#but anyway - figured I’d elaborate on my thoughts since they have shifted a bit since I was (checks notes) 18

[nocentis]

Possession & Indoctrination

╳┆Possession Link is a magic somewhat similar to Sensory Link. It is a dark magic often used to manipulate and control its target. Unlike Sensory Link, the spell only affects one person at a time—the receiver. It can isolate and strengthen a specific group of emotions of the user's choice. It can also be used pseudo-telepathically, disguising the user's voice and allowing them to be heard only by the receiver.

The link feeds off of its host's magic energy, meaning the user does not need to constantly expend magic to sustain the link.

╳┆Initially, Ultear’s Possession Link amplified Jellal’s preexisting emotions of hatred, anger, and helplessness. This influx of raw emotion allowed him to access his magic energy for the first time. At the same time, he began to hear the “Ghost of Zeref” promising him true freedom in the form of Heaven.

Jellal opened himself up to the Possession Link, which strengthened its initial effects. Hatred manifest coupled with a magic that severely lowered any remaining inhibitions resulted in a radical shift in both personality and morality. From there, Jellal carried out what he believed to be Zeref’s will by sending Erza away, trapping & manipulating the others, and spending the next eight years completing the R-System.

The Possession Link remained mostly dormant after its initial conception, only serving to stoke those same feelings of resentment and obsession that would keep him focused on the tower’s construction. If ever his mind should stray, if ever he should doubt his “divine mission”, the voice of “Zeref” would whisper to him again, coaching him to continue and promising that Heaven awaited himself and his “friends”. The link served as a tool to keep him focused & reinforce indoctrination, but it did not have omnipotent control over his actions.

When Wendy pulled Jellal from his comatose state, the Possession Link was severed. Those emotions that completely engrossed him for so long were still present, but they weren’t anywhere near as intense. They were manageable.

[justabooknerdposts]

Anyway. I saw that you put the order list so I have some: howI saw that you put the order list so I have some ideas: how grover, chiron, Sally, and the like discovered romance; the first time they makeout, no sex! just teenage fire. the three going to new rome; a day as a camp counselor and I love stories that take place well before TLO!!!

*Okay, I decided to go with a little bit of a day as a camp counselor, set post-BotL, pre-TLO (and there’s a bonus scene at the end regarding Sally, post-TLO 😊)*

I couldn’t find Annabeth.  True, things had been weird between the two of us ever since the Battle of the Labyrinth and the end of our quest a couple weeks ago, so we’d both been kind of avoiding each other.  But I figured that today was the one day she’d be way more mad if I didn’t find her than if I did.

I’d spent the morning doing my regular camp counselor duties.  Unfortunately, that had included kitchen patrol because the Poseidon cabin had scored last in inspections.  I said Silena was too picky at inspections, wanting everything to be pretty.  No one had agreed with me.  So, I was stuck cleaning up after breakfast, which extra sucked since I was currently the only one in the Poseidon cabin; Tyson was back in the undersea forges for the week.  The lava spray guns the harpies used made me extra nervous now, after my experience in Mt. St. Helens. 

Luckily, I managed to escape with only a very minor burn on my finger.  Then I grabbed the package I’d set carefully by the door, far away from the water and lava, and headed out the kitchen door.  Morning activities were in full swing.  The Hephaestus cabin had arts and crafts time, so they were making their usual elaborately designed machines.  The Aphrodite cabin was down at the lake, doing canoe races, although some of them, like Drew Tanaka, appeared to just be tanning.  Hermes cabin was running relay races on the climbing wall; as I passed, I saw Connor Stoll rolling on the ground, trying to put out his burning shirt.  I thought about dousing him, but his shirt had already stopped burning and was now simply smoldering, so I figured he’d be okay.  Over on the archery range, the Athena and Apollo cabins were competing.  That should have been super unfair to the Athena cabin, but some of their campers were almost as good with calculating velocity and angles as the Apollo campers were with their natural talent.  However, I didn’t see Annabeth.  And, despite my lucky shot against Geryon earlier this summer, I had no desire to go near the archery range.  Although, I probably needed to burn a thank you offering to Artemis and Apollo for that shot.

I finally found Annabeth in the empty dining pavilion, still seated at the Athena table, absorbed in Daedalus’s laptop.  Its screen gave her face a faintly blue tint. 

Interrupting her was risky, so I kind of stood there awkwardly until she said, “Hey, Percy,” without looking up.

“Hey.”  I shifted from foot to foot.  “Are you busy?”

She pursed her lips, then shook her head.  “I could take a break,” she admitted, scooting her laptop back.  She gave me a small smile, which I figured was a big win, and said, “What’s up, Seaweed Brain?”

Remembering what Athena had told me back in December on Olympus, I was a little hesitant to sit at the goddess’s table, but I decided to take the risk.  I perched myself on the very edge of the bench beside Annabeth—but not, you know, too close.  When no thunder rumbled and I wasn’t immediately incinerated, I figured Annabeth’s mom was giving me a pass.  For now.

“How’s it going with that thing?” I asked, nodding at Daedalus’s laptop.

Her eyes lit up.  “It’s amazing.  There are so many different designs and inventions—I could probably spend the next hundred years, literally, going through them.”

“That sounds…fun.  For you, anyway.”

“I told Beckendorf about some of the designs.  We might try to collaborate on making some of Daedalus’s inventions for real.  Like there’s this shield—”

Thunder rumbled overhead.  I leapt up from the Athena table like my butt was on fire.  Because I really didn’t want it to end up that way.

“Uh, sorry.  I don’t think your mom likes me sitting at her table.”

Annabeth looked like she was fighting back a smirk.  “Want to walk down to the dock instead?”

“That would be great.”  I tucked the wrapped package I’d brought under my arm.

We sat at the end of the dock on the canoe lake, dangling our feet in the water.  Farther out, the Aphrodite kids were squabbling.  Someone had flipped Drew Tanaka’s canoe, dunking her, which was apparently a huge ordeal because it had gotten her hair wet.  Drew clearly was not happy about it.  Silena was trying to mediate, but looked a little stressed.

“Should we help?” Annabeth asked, looking out at the lake.

“I don’t think they’ll listen to us,” I said.  “But I can always try to separate them with a wave or something if it gets really ugly.”

“That works,” Annabeth said.  “So, did you have a reason for coming to find me, Seaweed Brain?”

“Maybe.”  My neck felt hot, but I handed over my clumsily wrapped present that I was suddenly wishing I’d taken more care with wrapping.  “This is for you.  Happy birthday, Annabeth.”

She took the present, looking surprised, then said quietly, “Thanks, Percy.”

I waited nervously while she unwrapped it.  It was a book about Frank Lloyd Wright, who was a famous architect.  Annabeth had mentioned him a few times, so I hoped I wasn’t too far off track.  I’d asked my mom to order the book, then she’d mailed it to camp for me.  I’d been a little worried it wasn’t going to show up on time; it had only arrived yesterday.  I’d had to ask Silena for wrapping paper.  Her knowing look when I said it was for Annabeth made me feel embarrassed and I’d hurried to get out of the Aphrodite cabin as quickly as possible.

Annabeth’s face when she unwrapped the book made it all worth it, though.  “Oh my gods, Percy!  This is so cool.”  She looked up at me then, her smile as bright as the summer sky.  “How did you know I like Frank Lloyd Wright?”

I shrugged.  “You’ve mentioned him a few times.  Didn’t you say the house at the Triple G Ranch looked like a Frank Lloyd Wright?”

“Yeah, I did.”  Annabeth studied me for a moment, then she leaned over and kissed my cheek.  “Thank you.”

I tried not to look too pleased.  “You’re welcome.”

We sat there quietly for a minute while Annabeth flipped through her book, pausing on different pages like she was reading a couple of lines. 

Finally, I asked, “So, how’s your birthday going so far?”

“Pretty good.  My siblings woke me up by singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me this morning.”

“That sounds like a terrifying way to wake up.”

Annabeth laughed, which was good to hear.  “It kind of was.  But they meant well.”

We talked for a few minutes about nothing important.  Definitely nothing quest or war related.  It felt nice to just hang out, like we used to before things got weird this summer.

“I finally got to lead a quest,” Annabeth said after talking about how it had been a crazy year, between going to school with Thalia in Brooklyn, then getting kidnapped by Atlas, then the quest this summer.  “I just wish I’d done a better job with it.  I always…” her voice trailed off as she bit her lip, then she said in a rush, “I always thought I’d be better at it.  More of a natural.”

“I thought you did great,” I said truthfully.  “This was a tough quest.  Like you said, some of our other ones have been more logical.  This one was all over the place.  Literally.  I mean, we walked from Long Island to San Francisco in a day.  And then ended up in Texas a couple hours later.  Who could plan for that?”

“But I should have been able to.”  Annabeth gripped her book more tightly, her knuckles turning white.  “If I don’t have a clear plan, who’s ever going to follow me on…anything?”

“I’d still follow you.”

Annabeth looked taken aback.  Then, in a small voice, she said, “You would?”

“Definitely.  I’d follow you anywhere.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could think about them.  I felt the back of my neck heat up again.  But it was true.  I trusted Annabeth more than I trusted anyone else.  Even if she didn’t know all the details, I knew she’d always come up with some kind of a plan.

Annabeth’s ears were red.  But instead of saying anything, she laid her book gently down beside her on the dock.  Then she reached over and took my hand.  I summoned my courage and lightly squeezed her fingers.  She returned the pressure.

We sat there for a while, holding hands at the end of the dock, watching the Aphrodite kids use their paddles to fling water at each other, not saying much.  But I was reminded of the time we’d shared a dance on Mount Olympus, the music a little sad, but a little hopeful, too. 

*

Okay, and then for fun, another part of the request was about first make out session and also Sally finding out—so I decided to combine the two lol This is set post-TLO

Sally was pleasantly surprised when Percy asked if he could invite Annabeth over for dinner.  He had only been home from camp for a few days, and Sally knew Annabeth had flown back to the city to move into her dorm room, after going home to San Francisco for a couple of days to pack her things.  Sally hadn’t seen her since the kids had come out of the elevator in the Empire State Building at the end of the war, so she was looking forward to catching up.  Especially since she hadn’t seen a lot of Annabeth this summer, with Percy spending a lot of time hanging out with Rachel.  Not that that was a problem.  Sally liked Rachel, too.  But she had to admit that she’d missed seeing Annabeth around.

Paul would be home in an hour.  He was currently at Goode High School, getting his classroom ready for school to start next week.  Percy was in the living room, playing a video game.  Sally knew she needed to start dinner soon, but she was currently back sitting at the desk in her bedroom, jotting down a few quick ideas she’d had about the next chapter in her novel.  She wanted to get them down on paper before she forgot about them.  So she heard the knock on the apartment door, but didn’t think too much about it, since she was still absorbed in her book.  Which meant that it was a huge surprise for her, when she headed back out into the living room, to find Annabeth now sitting on the couch with Percy. 

Actually, Annabeth sitting on the couch wasn’t the surprise. 

The surprise was finding the two of them sitting on the couch making out.

“Oh,” Sally said, her initial reaction to stumbling on this scene.

Percy and Annabeth broke apart like they’d been shocked with Zeus’s lightning bolt.

“Oh shi—um, sorry, Mom,” Percy said, his face bright red.

Annabeth looked mortified.  “Oh my gods.  Sorry, Ms. Jackson!”

Sally just stood for a moment, processing.  Then, she exhaled and said, “Finally.”

Leaving the two teenagers gaping at her, she headed into the kitchen to start dinner, a slight smile on her face.

*Because Sally was totally one of the first Percabeth fans.*

[midgardianweasley]

Movie Night

Movie night

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: It’s friday night, or more commonly known as movie night for the Avengers. A horror movie was put on and Y/N isn’t feeling so brave, luckily she’s got a Romanoff nearby.

Warnings: coulrophobia (fear of clowns), mentions of the IT movie and pennywise.

Word Count: 2.5k

Идиоты. - ‘Idiots.’

Requests are open!

“I vote action movie”

“We watched an Action movie last week, Sam.” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, briefly looking up and meeting my eyes, earning a small smile in return, attempting to provide some sanity for the man.

“Plus, do you not think we’ve had enough action for one week?” Bucky grumbled, this week having taken a toll on everyone. We were all exhausted from our missions, some more than others, the soldier being one of them.

“Okay okay, no action, damn” Sam put his hands up in defeat, accepting that he wasn’t going to win this one. A few more options had been suggested, Bruce suggested rom-com, Thor suggested comedy, Vision proposed a documentary, all of which were shut down with groans and sounds of protest.

I turned to my assassin girlfriend who had been sitting beside me watching the scene unfold with an amused smirk on her face, her green eyes darting around the room whenever someone else spoke and taking sips of the drink she had in her hand. I nudged her slightly to get her attention

“Hey.”

“Hi”

“If it was up to you, what would you choose for movie night?” I asked. She morphed her face into a thoughtful one, still with a slight smile on her face, taking time to make her decision.

“If it was completely up to me? I would-”

“Aha!” Tony interrupted with a loud snap of his fingers. “I know, we haven’t watched a horror movie in a while, and the new IT movie just came out, we can watch that” He smirked, proud of his contribution to the discussion at hand. I looked around the room, praying that they would pick anything else, literally anything, even Vision’s documentary.

Unfortunately, everyone seemed to be really into it as they all shared nod’s and “yeah” “sounds good” before splitting up to go and get their snacks and blankets to bring back to the large sofa.

Although I wouldn't admit it to the rest of the group, I was absolutely terrified of clowns and have been since I was a child. If there was a clown at a birthday party or an event, I’d pretend I was sick so that my mum wouldn’t make me go. She soon noticed a pattern in my behaviour, putting the pieces together and realising that I hadn't come down with the flu three times that month, I was avoiding the ‘entertainment’ of the parties.

She tried explaining that it was just a guy in makeup and a funny suit, showing off fun tricks and jokes. However, 9 year old me still refused to attend, faking a sneeze and hiding under the blanket.

“Woah, Y/L/N, you good over there?” Tony furrowed his brows, concern written all over his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I wish it was a ghost.

I regained my composure, nodding and sending a firm smile his way, hoping that would be enough to prevent any further questioning. With a shrug, he made his way out of the room and caught up with Thor to explain what ‘IT’ was.

“You don’t look so good, sure you’re okay?” Nat placed her hand on my back, rubbing small, reassuring circles with her palm. I wanted to put on a brave face and tell her I was fine, that there wasn’t a problem and my heart wasn’t racing with fear, but the look on her face, while caring and concerned, was also warning me not to lie to her. Not that i’d manage anyway, she always had ways of finding out the truth eventually.

I shook my head, letting out a small sigh and turning in my seat to address her. My eyes met hers and I felt my heart settle slightly just by looking at her, she always made me feel safe.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” She whispered, her hand coming up to rest on my cheek, her thumb stroking my cheekbone in small movements.

“It’s so silly, really.”

“Nothing is silly if it’s upsetting you Detka. Tell me.”

“It’s this movie.”

The confusion was obvious on her face, yet she stayed quiet, allowing me to elaborate.

“I just, I’ve never been the best with clowns. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had this fear of them. If I saw one, I’d run in the opposite direction, which was more often than one would think. I mean, seriously, who wants one of those things at a party? What happened to princess parties? Or tea parties!” I exclaimed, my tone becoming more intense as I spoke.

Natasha nodded, I could almost see the cogs turning in her head, figuring out how to approach the situation. After a minute or two, she focused her eyes back on me and her hands had trailed down to meet with mine, interlocking them in the process.

“Do you want to skip it tonight?” She suggested.

“No, no, I don’t want to cause a fuss. Plus, I kinda don’t want the others knowing.”

“Are you absolutely sure? I’m sure we can pull a sickie for one night.”

“I’m sure. Just, can you stay next to me? And let me hide if it gets really bad?”

“Of course you can. I’ll be next to you the whole time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

___________________

We were at the haunted house scene in the movie. There had already been jumpscares that I'd managed to avoid for the most part, but I don’t think I've moved past Georgie’s death yet, let alone have time to process the psycho killer clown on the screen.

Eddie was in a room alone, he was staring at this dirty, old fridge and a white hand had appeared, curling itself around and tapping on the side so you could only see it’s fingers. I tugged the blanket that was laid across Natasha and i’s laps and pulled it up to my nose, eyes still on the screen, but prepared to take cover. It appears as though nothing has changed from all those years ago.

As the fridge door creaked open, my blanket had raised higher and higher, my grip tightening by the second while the hand reappeared, this time, you could see it’s entire body contorted into this small space.

