising and he can see that your chest is heaving. 

He still doesn’t realize what he had just said. 

To him, it was the truth. There was nothing morbid about his words. If he couldn’t see himself marrying or falling in love, then Satoru simply did not have a future. Those children do, and that’s what he should prioritize.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t–”

“Satoru–” you lose your breath as you utter his name, broken and weak. You gulp harshly, heart pounding loudly in your ears. “You can’t say that.”

It’s selfish, you’re aware of that, but it can’t be helped. You watch as the light of the man you had been clinging onto like a lifeline for years starts to dim, and you scramble to find the source of the problem. 

And while Satoru’s six eyes are screaming at him to walk away, his heart pins him to the ground of his living room. Overwhelmed and emotional, it reminds him of that one lonely night. He can’t tell you how he feels, he can’t pinpoint to you that it’s because of his parents that his heart refuses to let him accept the idea of love. He sees the waves coming, large and tall and ready to destroy him years later—as he scrambles to find refuge, his heart finally feels at ease.

Your arms wrap tightly around his middle, chin resting on his shoulder and your hands digging into his shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. You want to stop your chest from stuttering, but your quivering lip gives away your strong emotions. 

“I’ll stay.” 

Why would you stay? 

His arms feel heavy as he lifts them up and finally rests them on your warm body, pulling you so close to him you feel yourself suffocate. It doesn’t matter. Satoru hugs you so tightly that you hear your heart break. 

You don’t comment on the wet feeling on your shoulder, or the way his hands tremble as they grip the back of your shirt. You let him cling onto you as though you were the air he needed to breathe, the warmth he sought in the middle of the coldest nights. 

—

“Thank you.” 

“Hm?” You look to your side, a bit confused. The white haired man thinks you look very adorable when you’re clueless, trying to understand his words. 

“Thank you? What for?” Satoru isn’t one to get nervous, but your stare has him feeling a little hot. He hopes he isn’t blushing, it doesn’t suit his brand. 

“For saying yes.” This time, he is the one who squeezes your hand and you hold back a chuckle at how he avoids eye contact. You squeeze his hand back and lean your head against his shoulder.

“I would be crazy not to marry you.” 

“But you know… given my line of work, and Suguru—”

“Satoru,” you stop the man before he can carry on with his small ramble. You appreciate how vocal he is, it is one of the major changes to his personality ever since the two of you made it official. “I am a sorcerer as well. I understand.”

“You hate the missions I take.”

“I hate the way the higher ups view you, not the missions you take.”

Silence engulfs the two of you. 

You fidget with your hands, feeling as though you might’ve crossed a line your husband wasn’t ready to let you cross yet—

“And you?”

“Huh?”

“How do you view me?” He asks, voice low and small. He still doesn’t look at you, nor does he look anywhere really. Despite being 28 years old, Satoru feels the same way he felt at 6 years old. Vulnerable, worthless and in need of a reminder of what he brought to this world other than his powers–

“You’re handsome.” You break his chain of thoughts with a lot of ease, and he looks up at you with wide eyes. “A handsome, caring young man with a big,” a finger traces his heart over his shirt, “big heart. You have a child-like spirit, and a boy-ish smile that could make anyone fall for you very easily. I don’t want to focus too much on your looks, but they’re unfortunately a huge part of who you are,”

“You’re selfless.” You lean against the balcony railings, staring down at the city. “People take you for granted and either you don’t seem to notice, or you try not to.”

“And last, you’re too good for this world.” 

Your eyes sparkle as you describe every small detail about the man. You pour all of your emotions into your tiny monologue, so you fail to notice that Satoru had removed his hands off the railings. Until you feel something warm on your sides and something heavy on your shoulder. 

“Satoru?”

“I’m fine,” his broken voice would beg to differ, but you don’t push him. You rest your hands on top of his and let him pull you back against his chest in a warm, tight hug. 

He had always wanted to see himself through your eyes, filled with so much adoration and trust that it made his heart burst in his chest. He was riddled with confusion and something he couldn’t quite decipher anytime you had told him ‘of course it was you’ when he would do something nice, or ‘you’re not like that’ when you heard Nanami mumble something about Satoru’s playful behavior. 

