#but other than that I’m just doing light project work and don’t have anything pressing

[whentherewerebicycles]

crashed around 10:30 last night / woke up at 5:30 still feeling pretty wrung out. but I honestly think it’s just the intense comedown from *gestures vaguely* everything—lots of emotional ups and downs this spring plus extensive travel and trying to engineer a baby or whatever. I think having the signed offer will make me feel a lot better, as I’ll be able to switch fully into excited looking-ahead mode. but oh man… I am so excited. I am sure that, like all jobs, this job has its own issues and frustrations that will reveal themselves in time, but mostly I just feel this immense, immense wave of relief about getting to do values-aligned work that uses my knowledge/creativity/skills. I’m also nervous but excited about moving into a real leadership position for the first time. my bleh current job felt like such a massive step back in terms of responsibilities and agency—largely because of my lead’s micromanagement and refusal to trust me with anything, but also just because I think the role was much more junior than I realized going into it. ahhhhhh I’m just SO EXCITED to get to work with smart people who care about learning on cool projects that help students. I’m even excited to figure out who the difficult eccentric academic personalities are ahaha. god and I hope I make friends!!!!! work friends!!!!! I got really good vibes from the two women I’ll be working with most closely and I am also excited to work with the two profs who were on the committee, who seem to have one of the most delightful odd couple friendships I’ve ever seen. just!!!! ahhh!!!!!!!!! and I’m gonna be people’s BOSS for the first time so that is going to be a whole new fascinating skillset to learn!!!!!! ok I’m rapidly talking myself out of my post-stress haze and into giddy excitement ahaha so I think maybe today I’ll spend some time journaling about the future to gently help ease myself out of the “work is pointless misery” mindset and into the kind of headspace I have been longing to get back to (work is a joy! work is hard but gives me purpose and meaning!!). whooHOOO let’s GO!!!!!!!!!!!

[onlydylanobrien]

Live from New York, It’s Dylan O’Brien!

The 33-year-old plays Dan Aykroyd in Jason Reitman’s Saturday Night, and he’s not sure he hit it out of the park. But he’s okay with that.

DYLAN O’BRIEN HAS led movies that grossed hundreds of millions of dollars at the box office. He’s shared the screen in a thriller with Michael Keaton (2017’s American Assassin), exchanged jokes with Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson (in 2013’s The Internship), been a long-running MTV teen heartthrob (in 92 episodes of Teen Wolf), voiced a Transformer (in 2018’s Bumblebee), and, hell, went toe to toe with Larry David while playing himself on Curb Your Enthusiasm. At 33, he’s accomplished a hell of a lot.

By the time we meet at Men’s Health’s New York City offices to chat on an early September Friday, I’ve already seen a lot of his work. I’ve always liked the way his relaxed demeanor on-screen fits with an undeniable movie-star look—and that holds true in his latest project, Saturday Night (in select theaters now and out nationwide on October 11), in which he stars as comedy legend and original Saturday Night Live cast member Dan Aykroyd; the movie is a depiction of the chaotic 90 minutes before the very first episode of SNL. But I wasn’t sold on his sheer determination—the pure conviction in his character—until I learned that, like myself, he’s a long-suffering fan of the New York Jets.

“I get psyched for the Jets,” he tells me, rocking a full beard, a T-shirt, and a pair of comfortable lacrosse shorts. As he finishes his thought, his eyes light up, but they maintain the slightest sense of eternal frustration behind them. “Even though it’s always like, Jesus Christ.”

Misfortunes of past football seasons aside, O’Brien is as hyped as he’s ever been for the season to come—he’s already done all of his fantasy drafts, though he feels better about some than others—but right now he has one potential problem: He’s going to be in Toronto, for the Toronto International Film Festival, on the night of the Jets season opener. But don’t worry, he’s got it figured out. Saturday Night’s premiere is on Tuesday, and his press schedule on Monday (when the Jets are set to play the San Francisco 49ers) concludes at 5:30 p.m.

“I’m like, I’m going to a pub. I’m getting out of the area, and I’m just going to sit and have some beer and watch the Jets on Monday night all by myself,” he says with a huge smile on his face. “It’s going to be awesome.”

It’s a relatable feeling—for most Jets fans, there’s no happier time than before the season starts, before the annual feelings of dread and doom start to set in. (The Jets would wind up losing to the 49ers, 32-19, in their Week 1 MNF matchup.) But, as Jets fans have learned so well to do over the years, we move on.

O’Brien has a long career behind him, but a long career ahead of him, too. In addition to his upcoming role in Saturday Night (which has earned strong reviews in the early goings), he’s also got the M. Night Shyamalan-produced Caddo Lake premiering on Max this month, and Anniversary, in which he stars alongside Diane Lane and Kyle Chandler, coming at some point in the near future. (It doesn’t currently have a release date.) O’Brien is the kind of actor who elevates the project he’s in, even when the project is already really, really good—but if there’s anything being a Jets fan says about someone, it’s that they know how to adjust, adapt, and bounce back. And in an industry as fickle as show business—which is put on full display in Saturday Night—that’s about as important a quality as any to have in your back pocket.

Ahead of the release of several of the biggest and most exciting projects of his career, O’Brien sat down with Men’s Health to discuss how he keeps himself sane and centered, prepping to play a comedy icon, and some of those casting rumors about him out there on the Internet.

MEN’S HEALTH: What kind of routines do you maintain for your mental and physical health?

DYLAN O’BRIEN: I don’t go to the gym. I’m not a gym guy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t exercise or train or anything. I would say I go in and out of that. I’m usually the type who’s either on a pretty consistent routine and trying to hit it hard and take care of myself for a period of time, and then I’ll let it go for a little bit. Some of that’s influenced by my schedule, too. When you go to work, it’s hard to keep up some kind of regimen. But when I’m home and I’m in between jobs, I’ve become a very domesticated individual. I love grocery shopping and cooking my own meals.

MH: What’s your favorite thing to make?

DOB: If I had to pick one thing, I love, to the soul, making a soup. It’s literally the first thing I’ll do when I go anywhere to settle in. Just a homemade chicken soup, with a chicken carcass, and get creative with the veggies.

MH: Do you have a mental health routine?

DOB: That’s typically what drives the eating and the exercising. I always feel best when I’m in a nice routine and taking care of myself. As I’ve gotten into my 30s, sleep is so important, and periods of laying off alcohol are so important. Just treating your body right and getting rest. I like to do a cold plunge session, and that’s very meditative for me. I’ll follow the simple program of “exhaust the body, relax the mind” when I’m going right.

“I was self-conscious that I DIDN’T LOOK LIKE HIM, that I DIDN’T SOUND LIKE HIM, that I thought people wouldn’t think me—Dan Aykroyd.”

MH: I totally understand the concept of using whatever levels us as therapy. Sometimes after work I just need to put the Yankees on and do absolutely nothing in order to fully detox and feel right.

DOB: That’s my soul. The Mets… obviously, baseball is a nearly every day thing. And even when the Mets are not going well, what’s soothed me since I was closely following them when I was a kid is [broadcasters Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez, and Ron Darling]. Literally, even just throwing the game on in the background while I’m getting dinner ready and just listening to those guys talk baseball—that settles me to my core. I’m totally with you on that.

MH: Is watching sports your main way of decompressing at the end of a long day?

DOB: If it’s baseball season, yeah, nightly Mets is nice. If I’m working, I’ve been known to be on jobs and randomly be bingeing some reality show while I’m on it. It’s such a decompressor at the end of the day. I love reality TV.

MH: What’s your favorite?

DOB: Of all time?

MH: Yeah.

DOB: Well, it’s between Jersey Shore and Vanderpump Rules as far as the all-timers. I’ve been a longtime OG Vanderpump fan, pre-Scandoval, and I just think that show’s a masterpiece. And Jersey Shore is a masterpiece, too. I did a film, Ponyboi, that’s very Jersey-centric, and so I drilled all of the first four seasons of Jersey Shore. My whole routine for that movie, when I needed to decompress, was just working out and watching reality TV. I lost a lot of weight, too, for that movie, and I was just trying to make my little chicken breast, and eat my salad, and work out, and watch Jersey Shore.

MH: Let’s talk about Saturday Night. How would you describe your version of Dan Aykroyd?

DOB: It might be the thing most open to interpretation I’ve ever done. By that, I mean it really was just leaping out of the nest. I’m playing this real person, but [director Jason Reitman] had no intention of just copying the person coming in. He really wanted everyone to have their own spin on the person, which, if you’re overthinking it, can be tough to do because it can be very easy to do. If you’re like, I’m just going to watch my guy’s interviews and sketches, then you can kind of fall into imitation. As far as I know, I was just doing what I thought he was like. But I don’t fucking know. That instinct was that Jason was always telling me what to run with. He was big on not overpreparing, not overwatching things, and not impersonating. I’m curious to hear people’s take, because I don’t really know. I just went with my gut.

MH: Was there one signature quality of Dan you wanted to capture?

DOB: A very earnest intelligence—he’s so quick, it was exhausting. I would always say how exhausted I was, because I’m playing someone who’s way quicker than I am, and so I’m constantly operating at a speed I can’t operate at, because he’s so sharp and fast and he never fumbles and he never curses. He never bides time. You know what I mean?

MH: Absolutely.

DOB: He’s so precise with his improvisation and his comedic skills. I came away with such a larger appreciation than I even had for his genius. And he was so young—he was a kid. He was 23 on that first season of SNL. I never processed him as being too worried about too much, which was a funny contrasting energy to the very tense atmosphere of the film in the hour and a half before showtime. He’s so loose.

MH: It’s interesting you say that, because it’s something I totally clocked, too—Dan is kind of the calm part of a storm that includes people like Chevy Chase (Cory Michael Smith) and John Belushi (Matt Wood). How did you maintain that presence as the movie’s level head?

DOB: My way of achieving that, with permission from Jason, was to embrace this quality in myself that I didn’t originally associate to Dan—that I only then did after Jason pointed it out to me—which was to have an aloofness on set. I feel very relaxed in that space. In a way, I wasn’t too worried. But that comes with the caveat that I entered this process thinking I was so wrong for the part.

MH: Why did you think that?

DOB: I don’t know. I was self-conscious that I didn’t look like him, that I didn’t sound like him, that I thought people wouldn’t think me—Dan Aykroyd. And I guess it was an insecurity that I would be skewered for being miscast or something. But even with that insecurity, again, I’m still so happy to be there and, like, whatever, fuck it. I don’t care if that’s the response. I’m boned, but whatever. It’s great to be here and get to do this, and what a blast of a thing to get to be a part of. So, weirdly enough, that type of aloofness amidst other people having to handle some really tense stuff was what Jason was telling me to embrace.

MH: Have you met Dan?

DOB: No. Not yet. I’m supposed to meet him at TIFF. And apparently that will be both of our first times seeing the movie.

MH: That will be great.

DOB: There was a moment early on, when you go into something like this, you’re playing someone, you imagine that they might want to speak to you. They might be hell-bent on speaking to you, they might be crazy about getting their hands in it, or they might be totally hands off. And to hear that he was so not worried about it, if anything, was the first moment I was like, Oh, maybe we’re right. Because I would’ve met with him, too, but I also didn’t need it. I would have if he insisted. I’d be like, Of course—I’ve got to do that. But I vibe with the fact that he was like, no, let the kid go do it. That’s how I feel like I would react.

MH: What’s your favorite movie of his?

DOB: I was a big Blues Brothers kid. I did the Blues Brothers for my talent show in third grade. I was also a big Tommy Boy kid.

MH: I’ve loved a lot of the comedic stuff that you’ve gotten to do, including your Curb Your Enthusiasm guest appearance. What was working with Larry like?

DOB: Oh, it’s just a blast. He’s a Jets fan, too—I remember that was our first conversation we had. It was like I was just talking to a buddy, at [the popular TriBeCa bar] Walker’s, or something about the Jets. I’ve worked with a lot of comedians, and that space can be weird. The energy can be very overstimulating, and those personalities can tend to be really loud and competing. It can be a very odd atmosphere sometimes. Going to work with a guy like that… I was like, Who knows, he could be a fucking total narcissist tycoon, and he wasn’t. He couldn’t have been more generous, couldn’t have been quicker to laugh at someone else and let someone else have the spotlight. I couldn’t think more of the guy. He’s amazing.

MH: It’s been almost a decade since your accident on the Maze Runner set. When you look back at your recovery, how has that experience most impacted your life?

DOB: It was a life-changing incident. I’ve approached everything differently, you could say, particularly with regards to standing my ground on set. It’s very commonplace in the culture for young actors to be controlled, and the way they strive to do that is by always being like, Oh, don’t become difficult. Don’t be a pain in the ass. Or Are you complaining, are you being difficult? Things like that. I learned after the accident to not conflate taking care of yourself and looking after yourself. Don’t let them manipulate you into thinking that is being difficult, because I can look at that day and know I was a 24-year-old kid who was raising concerns about how we were approaching things, and they were not listened to, they were not respected. And then what happened happened. And by all accounts, it was all pretty gotten away with, I would say, as well. It’s taught me that, at the end of the day, in these spaces, you have your own back, and that’s the most you can rely on. I just turned 33. I’ve been doing this for 15 years. I know the person I am, and the character I bring to set, and the way I treat people and the way that I treat a workspace, and I know I’m not difficult. I know I’m not an asshole. I know I was trying to protect myself that day, and so I’ve just never forgotten that. That’s always rung true as being the thing to hold with me.

