#atypical family edit

[ashleyysss]

New SHIP unlock🔓😚❤️❤️

It's just like Damianya bc the girl can read minds🥰😭

[kimgoeun]

The Atypical Family (2024)

[tifa-and-rinoa]

Life isn’t an essay question. It’s multiple choice.

[xbethelight]

The Atypical Family 어로는 아닙니다만 (2024)

[cavernsandcod]

ESPRESSO | Cpt. John Price

─────dad's-best-friend!price x reader

· · ────── ঌ·✦·໒ ─── · ·AO3 VERSION | MY FIC GUIDE

Everyone has a complicated relationship with their father; the good, bad, and the ugly. Just like every complicated adult has their vices to cope with their issues. Drugs, sex, gambling, work, adrenaline— name it, it's been done.

Yours is a bit different: hooking up with your father's best friend.

WARNINGS: mild angst. reader has a shitty dad(—i.e. neglectful, militant), but no depicted abuse. alcohol. strong language. legal age gap (20s/40s). power dynamic. smut. porn with plot. authority kink, d/s. unsafe, risky sex. oral (f+m receiving). dirty talk. praise. petnames. fluff, kind of. fem!reader. not edited. WC: 7.9k

The carousel never stopped growing up.

Each time you got accustomed to a new home, school, or routine, you had to pack your bags and start over.

Your father had a new assignment; another part of the world to risk his life in while your mother did her best��well, her worst—to cope. The loneliness and sleepless nights of worry got to her once you reached double digits in age. Their conversations turned bipolar, either abrasive spats or days of tense silence. You were too young to understand, really, but you got the gist. Only saw her on weekends because she moved hours away to start a new family.

And your father, he never made an effort for much of anything except his career. He received a substantial pay raise for contracts in the UK in your teens and never looked back to ask you how you felt about it.

You, perpetually on the back burner of his mind, were only supplied the basics a child needs. A bed, three meals, and a decent schooling. Sometimes got to tag along with him to work events if you caught him in a good mood.

The uniformed men were always kind, many with children and families of their own. Made you feel safe from the hard conversations you weren’t old enough to understand. Bled some color into the sterile, militaristic surroundings you grew used to.

Even then, you knew your upbringing was atypical. Knew that you shouldn’t get attached to anything because the rug always gets ripped out from under your feet.

Once you reached your teens, school became your only out. If you had any shot of straying from your father's militant footsteps, it became apparent that a good college was the best way. Excessive studying tarnished every fake friendship and social invite you had—but there weren't many of those to begin with.

Dwelling aside, you made it.

All the hours of academics paid off with the reward of a prestigious university. Being away from home and your father was the best part of it all. A mellow roommate, a group of classmates similar to you—and the culture of uni. How startling it was compared to the environment you grew up in.

It's your last year, and summer breaks and holidays still aren’t any easier. Going back home still has that sour taste. Each time you expect welcoming arms and approval, you get a harsh reminder of why you left.

Dressed up. A camouflaged wallflower. Cowering in your father’s shadow, small like you once were.

Countless galas bustling with formal attire and gowns alike, decorated with fairy lights and the low hum of seasonal music. Men and women with chest candy to show their years of sacrifice. Their dry conversations all start to sound the same after twenty minutes.

Logistics, hardship, and embarrassing tales are a poor attempt at humoring the family members sitting at the table. You don’t laugh, don’t smile. Only think about how good the end of this holiday will be when you can return to junk food and mild rebellion.

The weather this time of year is perfect for beers and barbecue, all humid and sweltering. Perpetually smelling of bonfires and chlorine swimming pools.

At least this year you aren’t on display. No blinding lights, no raffle tickets, or overpriced, butter champagne.

It’s not a formal event whatsoever. Just a backyard party hosted by one of your dad’s esteemed colleagues. Already much preferable to the stuffy venue space that leaves you nauseous.

“John’s a good man,” your father told you as you climbed into the truck. If he’s taking a break from talking about himself, you usually listen. “Made himself a Captain. Some of the toughest maggots I’ve seen in years, that lot.” Maybe this John character will be a kinder man than your father. Maybe he’s seen the lengths of his temper. Maybe he’ll be kind to you like the other soldiers.

Is he kind to his own family?

The house is alive when you arrive. People standing in the front, side, and backyard. Children of varying ages roughhouse, running barefoot in the manicured grass, belting out squeals and babbles of excitement.

The smell of meat grilling makes the humidity tolerable. As you enter the backyard, your father makes a beeline for the patio, more eager than you’ve ever seen him.

A pair of broad shoulders overlooks the party, thick biceps bulging from a black tee. The cherry of his cigar shines like the sun beating down on you, a cloud of smoke evaporating each time he puffs. His aura is different to the other men around him; commanding and reserved, standing in a spot against the railing that you know is only his.

It’s only when your father gives him a harsh pat on the shoulder, that you realize this is John—John, the good man.

He cracks a smile in response and returns the gesture, his voice a soothing thunder. John turns and reaches into the open cooler resting beside him, fishes out a beer for your old man. Placating. Giving him a bottle to keep him mellow.

Your father settles into a lawn chair, posture stiff and manicured as ever. Didn’t bother to introduce you around—not while he’s twisting the cap off his only pleasure in life and gulping it down.

You flinch when his eyes move onto you, squinting. It’s only fair considering you’ve been staring. After a beat, he nods his head, mouth curling into a more genuine smile than you saw before. All you can muster is an awkward wave through wide eyes.

Not your best work.

“Oi—“ A voice belts. “Fancy a drink, hen?”

It’s coming in the direction of the plastic buffet tables. The first has bread and toppings, various platters, and the other is decorated with solo cups and pitchers.

The source, a younger man than John, is sitting beside the homemade concessions. He’s easy on the eyes, with charming features, holding a squirming toddler in his arms. She has his eyes and, no doubt, the same feral energy.

“Oh, sure,” he hands you a cup. “You have anything stronger?” You ask, gazing down at the punches and cans of fizz.

“Afraid not.” He dodged a headbutt by the skin of his teeth, shushing her. “Cap’n has all the good stuff.”

“I see,” you take a small sip, allowing the pure sugar to coat your tongue. ”Well, thanks anyways.” He turns his head to the side to mutter something to her, and you spot a smear of sprinkles and icing. You raise your index to point at his cheek, “you have a little something.“

He swipes it, giving his daughter a look of intense betrayal. “Wee menace—“ he bounces her, blowing a raspberry onto her stomach, “ah told ye not to get into the cake!” She squeals, little flip-flops kicking through the air.

You chuckle against the plastic rim of your solo cup and step away from the chaotic mess.

Working the grill is possibly the most formidable man you’ve ever seen, still wearing a hoodie despite the heat.

Standing beside him is a still muscular but leaner man who’s dressed appropriately. A tank top and shorts showing off healthy, bronze skin, his hands nursing a mixed drink. He clatters into the ear of the big one flipping sausages and patties, leaning in and throwing jabs.

(You decide to skip on a plate since the man you’d have to ask for one looks like he’ll devour you whole—)

The punch is gone and the red cup turns weightless in your grip. Watching your father talk the Captain’s ear off, all smirks and happy-go-lucky makes you want a taste of the good stuff he supposedly has.

You trudge the wooden steps of the porch and keep your head down. Embarrassing yourself in front of your father is one thing, and you’ve done it many times. But doing that in front of the smoking-hot SAS-Captain isn’t as easy to choke down.

“Ah, sweetheart, c‘mere!” Your dad’s voice greets you, foreign in its softness. Sweetheart? Since when? “Come say hello to John. He is your host after all, eh?”

You nod before stepping closer, standing before the two sitting men. As you shift your focus to the man of the hour, your stomach clenches. He’s hotter up close.

“Hello.” It’s simple. Perhaps too much. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

John only stares, a light expression on his face. His thighs, thick and muscular, are spread wide in the patio chair. The bottle he’s been nursing is in between them, resting at the crotch of his denim. Two of his thick fingers caress the bottle neck, toying with it until you can’t help but track it.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? It’s my pleasure.” He responds, showing a half-smirk. You can tell his gears are turning, but can’t figure what about. Suddenly, the silence feels too heavy, and he tosses back the last of his beer—gathering himself.

“Call me John, love. It’s not sir here.” His assertiveness comes naturally, but it is not unkind. The faux confidence in your posture shrivels even more.

“Right. Sorry.” You swallow.

He chuckles, sprinkling some warmth to the tension. “No need for sorry either. Didn’t know better.”

“I tell you what, Cap’n—“

Your father’s voice soils the moment, slurring and obnoxious. It seems to startle the both of you. The Captain’s blues shift to him, his jaw clenching.

“She’s never that polite with me—her own old man. I tell ya, respect is a dying breed with these brats—“

The longer he rambles, reeking of liquor and disdain, you tune him out. Try to calm yourself down before the spell you’re caught in shows in front of all these people. The porch feels small as if it’s groaning and sinking under the weight of your dysfunction. Your cheeks are burning, your chest is starting to heave, hands are shaking—

“I, uh, need to use the washroom.” The words are a blurt; crude, disrespectful, ungrateful. “Is it—?” You point an index toward the screen door beside them, already peering inside at your escape.

“Down the hall, take a left,” John answers, eyes full of knowing scrutiny; you can’t tell if it’s toward you or your kin.

You step inside his home, feeling at ease without all the outside noise. It’s remarkably clean—some of the furniture even appears handcrafted. Wood floors, freshly polished and with minimal scuffs. Sparse picture frames, mostly of the same men you saw out there, posing in formation and nearly unrecognizable. The rest of the home is antiquated and fully furnished, but still lacking any clues to the man’s true personality. He’s probably not here enough to let it show. This place is merely a bed and desk between foreign lines and blazing bullets.

You decide to skip the left.

