#are you forcing them to have conversations they would otherwise be unable to have

[antirepurp]

the unfortunate state of sonic cartoons where everything from the 90s looks Like That and even if one of them has a supposedly interesting premise the aesthetic repels me, sonic x has chris and a pacing that iirc was the main reason i ended up dropping it, boom exists to be funny and while it accomplishes that goal and is an enjoyable watch it isn't terribly compelling beyond that and fun aesthetics, and prime is multiverse slop that i would not be able to digest even if i tried to. like you'd think they could do more with a furry guy who oozes the dictionary definition of cool and yet

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Touch-Starved (canon)

══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

otherwise known as; the part where The Puppetmaster finds out he has THE FEELINGS(™, patent pending) for the Combat Harlequin. lmfao

══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

"Almost..." His hand trembled at the last piece required. He carefully slotted the optics in place, and twisted the eye multiple times to stick it in place. Within moments, he steps back, and Bubble flared up alive again, checking out his new, updated vision. “Wow! I can see more colors now!” The Blimp spun in place.

“Those new eyes should allow you to broadcast anything you see to me, if I so wished.” He explains, pulling out a small, thin black screen from one of the the desk’s many compartment. He switches it on, and Bubble’s eyes suddenly have a tiny red dot blinking in the middle of it.

So far, so good. The device was working as intended and he could see the top of his dentures from Bubble’s perspective, making Caine grin proudly.

“You may proceed to do your chores once more, the upgrades are done.” He sends the blimp to his merry way, and Bubble only nods before turning away to make his way out of the office. He leans back with a content sigh and closed eyes, satisfied with the work done for the day.

At that very moment, Pomni also opens the door.

She looked… disheveled, to say the least.

“Oh hey Pomni!” The butler blimp greeted with his usual reply. The Harlequin only sent him a look of acknowledgement, knowing that it’s useless to try to spark up a conversation, as Bubble was already making his way out.

Caine blinked once, and then he blinked twice just to make sure he’s seeing things right.

Was she always this… dazzling? Literally? He could see sparkles forming everywhere.

She flipped her hair in a messy attempt to get rid of the strands currently stuck to the skin of her nape. Her trademark golden ponytail missing, most likely a B.O.S.S.’s doing. She made her way to Caine’s desk and he swears he could feel his heart beat faster and faster with each step she took. The Harlequin’s trademark squinted brows with half-lidded eyes meeting his own wide stare, a gaze that would typically make any person with a still-functioning sanity cower in fear.

She took a seat on his desk with her legs crossed and her back turned against him and leaning on her right arm, as she usually did.

“Here’s the die you asked for. Took me a bit, but still got the job done.” She checked her left arm for damages after she placed the multi-colored puppet heart in front of him, while she flashed her teeth with a victorious, smug smile. His words are caught in his throat and her entirety shines too brightly for him. He couldn’t understand it.

Why… did she seem like a flame, and he felt like an unsuspecting moth, drawn to her light?

He shook his head clear and forced his stare away from her direction, clearing his throat while clutching the die. “I-I see, thank you, Pomni. You-you’ve done… a… wonderful…” Her hand grasped his own and his heart leapt at his own throat. Her synthetic, calloused fingers felt so rough, yet so gentle against his own gloved ones that he considered taking them off.

“...j-job.” His breath hitched as he struggled to finish the end of his sentence, unable to tear his attention away from her eyes. He found himself gawking at her intense, golden eye matched with blue and red pinwheel ones.

“Aren't you forgetting something, Puppetmaster?” Her expression questioning, yet with a slight and subtle undertone of mischief glinted at her optics. 

He couldn’t speak. He struggled to form coherent words. It felt like he was being strangled by an unknown force clutching at his neck, yet there was clearly no malice behind it. 

“Wh… What am I forgetting…?” He asked in such a feeble tone that made her chuckle in such a low rumbling tone, snaring his full attention.

“Well, I think that I deserve a reward for my services. Don’t you think?” She stands up. Warm hands suddenly felt so cold and empty, and already he missed the warmth present just about a second ago. The Harlequin made her way towards him as he spun his chair to meet her halfway. Hand at her hips as she towered over his sitting form. He’s all of a sudden clutching at the armrest so intensely.

“Y-yes, of course! H-how could I forget!” He nervously chuckles, he would pull on his collar right about now. “What is it you wish to be rewarded with?”

He offers her his best smile, and she giggles as she shakes her head. Without any warning, she took a seat on his lap, and he went frozen. As if making one single move would shatter the very fabric of the universe. She leaned her head to his shoulder, fiddling with the collar of his shirt then her fingers trailed onto the underside of his chin to make him look at her. He shivered from the contact.

“You.”

He trembled as his face warmed up to uncontrollable degrees, and produced visible heat waves. Not even his self-installed coolants were helping him tone down the sudden rise in his body temperature in the slightest. He couldn’t control his shakes, making the Harlequin smirk, knowing that she had the Puppetmaster all wrapped around her finger.

He didn’t know what came over him, because now his own hands were making their way onto her thighs to pull her closer to him entirely, the other shakingly placing itself onto her shoulders and he could feel the way she sighs contentedly against his touch. He exhales a shaky breath himself, attempting to steel himself.

“M-my dear, a-are you positive that… that is what you’d like?”

It was better to be safe than sorry. She sits up straight, and for the first time, he regrets ever asking that question in the first place.

“Actually…” Her voice trails off playfully, while she stands up. “... Maybe I’d like something more.”

It only took her a finger underneath his chin to pull him as she leads him to a nearby wall. As if his own body had a mind of it’s own, he pins her in place with both arms adjacent to her head. His face leans in closer and closer to her with eyes closed, and she’s leaning up close to him, fully ready to accept his advances.

Pomni’s soft lips met his teeth, and Caine could smell the faint traces of grass and sweat rolling down from her synthetic skin, evident of her hardships from the recent battle. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and his loops around her waist to pull her closer, while the other cups at her face intensely. He savored her mouth as their breathing became heavy and fast-paced, only breaking apart for a mere second, gasping for air before delving back in to their desires.

Desire…

Quite the accurate depiction of how Caine truly felt for the Harlequin at this moment. He couldn’t quite decipher when this had started, though.

As if her intentions were to pry him away from his overbearing and unnecessary thoughts, Pomni pushed him away to pin him to the wall this time, continuing the liplock. He grunts from the impact, but gladly returns her enthusiasm with fervor as he loops his arm around her back, pulling her flush to him once more. Her hands made their way to the lower sides of his jaw to caress so gently, and he finds himself melting at every contact their touches made.

Without breaking the teeth-on-lip-lock, he steered their bodies onto the direction of his desk, leaving the Harlequin laying on it as he loomed over her, ravaging her mouth once more like the touch-starved man he was. He adjusted her thighs just enough to make room for him without making the position uncomfortable for the both of them, their heated make out session felt like it could go on forever as he gripped her waist tightly.

It felt like if he let her go, she would disappear all of a sudden. And he didn’t want that.

He made sure to not lean too much of his body weight onto her by propping himself up with his elbows, both hands find themselves cupping her face to keep her in place as her hands trailed all the way up from the lower arms to his shoulders to do the same to him. He broke the kiss to gasp for air, a string of saliva being the clear proof of their heated action, but quickly delved back into the riveting sensations of their activity. 

Her touch against him were like magic; every contact sent shivers and jolts down his spine as she switched from holding his shoulders to holding his chest just above where a collarbone would traditionally be, pushing him away to let herself up. For a nanosecond he thought that maybe he went a little too far with his advances, until she disproved his theory by shoving him to one of the nearby long couches, only a pillow to cushion and soften his landing onto the furniture.

Quickly making up for lost time and contact, she quickly crawls to straddle his waist, clutching the back of his head to make him look at her, and her only. His hand found itself gripping at the back of her waist tightly once more, the other clutching her own head just to make sure she’s still there with him. Both were panting heavily, the room temperature very much heated as a result of their affairs.

His eyes looked at her longingly as he breathed heavily. “Pomni… I… I don’t think I want this to end.”

She flashed him a consoling smile.

The alarm rings, deafening the surroundings as he jolts awake, falling from his chair comically with a loud, slightly high-pitched scream emitting from his throat. He groans from the headache he had received from the impact to the ground, clutching at the top sides of his jaw, as he leans his head onto the desk for support.

His false heart was beating faster than when one would run; His face was flushed and he frustratingly ignores the heat from the rest of his body with a grumble.

He shifts his eyes to look around. Nothing’s changed. Everything was the same since Bubble left to do his daily chores.

He shakes his head and slams his face down onto the elegant desk, groaning depressingly and half-sobbing.

What the fuck? Was… WAS IT ALL JUST A DAMN DREAM!?

Oh, he could scream and cry into a pillow right about now. But the panicked angry screaming of a certain someone being bothered by the recent addition; the Ragdoll Mannequin that was “Ragatha”, suddenly grabs his attention. Now, he’s looking outside into the manor grounds from his office’s windows with a tired and questioning gaze.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

“But Mistress! You still haven’t tried out my trademark cookie recipe!! It’s GUARANTEED to be your instant favorite!”

“STOP CALLING ME MISTRESS! FOR THE LAST TIME, I DON’T CARE, GET THE FUCK AWAY-”

Caine sighed disappointingly to himself, dragging his hand across his eyes.

God fucking dammit. He actually feels something for her.

══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

I would say I'm sorry, but we all know I'm not. :)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

You know, all I want is to spend some time with Nikto on his off-days and have him read Dostoyevski to me, if you don't want to make this like a single fic you can maybe incorporate it into "ravishing allure" some time later 🥹

"…and there can be no love otherwise."

PAIRINGS: Nikto x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: If anyone could make the bad days better, it was Nikto.

WORDCOUNT: 2.3k

WARNINGS: Stress from work/life, lack of sleep, mostly fluff, comfort, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There were times you wondered if putting up with your job was really worth it. Sure, you needed the money to pay rent, food, and bills, among a laundry list of others that just seemed to never end, but was the cost of your sleep the metaphorical soul you had to hand over? 

Every day you came home tired to your little apartment—neighbors loud and the light in the bathroom flickering because the electrician had never shown up to fix it. Tired, but unable to fall asleep until everything else was done. So, you’d make dinner, clean, shower, sit down to mindlessly watch a show on TV for half an hour, and then stumble into bed. 

Only to stay awake and stare at the ceiling. 

You can’t say why you do it, thinking over the things you did wrong and the awkward conversations you have with coworkers; you shouldn’t care about it—really, you shouldn't. Yet you can’t stop your brain from slipping like a slide to every instance, every millisecond where you felt the air of the interaction change. Side-eyes and confused looks. 

And then at six o’clock, you’d drag yourself out of bed with bags on your face and a drained expression to do it all over again. 

“Hi, how can I help you today?” 

“Oh, of course, we have some in the back—I’ll go grab it for you.”

“Thank you! You have a good day now, Sir. Come back soon.”

It just felt fake. Greet, help, take money, wave and smile, repeat, repeat, repeat. But maybe today would be slightly different, by the second pair of shoes that were placed in your apartment entry as you slowly opened the front door. 

Boots—black and set an equal distance apart with a cleaned surface despite the places they’d been and what they’d probably stepped through. They were neatly situated under the small bench you had for convenience, and you blink at them as you softly shut the door and lock it. A large, and matching in color, jacket was folded and placed atop the flat surface—keys sitting in an indent. 

Nikto, ever the neat and tidy one. He must be back then. 

While the two of you didn’t live together, the bear of a man had made a habit of coming over when he returned from deployments with KorTac—you’d given him a key the second year you’d been together. 

Your ears faintly twitch to the sound of cooking, nose moving just a second later to the scent of something on the stove. Clinking pans and silent footsteps. He knew you were here, sure as anything. Weakly sighing, you shift out of your jacket and shoes; tossing them in the general direction of the bench as you rub at your eyes and drop your purse to the floor with a slap of canvas. 

How do you explain looking like shit? 

Shuffling into the kitchen, you undo some of the buttons on your blouse to let yourself breathe, dress pants running along the carpet as your feet pad like a hound’s slapping paws. Vision blurry and eyelids threatening to close on you, you find the tall man in front of the stove, moving something in a pan with sizzling oils with the wide flex of his shoulders.

On another burner, there’s a large pot of simmering water—the counter has already been cleaned up of flour and mess, a tidy pile of dirty items sitting in the sink to be washed. You stare for a second before you grumble a hello, forcing your body to sag into his back as you walk over and slap your forehead into his spine. 

Nikto grunts lowly in response and continues what he’s doing. 

While it wasn’t rare to find him in the kitchen—in fact, you prefer it when he cooks—but usually when he got back you opted to order supper. He always insisted, gruffly, that he wasn’t tired, but you just wanted him to relax.

It was fun to baby him. 

“Didn’t know you were going to be back today,” you whisper into him, arms hanging by your sides. 

“We were released early,” his voice is deep and harsh—a bark of his Russian accent and rasp. Every word is thought out and said with purpose. “Conflict in schedule.”

You hum lowly, and it’s immediately after that Nikto stiffens, back going straighter. It’s the fact that you don’t even notice that you’ve completely screwed up your own routine that tips him off; how your change in pace had made him initially suspicious as he’d heard you enter the apartment. 

You hadn't commented on his eyes. Hadn’t tried to get him to turn around to see them. 

There was a running gag that Nikto tolerated—you’d grab him carefully by the chin and tilt his blank eyes to you in all of their icy glory. Sparks of glass and chilled storms inlay near the pupils. You’d stare, smile, and then say, “Yup, he’s still in there.” 

Even if you couldn’t see it under his balaclava, Nikto’s lips would part and he’d study your face for a minute in silence, before lightly bonking his forehead to yours. A strange and unique kiss that only he could perfect in his intimidating way. 

You hadn’t even attempted that. 

Nikto puts down the fork he was using to push around the fried potatoes and mushrooms; Pelmeni still simmering in the pot for another five minutes. The cut-up dill and melted butter on the counter are pushed from his mind with a purpose in his veins.

“What is wrong with you?” Nikto turns and you stifle a fatigued snort as you look up at him. It wasn’t his fault, of course. English isn’t his first language, and you found his broken, or sometimes bare-bones blunt, sentences to be endearing.

“Such a way with words, hm?” You can’t help but tease, and you can see the annoyed furrow of his brown brows, nose huffing a breath. “Just tired, Nikto.” Your words make his gaze slide along the very visible bags and the red veins of your eyes. 

He mutters something in Russian under his breath, lids narrowing on you as he grasps your shoulders and moves you back so he can look you up and down slowly in a near clinical breakdown of atoms. As if he can peel back clothes and splay nerves to light. 

“You look horrible…Sickly.” You can see the brain working as your lips go into a line to stay off your loud laugh. “Like dead woman walking.”

He was so much better with actions than words, this beast of wide shoulders and shifting thighs that could crush your bones to dust in an instant. You liked that about him—you never had to guess when he was being genuine or not.

“Work’s been rough,” you chuckle lowly, sliding on a fake smile that doesn’t fool him for a second. “Nothing I can’t…figure out, okay? Thanks for making supper, I love when you cook.”

Nikto’s eyes soften just a smidge, his hands holding your flesh just the littlest bit tighter. His expansive chest rises and falls in a heavy sigh, the bulk of his stomach and pecs visible under the tucked black t-shirt and his spare cargo pants.