“It’s taught me that, at the end of the day, in these spaces, you HAVE YOUR OWN BACK, and that’s the MOST YOU CAN RELY ON.”

MH: And this is something that’s always in the back of your mind, just knowing that you’ve had this experience and it’s shaped where you are now.

DOB: It helps me. It’s a shame. It’s a shame that it had to be that for me. To build this armor for myself of just being like, No, man, I’m going to look after myself, I’m going to take care of myself, and there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with asking questions. There’s nothing wrong with bringing ideas, even if we’re talking creatively. It’s our job to bring ideas. There’s nothing wrong with raising concerns. There’s nothing wrong with being like, “I think we could do this better, I think we could do this differently.” You know what I mean? That’s the process. It’s a collaborative process. It’s a creative process, but also you’re dealing with big dangerous shit sometimes, too.

MH: Throughout the years, you’ve been rumored to become the Flash and Spider-Man. Is there any truth to the rumors?

DOB: No, never.

MH: Nothing?

DOB: No, none of it. Yeah.

MH: Is that of interest if an opportunity ever came up? Are you a comic book person?

DOB: I never have been. But I wouldn’t rule out anything. Certainly, it’s not of interest to me as of now. Maybe when I was 20 and they were rebooting Spider-Man—I was excited about that. But I didn’t even get past the casting pre-call or anything. No, none of those rumors have ever been true. I didn’t even know there were rumors. I just thought they were people just putting it out there.

MH: People put a bunch of stuff out there and then places pick it up and then stuff snowballs.

DOB: None of anything I’ve ever read about myself is true. So, if you want to use that template, that’s my experience.

MH: So what is of interest to you? What’s your dream?

DOB: There are obviously filmmakers I’ve loved since I was a kid who I would love to work with. I always want to challenge myself, and I always want to go with my gut and trust when I respond to something, I’m responding to it for a reason. Trust that when I’m scared of something, maybe that’s a good thing I should lean into. Try to find the new filmmakers, and try to champion them, and be a part of the early parts of the careers of our new wave of filmmakers. Try to champion original things as much as I can, too. I feel like that’s obviously trending so much further and further away, and towards extinction, that I just feel like it’s important to lend yourself to those things when you can, as much as you can.

This interview has been edited for content and clarity.

Source: menshealth.com

[hiyori-ii]

Interview with An Underground Hero Pt. 1

Pairing: Aizawa Shouta x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,561

Tags: fem!reader, pseudo!chikan, some grinding, public indecency, post-canon, aizawa is horny and he hates it, slight age gap, reader is in her last year of uni

Author's Note: I have NOT been able to keep Shouta off my mind. He haunts me day and night. In an effort to take back my sanity, I give you this.

a03 link

Shouta’s fingers are stiff as he shoves them into his pockets, the air icy despite the bright sun overhead. The platform is crowded with early morning commuters and he can’t help but curse his luck.

“Ah! Aizawa-san! Good morning!”

Your hand is raised high above the crowd, waving excitedly to catch his attention. Your student I.D. swings back and forth in your grip and he instinctually sinks further into his scarf, desperate to get away from the attention.

You’re out of breath as you slip between two salary-men, “Ha! Made it! Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me here this morning Aizawa-san.”

“I’m so honoured to be interviewing you today!”

————————

When he had first been asked to participate in an interview, the phone was halfway back on the cradle with a firm, ‘No thank you, I don’t do press,’ before you could blink. 

‘W-wait! Wait! This isn’t for the press! W-well, sort of. It’s for school! My school! I’m writing a paper for my final project on heroics and ethics and you’re the perfect person to speak to!” 

The threat of a headache is brewing behind his good eye, begging him to just hang up and get back to grading papers. 

‘Fine. Meet me next Friday at 6:45am on the central line at Tatooin Station. Bring your student I.D. or I’m leaving you behind.” 

He barely hears your squeal of joy before the line cuts, his head already throbbing. 

————————

His acknowledging grunt is barely audible over the sound of the train pulling into the station, people eager to find a spot for the commute ahead already beginning to shuffle closer to the yellow line.

Despite his chilly demeanour, your smile never slips; if anything, his lack of enthusiasm makes your eyes light up even brighter, “Do you always take the train into work, Aizawa-san?”

The two of you have shifted closer to the train doors, and when they finally open you’re both ushered in quickly by the wave of people pressing in behind you.

Without much thought, Shouta guides you across the car and toward the opposite door, eager to get as far away from everyone else as possible.

“Not usually, no. I live on campus but I was on patrol in the neighbourhood last night.”

You’ve both settled up against the sliding doors and Shouta’s thankful for the moment of reprieve. His eye burns from overuse and his right knee is screaming at him to take it easy.

You’re quiet for a moment too long and he risks catching your next wave of questioning to study your face. You’re obviously younger than him but the dark circles under your eyes tell him a thousand tales of sleepless nights spent pouring over research papers and mandatory readings. He wonders how old you really are, noting the claw-machine bag charm dangling from your study bag before taking in your attempt at business casual - a too tight blouse peaking out from under your knit sweater and a skirt that probably fit right a few years ago but now sits high on your waist to accommodate the zip closure. At least you’ve elected to wear dark nylons to make up for the short hemline.

“If you’re too tired to meet today, I’d be happy to reschedule to some other time.”

Your hushed tone pulls him from his thoughts and he can feel his neck flush in embarrassment. ‘Get it together, Shouta, what the hell is wrong with you?!’ 

“N-”, he clears his throat, “No, that’s alright. I’m fine.”

Your lips purse and you look at him like you don’t believe him. Observant. That journalism degree suits you well.

Before you can say anything else, the train is slowing to a stop and the doors open to a flood of even more passengers.

You’re barely able to voice your surprise before you’re being crushed up against the car door by a drowsy middle-aged man with a too large briefcase. Your eyes flicker over to Shouta and despite the bemused grin on your face, he can tell you’re uncomfortable.

Without thinking twice, he’s already making a spot for himself between you and the man, placing his palms above you on the glass window to gently press backwards and open up just enough room for you two to breathe.

When he looks down to ask if you’re alright, you’re already staring up at him, eyes wide and ears brightly flushed.

Ah. Right. Now he’s got you cornered.

He clears his throat again, more aggressively this time, and you snap out of your stupor. “Ha, thank you Aizawa-san. I was totally about to be crushed there!” Your voice has pitched higher and you’re actively avoiding his gaze.

He uses one hand to pull at his scarf, desperate to cool the flush threatening to crawl up his neck, “Don’t mention it.”

The train jolts forward as it accelerates and you both sway with the sudden lurch. You stumble, feet staggering to keep your balance and you quickly reach up to grab onto the loose fabric of Shouta’s jumpsuit.

Your neck is stretched to the side as far as you can manage to avoid eye contact. The apples of your cheeks are stained with a deep flush and your heart is thundering against your ribs; you’re worried he can feel the heat radiating off your thighs from where they’re spread around his right leg.

Meanwhile, alarm bells are blaring in Shouta’s head. Every single moment of irrational lenience over the last week has led him here; he should have never agreed to this interview, should have never gotten on this crowded train, should have never gotten between you and that man ‘cause now all he can focus on is the smell of your hair and the heat of your pretty thighs spread over his bad leg.

Another sudden lurch as the train switches tracks and his knee finally gives out.

He stumbles, not expecting to loose his balance and finds his thigh wedged tightly between your own. Your surprised squeak sends a shock of electricity down his spine and he can feel the press of your tits against his ribs, your laboured breath fanning the gap of skin peaking out from beneath his scarf.

“Shit, sorry, give me a second, my leg- ”

The half-awake business man behind Shouta sways in his comatose state and that ridiculous bag knocks his hips directly into yours.

“Ah!”

The pretty little gasp that slips past your lips has Shouta snapping his head down to look at you, watching as your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth screws up into a tight line.

Oh fuck.

He’s such a pervert.

He knows you can feel the press of his cock against your hip, knows you know he’s hard because of you. And as if he couldn’t get any more pathetic, the whine you let slip is like a phantom pull, drawing him forward to grind into the heat of your body.

He expects you to slap him. To call him a pervert. Call off the interview and report him for sexual harassment.

He doesn’t expect you to let your weight settle down against his thigh. Doesn’t expect you to finally look over at him out of the corner of your eye with tears swimming in your lashline and let your mouth fall open on a silent moan. Couldn’t have dreamed of you reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to that pretty mouth of yours.

“Please don’t stop.” 

Your voice comes out in a whisper, lust dripping from each syllable and he caves. He blames the pain behind his eye, his shitty knee, the lack of sleep, he blames it all for the way he buries his face into your neck and bites the tendon there. Blames it for the way he reaches down to grab at the meat of your hips and pull you higher up against his cock.

You’re so caught up in the feeling of him rocking against you that you don’t even register the doors opening behind you.

Suddenly you’re tripping backwards and Aizawa is stumbling forward with you, his legs tangled with yours as you’re forced onto the platform by the passengers getting off. You finally catch yourself, back bent and your free leg pushed behind you to balance your weight. When you look up Shouta is there above you, handsome face bright with embarrassment and shock.

You hear a few people complain about the two of you just standing there and you pull away from him, standing straight and frantically trying to fix your clothes in an attempt to ignore the tension settling.

Shouta is left blinking at you completely speechless. What the fuck just happened. 

He opens his mouth to apologize, to say something, anything to acknowledge what he did to you but you beat him to it, smile tight on your pretty face, “So, uhm, would you like to walk the rest of the way?”

He stares for a moment in complete disbelief, his cock twitching in a desperate attempt to keep going, to pull you back toward him and finish what you two started.

“Yeah. Let’s walk.”

You pointedly ignore the dark wet patch just above his bad knee.

[sw33tsuccubus]

𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐎𝐮𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jason todd x gn!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the power goes out, and reader gets a visitor.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 883

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: not really. reader has a job, reader leaves a door unlocked.

𝐀/𝐍: idk how/why i wrote this but here it is

Your phone pressed between your shoulder and your tilted head, you type away at your computer. If this assignment isn’t finished by tomorrow, your boss is going to be at your throat.

“Did you hear me, Y/n?”

You blink. Had Jason said anything? You tear your eyes from your screen, looking outside the window. The rain is still pouring, a flash of lightning appearing every few minutes. You turn your attention back to your computer.

“No, sorry. Can you repeat what you said?”

“I said that you should probably take a break. I’m about to go to bed, and we both know that it’s not normal for me to sleep before you.”

You nibble at your bottom lip. You still have plenty of work to do. No way you can stop now.

“I don’t know, Jay. There’s still so much I need to cover.”

“Just take a break. You need to refresh your mind and breathe a little.”

Your eyes ghosted over what you have down, silently checking for typos and grammar mistakes. Seeing none, you check what else you need. Honestly, not much. Roughly two paragraphs of work, you should be finished in less than twenty minutes, with the editing and stuff you’ll need to do.

“I’ll almost finish soon anyways, no point.”

You could hear rustling on his end, like he was getting into bed. He sighs.

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’m not going to. Besides-“

You’re cut off as the entire room goes dark. You gasp, tapping different buttons on the computer. You then stand and peak outside the window. The apartment complex across from yours also seems to have gone out of power.

“What happened?”

Your boyfriend’s voice comes through the phone. You hope up and try the light switch, groaning when it doesn’t work.

“The storm cut the power. Same with the people across the road.”

He hums in acknowledgement on the other line. You make quick work of finding your candle cabinet, placing them around the apartment before looking for your lighter. You stumble over your own feet on your way to the kitchen, thumping on your side.

“What was that?”

Jason’s voice cuts through, laced with concern. He always worried about you. Props of being a Wayne, you guessed.

“I can’t see, tripped on my own feet. I’m fine.”

You stand, getting back to the kitchen and searching the drawers.

“I’m coming over.”

You can hear more rustling on his end. You smile. Of course he is, you could’ve lost your favorite movie DVD and he’d be on his way. You hear a zipper. Probably his leather jacket.

“Alright. I’m just looking for my lighter so that I can light my candles and have light sources.”

Once you find your lighter, you make a small noise of triumph. As your neck starts to cramp, you grab your phone to put the call on speaker. Nothing happens when you tap the screen or when you press the power button. Oh, it died.

You sigh, exasperated. Such a night. You can’t finish your project for work, your phone dies so you can’t communicate with the world, you can feel your apartment grow more cold since the heaters off, and all of your candles are about to be used up. You hope Jason shows up soon, so that you don’t wait for long. Also so that he doesn’t get pneumonia, since he prefers riding his bike over his car.

Once all the candles are lighted, you make your way to your bedroom. You slip into a sweater and crawl under the duvet. You had unlocked your door, knowing you wouldn’t want to get up to open it for Jason. Hopefully it’ll actually be your boyfriend opening the door, rather than some random person.

He didn’t take long. You hear the door open, and soon footsteps tread through your apartment. They stop behind your bedroom door, which slowly opens to reveal a familiar face. You smile at him, and he smiles back.

“You shouldn’t leave the door unlocked.”

“I knew you were coming, and I didn’t feel like getting back up into the cold to open the door.”

He shakes his head, kicking off his shoes and taking off his jacket.

“It’s still dangerous, Y/n. What if it hadn’t been me?”

“I knew you would’ve beaten whoever came in, since you were on the way.”

He climbs into bed beside you, pulling you against his chest. He sighs, wishing you’d be more careful. You cuddle up to him, wanting to sap up his warmth.