You ascend the L-shaped staircase to your right, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you won’t be caught snooping. This isn’t your house, your place, nor your crowd—and somehow the distraction of an alluring stranger’s home is more lulling than your own. Things that don’t belong to you aren’t weighed down by baggage and bad memories. They serve as an escape.

The washroom door is ajar when you pass it, creeping further down the hall with your head on a swivel. It’s wrong and you know it, but your feet don’t stop. Floorboards creak and groan once you make it to the end of the hall. A bedroom, a linen closet, a storage room. Nothing spectacular.

The first door left closed catches your eye.

To your surprise, it isn’t locked. You push it open silently and shuffle inside, dabbing at your eyes with your shirt. The fireplace on the back wall is unlit, two bookshelves on either side, stacked full with thick hardcovers. Beams of sunlight shine across the desk in the middle, sleek and lacking clutter. Only pens and a few files that don’t make sense to you. All the drawers have a keyhole, preventing you from trudging any deeper.

Sunlight casts warmth on your arms and legs, finally giving you the boost to catch your breath. Instead of falling further, you lose yourself in all of John’s distractions. There are more photos up here, on the mantles. Still the same men, in pubs and restaurants alike worldwide, throughout the years of their relationship.

John is clean-shaven in the first one, a stern but youthful glow to his face. Tan camo gear, a background of sand and humvees. Your thumb skims over the thick Sharpie scribble in the corner: Lieutenant Jonathan Price, circa 2009.

Somehow, you like him better now; salt and pepper, bourbon-breathed, a toned tummy turned soft—

“Find something you like, love?”

Fuck. Your nervous system goes haywire, body rigid. Frozen in place like a rabbit sensing a predator to avoid becoming dead prey.

“I’m really sorry,” you squeak, setting the framed photo back in its spot. “I was just—” His footsteps are slow, but loud enough for you to hear. He’s heading for the honey-stained cellarate beside the door. He kicks it closed before you can run for the stairs and beg your dad to let you drive him home.

“No more apologies.” The cork pops when he removes it, pouring himself a healthy glass of what looks like an aged whiskey. A deep amber swirling in his grip, glinting in the beams of summer. “Doing a bit of snooping instead of joining the party? Now, that’s curious.”

Cuticles tear when you bite at them, unsure of where to go. The door is closed. You feel like you’re in trouble. John is settling into a chair, getting comfortable. His tone reeks of disdain and ambiguity, impossible to peace together.

“I wasn’t snooping, really, I only wanted a break. I didn’t even want to come to this party either.” You explain, rounding the desk without getting any closer. “No offense.”

He chuckles. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. ‘S not exactly your crowd, I’m sure.”

You hike a brow, “what do you mean by that?”

The ice clinks as he sips. “Don’t know, dove. Bar crawls? Street fights? Speed dating? You tell me.”

“I don’t—” You huff, fighting a smile. “I don’t do things like that. All I have time for is studying.” It sounds pathetic to say it out loud, but deep down, it doesn’t feel that way, and only you know why. Anything to keep from home.

He looks pleased, sprinkling a crumb onto that constant fear of being in trouble. “I know. He told me all about it. Though, I sense I’m more supportive of your studies than he is.” Another swig empties the glass and he stands to refill it.

For some reason, you feel the need to come to his defense. He’s a shitty dad. Your shitty dad—whom you’ve known longer than John, since birth. “He’s not… like that. It just takes awhile for him to come around, I guess. My father is—”

“—A prick?”

Can’t argue with that. “We’re complicated. And it’s hardly your business.”

“He made it mine, he’s at my home.”

Four steps closer. A wide body cloaking yours. You can’t move. “Especially when his daughter would rather be hiding in a stranger’s home than around him.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” you deflect, crossing your arms and tucking your chin. “I needed some air.”

“Been crying too, by the looks of it.” He pinches your jaw, forcing you to turn it back toward him. “Too sweet for all of it. And too smart. Not a bratty bone in your body.” It works because you know he’s right, and somehow standing before him, being steered by his hands feels right.

You close your eyes when his breath fans over your face. His voice is soft thunder, drowning out the rainfall of voices in the yard. “Here, have a sip.”

This should be wrong. No, it is wrong. Still, you nod your head and wait for the rim to reach your parted lips.

It’s pungent. A sharp punch to the nose. Your nose crinkles, mouth starting to frown as if you’ve never tasted liquor. Whatever he has is clearly a different league than the kegs at uni.

“Hm, I figured,” John leans back to finish the drink off, muscles growing looser by the second. “Suppose that means you were telling the truth, then.”

“I was.” Unconsciously, you open your eyes and find yourself leaning closer to breathe him in.

John reaches around you to set the empty glass down, fingers dancing close to your waist before closing in. He notices the hitch in your breathing, the clench of your jaw muscles, and most of all the fight inside yourself.

“It’s okay to like it, love. Just don’t want to see you sad, is all.” The tip of his nose burrows into your hair, the free hand holding the back of your head. “Gonna let me help you, doll?”

You nod again, head spinning. And that seems to be all it takes. Something once tucked neat below the surface unleashes so violently that you feel it.

The cracks widen. He grips your jaw, lips latching onto the apple of cheek and trailing until he reaches your mouth. The beginning is a tiptoe that abruptly turns messy and feverrant.

The levee breaks. Your tailbone hits the back edge of the large desk, digging into it. You wince against his maw, beckoning two large hands to lift you onto it. The part of your thighs widens, his pelvis nestled between the crux of them.

The waves pull you under. You moan into the kiss, muffled and pitiful. The pressure of his erection is just right against your clothed pussy.

His name spills—a desperate plea for more that he stifles.

“Shh.” John soothes, pulling the hem of his shirt until it’s left untucked. The kiss breaks with a wet pop. “We’ll need to be quiet, lovey. Our secret.”

Love; there it is again, sodden with need.

Your hips shift when he leans forward to suckle on your clavicle, teetering close to your breasts without giving in.

“I need,” you whisper, “need more. Please.”

He tuts. Something that says patience. Be a good girl. It’s the perfect high pitched frequency to rewire the clutter in your brain. When he starts to slither lower, working your tank top off, you have wholeheartedly forgotten why you were upset in the first place.

Your nipples pebble from the air conditioning, growing erect through the thin fabric of your bra. They beg for relief from the chaffing—and he begs to feast on them.

“You wanted me to see these today, didn’t you? Perfect fucking tits.” John probes, snapping the strap against your shoulder with his hand. His hot, whiskey breath fans across your cleavage as he unfastens it.

They drop without the support—essentially hanging fruit for a man starved. Sweet and full of life on his tongue.

He suckles until his tongue grows tired leaving a trail of saliva in its way, but the fire in his blues remains ablaze. You gasp when he pulls you off the oak, a hand on the nape of your neck to herd you.

You’re facing it now, slowly tilting down until your tits are smushed against his workspace. Your upper half shivers against it, teeth biting into your bottom lip in anticipation. His fingers dig into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them, and your panties, down to your ankles in one go.

When the breeze settles onto your bare ass, you wait for the feeling of hips against it. To feel the prod of a thick cock against your entrance. For him to slam inside you without preamble, splitting you open and pounding you sore.

Instead, you feel his weight shift. A hot mouth between your thighs, two big hands pulling your cheeks apart to get a view of your pussy. It quivers, already glistening without any touch.

You let out a sharp gasp when he dives in. No time wasted with kitten licks or long, wet stripes along your inner thighs. He shakes his head when his tongue is fucking you, oscillating until you fight a cry.

“Fuck—!” You yell, muted by your gritted teeth.

He hums, and it feels like a vibrator pressed against your clit. “Even sweeter down here, sweetheart.” John’s words are muffled, as if tearing himself away would cause him death.

The captain shifts from your hole to your swollen clit. He laps at the puffy bead, suckling each time you let out a whimper for something more—already knowing exactly what you need from him. Letting you take it from him.

“My sweet girl,” Price mumbles against your sex, gently spreading it open with his thumb. “You just need to cum. Just needed your pussy played with a bit, eh? ‘S that right?”

Your brain turns haywire. Yes, yes, yes. He’s right. That’s what you need—

You can’t answer, not with words. All you want is for that coil in your tummy to snap. It would only take a few more seconds.

He latches again, hallowing his cheeks until slick pools between his lips. The bundle of nerves in your abdomen gives way, off the edge of the cliff in an instant.

Everything stops. Your legs wobble, a drooling mouth agape against the back of your hand, eyes rolling to the back of your head. The only reason he rips himself away is the fear of you falling too deep, growing too loud for any of his to remain discreet.

He can’t toy with you today. Can't push the limits, no matter how tempting it is.

His zipper interrupts the ringing in your ears, forcing you to gather yourself. He isn’t done and you don’t want him to be. You want, no, need more of him, whether you faint afterward or not because he’s too much to handle. The logistics of it don’t matter right now.

“Do you feel it, love?” He peels down the waistband of his briefs, pressing his hard cock against your pussy, gathering the arousal. It feels big—but you knew that when you first saw him. Already had expectations for what it might be like, and though you can’t see it, you know you were right.

“Gonna fuck you now.” His voice grows hard, an arm snaking across your belly to raise you up again. The thought of being moved makes you whimper impatiently. You want him now, bent over his desk as you were.

Despite the haste in his actions, you can tell there is a purpose to him readjusting you.

Your gaze lands on a bare chest. He must’ve taken his shirt off at some point behind you. Slowly, your head dips down to take a gander. John pumps his cock, using the slick he collected for a smooth, repetitive glide.

It curves upward toward his stomach, girthier at its base. Dirty-blond curls conceal some of it, conjoined with his happy trail.

The reddened tip leaks pre-cum that you want to taste. But, selfishly, you only want him to give in and put his dick inside you for being good. His mouth was only a lick of what you know he can give.