“Nope. No, absolutely fucking not. No.” I mumbled, covering my eyes with my fluffy shield. Luckily, Nat had stolen the sofa at the back, meaning I could skip the scary parts without anyone taking much notice, them being too entranced by the movie. Weirdo’s.

In my safety bubble I'd created, I felt my girlfriend’s hand on my thigh, rubbing small circles to reassure me that I was okay, and that she was here. I shuffled a little so I was closer to her, if that was even possible, her then adjusting so that her hand was still on my thigh, but another arm was wrapped securely around me, pulling me into her side a little more.

I assumed we would stay like that for a bit, until she started to shift more noticeably and lifted the part of the blanket closest to her, and put it over her own head, taking me by surprise, a faint gasp leaving my lips when seeing that she’d joined me.

“You doing okay under here?” She spoke softly, a hint of amusement playing on her face as she looked at me folded up into a ball.

“I am. This blanket protects me from all.”

“Of course it does, the fluffier it is, the more protection, right?” She quoted words i’d spoken earlier on when bringing in the blanket for us.

“Are you sure you’re not going to boil under there?”

“Nope. And even if I do, the fluffier the blanket, the more protection from cannibal clowns.” I’d explained proudly. Yes, I'm an Avenger that fights extraterrestrials and demigods and still runs to a blanket for safety, leave me alone.

We stayed under there for a minute or two, holding hands and sharing small kisses while the movie continued and we hid in our little bubble.

“C’mon lovebirds, the movie isn’t over yet, you can continue that when we’ve gone to bed if you must.” Stark called out, causing Natasha to roll her eyes and retreat back to her previous position.

I don’t know what ran through my mind, I clearly didn’t think twice about the situation I was in, my default being to follow Natasha and pull the blanket down and off my head. Upon resurfacing from my cocoon, I looked towards the Television. Bad idea. With a shriek that I'm almost certain could be heard from Asgard, I flew under the blanket again after seeing Pennywise with all of his teeth on show, edging towards Eddie to eat him.

Natasha’s arms wound their way around me again, slightly shaking now from the fright. Even though the blanket tended to muffle sounds, I could hear the room fill with laughter and comments from the Avengers.

“I didn’t know your voice could go that high Y/L/N”

“Pennywise! You scared Y/N!”

“Y/N, it’s literally-”

“How about you guys shut up and watch the movie? Otherwise I swear to god Thor, I’ll bring snakes in here and Sam, I’ll cut the wings off of your suit.” I heard the redhead next to me threaten, alongside some more punishments to the others who laughed, immediately silencing them, all of them knowing that she wasn’t one for an empty threat.

Even though the laughter died down and no more words were spoken, tears still built up in my eyes and were daring to fall down my cheeks. I feel so embarrassed. A room full of superheroes and I was scared to death over a fictional clown in front of all of them.

I tried to keep my sniffles to a minimum and at a level where no one could hear me, however, they seemed to have caught Nat’s attention as she whispered to me, loud enough for me to hear, but quietly so that it was only me that could hear.

“Mind if I come in?”

I chose not to verbally respond, instead, I pulled the edge of the blanket up, allowing her to bend down and make her way underneath. After making herself comfortable, she turned to me and did, what felt like study, my face before tutting under her breath.

“Идиоты. Are you okay?” I smiled at her speaking Russian. She often switched between the two, interchanging within sentences. I’d been around her enough to pick up on some of the terms, funnily enough she’d said that word so often, my understanding was immediate.

“Feeling a bit humiliated” My voice came out weak and slightly gravelly from the crying, her thumb immediately wiped the tears off of my cheeks, lingering afterwards.

“Don’t be. Everyone has their fears, you shouldn’t be embarrassed by having them. Okay? It just means you're human.” She patiently explained, sparking a question to leave my lips before realising.

“Do you have a fear?”

She smiled “mhm”

“Can I know what it is?”

She leaned in closer to me, lips hovering beside my ear so I could feel and hear her breathing quietly.

“Идиоты” She whispered, resulting in me clamping my hand over my mouth to limit the noise my laughter was making.

“There’s that smile I love.” She took my chin in her index finger and her thumb, her face once again, coming closer towards mine before our lips met in the middle, sharing a soft, quick kiss, distracting me from any embarrassment i’d previously felt.

________________

The movie had just finished, everyone was getting up and starting to clear up any mess they’d made, mainly popcorn that had fallen everywhere, Wanda and Vision being the main culprit, jumping at the scary parts had caused a popcorn avalanche near their seats.

Nat and I gathered our blankets and snacks we’d brought in, trying to ignore the slight tension hanging in the air, and just as we were about to walk to our bedroom, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Peter.

Rocking back and forth on his heels and fidgeting with his hands, he smiled.

“Hey, uh- miss Y/L/N. Miss Romanoff, sorry, I just wanted to come and make sure you were okay.” He rushed, clearly anxious to approach us considering the telling off Natasha gave everyone earlier.

“I’m okay, thank you Peter. You can call me Y/N by the way, ‘miss’ makes me feel old.” I chuckled, visibly seeing his shoulders relax at my response, he was really sweet, never wanting to get on anyone’s bad side. He’s a good kid.

“Sorry mi-,Y/N, sorry, I’ll remember for next time. That movie was pretty freaky, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“I will, thank you.”

Feeling more relaxed, I made a slow but steady beeline for the bedroom, wanting to have cuddles with Nat and go to sleep, hopefully forget the movie ever happened. Soon enough, we were both changed into a vest top, I wore a pair of shorts and Nat wore a pair of sweats and we were in bed, facing each other with our legs tangled together, our noses bumping every so often.

“I love you” I mumbled in between kisses, eyes opening briefly to be met by her green orbs looking back at me.

“I love you more, Detka.”

A silence then overtook the room, only being able to hear the breeze outside and a slight whistle from where it was flying through the trees. I’d usually adore this, finding peace in the wind and the darkness, tonight however, it felt unsettling. All I could hear in my head was the soundtrack to the movie, picturing the bloody teeth and that creepy smile from earlier in my head.

“Love?” I nudged my girlfriend’s nose gently, hoping she was still somewhat awake.

“Mhmm?”

“Can you, can you possibly sing to me?” Her eyes fluttered open, a sleepy smile on her face, wrapping her arms tightly around me before humming a quiet melody, sending me into a blissful sleep.

By noon the next day, I had received apologies from everyone in the compound, a couple of bone crushing hugs from Thor and some complementary pancakes that Wanda had made with some help from Bruce, aprons on and covered in flour. Everyone tucked into their individual stacks, enjoying some lighthearted conversation, Nat taking the opportunity to press a small kiss to the back of my hand, I quickly returned the gesture. It was lovely.

Movie night was a rollercoaster, but at the end of the day, I was surrounded by the best people, and nothing would change that, not even the fear of clowns.

Though they’re still really fucking scary.

taglist: @the-dumbass-that-throws-knives

[existslikepristin]

Impromptu Review

Thanks for editing this one goes to momirene and Worldsover, and for helpful beta reading feedback from them and one dork who wants to remain anonymous.

Tags: TheLounge, Red Velvet, SNSD (Girl's Generation), Joy, Sunny, loneliness, potential traumatization of cats, a hoard of hell-themed sex toys, a strap on, a butt plug with Jiu's face in it, and bisexual problems.

The front door of Sunny’s apartment swung open so fast that Joy felt a breeze from the vacuum it left behind.

“Joy! You’re here!”

Joy blinked. “Yeah, I said I would come over.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve met up! Come in, come in!”

“It’s only been like a month though.”

Sunny grabbed Joy’s hands and pulled her through the doorway. “It feels like so much longer than that!”

Joy smiled and took her shoes off in the entryway. “You seem more excited than usual.”

“What? How so?”

“Well for one,” Joy said, pointing at the kitchen, “It looks like you prepared for a whole party in here.”

The kitchen’s island was covered in plates of snacks and several variations of alcoholic beverages. Additionally, Sunny was noticeably sweaty, like she had just run around the house preparing for guests. Joy figured it would be best not to bring that up.

“What? No. That? That’s… yeah, that’s a lot of food, isn’t it?” Sunny’s posture drooped, as if she’d already expended all of her energy on her greeting.

Joy pulled her into a side hug. Her height served to straighten Sunny back up. “What’s going on, girl?”

Sunny sighed and leaned her head on Joy’s chest. “I dunno. I’m just excited. Haven’t had a good social night any time recently.”

“Aw! But what about these cutie kitties?”

Sogeum popped her head out from behind the wall and gave Joy her signature droopy, grim stare without so much as a meow. As soon as Joy shuffled in her direction though, she turned and went back into the living room.

“Well, you know. Can’t really have a real conversation with the cats.”

Joy hummed her agreement and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m always happy to talk to you Sunny. They don’t call SM a family for nothing.”

Sunny groaned, loudly.

“Um. Okay,” Joy said when Sunny didn’t elaborate. “Not a family? Just a bunch of really close friends?”

“Yeah, that’ll work better. Not a fan of the family motif.”

Joy picked up a cracker and chomped down. “Gonna… explain? Family is normally a positive thing, isn’t it?”

Sunny grabbed a bottle of wine and yanked the cork out. “Yeah, totally, for sure. Hey, do you like Chardonnay?”

“I…” Joy didn’t want to skirt around whatever issue Sunny was having, but was well-aware of her stubbornness. “I sure do.”

As fancy glasses of white wine were generously poured, Joy made note of Sunny’s slow, unsteady movements. She worried that perhaps Sunny had already started drinking, or wasn’t getting enough sleep.

* * *

“Can you believe that, Joy?”

“No way. It’s just inhuman.”

“Completely! It’s not like green onions are suddenly more expensive to dry out!”

The conversation had started with gossip and cheese snacking when the sun was high. As the sun set, the discussion shifted to the price of instant meals, and the snack plates were all but empty. Joy had to fight the constant urge to fall asleep, as the topics were never much more interesting than that. But she let Sunny lead the talking as much as possible.

Joy was simply relieved that Sunny called her over before diving into her liquor storage. “You should start a petition to regulate the price. I’d be the first to sign it.”

Sunny’s tipsy grin matched Joy’s. Though the alcohol consumption had been slow-going, they had been doing it for several hours. “Oh that would be great press. ‘Washed up idol upset with ramen manufacturers.’”

With an exaggerated roll of the eyes, Joy pointed at a set of boxes in the corner of the living room, currently being used as a lookout tower by Sogeum. “You’re not washed up yet. Look at all of those sponsor gifts. Those weren’t here last time I came over… Wait, they weren’t, were they?”

Sunny giggled. “No, they’re, uh… new.”

Their corporate sponsors weren’t something that Joy, Sunny, or any of the other SM idols discussed often. There were usually so many vying for their attention that it was pointless trying to keep track. But Joy reasoned, somewhat drunkenly, that talking about it might be therapeutic to someone so down on their social status. “Who are they from, anyway?”

A blush deepened the red of Sunny’s already tipsy-glowing cheeks. “Uh… Nobody. Just a regular sponsor, ya know?”

Joy grinned. “Oh, come on. You can tell me. What am I gonna do? Call a press conference to tell the tabloids who’s contributing to your paycheck?”

Sunny rolled her eyes. She shot off the couch, spilling a drop or two of her wine in the process. From Joy’s naturally higher perspective, Sunny didn’t seem that much taller. “Fine,” she said, wobbling, “but you better not make fun of me.”

“I’ll make fun of you for other reasons, like how much I love you, bitch!” Joy blinked at her own shouting. She didn’t know when the alcohol had hit her, but she was beginning to think that she was a little more intoxicated than she previously thought.

Thankfully, the joviality in her voice seemed to encourage Sunny to play along. She set her wine on the coffee table and picked one of the smaller boxes off of the pile. “Disclosure first! We haven’t agreed to any deals yet. They sent me this stuff to try to convince me to shill it. I didn’t reach out to them.”

Joy waved the disclosure off like a mosquito, but Sunny still tossed the box in her direction. The weight inside of it was awkwardly distributed. Joy attempted to catch it, but it wound up ricocheting off the tips of her fingers and nearly knocking over an open, mostly full bottle of soju.

“The fuck is in this thing?”

“I’ve got some ideas but I just know who it’s from. Open it and find out.”

Joy tore into the box with no regard for the care that went into the packaging, which itself was surprisingly discreet. A smirk cracked her lips when she thought about what sorts of deliveries required such discretion. But the smirk faded right away when she got a view of the inside and realized that the packager apparently had the same idea.

Inside was a pair of plastic sheets wrapped asymmetrically around a roughly water bottle sized blob of blood red silicone. A small bit of pink cardboard advertised it as a five-speed, rotation-simulating, self-cleaning, pattern-switching, USB-charging, automatically-lubricating, remote-controlled vibrator with a speaker at the bottom for replicating a set of desired moans and a specialized charging dock.

Joy cleared her throat and stared at the horrifically fancy dildo, and its label, “Dante’s Dive,” unsure if she should toss it back to Sunny, considering it was clearly a personal item.

Sunny reached into what was left of the box, procuring a pretty little decorated card. “Dear Ms. Lee, we at Second Ring Inc were very pleased to hear your impromptu review of our products on a recent episode of ‘Welp, I Guess We’re Talking About This Now’ and wished to send you some additional items to show our appreciation. These are in no way a request for further public review,” Sunny was briefly interrupted by Joy’s disapproving snort, “but should you be interested in a partnership, we have included a phone number at which I, the chief executive officer, Lee Youngjoon, may be reached. Optionally, my username--”

Joy missed a few words as she was shocked by the extreme sound emitted by the vibrator when she pushed a button on the remote control.

“--is ‘worldsover’. As you know, Second Ring specializes in sexual wellness products, of which we’ve sent you a wide variety. They can be enjoyed by couples, or can serve as a fantastic outlet for power singles like yourself…”

Sunny trailed off. Joy was afraid she knew what was coming. “Damn, Sunny. You say so much as three words on national television and they scramble to get right up on your ass, eh?”

It was too late. Sunny was already tipping up the bottom of the soju bottle. A few drops spluttered back out of her mouth as Joy pushed it back down. “Sunny! You’ve said it yourself! You don’t want to get married!”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not still lonely!”

Joy wrapped her arms around Sunny. “You’ve got me. And a million other friends!”

“Fans don’t count.” Sunny’s voice was partially muffled by Joy’s shoulder.

“Ouch. Time for me to delete my Sone club membership. But fine. A hundred other friends. It’s not just me. It’s my members. Your members. And plenty of others. All of NCT would be--Okay, nevermind. Aespa though! They love you too.”

“But I don't want to inconvenience you." Sunny ended so matter-of-factly that Joy had to pause to process the short conversation.

"You know how… You know how you take a road trip, and there's a road block, or really bad construction, and you have to take a detour?"

"Yeah. I'm a detour."

"Come on, Sunny. What you are is the scenic route!”

There was a long silence.

“Was that the end of the metaphor?” Sunny eventually asked.

“I am very drunk.”

“You’re not that drunk.”

“Drunk enough to be shit at metaphors.”

“It’s…” Sunny extricated herself from Joy’s hug. “It’s okay. I think I know what you’re getting at, and I appreciate it. It’s just that a few words don’t really fix a brain, you know?”

Joy nodded slowly, watching as Sogeum casually stalked across the room. “Yup. But believe me. I’m here for you, at least. So if you need a friend, or some company, I’m at the top of your list.”

The cat plopped herself on the floor, right up against Sunny’s leg. Joy giggled. “Fuck off, kitty. I just said I was the top.”

It seemed the topic of conversation was ready to change. Sunny smiled, and it was enough to indicate her understanding.

“So!” Joy moved things along. “A pile of free, top of the line sex toys in your living room. What’s a young woman to do about that?”

Sunny snorted. “Well I’m not going to masturbate while I have company over, that’s for sure.” She grabbed another box from the pile and handed it over, doing her best not to disturb Sogeum’s new resting place.

The new box took mere seconds to open, this time revealing a black silicone butt plug with a red gem in the base. The casing suggested that a picture could be inserted beneath the gem, and it appeared there was one already there as an example. Joy had to flip it around to a variety of angles before she could make out that it contained a headshot of Dreamcatcher’s Jiu making finger hearts on her cheeks. She cocked her head, wondering if the image had actually been authorized.

Another box swapped between the womens’ hands. It took Joy a little longer to open than the last, but it turned out to be that way for a good reason, given that it was gently holding some fragile cargo: A red-tinted glass bottle of lube, labeled as “Juice from the Fruit of The Tree.” The lengthy product title had a snake winding through the letters.

“Well now they’re just really doubling down on this theme, aren’t they?” Sunny asked as she worked out how to open the next package, using her bottle opener as a makeshift knife.