“At least you can sleep now. You wouldn’t have if you still had access to your computer.”

You frown.

“My boss is gonna be so mad.”

“Well, it wasn’t your fault. Tell him the truth, your power went out.”

One of Jason’s hands curl into your hair, gently massaging your head. You sigh, melting against him.

“Fine.”

He smiles, pleased.

“Now sleep. I can tell you’re tired.”

You swallow, pressing your cheek against his chest. He was warmth in the cold. Your own little heater. Your eyes close, and he lets out a content sigh as he closes his eyes as well. He makes sure you fall asleep before he does, so that you don’t try getting up to do the work while he’s out cold. Hypocrite.

[em-prentiss]

when you hold me, it holds me together

----

“Emily,” he murmurs, and she hates that she can tangibly feel the concern in his voice. God, she’s a wreck. “How long have you been in there?”

What time is it anyway? Emily’s sure she doesn’t want to know, so she shrugs.

Or, Emily is stranded at a bar. She calls Hotch.

Word count: 3.5k

----

She can see her reflection in the empty glass.

It’s too reminiscent of the pictures she’d hung up on boards for the past week. The girls were younger, yes, but they had the same arch of her brows, the same contrast of dark against light, the same rebellious set of her jaw when she was their age.

Mirrors, parallel universes. They could’ve been her; she could’ve been them.

And yet, for all their similarities, she couldn’t do anything to help them.

Emily closes her eyes as the guilt rises, crashing into the ready anger in the back of her throat. It all tastes bitter, but her own uselessness somehow stands out as it joins the roiling in her stomach.

The bass of the music reverberates through her skull, and suddenly the need to leave the dark bar itches under her skin. Her lungs are too small, the back of her eyes pound with a dry ache in time with the music, and there’s an immovable boulder lodged in her airway. 

She opens her eyes and is met with the multiple empty drinks on the table. Even through her drunken haze she recognizes the stupidity of calling a cab in her state, so she fumbles for her phone and calls JJ, her name more than a little blurred in Emily’s vision.

She holds the phone to her ear and waits as it rings, tapping her feet until the line connects and she hears a suspiciously deep voice after the click.

“Hotchner.”

Emily blinks. Surprise renders her silent, shoulders tensing as she thinks she’s imagined the voice, until a deep, “Hello?” comes through and breaks her out of her daze. 

“You’re not…JJ.” She says dumbly. Her voice is drowned out by the music, swept away in a current of cheers.

“Emily?” It’s easier to hear him as his voice raises in alarm. “Where are you?”

“A bar.” She supplies unhelpfully. As she looks down at the sticky table, the rush of pounding music incessantly fills her ears and the need to leave intensifies, pulses beneath her skin. The need to leave drowns out the memory of the parking lot, so she breathes in and bites the bullet. “Um, can you come pick me up?” For some reason, her words tremble as she digs a palm into her eyes. 

The other line is silent. Tears well beneath her closed lids; she should’ve known, it’s a stupid question. “Sorry, I’ll just call JJ, I misdialed anyway—”

“What’s the name of the bar?” 

She hears the squeak of bed springs, the jingle of keys as they crash against each other.

Instead of relief, her chest tightens further. Emily bites her trembling lip between her teeth and breathes in through her nose, forcing the tears away before she tells him the name of the bar she’s in.

A door slams on the other end of the line. “Stay there, I’m coming.” Hotch tells her. His voice is rough with sleep.

She should say something, probably something a lot like ‘thank you’ or ‘it’s alright, JJ’s house is closer,’ but instead she opens her mouth and all that escapes is, “I don’t wanna be here anymore.” Her voice is a low whisper into the phone, and her only salvation is that the music might’ve been too loud for him to hear. 

He’s silent, so she can only hope it was. “Please come get me.” She says, louder this time, even though he already is. Her voice cracks in the air, and this she knows he hears.

“I’m coming, Emily. I won’t be long.” She can hear the car door slam, the engine roar to life. Emily exhales.

“Thanks.” She ends the call and presses her palms into her eyes again, chasing away the strobing lights with the blissful dark. That’s how Hotch finds her, tucked into a booth behind the bar with her elbows on the table and her head bowed.

“Emily.” He touches his fingertips to her shoulder. She startles and drops her hands, looking up in alarm, but her tense form relaxes when she sees him. 

She can’t hold his gaze, but she notices the lines of his face are softer than they should be. His hair hangs over his forehead, messy, and his usual neat parting is nowhere to be found. Blurrily, Emily takes in his quarter zip and sweatpants, finding both rumpled. 

“Hotch.” 

Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.

His eyes flit over her before sliding lower, taking in the multitude of empty drinks on the table. His brows draw together, and between split second glances, she sees the question in his eyes. But Hotch being Hotch, he doesn’t ask about that.

“Is your tab settled?” Is what he asks instead, surprisingly gentle. 

Emily nods jerkily. 

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

She nods again and looks up at him when he extends his hand to her. Heat burns in her cheeks; she ignores his hand and stands up herself, less than gracefully, but Hotch just tucks his hands in his pockets and follows her as they dodge through the dancing people. She can feel the prickly heat of his gaze searing right through her back.

Emily rubs at her eyes as she walks past. They’re heavy with exhaustion, continually blurred from a mix of alcohol and held back tears, so she rubs hard, sparks flashing in the dark, not noticing a waitress until she almost slams into her. A loud, “Hey!” forces her eyes open and Emily startles back, just barely dodging the irate waitress and her full tray.

Hotch places a hand on her back, steadying her. He throws an apology over his shoulder as he gently guides Emily out of the bar.

Maybe it’s his touch. Or the ungodly amount of alcohol in her blood. Or possibly the slap of cold air that greets them as they walk out into the street. Either way, Emily stumbles. Over nothing, of course, her feet tripping over themselves as she lets out a quiet yelp, her stomach dropping, eyes screwing shut in anticipation of the cement.

Hotch grabs her before she face-plants onto the sidewalk. His hand is a band of warmth around her bicep, his heat soaking through the thin material of her shirt as he helps her regain her balance.

“Emily,” he murmurs, and she hates that she can tangibly feel the concern in his voice. God, she’s a wreck. “How long have you been in there?”

What time is it anyway? Emily’s sure she doesn’t want to know, so she shrugs.

Hotch lets go of her arm with a low sigh, his eyes scorching on her face as he looks at her and she continues to look down. Emily ignores the sudden chill in that band of skin around her bicep, wrapping her arms around herself as Hotch starts walking to the car and she follows him. The silence between them is thick, heavy with cold air and tangible concern and choking guilt. She breathes in through her nose and tries to trap it inside her, sealing it away with her swallow.

It gets stuck in her throat.

The tense silence stretches on.

Emily’s sight is blurry, but she still recognizes his car when they reach it. Hotch reaches for the door before she can, his fingers wrapping around the handle as he pulls it open. Emily fights the urge to shove off his kindness, instead ducking her head into her chin as she gets into the car.

Still so good to her. Too good.

“Thanks,” she whispers, the letters crashing into each other as she clumsily tries to buckle her seatbelt. Emily doesn’t look up at Hotch as he replies with a quiet yeah and shuts the door, crossing over to the other side and getting into the car.

“Bedtime now, I think.” He murmurs under his breath as he fits the key in the ignition. 

Panic sparks under her ribs.

“No,” Emily says immediately. Her chest tightens, the thought of going back to her apartment squeezing the air from her lungs. “I don’t want to go home.” Her words slur together, either from her hurry to speak them out or the alcohol swimming in her blood, she doesn’t know.

Either way, her reaction makes Hotch pause. He turns to her with a frown. “Why not?” 

His voice is too gentle. She wants to sink into it; she wants nothing to do with it.

Emily swallows. The corners of her lips drag downward, her vision growing foggy as she looks down at her hands. Why, why, why? Because it reminds her of another time. 

“It’s lonely there,” she whispers, speaking to her pale knuckles. The answer seems childish, even more so in her small voice. “Quiet.” She grabs a piece of loose skin around her nail and pulls until it tears off and leaves behind a sharp sting.

She used to love the silence—craved it after the noise and rush of the BAU—but now it haunts her. Even the tinkling bell of Sergio’s collar inexplicably makes her jump sometimes, reminding Emily that no matter how hard she tries to forget, nothing is the same anymore. All she can hear is the thick silence of her apartment in Paris, the scary quiet that came when she was sinking into the dark, her heart giving out because it was too tired to fight. Nights at her apartment are too reminiscent of nights she spent cowering in fear, waiting for Ian to reclaim the life she’d clawed at with the skin of her teeth.

Hotch snaps her out of her thoughts, though he doesn’t speak; it’s his breathing, bringing her back to him. Even, almost soundless. Steady.

“I want to go with you,” she says quietly, realizing the measure of truth in her words as she speaks them out. Hotch is the last person she should ask, but he’s a person, he’s here, and going with him means she won’t be alone. 

Silence rings in her ears and Emily tries again. “Please?” Her voice threatens to break; she bites her lip between her teeth, pinching another bit of skin around her cuticle and tearing it off.

A warm hand lays on top of her left one, protecting the ragged skin around her nails. Blocking it from the damage she inflicts on it herself.

Emily turns to look at him. His brows are pulled low over his eyes, his gaze unreadable in the sparse light. She involuntarily tenses to prepare herself for the crushing blow of his rejection. 

He’s going to say no. Of course he would. Of course he’d let her down easy anyway, even though she deserves all the harshness she’d shown him, because why—

Her muscles loosen when he gently squeezes her fingers. 

“Okay.” 

The grip on her chest loosens; her airway clears, and Emily draws in a breath. “Thank you,” her voice wobbles and she looks back down at her hands—and Hotch’s. He removes it, the skin of her hand turning cold with his absence. It takes her back to the cold of the jet, the fluorescent brightness of the parking lot when she’d snapped at him. The guilt rears its head again, nausea cresting and swirling in her gut.

Emily swallows down the bad taste in her mouth. “Thanks for picking me up,” she says hoarsely, turning to the window; his reflection is faint in the glass and she focuses on it, though hers is much clearer. How many times has she thanked him in the past five minutes? It’s consolation, she supposes, though a poor one—a substitute for all the sorry’s she should be throwing at his feet instead.

“Of course,” Hotch replies. He pulls out of his parking spot, the buildings blurring outside the window as the car picks up speed. “I’m glad you called. I’d rather you call me than take a cab at this time.” 

She’s grateful he’s looking at the road, unaware of the tears rising in her eyes. Emily forces deep breaths through her nose and closes her eyes against the tears, trying to trap them in.

The ride to his apartment is a quiet blur. When Emily walks into the dark living room, she remembers a detail gone forgotten in the corners of her mind. 

“Jack,” she rasps, guilt hurtling through her as she curls her fingers into a fist, “is he—”

“He’s at Jessica’s.” Hotch says softly. The keys clink as he drops them in the bowl. “He was asleep by the time we landed.” With a hand on the small of her back, he nudges her to the guest room. “You can sleep here.”

He flips on the light switches, stepping back out of the room as Emily winces at the sudden brightness. With it, though, her eyes absently take in the plain room and en-suite bathroom as she pads across the floor and sits down on the edge of the bed. She toes at her shoes, frowns down at her feet when they don’t budge, before remembering she’s wearing her work boots that zip up.

Emily’s pulling them off as Hotch comes back into the room with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants neatly folded over his arm. He doesn’t comment on the fact that she’s still in her work clothes, sans blazer as he hands them to her with a small smile. 

Emily takes the clothes without fuss; she’s invaded his home, his car, and interrupted his sleep. Borrowing his clothes for the night is hardly the worst way she’s inconvenienced him lately. He leaves again after they’re in her hands, shutting the door behind him and sparing both of them from another guilty thank you.

She’s just changed into his clothes when he knocks on the door. 

“Come in,” Emily mumbles, her eyes on the crumpled mess of her clothes on the floor as she rubs her fingers over the collar of Hotch’s shirt, absently memorizing its softness, the way it faintly smells like him. She’s too drained to be embarrassed at the way his sweatpants pool around her ankles, the sudden softness of his clothes reminding her that she’s been awake since the sun rose, on her feet for just as long.

Hotch walks into the guest room with a glass of water and sets it on the nightstand. “Is there anything else you need?” He asks.

The gentleness of his voice is what breaks her.

Emily shakes her head. It’s not a surprise to her when the tears that had been ebbing and flowing all night suddenly spill down her cheeks in streams, dropping into her lap and soaking Hotch’s sweatpants. She wipes them away but they’re quickly replaced, rivulets of salt dripping off her chin, tinting her eyes and cheeks red.

“Emily,” Hotch breathes. The bed dips as he sits down next to her. “What’s wrong?”

Her chest stutters like a frightened bird as she tries to keep the sobs in, but some choked sound still escapes through the gaps between her teeth. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She garbles out, her voice as wobbly as the tremulous rise and fall of her shoulders, “I don’t deserve it.”

Not after the way she’d yelled at him, defensive and feeling like a raw nerve. 

The case had been long and brutal. It hit Emily harder than usual as she found herself resonating with the victims; young, dark-haired girls who were twin images of her own college self, rebellious and searching for escape in any and all forms. It was all too easy for her to imagine herself in their shoes, a tremor in her hands each time one of them turned up dead, the sights of crime scenes seared into her brain making it difficult for her to keep her dinner down. She had been restless, frustrated at their slow pace against the unsub’s increasingly violent one.