He stays true to his word, scooting you closer so his stomach presses against yours. Your legs hug his waist, spread wide to let him take his spot.

“Need you facing me.” The tip notches against your entrance, barely pressing inside. You yelp, sucking in a breath. “See? ‘M too big for you to stay quiet, baby.”

Your hole remains snug, but still eases him in, making room for what your cunt wants. It's too much to choke down without noise. “I can’t- They’ll hear us—“

“That’s why you’re looking at me, pretty. So I can help you. Just need you to trust me, alright?” You nod your head, eyes shifting from his cock to meet his. To trust him.

He raises a hand, clamping it over your mouth with a vice grip. His hips start to move, pushing forward until his pelvis is flush with yours, balls deep.

You squeal against his palm, cunt filled to the brim, womb being butted. She aches, fighting the sheer size of it, welding the pleasure and pain of every shallow thrust.

You want him to take it slow, but you’d only beg for more if he did that.

“That’s it,” he groans, mouth against your ear. The other hand digs into the fat of your hip, leaving indents in its wake. “Just take it for me so you feel better, sweet girl.”

His pace quickens into calculated ruts, causing your muffled noises to grow in intensity. Every drag of his cockhead inside you lulls you closer to that addictive ecstasy. His tongue was surface-level, playful, and exhilarating, nothing compared to the deep den of primal need. Something you ached for the first time you saw him whether you knew it or not.

Someone enters the house downstairs, dishes clattering, and John looks at it as incentive. Both hands tighten as an anchor for deeper, sharper thrusts that send the penholder and paper weight cascading to the floor. “Can feel you getting tighter, love,” he groans, stubble and breath tickling your ear. “You want to cum all over my cock—all stuffed full?”

You nod while slobbering on his mitt.

The air punches from your lungs with each jolt inside your pussy. The coil tightens again, snared and full of tension. Instead of jabbing, he reduces his pace to slow grinds along the front wall of your cunt, massaging the spongy spot that makes your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

His head lifts from the crook of your neck to meet them.

“Just—fucking—need to cum, baby.” John stutters, a drunk expression that warrants the lazy movements in his pelvis. “Ah, shit—Do it for me. Be good.” He holds on for you; bites the inside of his cheek until he bleeds.

The muscles in your stomach throb, your spine goes weak. A warbled cry expels into his flesh when you gush around him, knees shaking against his sides. All the tension you carried downstairs seems to vanish for a moment. The consequences of being caught look meaningless. Giving in, inviting rebellion feels like something you can live with.

Your eyes flutter open, brows furrowed as he shifts his focus onto his own pleasure. All you need to do is keep still and take it. Be the good girl he knows you are.

He pulls out, leaving you empty and clenching around his absence. Subtle, slick sounds echo through the office as he grinds against your pussy, bumping into your clit.

His hand does the rest of the work, squeezing the base until he sputters, leaving fingerprint bruises on your hip.

You feel the ropes of cum paint the outside of your cunt, his mouth latching onto yours as he rides through it. “So messy.” He whispers, stubble harsh against your lips.

Your legs and posture drop as he pulls away, tucking his cock back into his briefs. You don’t feel regretful, only tired and in need of a cold shower.

“You go downstairs first.” He instructs, lifting you off the desk. After finding your shirt, he slips it over your head, leaving your bra somewhere tossed aside. After, he kneels, dangerously close to the mess he made, he helps you step into your panties and shorts again, hiding the evidence.

The fabric sticks to you, full of cum and sweat. Your legs throb and wobble without the support of the desk beneath you, the spend costing them causing them to stick. “Get yourself a plate, too. Can’t have you passing out, can we?”

“O-okay.” You, utterly stunned, aren’t sure what else to say.

His lips find your sweaty temple, hand splayed across your heaving tummy. “Be good.”

The descent downstairs is slow and just short of shameful. You aren’t sure of what you’ll say if anyone asks questions.

Hopefully there’s a snug corner you can tuck yourself into.

Months pass before you see John again.

The music pounds your eardrums. People are yelling over it. Bodies slam into you.

It’s the night of your grad party, surrounded by fake friends and alcohol. You lost track of the only decent one you came here with. A few minutes pass when you stare at her text, explaining why. She got bored and decided to bar hop in the city with her guy. Shit.

Your vision ebbs and blurs and you wonder if you should have joined her. This isn’t your element. This isn’t safe. This house is unfamiliar. How are you getting back to your dorm?

You never do this, never stop being the rational one in the group. Always the designated driver who holds a buzz while your friends get hammered. Yet, here you are, holding onto a bannister so you don’t faceplant. As you thumb through your contacts, you wager the options in your head about who to call.

A family member—you’d rather die.

One of your classmates—either here with you, or asleep.

The SAS Captain you fucked within earshot of all his collegues and your dad after he caught you hiding in his home office—now that’s promising. And somehow less humiliating.

You giggle against the wood grain when you click his name, feeling the sway of the alcohol on your decisions, remembering the euphoria of that day. He’s probably asleep, too. A text might be better. Otherwise, his name will continue to collect dust in your phone.

—heyyy

—are you awake captain?

He reads it after a few seconds.

I am, sweetheart. Why are you texting me?—

You pout, as if he’s here to see it.

—i missed you and i thought it was past ur bedtime

—hehe

Call me now.—

You don’t call him.

Why should you? He’s being a proper sourpuss about a little joke—

The screen flashes with his name and it takes a few moments before you can figure it out. Stumbling to your feet so you can walk outside, you cover one ear and raise the phone to your ear.

“Sweetheart.” It sounds more like a scold than a greeting.

Keys jingle on the other line, a car door opening. “Where are you?” John’s unmistakable voice flows through.

Your shoe scuffs against the pavement, balance off as you look for a street sign. Somehow, he’s able to make out the address you stutter through. Luckily, you aren’t too far out from his place because you won’t be upright much longer.

You lower yourself onto the curb and tuck in your knees, eyes drooping from intoxication. “Am I in trouble?”

Your voice is weak, half-genuine but his is neither. “No, love. I just need you to stay where you are until I come get you. Alright?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, plucking out blades of grass. “I’ll stay.”

The call ends.

You sit there for longer than you can keep track of. The muffled bass keeps you awake even though you’re fighting it. Knowing you will see John again is motivating, too, but it’s unsure if he’s going to be warm. It’s an extremely unlikely way to reconnect with an old hookup.

An engine grows louder, tires crunching gravel through the ringing in your ears. The brakes squeal, a car door closes, boots enter your swaying sightline.

You lift your head from your lap and chew on your lip when you meet his gaze, feigning innocence. “Mr. Price?” You know who it is.

“C’mon. Get up.” His brows furrow, not giving you the time to follow his commands. Instead, he cups your upper arm and pulls you up, leading you toward his car. The other hand holds the back of your head, shoving it to the center of his chest in case you manage to fall. A few scrapes is better than a drunken head wound.

“‘M not supposed to get in the car with strange men.” Your feet drag, ankles bobbing, but his hold on you doesn’t budge.

“Cute.” John retorts, unamused as he opens the passenger door. “But I think we’re past strangers.”

With ease, he lifts your body into the seat, tucking in your feet and then forcing your hands into your lap. When he leans over you to buckle the seatbelt, you lick your lips and smirk at him, shamelessly breathing in his cologne.

“You think I’m,”—you hiccup—“cute?”

John draws back and pauses, skimming your features with a clenched jaw. Decides not to negotiate with you right now.

“We’ll talk in the morning.” Your door closes.

As you slump against the window, your eyes follow his speed-walk around the vehicle to climb inside, and how abruptly he puts it in drive and takes off. After that, most of it is a blur of neighborhoods and headlights that you’re too out of it to pay attention to.

The trudge inside his place is bits and pieces. There’s a constant hand on the small of your back, up the stairs until you reach the bedroom. His bedroom. You only saw a glimpse back at the party—masculine, simple, and neat. Two hands on your shoulders steer you toward the bed until you lower onto it.

John digs through his dresser, pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Arms up.”

You raise them, and he pulls off the sweaty one you’re wearing, and then your bralette. His shirt is more breathable by far, perpetually smelling of him. You toy with the hem as he reaches for your jeans, tugging them off each leg methodically. “Can’t sleep in these, can you?” The captain mumbles, more to himself. “Probably not the shoes, either.” Those are next, tossed onto the armchair with your clothes.

You chortle, cheeks hot. “I like your clothes.”

“Yeah? Then stay right there.” He turns away and enters the bathroom, returning with a small cup that he extends.

You stare at it, puzzled and hesitant. When you cock a brow, he sighs. “Mouthwash. You smell like a distillery, and I reckon you’ll fall over before we can brush your teeth.”

You toss it back, relying on muscle memory to swish it around your cheeks before spitting it back into the cup. The minty aftertaste is miles better than the remnants of your last syrupy, mixed drink.

“Nauseous?” He returns to the bedroom, peeling off his belt and jeans. “Tell me the truth.”

You shake your head and that seems to burn the energy you have left. The world tilts on its axis.

John huffs when you fall over, cheek squished against his navy bedspread. If he weren’t in such a sour mood, he might appreciate the sight a bit more. Instead, he grabs a throw blanket and drapes it over your crumpled frame before climbing in next to you. One arm snakes around your waist to keep you secure and the other supports your head in case you start to roll, or vomit in the middle of sleeping.

You don’t vomit in the morning.

You have a hellacious headache in place of an alarm, however. The body pressed against you throughout the night is gone and you’re shivering now. With a groan, you climb off the bed and follow the noise.

The bathroom door isn’t shut completely. You can see his shadow moving under it, the sound of him brushing his teeth and spitting out the excess.

“John?” You frown from the bright light when you push the door open. “How am I here?” That question reminds you of how you ended up here��actually, that you can’t remember the answer. All you can do is rely on hope that he was responsible enough to not have sex with you when he brought you home.