Without a word, you’re being lifted with little more than a huff of, “моя нежная девочка… keep awake.”

You squeak as you’re settled onto his shoulder, hanging off like a sack of grain as his arm wraps over the top of your tailbone—large other hand on your thigh and fingers firmly grasping your skin. 

“Nikto—!”

“Hush,” he grunts, a bark of a chuckle wafting out as your hand playfully hits his back with a pathetic slap. The man raises a brow, smirking under his face covering. “What do you expect to do with that, girl?” 

“To let you know,” you poke at his spine and he shifts your farther down his shoulder in retaliation as you scramble and grasp at his shirt; giggling as your head sways to his steps. “That I won't go quietly!” 

“Good to know,” he grumbles. “I would want nothing less, eh?” 

His hands make sure that you don’t fall, even if you were to start wiggling or slipping.

You go limp and let him carry you into the living room, face burning with appreciation as your limbs let themselves rest. Nikto slings you back over his shoulder and drops you to the couch as you laugh, head purposely hitting the pillow as your chest rises and falls with breaths. 

The man stares down at you as you chuckle in gasps, always one to stare at any chance he gets. His arms crossed at his chest, feet apart, and shadow slipping over you from the overhead light. You gaze up silently, a smile on your lips, and quizzically raise to your brow.

“Stay,” is what he says to you, icy vision sliding down your body with a hum of approval. He sends a teasing slap to your thigh before striding back into the kitchen, narrowly missing your leg kicking out at his arse. 

Nikto scoffs at your attempt and disappears.

Normally you’d run at him and jump on his back, hanging off like an animal, but being as fatigued as you are, you call a mumbled curse at his name and curl sideways. Your face nuzzles into the pillow, smiling lightly before you let your eyes momentarily close.

You must have taken a quick nap because it seemed not even a second later that you were being shaken awake by a hand on your arm; spreading up to run over your cheek as your lashes flutter. “Милая.” You sigh, vision blurry and your head pounding. A strong scent hits your nose and you perk—rubbing at your eyes and face. “Eat.”

A plate of fried potatoes with mushrooms and another bowl of Pelmeni are on the coffee table, and the former is shoved into your face by a strong hand, the small dumplings topped with melted butter and dill. 

“Pelmeni,” Nikto states in a monotone, blinking at you as if you don’t know his own culture’s food by now. He made them often enough, which was why you liked him so much—food was truly the way to your love.

You’d taken up baking some of Nikto’s favorite desserts once, had failed horribly, and left most of the kitchen work to him—but the funny thing was that whenever you did bake, the man still always cleaned his plate. You’d never seen him turn down your food, even when you could see his eyes scrunch with restrained aversion.

“Да,” he would grunt out, “good.” It was so strained you always laughed so hard your lungs hurt after. On the off-hand, Nikto’s skills in the kitchen were enough to get you to sell your car for just another bite. 

Sitting up, you carefully take the bowl and look up at him, smiling deeply. 

“Thank you, Nik.” The man hums and turns his head away, still unused to outright affection even two years in. “Nikto~” you draw out his name, tilting your head to the side and trying to catch his gaze again. 

“Silence, woman,” he growls with no real heat, huffing before carefully placing his forehead to yours again as you expected him to. You giggle and stare into his eyes smugly. 

You knew what he was waiting for. Your blood runs hot, face going into a picture of care. His blues blink at you as snowflakes mingle with mist; a mix of cold and desolate landscapes that offer no reprieve from harm besides the small glint of fire they gain when they lock with yours. 

“Yup,” you whisper, and Nikto’s shoulders loosen as he presses more deeply into your skin. “He’s still in there.” 

He stares intensely, and the faintest of twitches under his balaclava tell you all you need to know. 

Nikto makes sure you eat your fill and when you’re done he takes the dishes and washes them while you shower and get into pajamas. Sluggish, but warmed by a full stomach and your boyfriend’s care. You come out to find he’s already reclining on the couch, book in hand as the other bends behind his neck. Lights were low and the heat turned up. Nikto opens his side to you and your body snuggles next to him—it had taken a long time to earn his trust like this; to be near him and to freely give affection.

It would be longer still until you saw his face, but you can live with that. There was no rush, and you knew it was a large soft spot even if he’d never shared the details as to why.

You sigh deeply and Nikto grunts, moving his arm behind your back and keeping you to his chest as he reads. 

This is a common sight from him, and he begins reading to you in his mother tongue from the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, the grit and gravel of his voice sliding into words and sensations as you practically feel it coming from his chest and throat. Your head situates itself under his chin, feeling his free hand playing with your hair until you go brain-dead except to the way he feels and sounds. Harsh words had never been more gentle.

Halfway through he switches to English, his sentences now more slow and thought out and your lashes flutter; breath soft as you take in his scent of oakmoss and amber. His heart beats steady and true. 

“‘To love is to suffer,’” he reads, fingers rubbing circles into your clothes and letting you sleep as the day grows faster into a cold night. He glances down with easy eyes, gripping you just a bit closer as your body entirely goes limp in his embrace. “‘...And there can be no love otherwise.’” 

He silences himself and watches for a moment before he closes the book, dropping it silently to the coffee table and staring past you at the ceiling. The man feels your warmth bleed into his scarred and damaged skin and whispers something akin to vindication.

Nikto listens to your steady breathing and holds you. Steady. Noiseless. 

He grunts to himself and only presses you closer.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[grandline-fics]

Single Red Rose with Shanks please~ 🌹

DESCRIPTION: Single Red Rose- When your date goes wrong, they come to your rescue

WARNINGS: none come to mind

CHARACTERS: Shanks

WORDS: 1,434

A/N: Thank you @littlemissmav for this valentines request. I had a lot of fun with this one and I hope it's to your liking! 🌹

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI | VALENTINES EVENT MASTERLIST

———————

The bar was as uncharacteristically lively for it still being relatively early in the afternoon but this is what happened when the Red Haired Pirates came back for their visits. Their presence never failed to bring a fresh surge of life to the otherwise calm and peaceful island. The best food and drink were always brought out the second their ship appeared on the horizon in swift preparation for when Shanks and the crew disembarked from the Red Force and began their usual route through the city, gathering their loyal fanbase of civilians eager to hear the newest stories of the crews’ exploits and adventures and those begging to go with them when they’d eventually leave again. As always regardless of what the flurry of questions thrown his way was, Shanks merely laughed and told them. “Have a little patience. We’ll eat and drink first and then we’ll talk.”

“What? Please tell me you’re joking!” Your voice cut through Shanks’ attention on the group he was sitting with in the tavern. Mostly because even though you hadn’t yelled your tone was a definite shift from the air of festivity. His attention was also caught because he had noticed you from time to time when he stopped by the island. With his tankard of ale poised at his mouth, Shanks glanced over his shoulder to see you stood in the corner of the room staring at your friend with wide eyes. “You set me up with someone I don’t even know? Are you crazy?!”

“What?” You friend asked with a small shrug, unbothered. “He’s cute in a certain kind of way.”

“So you go out with him then!” You hissed and Shanks held back a chuckle. 

“It wasn’t me he wanted to ask out, not that it matters. It’s a double date, so I’ll be there too if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Th-that doesn’t matter. What possessed you say yes on my behalf and without even talking to me about it first?” You asked, unable to wrap your head around what was thrown at you. You thought you were having a night out with your friend, now you were facing the reality that a date you hadn’t agreed to was on their way. 

“There wasn’t much time. Besides every time I try to set you up with someone you back out. I think this’ll be fun, you need to put yourself out there again.” Your friend assured you with a smile. “Come on, it’s almost time to meet them. You’ll be thanking me tomorrow for this, I just know it.”

“I highly doubt that.” You grumbled, being pulled from the tavern to the meeting spot. You were still not happy that your friend had yet to apologise for all but forcing you into this with no warning. You were so wrapped up your forced date that you failed to notice you’d gotten Shanks’ attention the whole time, his keen gaze following you as you left the tavern against your will. With you gone, Shanks effortless reentered the conversation currently happening at the table like nothing had happened but his curiosity was definitely piqued.

For the next hour he remained at the bar, enjoying the awed stares as the stories were shared and drinks continued to flow. Still though Shanks couldn’t stop thinking about your unhappy expression as you were dragged from the bar. It was so unlike you because anytime he did spot you in his visits here you were always smiling so sweetly. It didn’t sit right with him that you were clearly uncomfortable but who knew? Perhaps the date was actually working out well as your friend had predicted it would. Knowing he couldn’t properly enjoy himself until he had his answer, Shanks got to his feet and lightly clapped Benn on the shoulder. “Going for a change of scenery. Might be back in a bit.”

Used to his Captain’s random whims, Benn merely nodded and waved him off. He’d either see Shanks back here, back on the ship or randomly the next day at some stage depending on what kind of mischief he managed to come across on his solo wandering. Shanks didn’t know exactly where you’d gone for your date but he'd been to the island enough times to know the key spots couples tended to go to-especially for first dates- and headed for those first. The first couple places got him nowhere but the third place he spotted you immediately. Your friend and her date were all but draped over each other while you were the complete opposite to your date. You sat angled in your seat, trying to create space between you and him while he was oblivious and attempting to convince you to come closer.

“Promise I won’t bite, don’t be shy and come closer.”

“I’m happy where I am thanks.” Oh this was painful to watch and Shanks’ eyes narrowed slightly when he saw your date gearing up to press again for you to move closer to him. Immediately he approached, throwing his arm out wide and calling out to you. “Baby, there you are!” You and the others in the building looked his way and when you saw the Emperor’s stare on you, you choked on your drink. No. There was no way he was talking to you and yet here he was, not looking anywhere else but your face. “I was looking everywhere for you. I know I was a little late but that’s no reason to go out with someone else to make me jealous.”

You could only part your lips and try to remember how to speak but nothing coherent was coming to you. All you could really register firmly in your mind was Shanks was in front of you. Your shock only grew when he fell to his knees in front of your seat and took your hand into his. “Please give me another chance. Just say the word and I’ll sweep you off your feet all over again.”  

Shanks gave you a wink that your date couldn’t see, wordlessly telling you to play along. At the prospect of cutting the date short your brain began to function again and you let out a small laugh. “Sweep me off my feet, huh?” You repeated, feeling your nerves settle when Shanks’ strong fingers lightly squeezed yours in reassurance. Feeling stronger you cleared your throat and tried to look convincing enough that the others wouldn’t see through the lie. “I suppose giving you a second chance is the least I could do seeing as you tracked me down.”

Grinning Shanks was on his feet in seconds and in a swift but smooth motion had you lifted onto your feet and effortlessly guiding you outside. “Seriously thank you for that, you’re a life saver.”

“Life saver?” Shanks grinned as you let out a calming breath, leaning against a random building he’d stopped beside. “He that bad?”

“Apart from the backhanded compliments, blatantly eyeing up others, and ordering more drinks before I was finished my first one yeah he was swell.” You sighed. You had a feeling your friend only dragged you along on the date because hers asked if she knew anyone for his friend and it had nothing to do with getting you to ‘put yourself out there.’ Still Shanks didn't need to hear any of that, he’d done his part so you smiled at him once more and moved to walk again. “Thanks again.”

“Woah, where do you think you’re going?” Shanks asked, falling into step beside you but remaining a gentleman by not touching you. Last thing he wanted was to take you from one uncomfortable situation and put you in another. “I promised to sweep you off your feet, remember. That's if you want to?”

“You were serious?” You asked in surprised, looking to see he his expression showed no deception. There was no denying he was a very handsome man and it wasn’t everyday you got an offer of a date with someone like him. “Okay, I did promise you a second chance after all. Sweep away.” Grinning Shanks stepped a little closer and took your hand to lead you somewhere different, glancing at you when you laughed softly. “When you got on your knees back there and pretended to beg for me to take you back I thought you were going to propose.”

“I guess it did look like that.” Shanks agreed with a laugh before offering you a playful smile. “But before we move on to marriage we’ll eat and drink first…then we’ll talk.” 

——————————————-

TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @deathsmajestysworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @extremely-ashtridic , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya ,  @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @its-a-dam-blue-brick , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall , @redwolfxx , @jevoislesbrasdemer , @schanwow , @pao198391 , @glitchtricks94 , @nina-ya , @48daisies , @rosemary-lungs , @sagyunaro , @artemis162534 , @thecraftywriter

[persephone-writes]

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Wonderful Accident

James Potter x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Chapter Twenty-Six - Chapter Twenty-Eight ☆ Series Masterlist

Description: A tough conversation awaits, as does some unexpected perks of winning a duel against a dastardly opponent.

Word Count: 7.3k

Lily’s mouth was wide, her gaze rapid as it darted between you and James. At the same time your heart had all but stopped, a rush of heat moving like a wave down from your face all the way to your feet. The three of you, like prey animals remaining like statues, deliberating whether to flee or play dead, seemed to be having the same concurrent thought: holy shit.

Her mouth clamped shut, a flush of color rising to her cheeks as she swallowed. For a moment you thought she may turn and leave as if nothing ever happened, willing to pretend she had not walked in on such a startling event. However, you should have felt foolish for forgetting her character so easily, for she did not run away, taking a few careful steps into the room. It seemed as though she wished to speak though couldn’t find the proper words, struck mute by what she saw. 

James stood to his full height, moving away from the bed. “Lily,” he began, testing the waters. She did not flinch away, some of the rigidness in her shoulders relaxing. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

As some of the initial shock settled, you could no longer tell what she was thinking. It was obvious her mind had caught up with her eyes, though beyond that you had no insight. 

“I was going to tell you today,” you said, unable to allow James to do all the work for you, “but then Agnes came with the fizzybomb thing and Mulciber— it just turned into such a big mess and I’m sorry.” You were practically pleading with her, though for what, you did not exactly know. 

She let out a breath, meeting your eyes for a drawn out moment before turning back to James. “How—” she stuttered, “how long has this been going on?”

“A month and a half,” you said, answering before he had the chance. Your heart ached as you spoke, though some of the adrenaline high from earlier had not yet worn off, allowing your mouth some freedom you otherwise would’ve had to force. 

You could see a renewed jolt of surprise run through her at your confession. James moved closer to her, though you could no longer see his face, only the way his hands came up in a timid, hesitant motion. 

“This isn’t just a fling. I swear, it’s not like that at all,” he said in the same desperate tone as yourself. He glanced back at you, his eyes holding within them an unguarded hope, free from all masks. You knew he believed she’d be okay with it, though you wondered if that belief was slipping the longer she appeared so utterly bewildered. He turned back to her, resuming his explanation, “I’m serious about this, really fucking serious. We both are. I promise that I’d never—”

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat, standing in the doorway of her office. Her face was expressionless, looking between the three of you. “Is there something to which I should be made aware?” she asked, again without any indication of how much she had heard.

You shook your head, though Lily was the first to speak. 

“No, ma’am. I apologize if we were too loud. Professor McGonagall released me from my duties for the time being and said I was free to visit Y/N, as long as that’s all right with you,” as she spoke she was perfectly collected, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. 

Pomfrey gave her a skeptical look, her mouth tight. “You may stay, Miss Evans.”

She spun around and went back into her office, this time closing a door with less than an inch of space left open. Later, you’d have to find some way to thank her for the increase in privacy. 

“James,” you said after a moment, still afraid, though far less than you would have been an hour ago, “could you leave us, just for a few minutes?”