You wish you could give him your eyes, take away some of that overwhelming feeling of being the wielder of the six eyes and allow him to rest—see himself as the selfless, kind-hearted man that he was to you. 

Since that was physically impossible, you’ll stick to loving him as though he held the universe between his palms.

You make loving him seem as easy as breathing, and the inner child living deep within him is forever grateful for that. 

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[stealingyourbones]

Danny, being a halfa, falls under the strange category of people who can converse with the dead and act in their names. Most mediums simply convey messages. It was rare for someone to be able to fulfill a ghost’s dying request and have that act tied to the ghost’s core.

Honestly it’s annoying.

He doesn’t get any alone time anymore for homework or hobbies. The dead are constantly pestering Danny to help with their desires - which, sure, it helps them move on which means they’re out of Danny’s hair, but come on!! Give a guy a break! Just because he doesn’t need as much sleep as a fully living person doesn’t mean he can go without entirely!

“No Scott,” Danny repeated for the fifth time, “I am not flying to California tonight. Do you know how far that is? Literally the other coast of this massive continent. Meet me there in August like everyone else on the list.”

Spending the first spring break of college creating a map and calendar for Last Rites was not something Danny expected when he moved to Gotham.

Why did this city have so many ghosts?! It was ridiculous. And he thought Amity Park was bad? At least the ghosts here were mostly Shades. Not visible to anyone unless they were also dead-adjacent or had The Sight or a bloodline curse or a magical amulet… you know what? There were enough of those in this curse ridden city, why couldn’t these ghosts go find one of those people instead? Danny was exhausted.

So exhausted he didn’t notice the vigilante dropping down from the rooftop.

“Hey there kid, you alri-”

“Yeah yeah,” Danny waved a hand dismissively at the voice without looking up. “Wait in line like everyone else. But honestly you’d be better off coming back tomorrow when I’ve had some sleep.”

“Think maybe you outta get started on that sleep now, bud?” the voice behind him spoke in a calm careful tone.

One Danny had heard all too often since dying.

His head jerked sideways to stare wide-eyed at Nightwing, who tensed just a little as if expecting Danny to run or fight. Instead he let out a groan and slumped onto the park bench, rubbing his eyes to ease the burn of fatigue. He’d been coming out to this park at the corner of campus each night to keep the Shades from mobbing him all day long in classes, but they’d spread the word around Gotham that he was here and his precious spring break had become a non-stop line of requests and arguments. Made sense he’d caught the attention of one of the Bats. Should have expected it sooner.

Danny ignored all the voices around him and looked at Nightwing directly as he prattled off his usual list when someone caught him talking to thin air.

“No, I’m not hallucinating. I got all my Rogue Gallery immunizations the day I checked onto campus. I’m not schizophrenic. The only meds I take are for adhd and the occasional Tylenol. I’m not a danger to myself or others. Unless they attack me first.”

Nightwing nodded along, but tilted his head at the end.

“I’m talking to the dead,” Danny answered the unspoken question in a tired monotone, waiting for the usual skepticism or plea for help with lost loved ones.

“Oh. Okay then.”

“What?” That wasn’t expected.

“No yeah, that makes sense.”

Danny was sure his jaw was on the ground. “You… you believe me?”

“Well sure,” the hero shrugged and chuckled. “I can’t see ghosts myself but I know a couple magicians who work with one, and my little brother Robin has a ghost on his team - she’s actually visible most of the time so I don’t know if that’s a special skill or something else going on. But I’m glad you’re okay and don’t need any emergency medication. I know a couple 24 hour pharmacies that would help but it’s nice when they’re not needed. We don’t get a lot of mediums around Gotham holding court at night so you really can’t fault me for checking in.”

Danny was still floating in the relief of not being questioned or doubted. That hadn’t happened since Jazz found out his secret. She’d had plenty of questions about his halfa status, of course, but never called him crazy for talking to things others couldn’t see. Even Sam and Tucker would forget sometimes and give him strange looks before realizing he was dealing with a Shade, Wisp, or Memory.