“A few texts.” He answers, placing his toothbrush back in its cup. “That’s how.”

“Did we… we didn’t—?”

“No,” he shakes his head, expression stern. “Believe it or not, love, I have a conscience.”

You can finally breathe. “Good.” Your shoulders drop, posture relaxing. “I mean, you were mindblowing, but— I’m glad we didn’t.”

The flattery gets you nowhere; John walks past you and you can feel the cloud that follows him. It makes the air thick.

Though all you want to do is sleep, you follow him with furrowed brows. “Are you mad at me for something? Whatever I said, I was drunk. A-and you didn’t have to come get me. I would’ve asked… I don’t know, someone, for a ride home.”

“I doubt that.” John argues, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You were seconds from passing out when I got there, too shitfaced to stand. You’re lucky nothing bad happened.”

Frankly, you’re offended. No, you don’t get out much, nor have you ever been that drunk without a ride. But this spat isn’t remotely fair.

“I know that. I’m not an idiot.” You roll your eyes, pulling his shirt over your head.

Like an asshole, he does that cocky, knowing half-smile. “That’s my point. You’re not stupid, sweetheart.” Despite the heat in his words, his eyes comb over the sight of your bare chest, then the swell of your ass when you bend to grab your jeans.

With your back turned, literally, you are fully intent on ignoring the domineering lecture you know is coming. It’s not his place. You just need to get home and forget about the whole thing.

“Don’t get dressed yet.” His feet shuffle closer. “We aren’t done.”

You scoff, refusing to turn around. “Or what? You’ll lecture me about safe drinking, Mr. Price?”

A dark cloud casts over your bare body in an instant. Two hands clamp onto your shoulders and spin you. Then, a rough palm shoves you onto the mattress. “I’m not doing this with—”

You let out a yelp, hands digging into the comforter. A flame of arousal flickers in your belly and it wages war with frustration. “This isn’t funny to me, John. My head hurts—”

“Shut your mouth. It won’t do you any favors.” The bed creaks when he sinks a knee into it, one before the other to hover on top of you. John’s eyes singe into every inch of your skin, hands beginning to roam. “Besides, I thought it was Mr. Price, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, sincerely regretting your choice to be snarky. “I-I wasn’t…”

“No?” His thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, stilling when your hips buck upward. “Hm, I suppose ‘sir’ is better, anyhow. Easier for you to remember.”

When your mouth opens, he tuts and brings the hand up to your chest. Too far from where you need him to touch you. It’s been too long since you felt it. Stale memories aren’t enough to get off to. None of your toys do the trick. And the blokes your age are clumsy and inconsiderate—nothing like John.

“Though your pretty head might not remember it,” he licks a nipple, teeth barely grazing it until you shutter. “I said we’d talk in the morning.”

You whine and reach for his belt, but he swats the back of your hand harsh enough for your knuckles to sting.

“Ah-ah— you want it? Want my cock inside you?” He asks, almost deceptively sweet. “Be polite.”

Your throat bobs when you swallow your pride, feeling every ounce of dignity drain from your bloodstream. “I want your in me cock. Please.”

He tilts his head like he’s truly thinking about it. Every second feels a lifetime. His index adjusts a strand of hair sticking to your cheek, sluggish enough to count as torture.

“Much better.” John leans down, pecking your lips a few times. “‘M gonna give it to you now.”

Relief washes over you with a shaky breath. You start to think this will go by quick, that a rough fuck will be all it takes for him to forgive you. One that you’ll enjoy probably too much, but God, all you want is for him to fill you—

“Up.” He fists the hair on top of your head, firm enough to make you raise it. “Follow my hand.”

You gape at him with wet eyes, lip all but quivering. You should be whining from the stretch of him, knees tucked as close to your chest as they’ll go—but instead, you’re sitting up and unsure of why.

It takes a slow blink for him to put a foot on the bed and feed his tip toward your lips. Circling them with it until they part enough for him to slip inside. Despite months of fantasizing about having his cock down your throat, you feel tricked.

“Easy. There we go. Hold onto me.” You grip his thighs tight, tilting your head forward. Halfway inside the warm, wet chasm of your mouth, his eyes flutter shut with a satisfied groan.

”Fuck— you’re bloody perfect.” It’s a new, soon-to-be addiction. He starts to pump his hips cautiously, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex.

Tears prick in your eyes as your throat fights to allow him space in it. You gag when he pushes deeper, giving his thigh a light squeeze, not a full-stop.

He pulls out, gripping the base of his glistening cock. “I-I thought—“ You stutter, voice hoarse. “You said you’d give me your cock, John.”

The hand in your hair tightens, enough for your scalp to start screaming. You whine from the mild pain and he reneges, stroking your temple to keep you dazed.

“Try again, sweetheart. Use your head.” After a beat of silence, you gather the pieces missing. Begin to anticipate what will warrant one of his firm corrections.

“I told you what I wanted, Sir.” It’s the correct answer—you can tell. Your neck is already sore, the agitated muscles putting a damper on your speech. “T-that I wanted your cock inside me. You promised you would—“

“Oh, baby.” His voice softens, less militant and more condescending. The hand on his cock starts to pump slowly, spit coating his fingers.

“I said I’d put my cock in you, but I didn’t say where, eh?” The tip prods at your mouth again and it opens on instinct.

You gulp, desperation breeding. Arguing is futile.

He goes deeper than before, easing through every gag and cough until your throat opens. “Your mouth is just as good isn’t it, baby? You can cum from this?” You won’t. And he damn well knows it.

The shift to rhetorical and demeaning feels like something you should hate. He’s been mean for the sake of it; playing with his slab of meat before devouring it.

With your eyes closed, it’s not as agonizing. You focus on the sounds he makes and keeping your teeth from getting in the way. Every grunt and groan makes your pussy clench around nothing. Makes you want to slither a hand between your legs for relief.

“‘M gonna cum, sweetheart. Keep still—“ he retracts with a wet pop, jerking himself off with only the tip being warmed. Your tongue rolls over the slit, nails digging into his hip bones to egg him on.

His fist balls on top of your head when he comes, costing the roof of your mouth and inner lips in hot, milky spurts. “Fuck, mmfph—“

John loosens the grip, finally allowing your head to rest. His mouth meets yours, tongue lapping at the inside of it despite the remnants of his climax still on your tastebuds. Before you lean back again, he works at your soaked panties, nearly ripping the cheap fabric when he rids them.

After all that, you’re practically buzzing with anticipation. Whining into every kiss. Gripping onto him like he’ll run away. Grinding your pussy through thin air.

“Gonna fuck you now, pretty. Like I promised.” He pecks your collarbone. “Turn over for me.”

With his hands steering you, you’re facing the bed in an instant, staring at the backs of your hands digging into the sheets. You arch your back, putting your head down, but he stills you with a gentle pat on the hip.

“All the way down, love. On your tummy.” It’s unusual, but definitely more comfortable than bending your spine. As you shift off onto forearms, he sets a pillow underneath the spot of your pelvis, elevating your ass.

You can tell it’s a calculated move to drive you mad. The soft arch of your back, how he’s going to drape his entire body on you and crane his hips toward that special spot.

Weight settles across your entire back, a cock head finding your hole. You wiggle your hips and he breathes through a laugh, easing inside you smooth as butter.

He doesn’t waste time, not like before. The stretch is seamless, an instant pleasure that flows to the plug of your womb.

“S-so deep. Mm— fuck.” You moan into the pillows, mouth agape.

His cock bullies for its spot in your guts, deeper than it was the last time. He leans closer, fingers slipping across your belly to massage your clit. The other drapes over your tits, his body forcing you into a bear hug from behind.

“I missed being inside you, sweet girl,” his hip bones bite into your ass, balls flush with it. Every drag of them makes your eyes roll, working the places inside you that have never been abused. “Taking my cock so well.”

The rough pads of his fingers swirl around your clit as he fucks you into the mattress, hearing sounds he couldn’t before. But now, every thrust earns a sharp, overstimulated moan from your lips that he’ll savor; to keep him warm when he’s away.

“‘m gonna cum, don’t stop.” Your voice raises an octave, a fire burning in your stomach. The headboard slams against the wall as he quickens the pace, abusing the aching spot that worked so well before.

You come with a shaky moan, coating his dick in a slick that drips down his inner thighs. Sweat poured from your skin, muscles taut and overworked.

You go limp beneath him, relying on his hold to keep your head from dropping. “Almost there, baby—“ Baby. There it is again, only desperate. “Just keep t-taking what I give you.”

Instead of thrusting, he slows and begins circling his cock inside you, grinding his pelvis into the fat of your ass. “Fuck, fuck. M’filling you up this time.” He mutters into the side of your head, unintelligible.

Your vision blurs, body jolting forward when he stills inside you. Spurts of cum coat the inner walls of your cunt as he slumps forward, bracing himself with both palms on the bed now.

You can breathe once he eases up, panting like a dog into your neck. “You’re perfect.” John’s lips feather against your ear before he shifts beside you.

Your pulse begins to slow, limbs jelly, and therefore useless in leaving anytime soon.

“I think I hate you.” You mutter into the sticky skin on your wrist, curling onto your side to face him.

His lips curve upward, slightly impressed. “I’ve heard that before.” He does the same, scooting close so you can lean against his heart. “How’s the headache?”

“Gone.” You reply, begrudgingly.

“Hm. Suppose you should get out of here, then.” John teases, while making no effort to move or let go of you. “Just a few steps and you’d be out of my hair. Easy peasy.”

You huff, fighting exhaustion. “Please stop talking.”

He chuckles hard enough for your head to jiggle against his chest. “Only because you asked me so nicely, lovie.”