Just then the clock tower chimed, quite loud from this place in the castle. The school day was finished, though it wasn’t as if anyone was still in classes. 

James nodded once, offering you a smile that could barely be seen before he left the Hospital Wing. Slowly, Lily walked over to the chair in which James had been sitting, watching as you moved to sit on the edge of the bed, your eyes in your lap. The ringing had ceased, the room silent once more, save for your racing heartbeat. 

“James was right,” you said, lifting your face. “I’d never, we’d never do this unless we were completely serious. If I wasn’t entirely certain that I would regret it for the rest of my life—not giving it a chance—I wouldn’t dream of risking something like this,” you stopped, your eyes closing. “More than anything I regret not telling you sooner. I should’ve told you right from the start. Godric, I really wish I did. It was one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Lily.”

You spoke low enough that you hoped Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t hear, though you were a bit past humiliation at this point. Pomfrey being privy to your conversation would not be the worst thing to happen today, at any rate. 

Lily opened her mouth a few times before she spoke, the gears turning in her head, “I thought that you two might fancy each other. Well, I was almost certain James fancied you, but I never thought that you were,” she faltered, letting out another breath that sent her shoulders slumping. “So you’re together. Really together?”

You gave her a solemn look, nodding. “Yeah. Really together.” 

You knew what you ought to tell her, perhaps the thing that would make or break your entire friendship, though your throat was tight as if to keep in the damming words. I’m in love with your ex-boyfriend was not something one looked forward to saying, especially after such an awful, abysmal sort of day. 

Her hand came up to her face, rubbing along the corner of her mouth as her eyes drifted off to some point on the floor. She seemed pensive, processing the tidings with an agonizing intensity. 

“You know,” she began, still looking away, “I feel a little foolish for not realizing sooner.”

You were taken aback, your brows furrowing. Out of all the possible things you were anticipating she might say, that was not one of them. “Huh?”

She glanced up, more quizzical than anything. “When did it start exactly?”

“Uh, Saturday night after the quidditch match, when we left the party,” you answered somewhat monotonously, still a bit stunned by the question. 

She hummed, leaning back in the chair. “Yes, that's just about a month and a half,” she said to herself, making another curious noise. 

“Lily,” you said, very carefully. She looked back to you, still a bit lost in her own thoughts. You took a deep breath, pushing away your lingering anxiety. “We’re, well, James and I are in love. We have been since that night.”

She said nothing for far too long, so long that you wondered if you’d pushed her to the brink of madness. Your hands fisted into the Hospital Wing bedding, your face contorting in a mix of pain and trepidation as you waited for her to make any indication she even heard what you had said. 

Finally, she said your name with a deep, long sigh, her head hanging down for a moment as if she were suddenly tired. If she was, you’d hardly blame her. She ran a hand down her face again, frowning at you like a disappointed parent. “You’re a real tosser, you know that?” She snorted, almost like a laugh, smiling without much joy. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?”

She appeared more sad than anything, staring up at you in mild betrayal. It wasn’t as bad as you had feared, though you still felt a heaviness in your chest, years of friendship weighing down upon you. 

“I was scared,” you muttered, forcing down tears once again. “I thought you’d hate me forever, that you’d never want to speak to me again. It was selfish of me. James wanted to tell you, but…I didn’t want to lose you.” Every syllable felt like wading through sludge, thick and tacky. You tried to remember how you had organized it all in your head, but you came up empty, forcing you to make it up as you went along. “I never thought I’d feel anything close to this, and I’m sure that I never would have if it weren’t for him, but I’d also never wish we weren’t friends, never in a million years. I guess that’s really what makes me selfish. I want both at the same time.” 

“Did you really think I’d be upset with you for falling in love?” she asked, seeming to momentarily forget your disloyalty. 

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, your eyes burning as you nodded. 

She laughed, small and tinged with a bit of sorrow, though it was still like a harbor in the tempest. “You really are thick.”

“What?”

“You remember how James and I bickered?” she said, cocking her head.

Completely dumbfounded, you answered her question, “Yeah…”

“Then you remember well enough that we were not good together.”

You felt like she was a professor explaining a very simple concept that, for some unknown reason, you couldn’t quite grasp. “Yeah, but I still—”

“Lied to me? That was a bit of a dick move— well, maybe more than a bit, but that's not what I’m talking about,” she paused, giving you the kindest, gentlest look she could have as she placed a hand on your knee. “How could I possibly be upset with my best friend falling in love with another one of my friends, who, I’ll remind you, I was not very compatible with? James is his own person. He can do whatever he wants. He always has, anyway, no matter how many suggestions I made to him,” she chuckled, her smile subtle, though no less warm. “I want you to be happy, Y/N, and I want him to be happy. If you do that for each other…that seems like a wonderful accident.”

The leaden storm clouds raging above you, carrying with them the rumble of lightning and whipping rain, opened up, revealing glorious rays of golden sunlight piercing through the gloom. You could almost feel the heat of it on your skin, the shift in the air as they peeled away, fading into nothingness. 

Your face lit up, a bubbling laugh of surprise falling from your lips as you stared at her. You suddenly felt eleven years old again, completely and utterly sure that you and Lily would stay friends for the rest of your lives. 

“You’re okay with it, me and James?” you asked, though there wasn’t much need. 

Lily was shaking her head at your reaction, her smiling having grown. “Yes, I’m okay with it.”

“And it isn’t because I almost died today?”

She hummed, giving your question some consideration. “No. I don’t think so, anyway. It may have put me in a more forgiving mood, but I think the end result would have always been the same. Maybe it just would’ve taken me a few hours,” she laughed. 

You put your face into your hands, still grinning as you nearly felt her arms pull you back from the ledge of the cliff. “James said you would be,” you mumbled through your fingers, taking your hands away just in time to see her roll her eyes. 

“Of course, he did,” she droned. “Thinks he knows everything.”

Her snarky comment, which any other time would have caused you to laugh further, made you pop down from the bed, leaning forward to throw yourself into her arms. This was Lily, your best friend, your sister in all but family tree and pesky Ministry papers. You wrapped yourself around her shoulders, pulling her in as tight as you could. She was startled at first, letting out a small laugh before she returned your embrace.

“I love you, Lily,” you said, meaning every word. “Thank you. I can’t even— I couldn’t possibly—-”

“You don’t have to,” she said softly, her voice the same as the bright day emerging from the storm. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you whispered, unwilling to break the hug first. Life still felt unreal, now for an entirely different reason than before. An hour ago everything felt too horrible to be truly happening, though now it felt too lovely. “I wish I could take it back. Godric, you don’t know how much I wish I had a time turner. I don’t know how I’ll make it up to you, but I will. I promise.”

She moved you away, standing with her hands still on your arms. “There will be no making it up to me. I just need you to promise one thing.”

“Of course, anything,” you said immediately. 

“Never, ever keep a secret like this from me again,” she said. “You’d think after seven years you’d realize I’m not very frightening.” She continued when you saw you make a face, “Well, perhaps I’m a tiny bit hot-headed, but you almost never make me upset. Not truly, in any case.”

“I promise,” you said, amazed at her infinite kindness. After a moment of thinking on how you and James were free to just be, maybe even in front of the entire school now that Mulciber would be gone, you began to ponder the smaller, less significant questions that had been pushed to the back burner for the time being. “It’s not weird for you, him and I?”

She shrugged. “I mean, I would’ve preferred to have found out in just about any other way,” she teased, “and it might take some getting used to…but, no. I don’t think of him that way anymore. It’s actually sort of amazing I ever did.”

“I’m telling him you said that,” you laughed, always enjoying the moments when Lily was wickedly brutal. 

Lily looked proud of herself for her joke, though she soon motioned to the bed with her chin, walking around the foot. “Get back in bed, you should be resting. I’m gonna go get him. He’s probably giving himself a heart attack out there.”

When Lily cracked open the door you heard the sound of James’s shoes shuffling down the corridor, sliding to a stop as he peeked inside. Lily opened it wider, allowing him in. He had since taken off his robe, which had taken the worst beating, the charred fabric hanging in his hand like the flag of a kingdom marred in battle. His gloves were also missing, though now that you thought of it, you were quite sure he hadn’t had them on the entire time. Where they could have ended up was a mystery that would have to be solved at a less pressing time. 

He was looking between the pair of you with a great deal of unease, though it soon turned to curiosity when he took in each of your easy demeanors. 

“Is everything…?”

Lily snorted, crossing her arms. “Yes, everythings fine.”

James beamed, the heaviness of the day seemingly lifted off of him despite Lily’s annoyed countenance. You weren’t quite sure if her demeanor was due to the fact that James had been right about her feelings, something she certainly wouldn’t want to give in the satisfaction of, or the lingering irritation over not being told about it. Either way, James was gloriously happy. 

“I’m buying your butterbeers for the rest of the year,” he said, unperturbed by her lack of thankfulness. 

“That's right, you will,” she mumbled.

James finally noticed her mood, his smile dropping. “Did you two not make up?” he asked, looking at you for a moment. 

You shook your head, half-shrugging.

“Everything is perfectly fine between us,” Lily began, staring at James with the strict look students often received from McGonagall, “though it would’ve been nice of you to ask me first.”

“Ask you?”

“You just assumed I wouldn’t care, and you’re lucky you were right,” she said, not seething, though far from pleased. 

His shoulders relaxed, his posture returning to something softer, though never entirely slouchy. He had too much energy for that. 

“C’mon,” he drawled. “I knew you wouldn’t be upset. If I wasn’t sure, I would’ve asked.” 

Lily pointed a finger at his chest, taking a step towards him. “You’re lucky I’m not going to tell her parents you’ve been seeing their daughter for over a month and never even sent them a letter.” 

You were reminded of their old bickering days, the arguments that would make Sirius roll his eyes and Peter sink into his chair. Half of the time you weren’t sure who won and who lost, or who you thought was right. Looking at them now, you wondered how you didn’t see their break-up coming from a mile away. 

James glanced over at you, unfazed by her threat. “She’s bluffing, right?” 

You only laughed, giving him no answers. Your parents wouldn’t care anyhow, which Lily knew quite well, though you weren’t sure if she’d forgive you if you revealed that now. 

Just as he began to pout, the Hospital Wing door opened again, though at first you didn’t see anyone enter. All your eyes shot down nearer to the floor, finding Isby standing with a small trunk floating in the space behind her. 

“Isby brings your things,” she said as she headed into the room, leading the trunk to the foot of the bed where it was dropped. 

You got up in order to thank her properly, which she took graciously, just as she always did. 

“You are welcome,” she squeaked, her large eyes roaming across you just the way Pomfrey’s had “How are you feeling? Isby heard what happened with your classmates. Isby knew he was trouble, knew it!” She stomped her foot once, quite grouchy. 

You knelt down, giving her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right now. Professor McGonagall and Taurisus probably have him locked away somewhere until someone from the Ministry comes to get him.”

She did not seem convinced, huffing to herself. “Miss L/N said that before, and look at what's happened.”

“Wilkes’ father won’t be able to get Mulciber out of trouble this time. It’s cut and dry, I promise. I doubt that Wilkes or Zephyr or any other of the Slytherin’s will try anything, either.”

Somewhat appeased, Isby gave you another nod, looking over to Lily and James. “Your uniform!” she said, horrified by the state of his robe. 

James laughed, glancing down at it. “Oh, this? Don’t worry about it, Isby. The seasons almost over, anyway.”

Isby shook her head, mumbling something about reckless James Potter before she turned back to you. “Isby is glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” you said, standing up. “Thanks again for my things, Isby. I’ll have to find some way to repay you for all the kindness you’ve shown me.”

“Isby has a salary and clothes of her own. Isby needs nothing from Miss L/N.”

You were not insulted. On the contrary, you were glad to know that not even you, who Isby seemed to have taken some sort of liking to, could not boss her around. Although you were a bit sad that you’d be unable to do anything for her, you wouldn’t want to risk upsetting her with an unwanted gift. 

“Okay, if you insist.”

“Isby must go and help with dinner,” she said with one last look up at you, scurrying across the Hospital Wing towards the door. 

-✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧-

It felt a bit odd having Lily and James waiting for you in the main room while you washed up in the lavatory. You wondered if they were talking or silent, and if they were speaking, what was the subject. Was it vain to think it would likely be you? No, you reasoned. Not with the day I’ve had. 

When you looked at your reflection in the mirror you searched for any sign of the cut on your forehead, finding it almost entirely unnoticeable. The skin was slightly shiny where the wound had been closed, though you knew even that would disappear within a few days. The gash on your calf was more obvious, though the small, thin scar would also fade in time thanks to Pomfrey’s healing. They were, other than your weariness, the only evidence of your duel. Your headache was gone and not even your cheekbone, which had also slammed into the ground, hurt. Perhaps Pomfrey’s headache draught was dual-purposed, though it was also plausible you were still in shock. You cringed as you thought of your head hitting the uneven bank of pebbles and rocks, the ringing that had sounded in your ears. Flipendo, as it seemed, was becoming an enemy of yours. 

Wearing fresh clothes that made you feel almost like an entirely different person, you returned to the main room to find a fair few more people waiting for you than when you had left. Dumbledore was standing in the center of the room, McGonagall behind him with Madam Pomfrey near her office door. More chairs had been taken from the other bedsides and brought over to yours, where James, Lily, and now Sirius, sat. Just as they had done in the field an hour prior, their eyes all fell onto you, your skin crawling with the attention.

You stood lamely on the opposite end, staring back at them wordlessly. Today was only the second time you had a conversation with the Headmaster, though now that you thought of it, you hadn’t even spoken to him yet. As you caught a glimpse of him, your eyes never quite meeting his, the anxiety you had felt when you first were brought into his office returned in full force. You had done nothing wrong, yet you almost expected to earn detentions for the remainder of the term and a great loss of house points. The first you could very well deal with, though the second would be a sour affair, considering you were neck-and-neck with Ravenclaw. 

“Feeling better, I hope?” said Dumbledore, the low rumble of his voice seeming more soothing now that Mulciber and the blackened grass was out of sight. 

“Yes, sir,” you said, walking forward to meet him. You felt as though every movement you made was awkward, as if you were new to standing on two feet. “Thank you for—”

“No need, no need,” he said, interrupting your poorly planned speech. “We may discuss everything in my office, if you are feeling up to task.”

McGonagall and Pomfrey did not appear in favor of this, the former shaking her head just enough for you to see. You briefly looked to James, though the action felt unconscious, a reflex you couldn’t get rid of no matter how much you tried. He seemed worried again, though you hadn’t the slightest idea as to why. Surely he didn’t think you’d get in trouble for something like this, especially after everything that's happened. 

“Of course,” you answered.

Dumbledore smiled softly, and you remembered all the speeches he gave before feasts, or sometimes seemingly on a whim during random evenings when he felt like he had something to say. There was always an air of practicality to them, a piece of wisdom weaved into kind words and a few jokes. Lately they had become a bit more serious in nature, though Dumbledore had still remained a hopeful realist, or at the very least, that was what he wanted his students to believe. In this moment he looked just as he did when he stood at his podium: acutely aware of the gravity of the war outside the castle, yet the light of joy never completely dimmed from his spirit. 

“We’ll take the floo, if you don’t mind. It’s a long way to my office and I am not as young as I used to be,” he chuckled, leading you towards Pomfrey’s office. 