It quickly morphed into anger after dead ends and piling bodies and the increasingly lengthening list of victims. Emily had been sizzling like an exposed nerve, her tension clear to everyone as she barely held herself together, the frantic desperation shining in her eyes thinly veiled by determination.

By the time they caught the unsub, a river of blood was soaking her hands.

She’d completely shut off since then, her eyes going shuttered and haunted, a heavy cloud of silence gathering around her and the lone seat she occupied on the jet. It was all she could to stop herself from breaking down in front of her team, so when Hotch stopped her on her way out of the parking lot with a hand on her arm, gently asking her if she was okay, it was all too easy to explode in his face. Emily had snarled at him, teeth flashing in the fluorescent light as she shook his hand off her arm and sardonically asked, “What do you fucking think?”

It fell like poison from her lips, along with some other harsh retort she’s too buzzed to remember. But she still remembers the way his eyes had widened, the team behind them still as shadows as Emily shoved past him and into her car, slamming the door shut just as tears brimmed in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she sniffles now, her reaction made infinitely worse by the fact that she’s in his home, wearing his clothes. “Y-You didn’t deserve it.”

“That’s long forgotten, Emily.” Hotch murmurs.

Emily doesn’t hear him. “And you came for me even though I was a bitch to you, and you brought me here because I didn’t wanna go home, and you gave me your fucking clothes, for god’s sake and I’m just—I’m so sorry.” Her chest caves with sobs as all her pent up emotions spill out of her in tumultuous waves, the guilt at lashing out being the straw that broke the camel’s back.

She’s still crying when he brings her into his chest, his palms warm on her shoulder blades. Hotch rubs them up and down her back, trying to smooth out the tremors as her wet cheek falls against his.

“It’s okay, Emily,” he murmurs soothingly, but she barely hears him over the pounding of her heart. “It was a hard case and I was pushing. I shouldn’t have.” 

This is a product of her bringing Ian Doyle into their lives, one all of them had started taking up; she knows it even though no one has mentioned it, because these days they always seem to prod, even when she insists she’s fine. Emily pushes away their concerns with carefully hidden clenched teeth, acutely aware that if it weren’t for all her secrets, none of them would be acting this way.

“Besides. You call, I answer. Doesn’t matter what you did.” 

Hot tears sting her eyes. They slide down her chin, soak the collar of his jacket.

“But why?” Emily rasps.

His pulse does something beneath her cheek. Hotch inhales, and it jostles her body along with his. “Because you’re my friend.” He says quietly. “And whatever you said or did in a few seconds won’t change the fact that I care about you.”

He says it so firmly, like nothing could ever change his mind. When Emily breathes in, a low hiccup escapes as the tears start up again. Maybe she should be embarrassed, but the alcohol has numbed any part of her brain responsible for that function, instead amping up her guilt. She stuffs her face in Hotch’s neck and tries to stifle her cries, her tears slipping over his skin and dampening his clothes. 

He lets her cry it out, rubbing her back until her head pounds and her throat dries and he shushes her gently. “Shh, sweetheart. You need some rest.” He whispers.

Emily’s eyes are heavy, still damp as they fall closed. “Do you forgive me?” 

“I forgive you, Emily.”

So gently she barely feels it, he tucks her hair behind her ear. She leans into the touch, chasing the unexpected comfort that comes with it. She’s practically on his lap by now, clinging to him like a lifeline, but Emily can’t find anything but the instinct to get closer. His words rumble through her chest, but a nagging insecurity whispers in her ear. When she speaks, her voice is small.

“I don’t want you to hate me.” 

“I never could.”

His answer is resolute. Something about it, about his warm arms around her, makes her confess. “Today was a bad day.” she whispers into his neck. “S-Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Hotch says, just as quiet. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Emily, I just wanted you to know that you can.”

Emily’s head falls on his shoulder. God, he’s so warm. “I’know,” she mumbles. Too good to her, even after everything. 

It’s the last thought that echoes in her head before she sinks into the darkness, but this time, not alone.

Taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07

[chlobliviate]

Wolfstar Microfics - Rescue

Words: 785

@wolfstarmicrofic

For @spoopybambi because we love a good story about people stuck in a cave 💕

***

When Sirius had suggested that they take shelter from the torrential rain in a cave, it had seemed like a good idea. None of them had anticipated a bunch of rocks crashing down and separating them from James who had been right behind them a moment before.

When James had established that they were alright he shouted that he’d be back soon with help. Sirius turned on his phone light and shone it towards Remus, and was shocked at how pale he looked. “Are you ok?”

“Not a fan of being trapped in a cave, as it turns out.” Remus sat on a fairly flat rock formation. “Probably seen too many documentaries.”

“Ah, Nutty Putty?” Sirius sat down next to him, putting his phone on a rock so the light permeated some of the darkness. “I’m not planning on trying to squeeze through a tiny gap in the rock, are you?”

“Nah, I know you’re right, but if that pile of rocks fell, what’s to stop the whole cave from falling in?” Remus inhaled sharply as Sirius interlaced their fingers and squeezed his hand.

“It’s very unlikely, and worrying about it isn’t going to help anything.” He said, surprisingly sagely.

Remus nodded, “You’re right. Yeah. Ok. Ok, well you’re going to have to keep talking to distract me.”

“Alright, but the next time you tell me to shut up, I’m going to remind you that you begged me to talk.”

“I did not beg.” Remus laughed.

“Maybe you should,” Sirius said in a low voice, and Remus stopped laughing. “I mean, uh..” He cursed himself for momentarily fumbling the restraint that he’d held around his friend since they were sixteen, and he couldn't even blame alcohol this time. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How was your date the other night?” Remus asked, “With whats-his-name, from school.”

“Edgar?” Sirius thought for a moment, “Eh, It was alright.”

“Only alright?”

“Was he always so boring?” Sirius cringed as he said it. “He’s a paralegal and he just kept talking about work, and like, good for you for doing something that you love mate, but I just really don’t care about people’s shitty divorces.”

“When I went out with him, it was fantasy football. I don’t know which sounds worse.”

“You went out with him?” Sirius spluttered. “When?”

“About a year ago.” He shrugged, “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You definitely did not tell me.” Sirius looked aghast. “I don’t want to be dating your castoffs! Anyone else I should know about?”

“It was one date. Hardly a castoff.” Remus paused, “Ok, people you know? Uh, Davey Gudgeon, Fabian Prewett, Benjy Fenwick. Hmmm, Emmeline, and Kingsley. I think that’s it. Oh, Ludo Bagman!”

“How did I not know about this?” Sirius muttered, “We live together!”

“Do you tell me about everyone you go out with?” Remus looked surprised.

“Well, yeah.” Sirius shrugged, “I thought that’s what we did. I didn’t realise you were holding out on me.”

“No, I just didn’t know that you’d want to know.” Remus looked down at their joined hands. “You used to tell me every time you so much as kissed someone and it—” He pressed his lips together. “I didn’t like it, so I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.”

“It made you uncomfortable?” Sirius’ face fell.

“Not uncomfortable.” He muttered.

“Then, what?”

"Do we have to have this conversation when we’re literally stuck in a fucking cave?” Remus looked at him and sighed, “I was jealous.”

Sirius’ mouth opened but just as he was about to say something, the light went out. It took less than a second before Sirius launched himself at Remus and then they were kissing. Remus grasped the front of Sirius’ shirt, willing him even closer, before losing a hand in Sirius’ thick hair. Sirius clutched the back of his neck as they broke apart, panting. He rested his forehead against Remus’.

“You never said.” He whispered, against Remus’ mouth.

“You never said.” He countered, pressing his lips to Sirius’ softly. “I thought it was just me.”

“Same, I mean, Moons, it’s been years.” He stroked his cheek delicately, “Since school.”

“Year ten,” Remus smiled. “You picked up an acoustic guitar for once and— Oh god, I’m such a cliché.”

“Year eleven. Prom. You showed up with Caradoc, and I felt like I was going to lose my mind.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You left with Caradoc, and I’m pretty sure I did.”

Remus ran his fingers through Sirius’ hair, “What a pair of idiots.” He closed the small distance between them again and hoped that James and the rescue team would take their time.

[saccharinesunsetretired]

Safe With Me | Gothbur x Reader

This took fifty years and it's not even that long MY BAD I've been working on a million writing projects at once and I'm terrible at time management.

Summary: An attempt to lose your virginity to your boyfriend doesn't quite go as planned. Of course, he's a sweetheart about it.

Warnings/Tags: Virginity loss (sorta?), smut, discussions of sex/boundaries/comfort levels, mention of an uncomfortable (but consensual) past sexual experience, Gothbur is a demisexual icon and also an absolute sweetheart, brief alcohol usage but nothing crazy, hurt/comfort, reader is AFAB but gender neutral 

Word Count: 2k

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOCKS WILL BE BLOCKED

The bed had been made earlier in the day—Wilbur’s red sheets still smelled fresh. They were warm against your back, having been taken out of the dryer not long before. Clearly, he’d finished setting everything up only moments before you arrived.

It had all started with a conversation over a few drinks in Wilbur’s apartment, just two new lovers up late at night with nothing to do. You’d just started dating him after being friends with him for months. The transition felt as natural as breathing. Wilbur was a steadying force, a calming presence. It was impossible for you to be upset when he was around. At least, you were never truly upset for long.

So that’s why, after a few shared drinks and stories, Wilbur asked you for a secret. He said it jokingly, like he expected a sarcastic answer. Instead, you’d been honest.

“I’m a virgin,” you’d said. You felt your cheeks get slightly hot as you waited for Wilbur’s judgment. As per usual with him, no judgment came. “And I haven’t told you yet, because I was worried it’d…I dunno. Be a dealbreaker or something, because I’m so inexperienced.”

Wilbur’s brows had furrowed as he gazed at you. The lights in his apartment were all turned off except for the purple LEDs that lined the walls of his bedroom. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to hide that from me. It’s fine. I don’t have any issue with it.”

“…You don’t?” you asked, hesitant. 

Wilbur shook his head and scooted closer to you, setting his drink aside. He gave you the softest of smiles. “Of course not. I promise.” He rested his forehead against yours. “We’ll move at your pace, okay? Whatever feels comfortable.”

“How about soon?” The words left your lips before you could think twice about them. And then, it got worse. “Tonight, maybe?”

Wilbur laughed softly. “Sorry, darling, but I’d rather not take your virginity when we’ve both been drinking.” He gave your cheek a quick kiss. “But soon, okay? Promise.”

And he’d stayed true to his promise, because there you were—naked, lying on his clean sheets as you gazed up at him. His fingers were inside you, curling in all the right ways as you gasped and tried not to completely lose your composure. It was almost too much, the feeling of his hands on you, inside you, touching you. His face occasionally dipped down to where your neck met your shoulder so that he could press a kiss there and murmur more soft reassurances.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, voice soft and quiet. “Is this okay?” You couldn’t do anything but nod as you tried to hold back the noises that threatened to fall from your lips.

You were so, so close. You finally let yourself moan, small whines as he got you closer to the edge. “That’s it, baby, just like that,” he murmured. He pressed a quick kiss to your jaw as he continued working his fingers, pressing them to your g-spot while massaging your clit gently with his other hand. 

It didn’t take long for you to finish, panting, grasping at his wrist to make him stop his movements. He immediately caught the hint and pulled his hand away. You didn’t have words for how overwhelmed you were. It felt good, better than you could describe. Your legs trembled slightly, and they only stopped when Wilbur laid his hands gently on your thighs. “Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?” he asked. His brows were furrowed in concern as he looked down at you. “Do you need a minute?”

“I’m okay,” you said. Truth was, you were a little freaked out. It was odd, being naked in front of someone else, even if that person was just Wilbur. Every sensation felt so foreign. Sure, you’d gotten yourself off before, but this was a completely different ballpark, and you found yourself hesitant. “Can I just have a quick minute?” 

“No worries,” Wilbur said. He pressed a few kisses to your jaw. “I’ll grab a condom.” He shifted away, reaching for the bedside drawer. It gave you a moment to try and calm yourself down.

You told yourself there was nothing wrong, nothing to be afraid of. Wilbur loved you. This was right, this was good. So why did it feel so overwhelming?

You glanced at Wilbur as he rolled on a condom. You knew he was bigger than average—he’d warned you before taking his sweet time stretching you out—but seeing him put on the condom was a stark reminder. You glanced away quickly, not wanting him to see you staring.

He scooted back over to you. “Alright, love. Are you sure about this?” He looked at you with that same concerned expression.

“I’m fine, Wil. All good.” You managed a small smile as you parted your legs. He smiled back as he settled between them.

“Hey,” he said softly, “if you ever change your mind, tell me to stop, okay? I’ll stop, and we can try this some other time. It doesn’t all have to happen tonight.” 

You nodded and relaxed slightly before giving him a quick kiss. “I trust you,” you replied. And it was true. You did trust him. You trusted him with everything, even if you were a little on edge.

“Okay.” He lined himself up. You could barely feel the tip of his cock pressed against your entrance. He slowly entered you, pushing in just the tiniest amount. “Still alright?” he asked.

“Y-yeah…” Your voice was shaky. It didn’t hurt, but it was a bit of a stretch, and it felt…odd. “You can keep going.”

Wilbur nodded and pushed in a little more. He let out a shaky sigh as he did, a sign that he was thoroughly enjoying this. He was over halfway in. After a slight nod from you, silently urging him to go all the way, he did just that.