[meizze-art]

✨ Morally Colour-Coded Characters + Neurodivergence & Personality Traits 🧠

Hogwarts Legacy Edition 🪄

* DISCLAIMER: This analysis isn’t meant to be an absolute truth, but rather a personal and SPECULATIVE interpretation of these characters. You’re welcome to share your own perspective too! ❤️

🩶 MORALLY GREY: Sebastian Sallow

Driven by devotion and desperation, ruined by impulse.

Deeply compassionate and empathetic at heart, but his inability to regulate his impulses and accept limits make him dangerous.

He unconditionally protects those he loves (especially Anne), even if it means defying every rule, law, or moral boundary.

🧠 Sebastian's Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- ADHD (Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder), but predominantly Hyperactive-Impulsive type: his restless energy is reflected in his quick mood swings and impulsive tendency to act without full consideration, especially during confrontations or tense situations. His hyperactivity isn’t only physical but mental as well: he’s constantly thinking, researching, and driven by an insatiable curiosity, especially about the Dark Arts and forbidden knowledge. This impulsivity also affects his relationships: when overwhelmed or frustrated, he sometimes dismisses his best friend Ominis and his advice, and places conditional trust in MC, revealing dangerous secrets and teaching unforgivable spells because he needs MC's help to pursue his own goal, a cure for his sister Anne (however, by the end of his quest, this utilitarian mindset shifts into genuine appreciation and respect).

These behavioural patterns are commonly associated with ADHD. Due to reduced sensitivity or availability of dopamine receptors in certain brain areas, he tends to seek novelty and intensity as a form of compensation, often manifested as impulsive decisions, risk-taking, and nonstop mental activity.

- CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) features: rooted in his traumatic family background and personal losses. Also, the curse affecting his sister Anne fuels his deep-seated and sometimes irrational hatred towards the goblins he believes responsible. This trauma might manifest in intense emotional reactions, guardedness, and difficulties fully trusting others.

- Mild Oppositional Defiant traits: occasionally resists authority or social expectations.

- Giftedness?: demonstrates strong magical aptitude, intellectual curiosity and problem-solving skills.

Fandom whisper: “He’s a red flag you’d proudly wave at the Quidditch Cup”

🟢 MORALLY GREEN: Ominis Gaunt (to me, he’s the most psychologically complex character, so grab a drink, this is going to be a long one)

On the surface, he is polite and composed, but beneath that lies a fierce moral conviction, deep compassion, and the quiet courage to stand firm for what’s right and against violence and dark paths. He's determined to break free from his toxic legacy and refuses to become like them.

His introversion is a shield, but also a prison. Blindness isn’t just a physical limitation, he fears his own helplessness, his limits, and how easily he could be manipulated when left behind by the ones he truly loves.

🧠 Ominis' Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- *ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 1) ❤️: he presents a strong attachment to a strict moral code and routines. His communication style is direct and serious, he rarely engages in sarcasm or jokes. He reacts with visible anxiety to unexpected changes or tense situations, often accompanied by repetitive self-soothing body language. Some of his behaviours (like sitting alone on the floor in a busy area deeply absorbed in his thoughts) might be perceived by others as disruptive or socially atypical.

But despite his rigid mindset, he’s not emotionally invulnerable. He also shows signs of emotional shutdown under relational pressure. When it comes to his best friend Sebastian, all that structure collapses, choosing emotional self-preservation (connection) over his values and principles (conviction), e.g., when he allows MC to cast Imperius on him to avoid damaging his bond with his best friend, or when he breaks down crying over the decision to turn Sebastian in or not... he’d rather lose control than lose Sebastian (did you notice Ominis’ face during the end-of-year ceremony when you choose to turn in Sebastian? The sadness in his expression makes the whole scene truly devastating).

* While some behaviours could also be linked to childhood trauma (CPTSD), the consistency and subtle rigidity in his responses (along with self-soothing actions, deep moral conviction, sharp emotional intuition, difficulty with social flexibility and emotional shutdown under pressure) hint to me at possible neurodivergence as well (ASD).

- CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder): including symptoms such as emotional dysregulation, hypervigilance, difficulties trusting others and problematic attachment patterns with his elitist family due to a childhood marked by coercion and fear tied to dark magic and an obsessive belief in blood purity) 😭

- GAD? (Generalized Anxiety Disorder): some body language signs during the Scriptorium quest: he paced nervously in circles, eyes glued to the floor. Though he can’t make accurate eye contact because he’s blind, he usually turns his face toward whoever is speaking. However, when he lost control at the Scriptorium door, he didn’t focus on anyone. He kept bringing his hands near his mouth and nose throughout the quest, fidgeting with his fingers in a self-soothing gesture. His voice cracked as he begged them to stop, visibly distressed and in rising panic.

Fandom whisper: “He’s a cinnamon roll, yes… unless you're Duncan. Then, run. He’s entering berserker mode”

🔴 MORALLY RED: Ranrok

He presents himself as justice for the oppressed (vengeance masked as revolution), but his true drive is fuelled by hatred, bent on domination and destruction. He is the very definition of "the ends justify the means".

🧠 Ranrok's Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- ASPD (Antisocial Personality Disorder): a trauma-driven sociopath with psychopathic traits.

- Paranoid Delusional traits.

- Complex Trauma Response (identity-based).

Fandom whisper: “He had a point... until he started incinerating everyone”

🔵 MORALLY BLUE: Solomon Sallow

He is the tragic disciplinarian, a man who outwardly upholds order, sacrifice, and tough love. Beneath he does care deeply, but his affection is buried under control disguised as protection. He relies on cold rationalism and mistakes emotional distance for maturity.

Rebellion (especially from Sebastian), isn’t seen as a cry for help, but as a threat to the fragile order he clings to.

🧠 Solomon's Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- OCPD (Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder).

- CPTSD? (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder).

Fandom whisper: “He gave up on the cure but became another symptom”

🟣 MORALLY PURPLE (deluxe): Phineas Nigellus Black

His surface morality is conservative and defined by complex loyalty. He is a cunning strategist who carefully navigates social and political webs with subtlety and precision.

Beneath this façade lies his true morality: driven by self-interest and elegant manipulation, he never dirties his own hands. His ruthless pragmatism means his decisions are cold and calculated when necessary. Arrogant and elitist, Phineas is too proud to care about anything outside his own priorities. He values bloodline and power far above personal relationships or moral ideals.

He embodies the grey areas between loyalty, self-interest and pride (a man who probably polishes his Slytherin badge daily). His sharp remarks may sound cruel, but they come from a desire to assert control rather than a need to hurt (manipulative, yes, but not cruel for the sake of it).

🧠 Phineas' Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder).

- Giftedness with Social Detachment (non-clinical trait).

- Mild Machiavellianism? (strategic manipulation, not cruelty).

Fandom whisper: “No need to raise his voice, only his eyebrow. Evil, a misunderstood genius or just insufferable?”

🟡 MORALLY YELLOW: Duncan

He’s cautious and self-protective, often avoiding confrontation or risky situations. He tends to stay in the background and prefers others (like MC) to take the lead or face challenges, while he seeks approval to cope with his insecurities and fear of being singled out. He never takes risks and opts to stay uninvolved, seeking validation from others to compensate for his lack of self-worth, partly driven by fear and insecurity.

Introverted and socially awkward, Duncan experiences bullying and exclusion, which makes him hesitant to assert himself or confront others directly.

🧠 Duncan's Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- SAD (Social Anxiety Disorder): evident in his intense fear of social situations and tendency to avoid attention or judgment from others.

- Specific Phobia (puffskeins): irrational fear of puffskeins after a traumatic incident where one stuck its tongue up his nose. He has been unable to overcome despite efforts from friends like Poppy.

- ASD? (Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 1): more evident in his social reservation and avoidance than in sensory or communication issues.

Fandom whisper: “Wants to be remembered. Not involved... just remembered. Not a villain. Not a hero. Just… there”

🩷 MORALLY PINK: Garreth Weasley

Pink, but only after 3 butterbeers and a terrible idea (don’t trust his decisions -or his potion skills- after drink #2).

🧠 Garreth's Neurodivergent & Personality SPECULATIVE profiles:

- ADHD (Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder), Combined type.

- Risk-Seeking behaviour (non-pathological).

- Mild Oppositional Defiant traits (playful, not hostile).

(Sorry, I’m just too drained right now, so I’m leaving Garreth to you 😉).

[shycard]

⬩ ⠀ ◞✩◟   CHUN WOOHEE / THE ATYPICAL FAMILY .  click  the  source  to  be  directed  !  all  #465 gifs  were  made  by  me  from  scratch  ,  so  please  do  not  repost  or  claim  them  as  your  own  .  i  don’t  mind  if  you  edit  them  for  personal  use  though  .  if  you  save  or  use  these  ,  please  give  this  lil  post  a like  /  reblog  !