Joy laughed and picked up yet another, now eager to see what kind of wild object it would contain. “Yeah, they really are! No lie, they’re starting to give me some ideas. Talk about sinful.”

“‘Oh I know,’” Sunny mocked the company, as SM artists often did, fingers still struggling to find their way under the first cardboard flap. “‘Let’s send Sunny a whole pile of sex junk. Bet she’s sinful enough to use it all.’ Like, come on Love-eye, or whatever your name is. What’s a single woman gonna do with all this? Hold up a pillow fort?”

“Hey, maybe he doesn’t know you’re single. Maybe there’s some stuff in here that takes two to tangle with… Fuck. Choerry’s got me using alliterations.”

Sunny barely managed to get her fingers inside the box, but her knuckles were turning white from the tightness of it. It seemed that she had left a portion of the packing tape uncut. “I said I was single on the show, though. I don’t think there will be any couples’ toys in here.”

“Oooh, I’m gonna make it a bet now.” Joy smirked. Her next sentence bypassed her verbal filter through the holes left in it by the alcohol. “If you get that thing open and there’s a strap on inside, you have to fuck me with it!”

A jerk of her arms snapped the remainder of the packing tape. Sunny chuckled. “You’re on. There’s no way it is.”

Joy had to admit that Sunny had a point, considering how small the package was. Surely it couldn’t fit a series of leather straps, or a dildo any larger than a couple of inches in any direction. The little voice in the back of her mind that told her making such an offer was stupid quieted down somewhat.

There was a moment of quiet. Sogeum rolled away from Sunny and made her way to the kitchen. Joy picked up another box, confident that she hadn’t just placed herself in an awkward situation. Sunny shook her head, amused. And then…

“J-Joy?”

Joy looked back, but wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at. It was a sort of mass of black string with some silver discs hanging off of it. Another piece of pink paper fluttered to the floor, where Joy picked it up and read aloud.

“‘The Obol.’ As Charon ferried Dante across the Styx and into the hole that is Hell, so too shall this state-of-the-art magnetic harness ferry our exclusive Dante’s Dive dildo into your… partner’s hole…”

There was more to be read, but both women seemed to get the point. The only sound in the room came from Sogeum chomping through some hard cat food in the kitchen. Slowly, their eyes raised and met. They both spoke at the same moment.

“That was a bet’s a joke bet right?”

Their drunken minds needed a moment to detangle their words into distinct sentences. Sunny’s “That was a joke, right?” and Joy’s “A bet’s a bet.”

Sunny started again first. “You know, we don’t have to.”

“I will if you want to.”

Every sentence being exchanged was followed by a palpable stillness. Joy’s heart beat loudly in her own ears, and she swore she could hear Sunny’s too.

“Do you… want to fuck me with that, Sunny?”

Sunny answered instantly. “Yup.”

There was a flurry of action, though it was slowed here and there by a tipsy stumble or two. Sunny gathered up an armful of the items on her coffee table, both sex toys and the bottle of soju, and sprinted for the bedroom. Joy rushed after her, messily attempting and failing to remove some of her clothes on the way.

Sogeum was spooked by the sudden kerfuffle and fled out of sight.

The bedroom was no less hectic. Sunny dropped everything on the bed except the soju, which she took one more swig of directly from the bottle before setting it dangerously close to the edge of her desk. She wiggled out of her shirt and bra, which attracted Joy’s attention instantly.

Joy struck at Sunny’s cleavage, wrapping her fingers as far as they could go around the legendary orbs, and her lips around one of the budding tips. Their differences in height made it awkward, but they very soon found their way to a horizontal state that eased that tension. Unfortunately, it was not on the bed, but on the floor, but they weren’t about to let something like that stop them.

What clothes they were still wearing exploded off their bodies. Joy’s shorts and shirt, Sunny’s pants and socks. All of it ended up in different sections of the room, thrown under and over furniture.

Joy was no stranger to encounters like this, and neither was Sunny. They had shared countless stories with each other… and some spit. But neither had considered their prior make out sessions to be precursors to explicitly sexual action. For her part, however, Joy considered this one differently, and Sunny’s hands searching half-blindly for Joy’s ass confirmed to her that Sunny thought the same.

Backs arched. Legs ground against one another. Open mouths met, trading the alcoholic scents that the women no longer cared to distinguish. Their minds had devoted themselves entirely to the search for physical pleasure.

A lot of exploratory prodding led Sunny’s fingers to the entrance to Joy’s pussy, failing to notice the number of pokes that ended up at Joy's exit. She took some time familiarizing herself with the drenched outer folds.

Joy, however, noticed the poking at her ass. Her mind swam with serotonin, thoughts of other people, and alcoholic fumes that seemed to rearrange the letters of her thoughts into nonsense. Or possibly into inspiration.

Inspiration relevant to the happenings at the prior year's award shows, that is.

Joy tried to pull back the moment Sunny’s fingers dipped inside her. She had opened her mouth to speak but instead groaned and arched herself further into Sunny’s grip on her sanity. "S-Sunny. B-bed."

At least that message was received loud and clear. Sunny dragged her fingers against Joy’s G-spot as she, disappointingly, pulled them out, nearly causing Joy to scream. The same fingers plunged into Joy’s mouth and quieted her as she diligently sucked her own juices from them.

The action transferred to the bed. Fingers immediately found their places again, and Joy bounced on her back in time with Sunny’s brutal shoves. Packaging bounced all around them. It was like a desperate, distracted game of Vegetable Shinobi for Joy, swiping at the jumping dildo. Sunny’s fingers were divine, eye-wateringly so, but Joy wanted something unholy.

Sunny muttered Joy’s name, catching her attention again. She lifted her head to meet for yet another imprecise kiss. Their legs twisted around each other. Joy could hear the desperation in Sunny’s moans, vibrating all the way down her throat, burning like the alcohol. She snaked a hand between them and found Sunny’s clit.

The moans freed themselves as Sunny bucked backward, almost out of Joy’s longer reach. Joy noted the exceptional reaction, and flipped Sunny onto her back, following immediately and putting herself in the position of power Sunny had initiated.

“You’re gonna fuck me with the strap on… right, Sunny?”

Sunny’s eyes widened, and she grabbed the toys.

“No, not yet,” Joy stalled in her most seductive voice. She slid down, nearly falling off the bed, and wrenched Sunny’s legs wide open with her elbows.

Sunny clenched her fingers around the hell-themed dildo for dear life. Joy’s name poured through her lips over and over again as Joy’s lips poured over her pussy.

Joy had to fight Sunny’s strength to keep her spread thighs from clamping around her head. She wanted to keep hearing her senior beg, loud and clear. To that end, she dug in her tongue, unable to penetrate far, but far enough to open Sunny up and feel the wetness flow into her mouth.

“Please… Joy… I’m close… Joy, please! Joy, don’t stop!”

The thought flitted through Joy’s head, that perhaps denying Sunny her orgasm would be fun, but something about the way she said it made Joy wonder if Sunny’s neediness was rooted in her loneliness, more than in her desire to get off. She shifted herself to wrap her arms under Sunny’s legs and pulled. It wasn’t possible for them to be any physically closer than they were, but she wanted to make it feel like they could be.

Sunny’s voice cracked, choked, and broke into a scream. Joy winced as her tongue was squeezed uncomfortably, but she wasn’t about to stop. The back arches, hair grasping, and pained gasps that followed were worth it.

Joy kept it up until Sunny’s body fell back down and her muscles relaxed. Only then, she removed herself to ask, “Need a break before my turn?”

A smile crept up Sunny’s mouth. Her fingers tightened around the dildo she still had in her hand. “Get… back down here.”

If there was any benefit Joy appreciated most about idol training, it was recovery speed, and Sunny still had it. Joy picked up the strap, quickly figuring out how it was supposed to fit and sliding it up Sunny’s legs. The motion doubled as her approach for another make out.

Of course, Joy was still immensely horny. Her interest in making out with Sunny was overshadowed by her desire to get fucked savagely, but she had the wherewithal to hold out, to let it happen naturally. She was always good at letting others take the lead. Whether they led from the top or from the bottom didn’t especially matter to her.

The alcohol made her more impatient than usual though. She forced herself to wait for the five-speed pounding she’d get, but she ground herself against Sunny’s leg in the meantime. Thankfully she didn’t have to wait long. Sunny threw her to the side and attached the vibrator to the unusual strap with very little trouble. Joy fingered herself as she watched.

“Fuck, yes, Sunny. This is going to be so goo--”

Sunny practically tackled Joy. Their lips collided again, strap hovering somewhere between Joy’s legs, but not close enough for her to feel it.

The moment she did, though, Joy grabbed Sunny’s ass and pulled. The lack of accuracy was made up for by the inhuman amount of lubrication present; both Joy’s and the curious synthetic compound that the dildo exuded seemingly of its own volition.

It was almost too much for Joy. The dildo was certainly longer than any she had used before, and bottoming out at full speed meant it hit her rather painfully in the cervix. She hissed, but otherwise just readjusted her legs in Sunny’s way to prevent the same thing from happening so easily again.

The strap held the dildo in place on Sunny’s body well. Despite its genuinely small frame, it seemed to prevent all wiggling. Every one of Sunny’s movements, including the less delicate, more intoxicated ones, translated to sensations that felt to Joy like a biologically attached dick, albeit with a plethora of extra features.

"You're so pretty, Joy," Sunny said. Even though she was doing all the work now, she wasn't nearly as winded as before. Knowing she’d affected Sunny made Joy grin into another kiss.

“No you,” Joy said with a smirk. She knew this would be good, but she truly underestimated how great it would be to see Sunny’s famous tits jiggling with the effort of fucking her. The sheen of sweat covering them would ensure the night wouldn’t be forgotten, even if Joy had another drink or two.

Joy’s first orgasm struck quickly and unexpectedly. Her breath stopped and a shudder spiked through her body from her core to the tips of her toes and fingers and head. The ability to think normally left her for a brief moment. She only kept the fleeting question of whether or not Sunny was able to feel Joy’s climax. Stars popped in and out of existence, obscuring Joy’s view of Sunny’s fantastic body.

It all faded relatively soon after, but it wasn’t enough for Joy. As soon as her lungs refilled, she screamed, “More! Sunny! Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh god!” She was practically numb everywhere, except for every square inch of her that the dildo rubbed, slid, and vibrated against. Her arms and legs wrapped around Sunny on their own.

Joy, eyes half closed, barely registered when Sunny slowed down to grab and open the extra package. She did, however, notice the sudden prodding feeling at her asshole.

“Sun--”

She couldn’t even finish Sunny’s name before something slipped its way into her butt. Her vision cleared up enough to see that even while she continued thrusting, Sunny had one hand tucked between them, and it was the source of the extra intrusion.

A couple more thrusts though, and Joy was lost to the pleasure again. She started to pant instead of scream or moan, or perhaps she was whimpering, or speaking fluent Polish. Joy couldn’t have said one way or the other. Another orgasm hit. And another. And another. She knew some time was passing between each one, but whether it was seconds or days between no longer mattered. Her mind was fading out of existence.

Until, that is, it wasn’t.

With seemingly no provocation, Joy suddenly remembered Cheungae. She had been meaning to talk to Sunny about him before they had gotten drunk. Her mind wandered, far, far more than it normally would during such intense sex.

Cheungae had taken her out several times since their first, less-than-professional meeting at the MAMAs with Wheein. Even though Joy knew he was struggling financially, he always insisted on paying for coffee, but would give up if he saw the bill when Joy took him to some of the much higher end restaurants.

He was always so polite, genuine, and humble. He didn’t even question when Joy told him they couldn’t be in a relationship, but instead insisted that they could be friends. Joy wondered if it was fair to him that she was treating him as a boyfriend in every way but name while she was still having a grand old time fucking everyone else in the industry. Cheungae knew about it, but wasn’t part of it.

And yet, sex with Cheungae made Joy feel good. Great, even. She could recreate the sensations in her mind for days afterward. His slim, toned figure hovering over her, his face contorted beautifully in adorable agony, his admittedly mediocre cock managing to hit her just right with every move. She couldn’t stop picturing him.

Another orgasm smashed through Joy’s illusion. The mental image of perfectly human Cheungae was instantly replaced with the very physical image of god-like Sunny. As tended to happen, Joy held her breath as the climax coursed through her. Her muscles contracted until she was holding Sunny in a deathly grip.

“F-fuck. Sunn-ny. Slow… slow down.”

It seemed that the request was desperately needed by both lovers, because rather than simply slow down, Sunny fell over. Joy’s pussy immediately craved to be filled again, but she knew she needed to clear her head. And besides that, she still had an odd full sensation. When her muscles relaxed enough for her to move of her own volition, she reached beneath herself and recoiled again at the feeling of a drenched butt plug. Her fingertips carried a puddle of mixed cum and lube back up.

“I’m sorry… Joy… I think that’s all I have left in me,” Sunny said between gasps.

Joy made note of her own throat and how dry it was. Whatever sound she was making while she borderline hallucinated, she’d be regretting it for a while. “All good. I was losing my sanity. That was unbelievable.”

Sunny giggled. It sounded painful. “The vibrator… or the surprise plug?”

Joy giggled back. “The plug was definitely a surprise. Was that the one with Jiu's face in it?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool,” Joy sat up, her head swimming in the aftermath. “But I just think it was you using the stuff that made it so good.”

Sunny seemed invigorated by the compliments. She smiled and reached under the bed, making some noise and bringing up a bottle of water. The two of them swapped it back and forth until it was empty and then collapsed into one another, idly feeling each others' bodies up the whole time.

“Does that mean you’re up for another… night like this? Or day?” Sunny asked as she fondled Joy’s tits. It sounded like she had sobered up, at least most of the way. Joy was too afraid of what she would see to look at a clock.

“You fucking know it,” Joy responded while she brushed her fingers up and down Sunny’s inner thighs. It was a reflex for her to agree, but she cringed inwardly as soon as she did, realizing how much more sober she had become herself, and how she wished she wasn’t. She was thinking about Cheungae again.

There was a barrage of light kisses all over her face, neck, and chest. Sunny looked far too happy for Joy to feel okay about retracting her statement.

“Maybe not right now though,” Joy said, just in case Sunny was already getting ideas. “We should really get to bed.”

She didn’t hear any arguments. They simply got up, and only long enough to flip up the duvet, flinging all of the remaining sex toys off, and jumped underneath.

It took a minute for Joy to realize she needed to remove the surprise butt plug. It was easy enough, and she ended up tossing it to the floor without looking at it.

Joy wrapped herself around Sunny. She was usually the big spoon, not that it bothered her. Sunny’s bare back felt comfortably hot against her chest and stomach. Cheungae liked being the big spoon too. He’d swap with her all the time…

“Hey, Sunny?”

“Mmm?” Sunny was on the verge of sleep, it seemed.

Joy lowered her voice, barely above a whisper. “Have you ever thought about… Settling down, I guess? Just being with one person?”

She didn’t expect Sunny to have an immense store of wisdom, but she hoped for more than what she got: a snore.

“Good night to you too, Sunny.”

[forthegothicheroine]

The King in Yellow, 1949

Much of this story is true.  Warnings in the tags.

When I had pneumonia in my early teens, my mother brought home an armful of VHS tapes from the library to alleviate my misery.  Knowing my snobbish preferences, she had grabbed copies of whatever she found in black and white.  I remember something musical that I suspect was Busby Berkeley, I remember Mildred Pierce (a bad choice, as it turned out- the plot includes a young girl dying of pneumonia), and I remember a period piece called The King.  I faded in and out of consciousness while I watched it, but it soothed me while I was awake and filled my fever dreams with sparkling images.  I could never find it at the library again, nor at Hollywood Video or even early Netflix (once my father got the subscription service where you could order practically every DVD.)  It was a bit odd that it seemed to be so obscure, given that it starred old Hollywood legend Ingrid Bergman (and, although I initially forgot it, Marlene Dietrich.)  But even big stars make films that fall by the wayside in public memory, and it seemed that this was one of them.  Google was no help, and at the time that was that.

I didn’t see the film again until I was watching Turner Classic Movies at my grandparents’ house.  I loved watching that channel with them while filling out the crossword puzzle that came in their little TCM catalogue (all of it based on movie trivia, the only kind of crossword puzzle I’ve ever been any good at.)  I recognized a certain scene where Bergman stood on a balcony, looking sadly at the moon.  Her face had an expression of unutterable melancholy, and the crescent moon reflected in each of her eyes, giving the impression of two moons in one sky.  I had very little time to catch up on what I’d missed before we had to go meet my cousins at the local Italian restaurant.  I knew logically that the movie would be long over by the time we returned, but I turned on the channel anyway.  Of course it had moved on to the lesser known Alfred Hitchcock film Stage Fright, but then I heard Marlene Dietrich sing before I could reach the remote to turn the tv off in disappointment.  I knew that I had heard her sing before, and I knew it had been in The King.