You let out a soft moan. He filled you completely. “Wil…”

“You’re doing so good for me,” he said quietly. He kissed your forehead. “Does it feel okay? I’m not hurting you?”

You shook your head. “You’re not hurting me.” But as you said that, the anxiety swelled back up within your chest. It was so much. His skin on your skin, the sheets, his cock, the muscles in your legs straining slightly to hold them in a position you weren’t used to. Every sensation felt like a little too much, but you wanted to keep going. Or, at least try. “You can go.”

Wilbur smiled down at you, but there was a hint of anxiety on his features. “Alright. Just relax, and tell me to stop if you need to.” He started moving, slow, languid movements of his hips. You let out a few quiet noises as he did so. Meanwhile, your mind spun.

You hadn’t expected to feel so vulnerable or so nervous. This wasn’t like what you thought it would be. It was simultaneously more and less intense. As Wilbur moved, and you felt every movement both inside and out, the anxiety got more and more prominent.

After a few more thrusts, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Could you please stop?” you asked. Your voice was quiet and shaky, but Wilbur immediately got the message. 

“Oh, sweetheart, of course. Are you okay? Do you want me to pull out?” You nodded. To your utter embarrassment, tears were stinging your eyes. Wilbur immediately did as you asked, pulling out and sitting by your side so that your legs could rest. 

He took off the condom and tossed it in the trash before quickly settling beside you, a clear sign that he didn’t expect this to continue any time soon. “Hey, darling, can you look at me?” he asked. His voice was soft but worried—there was a slightly higher pitch to it that he only took on when he was nervous. You looked at him despite your tears, and he immediately pressed a few quick kisses to your cheeks and forehead. “There you are, love. You’re safe. It’s just me.”

“I’m sorry,” you croaked out. “It—I was having fun, but then…it was…it was too much, and I got freaked out, and…” The words got more and more strained as you got closer to tears, and Wilbur ended up quietly shushing you.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s alright. You’re gonna be okay. There’s nothing you need to apologize for.” He laid beside you, allowing you the option of cuddling if you wanted it, and of course you did.

You buried your face in his chest, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Deep breaths, darling. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

As you laid in his arms, you knew it was true. Wilbur would never even dream of hurting you. You could still feel the slight tension in his muscles, an unspoken worry that he’d done something wrong and scared you away. “I’m sorry,” you said again. “It’s not your fault, I just…”

“It’s okay.” He kissed your forehead as he ran his fingers through your hair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You sucked in a small breath. “I…I guess I didn’t realize how overwhelming this would be, being with someone like this. And I know that I’m safe, that it’s just you, and that you’d never hurt me, but it’s just a lot to process. And I feel stupid, because people lose their virginity all the time, and most of them aren’t crying about it.”

“It’s not stupid,” Wilbur said softly. “Not at all.” He continued playing with your hair as he spoke. “You know…I had my first time before I found out I was demisexual.” 

You had somehow never thought of that, but it made sense. He’d only figured out his sexuality recently, earlier in your relationship. “Oh,” you said quietly. “And was it…okay?”

“Embarrassing, mostly,” he confessed. “It was awkward. I didn’t know them very well, and I wasn’t really attracted to them, so it took me forever to get hard. It was sort of terrible. Fine and consensual, but really overwhelming.” His eyes met yours as you looked up at him. “I should have gone at my own pace, you know? The last thing I’d want is for you to feel rushed when you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” you said quietly. You couldn’t imagine that, trying to lose your virginity to someone you weren’t particularly interested in. After all, you’d chosen Wilbur for a reason. “Really, you deserved a better time than that.”

“And so do you,” Wilbur said. “So keep that in mind, okay, love? We can take things at your pace. I don’t mind waiting at all.” He pulled you into a gentle hug. “I love you. Remember that.”

“I love you too.” You settled into his arms, accepting the affection gratefully. After a few moments of silence, you spoke again, still worried that he’d taken offense. “I trust you, I really do. I just…”

“I know you do,” he replied. “I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m happy, honestly, that you felt comfortable enough to say something.” A pause. “I would’ve been horrified if I learned later on that you only put up with that to make me happy. Nobody deserves that.” 

That finally settled your nerves. “And you’re okay? You’re not disappointed?”

“Nah,” Wilbur said. “There are other things to do.” He ran his fingers through your hair, calm, slow movements to help settle you. “We could cuddle up, watch a movie…? Maybe?”

“Can we focus on the cuddling part first?” you asked, tone slightly teasing.

He smiled, and you could tell that he hadn’t been lying; there truly wasn’t even a hint of disappointment in his expression. It was almost hard to believe. Part of you had assumed that your first time would be uncomfortable, because wasn’t everyone’s? But Wilbur seemed to completely reject that idea. It was reassuring. “We can definitely focus on the cuddling part,” he said.

You pulled a blanket over the two of you and buried your face in his neck. He was right. There were always other things to do. And one day, you’d be ready. For now, the sheets were still warm, and Wilbur’s arms provided a reassuring shelter from the world. You could hear the soft sounds of his breathing and the slow beating of his heart. It was more than enough.

[suppose-i-was-worm]

Iceberg Siren pt 6

**Here we are, lovelies, almost to the penultimate chapter! Hope you like this one!**

“Cricket?”

Danny blinked his eyes open drowsily to look at his boyfriend.

“Hm?”

Jason was propped up on his elbow on the bed, facing Danny.

“You’ve got powers, you told me you do- why don’t you use them?”

Danny blinked again, processing the question for a moment before answering.

“I do use them, though.”

He could tell by the tilting of Jason’s head that his answer wasn’t sufficient, so he thought for a moment more before elaborating.

“My voice is part of it- I cheat a little as the Siren. A friend taught me how to use my voice for mild hypnotism.”

At the other man’s look of alarm, he backtracked.

“I don’t use it for anything bad! Just to make people like me more. I’ve never used it on you, I promise.”

Jason smiled at him and reached out, cupping Danny’s face with one hand.

“I wasn’t worrying about that- does anyone else know about this?”

Danny pressed his face into Jason’s warm palm after a shake of his head.

“No, not even my boss. I only told him about the other powers.”

“Like?”

“Enhanced strength, sensing similar energy, manipulating said energy to a point- nothing I use on a regular basis.”

Nodding slowly, Jason leaned down to capture Danny’s lips in a soft kiss.

“Thank you for telling me.”

His murmur was low against Danny’s lips, and Danny couldn’t help but kiss him again. No, that wasn’t guilt roiling in his gut like some many tentacled beast. He didn’t use his extended powers on a regular basis, and he wasn’t planning on it any time soon.

~~~

Duke was confused. Bruce had insisted that the entire family be at dinner- the first strange thing.

Second? Dick and Stephanie seemed to be conspiring with Tim. Tim, who looked more tired than usual (a true accomplishment) and in a foul mood. Damian looked mildly perturbed, and Cass was signing too quickly at Babs for Duke to translate.

They were all milling about in the main foyer, right up until Bruce walked down from his office.

“Thank you all for coming- Jason and his guest are pulling up in the drive. Please make your way to the dining room so we don’t scare them off too soon.”

Oh. This was about Jason’s boyfriend. Duke dutifully made his way to his seat in the dining room, but he watched the double doors closely even as the others filed in.

He heard Alfred open the main door and watched as Jason stepped through into the dining room, and then another man walked in, lighting up the room. Literally. Duke had to close his eyes and fish around in his pocket for his emergency sunglasses.

When he finally had them on, he found the whole family plus newcomer looking at him in concern.

“Dude, you’re like, super bright.”

The Boyfriend laughed self-consciously.

“Sorry about that, it’s in my blood.”

A meta, okay.

“I get that. Just don’t sit right across from me.”

Duke grinned to show he meant his statement as a joke, and Brighter Than The Fucking Sun grinned back.

Jason picked Tim up by his shoulders and put him in the seat across from Duke, and then sat down in Tim’s spot, leaving the spot across from Babs empty for his companion.

“Guys, this is Danny. Danny, these are the Waynes. None of us bite.”

Danny laughed and nudged Jason with his elbow like Jason had made a joke, and then the family dinner commenced.

For all that Duke would have to wear sunglasses around Danny, he seemed to fit in pretty well!

~~~

Dani floated above Robin’s head, her long dark ponytail dangling just barely tickling his nose.

The young vigilante’s brow was wrinkled, but otherwise he didn’t react to her messing with him. That was the best part about Robin, he was like Danny in that he just let Dani do what she pleased and didn’t react to anything.

“But Rob, I’m booooored.”

“No, Phantom, we cannot go out and look for your brother. That would require civilian gear, and I am not permitted to reveal my face.”

“But I can reveal mine, and then you can help me look! Superboy says you bats are good with computers, right? You could do like, an image search or something!”

“Genetically, unless you and your brother are identical twins, your face will not match his closely enough for an image search.”

Dani grimaced. She didn’t really want to reveal to anyone else that she was a clone, but she really missed her original.

“What name do you think he would be going by, Phantom?”

“Like I told Green Arrow, his name is my name too. If he’s out as a hero, he’s out as Phantom.”

“No other heroes under the name Phantom have been reported, Phantom.”

Dani sighed and flipped over, gravity taking hold and flipping even more of her ponytail in Robin’s face.

“I just can’t imagine why he hasn’t set up as a hero. I miss my brother, Rob.”

“I am sure he misses you as well. If you could give us a name, we would have more success in finding him.”

She shrugged and floated away, flipping over in the air and landing on her feet.

“If he’s here, he’ll hear me, and I don’t want to pull him away from whatever life he’s made for himself in this dimension. He deserves happiness, and me being around might come in the way of that.”

“But you miss him?”

“He’s the only person I have left from home.”

~~~

Bruce sat at the Watchtower computers with Diana and Clark, watching the numbers flash across the screen.

“So, this means that there’s something powerful on the way?”

Bruce nodded shortly at Diana, frowning beneath the cowl.

“Cyborg has reported that the energy fluctuations have been going on for several months now, and indicate a powerful individual either already in our dimension or on their way. We cannot let out guards down.”

“Has Justice League Dark spoken with the new Teen Titans member? She claimed to be from another dimension, is it her?”

“Clark, she’s a child. Despite the fact that she doesn’t like you, no- there is no evidence that she has the power level that this new possible threat contains.”

“She’s a child with unknown origins and suspicious opinions on clones.”

Diana smacked Clark across the back of the head so Bruce didn’t have to.

All three of them had met Phantom, and only Clark seemed to disapprove of the girl.

“She seems very fond of her teammates. I am firmly of the belief that she would not betray them.”

“We can’t assume the best of everyone, Bruce.”

“Nor can we assume the worst, Superman. Phantom is no danger to us.”

“If you boys could stop squabbling, we have better things to think about.”

~~~

Jason watched as the morning sunrise filtered through the blinds, illuminating Danny’s face as he lay sleeping peacefully on his bed. They had talked about moving in together, but hadn’t made concrete plans yet.

It was probably Jason’s own hesitation and the little secret he was keeping that kept them from making those plans.

Danny’s skin glowed in the light, pale and ethereal. Jason would call him translucent almost.

With gentle fingers, he traced the scars that trailed down his boyfriend’s chest, a harsh pucker of imperfection on otherwise flawless skin.

Danny hadn’t told him what cause him to be dissected, and Jason wasn’t about to ask when his boyfriend was so careful about keeping his scars covered when he was awake. They’d been dating for a while now and only in the last few days had the other man stopped wearing a shirt all the time they were together.

It broke Jason’s heart that the man he loved so much had so much pain in his past- he would talk lovingly of sisters and best friends, but never of his parents, and it seemed he was even more reluctant to discuss the lab accident that gave him his powers.

His League communicator beeped, and he let out a heaving sigh. He hated to leave when Danny was still asleep, but he knew that the JL wouldn’t call him unless it was an emergency. At least his boyfriend wouldn’t be lonely- he was petsitting for his neighbor for a few days.

Jason leaned down to kiss Danny’s forehead and then he made his way out of the apartment through the window, putting his helmet on as he left.

Time to save the world again.

[starliights-shining]

Could I request a shockwave with a cybertronian reader that's also an extremely good scientist, but they have separate labs and usually he doesn't see reader around until he stumbles across them working on a project and idk it impresses him or something?

Of course you can! I've been on a roll with all things Shockwave. I hope this is what you were expecting! Enjoy :)

Pairing: Shockwave x Reader

Warnings: None,

It had been a klick since the last time Shockwave had last seen or heard from you.  Normally there would be notes and datapads shared between you too, even if you two don’t see each other. He thought it’d be time to go looking for you, pedes carrying him to the opposite side of the ship, the light shining out of the doorway to your lab. He could hear you let out a groan and then the clashing of something on the ground. He peaked in, Red optic scanning the room, landing on your frame, hunched over a table working on something. 

You had finally gotten it, pressing the button on your device to activate it, a bright blue light coming from it and some noises that sounded alarming. Oh well, it was finally working. You picked up a piece of metal and placed it through it. It came out the other side and shrunk the metal object. 

“Yes!”

You paused, picking up the small metal object.

“It worked, It finally worked.” 

All you had to do now was put something through the other side and see if it made the object bigger. You picked up the small metal, closing your optics and hoping it would work. You put it through the other side, it took a few seconds for it to come out of the side, but it did, and was larger than it was before. 

“YES!” 

You cheered, and turned around meeting the curious optic of Shockwave. 

“Oh hey, did you need something?” 

He normally doesn’t come to your lab unless he needs something, you were taken aback. His optic seemed to glow brighter after you asked the question. He got closer, looking past you and towards the device you were working on.