[eelclaw]

edit: these characters are not warriors anymore

figuring out some warriors ocs, putting some ideas under the cut

note for this clan, they follow a very strict interpretation of starclan's will. the clan is basically one giant family, but the smaller bloodlines are always fighting for power. warriors are expected to reproduce with outsiders and claim the kits for the clan.

outsiders are barred from joining the clan, and the kits of a warrior and an outsider are only allowed to join when they are young; a kit who is not brought into the clan in time is considered tainted.

in this family tree, from top row to bottom row, left to right, we have lizard's father, lizard's mother, lizard's mate, lizard, nightstar, brackenleaf, and oakfeather.

lizard's father (name undecided): lizard and nightstar's clan father, brackenleaf and oakfeather's grandfather.

could not care less about lizard's mother, he got with her only to preserve his bloodline.

hugely disappointed by and very controlling of lizard.

thrilled by nightstar's accomplishments (becoming clan leader), his son can do little wrong in his eys.

absolutely hates brackenleaf and pretends he doesn't exist.

annoyed by oakfeather, thinks he isn't living up to his potential.

lizard's mother (name undecided): lizard and nightstar's outsider mother, brackenleaf and oakfeather's grandmother.

was fascinated by lizard's father when she met him, but as she got to know him, she grew repulsed by his personality. unfortunately, she was already expecting his kits. she was more than happy to give him the kits and get him out of her life.

has no relationship with lizard and nightstar, as is typical of outsider parents (outsider parents are typically no more than donors for a clan parent).

lizard's mate (name undecided): lizard's outsider mate, brackenleaf and oakfeather's outsider father.

completely enamored with lizard. he enjoys her company and wishes to see her again.

he hopes to meet his and lizard's kits some day, which is atypical for an outsider parent.

lizard___ (suffix undecided): nightstar's sister, brackenleaf and oakfeather's clan mother.

resents her father, and yet obeys him unquestioningly, still hoping she can earn his love.

really liked her mate. he was sweet and caring, and she saw him often, and both of her litters were sired by him. (the clan demands warriors to reproduce with outsiders without forming attachments to them, so having kits with the same outsider more than once is very unusual). but bending the rules makes her uncomfortable, and she quit meeting him. he still waits for her.

she and nightstar care for each other, but their relationship is strained by her conflict with their father.

lizard is fairly quiet and distant from both brackenleaf and oakfeather.

nightstar (warrior name undecided): lizard's brother.

nightstar truly loves his father and basks in his attention.

he cares about lizard, but he hates getting caught between her and their father.

he likes both of lizard's sons, but dotes on brackenleaf, his obvious favorite.

brackenleaf: lizard's older son, the clan's healer with an "exceptional" connection to starclan.

he and his grandfather hate each other. they avoid one another at all costs.

lizard is fairly distant from him. he is not really affected by this.

he thinks nightstar is a little annoying and overbearing, but cares about his uncle more than he says or shows.

same with oakfeather- brackenleaf thinks his younger brother is annoying and embarrassing, but does really care about him.

oakfeather: lizard's younger son.

annoyed by his grandfather, wishes he would stop ordering him around. he is responsible for taking care of his grandfather though, and he carries out this duty.

wishes he was closer to lizard and struggles to understand her.

he and nightstar are friendly enough, but oakfeather is well aware that brackenleaf is their uncle's favorite.

when he was younger, he idolized his older brother. constantly getting put down and pushed away has strained the way he sees brackenleaf, but he still wishes he could be as cool and confident as brackenleaf seems.

[fake-married-my-dead-fiance]

In my mind, you can pair red flags in two ways, 1. Pair two red flags or 2. Pair red flag with someone who won't let them be a red flag anymore. Which is not "I can fix them with love" but more, "I won't let them get away with that if they want to be with me"

Moon in the Day, Alchemy of Souls, The Atypical Family, & The Double all pair red flags with other red flags. Who cares if one side of the pairing is murderous, they're both murderous! They'll do murder things together as a couple. Awwww, so cute. (not everyone on this list is a murderer but you get it)

Then you have one-sided red flag but the other side can handle it, which includes Doom at Your Service, It's Okay to Not Be Okay, The Forbidden Marriage, and What's Wrong with Secretary Kim. Most of these relationships have intense outbursts of jealousy, to which the other partner is like, "No, I don't like that stop it," and then the other side stops. Maybe not an ideal relationship, but I don't feel worried as a viewer.

You could argue that Alchemy of Souls falls into the latter category as well, Jang Uk isn't that much of a red flag but Naksu definitely is one, but he can handle that and he does very much understand the risks of hanging out with her.

I mean it's fiction, but if I'm watching someone really unhinged in a relationship, I want to feel like there is a good balance at least.

Edit: if it's a tragedy, then the pairings can be unbalanced and fall into The Horrors, but what I don't like it Red paired with Green and then pretending it would turn out fine. Nope.

[tha-star]

Isn't it kind of crazy that some guy decided to age up Jon just because, but Tim is like 17 forever?

"I'm going to make Jonathan old because I don't like writing about children"... Was Conner right there??? If they wanted a super non-child, they had options, so...

In my head I would make Conner go from superboy to superman before Jon, FOR OBVIOUS REASONS!

I didn't like this Jon arc, it was so random.

[Edit adding a note: It's my opinion that they don't like writing with superboy kid, children in general, it can be difficult even, so we ended up having two teenage superboys, then Jon became superman, not Conner, we lost all the interesting possibilities with the singularity of Jon being a child hero and not another teenager one, and following his atypical childhood with his parents, and not rush into it unnecessarily.

And Conner being a big bro to little Jon, after they bring him back like they did anyway, to have this Legion idea that was abandoned kind off, so it wasn't even worth it, and again my opinion about that too.

And my opinion is also that Conner is always left out.]

You guys can like it though, more power to you.

Yes, the family drama of the supers is very atypical and weird, but this was just a bad idea.

[tartrazeen]

Sooooo

Liiiiiiike

Angus.

Being Maeve's son.

The sub did the watch-along of the first episode today, and while we were chatting, we started talking about Maeve's outfits. That got into how Maeve has lots of outfits, and how nobody in Kells seems to have more than three - except for Angus. And that made a loose connection for me about how, "Ha, that's another thing he and Maeve have in common, on top of looking like each other." I think that was after I'd mentioned that Angus is a lot better at magic than Rohan, who's supposed to be Cathbad's apprentice.

I was expecting to leave it at that, but the other person I was talking to brought up something interesting 👀

Apparently, in the books (which I've never read), Maeve's described as having dark eyes, and Rohan's also described as having dark eyes and "chestnut-brown" hair.

Y'know, him:

And they mentioned it's not uncommon to have a bit of a physical description to help with casting, so if they knew they'd be building towards the reveal that Rohan is Maeve's son, they'd need to prepare for that from the start by securing some resemblance to hint that Rohan was related.

Y'know, to her:

So as far as the books were concerned, there was supposed to be a physical resemblance between Rohan and Maeve. And this person mentioned that Lochlainn O'Mearain was cast late in the process - which isn't necessarily bad, and maybe even not atypical, considering this was a show that made its toys so far ahead of casting that they uhhhhhh didn't know Ivar's supposed to be Black - that maybe...

... Vincent Walsh had auditioned for Rohan first. Possibly.

Now we've all heard of this: people auditioning for one character but being cast as another. The guy who played Ramsey Bolton originally auditioned for Jon Snow - it happens!

Here's the thing.

Ramsey Bolton and Jon Snow are characters that both have dark hair, light eyes, and pale skin.

In terms of basic checkboxes, the actors are visually interchangeable.

Here's Rohan and Angus:

But that's all beside the point: it doesn't matter, what happened happened, THANK GOD Vincent Walsh got Angus 'cause Rohan's not nearly as interesting, and I can make up whatever story I want to make up regardless of what the facts say uwu

Edit: if anyone asks, here's the full thread 💖

But honestly, I had so many typos. You're better off reading it on my Neocities site if you want a cleaner experience.

So here's what I'm thinking: in the show, Maeve "proves" she's Rohan's mother by showing him she has the same mark on her arm. Okay, cool - except, what if, maybe, Lying Maeve who once invented a whole personality just so she could marry her way onto Kells' throne by bagging Conchobar, lied about being Rohan's mom to the guy who has very openly been whining about how he's an orphan who wished he knew who his family was.

Maeve spies on them all the time! She can spy on them through fire. And Rohan never shuts the hell up about his damn family!

👀 Angus does not mention his own.

So Maeve lies to him, trying to get inside his head by magicking up a fake mark on her arm, and he believes it because who the fuck lies about that? (a real queen, that's who) She also tells him that Rohan was "stolen" from her as a child. If he wasn't specifically a baby, he'd have a couple of memories about being in a castle, right? And she's got no other proof than that single mark (which is enough for a kid's show, but hey, okay).

👀 Angus knows his way around a castle. Kells' castle, but he's certainly comfortable exploring it.

It's a massive shock to everyone when they learn Lugad is Rohan's brother. Angus is stunned. He stops trying to kill Lugad; that's how stunned he is. And when everyone finds out Rohan is Maeve's son, everyone's stunned again.

Except for Angus.

Who doesn't say anything.

The camera doesn't even look at him, really. Just kinda glosses over the reaction from Rohan's best friend, who's routinely taken pride in "kicking out the Temran dogs" from Kells' land.

In fact, Angus' only major reaction to Rohan's family is - again - towards Lugad, when Rohan waffles about being able to fight the guy. Suddenly Angus is all, "The family you grew up with is more important than the family you were born into!"

👀

Maeve is magic. Inherently. Midar powers her up, but she has her own magic for levitation and telekinesis, and then potions and powders and such.

Angus has always been involved when Rohan does anything magical, and has repeatedly done magic on his own. Even if it doesn't go perfectly (like the potion to put his hand through a wall), it still does something.

He's also always getting into Cathbad's shit: constantly finding fun in the potions there, whereas Rohan initially leaves those alone. When they're children, Angus convinces him there's fun to be had with them. And that's a lifelong trait - as an adult, he says later that he loves magic, like it's some rare thing most people aren't overly interested in.

Maeve's magic uses a lot of incantations. Not always, but quite often. Almost once an episode. Way more than Cathbad. But she has a different type of magic: sorcery. And when Cathbad gives Angus a lodestone, Angus activates it - successfully, on his own - with an incantation.

All of this totals up to me like someone who:

Knows where he came from, so he doesn't need to question it

Left without Maeve's knowledge (stole himself)

Has Maeve's latent sorcery, and a bit of practise from playing with her magic powders

Is keeping his mouth absolutely shut, to the point of letting his best friend think he's Maeve's kid

Beyond that, HOLY SHIT, how much fun would that be? It recontextualizes so much!