Dietrich’s singing often comes across as somewhat campy today, with its Rs pronounced as Ws and it’s up-and-down tone.  Madeline Kahn parodied it brilliantly in Blazing Saddles, such that it was a bit of a disappointment when I finally saw Dietrich’s western Destry Rides Again and found it to be lifeless and inconsistent next to the parody.  Still, we remember her voice for a reason, and when I remembered it that night, I knew that its sardonic loneliness had rung through The King and made me shiver in my dreams.

The TCM schedule didn’t list The King in its time slot, but something else.  If I had taken down the name, maybe it would have helped me find it.  Sometimes the same movie runs under multiple names.

I didn’t see the film all the way through for many years, after I graduated college.  I had found a web page that listed public domain film noir, including one called The Masked Guest.  The website described it as a costume noir, and I curiously clicked on the link.  Once I took in the credits running on the youtube window, my eyes grew wide and I did not move from my place on the bed until the movie had run its course.

The credits did indeed list it as The Masked Guest, but I recognized the strange repeating design on the title cards.  They told me that in addition to starring Dietrich and Bergman, it was directed by Fritz Lang, and a character called The King was credited to “???”  (I hadn’t seen that kind of credit since the first Karloff Frankenstein.)  When the King finally appears on screen, though, it is unmistakably Orson Welles’s voice that booms out from behind his elaborate costume.

Here are the things I understand about The King, or The Masked Guest, or The Man in Yellow, or any other title I’ve found for it on public domain archive searches.  Dietrich and Bergman play princesses named Cassilda and Camilla, respectively.  Though Dietrich’s accent is German and Bergman’s is Swedish, they blend together to give the film the impression of being set somewhere on the map that I can’t quite find.  The scenery and camera angles are very Freudian, with a great deal of archways and pillars.

The first act of The King involves frankly dull romantic plotlines, and the only thing that really saved it was the feeling that the suitors were supposed to be insipid, a suspicion lended credence by the fact that the love interests were listed so low on the credits.  Dietrich is the scandalous sister and Bergman is the responsible one, though each takes on aspects of the other as the film goes on.  Dietrich sings her song at a party, dressed in a fake 17th century gown and leaning against a piano.  Although just a moment ago she had been laughing and joking with her gentleman friends, her song takes an abruptly serious tone (not seductive, not sentimental) as she tells the story of a city lost to time and memory.  Bergman slips away from the party and onto the balcony, where we see that wonderful shot of the moon in her eyes.  Is she mourning?  Is she longing?

Dietrich cuts off the song by abruptly screaming “Not on us, King!  Not on us!”  She flees the party weeping and shaking, and from there on the film goes mad.

Though uncommon, it is not unknown for movies to switch between black and white and color, done most famously in The Wizard of Oz.  The film The King recalls here is the silent Phantom of the Opera, which had a masqued ball scene tinted in shades of red and green that tried to provide a whole spectrum of color.  The effect is even odder in the masqued ball scene in The King- the only color that appears is yellow, highlighting things like candlelight, Dietrich’s hair, a passing gown, a vase of tulips.  It also highlights one particular masked figure, whose expressionless mask was decorated with a black pattern against a sickening yellow canvas- the same pattern I had seen in the opening credits.  The color of his costume causes him to stand out from the crown even when he is far off in the background, just one head among many others.  It must have taken long and painstaking hours of work to color in every frame.

Dietrich still seems broken up days after her song, though Bergman tries to coax her into joining the dance.  Finally, at midnight, Dietrich goes out to face the party, but only to demand that every guest remove their mask.  The yellow man with a voice that once warned America about a Martian invasion tells her that he wears no mask.  Bergman reacts with disbelief, but Dietrich starts laughing like a woman unhinged.  As she laughs, the yellow hue seeps out of the King’s clothing and face- if that really is his face- and begins to color the entire ballroom crowd.  I think that what follows is bloodshed, but if there is any carnage (doubtful under the Production Code censorship), the blood must be tainted yellow and splashed across the camera like daubs of paint.  Dietrich’s laughing face is doubled and tripled on screen until it dissipates, but even when it has faded offscreen, it feels as if her ghost continues to watch the proceedings.  

By the end of the scene (filled with German Expressionist camera angles and mad violin screeching), only Bergman remains alive, cowering behind a grandfather clock.  It does not hide her for long.  The King steps towards her and extends his hand.  Reluctantly, but with a fatalistic expression, Bergman takes his hand.  They walk away together hand in hand.  The screen shifts back into black and white, and then the credits roll before we can get a good look at all the bodies in the scene.  The credits say it was based on a play called The King in Yellow, although Raymond Chandler of all people apparently had a hand in the screenplay.

As I said, that’s what I think I understand.  It’s an oddly experimental art film for the era, and it may be awaiting rediscovery by the film festival crowd.  I feel as if I alone know about it, though that obviously isn’t true.  It is my little secret; I tell myself that my husband doesn’t need me to show it to him, it would be too odd for his taste.  I’ve rewatched it many times, even if it seems like each time I search for it I have to find a different video platform or torrent.  Naturally, no subscription site has it available.  Maybe I am the last person who will ever watch it.  Maybe no one will ever think to look for it again after me, and it will be completely forgotten.

When I was hospitalized, they let me use my laptop at night before I went to sleep (no power cord, though, in case I tried to hang myself.)  I found a youtube link for The Man in Yellow, and I watched it every night.  It wasn’t a soothing sort of movie, but having it in my mind all day and then watching it in the evening allowed me to think as opposed to crying endlessly while the other patients shot me awkward looks.  I clutched the childhood stuffed animals my mother brought me when she visited, and I always held them extra tight when the masquerade scene started.

I watched the movie when I had to move away from my beloved San Francisco.  I watched the movie when I lost the last of my grandparents.  I watched the movie when a doctor unwisely took me off my medication and I couldn’t manage to eat for a month.  I watched the movie when the whole world got sick and we all locked ourselves away from each other.  I don’t mind that I don’t entirely know what it means.  I don’t mind the nightmares.  In the hospital they kept telling us about mindfulness exercises, and maybe the fact that I can focus on every aspect of the film so closely that all else falls away is the reason I keep coming back to it.  I’m being mindful.  I’m not letting any stray thoughts invade my head.  I’m just watching and waiting for the next beat of every scene, leading inexorably to that yellow-stained bloodbath.

Streaming media doesn’t last forever, and each time I find The King, I worry that it will be the last time I ever can find it.  My efforts to download it have so far been unsuccessful, odd considering that it is in the public domain.

When I watch The King, I am once again a child in my bedroom being cared for in the throes of agonizing sickness.  I am once again sitting on the couch with my grandparents in front of the tv, both of them alive and lucid again.  I am once again in the hospital, all alone except for my stuffed animals and the staff trying to keep me alive.  The film reflects in my eyes like the crescent moon in Ingrid Bergman’s gaze.  It sings to me.

I am determined to find a way to obtain The King under any name so that I never have to worry about losing it.  During some of the worst times in my life, it is the only thing that has kept me sane.

[usmsgutterson]

Certainly- Kaz Brekker

The reader is a bit of an astrology and astronomy alike geek for this, which I hope y’all don’t mind! Also, in this case, phones exist so lets pretend that phones exist in Ketterdam, making it a bit of a modern au, I guess!

Also, this’ll probably be a bit ooc for Kaz

Fic type- angsty fluff

Warnings- blood, mentions of death, and the reader is sick (nothing specific, I just kind of took random symptoms and made up a word for the sickness)

You were determined to see the stars before you went, and as you grew sicker, none of the crows knew when that would be, so, after a little convincing, the crows had gotten Colm to let you spend a couple of months at his farm in Novyi Zem, where the stars were the clearest at night, not burdened by light pollution or the screams of lively cities. 

It was the seven of you crammed into a basement, sharing beds, but none of them cared, and you were just glad to be with the people you called family. You were happy that they were with you, that Kaz was willing to wheel you everywhere when you got too weak to stand, that Jesper still made jokes, even despite watching you deteriorate. You were grateful for Inejs smile, Wylans music, Ninas impeccable tastes and Matthias and his big arms that could lift you and put you down without issue. 

The six of them had started taking shifts taking you outside. Nina took you outside Sunday nights, Matthias Mondays, Wylan Tuesdays, Jesper Thursdays, Inej Fridays and Kaz Saturdays. Wednesdays you rested up; ate when it was time to eat, used the bathroom when you needed, took a shower if it were the appropriate time, but other than that, you slept.

It was Kaz’s day to wheel you out, and you’d had a particularly rough day that day. Inej went with him, promising not to intrude on the time that you would spend together. She’d do backflips and run across the roof of the farm if you asked her to, but she’d not interrupt otherwise. 

“I love the stars,” you whispered, leaning back in your wheelchair and tightening the hold of the blanket over your lap. “Thank you both. For doing this.” 

“Don’t you worry, love,” Kaz murmured. “Just keep your eyes on the stars, okay?”

“We’re happy to do this,” Inej added. “All of us are. Really.” It was like both of them could sense it as well as you could. You had a feeling that the night would end terribly, just like the morning had begun.

You’d woken up only to need to rush to the toilet immediately, blood coming up your throat like bile, staining your skin and leaving your bottom lip red as a cherry. 

Kaz had been at your side in a minute, Nina and Wylan right behind him. Wylan kept your hair away from the sides of your face, Nina slowed your heartrate and Kaz wet a cloth with cold water to get your body temp down. 

Kaz had forced himself to stay in the moment, to not let his thoughts stray to the urge to sleep in the same bed as you to make sure that nothing happened while you slept--to be there in case something did--but to stay on the sun as it set and the faraway sound of Wylan playing his flute with the window open so that you’d be able to hear it. 

Once you’d gotten settled under a tree, Inej ran off, making her way inside and up to the barns roof, where she sat, keeping a watch from a distance as Kaz let you rest your head against his shoulder, gloved hand interlaced with yours. 

“I love you, Brekker,” you murmured. “Please don’t forget that. Ever.” 

“I won’t,” he whispered. “You’re gonna stay around and get better until we can spar again, and you can beat my ass even though I’ve my cane as a weapon.” 

“You know full well I can’t promise that,” you wished that you could. You desperately wished. “I’m going to die young, Kaz. I’m not gonna get to eighteen, much less eighty.” Kaz hated you for that.

He hated you because everything that you said somehow managed to be right. It was like you had a sixth sense for that kind of thing, and while, on missions, it proved useful, in that scenario, it just proved annoying. 

“You’re gonna make it to eighteen if it kills me,” he informed you. “I’ll take you around the globe if I need to, just to make sure you end up okay. I will not live a life without you in it, Y/N.” 

“You’re sweet,” you murmured. “Incredibly sweet.”

“Only to you, L/N.” That was the last bit of conversation for a long while as the sun set and the stars came out.

“Did you know that the moon isn’t circular?” You pointed lazily to it, bright and beautiful amongst the even brighter stars. “According to scientests, it’s actually shaped like a lemon!” Kaz didn’t fight his smile.

Of course you’d be spouting off the little factoids you knew about space. You loved it, how vast and crazy it all seemed. 

“And that the clouds at the center of the Milky Way smell like raspberries and rum?” Kaz snorted.

“Okay, now, theres no way that ones true!” 

“Oh,” you leaned up, booping his nose without a care in the world. “But it is! It’s in a study somewhere, I think! Look it up!” He laughed, pulling you closer to him as you rambled.

Inej had started doing running flips across the roof, spinning and dancing and no doubt laughing as she did. Kaz knew it was an elaborate effort to get you to smile, and it seemed to work as she moved; a delightful silhouette amongst a star filled sky. 

“I love you, Kaz Brekker,” you whispered. “You don’t need to say it back, but I really, truly do love you with every bone that exists in my body.”

“I love you too,” he said it without hesitation. “And I’ll love you until we’re old and grey, I swear it.”

“Don’t hold me to that promise,” you murmured. “You know how bad this is. Stop thinking that I’ll make it into the new year. I probably wont.”

“You will if it kills me, Y/N,” he gave your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ll drain the bank dry if I have to, I swear to Ghezen.”

You didn’t say anything after, too exhausted to even think about starting an argument with him, simply not wanting to. 

But then, an hour later, Kaz felt fear trickle into his stomach like it hadn’t ever in his life.

“And then theres Supernova. It’s like a star that’s dying having it’s last celebration. Like when we get a really big win, or when we get away with what we intended to get away with, and we all get shitfaced before we collapse onto our beds and sleep for the night? A supernova is a dying stars explosion. It’s the last celebration that the star has before it dies out.” you’d been rambling.

“Tonight is my... tonight is my...” Kaz had called for Nina right then and there, screaming her name while he felt you go slack against him.

“Zenik!” He screamed, not caring at all if he were to wake up Jespers father. “Zenik, call in that fucking favor with the bloody Ravkan prince!” Matthias came barreling out after her, phone in hand, already speaking to someone as Nina began working, steadying your heart and trying her hardest to keep you alive. 

Kaz had to force himself to walk away from it all, pushing his feet away after giving your shoulders one last squeeze and walking far out into the field. 

Once he was sure he was out of earshot, he couldn’t stop himself. Tears flooded his eyes and he found himself glaring at the sky, wanting to scream, wanting to shout, wishing that there was someone around that he could gut like a fish. 

“Saints,” he murmured through gritted teeth. “Sankt Ilya, Sankt Adrik, Sankta Alina of The Fold, I know I am a terrible person, but Y/N is not. They’re good, they smile, they laugh, they’re kind to others when those people probably don’t deserve their kindness. I know I’m damned, I know that you probably strongly dislike me, but they’re different.” He’d never asked the Saints for anything before, and he never would again.

“Please, just, let them live. Let them get the life that they deserve. I’ll do my best to make them happy, but you have to let me,” he wiped the tears from his eyes as they came. “They deserve the life that you’re so willing to take away, and all I ask is that you don’t take it.” He heard the sounds of the ambulance car and raced back to you, gripping your hand as they helped you onto a stretcher and out of the field, through the house and out the entrance. 

I won’t lose them, he told himself. A world without them is one that’s unbearable. 

O N E Y E A R L A T E R 

You laughed as Nina chased you through the halls of the Little Palace, running quickly through the endless corridors, your laughter carrying through them as you kept yourself in front of Nina.

Nikolai had kept you in the Os Altan palace since that night, where Inej laughed and danced and did her flips, whilst Wylan played the piano and Kaz sat beside you, listening to your ramblings without a care in the world. 

“You seem delighted,” Nikolai noticed as you stopped in front of his office. “I’ve never seen you walk without that Brekker boy at your side, much less run while Zenik is on your tail!” You shrugged, laughing as Ninas front crashed into your back.

“This is the best I’ve felt in a year,” you murmured. “I figured I’d see if Nina was up to chase me around this morning, and I haven’t stopped running since!” You peered in through the open office door, looking for that familliar mop of dark brown hair.

Nina wrapped her arms around you and gave you a gentle squeeze. “He’ll be here any minute,” she murmured. “He and the boys are just finishing up a job for Nik in East Ravka, but Matthias told me the second that they’d left!”

“Trust me. Y/N,” Nikolais smooth voice murmured. “I put them on one of my fastest boats. I knew how long it’d take them to get from here to east Ravka and back, and I promised him he’d be here when you finally awoke.” 

“Hows it feel, anyway?” Zoya appeared at his side. “Eighteen, I mean.” You shrugged.

“I miss Kaz,” you murmured bluntly. “I hate that I have to tell him that he was right, but I still miss him.” 

Nikolai took Zoyas hand, pulling her close as you and Nina watched, smiles on your faces. 

“Young love,” Zoya teased. “Zenik, let go of them so that they can turn around.” Nina obeyed, letting you go and moving to lean against the doorway with Nikolai and Zoya. 

You turned, and smiled when your gazes met. “You were right, Brekker,” you murmured, walking toward him as he held out your gift to you. “I’m better now, and the second that you’re ready to spar, I’m gonna beat your ass, even though you’ve your cane as a weapon.” He grabbed your pinky with his the moment you were within distance.

“How’d the heist go?” You murmured once the two of you had walked out of earshot. 

“Good,” Kaz let himself be close to you as you two moved, squeezing your pinky as you slowed your steps. “Plan went off without a hitch, for three idiots and a mastermind with a limp. I brought you this from it,” he held the gift out to you again, and you took it in your free hand, examining it.

“I had to ask permission for that,” he murmured. “I had to get the Ravkan kings seal of approval to steal that for you.” You laughed, looking it over.