“Oh uhh, this is just a size compression device.”

Your optics scanned him for any sign of disinterest, before continuing. PIcking up the device and holding it in between you two. 

“It, uhhh, Can make objects bigger and smaller, Bigger if you put it in through this side.”

Your servo lifted and pointed towards one side.

“And, uhh smaller through this side.” 

You pointed towards the other side, a smile on your face plating as you looked up at him. 

“I’m hoping I can get it to do smaller and bigger for us! You know us Cybertronians”

Scanning his face for anything that shows disinterest or for him to say he’s already made something like this. 

“An interesting indever, (Y/N), Along with logical explanations and conclusions.” 

An excitement bubbling in you, He thinks it’s good. You were relieved, considering he was Megatron first lieutenant for scientific endeavors. If this works out, you’ll be up in the ranks and your device will help further Decepticons in the war. Plus this is one of the rare times you have impressed the Shockwave with your invention, A first and hopefully not last time it’ll happen. Maybe he could provide an outside look on the device, allow for it to be less chunky and maybe even better. 

“You,” 

You paused, Optics looking away from him.

“Wanna, I don’t know, Help?” 

“I could supply further advancements.”

A buzz filled your processor, he’d help you, How exciting. You turned around as he approached your workbench and started explaining your blueprints. This was gonna be one of the best things you’ve worked on.

[fandomsandflyingstingrays]

My contribution for Acolyte Week day 1: Beginning/End!

When Koril was young, hope had been the faces that surrounded her. Mother, aunts, sister, cousins, connection and community and power. When she could no longer see those faces, hope became singular, entirely unique and infinitely valuable: one woman who burned like the sun, and lit Koril whenever she touched her, and shone a path for hundreds who dared to blaze in spite of every expectation that held them. Hope expanded to live in those faces, too, and dimmed almost to nothing when so many of their torches were extinguished.

But Koril’s hope remained alive as long as the woman beside her did— the woman beside her, and the new life that Koril would soon carry through the joining of their souls.

Or rather, lives, if she had anything to say about it.

“Could you create twins?” she asked, gazing down at the void beneath her, overflowing with power and potential.

Aniseya joined her at the edge with a furrowed brow. “Yes,” she said, after a long pause. “But only in a manner of speaking. I can create two bodies, but only one consciousness.” She glanced up at Koril. “They won’t be like you and Yisa.”

More than twenty years, and white-hot knife of grief still struck through Koril at the name. “I know,” she said sharply. Seeing Aniseya’s face, she did her best to soften her tone as she added, “but they don’t need to be. Whatever the origin of their souls, they will have different bodies, different experiences. And they will have each other. It would be… difficult, for a single child to grow up entirely alone.”

Aniseya took her hand and squeezed it. “Very well, then. Twins.”

It took very little time after that for hope to become the kicking of small feet, a room set aside with cribs instead of beds, a palpable raising of spirits whenever Koril’s fellow witches caught sight of her. And it took a single day for that hope to morph, to be concentrated into two small faces with Aniseya’s features and Koril’s fire. Mae-ho and Verosha. Even thinking their names was a spark in Koril, a light that had not been lit since Yisa’s disappeared. Hope was the adoration she felt for her children as they grew into themselves, steady and fierce even when they tested the outermost limits of her patience.

“Give it back!” Osha shrieked, slamming her fists against Mae’s shoulder as the other girl tried to push her away.

“No! It’s my turn!”

“I wasn’t finished!”

“You have to share!”

“I don’t want to share!”��The last word poured from Osha in a wail. “I’m tired of sharing with you! I wish you would just go away!”

“Osha,” Koril barked, striding across the courtyard to where the girls had spent the morning playing. “That’s enough. Do not say things you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it! I want my own toys!”

“A toy can be replaced when it is broken. A sister cannot.”

The flush on Osha’s cheeks faded, and she looked up at Koril with a mixture of sadness and confusion. Koril knelt between the two girls and took the toy from Mae’s hands, setting it on the ground behind her, before taking one of Mae’s hands in hers and Osha’s in the other.

“Any object in the world can grow boring or useless, can break or be discarded. None will fill you the way you need to be filled. Only your sister can do that. No one will understand you the way she can.” Koril lifted their hands to each other, pressing their palms together.

“How do you know?” Osha asked, a hint of resentment lingering in her voice.

“Because I once had a sister, too. And there are parts of me that will always feel lonely while she is gone.”

Both girls’ eyes widened. “What happened to her?” Mae asked.

Koril shook her head. As committed as she was to preparing her children for the galaxy in all its harsh reality, this was a weight that their young shoulders did not yet need to bear.

“That’s not important. Come, stand up. I want to tell you the promise my sister and I made to each other, so that you can have it too. Mae, repeat after me: you’re with me, I’m with you.”

“You’re with me, I’m with you,” she repeated, keeping her eyes on Osha.

“Now you, Osha. Always one, but born as two.”

A pause.

“Osha.”

“Always one, but born as two.”

“Good. Now you, Mae. As above sits the stars, and below lies the sea.”

“As above sits the stars, and below lies the sea.”

“Osha. I give you you, and you give me me.”

Osha looked at her sister’s hopeful smile and softened at last, her own lips turning up in a look of clear affection. “I give you you, and you give me me.”

They moved to embrace each other at the same time, and Koril let out a sigh, though she couldn’t have said if it was of sorrow or relief. But beyond it was hope. Always hope.

Until it died on the edge of a blade, in the gaze of dozens of sightless eyes, in the void in her marrow where she had been able to sense her children from their first moments in her womb.

Hope was no longer to be found in the faces that surrounded her. Koril fled to Dathomir, but the clan that welcomed her in was not the one she had been born into. It could not replace the one she had built. There was no joy to be found within it— only the muscle memory of someone who was too used to surviving when the odds were against her to stop going through the motions.

And, when the Clan Mother informed her that a Jedi ship had entered orbit, there was the promise of vengeance.

Koril made the sisters wait within their boundaries. No matter how little she’d opened her heart to them over the years, she was not about to lose a third clan. And beyond that, she would not allow anyone to kill the Jedi but her. Her fingers dug into the spear she had held when they killed Aniseya so tightly that her nails gouged into the wood, but she kept it tucked away behind her. Let her be the one to lead them to their doom, this time.

The ship’s ramp opened. Koril beat back her rage with all the force she had, smoothing her expression into one of welcome. Two Jedi walked down it, heads bowed, robes dark. The one at the front lifted her chin.

Koril’s face went slack.

“Aniseya?”

Tears pooled in the eyes of the woman who wore Aniseya’s face— not the Aniseya who had died, but the one Koril had fallen in love with years before, young and unburdened by the lines of a lifetime of persecution. Only this Aniseya had no witch’s markings. Which could only mean—

“Osha?”

“Mother Koril. You really are alive.”

The Jedi— the witch— her child— whoever it was that stood on the ramp took a step towards her, but Koril held up a hand.

“This is impossible,” she breathed. “I couldn’t sense you. All these years, I couldn’t sense you.”

“Neither could I. I had no idea you were alive. Grief that intense, it can cloud your senses. When a Thread between you and another being severs… it becomes so hard to feel your other connections. But I learned to use that grief, to channel it without being consumed by it.” The young woman’s eyes flicked to the man beside her, then back to Koril. “And when I did, I sense you. Mother Koril… I need your help.”

Impossible, Koril thought again. And yet, the resemblance was undeniable. And yet, if no Jedi had found her here in sixteen years, why would they play such a trick on her now?

And yet, she wanted to believe. Badly enough that the words fell from her lips without her permission.

“Anything, Osha.”

Osha nodded, two more tears streaking her cheeks, and stood aside, motioning up the ramp. “It’s Mae.”

A strangled gasp wrenched from Koril’s chest. “She’s alive, too?”

Osha nodded. “We both escaped, but we were separated. The Jedi took me, and Mae had to survive on her own. It’s a very long story, but we found each other again, only… Mae lost her memory.”

“How?” Koril demanded, already running through a list of cures for amnesia. “Some kind of injury?”

“I did it,” the man at Osha’s side said.

Koril’s gaze flicked to him, eyes burning.

“It was necessary at the time. If I hadn’t, the Jedi that were pursuing Osha and I would have used her to find us. But I… regret leaving her behind, now. I want to make it right.”

Koril turned to Osha.

“If I had even a sliver of doubt about that, I would have left him for dead a long time ago,” she assured coolly. “But Qimir defied his master to help us.”

There were far fewer cures for amnesia caused by unwinding the Thread than there were for amnesia caused by injury. But Koril had never given up on anything in her life— except, she realized now, on finding her children. But she would do anything to correct that error.

“Where is she?”

“Inside,” Osha replied. “Unconscious. The Jedi were the ones who found her, and they fed her a lot of lies. We had to knock her out so that she wouldn’t turn us in to them.”

Koril had thought she couldn’t feel any more fury towards the Jedi than what she already harbored, but the rage that flared in her was incandescent.

Once again, she beat it back, and when she was able to speak, she only said, “good. The ritual will be easier that way.”

“The ritual?” Osha asked.

“The Nightsisters use it to cure madness. I don’t know if it will restore lost memories, but it’s the closest treatment I know of.”

Osha nodded. “Do it,” she said, her voice firm.

Qimir led Koril up the ramp to where her daughter lay. Mae was easier to recognize than Osha. In sleep, her face was free of pain, free of grief, childlike in its rest. And there, on her forehead, was a marking Koril never expected to see again. She brushed her hand over it gently.

“It will be all right, my child.” She bent, pressing a kiss to the mark. “I swear it.”

She picked Mae up, the way she used to when she fell asleep in one of the common areas, too stubborn to go to her bed. With Osha and Qimir flanking her, she made her way down the path to the Stone Circle, where the sisters’ power was concentrated, and laid Mae in the middle of it.

“Stand outside the circle,” she warned Osha and Qimir. “It will not be safe within.”

She may have stood on the Nightsisters’ nexus of power, but the Thread she pulled was her own. Dark mist, not green smoke, flowed from her fingers and into Mae’s head, and she wove it until it covered her daughter’s entire body in thick streams. Squeezing her eyes shut, Koril reached for the part of Mae that no one could touch; the part that could be repressed, but never erased. She tied her own thread to it and tugged, bringing it as close to the surface as she could before her connection snapped and she collapsed to her knees beside her daughter.

“Mother Koril!” Osha ran forward, ignoring Qimir’s attempt to pull her back. “What happened? Did it work?”

“I… don’t know.” Koril turned to Mae, scanning her face, begging for some hint of life, of recognition.

Osha shook her head and bent over her sister, pressing their foreheads together. “Come on, Mae,” she whispered. “We’re going to be a family again. Remember how much you wanted this? I know you do. I know you’re with me.”

I’m with you, Yisa finished in Koril’s mind, bright and brimming with faith.

“Mae-ho,” Koril said, “wake up.”

“Always one.”

The voice was so faint that Koril wondered if she imagined it, if it was merely another echo of Yisa.

But Mae’s voice grew stronger as she finished, “born as two.”

Osha screamed with delight and pulled her into an embrace, shoulders shaking with sobs. “As above sits the stars, and below lies the sea…”

“I give you you, and you give me me.” Mae’s voice broke on the last word, her eyes finding Koril’s. “Mother? I don’t… I don’t…”

The last of Koril’s restraint crumbled, and she threw herself forwards, wrapping her daughters in an embrace as her own tears fell at last.

Hope was a magic that refused to fade, a saying that refused to be forgotten, a face that refused to die. Hope was an ember Koril had kept in her all her life, whether she knew it or not. Hope was in her arms, now, but it had lived on even when it wasn’t. Hope was the realization of all of this, spreading through Koril like sunlight spilling through trees, washing away more than a decade of numbness and awakening her senses once more.

Hope was two threads she could feel again at last— threads she would rain hellfire upon anyone who tried to cut.

[in-the-shadow-of-the-blog]

Caught in the Rain (Garreth Edition)

Summary: Garreth and MC aren’t afraid of getting a little wet. (Garreth Weasley x f!MC)

Rating: PG

Warnings: None

Word count: 850

A/N: I know this isn’t in theme, but I finished this just time for Weasley Wednesday! This is my first time writing for Garreth, I hope I portrayed him well.

—

MC side-eyed the parcel in Garreth’s hands as he handed payment to Beatrice. She knew that potion ingredients were his main reason for coming to Hogsmeade with her, but his purchases at Dogweed and Deathcap were a bit worrisome.

“What?” He asked innocently when he saw the look on her face.

“What exactly are you going to do with all that?”

“Oh, you know,” he said dismissively. “A little of this, a little of that. I have a few different projects I’m working on. You know how it is.”

MC raised an eyebrow at the cagey response. “It’s something crazy, isn’t it?”

Garrrth grinned. “Sharp and my aunt would have my hide if they found out about it. But you’ll keep my secret, right?”

MC couldn’t help but smile when he turned those pleading puppy eyes on her. “Of course, Garreth. I’ll always have your back. But if you blow your eyebrows off, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Garreth laughed. “Never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance,” MC grinned as she opened the shop door.

Rain fell in soft sheets over Hogsmeade, light enough to be pleasant, though heavy enough to soak their hair. MC turned her face up to the sky, enjoying the feel of the raindrops on her skin.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Garreth’s red locks were drenched, sticking to his neck. He looked over at MC. “Looks like you enjoy the rain as much as I do.”