He didn’t realize he was wobbling until Nightwing’s arms shot out to stabilize him.

Danny blinked up at the pretty face that was trying not to chuckle, held by strong arms, and so far past tired he might be getting delirious after all because his brain seemed to have lost its filter and he said out loud,

“You actually believe me. I think I love you.”

Then the horrifying embarrassment hit at the same time as Nightwing’s laughter. Which… sounded delighted rather than mean spirited?

“Well now it’s your turn to wait in line, cuz that’s the fourth confession I’ve had this week!” They both devolved into snorts and giggles, Danny still relying on those arms for balance, but when they’d caught their breath the vigilante said, “Come on, you’ve really got to get some sleep. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

Ignoring the whispers and grumbles of the Shades was easier with someone walking beside him.

This is so incredibly cute oml. It’s so rare to see the bats actually go with the flow and god it isn’t done enough. 12/10 immaculate, glorious.

The entire plot I can see so clearly in my mind dude:

Danny chatting to Nightwing as they walk to his dorm

Nightwing asking some casual questions about ghosts and Danny asking about vigilante work.

Nightwing informs the Bats of Danny as he might be a valuable asset in the future.

Nightwing helps free shades with Danny and he realizes why Danny is so incredibly tired all the time.

Nightwing managing to stumble into Danny every day of his break, slowly getting to know each other more and more and becoming really good friends (perhaps lovers 👀).

Wonderful stuff man ty for the ask!

[rafey-baby]

trinket

rafe thinks his maid is just the sweetest little thing...  

prince!rafe x maid!reader 

c/w: rafe being a menace, him flirting (?) w her, some royal cameron family angst ig, brief descriptions of him having sex w another woman, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k

also this is by no means historically accurate which is why i’m not gonna name any specific era for this xx

moodboard & introduction

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Every mid-December, the palace comes alive in an entirely novel way with the bustling preparations for the annual winter ball that the king and queen host to celebrate ‘another wonderful year’.

The once quiet and calm castle transforms into something colorful and vivid with the mouthwatering smell of cakes and pastries cooking in the ovens of the royal kitchen, along with maids and other servants whirling around the long hallways as they place intricate decorations and shiny ribbons all over the broad staircases and windows. 

She’s grateful she doesn’t have to partake in the hustle and bustle all that much since her primary duties include taking care of the prince and ensuring he has everything and anything he could possibly need.  

Although right now, she sort of wishes she could be stringing up polished ornaments or garnishing elegant baked goods because apparently, being the prince’s personal maid sometimes means sitting quietly in his bedchambers (as per his request to keep him company while he’s reading) with her own thoughts and the sounds outside the door her only source of entertainment.  

Therefore, she’s elated when he suddenly turns to face her in his armchair— flitting his eyes over to her from the hefty book that seems to have made him exasperated rather than enthralled.  

“Will you join me for a walk? All this noise is makin’ m’head hurt.”

There’s enthusiasm in the nod of her head; a yearning to see the fresh layer of snow covering the trees and painting the entire kingdom with its powdery whiteness— the aftermath of last night’s blizzard. She doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the crystalline snowfall glittering under the touch of the afternoon sun— or maybe a certain pair of aquamarine eyes, but that’s beside the point.  

“That would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” she easily agrees. 

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I despise that name? There’s no need to use it when s’just me,” he scolds her before he’s straightening up and stretching out his arms over his head. 

“My apologies, it’s a habit,” she rises to her feet as well; trying her hardest not to let her eyes linger on the sliver of his stomach peeking out from underneath the silky fabric of his shirt. 

“I don’t want your apologies, want you to use my name,” he says before stepping closer— standing tall before her and forcing her to blink up at him in order to meet his eyes. “Go on, sweetheart, say it,” he practically orders; eager eyes fixed on her face.  

She hesitates under the sudden attention. He’s always seemed so fascinated by her and she doesn’t know why.  

“Um…Rafe.”  

He lets out a hum of approval. “That’s good. You ready to leave?” 

“Y— yes, uh, Rafe.”  

“Good job. Not so difficult, is it?” he coos at her almost mockingly— fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek when he tucks a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. 