It was a journal. Black and leather bound, pages crisp and untouched. A pen was tucked into the cover. 

“I promise, we’ll go home soon,” you responded. “I miss Ketterdam. I could go for some waffles.” 

“Don’t they have waffles here?” Kaz questioned.

“Not Ketterdam waffles, love. Ketterdam waffles are unlike any pathetic waffle from here! Doused in syrup and whip cream--” You let out a satisfied sigh. “So good it’s almost surreal!” Kaz smirked.

“Waffle date when you’re well enough to return home then?” 

“Certainly.”

[stuckwith-harry]

Hide-and-seek

A/N: Oh, to be a chicken in times like these. (CW for discussion of death, nothing graphic.)

In the chicken shed it might as well still be the eighties, as though time had only gone on for the humans living in the house on the other side of the fence, but not in here, where the hens are quietly clucking and cooing and enjoying their naps, until Ginny shakes a handful of lettuce in the air like an invitation, a beckoning – then they come hurrying towards her, beaks tearing greedily at the green leaves.

When the hens have had their fill, Ginny looks over the gaggle of bickering ladies and finds her favourite amongst them, Genoveva with her warm brown feathers and clever eyes, who yells and shrieks when Ginny lifts her up by her impossibly soft belly, crouching down in the chicken shed, and pulls the disgruntled hen to her chest.

“Look, I’ll make it up to you”, Ginny tells her quietly. She fishes sweetcorn out of the front pocket of her dungarees and holds her open palm out to Genoveva, not flinching or grimacing when the sharp beak leaves little red marks on her skin as the hen gulps down her treat.

Ginny smiles.

The summer after her first year, she climbed into the chicken shed every day. She was soothed, then, by the arrhythmic clucking and the smell of fresh hay and the fact that the hens allowed her to share their company, that they did not recoil in horror at her sight.

It was her that named them, while she sat here for hours and hours with a chicken in her lap, more often than not Genoveva, who, for all her complaining, was easily the most patient of the bunch, and who nestles into her lap now, blinking slowly in the twilight while Ginny strokes her feathers, the burning inside her ribcage dull and pulsating like that of an infected wound.

Like it was her that took the damn Killing Curse to the chest.

“You’ve no idea how lucky you are”, she mutters, meeting Genoveva’s sharp eyes. “Nothing in those little heads of yours except earthworms and soft hay.”

She sits there for ages and ages like she did that summer, willing the comfort of the soft animal to sink into her like warmth. When she finally gets up to leave the chickens be, she tosses the rest of the sweetcorn into the hay (Genoveva looks utterly betrayed), fills up the grains in the feeder, and climbs out of the shed with the smell of warm feathers and wheat straw still in her nose.

“Chicken-feeding duty?”, calls a voice from near the house as she swings her bare legs over the wooden fence and strolls back towards the Burrow. When she looks for the voice’s owner, she discovers Ron, sitting on the weathered bench below the kitchen window.

“What’re you doing out here?”, she calls out as she comes closer.

“Hiding”, he says dully. “Mum’s crying again.”

Ginny feels something inside her chest take a tumble. “Is anyone with her?”

“Yeah, I’m not that much of a dickhead. Dad and Percy and Bill are all in there.”

“You’re not a dickhead”, Ginny says automatically, surprising them both. Then: “Mind if I stay?”

He shrugs. “Be my guest.”

So she sinks on the bench beside him, joining him in his grim silence. They gaze aimlessly over the soft green hills all around, the shape of the lake like a blue thumbprint in the landscape, where they whiled away so many happier, warmer days than this, and Ottery St. Catchpole’s mismatched roofs in the distance, smoke rising from the chimneys.

Ron finally looks over at her. “Were you with the chickens this whole time? I thought you’d grown out of your obsession with them.”

Ginny musters up a grin. “Never. I love those stupid hens. That was just an elaborate ruse so I could hide in the chicken coop when we used to play hide-and-seek. It never occurred to any of you to look.”

“Well, you stopped growing at about five feet, I figure you fit right in.”

Ginny whacks him in the knee. In a true testament to the severity of the situation, Ron does not retaliate.

She tells herself it’s that, not how much they aged him, the few short months that he was gone.

It’s less blatant now that Mum has shorn back the unkempt mop of hair that was falling into his eyes and growing down the back of his neck like wild weeds when he walked through the secret entrance of the Room of Requirements with Harry and Hermione; now that he’s shaved the patchy stubble on his cheeks and his face has regained a little fullness. But sometimes she still looks at him and wonders how ten years have not passed since she watched him slip away into thin air at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

“Did anything happen?”, she asks. “With Mum?”

Ron shrugs, expression blank. “Some fool said his name again. I never noticed how rarely we actually said the twins’ individual names until we had to break the habit of saying Fred-and-George all in one go. It’s like he’s Voldemort.”

Ginny doesn’t laugh.

“I know”, she mutters. “Don’t think it’ll ever come naturally.”

He nods mechanically. “Anyway – I made a run for it. I just couldn’t do it right then, having to comfort her and everything.”

Ginny looks over at him. “Funny, you’re so good at it.”

“You just say that because I make the best tea.”

“Well, you do.”

The same way that children can recognise each of their family members by the sound of their footsteps as heard through a wall, or the rhythmic pattern with which they knocked on the door, the Weasley siblings have learned to read each other’s silences since they’ve come home. Often now, they appear at each other’s bedroom doors at all hours of the night, shaken from nightmares or too restless to sleep or, rarely, weeping.

Most nights, two or three or four of them eventually find themselves in the kitchen, where Ginny turns on the lights, and Ron puts on the kettle, and they sit there and while away the small hours in each other’s company, in silence, in quiet understanding, in murmured chatter about nothing at all.  It’s good comfort, the idea that even after everything, there’s nothing in this world that a hot cup of tea can’t fix.

Ginny shifts on the bench next to him, pulling her knees to her chest. “Remember when that fox got one of the hens? I was inconsolable, and you were so nice to me when we put her in a shoebox and buried her behind the house, you didn’t even make fun of me.”

“You lot are different, that’s easy. I just can’t take it when it’s our parents.”

Ginny hums in understanding. “I think seeing Dad cry was worse for me. At the memorial.”

“Cheers, thanks for bringing it up again.”

She snorts.

“You’re good with Harry”, she says softly. “D’you miss him at all?”

He rolls his eyes. “He just sleeps two floors below me, it’s not like he died.”

Ginny winces.

Ron does not miss the look on her face or the heaviness of her silence, as they have all learned to do, and asks in an unnaturally light tone: “How’re you coping with him waking up three times a night?”

He seems relieved, for a moment there, when she smirks.

“It’s not too bad, actually. At least he makes for a great pillow.”

Ron looks appalled. “What the hell happened to the camp bed?”

“Oh, we just keep that around for decoration now.” She grins, comforted by the opportunity to tease him. “And he doesn’t wake up as much anymore.”

His face lights up. “That’s good news, at least. Lead with that next time.”

“Oh, he’s just … stopped going to sleep altogether.”

“That really solves that problem”, he says darkly. “The idiot.”

“I don’t think it’s purposeful”, she says. “He’s always pretending to be asleep when I look at him, but I can always tell. And when he does doze off, I’ll just stir next to him, and that’s enough to wake him up again.”

“He’s a really light sleeper these days”, Ron says apologetically. “The worst camping trip in the world will do that to a person.”

Ginny grins faintly. “Yeah, he’s mentioned it.”

“He’s talking, then?”

“Hm-hm.” She wraps her arms a little tighter around her legs. “Which is good, I guess.”

He watches her for a minute, as though unsure what to make of her tone. “Anything on your mind?”

She laughs. “Anyone ever told you you’re turning into Mum?”

“Well, we’re here anyway!”, Ron says, ears flushing. “Spit it out, will you?”

“He, uhm –”

It has not occurred to her, until right now, how difficult it would be to pass the story on, even to someone who has heard it before. Harry handed it to her because she asked him to, and still it knocked into her like a wild animal, pouncing, the weight of it like a Hippogriff standing on her chest, pinning her to the earth.

“He told me about walking into the Forbidden Forest.”

“Ah”, Ron says hollowly. “No wonder you’re hiding in a chicken coop.”

She looks around at him. “It’s not Harry I’m hiding from.”

“But you are hiding”, Ron says wisely.

Ginny shrugs. “I dunno what I expected. Somehow I’d convinced myself I already knew the worst of it. Which, as it turns out, was a bit stupid of me.”

She draws in a shaky breath.

“I thought he was in on it. Ever since I watched him come back to life at Hagrid’s feet … I thought there was some sort of plan. But there wasn’t, or Dumbledore didn’t tell him, anyway. I thought he knew he was going to survive, and it turns out that, uhm – he didn’t know shit. He went there to die, for real.”

Ginny looks back at him, words coming faster now. “And I’m – I’m so angry, and I don’t know why. Or who I’m angry with. It can hardly be Harry.”

“In all fairness, I kind of felt like punching him when he told us”, Ron says quietly, and her mouth briefly twists into something like a smile. “If anything we should be angry with Voldemort, or Dumbledore, even – but they’re not within punching distance, so what are you gonna do?”

“If Dumbledore wasn’t already dead, I would kill him”, Ginny says. “I swear, I would kill him.”

“Yeah, that sounds reasonable”, Ron says good-naturedly, patting her arm.

“And Harry – Harry keeps apologising, and I don’t know what for.”

Ron’s expression is pained. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

He sighs. She handed this to him, and now he is steeling himself to hand something back to her. She can tell.

“My best guess is … for not saying goodbye.”

Ginny does not look at him. Suddenly she is blinking rapidly in the fading light, sitting there as the blow rolls over her, something blunt and violent that should have broken her ribs like the impact of a Bludger; but there is no injury, only an ache that does not abate, that sits all around her, inside her. She doesn’t think it’s ever going to go away, all that hurting, writhing and straining inside her like a second skeleton.

“How could he have? We would’ve dragged him back to the castle by the damn hair.”

“Of course we would have”, Ron says robustly.

For a moment he looks like he’s going to reach out to her, hold her, maybe. He seems to think better of it in the end, and she’s almost relieved, dreading what she’d do if someone hugged her.

It’s another thing that won’t ever come easily: showing up on someone’s doorstep, weeping.

“If it’s any consolation”, he says after a while, “I think that’s the worst of it.”

“I’ve been wondering”, she mutters. “Can’t think of very much that beats walking to your own death. No fucking wonder he doesn’t sleep.”

“It’s funny”, Ron says, “I talked to him less than an hour ago, and he seems alright, almost.”

Ginny shrugs. “Isn’t he always? Remarkably functional, considering.”

Ron makes an attempt at a smile. “It’s such a Harry thing to do, though, isn’t it? Always dying for other people. Or trying to, anyway.”

“Hardly just a Harry thing, it turns out.”

It’s all shit, she thinks when he looks at her. Being the person knocking at the door, and the one listening on the other side, opening it.

“He told me about Malfoy Manor”, she says softly.

“Ah.” Ron kicks at the dirt to his feet. “Well, then you know what keeps me up at night.”

“He said – he said you offered to swap places with Hermione. Let Bellatrix have you instead.”

“And? You would’ve done the exact same thing for him.”

Ginny almost smiles. He might as well still be the boy who stuck stubbornly by her side next to the chicken fence all night, when she couldn’t bear to head back to the house, in case the fox ever came back.

“Yeah. I would have.”

It settles on her shoulders as quickly and unnoticeably as night, rapidly falling all around them: everything she would’ve done, in a heartbeat, in an instant.

“I would’ve taken the forest, too”, she says, more to herself than to Ron. “I would’ve done it all for him.”

It seems significant, somehow, that Ron does not resist this. That maybe he knows what it felt like, to Ginny, when they walked out into the courtyard and saw Harry.

That, too, felt like a Bludger to the chest: the sight of him, a kid in Hagrid’s arms, his glasses askew. How she wished it was her lying there, dead in his place.

“Those two”, Ron says abruptly. “Some day they’re really gonna be the death of us.”

Ginny almost laughs.

“So you won’t strangle him for abandoning the camp bed?”

Ron eyes her for a moment, a sort of benevolent sternness in his expression – and Ginny was right, that’s all Mum. “Yeah, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m sorry, anyway”, she says, half-smiling. “For costing you your roommate.”

Ron sighs. “They grow up so fast.”

“And for all this, too. You were trying to hide, I didn’t mean to …”

“It’s all right. You had to find me eventually.”

[itsbeaconhillsbaby]

city lights, pretty sights || tom holland x reader

a/n: hello again! so i was completely overwhelmed by the lovely response my first tom holland mini fic/imagine/blurb thing received from you guys. and i had a couple more ideas so decided to keep going and see what you all think. once again - i hope you guys are liking these, let me know if you are and if you wanna have a chat about anything tom related - hmu, I'd love to chat! 

word count: 1673 warning: none (that i can remember anyways) summary: wandering through nyc late at night still in your premiere outfits; pizza, piggy back rides and cute scenes

“What’s your thoughts on pizza?” 

You nuzzle closer into the side of the figure next to you, feeling them guiding and supporting you along the path as you walk together. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t holding on a little tighter than normal. Looking up to him you grinned, hair falling out of the loose style it’d been sitting in all night, the bouncy curls now framing your face, “I love pizza.” You could feel the presence of Tom’s security, walking a little further back giving you both some space, but still close enough that if anything at all happened, they’d be there to get you both home. You approach a tiny little hole-in-the-wall takeaway pizzeria, Tom pulling himself behind you, keeping hold of your hand as you walked through the tiny entrance. “Two slices of your pepperoni pizza please?!” you ask, grabbing a couple dollars from inside your bag and handing it over to the man. the place was empty. “Ay, 2 minutes!” You thank him and lean back slightly, now bracing yourself against Tom as he wraps both his arms around your waist and tucks his chin into your neck. sweeping a couple tiny kisses below your ear. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?” he whispers, brushing some hair behind your ear with his nose. “Only every single time you’ve looked at me,” you laugh, “It’s not every day I have make-up artists and dresses delivered to me. But I think you’ll find it’s me who can’t keep her eyes off of you. You were amazing tonight, y’know?” He hums into your bare shoulder, your body vibrating against his touch. Tonight was crazy; and you still couldn’t quite believe that it wasn’t all just some very elaborate dream. You had been making breakfast a couple days ago for you both, spoiling Tom now that he was back in London fresh off his press tour. You had come into the bedroom to tell him everything was ready when he pulled you down onto the bed and into his chest, gently asking if he could bring you as his plus one to his premiere in New York. The days that followed were crazy. Some designers had sent some dresses once they were told Tom was bringing a plus one, all eager to be the first to dress ‘her’. It was overwhelming to say the least. You were brought back from your memory by a saucy pizza aroma, your stomach reacting after now realising how long it had been since you’d eaten. You’d been so nervous all day, and everything was so stressful this morning...this pizza couldn’t come faster. Aside from your rumbling tummy, there was another big reason why neither of you had wanted to go straight home after the premiere. You hadn’t looked at your phones yet. Nor did you particularly want to. You knew the media would have been chomping at the bit to release the photos and articles of Tom and his ‘mystery girl’ - you were making the most of your normality with him before it was all blown to smithereens. Before you could dwell on that thought any longer, two slices of thick NYC pizza wrapped in napkins atop paper plates slid across the counter towards you. Tom unwound his arms from around your body and you both grabbed your slices before giving your thanks and leaving the pizzeria with a jingle of the bell above the door. //// You finished the last few bites of your pizza, leaving the crust before throwing it into the nearest bin. The city lights were glittering, cars still lining the streets despite the late hour. It definitely was the city that never sleeps and you loved it here. Despite it being hot and sticky all day, a cold wind had picked up and the material of your dress wasn’t exactly the warmest. Tiny little goosebumps has appeared on your arms, the little hairs standing up straight. “You wanna head back? It’s getting cold,” tom asked, he shuffled himself out of his burgundy suit jacket and held it open for you to put your arms in before sliding it up and over your shoulders, enveloping you. “-Or we can call a car here?” he continued. You had stopped where you stood, just at one of the entrances to central park. “We can have a car come in about 15 minutes if you want to take a little stroll about the park, Tom?” His security guard had noticed the lack of movement and had come over to see if either of you needed his assistance. “That sounds great, thank you!” you called, refusing to let this day end just yet. “Thank you for today, the paparazzi and the media and all the shouting. It’s a lot to deal with. Would put many off, but you handled it like a complete pro. We did the right thing didn’t we?” Tom asked, keeping his eyes forward to the grassy path lined with trees. “Hey. Look at me.” You turn him to face you, the lamplights highlighting his eyes as they trained themselves onto you, “I knew what I was getting myself into, and no amount of press or media stunts are gonna ruin this. No way. We’ll deal with it - as long as you want to keep making these films, I’ll support you. through the good and the bad, right?” He shifts on his feet, slightly uncomfortable with the conversation. His lifestyle had gotten in the way of his relationships before, you knew that. and Tom felt deeply about the people he loved. It was partly why you loved him and a reason why you’d both agreed to keep you out of the limelight for a while. You knew he was giving you a get out of jail free card. A reason to leave if you needed it. “I’m in this. I promise,” you reassured him. Youu bring your hands up to his face, caressing his cheek slightly, brushing the curls out of his face with your hand, “Since when did you get so soppy anyway?” “What can I say...it’s part of the charm!” you saw that twinkle jump back into his eyes, his playful energy taking centre stage pushing the tiredness, vulnerability and fear to the back of his mind. You continued to walk through the park a little, still within eyeshot of the entrance, careful not to wander too far. Enjoying each other’s company in a peaceful section of this intense city. At that moment, in classic NYC style, the heavens opened up and a heavy rainstorm thundered into the ground. The pair of you started laughing, the rain catching you both slightly as you took cover under one of the trees lining the pathway. You noticed Tom’s security waving you over, your car was here and the stretch from where you were both sheltered under the tree to the entrance was fully open. “Right, hop on!” You look at Tom confused as he squats down slightly, his arms held out behind him. Gathering up your dress slightly, you grip onto his shoulders, count down from 3 and hop onto his back, wrapping your legs around his waist and linking your arms around his shoulders and neck, clinging on with your face pressed into his hair. “Go go go!” You burst out laughing as he makes a beeline for the car, the rain pelting down on the both of you, completely soaking the pair of you to the bone. Your hair whipped around your face and you could hear Tom laughing as he ran, you couldn’t help but join in. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up and let it hit you for a moment, you were by far the luckiest girl in the world. You’d reached the car before you knew it, Tom gently lowered you back to the ground as you hopped back off - keeping your dress off the ground in the hopes not to ruin it completely. Opening the car door and ducking your head in, you slid across the seats, Tom on your heels. “Well, that was unexpected.” Tom looked at you, his full curls plastered to his head - shirt dripping, and burst out laughing, “I love you but you look like a raccoon.” You playfully hit on him on the shoulder before bursting into laughter yourself, “Oh shut up. ” //// Tom was, as expected, trending on all social media the next day. Articles and photos of his past relationships and rumoured romances brought to the surface as your red-carpet photos together came to light. However, the press hadn’t caught the best photos of the night at all.