You glanced back at James, Lily and Sirius, all bearing different expressions. James seemed as though he wanted to get up and follow you, Lily silently encouraging. Sirius’s countenance was sobering, for he still carried with him grave significance of the recent events. He was like a cord pulled taut, ready to snap. 

McGonagall stood in the doorway as Dumbledore traveled through the floo first, watching you with a nervous twitch as you grabbed a handful of powder and stepped into the hearth. She said nothing as you threw it up, preparing yourself for the inevitable sneezing fit that would greet you upon arrival. 

Dumbledore was standing by the fire when you came through, stepping out with a sneeze. 

“The floo doesn’t agree with you?” he asked, a light tilt to his voice. 

“No, it's all right—” you were interrupted by another sneeze, then a third. When you stopped, you turned to Dumbledore with an apologetic look and a great deal of embarrassment, though he only smiled. 

“I had a close friend who always sneezed when he used the floo, worse than yourself,” he said, walking over to his desk. The perch was still beside it, though Fawkes was nowhere to be found. “Twelve sneezes, every time. His consistency was rather remarkable.”

The same as before, his office seemed dazzling, filled to the brim with curiosities, though it didn’t feel cluttered like the Room of Requirement or a cupboard you alway kept shut. You sat down in the chair across from him, your eyes still bouncing around the room, searching for Fawkes. 

“Fawkes will not be joining us,” he said with another small laugh. “He is off somewhere near the castle, likely patrolling for strays.”

You couldn’t have been more befuddled, inching forward in your chair. “Strays?”

“Your classmate appeared to have acted alone, though there are two other students who we have been unable to locate,” he said, quite matter of factly. 

Your stomach churned, for you could guess which two had gone missing. “Wilkes and Zephyr?”

He nodded, his hands folded casually in his lap. “I have the professors scouring the castle and grounds as we speak, though I fear their efforts are likely in vain. Don’t look so frightened, Y/N. I expected the wake of this event to be far worse.”

Dumbledore had misread your expression, taking your parted lips and widened eyes as fear, rather than understanding. You closed your mouth at once, taking a moment to think. It would be easy to slip out of the castle during the chaos, though you were all free to wander the grounds anyway. It was only a slightly harder feat to scale the boundary wall— though far from impossible. From Hogsmeade they could apparate to wherever they pleased, as long as it was in a reasonable distance. That meant the British Isles, maybe northern France. Still, they would certainly be wanted for questioning, if not by the Ministry than by Dumbledore, meaning they were essentially fugitives. Their family’s homes would be the first places anyone looked, leading only to the unsurprising, solemn conclusion that someone else was willing to hide them or buy them a way into Europe. 

“They’re the only ones missing?” you asked, thinking of Severus and the rest of the Slytherin gang who you hadn’t had the pleasure of dueling. In particular, you thought of Regulus, who you wanted to be free of this mess more than anyone else. 

“Yes,” he said. “They are the only ones.”

You straightened your posture, reminding yourself that you ought to get used to this, that this would be a regular feature of your life for the foreseeable future. “I’m assuming you don’t know who’s hiding them?” 

He didn’t answer you at first, placing his folded hands on his desk as he stared at you. “Nor will we for some time, though their whereabouts make little difference to you— or to me.”

You could hardly believe what he was saying, your face burning not with embarrassment but a growing anger. He was so casual about the matter as if you hadn’t nearly died just hours before. Maybe he had been hardened by the sporadic, escalating war, though you hardly thought he’d disregard Wilkes and Zephyr so easily. Perhaps James was right to be upset with him before, you thought, because he’s acting like a real tosser. 

You did nothing to hide your emotions, your hands curling into fists before loosening, over and over as your palms began to sweat. “Makes little difference?” 

He did not react to your behavior, which was teetering on the edge of improper etiquette around the headmaster and total insubordination. 

“The term will be finished soon, and while they are not the brightest minds to ever grace these halls, your classmates would have certainly graduated,” he said thoughtfully. “They are only a month ahead of their original plans, which I can say with much confidence would not have changed in such short a time. Their hearts, I’m afraid, are well out of our grasp. They have, unfortunately, been irrevocably lost, at least for the time being. ”

His words, as they seemed to you, might as well have been etched in stone. You knew he was right, that where they were now was not far from wherever they would’ve been on the first of July. 

“You did well,” he began again, breaking you from your thoughts, “very well, indeed. You and your friends can hardly blame yourselves for your failure to thwart the fiendfyre. Even if Mulciber had been successful, he too would have perished in the flames.”

“Fiendfyre?”

“Dark magic,” he said, seeming unhappy to have to speak of it. “It takes great skill to control, so great that I venture no more than two or three living wizards possess the ability. I implore you never to attempt it.”

You were certain Dumbledore himself was included in that number, and likely the Dark Lord was as well. The thought nearly made you shudder.

“I have no interest in dark magic, sir,” you said, trying to rid the image of the towering inferno from your mind, the mouth of the snake wide and lunging. 

He smiled softly, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “Even those who long to do good can be prevailed upon by the promise of power. The distinction between the virtuous and the villainous is not made in the temptation, no matter how strong. The difference is only in the choice to pursue it.”

You nodded, not knowing what to say to such a statement. Your heart had slowed nearly to its normal rate, though your nerves hadn’t entirely dissipated. Dumbledore had called you into his office for a reason, though you didn’t think it was simply to tell you Wilkes and Zephyr were on the loose.

You were saved from the effort of conjuring a reply, for Dumbledore spoke again, “I’m sorry to have broken my promise.” He continued when he saw your look of confusion, much of his mirth gone, “The last time you were invited to my office, I gave you my word that I would ensure your safety. I have failed in this task. On the contrary, you acted with extraordinary speed to incapacitate your classmate.”

“I doubt it was necessary,” you said, your voice small. As you were washing up, you realized that it was somewhat foolish to think Dumbledore left himself entirely unprotected after he extinguished the fire. An eighteen year old was the last person who could kill, or even harm, Dumbledore. 

He let out a short laugh, though it was rather glum. “Yes, Mulciber’s spell would not have had an effect, though the rarity of this case is not likely to be repeated. Under any other circumstance, you would have saved a life, which should be treated with equal weight. Speaking of—” He stood, moving with no great haste towards one of the large glass cabinets on the opposite end of the room. You twisted around to watch as he searched the contents, muttering to himself all the while. “Ah!” he said finally, taking out a silver cup, not unlike the house cup, though far smaller in size. It was slender, the handles curving almost the entire length, mounted on a wooden stand. He brought it over, blowing on it as if it were dusty before placing it onto the desk before you. 

You furrowed your brows, looking up at Dumbledore where he stood beside you. He only sat back down at his desk, glancing at the cup before returning his attention to you. 

“My failure to fulfill my duty as Headmaster has forced upon you the necessity of accomplishment. It would be a further misdeed to allow such accomplishment to go unrewarded,” he said, his voice in the odd space between serious and jubilant. He motioned to the cup, some of that very seriousness dropping away. “The Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting,” he said quite fondly. “Exceptional is a fitting word, don’t you agree?”

You had perused the trophy room more than once, given that it was never locked, and knew quite well who was also a recipient of this award. You couldn’t recall any other student earning it during your time in school, nor did you recall recognizing any of the other names of the people who’ve earned it in the past. Albus Dumbledore was the only recipient that stood out to you, which was the reason you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. 

He appeared entertained by your astonishment, watching with a muted smile as you opened and closed your mouth three times over. 

“You must be wondering why I would keep an unawarded trophy in my office,” he said, his feigned misunderstanding thinly veiled. “Most are not, of course. I keep a few of the more— well, as you’d say— generous honors here in case the need arises. While it is a rarity, I do enjoy the pleasure in giving them out.” Again, he motioned towards the cup with a wrinkled hand, content to discuss the physical nature of the prize in lieu of your befuddlement. “It’s a fine cup; Goblin-wrought. Hogwarts makes a fair few commissions.” 

His expression was almost mischievous, the same look he gave wide-eyed first years during the start-of-term feast as he made a silly quip to ease their nerves. “Your friends, Mister Potter and Mister Black, are much deserving of the Special Award for Services to the School, though I’d kindly ask you to keep this news to yourself before I can award it to them in person.”

“Of course,” you said, largely automatic. You had not stopped reeling from the news of your award, almost unable to comprehend it. “Professor, are you sure that I’m, that what I did— I don’t think I would have come out all right if it wasn’t for James and Sirius,” you stumbled over your words, hoping that your meaning was coming across well enough. You paused, taking a breath to collect yourself. “Exceptional spell-casting doesn’t seem to describe me very well.”

“You attended a single Dueling Club meeting, am I correct?”

You nodded, your shoulders slumping as you became lost in Dumbledore’s perplexing train of thought. “Yes, sir.”

“Your Defense Against the Dark Arts grades, I’ve seen, have not been particularly astounding, though you do quite well on written examinations. Your practical skills, however, have not been of remarkable notice,” he continued, still with the same air of unusual humor. “After your performance today, I have considerable doubts that the vast majority of your classmates would make any move to challenge you, for your abilities quite obviously surpass all other students— though perhaps not more than your friends, who I imagine have a great deal to do with your improvements. Though I’m sure you know better than I that you need not worry about their betrayal,” he paused, his eyes softening. “It is one thing to study the art of defence in a classroom, to practice it with your classmates— all useful endeavors, of course, though it is quite another to face an opponent whose goal is not petty embarrassment, but death. Your actions today are exceptional not only due to the merit of your skill, but the exceptional nature of your improvement.”

“I see,” you said, very still and quiet for a long beat until a laugh of disbelief rose up from your chest, bursting an otherwise stagnant moment. 

Dumbledore stood, taking out his wand and pointing it towards the trophy, the plaque on the wooden stand then inscribed with your name and the year. 

“I am also awarding you one hundred fifty house points, though I’m afraid I’ve taken ten from Miss Meadowes,” he said, turning back to you. 

After your conversation and the Barnabus Finkley Prize, one hundred fifty points did not throw you too far off kilter, though any other time you may have fainted. Still, your smile grew. 

“Thank you, professor.”

“You are quite welcome. Now, Madam Pomfrey is sure to be furious with me. I’ve kept you for far too long,” he said, leading you back to the fireplace. “Send Mister Potter and Mister Black up, if you’d please.”

You nodded once, your eyes darting around his office for a final time before you grabbed a handful of floo powder, leaving the enchanting room which you would likely never visit again, already missing its captivating quality. 

-✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧-

You sat with Lily while James and Sirius met with Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall watching from the wall with fretting, fidgeting hands. Beneath the wide brim of her hat her eyes roamed from you to Pomfrey’s office and back again, her patience thinning as the minutes ticked on. Currently, you weren’t sure if she was so twisted up over your safety or the general excitement of Mulciber and the two missing students, though their influences were most likely even. 

Staring down at the stone flooring, you followed the straight edges before they bent around the corners, your fingers picking at the blanket. More than anything, you wanted to be alone with all your friends. You couldn’t imagine the frenzy that would erupt once you all reconvened, especially when they saw that your psyche was well enough intact to discuss the circumstances of your duel. 

You glanced over your shoulder towards Pomfrey, spinning around on the bed to face her with your most ingratiating, somewhat pathetic look. “Are you sure I have to stay for the night, Madam Pomfrey? My head doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, shaking her head as she came over to you. “I’m afraid I’m insisting. Thank your lucky stars I’ve allowed your entourage to stay.”

You nodded solemnly, wholly defeated.

“Am I attending classes tomorrow?” you asked, looking now to McGonagall.

Taken off guard by your question, she considered it with a small humph. “No, dear,” she said, far kinder than you expected. “Take tomorrow and the weekend. You can return on Monday.”

“That is if the Ministry doesn’t want to see her,” said Lily from behind you. 

McGonagall seemed to hate this possibility even more than you, her chest rising with an uneven breath. “We shall see.”

You all turned towards the office when you heard the poof of the floo, a burst of green light shining through the open door before Sirius walked out, brushing dust off his shoulder. He smiled at you, a little crooked and tired, which was still a pleasant change from before. 

“Hey, hotshot,” he said, sauntering over to your bed. Another flash of green shone from the office, followed closely by James’s voice saying your name with a considerable deal of enthusiasm, his earlier worry entirely gone. Sirius looked back, suddenly stepping aside just as James ran from the office, nearly knocking into him. “Oi!”

“Mister Potter,” McGonagall scolded, though she didn’t seem to mean it much, for she said nothing else as he continued to run. 

James paid no attention to either of them, beaming as he came to an abrupt stop in front of you, his eyes shining. “The Barnabus Finkley Prize,” he said, almost like a question, but more like an exclamation. 

Lily perked up. “What? Who?”

James’s eyes flickered from Lily’s back to yours, motioning to you in excitement

Lily gasped, her hand hitting the side of the mattress. “You didn’t tell me you were awarded that!”

McGonagall and Pomfrey seemed surprised as well, with McGonagall whispering something to the latter. 

You shrugged weakly, looking between James and Lily. “Sorry.” 

You really did feel bad for not telling her, though you had come back from Dumbledore’s office so dazed that you’d nearly forgotten all about it. 

Sirius threw himself down in one of the chairs, slouching back as if he were in the common room. “I’m a little peeved. It makes our Special Services to the School look like peanuts.”

You all turned when another green puff illuminated from Pomfrey's office door, likely McGonagall’s exit, for she and Pomfrey were no longer in the main wing. After a few moments Pomfrey did not emerge, apparently no longer needing to supervise your entourage, as she had put it.  

“Minnie didn’t even give us a goodbye,” said Sirius, shaking his head. Lily only rolled her eyes. 

“Barnabus Finkley,” James said again, his renewed attention making your heart ache in the best way. “You deserve it, you know.”

Of course he would say that. 

“He’s right,” Lily said. She was giving you the same look she did in your dormitory during your first year when you had confessed your first secret; reassuring, kind, proud.

“How many house points did he give you?” you asked James and Sirius, knowing the House Cup meant far more to them than it did to you. You never were very competitive. 

“A hundred,” Sirius answered, slightly cocky and entirely expected. 

You smiled, reveling in your next statement. “He gave me one-fifty.”

Sirius’s lip curled, grumbling to himself. “Show-off.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be a baby.” 

“You know I meant it when I said I believed you were a Gryffindor,” he said, leaning forward. “These performances are getting out of hand.”

You laughed, “You can’t tell me about braggadocio.”

James sat down on the bed, surprisingly quiet given the news that Gryffindor was certainly going to win the House Cup no matter how well any of the other houses did the rest of term. Sirius said some funny quip, though you missed it, caught up in a quality of James’s expression that made you embarrassed to be around other people. It was as if his eyes were too intimate, his mouth curving around saccharine words that would sound overly sentimental to anyone else but you. You were coming to realize that being in love meant that everything you thought or said about the other seemed entirely perfect and natural when it lived only between the pair of you, though when witnessed by anyone else, it seemed to be completely mad. 

“—and I don’t appreciate you using big words just to make yourself sound smarter. It only proves my point,” Sirius finished. 

Lily saved you from having to defend yourself, laughing at Sirius from across the bed. “Just because you have a poor vocabulary doesn't mean—”

James paid no attention to them, his smile small and devastatingly sweet. “Do you still feel all right?”

How could you possibly answer that question in full, you wondered. How could James not already know what you would say?