She merely shakes her head— a warmth dusting over the apples of her cheeks when his touch lingers on the side of her face afterwards. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to drown in the lagoons of his eyes, but then he clears his throat and offers the palm of his hand for her to take.  

And it’s rather unusual for someone of his status to do; a prince who’s bound to wear the crown one day holding his maid’s hand isn’t exactly something that’s written in any book regarding the royal etiquette. However, he’s never been one to allow for dreadful rules and traditions to dictate his behavior, especially not towards her.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

“Are you looking forward to the winter ball?” she asks when they stop by the stables to check up on his horse, Jupiter.  

“You know I hate dancin’,” he mutters out as he watches its teeth grind on the carrot he brought with him.  

She smiles because she does know, before letting out a wistful sigh. “I wish I could attend.”

“You do? Why?” he’s perplexed by her enthusiasm towards something he considers as more tedious than anything— having to plaster on a smile for an entire night and socialize with people he doesn’t necessarily care for in order to humor his father never being something he’s particularly taken delight in.  

Especially when Sarah is going to be the one receiving all of their father’s attention anyway. Not that he cares (he does) but he would appreciate it, if for once in his life, his old man would show him even an ounce of the care he seems to so easily shower his sisters in.  

“Well, I’d love to wear a ball gown, but mostly for the food,” her feather-light voice brings him back to the moment.  

“I’ll make sure to bring you a plate ‘n you can eat it in my room then, yeah?” he promises as he runs his fingers through Jupiter’s black main.  

“You would do that?”  

“If you promise not to tell the other maids or they’re gonna accuse you of gettin’ special treatment,” his tone is playful. 

“They already do that,” she points out. “They think we spend too much time together.” 

“And what do you think?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t mind. I quite enjoy your company,” she answers truthfully. After all, she has grown quite fond of Rafe throughout the years. Sometimes she just wishes he wasn’t so overwhelming, in every sense of the word. 

“Yeah?” a smirk pulls at the side of his mouth, seemingly pleased with her answer. 

She’s certain he’s well aware of the effect he has on her— the effect he has on everyone. And she thinks that he enjoys it; relishes in toying with her for his own amusement simply because he can. He can practically do anything he wants since his father is oftentimes gone for long periods of time; fulfilling his duties for the kingdom and whatnot.  

And she knows Rafe doesn’t particularly mind the fact that his father is rarely home because he’s always been hard on him, much harder than on his sisters because whether he likes it or not, he’s set off to be the new king one day. And his reputation of having female guests over more often than not whenever his father is away doesn’t necessarily help with gaining his approval.

After all, rumor travels fast around the palace.  

Rafe once admitted to her that he often felt like a disappointment, and that the pressure of everyone’s expectations sometimes made him wish he was nothing more than a stableman. After all, he does get along with horses better than he ever has with his family— it’s not exactly a secret amongst the royal court.  

“Would you wanna go for a ride with me? Think Jupiter’s gettin’ bored,” he suddenly asks.  

“Oh, I would love to but I’ve never, um, ridden a horse before,” she timidly admits. 

“No? You wanna know how it feels? You could jus’ sit behind me, don’t need to do anythin’, yeah?” he coaxes her to say yes with a seemingly sincere smile; already walking Jupiter out of its stable and leaving her no choice but to follow them outside.   

“Really?” the frosty air causes a shiver to crawl up her spine when she eyes him, hesitant.  

“Mhm. Promise nothing’s gonna happen, I’ll take care of you. ‘N I know you’ll like it, s’very freeing,” he assures her as he’s already saddling up the horse, seemingly aware that she could never refuse him of anything.  

“Okay...if you insist,” she tentatively agrees with a nod that he rewards with a beaming grin; the icy snowflakes sticking to his hair making him look like something straight out of a fairy tale.  

Then, he’s lifting her up to straddle the entirely too big of an animal that sort of still scares her— strong hands gripping onto her hips and leaving her momentarily starstruck at how effortlessly he does it; as if she weighs nothing more than the carrot Jupiter was just chewing on.  