“A rain shower like this is just perfect,” MC said calmly. “I could almost dance in it, it feels so nice.”

With her gaze to the sky, MC didn’t see the mischievous glint in Garreth’s eyes. “Then let’s not waste it.” He grabbed her hand, pulling MC to a grassy area not far from Dogweed and Deathcap.

“Garreth, what are we doing?” MC asked, though she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Garreth was beaming, and his joy was contagious.

“Dancing in the rain, of course!” He took her other hand, spinning her around.

MC giggled as Garreth pulled her close, humming a tune and swaying her to the melody. Can’t dance without music, of course. They sped up, and Garreth tried to spin her with a flourish.

MC slipped in the wet grass and felt her legs give out from under her. With a yelp, she started to fall. Before she hit the ground, Garreth caught her around the waist and pulled her close, their faces a breath apart.

“Thanks,” MC said, glancing at the rocks her head was almost acquainted with. “That was close.”

Garreth’s smile softened “I’ll never let you fall, darling.”

They hadn’t moved, standing as if they were still dancing and he had lowered her into a dip. MC couldn’t see anything past Garreth, entranced by his green eyes. She grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him closer, pressing her lips to his.

His surprised lasted less than a second before he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. MC twined her fingers in his hair, Garreth’s fingers pressing into her hips. Time was still as they stood in each other’s arms, not parting until the rain grew heavy enough to distract them.

“Guess it’s time to find some shelter,” said Garreth, looking up at the darkening sky. He took MC’s hand, remembering her earlier slip. “This way.”

He led her into the abandoned shop next to Dogweed and Deathcap, closing the door behind them. The building was drafty and cold, but the roof was sufficient to keep them out of the intensifying rain. Water dripped from their clothes, leaving puddles inside the door. MC felt a single drop run down the small of her back and shivered.

Garreth grinned at her, his eyes flashing. “I have just the thing to warm you up.”

MC raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Garreth reached into his robes, presenting a small vial filled with amber liquid. “I’ve been working on a warming potion. I think it’s almost perfect.”

“Almost?”

“It’s definitely fine to drink. I just need someone else to test it. I think I’m building up a resistance to some of my ingredients.”

Though she was wary at first, MC knew Garreth would never put her in harm’s way. “All right then. Bottoms up.”

The potion was warm, like taking a sip from a cup of tea; a peppery burn bloomed on her tongue. As the liquid settled in her stomach, she felt a burst of warmth course through her extremities. The warmth dissipated as quickly as it had come, making the chill air feel twice as cold as it had before.

MC shook her head, suppressing another shiver. “It’s close! It just didn’t keep me warm very long.”

Garreth’s face fell, but his grin quickly returned. “Oh, well… I guess we could warm up the old-fashioned way.”

MC linked her hands behind Garreth’s neck. “Maybe you shouldn’t perfect that potion, after all.”

Garreth laughed even as he kissed her, hoping the rain that pelted the walls would not let up any time soon.

—

Sebastian Edition | Ominis Edition

Masterlist

[starlitangels]

Distractions

This didn't go the direction I was expecting it to, but you know what, I'm 100% fine with that! I missed Avior so much 1.7k words

—

I sat down heavily on the stone floor of the cave. Back pressed to the wall, I drew my knees up and rested my forearms on them. I hung my head and sighed.

Despite the fires burning all over the Hellscape, everything seemed dark to me. The air was thick with smoke and screams, but it seemed heavier than ever, pressing down on me from all sides. No one’s coming to save us, and nothing we’ve tried has worked. The thought spun around and around my head, crowding in with all the others vying for attention.

I’m not sure how long I stayed in that position, fighting off the metaphorical black cloud descending over me.

“Starlight?” Avior’s voice piped up over the din. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “I… I’m at my wit’s end, Avior,” I replied. “There’s no way out. I can’t keep fighting this place. I don’t—I can’t—we’ve tried everything. We’ll never get out—I just—” I shook my head harder. “I’m exhausted!” My throat felt like it was going to close and my eyes burned with tears I didn’t want to shed.

Avior leaned against the wall beside me and slid down it until he was seated next to me. He held out one hand in my direction. I took it. He brought my hand up to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Close your eyes,” he repeated, louder.

I did. My eyes stung from the smoke. Closing them came with some relief.

Avior squeezed my hand tighter.

Music started to fill the cave. Gentle piano and strings. Soft at first. Quiet. Almost a lullaby.

Cutting through it, the rib rattling resonance of a cello playing low entered the score.

The music built. A crescendo.

It drowned out everything. The roaring fires. The shrieking winds. The whipping smoke. The endless screams of the dreamlike projections of tortured souls. All the noises of Hell drowned under the music.

The cello and piano pushed everything out of my mind and heart. A cleansing of my soul. A high violin stabbed across the rest with a sharp, precise, beautiful continuation of the melody. Breath eased in and out of my lungs better than I’d been able to while we were here.

The music was crystal clear, and yet it was fuzzy like a nostalgic memory.

It forced my despair out of me.

“How are you doing that?” I asked Avior. Barely louder than a breath.

“Sonal magic,” he replied almost as quietly. He let go of my hand and started running his fingers over my back gently. Tracing random shapes and patterns.

“Wh… why?”

His fingers paused. I opened my eyes just enough to peek at him. Only to discover him already looking down at me.

“You’re breaking, starlight,” he breathed. “And I don’t know how else to save you.”

“Save me?”

“If you shatter here, I fear there will be nothing I can do. I can’t let you lose yourself to this Hell.” His fingertips, feather-light, dusted across the ridge where my neck met my back. “I love you, my starlight. And I will do whatever it takes to get you through this. I swear.”

I moved and buried my face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around me.

“Tell me how to help you. Please.”

I clung to him. “Distract me. Please. Talk to me about something. Anything.”

He ran his hand up and down my spine. “Okay. When we get out of here—and we will get out of here—how do you want to design our dream home together? Are you content with an apartment? Do you want a house? Pretend money is no issue. Where are we going to live? What will it look like?”

I blinked, thinking hard. “I… I want a cottage. Out in the woods. We can have peace and quiet.”

“Keep going.” Avior went back to tracing the mindless shapes on my back.

“I’m not much of a green thumb but I wouldn’t mind a little garden. Some flowers, maybe some fruit-bearing plants or vegetables.”

“Sounds so beautiful. What else?”

I took a deep breath, letting the music that was still filling the air keep cleansing my soul of despair. “An open kitchen for us to dance in together. A fluffy rug that looks like the night sky in the living room. A bedroom with enough space for you and me.”

“What about a claw-foot bathtub?” Avior suggested. I nodded. “Queen or king bed?”

“King. You’re too tall for a queen.”

He chuckled. “Most demons are tall,” he said. His fingertips trailed up and down my spine. “Can I use glow-in-the-dark paint to put constellations on the ceiling of our bedroom?”

“Please do,” I said.

He hummed. His voice vibrated almost as much as the cello’s low line still playing. “When we get out of here, there’s one thing I think I need to do fairly quickly.”

“What is it?”

“Inchoate demons and Concubi rarely take charges. It’s easier not to for Desire Demons. And for Inchoates there’s not usually much of a point. But I’m going to legally Claim you as my charge. Other demons will leave you alone if I do.”

“What… what does that mean? Being your charge?”

“It means a few things, in demonic society. First of all, it means that other demons aren’t allowed to feed on you unless they want to have a problem with both me and the Chorus. A human with a Claim can’t be fed on without permission of the demon who laid the Claim. Other demons can detect it. But it’s a magic that only demons can detect. A human wouldn’t even notice it, empowered or not.” I opened my mouth to ask a question, but Avior kept going. “A Claim can be laid on unempowereds too. It’s not anchored to your Core or anything, before you ask.” I smiled.

“What else does it mean?”

“Some demons take a Claim as meaning they have to take care of their charge’s emotions, to a certain degree. Particularly with Empathy and Serenity Daemons. They see a Claim as a duty to foster the feelings they can feed on in their charges. Most demons and daemons—both spellings—choose charges who are already predisposed toward the emotions they feed on. It’s easier that way. Serenity Daemons find people who tend to be calm. Empathy Daemons’ charges either need someone to help them be happy, or are already happy more often than not. Sadism Demons who take charges often find people who already have… malicious tendencies.” Avior cleared his throat. “And it’s a good thing that there aren’t many Sadism Demons, comparatively, considering there really aren’t a lot of humans with sadistic tendencies that linger longer than a flash in the pan in a moment of anger.”

“Except maybe politicians,” I muttered sarcastically.

Avior snorted like I caught him off guard. “Yeah, except maybe politicians,” he agreed in the tone that said he was humoring me.

“So what does it mean for an Inchoate to take a charge, considering you can feed on anything and don’t need specific feelings?”

He inhaled through his nose. “Not much more than no other demon can feed on you without your permission and mine. Although, to be honest, if you’re fine with another demon feeding on you, I doubt I’d have a problem with it. But, you being my charge also means that legally, I’m allowed to keep you safe from any other demons who get any funny ideas. And if another demon violates my Claim on you, then I’d be able to seek restitution.”

“Restitution? How does that work?”

“Starlight, trust me just this once to not answer your question because you really don’t want to know.”

“Avior—”

“Please, my love. Just trust me. I’ll remind you, though, that demonic society functions on fundamentally very different morals than human society. Demonic ‘restitution’ can get bloody, quickly. And that’s all I’ll say.”

“Wait—so if another demon violated your Claim and you weren’t okay with it… you could get in a fight?”

“It’s one avenue, yes. And probably the more common one.”

“Yikes.”

“Like I said: different morals.”

“No kidding.” I blinked several times, processing that information.

“Hey,” Avior said softly. “Is it working?”

“What?”

“The distractions.”

“O-oh. Yeah.” I smiled. He returned it, gently, and snuggled me closer to his chest. “Can… can I trouble you for something? It might be too much magic to sustain for long.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do, my starlight.”

I moved a hand so I wasn’t holding him and projected a small illusion. “This teddy bear was given to me when I graduated high school and started going to the academy. He took a lot of my stress. I always held onto him while working on projects that were frustrating.”

Avior studied the illusion, reaching a single finger as though to touch the little velvet bow tie stitched to the teddy bear’s neck. “What’s his name?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

I looked away from Avior to the projection. “Doug. I thought it would be a silly name to make me smile but… through the long hours of studying for school… he just became my little Duggie.”

Avior kept studying the illusion. “Do you know what he’s made of?”

I shook my head. “He’s really soft but that’s all I got.”

Closing glittering gold eyes, Avior heaved a heavy sigh.

And a very good replica of my teddy bear popped into existence on my outstretched hand. I clutched the plushie close to my chest immediately and burrowed back into Avior’s with my face. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He went back to running his fingers up and down my spine. “Of course, my starlight,” he replied.

The soothing motion of Avior tracing my spine and the comforting firm plushness of Doug in one of my arms helped the tension ease away. Avior’s music shifted from a symphony to drown out the despair into a lullaby to soothe and relax. I felt my breathing slow, matching Avior’s.

Before I knew it, I fell asleep for the first time in months.

—

Tag list: @pinksparkl

[tatiejosie]

oh hey look, i’m projecting again

Some small Earwig doodles in these trying times, I’m going through the Horrors as usual so I don’t have the time to do much. That being said, have some depressed Bella, supportive Earwig and out-of-the-loop Mandrake

I wrote a very small one-shot as a caption but I’m not exactly confident in my writing skills. Here goes nothing -

“I know you’re upset. C’mon, tell me what’s wrong.”

Bella sighed. Earwig thought that she was being ignored for a moment, but she saw that the witch was miserable as she seemingly searched for the right words.

“There’s nothing to say, girlie,” she sighed. “It takes a lot of strength to keep things going… and some days you just don’t have it in you. That’s all.”

Earwig rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, watching pensively. She could notice it when Bella was more exhausted, but she couldn’t figure out why - she hardly knew anything about the witch past a very superficial level. Whatever difficult past or heartbreaks she’s gone through, Earwig would wring it out of her mum eventually. But not now.

“What about Mandrake?” The girl piped up.

“What about him,” Bella muttered in response.

“Do you talk to him when you’re sad?”

The witch huffed bitterly. “Certainly not. No reason to.”

“I mean… I reckon it would be nice to speak to him when you have a lot on your mind,” Earwig smiled as she inched a little closer to Bella’s face. The witch only sighed in response, staring into space.

“You wouldn’t want him to worry about you, would you?” Earwig pressed.

“He’s not… like that,” Bella replied exasperatedly. “I shouldn’t expect him to care about this. It’s my problem, I’ll deal with this on my own like I’ve always done.”

The witch did not want to sound so bitter. She couldn’t deny that she was miserable most of the time, but what else could she do other than repress it? Pretending to be functional was her only way to keep face. And Bella did not want to involve Mandrake into this. Part of her wanted him out of her mess because he didn’t have to see how bad it was… but deep down, she just didn’t want to know that he wouldn’t care if he knew. The probability made it hard to even think about.

Earwig furrowed her brows. “You think… that he doesn’t care about you?”

“I never said that. I just meant that we’re not… that close when it comes to that. Y’know, feelings and the like.”

“But you’re sad, why wouldn’t he care? What does he do to make you feel better when you cry?” the girl inquired curiously.

“Oh please,” Bella scoffed. “I’m not some snotty child, girlie, I know how to keep things to myself.”