“Y’know, I sort of feel perfect,” you said, chuckling as Lily and Sirius continued to bicker. “Absolutely perfect.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Notes: so I absolutely LOATHE the house-elf enslavement mess so we’re all gonna pretend that house elves had a revolution and are now all free and can vote and crap— AND they do not, in fact, love being slaves by-and-large. Also justice for winky

-✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧-

Tag List: @floverisland @ilovejamespottersomuch @googie-jeon @tvnile @eli-com @lovelyteenagebeard @letssee2468 @abhootghiihii @iamawkwardandshy

[animeyanderelover]

I'm almost through with the second season of Vampire Diaries and whilst I would love to write something for Klaus already, I still know too little about him. Since I love rocky poly!relationships I decided to instead dip my toes into a little image with the Salvatore brothers when they find out that they both love the same darling.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, stalking, threats, g/n reader

Imagine this...

The rustling of paper cut through the thick silence hanging in the room, the unspoken tension crackling like fireworks about to go off. Blue eyes flew over the pages filled with elegantly written words, narrowing when he stumbled over a line or nickname so romantic that Damon felt the need heave. His hands tightened around the elegantly bound book, his jaw clenching as he felt a familiar feeling bubbling up within his chest. His gaze slowly darted over to the other pile of books placed right next to him, all filled with the same content that he knew would have him ripping apart everything within a frenzied rage if he were to continue reading.

Unable to read on and feed that growing burn within his dead heart, Damon slammed the book shut with more force than needed. Putting it away, his body leaned back against the couch. His eyes closed for a few seconds as he tried to stuff the uneasy feelings within his chest away. He could not do this otherwise. Footsteps circled around the couch he was sitting on, slow and apprehensive, before they paused right in front of him.

"Damon."

As soon as the older brother opened his eyes, he was met with the guarded expression of Stefan. Arms crossed over his chest, the younger brother observed him with a gleam of caution. That in itself was nothing new, Stefan had rarely welcomed him exactly with open arms since both of them had been turned into vampires. Still, perhaps Damon would have liked a more warm-hearted greeting. Especially since both brothers apparently had a new... should he call it passion, to bond over.

"Brother!" Damon exclaimed, his tone worringly enthusiastic as he stood up from the couch, a smirk on his face as he walked closer to his younger brother.

"Perfect timing! I was waiting for you. There is something that I really, really wanted to talk with you about."

Green eyes pointed a fleeting look at all the notebooks scattered across the couch before they met the blue eyes of Damon. Already Stefan could tell that this wouldn'e be an easy conversation. Not with someone like Damon.

"You know, whilst I was waiting for you, I found this," one of his hands grasped one of the notebooks laying around on the couch, “And I just couldn’t help myself but take a look inside. To see what could possibly be on my dear brother’s mind.”

His fingers flew across the pages in a quick tempo, his blue eyes still able to take in words and sentences. Stefan took one step closer to him, worried that any second now Damon would rip it apart. He knew his older brother after all. That chipper tone he used coupled with that foreboding gleam within his eyes never meant something good.

“Why you never tried your luck in poetry is above me, you know? I mean, the stuff that you have written down here is enough to make any poet envious. Joseph von Eichendorff and Friedrich Schiller would have been green with jealousy if they would have read this.”

Abruptly the notebook was taken out of his hand, Stefan’s fingers smoothing over the crinkled paper that had just been about to be ripped by Damon. He didn’t think it was a conscious decision, more a slip of strength from his brother’s side but it was that unpredictable impulsiveness that made him so wary of Damon.

“They’re not the ones green with jealousy right now,” Stefan replied after a few seconds, more bite to his voice than he had intended. The notebook was clutched protectively to his chest yet he stood straight, his gaze cautious yet firm as both brothers glared at the other. Damon tilted his head slightly as he inspected Stefan, his blue eyes revealing condescending surprise as he took in his younger brother’s words.

“Come on. Loosen up, Stefan,” Now it was Damon who started circling around Stefan with long and slow strides, his blue eyes ablaze with unspoken feelings, “You don’t have to be so uptight. I’m your brother after all.”

Stefan followed every movement of his brother sharply, the tendons in his muscles taut with tension as if he was expecting a sudden assault at any moment. At the mocking words of Damon he could only release a deep breath through his nostrils.

“I know that you’re my brother. That’s exactly why I’m worried.”

A wry smirk crossed Damon’s face as he was confronted with Stefan’s serious expression. “Now you’re just breaking your older brother’s heart.”

“Damon…” Stefan began, his voice hesitant as he searched his brain for the right words, “Please don’t turn this into your personal vendetta against me by dragging (y/n) into this.”

Within less than the blink of an eye Damon stood right in front of him, intense blue eyes clashing with Stefan’s green orbs. For one short second Stefan could see the way Damon clenched his jaw, the emotions of betrayal and hurt flaring up. Within the next moment his older brother hid it all behind that mocking smirk though, shaky as it was.

“And why would I do that, Stefan? Go on, enlighten me.”

There was a hiss to that tone, the bitterness seeping through no matter how hard Damon was trying not to show it. This situation was too much of a Déjà-vu for him to remain nonchalant and Stefan knew this. He searched for something within Damon’s eyes, anything to stop this conflict from escalating.

“I don’t want us to be like this,” he confessed, refusing to weaken his tone so that it would sound like he was begging. Damon would only sink his fangs into his words if he were to plea after all.

“Really?” Damon taunted, his eyebrows arching up in false shock, “I don’t believe that.”

His index finger started jamming forcefully against Stefan’s notebook, the pressure strong enough so that the younger brother could feel it.

“Because based on what you wrote in here I’m pretty sure that this,” his other finger pointed back and forth between him and Stefan, “is exactly what you want us to be like.”

The shadow hovering over Stefan’s face disappeared as Damon pulled away, stepping away without removing his piercing gaze from his younger brother.

“And if that is how you want it to be, then I am more than prepared to play this game. Little warning for you though, I don’t plan on playing nice.”

Two pairs of hands yanked him forward, fingers curling into fists and gripping his jacket in a tight grip.

“If you want to be angry, be angry with me! But don’t drag them into this only to mess with me!”

The growling warning of his brother elicited a scoff of disbelief out of Damon, one corner of his mouth lifting up as he leaned his face closer to that of his younger brother.

“Being angry doesn’t suit you, Stefan. Did you forget? You’re supposed to be the good brother between the two of us.”

“Knock! It! Off!” Stefan hissed, each single word punctured by the way he shook Damon. Part of him knew that he shouldn’t get so worked up because this was exactly what Damon wanted. However, he couldn’t help it. Not when it involved you.

“Or what?” Damon growled challengingly, his own hands grasping the collar of Stefan’s shirt, “What is Prince Charming going to do if I act like I always have been?”

A brief flicker of something. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps it was regret. Perhaps it was something entirely else. Whatever it was, it was gone too quickly for Damon to decipher it. Instead he watched as Stefan’s expression hardened, dark veins appearing beneath his eyes as the next snarl of his lips revealed sharp fangs.

“Then I’ll make sure that you won’t get to even touch them! I won’t let you have your way with them, Damon!”

The same dark veins that had already appeared on Stefan’s face now blossomed on Damon’s, a snarl of his own tearing through his throat.

“Oh, I’d like to see you try that, little brother.”

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror...........Part I

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length in a later part)

Summary: Macrinus has plans, layers of plans on plans on plans. He brings Letha out of her cage and shows her what Rome truly is, hopeful she can help him topple an empire. What he can't plan for is the way her resolve buckles at the sight of a certain Emperor.

Warnings: None for this one.

Word Count: 2.4k

Part 1 of 15

Series Masterlist

A/N: Hi, hello, Geta had me in a chokehold as soon as he uttered "Persia" with so much sass. This diverges from the movie quite a bit, I just wanted things to turn out differently, I'm sure you can relate if you're here reading this... well. I may mention other GII characters, but most of this revolves around Geta, Caracalla, Macrinus, and our Letha. I'm hopeful that someone else can enjoy this self-indulgent and horribly historically inaccurate mess.

The din of the party echoed to a degree that was overwhelming. Ever since Letha was stolen away from her home she had never known peace and quiet. There was always something. Even when in her cell late at night, there was the squeaking of rats, hushed conversation from a few cages over, the antsy pacing and panting of hunting dogs. But that was nothing compared to the revelry unfolding before her eyes. Debauchery that would make Bacchus weep a tear of pride. 

A lavish spread of delicacies from all over was laid out across long tables, the smell causing her stomach to growl uncomfortably. Wine was being poured anywhere she looked. Her throat felt dry. Men and women walked confidently through the partygoers, barely dressed, painted up, beautiful. They knew who to approach. Who to talk to. This party was like a well-oiled machine, though it’s purpose was unknown to her. Perhaps just because they could.

Letha moved her wrists, grimacing. The chained cuffs clasped around them were much too tight. It was a punishment, one Viggo saw to after she got one of her arms free the night before. She had to be pulled off by Viggo and two others after reaching out and slamming a man against the bars of her cage for commenting crudely on her possible usefulness to him.

“Behave,” Viggo frowned. He unlocked the cuffs and gathered the chains up, as if to get rid of the evidence that she was little more than a prisoner. Before she could consider taking an overindulgent senator as hostage, Macrinus strode into the foyer. He was constantly adjusting and fiddling with his bountiful robes, unwilling to let them drag on the ground as if they were precious to him. They were. He kept a watchful eye on everyone and everything. 

He played at a man out of his depth, certainly with no aspirations of his own. But really, he was the most cunning man she’d ever encountered, his sights set on a far larger prize than wealth or status. But not in public. Today, Macrinus was a humble citizen of Rome who knew his place and enjoyed the games enough to make a living out of them.

Viggo departed as Macrinus approached. The elaborate necklaces and other jewelry Macrinus wore clinked together as he reached up to her shoulders, wordlessly righting the maroon dress she’d been forced to wear. She felt like she was in costume, much like him, though he was much more at home in the gilded luxury than he let on. 

“Remember, nothing happens today,” he instructed, reminding her of his plans. 

“I remember,” she spoke, unable to mask the disdain in her voice. 

He allowed himself a small grin at her obstinate nature as he watched her carefully. “Forget being my bodyguard,” he winked, “Today, you are my consort. Play at being Hyacinthia for an evening. Wait on me. Observe.”

“Oh, I have been,” she muttered, looking around at the smiling, relaxed faces. These people were indulgent to excess. They had never experienced the horrors of their conquering horde beyond these walls. They cheered for blood but wouldn’t draw it themselves unless it was for their own political advancement. Even then, it was usually done from the shadows or by another’s hand, their only involvement being the exchange of gold. They bathed in the violence, the games they held serving as some religious rite. Imagine thinking the gods truly cared about the result of their fixed matches. 

Cowards, she thought.

I don’t want you to think, Macrinus would say, a conspiratorial smile on his face.

He had moved on from her, currently chatting up the hosting senator, Thraex. She dutifully followed after him, lingering behind, waiting to be called upon, observing. There was always a plan, even when it didn’t seem like it. Some hidden motive to advance Macrinus closer to the ear of the Emperor. Well, Emperors. 

Letha had seen the smaller of the two twins pass by earlier, a whole group of waiting concubines following after him, hopeful to be allowed to sit at his side, gilded in gold and little else. It was easy to see who wielded any amount of influence. Follow the flitting of pretty women and even prettier men, see whose arms they clung to, who they laughed with. She didn’t think she could do the tough job of flattering these despicable people. How they did it, motives misguided or not, she had no clue. 

“Ah, she is new, Macrinus,” Thraex greeted, not addressing Letha directly. He wasn’t particularly lecherous, but he was very clearly hinting at the very thing she was just ruminating over. It filled her with revulsion. She suddenly felt for Hyacinthia if this is what she was subjected to regularly.

“Oh, yes, this is Letha,” Macrinus explained, his hand pressing into the small of her back, drawing her in closer to his side. Keeping up appearances. “This is her first party,” he grinned. She only barely resisted the urge to shudder at the implication, though she knew Macrinus’s suggestion was hollow. They had already discussed her participation. A staunch no. She was relieved when he accepted it.

“Oh, well, surely we will find time later to… connect?” Thraex spoke, his words falling out as both a question and a request, his eyes flitting over to her before focusing back on Macrinus. The very idea of it made her want to retch, to embarrass herself in front of him so he would leave her alone.

A sharp pinch at her side made her jump and she quickly coached her expression. 

“She’s still so new, Thraex, I’m not sure she would be up for it, but believe me, I will find you if she still has life left in her,” Macrinus winked, earning a loud chuckle and clasping of shoulders from the pasty senator. Even though Macrinus was lying, it still left her feeling ill.

“You fit right in here, Macrinus,” Thraex praised. “I heard you were perhaps…” he shot a glance at Letha, as if maybe she shouldn’t be present for the conversation, but Macrinus readjusted his grip on her side, sending the message that she would be staying. “Well, there’s talk that you are interested in standing for election to the senate?”

Macrinus laughed, swatting at Thraex’s arm. “I barely understand an abacus, I have no aspirations of the senate.” Thraex doesn’t seem totally convinced, but before he can dig up any other pointed questions disguised as friendly banter, Macrinus initiates a pivotal part of his plan. The real reason for his being here today. “I’ve heard it’s custom for your guests to make wagers at these affairs… might we…?”

Thraex seems reluctant, but forges ahead anyway. “How large a sum did you have in mind?”

“Oh, perhaps… a thousand gold denarii?” Macrinus played at being unskilled far too well.

“Two,” Thraex interjected, hooked immediately.

“Is it truly so simple?” Macrinus smiles, releasing Letha to shake Thraex’s hand. 

Letha saw the wheels turning. This man was a gambler, unable to turn down a bet. Unable to resist escalating it, thinking the windfall was just around the corner. What Macrinus would do with this senator’s money, she didn’t know yet. 

“Come, let me introduce you,” Thraex insisted, leading Macrinus further into the manse, the nonexistent gold already buoying his spirits. Letha followed behind, doing her best not to get lost in the dense crowd.

There was an open area in the middle of the largest room they’d passed through yet, a gulf between the Emperors and anyone else. Thraex and Macrinus stepped into that gulf, bowing and greeting the two twin Emperors of Rome. She stayed just far back enough to not be noticed, blending in with the gathered throng. She finally set her eyes on them. The men ultimately responsible for the misery brought on her family. The real reason she had been brought to Rome in the first place. She felt the burning of Mars himself in her muscles as she fought to remain still, to resist charging over and throttling the two men. Her swift death would surely follow but it felt almost worth it.

The raised dais along the back wall contained a long plush couch. The copper-haired man she’d seen in passing earlier lounged comfortably on the right half of it, his thick red and gold robes burying his slight form. The lion’s share of the senator’s concubines laid out around him, some on the floor in front, others kneeling behind, all awaiting an opportunity to be called upon, perhaps wishing they could be whisked away from here and taken to the palace. A small monkey sat on the shoulder of a boy, its chirps echoing off the vaulted ceiling. From what Macrinus had told her, she assumed this was Caracalla. Smaller, almost child-like in comparison, he had a youthful, soft face with piercing blue eyes that seemed a bit troubled. 

Letha had a hard time rationalizing his appearance with the harrowing violence unleashed at his order. Macrinus called him bloodthirsty. His attention seemed scattered, bright eyes moving over the room, chasing the loudest of the sounds and conversation. He didn’t speak much to Macrinus and Thraex, leaving formality to his brother. He might’ve been too impaired to reliably converse. Occasionally his flighty glances slid into an almost blissful smile as something amused him. His entirely-too-comfortable position didn’t seem to bother his brother in the slightest, though they couldn’t have appeared more different from each other.