In amongst all the posed pictures, two slightly blurry but still recognisable photos were moving their way across the internet. One taken by a fan through the window and across the road from the pizzeria - of Tom cuddling you from behind as you leaned back into him dressed in gown and tux. And another, of you with your head back, hair wild, laughing and Tom carrying you on his back, floppy and curly hair, massive grin and eyes crinkling at the sides - taken by another fan, you suspected. As gorgeous as the media pics were, you knew behind them was stress and nervousness from both parties, and you couldn’t help the feeling in your stomach that someone had managed to capture both of you completely natural and free, enjoying yourselves and each other on such a monumental day for both Tom and for your relationship. You liked and saved both the pictures before hearing the click of your phone locking shut as you placed it back on the bedside table. Rolling over you curled yourself behind Tom before he shifted himself onto his back, arm sliding under your shoulders and shifting you into his side. You close your eyes as he presses a sleepy kiss to your forehead and you let yourself finally relax - completely and utterly content.

[jasontoddiefor]

Summary: “Do you like it?” Obi-wan asked. Ahsoka looked up at him in confusion. What was he talking about- “The tea,” he added and raised his own cup like a sign.

Or, Anakin is injured and Ahsoka spends some time with her Grandmaster.

The tea Obi-Wan pressed into her hands smelled familiar, like the one Anakin made for them after late shifts when they had only recently left Coruscant. It was a sweet tea, so sweet that Ahsoka didn't even need to put any sugar in it. Their kitchen – an expression that still made Ahsoka grin with happiness because she had a Master now and she was a Padawan, even after these first months – didn't have anything but tea and some instant noodles stocked. For some reason, Ahsoka wasn't allowed to heat them up for lunch, so they had to go down to the cafeteria to eat. Obi-Wan had said something about the noodles being important to Anakin, and Ahsoka hadn't asked after that. She was too sure she'd start to cry like a youngling if she thought any more about her Master, who was currently unconscious in the halls of healing, being looked over by various healers.

The mission had been supposed to be easy. Nobody should have gotten hurt.

Ahsoka sunk further into her chair, buried herself in her Master's oversized coat. It had been handed to her when they'd brought Anakin in and Ahsoka had kept it on since. She knew it was stupid, that she looked ridiculous, but she kept it on anyway because it smelled like him and therefore like home and peace.

So here she was now with her Grandmaster in their kitchen in an apartment she didn't even really have a room in yet because they hadn't had time to clear it out, drinking tea.

"Do you like it?" Obi-wan asked.

Ahsoka looked up at him in confusion. What was he talking about-

"The tea," he added and raised his own cup like a sign.

"Oh, yes," she replied, feeling stupid for not having understood. She wanted Obi-Wan to like her and think she was a suitable addition to their lineage. "It smells familiar to the one Anakin always makes."

"It's the very same," Obi-Wan replied. "It's the only tea the two of us like equally well, so we always drink it together."

"Oh." Ahsoka hadn't known that. It felt like something she should know about her Master, like allergies. Frantically, Ahsoka tried to remember whether she could recall any of Anakin's allergies; he had to have at least one, right? Before she could get any more worked up and leave Obi-Wan in this awkward silence, she forced herself to ask another question. "What's in it?"

"A few red berries and some other indigenous fruit from Naboo. It was the only tea offered on Naboo that didn't taste like it had been dosed in perfume," Obi-Wan said and pulled a face as if the tea from Naboo had genuinely offended him.

Ahsoka giggled, then quickly clasped her hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to laugh at her Grandmaster, but Obi-Wan only smiled good-naturedly.

"Why- when were you on Naboo together?"

She knew that Anakin enjoyed items coming from the planet and was quite knowledgeable about its culture. She had no idea why someone would have all theatre genre of Naboo's last century memorized, but as Anakin had proven on a long retcon mission, he could talk endlessly about them. At least all his cursing had made them more entertaining than her own literature classes at the Temple.

"Ah, that's a rather long story. You were…. Five when Anakin joined the Order, weren't you?"

Ahsoka wanted to protest, surely she had to have been younger, but she remembered the whispers and knew her Master's age. It was strange to think he was only a few years older than her. She thought it would have been more, it should have been more, but if she were any younger and he older, perhaps they wouldn't be Master and Padawan at all.

She nodded in confirmation and Obi-Wan continued on.

"Anakin and I spent a month together on Naboo before we returned to Coruscant and he officially became a part of the Order. The Naboo prefer their food to taste and smell a bit flowery, and neither of us was used to it. After a lot of bickering, we decided that it was the one brand we actually both enjoyed. It took us a while to figure out how to brew it correctly, but eventually, I learned and taught Anakin in turn."

That certainly sounded nice, domestic even, like a scene she had never seen before. She tried to imagine the two of them in their kitchen, Obi-Wan being younger without a beard and looking less exhausted while Anakin was even shorter than her, perhaps standing on a barstool of some kind so that he could reach the counter.

Obi-Wan brought his own cup to his lips and drunk from it, then he set the cup on the table again.

They didn't have a single matching set of teacups that they actually appeared to be using. There were a few tea sets in the cupboard, Ahsoka had seen those already, but they didn't look like they were actually in use. Instead, Anakin and Obi-Wan had a collection of cups with silly images, colorful prints, and sayings.

"Ahsoka, I know we didn't get to spend much time together yet, but if you'd like, and if you enjoy this tea, I would like to show you how to prepare it properly."

Hearing those words, Ahsoka perked up. "Really?"

Obi-Wan smiled kindly at her and set his cup on the table. "It's a bit of a tradition for us, figuring out how to make a particular tea and then going out to buy a new cup for it. I used to do it with my Master, and Anakin and I didn't collect so many different mugs for no reason. You don't have classes this afternoon, do you?"

Ahsoka shook her head. "No."

They had canceled her classes for the rest of the week. There was no need for her to go when she'd only worry about Anakin. She could, of course, but the healers had been very insistent that Ahsoka should figure out her own boundaries and act according to them.

She still kind of wanted to go to class, just to prove that something like her Master getting hurt didn't unsettle her too much, but she was also still glued to their kitchen chair, wrapped in his oversized coat.

"Then, if you want, we can go out in the city today and buy you a cup and a new brand of tea to try out."

It would do her good to go outside. "I'd like that."

The two of them finished their teapot, then Ahsoka returned to her room. They still hadn't finished setting it up and so was currently more the place she stuck her stuff as Anakin frantically tried to move his plants to another surface that was not already covered by them and miniaturize his droid workshop. Most of the time, she didn't even sleep in the bed that had been cramped in there. In the words of her Master, why should she sleep there when Obi-Wan's larger and more comfortable bed was right there. Or Anakin's when Anakin managed to drag himself only to the sofa or, already half-asleep, stumbled into Obi-Wan's room.

Once her Master was cleared from the halls, they were going to sort that out. Even if Obi-Wan didn't have any problems with her taking over his bed.

Ahsoka got dressed, changed into robes of her own size and slipped back into the main room. From there on it was a quick and easy trip to the shopping districts of Coruscant. Obi-Wan wistfully muttered something about "at least it's not the lower levels this time" that he didn't see fit to elaborate on and Ahsoka, therefore, chose to keep in mind for a later date.

The tea shop he led her to must be one he frequented more often because the owner greeted him with name and immediately showed him a selection he thought would be to Obi-Wan's liking. Ahsoka smelled the various fruity, spicy, and bitter tea selections and eventually picked one that Obi-Wan and she both agreed looked like the most interesting one. Apparently, the tea changed colors as it cooled down. They didn't stay long enough in the store to get a practical demonstration, but Ahsoka was still eager to see it. Mainly to see it in the new mug Obi-Wan had bought her. It was supposed to match the color of the liquid inside. It was ridiculous, but Ahsoka thought it was fun.

"We can make it for Anakin later," Obi-Wan said. "He is supposed to wake up this evening."

"Do you think he'd like that?"

"I think he would be very pleased to see how well his Padawan has conducted herself in his absence. And he always did like food that was a little extraordinary."

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly with the two walking through the smaller streets, visiting stores Ahsoka had never seen before, but who all apparently knew her quite well already. The number of times somebody addressed her with "Little Anakin's Padawan?" was quite astonishing.

By the time they returned to the Temple, it was already dark. Their first stop after deposing their new items in their rooms was the cafeteria. Dinner was, as always, a loud and cheerful affair. Groups of Initiates were running around the many tables, Padawans chatting to each other and Masters bragging about their students. She and Obi-Wan took a seat at a table a little closer to the edge where it was quieter, though even they weren't spared from the toddlers handing out sugary cupcakes that looked like somebody was trying to sell pure diabetes.

But how was Ahsoka supposed to resist when the tiny Nautolan with the huge eyes offered it to her? It wasn't like Obi-Wan could resist it either.

After they had finished dinner, they returned to their quarters, properly put away all they had bought, and set the new tea package on the kitchen table together with Ahsoka's mug.

"Alright," Obi-Wan said. "Let's see how hot the water needs to be and how long the tea needs to steep."

With gentle fingers, Obi-Wan began to put the tea leaves into filter bags and familiarized Ahsoka with it. He taught her how to properly pour tea and which brands were better with a little more or less sugar, which needed salt of all things, and about a hundred other different tidbits that she couldn't believe he just knew from the top of his head.

But all the work seemed to pay off as they had a teapot full of blue tea that was slowly turning violet.

"Well done," Obi-Wan praised her as he grabbed the teapot and a mug for himself.

Ahsoka took her own new one, though she had already decided that she'd let Anakin drink out of it this time, and took another for herself. Together they headed towards the halls of healing. They hadn't even entered them properly when Anakin's voice reached them.

"I am fine, Bant, I swear! I just want to see Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, promise I'll be back within twenty minutes- ten minutes!"

Just as Ahsoka and Obi-Wan waked around the corner, they saw Anakin attempting to climb out of his bed, bandages still wrapped around his head, and arguing with Bant. As soon as he saw them, his eyes lit up.

"Ahsoka! Obi-Wan, are you well?"

Ahsoka stared at Anakin, whole, healthy, and smiling, and reassured herself that he was real. Then in the fashion of a child, she threw herself at him, burying her head in his chest as she before had in his robes.

"Woah, woah, everything's alright, Ahsoka. I'm just fine, see?"

He patted her head almost a little awkwardly like he didn't know what to do with his hands, but Ahsoka didn't care.

He was fine, everything was alright.

"Anakin Skywalker, what are you doing? Get back into bed!"

Ahsoka slowly released Anakin from her embrace so that he could fall back on his bed. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and rolled his eyes at the Mon Calamari Jedi.

"Bant wants to keep me here overnight, even though I'm fine."

At this, he glared a little at Bant, though Ahsoka could tell his heart was not in it. If that were so, she knew Bant wouldn't be standing here much longer. As ridiculous as he looked right now, Ahsoka knew her Master could be quite terrifying if he wanted to.

"Don't act so much like a bratty Padawan, Anakin," Bant only commented. "Now sit down, rest, get well, and you can go back to your rooms tomorrow morning."

"Yes, yes," Anakin muttered and pulled the blanket back over his legs. Bant smiled at the three of them, then bid them good night as well.

"It's good to see you're causing trouble as always," Obi-Wan said and set the teapot on the table next to Anakin's bed so he could sit down on its edge. "Here I was worried it was something serious."

"Oh, you know me, Master. I always have to be a little dramatic. What tea is that?"

Anakin couldn't have changed the topic more obviously in favor of curiously examining the teapot.

"Master Obi-Wan and I went out shopping in the city today," Ahsoka spoke up and pushed her new mug into Anakin's hands before she saw down next to him. "We bought a new tea and it changes color and also a mug and-"

"Hey, Snips, slow down." 

Ahsoka shut up as Anakin raised his hands. Then, with an expression Ahsoka could only describe as pouty, her Master turned to Obi-Wan.

"You took my Padawan on her first tea run without me?" Anakin asked accusingly, pointing his finger at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan only sighed theatrically and poured some tea, by now a dark red color, into every cup. "Well, we can't all be heroes recovering from a deadly assault. I take it said hero doesn't want a cup then?"

Now Anakin was quick to hold out the cup Ahsoka had pressed into his hands. "No, I want to see what my Padawan picked out. Hurry up, Master."

Obi-Wan's following laughter was infectious. It was almost as loud and cheerful as Anakin's demands to be told everything of their trip in detail. Sitting next to him on the bed, covered by the heavy blanket and the warm tea in hand, Ahsoka could finally allow herself to relax fully.

[lloydskywalkers]

any port in a storm

Pixal and Lloyd and the evolving nature of friendship, as highlighted by the regular burning down of your city. 

(desperately trying to break through writer’s block and classes again, this was supposed to be under 2k and it is...very much not hdfjkgh but! i’ve been meaning to write for Pixal and Lloyd for a while so here are a whole bunch of feelings about the two of them and s8)

Pixal meets — truly meets — Lloyd Garmadon shortly after his brother’s been blown to pieces.

She says truly, because if you ask her, Pixal will tell you she met Lloyd Garmadon at exactly 8:48 in the evening outside his father’s monastery, moments before a horde of nindroids led there by Pixal herself descended upon them.

But Lloyd argues that since they said about two words total to each other, it doesn’t really count as meeting, and by the time Pixal’s spending the better part of her day with him running high and low around Ninjago City, she’s learned that it’s easier not to press the point.

Lloyd can be stubborn, like that.

She’d first learned that when she’d met him, just after they’d lost Zane. That loss hadn’t lasted long, especially for Pixal, but the immediate aftermath of it had been devastating. She’d watched with blank eyes as the team had fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise.

All of them had fled, save Lloyd. She hadn’t paid him much attention before that point, the surprisingly small bearer of the Golden Power. Of course, he wasn’t the bearer of that power anymore, but his eyes alone had shown the experience of it. There’d been a brief, lost look that had crossed his face as the others had mentioned leaving, before it had been swept under a mask of stubborn, determined blankness. He wouldn’t be leaving. Someone had to stay behind and watch out for things, he’d claimed, even as the loss had bled through his voice.

Pixal hadn’t quite grasped the concept of empathy at that point, but she’d felt something dangerously close to it.