“Okay, maybe not cry, but you do look miserable! I saw it, Thomas saw it, I’m sure Mandrake knows it when you’re sad!”

“Yeah, he probably does. Doesn’t mean he has to do something about it.” Bella retorted irritably. “Go away now, I’m exhausted.”

She gave the girl a light push to shake her off, before rolling over to bury her face in a pillow. Thinking about her emotional isolation was the last thing she needed right now.

Earwig sat next to her mother on the bed, deep in thoughts. It was obvious from the start that her parents were repressing a bunch of unresolved issues, but she had expected more… solidarity between them. That was kind of pathetic.

She knew that Mandrake was a caring person, there was no reason for him to just ignore Bella. Maybe he didn’t want to seem intrusive. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he would rather not get involved with Bella’s personal issues, like it’s better to leave it be. That sounds like him, Earwig thought. But it wasn’t right.

She figured that she still had a lot of work to do on her parents and their ridiculously complex situation.

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

McCallistor

The dim hum of the fluorescent lights overhead barely touched the corners of the barracks where Tara McCallistor, known to some by other names she no longer used, methodically disassembled her shotgun.

The pieces lay precisely arranged on a coarse towel, her hands moving with practiced ease, wiping away the grime of yesterday’s drills. Silence was her preferred companion, but it seemed tonight it was not meant to be.

The door groaned on its hinges—a sound that didn't bother to hide its arrival. A young marine slipped through, his posture rigid, as if the air around McCallistor was a tangible barrier he dared not breach.

"Corporal, there's someone to see you," he muttered, eyes darting toward the exit as if he'd sell his soul to be anywhere but here.

"Thanks, Private. That’ll be all," she said, not looking up from her work.He almost stumbled in his haste to leave, the door slamming shut behind him with a clap that echoed off the bare walls. The stillness barely settled before it was broken again by another presence, this one decidedly heavier.

From the shadowed corner of the room, a figure emerged—tall and imposing, adorned in a uniform that clung to his broad shoulders, each medal a testament to battles fought and won. His face was a landscape of hard-earned scars, the most prominent a burn that trailed down from his right brow to his collar-bone, the eye on the same side of his face is blind, milky white and devoid of life. Ghostly, like the rest of him.

Tara remained seated, setting down her rag, her gaze cool and measured. "Sir," she acknowledged, with a nod that was more an assessment than a greeting.

The man raised a hand, a silent cue to dispense with formalities. "Let’s drop the rank and file, shall we?" His voice was smooth, the kind of tone that commanded rooms. "We’re just two super-soldiers having a chat."

A smirk twitched at the corner of Tara's lips. "Chatting isn’t generally what soldiers like us do best."

"True, but today's an exception." He stepped into the light, revealing more of his rugged features. "I know about your work with Project Freelancer."

Tara's hands paused on the metal of her shotgun. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," she lied smoothly.

He chuckled—a sound as dry as the desert wind. "Oh, I think you do... Agent Carolina."

The name hung in the air, a ghost from the past she’d tried to outrun. Carolina straightened up, her face a mask of indifference. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Let’s just say I’m someone who understands the kind of work you've done."

He glanced down at his uniform, the insignia of a Master Chief Petty Officer visible, with the numbers 117 stitched below.

"I’m here because Leonard Church has disappeared, and you’re one of the last people who might know something useful."

Carolina scoffed, leaning back against the workbench. "If Church wanted to disappear, he’s not going to be found unless he chooses otherwise."

"But you were close to him, closer than most," John pressed, his tone earnest. "Anything you remember could help."

"You think you can just walk in here and what? I’ll spill my life story?" Tara’s voice was sharp, her green eyes hard as emeralds.

"Not your life story," he stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Just the parts that never made it into the official reports."

There was a pause, heavy and thick with unspoken words. Carolina looked at the disassembled pieces of her shotgun, each part a fragment of the whole—not unlike herself.

"Fine," she finally said, her voice softer but carrying a firm edge. "I’ll tell you what I know. But after this, we’re done. You leave me and whatever ghosts I’ve got left in peace."

"It’s a deal."

Ohhhhh I love this! I hope we get to see more of their collaboration. Would also love to see whatever other Freelancer agents show up.

Great work, as always!

[ellekhen]

Hand, Hearth, and Home

Chapter 42 - Lying in Wait

Chapter Summary: Halsin guides the adventurers into the Shadowlands via an ancient tunnel - only to find that they're not the only creatures hoping for an escape. When the adventurers finally make it into the Shadowlands, their troubles are far from over.

Pairing(s): Astarion x Male Tav (Main); Past OC x Male Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 199K+ words; Chapters 42/65

Excerpt below:

“Halsin,” Wyll calls, returning from further up the broken path. “We found something.”

He gingerly hands an old, moldering journal to the druid, who studies it closely. 

“Where did you find this?” he asks Wyll softly. 

They find themselves in the remains of a hasty little camp. Right at the center of it — curled close to the remains of a campfire — are the brittle remnants of a human skeleton and a splintered quarterstaff.

Church recognizes the Oak Father’s emblem — fallen into the dust between the skeleton’s ribs. 

“Did you know them?” he asks Halsin gently. 

The druid is quiet for a moment. 

“…she was from the grove,” he whispers, voice choked. “Terryna.” 

Halsin wipes at his face, breath shuddering. “I told her… I told her not to…”

He clears his throat before handing the disintegrating journal to the warlock before walking away. Church cracks it open, surprised to find that the ink is remarkably well-preserved. 

Made good progress through the mountains. Seeing the curse for the first time filled me with an awe and fear that was difficult to describe. No writing could have prepared me, nor any artist’s rendition. As grave as the Archdruid Halsin’s warnings were, they were still lacking compared to the reality. 

Church glances over to the druid, who crouches before the skeleton with his eyes closed and lips moving in prayer. 

I shall make camp soon, and press on in the morning… though in truth, such terms have little meaning in this place.

“We should get going,” Astarion says tersely. Nervously. 

A dreadful night. The campfire needed thrice the wood that would normally be needed in order to keep it burning. Terrible sounds came to my ears from beyond the firelight. Rest has not restored me. If anything, I feel weaker. But I must persevere. I must trust in Silvanus. I must venture deeper.

“Yes,” Halsin stands, pocketing something. “We must not linger here.”

Creatures, from the darkness. Foul things. One grazed me. Only my torch saved me.

The adventurers explore the other side of the fork, only to reach another dead end. 

Deep darkness. Flames are instantly doused. The wound stings. Flesh is turning black with corruption. The shadows are growing stronger. They are spreading. I need to return to light.

“…hells, haven’t we seen this tree before?” Wyll utters. 

“Fuck!” Karlach growls, smoldering as her straining heart visibly races beneath her skin. “I hate this place!”

The wood will not burn. I can barely see the page. I am surrounded.

It is her last entry.

Church closes the journal with a sigh before approaching Astarion. He can’t help but notice that the rogue’s gaze is distant even as it scans the foreboding woods.

“Oh!” the elf startles slightly just as the tiefling opens his mouth to speak. “Sorry, did you want something?” He forces his troubled expression into a smirk. “Or are you just looking for a distraction?”

“How are you doing?” Church asks him, glancing down at the elf’s clenched hand. 

How he wishes he could just reach out and hold it, staving off whatever trepidation Astarion is feeling now… 

“I… don’t quite like this,” Astarion admits, eyes troubled above his strained smile. “Make no mistake — it's far better than that godforsaken tomb of an aqueduct.” 

The elf’s face settles into a scowl. “But it feels like we’re being watched — hunted, even. But there’s nothing out there… only more darkness.”

He huffs a laugh. “I much prefer when I’m the one prowling in the shadows, about to strike.”

Come closer. 

Something tugs at Church’s senses, and he wheels around far too late.

“Karlach!” he shouts. “Stop—!”

The other tiefling freezes — her boot mid-nudge at a dead raven smoldering with necrotic energy.

“Oh,” she utters. “Shit.”

Yes. Yes—!

A storm of ravens swarm down upon the party in an instant — eager for blood.

Start from the beginning!

[cheeriecherrymain]

(5 of 5) #21 - listening to them rant (OH GOD PLEASE, please please please give the reader just listening to Viktor just talk up a storm about his inventions. The whole type of scene where he might start to apologize and stop talking - only to have the reader ask him to keep going and his face just lights up. Gah, I would die)

man i love listening to people talk about things. like hell yeah bby infodump at me!

Viktor x Reader

-So listening to him talk extensively is probably a habit that actually deepened your friendship (and eventual romance). 

-You weren’t more than classmates and occasional lab partners at first. You were on good terms, often choosing to work with each other whenever pairs or groups were required - he thought you were reliable and creative, and on top of that, you always treated him kindly. You listened to his ideas, and he didn’t have to fight to be heard by you.

-But he never sought you out. If someone were to ask, he would say that you were on friendly terms, though he wouldn’t outright call you a friend.

-At least not until one chilly winter night in the library.

-He was up late trying to gather as much information as he could about his next project - surrounded by towers of books that were filled with tabs he’d stuck to the pages that held relevant facts. He’s got his notebook open in front of him, hastily scribbling his thoughts and observations. But he’s growing frustrated.

-He can’t figure out where he’s going wrong. He’s triple checked all his math, gone over every inch of blueprint that displayed drawings of every single part. And…nothing. To add insult to injury, the snow-filled winds from outside must have been getting in through gaps in the building - the library was frigid, and it was making his leg ache something fierce.

-He feels like giving up for the night, even though he knows he’ll be behind on the project if he does so. He’s addled and distracted, and he’s not getting anything done, so…

-Until he hears a quiet utterance of his name.

-He turns in his chair, glancing around for a couple seconds before his eyes adjust to the change in brightness, and he sees you standing by one of the nearby bookshelves.

- “I thought it might be you,” you say, with a soft smile. “I saw the lamp when I walked in, and you’re the only person I could think of that would be here at two in the morning.”

-You wander over to him to stop beside his desk, and it’s then that he notices the large object in your hand, dangling by your side.

- “What are you doing here so late?” he wonders, eyeing the contraption in your grip.

-You follow his gaze, and offer him another smile before dropping into a crouch beside him. “I work part time here,” you explain, pulling a panel off the object to reveal what looks like a single-bladed fan. “But because I’m a student, I get stuck with the worst shifts. Technically I’m not supposed to be in for another four hours, but it’s downright freezing in here. I thought I might try and warm the place up a bit before the rest of the student body comes in.”

-You press a couple buttons on the top of the little machine, until it quietly hums to life. The fan starts spinning slowly, and he almost complains when you turn it towards him. Until he realizes it’s blowing blessedly warm air, instead of chilling him.

-He sighs, and melts into his seat, slouching back while he soaks up the heat.

-But you don’t leave after that.

-Instead, you pull up a chair beside him, and situate yourself to stare at him expectantly. “So?” you prompt, “What’s got you looking so ready to rip all your hair out?”

-He can hear the amusement in your voice. Usually such a thing would annoy him, but your sweet little smile only serves to relax him, and make his stomach fill with flutters.

- “It’s the project I’m working on,” he admits, his features pinching into a perturbed frown. “I’ve done everything correctly, looked over every possibility, and still! Nothing is doing what it’s supposed to!”

-You cross your arms over the back of your chair, and rest your chin on them. “Explain it to me,” you tell him. 

- “What?”

- “Explain it,” you repeat, nodding at his work. “Sometimes saying it out loud can help you find the error. Plus, if I know what you’re working on, maybe I can offer some insight.”

-He seems dubious by your plan, but you look so earnestly happy to be there with him, to help him. And he knows you’re smart, even if the two of you have vastly different working styles. It might help to have a different point of view, he thinks, and starts to walk you through his work.

-It takes a good half an hour for you to fully grasp the complexity of his project, and understand every little niche and function, but you’re patient. You let him talk your ear off and prattle through every section of his notes. You even write your questions down for later instead of asking them outright, just so you don’t interrupt his flow.

-He’s never met someone who has just…let him speak. Not only that, but let him speak and genuinely listened to what he was saying. He thinks for sure that you’ll be impatient by the end of his impromptu lesson, but you only present him with your list of questions, asking about things he’d mentioned all throughout his speech.

-It makes him feel weird and squishy, so know that you see him.

-The two of you figure things out by five in the morning, much to his relief. You’re both fatigued and about to fall asleep, but…you figured it out. With his formulas corrected and his design altered to fit them, his final creation should work as intended. It wouldn’t even take long to make! He could sleep for the rest of the day, and he’d still have ample time to finish putting everything together-

-His silent celebration is interrupted by a quiet snore.

-He glances away from his notes, over to you…and his heart melts.

-You’ve fallen asleep in your chair, your face mushed into your arms. He never thought he’d ever see your sleeping face, but now that he has…you’re cute. Your cheek is squished in just the right way to make your lips form a pout, and…

-His stomach flutters again, and he looks away. It’s just because they helped me, he thinks, trying to convince himself that nothing else is coming into play.

-Joke’s on him though, because three months later you ask him on a date, and you spend the entire time helping him talk through another project. It becomes a routine over the years - every couple weeks, he seeks you out to ask for your ear, and you happily let him talk until his throat gets sore.

-You genuinely love seeing him so passionate about something, and you love being able to get a peek into the way his mind works. Even if the two of you are tucked into bed together, in the dark, and you’re thirty seconds away from sleep - he’ll start talking about something that he can’t figure out, and you’ll stave off your drowsiness so you can listen. Your replies are usually useless at that point of the day, but he appreciates you nonetheless.