Angus is always mouthing off or speaking glibly to canon royalty. So let's now say he doesn't care about their title, because he's royal too, and he's got Maeve's spicy attitude. It's why he's so openly impatient with Fin Varra. It's why he'll happily interrupt Conchobar, and then have to rein himself back in. It's why he'll mock Deirdre whenever she uses her 'princess' voice, and probably why he picked a fight with Oh So Great Prince Garrett. It's even why he makes fun of Rohan for "putting on airs" about being Draganta, to the point of having a whole episode where they fight about it: Angus does not like the ego that comes with authority, and he's surrounded by that in its royal form on all fronts. But while everyone else stays quiet, he's got the audacity to just blurt out what he's thinking.

A royal audacity, apparently 🤣 He probably did that shit in Maeve's court all the time as a child, and she probably thought it was hilarious.

There's also that weird thing with Angus and the throne. I thought maybe it'd work as a very, very far-off way to establish Angus and Deirdre getting together (y'know, so Rohan has someone to legitimately compete with), but I've said it before: Angus immediately backs down whenever Rohan mentions his interest in Deirdre.

And yet.

Angus has sat in Conchobar's throne at least once. And very, very comfortably! He's got his damn leg slung over the arm of it, and he's making fun of Cathbad behind his back while he's doing it. Later, there's a fancy chair gifted to Conochobar as a tribute. Before the king even steps toward it, there's Angus checking it out and about to sit in in first. Everyone stops him, with Rohan even saying that seat's only for royalty...

... and yet Angus tried to do it anyway.

It's one thing to be an unconscious pull towards a throne as 'foreshadowing,' I guess. But it's a WHOLE OTHER THING for Angus to know he's actually a prince, come fully to terms that he left that behind and is just living in Kells as a commoner, but not display a commoner's understanding that he's not worthy of sitting in those places.

I don't think it's malicious. I think he's just treating them like any old seat, and getting a bit of a kick from knowing it isn't any old seat. But the thought that he's fully aware he's a prince, and that's driving his utter confidence to assume he can get away with it? 👀

The little things - him emphasizing that he's Angus of Kells, that the Temran army are dogs, even that he had to do a test of honesty to get his mace, that one Temran soldier telling him and Deirdre that "I don't take orders from women or thieves" - all get a new context here too. Again, not malicious: I think he's trying to convince himself, not other people. It's telling me that if he ran away on purpose, he left on an extremely sour note, and he's committed to it completely by going to the other fuckin' kingdom that his at war with.

It does give Maeve being like, "Ooh, Angus is a fine-looking specimen" some Back to the Future vibes. 😵‍💫 And that's 'cause in this theory, I don't think she knows Angus is her kid. For one, she probably wouldn't approach his capture the same way. She puts him in a dungeon, and she tries to bribe him later on, but both of those seem like tactics you use on a stupid villager, not your run-away kid. For another, depending on how young Angus was when he left, she might just straight-up not recognize him.

It also adds a bit of parallel with Deirdre and Garrett (and Ivar, but they make him too humble). Deirdre's constantly told how beautiful she is. Garrett keeps saying he's handsome. Everyone tells Angus he's handsome. I think the only one who says it to Rohan is Aideen, so we can rule him out. So that's three out of these four royals (Rohan being a commoner again) getting told how physically attractive they are.

It was another weird thing to keep highlighting, like the fact that Angus was handsome was gonna go somewhere. But if he wasn't going to actually pursue Deirdre, and he didn'n have any other love interests, then the only narrative purpose it serves is to align him with other people the narrative does this for: royals.

And let's not forget the other family trait: Maeve is CONSTANTLY plotting schemes and making deals and openly lying to get what she wants. What's Angus do? Openly lies to Ivar about knowing who the thief is. Makes a bet with Fin Varra he has zero intention of paying. Gets immediately nailed by Garrett as "someone who'll try to be clever." Gets called "sneaky" and "slithery" by Deirdre and Ivar as often as he gets called handsome.

ACTUALLY.

Ivar saying the giant snake might like Angus because they're both slithery, just for Maeve to turn into a GIANT FUCKING SNAKE as her final form?!

"Some friend you turned out to be" indeed 😭

I'm not gonna go as far as to be like, "Angus wears a headband, which looks similar to a crown that King Conchobar wears," 'cause other people wear leather straps like that in the village too. But I will say, "Oh, wow, neat, both of these characters had long hair, that actually seems like a solid point towards that being the actor's real hair (i still want a definitive answer someday)."

But I am gonna try to speculate on what would've made Angus leave.

It's two things:

1. Angus can read. As much as I love the idea that Cathbad secretly cares about Angus enough to teach him that, I think it'd be Rohan teaching him instead. That's because Angus doesn't - like... sit still well? And he sure as shit won't sit still for Cathbad. He's always fidgeting, and he even actively distracts Rohan when Cathbad's trying to teach the guy how to fight in a special duel to save his stupid life.

2. Deirdre does not like her princess lessons. And Garrett and Ivar were trading stories about how tough it can be to be a prince, having to be so formal and attending all those meetings. That means Angus would've been getting some sort of education too, and he would've been expected to do the one thing he literally hates more than anything else: sit quietly and pay attention as someone tells him something boring.

So honestly? I think he ran away 'cause he didn't want to go to school.

"I'm going where I know they won't recognize me, and yes, I will go live as a dumb villager, because they don't have to listen to stupid lessons about history. BYE."

I think that's why he has some understanding of magic. In the first episode, he's like, "What Cathbad did doesn't look hard. I'll just do that too." Maeve probably tried teaching him the foundational stuff, but he only listened to the shit he was interested in and - like we see in that episode with the Evil Druid - he loves explosions. Sooooo after the last scolding he was willing to take, he ran away. (omg 😭 what if his teacher was Nemaine? Then again, Nemaine seems to love destruction too, so maybe that's an angle for Nemaine to recruit Maeve's potentially-other-son to her side as well. Which isn't gonna work 'cause uhhhh Angus is really fucking loyal)

And when you loop that back to how he treats royalty, no wonder he's mocking them! He thinks they're ridiculous! Who the hell agrees to learn all that stupid stuff, when you could just... not learn it? And they think learning it makes them important?! Pfffft. Hard pass. Yeah, sure, maybe being a villager meant he had to flee from the war and not freeze or starve to death, but at least he's not stuck learning.

👀 Funny how he's all focused when he's helping to pick out a battle strategy. A scheme.

But the question to me isn't why he left. It's why he's chosen to stay. A kid running away from home because he doesn't wanna do his homework? That's gonna fuel you until you're starting to see your ribs. So to me, I have two possibilities, and they're not even mutually exclusive:

1. He tried to go back, and the guards refused him. Maybe it was a plot of some kind, maybe they didn't recognize him, maybe they didn't give a shit about children on the battlefield and told him to fuck off. Maybe he mouthed off too much while he looked like a villager, and they punished him like a villager by beating the shit out of him - and that was enough for him to decide he hated these assholes, hated Temra, and he gave up.

2. Maybe meeting Rohan turned him against Temra and his mother. He sees the war's destruction from Kells' side, and thinks Temra has to be stopped. He genuinely believes that anyone who'd lead a war - and keep instigating it - to put his new best friend (and himself) in such danger is something he will never return to. It's Kid Logic, 'cause maybe Royal Logic would've been to plead a case to Maeve to get her to stop. But again, Maeve doesn't seem to recognize him, and if he wasn't 'stolen,' then he was abandoned, so it doesn't make sense for him to have tried that.

(i really hope the second one is in the mix, 'cause can you imagine the context that puts in for Angus being the one to escort Maeve to her exile? 👀 omg what if she figures it out on the way there, and makes it her new purpose to reveal that to the others and sow discord, or actively try to recruit Angus back to her side so she can take down Nemaine. Imagine her teaming up with Kells for that, and as soon as she's won, going right back to Temra but this time expecting her son to follow her)

What I'd like to do eventually is write a hypothetical Season Two episode where I look at how Rohan finds out he's not Maeve's kid and that she lied after all. That might go into Conchobar saying Maeve's son - if he's alive - could be a valuable asset in the war against Temra, since Nemaine's resumed it. But it's also a serious risk. Maeve was worse than her father, so what if that whole family line gets crazier as it goes along? It might be safer to capture that threat before it can reestablish power in Temra or free Maeve, and lock it in a dungeon. That turns into a bit of a "Hunt the Prince" arc, and Rohan - more or less relieved he isn't related to Maeve - is free to chitchat with his best friend about how Maeve's son probably is as evil as she is, and how he'd be more than willing to take that prince down, too.

Angus:

But that'll be for later. uwu

I will add: I am so sick of amnesia stories. Either Angus knows he's a prince and has consciously committed to living as a peasant, or he doesn't and he's not. No "ohhh, i got hit in the head as a kid" plotlines. We're using the 'Rohan calls Angus dumb a lot' schtick as evidence for why Angus ran away. 😤

[kimgoeun]

The Atypical Family (Ep.2)

[arinninjagosleftovers]

Not ur DMs but oh man!! Do I have a character analysis to dump upon you. I’m not gonna do a ton of editing, but I do wish to share.

Oh bro, Q!Foolish is so cool as a character. Him and BBH are literally both insane in the exact same way, but with such different views on morality. It results in wildly different ideas of themselves and the world around them!

Foolish is selfish and he knows it, but he also loves his family dearly. He will do anything to protect the people he cares about even though that circle is pretty small. Anyone outside the circle is fair game tho. (BBH is an exception because he’s trusted, but Foolish and him love endangering each other for sport). By “fair game,” I mean Foolish will actively throw anyone under the bus just because he feels like it. Honestly doesn’t even have to be for any particular gain. He will absolutely do things just to see what happens. He acts like a morally grey immortal who doesn’t quite understand how normal people think anymore.