At any rate, the only interaction they’d had alone was brief. In fact, the only one Pixal can truly remember — and her memory never fails — is the quick exchange they’d had in the hospital lobby directly after the battle. The hospital was for Mr. Borg, and for the ninja’s minor injuries.

There was nothing any hospital on earth could do for Zane.

Pixal had found herself next to Lloyd in the waiting room, trying to distract herself from those thoughts while Lloyd stared at the stark white tiling with dull eyes.

“They never mentioned what your power was,” she’d asked him, almost absently. Collecting data, processing information — anything she could do to distract from the crushing grief.

“Oh.” Lloyd had blinked, startling back into awareness. He’d suddenly looked painfully young. “It’s, ah, I guess it’s just green, now.”

It had been Pixal’s turn to blink. “Green.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd had bit his lip, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, two habits he’ll never quite lose. “I mean — it’s more than that, but it’s like — energy, I guess, is the best way to put it?”

“Interesting,” Pixal had remarked.

“Yeah.”

They’d stared at each other in silence after that, before they’d both been called off to other errands — and then they were having Zane’s funeral and then Pixal was making realizations she never got to tell anyone, and that had been that in her early introductions to Lloyd Garmadon. Quiet, awkward, and possessing an incredible power he hardly even knew the name of.

Looking back, Pixal figures her introduction hadn’t gone much better.

They’d continued as passing acquaintances as time went on, separated by danger and the confines of Zane’s head, and Pixal had figured that’s all they’d ever be. But then their Sensei goes missing and, despite Pixal’s increasing disappearances on Zane as she rebuilds her own body, she’s been given the role of watching out for Ninjago city along with Lloyd.

She quickly learns that quiet is not a term fit for Lloyd Garmadon when you’re trapped alone with him.

************

“How is there not a single station playing actual music?” Lloyd seethes, flicking through the channels almost manically. “It’s two am, who’s gonna be listening to your stupid commercial for toothpaste now, are you kidding me?”

“Statistically speaking, this is the prime time for long-distance driving near Ninjago City,” Pixal supplies, her voice a hint scratchy where it comes through the his car’s radio speakers. “Or, if you factor in the construction in the east district, there could still be traffic from late-night bars.”

Lloyd groans, thunking his head against the steering wheel as another ad screeches through the small space. “Wonderful.”

“Your vocal tones suggest you find it otherwise.”

“Dont trust ‘em, my vocal tones are traitors.” As if to solidify his point, Lloyd’s voice cracks in the middle of his sentence, shooting up an octave higher. Lloyd goes bright red, and thunks his head against the steering wheel again.

Taking pity on him, Pixal aims for reassurance. “It is normal for your voice to break, Lloyd. It shouldn’t last too long.” She pauses, momentarily scanning through another article. “On second thought, this one suggests it could also take two to three years for your voice to stabilize.”

Lloyd gives a strangled moan. “End me.”

“Unfortunately, that would defeat the purpose of why I’m here in the first place.”

Lloyd tilts his head, cracking an eye open as he glances at the camera feed he knows she’s watching him from. “Unfortunately, huh,” he muses. “So you’re saying if Zane hadn’t made you promise to look out for me, you would end me?”

“That — no, that is not — of course I wouldn’t end you,” Pixal backtracks. An odd feeling flickers through her, almost as if she’s lost her place, floundering.

Or embarrassed might be more accurate, she thinks wryly. She briefly considers projecting a a glaring face at Lloyd from the monitor. This is his fault. She rarely stuttered before Lloyd started teasing her at all hours of the morning.

“I mean, you wouldn’t be the first,” Lloyd continues, conversationally. “And if we’re being honest, I’d definitely rather you be the one to off me, instead of like, random bad guy number eighty-five—”

“I know you think you are funny,” Pixal cuts over him. “But casually planning for your death is something Kai listed I was not to let you do. Also, it is not nearly as funny as you think it is.”

“Ouch,” Lloyd mutters, though he looks chastised. “Never mind, you just took me out in one sentence.”

Chastised might be the wrong term.

Pixal studies him through the monitor, then sighs. “I am, however, honored you think highly enough of me to offer the right to murder you,” she gives in.

She’s rewarded as Lloyd breaks into a bright grin.

He still looks painfully young these days, but it’s less obvious. His voice is pitching lower and he wears his hair different, and he’s gained a whip-like tendency to quip at people, as Pixal’s experienced firsthand. Kai calls it sass in grumbling but fond tones, and Nya calls it snark somewhere between the fourth book series she’s sent for Pixal to try.

The ninja have been kind like that, sharing the interests they have in an attempt to make her feel…well, more human, she supposes. Less confined to a voice in a computer. Of course, Pixal isn’t confined to a voice in a computer anymore, but they don’t know that yet. She’ll tell them someday soon, she promises herself. Any day now.

In the meantime, it’s easy enough to keep up with Lloyd by lurking in his car radio, as he spends half his time in there anyways.

************

“You’d think we’d have found their hideout by now,” Lloyd notes, as they wait in a darkened alleyway again. It gives them an excellent view of the major highways, so if the rumored biker gang does show up, they won’t miss it.

If they show up being the key point.

“Whoever their leader is, they certainly know how to keep a low profile,” Pixal answers, closing out another dead end police report in frustration.

“It’s weird,” Lloyd says, propping the notebook he’s sketching in on his knee as he squints at the paper. “Normally the boss types aren’t this quiet. They like to show off, y’know? Make a big scene, dramatic speeches and all.”

“Are you referring to the villains, or yourselves?”

“Touché,” Lloyd snorts. “But still, you gotta admit it’s weird they haven’t even made any demands. What’s their end game here, elaborate advertising for motorcycle design?”

“I would hope not,” Pixal says. “Their color coordination is lacking.”

Lloyd fights back a smile, his pencil scratching as he shifts his notebook again. “I don’t know, I kinda like the punk look.”

“I noticed that, when you tried to redecorate the car.”

“Hey, skulls are cool.”

“They are also conspicuous, especially when they come in acid green colors.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Lloyd sighs, making a face as he scrubs the eraser across the paper. Pixal tries to tilt the camera further, to see what he’s drawing tonight, but the angle he’s holding it at remains just out of sight.

She could probably guess what he’s drawing, if she tried. The notebook is one they’ve been steadily working their way through on these late-night patrols, the pages filled with little hangman games and Lloyd’s sketches of animals and his teammates. He’s drawn her a few times from memory, and she’s been tempted to ask him to draw her in the new Samurai X armor more than once.

Soon, she tells herself.

“What are you drawing?” she finally asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

Lloyd’s cheeks tinge pink, and he quickly plasters the notebook to his chest, hiding it entirely from view. “Nothing.”

Pixal waits, letting the silence fill with her judgement. “Lloyd, I have seen your drawings before.”

He doesn’t reply, and Pixal tries again. “It gets boring, being stuck with the car monitors for eyes.”

“I know you can hack other cameras,” Lloyd mutters, but he sighs, relenting as he turns the notebook over. Pixal’s eyes rake over the detailed sketch — it’s a comical little thing of her and Lloyd, jammed together on a tiny lifeboat in the middle of a darkening ocean. She can spot the smudges where he’s redrawn her head several times, and the numerous attempts he’s made at his own hair. Pixal studies Lloyd’s portrayal of himself, which is noticeably lacking in facial features. While Lloyd draws the others plenty, it’s a rare occasion that he draws himself, and she can’t help but be curious.

“I thought you were drawing the others again,” she admits.

“They’re on the ship,” Lloyd says, absently. “I’ll draw them when they remember to pull us back in.”

There’s nothing bitter in his tone to suggest it has any bearing on their actual lives, but the lost expressions Lloyd ends up giving their tiny caricatures feel familiar nonetheless.

“Zane has assured me they will be back as soon as they can,” Pixal speaks ups quietly.

Lloyd finally looks up fully, and flashes the monitor a smile. “I know,” he says. “So we better have this thing busted by the time they do, or they’ll never let us run a city on our own again.”

“If only we were truly running the city,” Pixal grumbles. “I could do a better job in two days than the current leaders could do in a year.”

“I’d vote for you,” Lloyd says, sincerely.

It’s a sweet gesture, but Pixal is unable to resist. “You don’t know how to vote.”

“Yes I do, it’s not hard!”

“Really? Then why are you not currently registered in the Ninjago voting system?”

Lloyd makes a strangled noise. “That’s a thing?”

She’s unable to keep the smugness from her voice. “I make my point.” Lloyd scowls, and scribbles a mustache on his drawing of her in revenge.

Pixal thinks it looks nice nonetheless.

************

She can’t really hold it against Lloyd for talking as much as he does, considering she does the same. It gets dull, sitting on patrol for hours on end, and there are only so many hours of light reading they can do before the silence begins to drive them both insane.

Pixal finds herself talking about more useless things with Lloyd than she has in her existence, pointless conversations in circles with each other. She also finds she doesn’t entirely mind. She’s become quite good at quipping back and forth with him, at least. It’s different than the kind of talk she has with Zane, lacking in the depth of feeling with the love they share. Her exchanges with Lloyd are lighter, though that’s not to say they’re less sincere.

For example, Zane hasn’t tried to teach her how to redesign a gi in poor lighting in the early hours of the morning because he’s bored out of his mind, that’s for sure.

“I’m teaching you how to sew,” Lloyd corrects, wincing as he accidentally stabs himself with the needle. “And I’m not redesigning the whole thing, I’m just adding some designs to spice it up.”

“I did not know you were allowed to wear colors other than green,” Pixal comments.

Lloyd pauses, squinting at the monitor. “You’re teasing me,” he finally says. “You’re making fun of how much green this gi has in it.”

“I would never,” Pixal replies, her tone flat and even. “The intricacies of your human humor evade me—”

“Human humor, nice—”

“—unlike the unusually bright shade of green you’ve chosen will fail to evade any eyes of your enemies.”

“I knew you were making fun of me!” Lloyd accuses, then flinches as he stabs his finger again trying to point at her. “And bright colors are our thing. Being subtle is, uh…not. Usually.”

Pixal is losing the battle to laugh at his expression by the minute. “I am shocked.”

Lloyd glares at the monitor, shifting his sewing to rest on his knees as he slouches in the car seat. “How’d you even get so good at sarcasm, anyways,” he mutters. “Zane still doesn’t get it half the time.”

“Perhaps it is part of my glowing personality,” Pixal says. Lloyd gives a huff of laughter, relenting.

“Fair enough,” he says, shifting in his seat again. “Fine, you win. The green is probably too bright, but that’s not the point. I’m gonna show you how to do a backstitch."

Pixal falls quiet, letting Lloyd gesture with the needle as he explains. There are a hundred, a thousand tutorials she could pull up online, digitized knowledge instantly learned on all the countless types of stitches she could use, sorted and categorized in neat columns of use and effectiveness. All of them more detailed, more easily understood than Lloyd’s absent rambling and unsteady hands as he struggles with the end of a knot.

Not one of them will care whether or not Pixal learns the odd way Zane likes to loop his stitches, or will quietly add which stitches knit skin back together quickest.

So Pixal ignores her programming, and does her best to follow Lloyd’s rambling instructions, watching as his scarred fingers tug another thread of dull gold through the green mess of fabric, the city quiet around them.

“You never did tell me where you learned how to sew,” Pixal says, as Lloyd starts up a new thread of black on the other side of the gi. “Was that something the others taught you in training?”

“They’d have to know how to be able to teach it,” Lloyd snickers. “And, uh, no. I taught myself to back at Darkley’s.”

“Oh,” Pixal falters. She’s heard about Darkley’s, both from Zane and the legal reports she’s read online. Neither gave a positive impression of the place. Her mind is suddenly filled with images of a younger Lloyd trying to give himself stitches, and her heart twists.

Lloyd starts, seemingly having picked up on her train of thought. “I mean, I did it for fun, mostly. I like sewing,” he explains. “It’s useful. You can pull things back together, and fix ‘em.”

Pixal is quiet, but she hopes Lloyd takes her silence as agreement with his motive. She likes to think he knows her well enough for that, by now.

************

Pixal finds, somewhere during their fourth month alone, that she’s glad the team elected to stick her and Lloyd together. Not because she doesn’t want to be with Zane — there’s never a moment she doesn’t miss him, and with every day that passes her resolve to keep her secret from him grows weaker, as the longing for actual connection grows stronger.

But there are conversations she can have with Lloyd that she can never have with Zane, and the dangerous thing about spending time with Lloyd, Pixal finds, is that they’re more similar than she’s realized.

“Sometimes I think I’m jealous,” Lloyd whispers to her one night. It’s one of the bad ones, the ones where their enemies struck too sudden to stop, and the mission ends in the hospital. “I think I’m jealous of Zane, and I hate myself for it.”

Pixal is quiet, trying to pick apart the tone of his voice in the words he’s just spoken, and factors in the victims they’ve just left behind at the hospital. She finds herself no closer to an answer.

“Is it the metal skin part?” she finally asks, though she knows that’s wrong. “The, what was it, technical immortality?”

“No,” Lloyd shakes his head. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he says emphatically, his fingers fluttering at over the steering wheel, tapping incessantly with unspent energy. “I don’t want to, but that’s — it’s not what I’m scared of. I’m more scared of how I go out.”

He swallows, and his fingers move to dance over the woven bracelet on his wrist instead, twisting at the tiny beads and tracing senseless designs in constant, steady movement. It’s a motion he does often, and it had puzzled Pixal at first. She’d decided to write it off as an odd tick, a way to spend excess energy.

Now, she recognizes the desperate kind of reassurance that movement gives. She understands too well the need to remind yourself that you can move — that your body will obey you and you alone.

Pixal thinks back to the other factors in tonight’s accident, of the way the drugged man’s eyes had cleared when they’d finally turned him over to the police, the way he’d sworn he’d never do such a thing in his right mind. She thinks of the way the first victim had thrown themselves over their companion.

That victim hadn’t made it to the hospital.

“Ah,” Pixal says, quietly.

She’s silent again, and she thinks back to when she’d met him, the very first time. She recalls the way her programming had rebelled against her in favor of the Overlord, corrupting her body and forcing it against her, twisting everything she was and wanted to be into something different.

She thinks back again, to the searing-hot anger, the terror, the despair as she was torn apart, piece by piece like a machine, burning out at the whims of another. Her end purposeless, her demise belonging to someone else, just like every other part of her.

She thinks of the last glimpse she’d caught of Zane, bright and beautiful as a supernova. Burning with the terrible brilliance of his own, determined choice. Terrible, because the death of something always is. Beautiful, because it was his own. Zane died, not a machine, not a weapon, not a tool of anyone or anything, but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves. Pixal could’ve died for spare parts.

Never again, she promises herself. If she goes out, she goes out on her own terms. This time, they choose the end of their own destiny themselves.

In hindsight, it’s the kind of promise they’re both too young to make, but neither of them have ever seen themselves as such, and promises like that are easy.

“Love can be terrible, sometimes,” Lloyd murmurs. Pixal watches him scrub at the blood on his uniform, and thinks how ironically well-timed it is that he finished the stitching on his new gi this morning. “Sometimes I forget how ugly it can be.”

************

The end of their nighttime stakeouts begins with a break-in at Mr. Borg’s tower. Lloyd argues that she should get to call it her father’s tower, if she wants, but the ninja aren’t the only ones Pixal’s hiding herself from.

And then Lloyd gets very tense at the thought of fathers very fast, and they never finish the conversation.

They stay at the edge of the bridge long after the parachute, emblazoned with the unmistakable visage of Lloyd’s father, disappears from sight. Pixal wonders if it’s burned into Lloyd’s eyes, like the way she’s read black spots linger in humans’ vision after they’ve looked at something too bright. The way Lloyd stares at the river, his shoulders tense and his teeth worrying at his lip, she thinks she might be right.

They’re waiting on the report from the commissioner —they’re waiting for anything, anyone who can offer them any explanation of what’s going on. Pixal’s reminded of how much she loathes this kind of waiting.

“It could be—” Lloyd begins, then breaks off, his voice wavering. He swallows, and Pixal can see the way his fists clench tightly from the cameras they’ve put in his car. There’s a fierce part of her that longs to reveal herself, to meet his eyes herself and offer some semblance of comfort. But there’s a time and place for things, and Pixal isn’t ready.

“It could be anything,” Lloyd finally continues, his voice small. “It could — it doesn’t mean anything. It could mean nothing, right?”

Pixal is silent, her mind racing. She’s run the calculations over and over in her head already, scouring the internet for anything related to the bikers. She’s been foolish, she realizes — they both have. Letting the gang go unnamed for so long, thinking nothing of it. Now, with the name flashing vibrant across Pixal’s vision, a part of her wants to let them go nameless just a bit longer.