His brother. Geta. The more dangerous of the twins. Less prone to deadly outbursts, more reasonable, collected. His wavy hair was more maintained than his brother’s. Though identical in color, that seemed to be the only feature they shared. The way he was dressed contrasted with his brother, the gilded laurel crown he wore made of silver as opposed to gold. It brought out his pale skin and made his eyes seem darker, almost black. He wore dark reddish paint in a fine line around his large, inquisitive eyes. There were many rings on his fingers, deep earthen toned stones embedded in each one. He wore silver and black robes in opposition to his brother’s warmer tones. 

Letha was left with one uncomfortable thought as her eyes rose from the elaborate robes covering his shoulders, travelling up the expanse of his neck to pause on his jaw. He was beautiful. The reality of it settled like a stone in her gut.

As she continued her appraisal, noting the shape of his soft, pink lips as he offered the two men before him a warm smile, she wondered if she was making a grave mistake. She couldn’t do this. To have confessed her desire to strike the Emperors from history to Macrinus was the worst thing she’d done up to now. The weight of Macrinus’s hopes and dreams for himself was almost heavier than her own personal loss. The idea of that hurt too. Surely she would fail at this, just like she’d failed at protecting her family.

No. This is your purpose. What other reason is there to keep living?

As if he heard her thinking about him too loudly, his eyes darted over to her, sending her reeling. His gaze could cut through marble all on its own. She very nearly fell back into those standing behind her. It took her far longer than she would’ve liked to recover, finally averting her eyes from Emperor Geta. Macrinus had instructed her to observe, but she was confident this wasn’t what he had in mind. Thankfully, if her staring had irked the Emperor, he did not mention it.

“Yes, thank you, your majesties,” Macrinus smiled, bowing low again. He moved to take his place beside Geta and Letha followed, offering up a miniscule bow in her haste to move back out of sight.

From behind Macrinus she watched the woman perched on the arm of the couch beside Geta. Her smile was radiant as Geta’s ringed fingers gripped her hand, keeping her touch close. Her clothing was more of a suggestion than anything substantial, and Letha couldn’t blame the emperor for picking her out specifically. She was lovely.

“Do not lose control of your fury now, Letha,” Macrinus warned quietly, mistaking her affected state for an itch to spill their blood. She felt like her own thoughts had turned traitorous. “We are just getting started.” 

If he knew what dark secrets she was burying down deep, she was sure he would’ve handed her back to Viggo to be locked up indefinitely, never to be thought of again. She felt pathetic, weak-willed. The purpose guiding her through the worst period of her life, her revenge, the tether of it was just beginning to fray now that she was confronted with her quarry. For all Geta’s beauty, he was still a monster. They both were. She held firm to that, repeating it in her head like a mantra. She willed it to ring true. She would repeat it until it did.

Viggo walked into the room, leading one of Macrinus’s gladiators into the open space before the emperors. Another larger man was led in bearing chains as well, probably Thraex’s competitor. 

Letha could detect a heightened sense of anticipation spread out into the room as the two men were unchained, much like she had been earlier. She could feel the itch at her wrists and resisted touching the tender skin so as to not draw attention to it.

“This is your gladiator, Macrinus?” Geta questioned softly, leaning over the lap of the woman at his side to look up at Macrinus.

“Yes, your majesty,” Macrinus answered, focused on another of his many plots and plans. So focused, that he didn’t see Geta’s eyes flit over to Letha. She felt a jolt, a bolt of lightning travelling down her spine, struck down from Jupiter himself. Geta’s lips parted as if to speak, but the shout of his brother made him turn back around. Letha let out a breath and a revelation came with it. 

The difficulty of her task no longer lied in overpowering either of the two emperors, or slipping past guards. It lay in the heat slowly churning within her at the sight of Geta. A weakness, one she didn’t know she had until he was in front of her, looking at her like that. 

[ Part II ]

[jamereadsmanga]

Every year, there is this extreme prestigious ball with a very particular policy: no help. In other words, you can't have any butlers, security personnel, or most irritatingly nannies. The organizer is big on family and hates how dependent people are on nannies, so he has all but banned them. It's essentially the day to show how well-behaved your children are (if you're bold enough to bring them).

Demetrius has been a regular attendant at the event from birth. He was always so quiet and disciplined. As long as he was with his mother, he would be fine. Damian, on the other hand, was hell on earth. He was curious, social, and energetic, a deadly combo for a black tie event. He would spend the entire time just crawling around or playing with others. He is also the youngest (and for a good while the only baby), so he would be left to entertain himself.

Once tensions began to rise, Melinda felt uneasy about having their sons going out to such public events. She was especially worried about Damian, who had a nasty habit of wandering away randomly. It was then decided to let him sit out these balls due to safety concerns. However, after a particularly glowing report on his behavior at school, Melinda decided it would be best to involve him in family events more.

Henderson described Damian as a well-behaved young boy with a model attitude. He was a bit short tempered but otherwise carried himself at a level of maturity that his peers did not. He could sit for long periods, eats with minimal mess, and is able to actually focus on a singular task. His table manners we up to par and never had any issues with his uniform. It was deduced that he was ready for an extremely formal black tie event like that ball.

Their deduction was wrong. They failed to count in the fact that Damian was really just being compared to his peers. He was mature compared to the average six year old. Not to mention, school is a routine and predictable environment.

The moment they entered the hall, Damian just regressed. Table manners? gone. Volume control? gone. Food? Anywhere but his stomach. His clothes? Disheveled with a mysterious stain. His tie? Missing. His shoes? Switched. The 1600 dance custom embroidered handkerchief? In a different dimension. His hair? Looks like he just woke up.

One minute, he's behind Melinda the next minute he's chatting it up with the sponsor, gushing about how his dad is so cool and how there are seven colours in the rainbow and how many stellas he has to a full blown rant about Anya then to showing off his tooth that fell out.

Then there was the shrimp. Damian had managed to sneak an uncountable amount of shrimp around the event. His suit did not have enough room for all that shrimp, yet he made it work. How he even managed to get all that shrimp without anyone noticing is a mystery. He would go around and offer the pocket shrimp to everyone before walking away like it was not the strangest thing. No one had the balls to question Donovan as to why his son was just handing out shrimp like a server so he never knew about his son's weird behavior until he finally finished his rounds.

By 8pm, Damian was out like a light bulb. Thankfully, Melinda was able to find him just as he was setting up to sleep on the floor. He, of course, got mad and cried before remembering that he was tired and finally going to sleep. Weighing in at almost 60 pounds, carrying Damian was no easy task. With no jeeves around and Donovan's hands too busy in his pocket, Melinda was forced to spend the entire evening sitting down with the sleeping boy. Unable to escape, she was forced to sit there and keep conversation with any annoying person who came by looking for an excuse to gawk at her son. Demetrius then joined her, tired of having to socialize with all the other kids. With just 15 minutes left before they were allowed to leave, Demetrius passed out from boredom, leaving Melinda with two grown ass kids to drag to the car.

And to be clear the event ran from 7:30 to 9:30. Only two hours.

[longhardtransitionreturns]

Author's note: This is a fictional story about a graphic medical birth in which the pregnant woman is presumed to be in a vegetative state but feels every moment of her agonizing birth.

Tara Strahan, then 22, was seven months pregnant with her first child when she and her husband, Brian, were involved in a horrific car crash during a winter storm. Brian died at the scene; Tara was rushed to the hospital where doctors eventually declared her to be in a ‘vegetative state’ as a result of massive head injuries.

Two days later, Tara regained consciousness but quickly realized she couldn’t move or speak. 

“When I woke up, I immediately wanted to know if the baby and my husband were ok. Then I realized I had a tube down my throat, and I couldn’t move at all, even a finger.” 

Tara had become the victim of a rare condition called ‘locked-in syndrome,’ meaning she had full cognitive and physical awareness, but complete paralysis off all voluntary muscles. She was able to feel pain and understand conversations, but unable to let anyone know of her plight. 

“I realized pretty quickly something horrible had happened to Brian. Otherwise, he would have been there. Instead, it was just an endless parade of doctors, and all of them had already given up on me. All the conversations were about how long they needed to keep the baby inside me, and how they would get it out.” 

Tara’s doctors eventually concluded that the risks of anesthesia were too high to perform a c-section. Instead, they decided to induce her labor, and allow her to deliver the baby naturally. 

Tara, who’d told friends that her greatest fear about giving birth was the pain she’d feel before the epidural took effect, had almost two months with nothing to do but think about labor and delivery with no drugs, unable to move or scream or even regulate her own breathing.

“I was scared to death. It was pretty much all I could think about, and hearing people talking about it all the time made it even worse. There were a group of interns, every day during rounds, who’d joke about whether the labor pains would bring me out of my coma. But the worst was when one asked the head obstetrician if I’d be able to push. He said no, not in the usual way, but the force of the contractions would expel the baby from my body. I kept replaying that sentence in my head, wondering how long it would take.”

Because she was unable to tell doctors if she was having contractions, she was monitored closely throughout the rest of her pregnancy. She knew there wasn’t a set date for her to be induced; instead, the procedure would be performed when she started showing effacement or dilation. 

“There was this one nurse who’d talk to me while she cleaned me. She said, ‘today we’re going to induce your labor and you’re going to have your baby, but you’re so lucky, you won’t feel a thing.’ I wanted to scream so bad, let her know that, no, I was going to feel everything.” 

Three years later, Tara still has panic attacks when she remembers what happened that day. (Editor’s note: what follows is a graphic description of traumatic natural birth, and graphic medical procedures. Reader discretion is advised.) 

“There was an air of excitement, and there were about 15 obstetricians from around the country who’d come to watch. They’d given me muscle relaxants so they could spread my legs, because my muscles had started to atrophy. They strapped me into the stirrups right at the start, and my gown was pulled up to just under my boobs. I felt so exposed, but the crowd of people didn’t even shut up when my doctor reached up inside me and stripped my membranes. I remember thinking how humiliating this was gonna be, which I don’t think I’d considered before.” 

Doctors used pitocin to induce Tara’s labor. Unlike the slow build of natural labor, pitocin often induces strong contractions right away. 

“I could see the clock on the wall. About thirty minutes had passed between the shot of Pitocin and when I had the first contraction. It felt like a vice had been wrapped around my uterus. Had I been able to speak, I’d have been yelling from that very first one.” 

Tara endured ten hours of hard labor, with the contractions getting increasingly stronger. While she suffered, doctors and nurses made small talk about their weekend plans. As the labor went on, some started to complain about how long it was taking. 

“I was in agony. I’d never imagined anything could hurt that bad. I wanted to pant, like I’d seen in Lamaze videos, but the ventilator was controlling my breathing. I couldn’t move at all, and being strapped into the stirrups for my entire labor was torture. My hips hurt so bad, especially as the baby moved down farther and the pressure increased.

There was one doctor who kept talking about his dinner reservations. On and on about wishing I’d hurry up and pop it out. He actually walked over and tweaked my nipple, and made a joke about that speeding up labor. Not only did I feel violated, it set off a horrible contraction, like the worst one yet. I got no comfort, no words of support. I was going through the worst thing I’d ever experienced, and it was like no one even considered I could be suffering.”

As Tara went into transition -- the most difficult, painful part of labor -- she says she heard some of the female medical professionals in the room joking about how much pain she’d be in, if she weren’t in a coma.

“There was this machine, they could tell when I was having contractions. They’d started coming one right after another, lasting almost a minute. It felt like I was being stepped on by an elephant. My back hurt, my cunny and arse were starting to feel like they’d explode. One of the women in the room said, “Whew, we know she’s really in a coma, she’d be screaming her head off if she could feel this.” 

Tara was in transition for over an hour before she finally felt the overwhelming urge to push.

“It was the strangest sensation, I’m not ever sure I can describe it. I needed to push so bad, it physically hurt not to push. But I couldn’t. None of those muscles would obey my commands. And then it was like the doctor said, the contractions got even stronger to push the baby out. I could feel him moving down but it was so, so slow.”

Tara watched the clock on the wall for five hours as she endured the excruciating pain of her baby making its way down into her birth canal.

“I wanted to die. I thought it was never going to end. I was praying for a c-section. I knew they probably wouldn’t give me anything for the pain, but I figured I’d have a heart attack when they sliced into me and that would be better than the agony I was feeling.” 

Tara eventually started having chest pains, and the monitors on her and the baby started to alarm. 

“I remember my chest started hurting after the baby had been stuck just behind my entrance for about two hours. I was so hopeful that they’d finally noticed something was wrong with me, that I was dying in pain.”

In fact, the doctors still didn’t know Tara was in distress, but her baby’s vital signs indicated he was. 

“The air changed in the room. All the laughing and joking stopped. One guy started pressing his whole body weight down on my uterus while I was in the middle of a really bad contraction. It hurt so bad, I actually thought it ripped.

He did that for a while, and then I heard them call for the forceps. I was so afraid, my chest was aching, and my cunny was on fire. I just wanted it to be over. I couldn’t see anything over my big belly, so it was a complete surprise when they jammed the first one up there. It felt like the metal was cutting into my pelvic walls. By the time they got the second one in, I was having a horrible contraction, and it felt like my entire stomach had ruptured.

One of the things I remember so clearly was that they cut the episiotomies, on the top and near the bottom, while I was at the peak of a contraction. I was suffering so much, I don’t know why that stuck out to me, but I remember thinking, ‘those bastards just cut me during a contraction.’

Citing pending legal action, Tara’s doctors won’t confirm how long it took to pull the baby out. Tara says it was at least fifteen minutes.

“They kept tugging and tugging and it really felt like my insides were breaking. My cunny was a mess, and they were pulling so hard I kept getting slammed back down on the metal table.”

Tara suffered a separated pelvis in the attempt to get the head out; it’s the moment she calls the “worst pain anyone could ever suffer.” 

“I couldn’t really even think after my pelvis separated. It was all pain, and I didn’t think it would ever end. I know it took a while to get the shoulders out, because the doctor kept putting his hand inside me, trying to dislodge them.” 

Tara says she lay there, splayed and bleeding from her ravaged genitals, for forty minutes while they worked on the baby. She says she was worried for her child in an abstract way, but was hurting so bad she couldn’t focus on anything other than her gaping sex. 

Tara says she passed out when a doctor pulled her leg back to stick his hand inside her, jarring her broken pelvis in the process. She woke with a pelvic fixator, 40 stitches in her genitals, and absolutely no pain medication.

[eldritchpotato]

Requests open? Can you write a fem reader CEO x fem goblin secretary? The dom and sub relationship but the CEO is the sub and she gets completely wrecked by her secretary.

I love this dynamic. let's call this short...

Corporate Kinkery

You are a powerful no-nonsense CEO who runs a tight operation providing vital services to the monsters of your home city. But underneath that veneer, you're a big sub, and your mild-mannered goblin secretary isn't entirely what she seems like either.

Content Warning: Female reader, D/S dynamics, semi-public sex.

The day just seemed to be endlessly dragging on. It was just meeting after meeting, most of them are virtual and don’t even require you to leave your office.

The office lights hurt your head and the painfully thin walls meant you heard every dull conversation in the adjacent meeting rooms.