At the same time, a lot of his actions do have motives. A big part of his character is that Foolish just wants rare/unique items and will do nearly anything (including endanger others) to get them. He sees the island as a game to win, which makes it easy to not care about consequences for himself and others. He’s not malicious and he doesn’t seek to cause others pain, but will still do things knowing full well they could harm. He also fully accepts other people seeking retribution for his actions, because he’s got a “fair is fair” type mentality. He will simply deal with whatever consequences float his way for his actions.

Because Foolish is aware of his selfishness, he will never try and take a moral high ground. He doesn’t think he’s a morally just person, and he doesn’t care to be. He cares about chaos for the sake of fun, doing things to get him stuff, and protecting those he loves.

(Also, Foolish & Jaiden as people are both the embodiment of chaotic neutral. Everything they do together is fun as Jaiden enables the hell out of any idea Foolish has. Morality be damned, they just wanna be menaces for the sake of it.)

Also also, Foolish is actually smarter than he appears and presents himself. He’s actually a strategist at heart, but will only use it for his own personal gain and often under the table lol. He’s silly, but he uses that to play all fields and knows how to keep things secret. His behavior will often trick others into underestimating him, but unfortunately also leads to people fundamentally not understanding him or his motives.

Idk,, I stay spinning these Minecraft people in my brain like a microwave lol. I could probably give similar level analysis on a handful of my other main QSMP people, but yeah. Foolish is especially cool to me because people who have zero illusion about being morally fucked by normal standards are soooo interesting! It’s a very atypical way to aproach the world not giving a shit about morality while also being zero percent malicious. His /goal/ isn’t ever to hurt people for the sake of it, he’s just a means to an end kind of guy. He’s neat because about him and his explanation for his actions tends to embody a genuine sense of neutrality in the most insane way possible.

god this is so cool

I really want to watch more of Foolish’s vods to really get a grasp of him and I can’t really add onto this much at all but oh anon I appreciate so much. Thank you for this meal of a character analysis served on a silver platter

I think the type of morally grey Foolish is, is by the far the most fun to me. It’s that loyalty to these select few people and that loyalty will not change unless extreme circumstances causes it to. So so interesting. And also like. Him being friends with others but if given the popular he will screw them over? That’s hilarious. Good for him, doing things for the bit and for his own personal gain. I wouldn’t, probably, but selfish characters are soooooo… rotating around inside my head.

[xbethelight]

"Do Da Hae's past is my future. The moments I spent with you pull me back into them." -히어로는 아닙니다만 (2024)

[go-to-two]

FBI: International seems like a very atypical, outside the norm acting gig. I’m sure most actors look forward to and dream of stability in terms of a stable job but also one stable location they are filming in, especially if they have families/kids. I feel like the International job would only appeal to certain personality types, people who are spontaneous and love traveling and are good with ever-changing locations. Jesse is doing quite the 180 from his last job in that way as he was set in the same city for 10 years.

Absolutely, it feels like it would be a tougher gig for actors with young families especially. I don't imagine it's a lifestyle that appeals to everyone, as you said. That's part of the reason why I don't think Jesse will do this for years on end. The traveling and the allure of filming in different locations is very, very cool (I'm jealous!) but seems like it could also be very, very physically and emotionally taxing to maintain for several years- on both the actors and their loved ones.

Edit: apparently they travel far less than I imagined 😂. Still cool! But Jesse won't be hitting up a new place every week.

[mareenavee]

(Tired) WIP Wednesday

Dragging ourselves through the week through the chaos <3

I've been ill but writing has been a balm! I'm gonna share a few snippets with you.

Was tagged by @thana-topsy (HUGE HUGS! Aiden and Sarel are adorable and you DID IT. You did the thing!) and @kookaburra1701 (I'm still waiting on Book 32 of your fic universe, and will cheer until its ready!)

Tagging especially @changelingsandothernonsense for the Sad Wars which have produced amazing content as of lately from me, for being writing exercises hehe. Not to brag, I'm just really fond of the work! And of course the amazing @paraparadigm, @thequeenofthewinter, @snippetsrus, @wildhexe, @nuwanders, @oblivions-dawn, @miraakulous-cloud-district, @throughtrialbyfire, @expended-sleeper, @inquisition-dragonborn @archangelsunited, @dirty-bosmer, @viss-and-pinegar, @ladytanithia, @polypolymorph, @gilgamish, @tallmatcha, @rainpebble3, @late-nite-scholar, @greyborn2, @saltymaplesyrup, @orfeoarte, and YOU. Because yes. You are tagged. Tag me back if you have stuff to share! I love to see it.

Below I have a few samples from some WIPs! I'll start with World, as I'm restructuring chapter 31 <3

This selection is long, too! 1,050 words, below the cut!

1) The World on Our Shoulders, Chapter 31 Athis's POV as he goes through Northwatch Keep to save Thorald. 219 words.

Still, there was something unsettling about how unnaturally quiet this part of the keep was. The hairs on the back of Athis’s neck stood up, some instinct he couldn’t place screaming of danger. Something was wrong. He’d felt this way once, years ago, before a bear charged out of the woods that time his hip had been shattered. He’d almost died, then, if it hadn’t been for Farkas and that priest out of Falkreath. Odd, that, as it was a priest of Arkay. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Now, however, was not the time to lose focus.

Athis pressed against the wall that lead out of the twisting passageways into a room that looked, from what he could tell, like some kind of torture chamber. Only, the air rippled with some kind of magic that felt like static on his skin the closer he crept. He remembered how it felt when Nyenna used certain spells nearby; this one didn’t feel like anything he could recall, and that didn’t bode well. None of it did, if he was being honest. He got the sudden notion that perhaps it wasn’t worth all the trouble — that Thorald might already be dead. But no. If there was the slightest chance that he was still alive, Athis couldn’t leave him here. He wouldn’t.

2) Storms Like This A secret WIP I'll be editing and finishing soon for a friend. 266 words.

He’d thought back to one of his favorite memories of her, besides their wedding. Before they’d decided to adopt and start a family, they were living comfortably in Proudspire Manor in Solitude. He’d been overwhelmed at first by the city he’d only ever passed through before. Living in it meant becoming entangled in the political nonsense, which Sigyn seemed to take in stride. She’d come home, fancy clothes thoroughly drenched from the rain after being gone a particularly long time on what was supposed to be a local errand, and deposited an old hip bone into a chest by the door. Unnerving, sure, but not too atypical for her.

She took him by the hand and dragged him out into the storm, onto their back porch, all while Jordis silently judged them both from her perch at the kitchen table. Sigyn had said nothing, only smiled as he’d exclaimed from the cold downpour the further she led him outside, but then, even over the thunder, he’d heard it—the Bard’s College, practicing for the Burning of King Olaf, bright and clear, almost enhanced by the storm, music reverberating through the very stones of the building next door. They danced together, on their porch, regardless of the weather. It was if, for a moment, the entire world consisted of only them. She’d laughed even as their sodden hair clung to their faces, and as water ran freely into their eyes. [He] knew then, despite all of her chaos, he would follow her absolutely anywhere for as long as he lived.

Storms like this always reminded him of her.

3) Fragment - part of The Bitter, Bitter End (Unpublished as of yet.) Featuring Nevena Ules as the POV and Orvas Dren. (Yeah. Ew.) 209 words.

Orvas was leaning over the stone parapets, looking down into the courtyard where regular people milled around on business relating to Vedam’s gathering. The moons shone overhead and, besides the noise of the crowds and bards inside, all was silent. She cleared her throat, and Orvas turned to her. He smirked—the same sarcastic look he’d won her heart with when they were younger and under far less pressure—and closed the distance between them.

His eyes, blood red in this light, held storms. She knew what had been worrying him, but she was trying hard to ignore that part, until it was safe to talk about it. Vedam’s overreaching included parlaying with the Empire and solidifying trade between Morrowind and other provinces. Only, there would be an embargo if the Blight situation got worse—which it already was, by the day. And if all of that work was so new, the newfound strength of House Dren would be the first to collapse. Orvas had said as much, and had been bringing it up in their conversations more often as of late, because Vedam wouldn’t see reason. He thought he could see a solution, but even thought of it scared her.

He wanted to ally the Camonna Tong with the Sixth House.

4) Fragment - part of It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn (Unpublished as of yet.) This one is is Danger!Bean Varlais's POV. 353 words.

Varlais never felt like he belonged anywhere in particular, to be fair. His parents had been elevated slightly after a few turns of events when they’d moved with Ondolemar’s family to Skyrim. That was, technically, his doing, all those years ago, but they were still othered by most Altmer of any rank, Thalmor or not. It was complex, of course, and he didn’t have the energy to parse it all. He’d leave that to Ondolemar, who seemed like he could hold every political detail in his head, as if his mind was some kind of tome.

All he knew was it had to do with the Ayleid ancestry that refused to fade into the background for his family, no matter how many generations. Aerissa, at least, never looked down at him for the blue eyes, thank Auri-El, but she was back in Alinor now, doing clerical work for the Thalmor. And, of course, he was stuck here. But at least, if he was here, he could try and save her from them. No matter how badly he missed her, he’d keep fighting. Before she became a thrall, well, she’d always stuck by him. He looked down at his ring, the gold band glimmering with a faint enchantment, the metal worn and scratched. Somehow, likely by Mara’s direct intervention, he’d not lost the thing, nor had it torn through his skin and bone in some horrifying way. He touched the edge of his left ear where he’d lost an earring that way, and was grateful at least in that moment, his magic worked to stanch the bleeding.

As of late, he’d been feeling even more unmoored than usual, despite Ondolemar’s best efforts—the man was seventeen different kinds of distracted, after all. They were and always had been close as brothers, but with so much changing and hanging in the balance, Ondolemar had to focus on the plan. They had a goal, after all, as impossible as it all seemed. The Civil War and the Dragons were mucking up pretty much everything. Varlais also tended to make himself a problem, though never intentionally. Not really.