He follows soon after, settling down in front of her with ease before looking at her over his shoulder. “Need you to hold onto me unless you wanna fall,” he instructs, seemingly reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one teaching her something new.  

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, gingerly setting her hands on his waist, movements uncertain.  

“Gonna need you to hold on tighter, promise I won’t bite,” he huffs out a laugh before he’s grabbing her arms and wrapping them around his middle more firmly— forcing her to fully lean against his back when the sudden clip-clopping of Jupiter’s hooves against the snow-covered cobblestone causes her to let out a surprised shriek.   

“Good?” he asks, seemingly amused at the way she’s practically clutching onto him as the cottony snow prances around them. 

She manages out a hum, wondering if he can hear her poor heart loudly thumping in her ribcage when he decides to pick up the speed some more, as if she wasn’t already terrified.  

“Rafe! Can you slow down?” she squeaks out when Jupiter seems to only accelerate further underneath them.  

“Where’s the fun in that?” he lets out a hearty chuckle in response, apparently finding amusement in her utterly frightened state while she wonders why she let herself think for even one second that he had pure intentions.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Y/N? Will you go look for my son? I fear he’s once again escaped his responsibilities to God knows where,” the king requests with an exasperated sigh while she’s crouching down and helping a servant clean up the sharp pieces of a shattered wine glass— the sound of laughter and dancing flourishing around them. 

And she could swear she saw Rafe conversing with a guest only a few short moments ago. However, as she looks around in an attempt to locate the missing prince, he’s nowhere to be found.  

“Right away, Your Majesty,” she’s quick to answer with a polite smile.  

“Thank you,” he nods gratefully, seemingly fed up with his son already.  

She ensures that the poor girl who accidentally cut her finger on the broken shards is not going to faint before tiptoeing up the broad flight of stairs in order to reach the higher levels of the palace— the loud music and blooming celebrations echoing around the halls. 

“Your Highness? Are you in there?” she knocks softly on the mahogany door leading to his bedroom.  

However, she isn’t granted a response. 

“Rafe?” she tries once more before pressing her ear against the wood separating her from the muffled sounds she can now hear from the other side— brows furrowing when something akin to a whimper reaches her ears.

It sounds nothing like Rafe; it has a higher pitch, something more feminine than his usual drawl. And as she stands there, contemplating whether something is wrong or if she should just leave, the volume only amplifies.

And in a moment of cloudy judgement, she finds herself pushing down on the handle.

However, she curses her curiosity the moment the door cracks open and she’s faced with the view of some woman’s naked back. Her long, beautiful hair reminds her of lady Lydia (a daughter of one of the dukes invited to the ball) with none other than the prince himself underneath her sweaty form.  

The sheets that she changed this morning are crumpled and creased around them and without the barrier of the door, she can now hear Rafe’s low grunts as well— can see how his big hands guide her movements. And they’re both panting heavily, seemingly lost in some haze— maybe the same one that forces her to stay rooted to her spot in the doorway.  

With her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth parted, she’s not entirely sure how long she stands there for. Until out of the blue, she notices Rafe’s eyes flickering over to her— a smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches her staring. 

She tries to move her legs but they won’t listen; making his lazy grin only grow in tandem with his strained groans that seem to only increase in volume as he locks his eyes with her.  

And she can’t breathe; the air clogging her lungs instead of flowing through as her dazed mind tries to get her to do something, anything to get her to leave the room but his heady gaze seems to have hypnotized her— compelled her to stay right where she is.  

All at once, a gravelly noise rumbles from his chest— his head dropping against the cushion of his fluffy pillows, seemingly reaching some sort of a peak in his search for pleasure as the woman above him begins to slow down her movements. And that’s when she’s finally able to step away; shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the stairs with bated breaths and heart pounding in her ears.

When she reaches the bottom, she accidentally stumbles into someone holding a golden serving tray— causing it to topple over to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes before her wobbly legs are scrambling off in an attempt to locate the nearest escape route to the garden.  

And once she’s managed to make it outdoors, she feels like she can finally breathe— the crisp December wind granting her heated skin an opportunity to cool down as she sits down on one of the wooden benches with a sigh.