It was tempting to leave early, but that would hardly be setting a good example for your employees. You ran a tight ship and it was only fair if the same rules apply to you.

Maybe a nap? You could close the blinds.

What time was it?

Fuck, somehow it was barely mid-afternoon. The week had barely gotten started.

There was a knock on your door before your secretary, Phosh, poked her head in.

“You’ve got a meeting with Melissa in 10,” she said cheerily. She was a tiny thing, goblins generally were, with big ears and green skin.

“Thank you, Phosh,” you sighed in response. It was already in your calendar. 

Phosh eyed you up and down. You really hoped you didn't look as dishevelled as you felt. You had an image to uphold.

She stepped into your office and closed the door. Standing on her tiptoes to reach the string that drew the blinds. She turned back to you with a look you recognized.

Phosh had the dazzling secretary ruse down to a t. She was pretty and curvy, perfect at making people drop their guard. But you knew how to see through it.

In the privacy of your office, she unbuttoned the top few buttons of her suit revealing smooth green skin and ample cleavage. “Thank you, what?” She asked.

How did she do that? Despite knowing you should scold her, point out where you were and make it clear this was not remotely appropriate you never quite managed that sort of thing when it came to Phosh.

You swallowed, the words getting caught in your throat for a moment despite the excitement bubbling up within you. “Thank you, mistress,” you muttered, feeling your face heat even though you barely whispered them.

“That’s what I thought,” Phosh grinned, her teeth sharp and pointy. She looked entirely predatory, as she sauntered over, like a cat stalking a mouse. Except despite everything that should say otherwise, you were the mouse.

Outside of the office was one thing but… this was really a bad idea.

“Phosh,” you began but she hopped up on the desk, pressing a finger to your lips to silence you.

“Ah ah ah,” she tisked, “I’m going to fuck you against that wall so hard you forget everything that was bothering you. You should really be more worried about staying quiet so the whole office doesn’t overhear.”

Any further protest died in your throat. You could safe word, you probably really should safe word, this really wasn’t appropriate. Hell, if the board found out you would probably be forced to resign.

But you just nodded obediently. It was a bad idea, but wasn’t that far more fun?

“Up and against the wall, ‘boss,’” Phosh ordered, tearing off her stick on manicured nails.

Your pussy clenched. Despite reminding yourself that you didn’t actually have to obey this goblin woman you still did as you were told.

If you spread your legs a little more and arched your back more than necessary you would never admit it as you leaned against the wall.

Phosh hopped off the desk and stood behind you, simply admiring you. You pressed your forehead against the wall, unable to look at her as she took her sweet time.

The spank made you jolt, but you caught yourself. It only came out as a vague croak.

Phosh chuckled, sliding her hand up your skirt along your tights. Did you press into her touch? Did you shift to present yourself even more? Maybe.

By this point, you were equally nervous and turned on. Your place against the wall allowed you to clearly make out the words next door. Something about spreadsheets and due dates and—

Phosh tore your tights open. The ripping of fabric filled the air before her fingers were touching you through your underwear.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed. Phosh’s other hand kept you in place against the wall as she slowly teased your clit.

You held your breath, the only surefire way of you staying quiet.

“Wow, ‘boss,’ you are soaked already,” Phosh said cheerily. “Do you have any idea how hard it is watching you be bossy all day long while I know how truly slutty you are deep down? How much does it go against everything you want?”

The next spank you were ready for, but it still forced a breath from your lungs.

Skilled fingers slipped under your underwear. That elicited a low groan from you, instinctively pressing back against her with need.

“What is it you need?” Phosh asked, spanking you again.

“More,” you whimpered.

“More what?” Phosh repeated.

“Fuck me, mistress, please fuck me,” you begged, haunting aware of your own volume.

“That’s my good slut, see how easy that was,” Phosh praised, slipping her fingers inside you. “Now I’m gonna fuck you like you begged for, and you better cum quick because Melissa is going to be here any minute.”

Oh fuck. Maybe this really was a bad idea, maybe you— Phosh’s fingers inside you did an excellent job of changing your mind.

You groaned into the wall, your breath ragged as she fucked you. Every ticking moment only

Made you more aware of how little time you had left. Every ounce of control you maintained to stay quiet only made it that much harder to cum.

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Tick tock, ‘boss,’” Phosh sing songed though she did mercifully pick up the pace. Your hips were unabashedly pressed back, fucking yourself on her fingers in desperation. You weren’t sure what would be worse, losing this orgasm due to being interrupted or the being interrupted part.

You didn’t even notice the knock on your door. It was Phosh who pulled you back up, shoved you into your seat and slipped under the desk before your foggy brain even processed Melissa’s voice.

Quickly you took a moment to compose yourself. I’d only you had a fucking mirror. “C-Come in,” you called, stealing yourself. That had been so fucking close.

Melissa shuffled into your office with a friendly but tired expression.

If she noticed the smell of sex or the disturbed carpet she didn’t say anything. She sat across from you, letting a massive stack of folders drop onto your desk with a thunk. 

Fuck this was going to take an eternity. You could already feel your headache returning.

Somehow you had forgotten about Phosh. But now she was spreading your legs, your underwater being pulled away as she pressed her mouth to your cunt.

You covered your grunt with a cough. Your whole body tensed, her tongue running over your clit. Melissa began to drone on and on about this and that.

You didn’t know what to do. Phosh wasn’t going to leave you alone tucked away under the desk and you couldn’t kick her out with Melissa here. Your only option was to endure this torture.

You sucked in a sharp breath, nodding at whatever Melissa had said.

This was what you got for not cumming fast enough and how you loved being punished.

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟖 (𝟐/𝟑)   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   EARLY OCTOBER 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

→ 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍 The performance lineup was long, mixing dilettante regulars with real, true artists. Renzo hadn’t told her in advance what he planned to do; she knew he would be accompanying Fluke at some point, but his turns at the front were rare and unpredictable. Tonight, he used his voice, one that Leonor found impressive if not astonishing, to serenade the room. That was the illusion, anyway. He held her gaze the entire time, which was enough to convey intent. The songs announced were all covers—music from her aunt’s milieu, or quite possibly her discography. While Leonor didn’t recognize the song and rapidly became unable to hear the lyrics as words with a meaning, the unmistakable mood gripped her. It wasn’t a caress so much as a stroke, a fondle, a pinch. It made her skin crawl in the best way.

❧ "venus in furs" won the poll but "time of the season" ended up fitting better (and also the clapping in this performance was compelling dsfsjg) ... anyway, i am SO pleased with this post specifically

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

The performance lineup was long, mixing dilettante regulars with real, true artists. Renzo hadn’t told her in advance what he planned to do; she knew he would be accompanying Fluke at some point, but his turns at the front were rare and unpredictable. Tonight, he used his voice, one that Leonor found impressive if not astonishing, to serenade the room. That was the illusion, anyway. He held her gaze the entire time, which was enough to convey intent. The songs announced were all covers—music from her aunt’s milieu, or quite possibly her discography. While Leonor didn’t recognize the song and rapidly became unable to hear the lyrics as words with a meaning, the unmistakable mood gripped her. It wasn’t a caress so much as a stroke, a fondle, a pinch. It made her skin crawl in the best way.

The Den possessed an unexpected number of quiet backrooms beyond the bustle of its main space. People who were just passing through experienced the stage, the bar, the shadowy corners that ringed them both. Friends got to see the enviable wine cellar and the room where the gambling happened; although less exciting, they might also see the liquor storage or the disorganized mess that barely warranted the title of “office.” Leonor had probably jiggled most of the doorknobs before she went onto the roof. Of course, Renzo’s favorite backroom wasn’t in the basement with the others. It was the small section cordoned off from the main space, drenched in red lighting, with a sectional on which he could sprawl. It was where Leonor had first met him, and it was where they tended to retreat as any given night progressed. Tonight had been no exception. It was a place to fully crawl out of her skin, and the knotted satin of her costume, and the nervous confines of her mind. 

With delusional buoyancy setting it, an urgent question had bubbled up unbidden. It force itself out like a hiccup. Renzo caught it, if with surprise, rolling along with her as she wondered aloud. ‘Do you love me?’ A terrible question, this one. Had she not already felt so much, had she not been overflowing with shapeless and blooming euphoria, she would have felt ashamed. He didn’t recoil. Against her fingers, he answered, ‘I love ... the idea of you.’ She didn’t recoil from the honesty either. It wasn’t a wave; it was a rainfall that soaked, heavy, gentle, to the bone. She followed up with the same earnestness, ‘Do I love you?’ He swirled his tongue around her thumb as he considered it. Then, ‘You love who you think I am.’ Did she? ‘Really?’ ‘Really.’ It was settled. She did. Otherwise, it had to be a fleeting concern, one sinking beneath the surface again, that couldn’t really matter.

TRANSCRIPT:

[Music, overlapping conversation, laughter]

RENZO | Come on, don’t be shy. Look, all of this—live plants, the murals, fucking real rabbits to play with—all courtesy of Nora. She’s been busy employing artisans and patronizing florists and shit. Did you know she came up with the theme, too? Can’t forget that. Because she loves this place. She loves all of us. My moon goddess.

[Music, conversation, laughter continues]

[Crowd cheering]

[Music, crowd singing along]

[Discordant, playful strumming]

[Music begins, Renzo singing]

[Rhythmic clapping]

No, no, too much! No? Yes! Fuck. It’s fine. Yeah? Too late now. Oh, baby—

[Laughter, echoing]

[Muffled music, Leonor sighs]

Do you love me? I love ... the idea of you. Do I love you? You love who you think I am. Really? Really.

Is that real? The rabbit? The fur? It’s so ... That’s a lot. Poor rabbits, huh? Yes, but ... It’s soft! Oh, it’s soft. You have to leave the, um, the—[laughs] The chaps? Yes! It’s so important. I love them. If you want. Please! I do.

[Urinating, sink running, door opening and closing]

?1 | —such a cute theme, though. Little bunnies? I look so good. ?2 | Yeah, but can you believe what she did? No one else is yellow. ?1 | Not surprised. Princess has to be the center of attention, duh.

?2 | It’s so weird. Because … why? ?1 | Why? What do you mean, why? ?2 | Why does he let her do that. It’s kind of unfair. ?1 | [Laughs] Jealous? ?2 | No. She has nothing to contribute! Money? Or, you know—

?2 | But, I would be so fucking bored if I were him. ?1 | I only talked to her once, and I’m still bored. [Snickers] ?2 | Blah, blah, my mom is dead, blah, blah, blah, I do government stuff. Where’s the camera, look at me, I’m a Reyes, blah, blah, blah. ?1 | [Laughs] So dumb! That’s it, though.

?1 | Maybe she’s just hot, in a cute way? She’s new. Doesn’t know how to do anything fun. A "yes" girl. Ooh. We’ve been there. ?2 | Yeah, I don’t get it, but, oh, well—Okay! [Smacks lips] Let’s go! [Footsteps, door opens and closes]

[Door closes]

[frotees-corner]

Blighted Treviso romance AU

Soooo I may have started a thing.

Because I told @nonrebloggingviewerswillbeshot that I would try to write this down. (Haven’t tried my hand at fanfic since I was 14, so be gentle with me 😅)

On how a Blighted Treviso romance could go down, if you changed some things.

First draft, highly unfinished, will put it up on AO3 when I’m done.

—-

Chapter 1 (Setting the scene)

Lucanis had spent four weeks helping Treviso recover from the dragon attack. Rook had missed him, but understood that he needed to help his people, his city, in the aftermath of that calamity more than he needed to help her fight the gods, wherever they might be hiding.

That he needed to do what he could there, now, when he hadn’t been able to prevent the dragon from raining ice from the sky and spreading blight through the canals of his home.

When she hadn’t been there to help.

And truth be told, she was busy enough that she barely had time to dwell on his absence.

Between adding new members to their illustrious group to make sure they were never caught off guard like that again, burning away blight boils in Treviso, and checking in on their other allies, she hardly allowed herself a moment’s rest.

It was the quiet moments in between, at breakfast or dinner, or when her responsibilities kept her awake at night, that really pressed home his absence.

Now he was back, and had been for two weeks, but somehow … this was worse.

Before the dragon attack, there had been this ease between them.

Pleasant conversations and comfortable silences before the fireplace, when Rook couldn’t sleep (and Lucanis just plain refused to).

Shared stories and observations when they ventured forth together, effortlessly finding a common rhythm when fighting Venatori or Antaam or whatever else crossed their path.

Amiable quips when Lucanis was preparing dinner and Rook kept him company, reading a book or going over her correspondence.

A gentle smile and a hot coffee (doctored to her preferences) when she dragged herself into the dining hall in the morning.

Now, there was only sullen silence.

Lucanis had been radiating a quiet anger ever since he returned, at least where Rook was concerned.

He didn’t initiate conversations with her, and his answers remained short and terse. He would barely look at her when they shared a room, and while he still had her back in a fight, he otherwise kept to himself or their companions in their travels.

There was no more coffee waiting for her when she entered the dining hall in the morning, and no company when she wandered over looking for tea at night.

Her terrible jokes, which had always made him chuckle, no longer elicited so much as a smile.

And Rook understood. His home, his people, had suffered while he had been unable to stop it, forced to watch that blighted dragon reign over the skies while raining death to the ground. Because she had been in Minrathous, saving her own home while she left his to drown. Sure, she had offered help, sent Davrin and Bellara in her stead, but they hadn’t managed to make a difference.

And she didn’t even regret her choice. She felt utterly miserable at being unable to save Treviso, but saving Minrathous and keeping the Venatori from executing their coup and taking over? She couldn’t regret that.

Lucanis had every right to be angry and disappointed in her and keep his distance. Her feelings on the matter were her own problem, not his.

And yet … he was completely fine with Neve. Neve, who was a Minrathous native and a Shadow Dragon like Rook, and who ran off to save her home without even waiting for the dice to fall, when Rook had at least made sure that Treviso would have just as many people to help as Minrathous did.

But for some reason, Neve’s need to keep her home safe carried a different weight than Rook‘s, and she couldn’t figure out why.

(Tbc)

[aziemniak]

More Deltarune Chapter 3&4 ramblings (this got very VERY long and has basically the entire weird route spoiled)

I'm also thinking about the exact rules of the "Kris deals the cards, the player picks them" arrangement I mentioned in this post. (I haven't gathered any screenshots to support the below ramblings and I'm still going purely off of memory.)

I'd have to replay the game and actually pay attention this time but from what I noticed the choices we have generally have to be opposite of each other whenever possible, usually falling in the categories of yes/no or do/don't (unless there's more than 2 options but even then there's usually a "no/don't" option among or before them, or occasionally when there is no real "opposite" answer within the context of the conversation). It's pretty obvious Kris isn't content with all of the options presented, so that would suggest they have to give us choices in this format. Or in other words, our role and scope of control as the player is making every decision for Kris, and this structure of dialogue boxes ensures they can't make any choice that we don't let them make.

But then there are the exceptions: Susie and the weird route.

Let's start with Susie, as I remember less examples with her and they're more subtle. The one I remember the most for some reason was how we cannot reopen the closet with the ralsei ranch because both answers are straight-up "yes" (as in "yes you're right we don't need that"). Or the stickers at the church if you squint (Kris wants to stick them on her face and there is nothing we can do to stop them). I'm pretty sure there were other times like this, they just don't come to mind right now but the bottom line is. Susie's presence is messing with our influence (a few more ramblings about this here) and I am POSITIVE this is going to be expanded on later and be pivotal to the story one way or another.

And then there's the weird/snowgrave route.

Lemme start with a small tangent. Back in chapter 2, whenever we force Kris and Noelle to continue the weird route, the correct option for it is out of place and very non-specific (well, namely the "proceed" one), while the other option sounds a lot more natural. If I'm correct with the choices we make having to be contextualized and presented by Kris, it kinda sounds like they start dissociating from it all as they find themselves unable to exploit and escape this particular situation.

Now onto the gut-wrenching chapter 4. In the conversation with Noelle there's a staggering point of no return where we have no choice but to continue - the naturally opposing options suddenly become one and the same. It's like we've gained so much control over Kris that they get completely paralyzed and unable to participate in the slightest.

Except I don't think that's what's happening. First, it should be our power as a player to make all the choices, it doesn't make sense to be stripped of them just because Kris doesn't see us picking anything but the wrong ones. Second, even if we really wanted nothing else, the player has no way of actually conveying that. Writing the exact content of As and Bs is not within our power. Third, we've seen how much iron hot rage built up within Kris in that scene, it doesn't make sense that they'd simply get paralyzed by fear in the middle of it.

Well, it doesn't make sense for Kris to be so paralyzed by fear they don't see other options.

Instead, I think the choices in that particular dialogue are coming from Noelle.

Like think about it. In this scene we started hearing Noelle's thoughts again. Sure, we can sometimes do that with other characters but it was much more prevalent in snowgrave. The player can do this, not Kris (unless for some reason humans in Deltarune otherwise identical to real world humans have this one particular superpower which I honestly doubt). So how the hell would they give us the "red/blue"&"green/black" choices? They wouldn't. By that point it was Noelle writing the script.

And unlike Kris, Noelle has no idea what's happening. From her perspective, her friend suddenly went back to their terrifying, controling self and confirms her worst fears. She's horrified and most importantly, doesn't know the rules of the game or that she's part of one in the first place. She doesn't feel like she has any say in whatever "Kris" wants to do and she assumes based on lived experience that all they would want is to equip the thorn ring again. She doesn't know she has to give some eldritch entity their "owed" choice. How would she? So "equip" becomes the only thing we can "choose".

And the worst part? That means we don't make choices for just Kris anymore. They have just as much authority over Noelle. She can't run away even though she desperately wants to. She outstreches her hand for the thorn while begging Kris to stop. We force her to equip the damn thing just as much as we force Kris.

Basically we've gained the same kind of control over Noelle that we have over Kris through the conditioning we put her through in Snowgrave. It was weak at first, but it all but solidified through the thorn ring and the casting of snowgrave. Especially the thorn ring and its "trance". I'm not the first to say that the red dot from the thorn reads like our presence/control powers because of its color.

But now I'm theorizing what that could mean for the story. I've seen some people theorize whether the weird route could be the key to breaking the prophecy since we've surprised Ralsei with some of its events. I think it's gonna be the opposite. Kris clearly knew what was gonna happen to their soul and while the situation is less than ideal for them, they know exactly what kind of authority they have left. Noelle has no idea about anything. And because of chapter 2, she thinks there is only one path ahead of her. If we end up stuck stealing Noelle's "choices" as she sees them instead of Kris's, no one will be in control anymore: not the characters, not the player. All parties will only be able to act as it was foretold in the prophecy.

Plus, there's Ralsei getting worried whenever Noelle's mentioned on the weird route. And the tempting theory that the second hero was supposed to be Noelle and how "love finds it's way to the girl" could be exactly what happens in the weird route. I dunno how to smoothly go back to this but I wanted to mention how this adds another level to Kris's rage in the weird route. If what I said is in any capacity correct, they have every right to not only be furious for undoing all the work they've done to recover from the horrible actions they've been forced to carry out, but to feel straight-up cheated. From their perspective, the player somehow managed to break the rules that were supposed to bind them. From their perspective, Kris had no choices to make (or none were picked? just because we didn't see them doesn't automatically mean they haven't had any), and they were still puppeteered around in a "cutscene" context despite this.

I wonder if this could be the reason for the creepy empty red dialogue box when Susie asks about what they were talking about in Noelle's room. Maybe Kris, still fuming from what happened, used the normally increased influence they have when around Susie to steal that choice from us to effectively say "So you think you get to break the rules, huh? Well, guess I'm not gonna play by the rules anymore either, you bastard."

[bluefox4]

Hey I want to examine something that we are told within the context of this book.

"No," Maria cried. "You don't understand. Chee do not hurt. Chee do not kill. No Chee has ever taken a life." p. 114

Its that idea that Chee do not hurt that I want to look at. Because within Book 10 itself we have some evidence to the contrary. It is indirect harm, but it still counts as harm.

Suddenly, I saw him. He was passing out flyers. He was walking through the crowd and passing out handbills. A breeze caught one of the sheets and it fluttered to the ground in front of me. I forced my dog eyes to look at it. I couldn't read the fine print, but I could see the two big words at the top. The Sharing. The Sharing. The front organization for Controllers. p. 17

Yes, Erek is maintaining his cover of being a Controller, but how many people did he recruit handing out flyers like this? How many humans did he lead to becoming Controllers, voluntary or otherwise? He knows what he is handing out flyers for. He knows because he is pretending to be Controller. And somehow I doubt that he stops people or warns them about what The Sharing really is when they take his flyers and check out the meetings.

They were chasing squirrels, smelling each other, and generally having a great ole dog time. p. 98

Anyone that has ever owned a dog can tell you that those dogs aren't just chasing those squirrels. If they catch them they are killing them. But its not just that the dogs will kill some of those squirrels; but those squirrels are probably very stressed out. These aren't wild squirrels; these are animals brought in for the enrichment of the dogs. They are in an enclosed underground kennel and have no way out. Those squirrels are being harmed. Maybe the Chee aren't harming them directly but they brought them down there. They released the dogs on them.

That's a common thread between the people Erek gives flyers out to and the squirrels underground; they might not be in that situation without the Chee acting as a middle man. The Chee's dog park is underground and the Yeerk Pool is underground; not sure if that is meant to be a connection but its there.

Erek turned off his hologram and became a machine once again. And then the front of his head split open. Inside his steel and ivory head was a chamber, just a few inches in diameter. And inside that chamber was a gray slug, helpless, unable to escape. Tiny wires, no thicker than hairs, wrapped around it. <Yeerk!> Ax hissed. "Yes," Erek said. "The Yeerks believe I am human. I accepted infestation. But of course the Yeerk cannot make a Controller of me. I made a place for him instead. He sees nothing. Knows nothing. I tapped his memory, not the other way around. And now I can pass among the Yeerks like one of them." p. 111-112

Marco even comments on the next page that keeping the Yeerk trapped like that seems harsh. He dismisses it pretty quickly because his other thought is that they have a powerful ally.

But Erek is keeping a sentient being trapped in isolation. Who knows how long that Yeerk has been trapped inside his head. Unable to go to the Yeerk Pool and be with its people. That Yeerk is in a sensory deprivation chamber and who knows what harm that is causing it mentally.

And we know that Erek knew about Marco's mom due to a conversation that they have on page 119. We know he was probably already pretending to be a Controller then since Marco mentions the weird behavior that Erek had at his mother's funeral on pages 31-32. Weather you like the Yeerks or not, that Yeerk has been in a sensory deprivation chamber for at least 2 years. Maybe more.

That is harm; but Erek doesn't think of it as harm. He is keeping the Yeerk alive. He isn't causing harm to its body. Therefore its not harm.

How many Chee do you think have been able to harm others with that logic? They aren't hurting the body so its not hurting them. How often has a Chee signed off on some paper that would give an order for others to cause harm? But they were just the paper pusher so they didn't harm anyone.

And knowing that the Chee have been around for so long on Earth and haven't stopped any of the cruelties? Did they ever try to argue against things or did they just passively go along with the horrors that humans do to each other as long as they didn't pull the trigger? What were they doing in America during the slave trade? The Civil Rights Movement? How about any in Europe during the Holocaust? Chose an event in world history and ask what they were doing. Were there times that they could have saved someone's life and they just didn't do it?

Erek is passing out flyers for The Sharing. Somehow I don't think the Chee were slowing down the gears for any cruelty that humans were inflicting on each other. I somehow don't think that the Chee were doing malicious compliance.

[trans-pickles]

idea that i've been brewing but probs won't have time to write but based off my terrible kieran was part of the gang/it was the o'driscolls that killed eliza and isaac - isaac lives but is raised as an o'driscoll with a sort of paternal relationship with kieran and tries to rescue him from the vdls - which is when arthur finds out he's alive. kieran and arthur awkwardly forced into co-parenting situation and fall in love along the way

tbh it makes sense to me, from what kieran says in game colm is no stranger to pressing prisoners into service. love the idea that it's almost this dark mirror of arthur's situation with dutch, where colm would act like isaac is a son to him but only when he really needs something from him which is actually almost exactly like dutch oops but it's this sort of implicit threat that with the o'driscolls, you pull your weight and make yourself useful, otherwise, you know...

isaac doesn't exactly have anywhere to go so when kieran "joins" he immediately finds a kindred spirit. maybe colm has taught him to shoot and fight and kill, but kieran teaches him about horses and fishing and bird calls. at this point isaac doesn't remember much about arthur. maybe he resents him for leaving him and his mother to die. maybe he kind of holds him on a pedestal and keeps this childish idea that someday his dad is gonna save him but he's starting to get a little too old to believe it as much as he did. maybe it's all just foggy in his mind. either way, after kieran is captured isaac is furious. colm shows no intention of going to save him and isaac is STEAMING when colm has the audacity to say that kieran better not talk.

if colm isn't gonna do something then isaac sure is, so he susses out where the gang is holed up and does his very best to free kieran. but obviously he can't get far with a malnourished and somewhat delirious straggler and he refuses to leave him behind. he's caught obviously, and in the scuffle kieran calls his name, and of course when something goes wrong arthur needs to be called over, and through a whole bunch of shouting (and afterwards, some awkward conversation) everything is pieced together.

isaac being an o'driscoll is kind of what clues them in to the fact that kieran wasn't really lying about not being a huge fan of colm himself. i mean, if they would kill eliza and keep her young son prisoner then they'd certainly keep kieran on after killing his old gang. he gets cut loose without even being threatened with gelding! and by now he's more willing to talk anyway - isaac being under the vdl's protection and thus unable to be caught in the crossfire makes him more willing to sic them on the o'driscolls. he barely even processes the REASON they've suddenly started trusting him until he actually listens to some of the breathless questions arthur is asking as he practically shakes isaac.

as soon as he hears isaac's name arthur is struck with a pang of sadness. but then he sees the kid, does some quick math in his head, remembers how there was only the one grave... it's seeing isaac's face that clinches it for him. dark grey eyes like his mother's, a scowling mouth that must look just like arthur's as he shouts at bill to let him go. arthur realizes just in time that oh yeah, this guy is invading their camp and he's dangerously close to losing his son again so he screams at everyone to put their goddamn guns away and immediately just assaults isaac with a barrage of questions.

it's a very long night for everyone. when everything is cleared up and after arthur has finished crushing isaac in his giant hug he has to accept the fact that someone else raised his kid. he doesn't know whether to resent kieran for having isaac's affection or just be happy that at least in these past few years he's had a better role model than colm (depending how long kieran has been with the o'driscolls... idk what's better, him joining up when isaac is already a teen or him being colm's whipping boy when isaac is first encountered). but arthur of course has to play nice with kieran but he slowly grows to appreciate the calming influence he has on isaac.

kieran for his part is having mixed feelings on actually meeting arthur for the first time. whatever feelings isaac had about arthur, kieran DEFINITELY was told about them. it's odd to finally meet the man in the flesh, especially since he's the one who KIDNAPPED him and threatened to kill him!!! but he kind of starts seeing how hard it is for arthur to accept the whole situation and starts tentatively trying to get closer to him. he doesn't want to... give him pointers, exactly, for fear that arthur will think he's being patronizing, but he'll sort of gently mention things isaac likes, and in turn arthur starts to swallow his pride and seek kieran out for these things.

the funniest thing is isaac seeing the two of them slowly start to get along and realizing exactly what's happening. i imagine he'd get into some kind of parent-trap shenanigans to try to speed things up and they somehow work despite them being horrendously planned.

[evilasiangenius]

A starling flew down, and once more landed on Crowley’s hand.

“I thought you told me to fuck off,” Crowley said to the bird. But then the white-speckled starling began to sing.

The bird had no words for this song, just a melody, but it was one that Crowley had not heard in a long time. The last time he had heard this song of Euripides, Aziraphale had played him a snippet as a quote at supper but then stopped because he said it was too sad and didn’t want to continue. They had ended the evening together as they usually did, talking until past dawn or maybe that was a different night or a different one and did it matter which night it was, when it was with Aziraphale?

Ten years behind, ten years athwart his way Waiting and home, lost and unfriended…

The two angels, fallen and otherwise, gave each other startled looks as the bird sang. It was joined by other birds, slowly, until a great murmuration descended down upon them from the skies, huddled under the protective cover of the courtyard corridor, warbling snippets and pieces of the song from garbled memory. Lost notes, added beats. The trill of a robin, the tap of the chisel upon wood, the rasp of a saw, the liquid burble of water. The chatter of a squirrel. A note, two notes, all a semitone off, the tuning of the scale that the song would have originally been in set adrift upon a heaving sea of sound, sliding on and off its tonal base as if the foundation was cracked and crumbling but the heart of the song remained recognizable.

As the starlings continued to sing it was as if he could feel at once all the words upon his lips.

A rift of the hills, raging with winter rain, Dead and outcast and naked. It is I beside my bridegroom And the wild beasts cry…

Crowley flinched; he had not heard this song in centuries and never this much of it, not since he first saw the play in Athens in the year of the Herm-breaking (which by the way was not his doing, not in the slightest, though he had received commendations for it later). Aziraphale had been there too, they had watched it together in the great theatre in Athens and they had long conversations about this particular play, until Crowley had not wanted to talk about it anymore.

“I think…” Aziraphale began.

“No, it’s fine. I should leave. I’m going to leave.” Crowley moved to duck out from under the corridor, but the starlings did not scatter. They stayed stubborn, blocking his path. The demon snarled in annoyance and threw up his hands, unwilling to exert his infernal will upon the birds to force them to leave.

“It’s still raining,” Aziraphale ventured, though he did not move from where he was standing, white speckled starlings perched all about him, some upon his shoulders, some fluttering in his curling hair as if nesting, another perched on his outstretched hand.

“So? Why is that a problem?”

“Because…because you should stay until the rain stops and things dry out a little. I know you don’t like being cold and wet.”

“Does it matter? Why would it matter?”

“It matters to m–” Aziraphale said, but then paused to think. “It should matter to you. You…should take better care of yourself.”

“Why?”

“B-because it’s virtuous!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “It’s virtuous to take care of oneself!”

“I don’t care about being manly or good or ethical or whatever that word means now.”

“Then…then because otherwise you scare cats. And people,” Aziraphale said.

“Why should I care if I scare cats or people?”

“You scare me too!”

The silence between them was not even broken by the birds who watched them with curious eyes, but slowly, as the two angels fallen and otherwise stood there, unable to find the words with which to address each other, the birds began to leave, one by one, fluttering off in a great white-speckled cloud.

more