Before she can answer, Lloyds phone goes off with a sharp ping, just as Pixal’s sensors alert her to the message from the commissioner. Lloyd snatches for his phone like it’s on fire, and Pixal’s already scanning the message frantically, as if she can salvage this if she’s fast enough, save Lloyd from this one pain.

Lloyd’s gotten much better at reading quickly though, these days.

She can pinpoint the moment he reaches the last paragraph, because his breath hitches. There’s a long, pressing pause of silence, Lloyd’s hands trembling as they clutch weakly at his phone. Then it’s punctured by a reedy, wheezing gasp, and Pixal’s suddenly wishing she’d revealed herself after all.

Instead, all she has is her voice as Lloyd crumples, crouching over in visible distress. Pixal’s mind races, recalling everything Zane’s ever told her about his team, the way their panic manifests in different shades. Lloyd’s is quiet but desperate, rapid breathes that stutter as his eyes slide more and more into a frightening kind of blankness.

“Lloyd, please, listen to my voice,” she begs, trying to reach him in the only way she can. “Please, you have to breathe—”

“He’s gone,” Lloyd rasps, unhearing of her words. “He’s s’posed to be gone, it’s supposed to be over, I’m supposed to be done—”

Pixal fights back the sense of overwhelming helplessness. She knows loss. She knows how to finish his sentence. He’s supposed to be done grieving, done mourning, done clinging to false scraps of hope that his father isn’t lost forever only to be met with heartbreak.

And now, to be met with the possibility of something so much worse.

“We’ll stop them,” she tells him, unflinching. “We won’t let it happen.”

Lloyd’s eyes are a vivid green where they stare at her through the monitor, almost ghostly in the misting light reflecting from the river.

He’s silent, but Pixal is, too.

Pixal remembers the way her head had spun when she’d first picked up the traces of Zane in the system, how the world had rushed then steadied, flooding with color as she’d realized he might not be lost after all. She remembers the surging, overwhelming flood of joy, that someone she’d thought she lost might live after all. She remembers being so happy, at even the smallest chance to get him back, because the voice was Zane’s, without a doubt.

She watches the color seep from Lloyd’s expression as his shoulders shudder, the words from the commissioner’s message almost echoing through the air. Watches the terror as the both of them fill the silence.

Will we?  

The radio scratches, as if echoing Pixal’s anxiety. Love can be terrible, sometimes. She’s underestimated how it also be so cruel.

************

She’s also, apparently, underestimated how the universe on the whole could be so cruel.

She should’ve revealed herself to them from day one. That way, when Harumi’s corrupted programming suddenly ravages through her like an electric shock, she could be reassured they’d at least be familiar with the person they were fighting.

Instead, she doesn’t even get to scream. Pixal’s only able to force out a desperate, broken warning before she’s lost again, drowning in her own body as she’s forced under. Furious panic grips her as she screams without lungs, bashing herself against the overwhelming helplessness that’s taken over her.

Not again, not again, not again—

Her limbs creak and jolt against her will, lashing out at the people she cares most about, and Pixal can’t even rage back in her own voice. She’s sworn, she’s promised herself she’d never let anyone do this to her again — she’s sworn she’d die before she let someone reach into her head and snatch control away, and yet here she is, frozen as her body’s used to target her friends.

If she could cry, she might.

There’s not much more to say than that. She breaks free, her body her own once again, but by then it’s too late.

************

If Pixal had the same gift of foresight that Zane did, maybe she would have seen it coming. Maybe she’d have remembered how similar her and Lloyd are, and that this kind of pained desperation always yields impulsiveness and mistakes.

She doesn’t, though. She barely even manages to do what she’s trying to, which is convincing Lloyd to join the others while they celebrate their victory. Their off-key singing is something he normally wouldn’t hesitate to join in on, she thinks, and she hates Harumi a little more.

Maybe she’ll try his mother next. The expression on Lloyd’s face screams unapproachable, and remains fixedly sullen.

Almost to her surprise, he meets her eyes as she draws near— it’s odd, being able to meet his back — and his own eyes are dark, from despair over Harumi or despair over his father, Pixal isn’t sure. She’s thinking it might be both, when his eyebrows crease, and a flicker of concern cuts through them instead.

“You good?”

It takes her a moment to realize why he’s asking, but the answer is obvious. Her head tilts downward, and she watches as her fingers curl and uncurl. Her movements, her choices. She lets out an even breath.

“As I can be,” she replies. Lloyd nods, and his eyes are understanding. His lips twist in a scowl.

“She shouldn’t have done that to you. That was a low blow.”

Pixal’s mouth curves into a humorless smile. “That it was. She’s rather good at those, isn’t she.”

Lloyd’s eyes shadow again, and he looks away, crossing his arms. “This isn’t supposed to be about me,” he mutters.

“Yes, it is,” Pixal counters. “It is why I came over here, in the first place. She hurt—”

“All of us, and who’s fault is that,” Lloyd snaps, his arms crossing tighter.

“I would hope you know it’s hers,” she says, holding firm.

Lloyd looks away again, biting his lip, and Pixal shifts anxiously, rolling her wrists. The sensation of control sliding away still haunts her, worse than it had the first time. She should be better than this, she tells herself hotly. She’s lived without a body long enough that losing it so briefly shouldn’t effect her this much.

Curse her programming, she thinks, tapping agitatedly at the banister. She knew she should have reinforce it sooner.

“Hey, um.” Lloyd is looking at her again, hesitant. He twists at his bracelet, and his eyes lose a fraction of that darkness. “Kai made this for me, after Morro,” he says. “I kept shredding the sleeves of my uniform, so he told me to mess with this instead, when I needed to remember that…that I was in control.”

He shrugs, hesitant. “We could make you one too, if you wanted. It helps, having something.”

Pixal lets out a steady breath, despite not actually needing to. The action is grounding, she’s found. “I would like that.”

Lloyd gives her a ghost of a smile in return. “Soon as this is over, then.”

There’s a heavy weight to his words, and Pixal’s eyes narrow.

“Lloyd,” she says. He looks at her, his eyes dark. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

He’s quiet, not meeting her eyes, and this is where Pixal should stop him. This is when she should see the end of the road they’ve been on since they started this, and force him to turn before it’s too late.

“I know what I’m doing.”

She doesn’t.

************

Lloyd is battered and bleeding by the time they drag him onto the ship, a gruesome portrait of cruelty. Pixal is frozen as she watches him writhe in Kai’s hold, his screams cracked and wet as he thrashes erratically like a broken thing.

Nya is already barking orders before they’ve even gotten Lloyd fully on the ship, and Zane is running scans with a horrified, wavering focus. Pixal follows Cole as he carries Lloyd to the medbay with a blank numbness, the rush of wind streaming past the Bounty sails thunderously loud in her ears.

This isn’t Lloyd, she thinks, staring at his crumpled form. Lloyd isn’t this battered, broken shell of a person. Lloyd isn’t hazy eyes that fail to recognize them and frantic murmuring through bloody lips. Lloyd is bright-eyed and gentle and would rather die before he screams the way he does when Cole moves him to the table.

Lloyd is her friend, and this is where that promise they made has led them. She knows why Lloyd set out for the prison, hot on the collapse of his own star. She also knows he wouldn’t have chosen to burn out like this.

Cole calls out for Zane, his voice ringing in panic as Lloyd screeches in pain again. Pixal thinks of quiet words in the safety of his car, and she feels sick. This is the ugliness of love, the terrible, hideous side of it.

And Lloyd would hate it, if he could see himself, if he were any semblance of lucid. He’d hate to know just how much better he was at breaking himself than Morro ever was.

Zane is gentle as he pushes past her, but Pixal can feel the tremble in his hands. He’s every bit as rattled as she is, if not more so — Zane’s heart is larger and softer than hers has ever been, and he cares about each and every one of them with a painful intensity. It’s a cruel thing, to have to pull those same people back together with your own hands.

Kai’s eyes are streaming as he clutches at Lloyd’s wrists, pinning him in place. Zane’s hands waver again over one of the jagged wounds near Lloyd’s ribcage, the green of his uniform already dyed dark in blood, soaking over the careful stitches Pixal watched him put in himself.

Pixal finally finds her footing, reminding herself of the solid wood beneath her feet. She recalls the steady, smooth stitch Lloyd’s scarred fingers traced out for her.

“Here.” She takes the needle from Zane’s hands, squeezing his briefly before letting go. “I can do it.”

She sets the needle against Lloyd’s skin and wonders what kind of stitch it’d take to pull your heart back together.  

************

Pixal cannot cry. It’s one of the features Mr. Borg spent hours debating, weighing the pros and cons of giving her the ability before he was truly sure how rust-proof she was. He’d never gotten the chance to, as the Overlord had interrupted him, then Pixal had lost any body to give the ability to cry to, which had eliminated the need entirely.

She cannot cry, but she can hurt, and the rain that streams through her hair, dripping down her forehead spotting raindrops on her cheeks, could be tears if she pretended.

She doesn’t, though, because tears are a waste of water and overall useless in the grand scheme of things. She doubts they’d have helped her fare any better in the battle with Colossi, either.

Tears won’t bring anyone back.

Lloyd cries anyways. She can’t see him, but she can hear it in his voice, the way it wavers and breaks over the radio, nasally tones pronounced.

He’s barely able to gasp a few coordinates to her before he cuts the radio off abruptly. Pixal’s spent enough time with him to envision his scarred fingers snapping it off with a particular desperation, green sparking from his hands in distress.

She reminds herself those sparks are gone, now, bled away into nothing like the vivid green of Lloyd’s eyes had. The thought makes her sadder than she’d expected. She had a joke, about his eyes, she had wanted to make. Now that she has a body, and her own set of glowing green eyes, she’d — there was something he would’ve laughed at, she thought —

It doesn’t matter, now. Neither of them are likely to laugh anytime soon.

The coordinates blink brightly in her vision, and she’s almost surprised she managed to key them in. She’s running on autopilot, she supposes. It could be ironic — she’s been so desperate for control, it’s been so important that she’s the one feeling. Now, she’d give anything not to feel at all.

She lets out a shaky breath, dispelling the mist in her vision left from the rain. She leans forward, just over the edge of the building she’s crouched on, and her loose hair falls forward, silvery and synthetic and horribly tangled. Irritated, she reaches for another hair tie, and her hands falter around her wrist.

Lloyd had promised her a bracelet there. But he’d promised Kai would make the bracelet, hadn’t he, and Kai couldn’t make the bracelet if he was dead, could he.

Pixal blinks, her breath hitching. She’s been so numb to the pain of Zane’s loss, it hasn’t yet occurred to her that she’s losing Kai, too. And Jay, and Cole, and—

She sucks in the same shuddery kind of breath she’s seen Lloyd do, and carefully fists her hand in the area of her uniform above her chest. Her fingers dig in tightly, clutching in a hopeless attempt to feel some sort of comfort she knows she’ll never find.

But perhaps, for these few seconds, she can pretend the action is holding her together.

************

“It was inevitable,” Pixal tells Lloyd blankly, as he rasps out his third apology in the dark cover of their small hideout. “That one of us would fall, eventually. It had nothing to do with you.”

Lloyd swallows thickly. “It could’ve — it should’ve been—”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. Pixal’s hand shoots out, clamping tightly around his wrist, and there’s a beat of gratitude that she doesn’t need to rely on her voice alone anymore.

“Don’t.” Her voice is strung tighter than the tension in their shoulders. “You cannot change anything. You can’t, Lloyd, and you should not wish to — to change it that way.”

Lloyd jerks his hand free, wiping miserably at his eyes. He sets it back down within her reach, though, and if Pixal were any different, she’d take it.

But Pixal isn’t that different from Lloyd at all in the end, and neither of them reach for the other’s hand, no matter how desperately they crave the contact. Fear is more familiar, and it’s easier to give into it than it is the clawing need for comfort in your chest, after all.

“Still,” Lloyd finally whispers. “Still.”

Pixal swallows. She doesn’t disagree. If one of them had to fall, she knows she gladly would have taken it upon herself. She knows the others care for her, certainly, but she also knows her place in the grand scheme of things. They were six before she came along, and even now she’s kept far too many secrets to be fully counted among them.

She listens to Lloyd’s quiet, cracked voice, and she wonders if he’s thinking that they were five before he came along, younger than Pixal got to know him as.

Now they’re three, hollow and heartbroken. Though counting herself as one whole feels like cheating, right now.

Pixal squeezes her eyes shut, and wonders what it’s like to cry. Perhaps it helps, though Lloyd doesn’t look any less miserable.

************

“I was thinking,” Lloyd tells her, during one of the precious few quiet moments they have while trying to overthrow Garmadon and Harumi. Pixal’s turning the tiny tea flower he’d given her over in her hands, a part of her mind already marking articles about flower-pressing, another part wondering if it’s already too late to save the blossom. “About that promise we made, before all this.”

Pixal finally tucks the flower into the pocket of her uniform, pressed close to her chest. If anything, it can be a reminder of the lives that are safe — the life that’s coming back to her, if she has to drag him back from another realm herself. “And?”

Lloyd’s hands twist together. “Maybe we should focus more on staying alive.”

Pixal coughs out a laugh, breathless and startled. Lloyd wrinkles his nose at her, but his eyes are amused, even with their light lost. “I mean, the emphasis would be on keeping everyone else alive, but it’s kinda hard to do that if we’re dead, so…yeah. Priorities.”

“Staying alive should always be a priority,” Pixal corrects him, but she tugs the edge of his armor out of place with a smile.

“Why didn’t you teach me how to graffiti?” she nods at the designs on the green leather. “Or was this another Darkley’s tradition.”

“This is a refined art, called whatever I had on me that showed up on dark green,” Lloyd grumbles, fixing his armor. “I’ll teach it to you when we get out of this.”

“Another reason why staying alive would be a more productive focus,” Pixal points out. “I’ve heard teaching is easier when you’re alive.”

“And I’ve heard you’re a real riot,” Lloyd mutters. “It’s a promise, okay? I promise to teach you how to do cool armor design if you promise not to disappear into another realm on me.”

Pixal nods, adjusting her own armor tighter as screams ring out from a street nearby. “A promise, then.”

She keeps both the promise and the flower, the tiny blossom dried and faded by the time she’s escaped from the prison, heart racing with leftover adrenaline as Zane sweeps her into his arms. She clutches back every bit as tight, listening to his breathless laughter as cheers rise from the streets behind them, the smoke drifting across the early morning sky above them pale against the lightening blue. Pixal buries her face in his shoulder and breathes, tucking the moment away in her heart where it won’t fade. There’s a future stretching out before her, and she’s got the limbs to walk her path on her own, but all she wants right now is the steady ground beneath her feet and the bright laughter of what she’s managed to keep.  

Lloyd meets them shortly after, his own promise kept as he tears his gaze from his father, handing him off to the authorities before sprinting for the others. Pixal barely snags a moment alone with him, and even then no one’s particularly keen on letting him out of their sights.

He meets her eyes as they pick their way through the wrecked streets, the city more alive around them than it’s been in weeks. In the dark of the early morning, Pixal’s eyes glow a bright green, reflecting oddly in the windows they pass. It’s always been her preferred color, in contrast to Zane’s bright blue. Lloyd glances at her, his own eerily green eyes glowing back. He bites his lip, but it’s to hold back real laughter this time.

“My eyes were green first,” she tells him.

“Sue me,” he shoots back, before Kai’s throwing an arm over his shoulders again, tucking Lloyd neatly in between him and Nya. Pixal smothers a laugh at the look on his face, and tightens her own arm further where it’s linked firmly in Zane’s.  

It’s going to be an easy promise to keep, she thinks.  

[cdyssey]

Holiday

Summary: Grace and Frankie have a heart-to-heart after 7x03. | AO3 Link

—

Grace makes margaritas that night to celebrate Grankiekuh, the new holiday that she and Frankie just made up to celebrate the fact that Frankie doesn’t feel the need to make up holidays to avoid her anymore.

“You just squished our names together and threw the -kuh from Hanukkah at the end,” Grace accuses, chuckling. 

Light.

Playful.

Simply exuberant.

Just an hour ago, she was guzzling martinis on the couch with her ex-husband trying to figure out the quickest way to apologize to Frankie for a twenty-year-old mistake.

And now they’re planning a fake holiday together, and everything is somehow right in a world that also features her current husband sleeping in a jail cell.

“You have to admit—it has a certain ring to it,” Frankie hums determinedly. “We could be the new Shefani, the octogenarian Bennifer!”

“Well, don’t expect me to passionately hold your ass on a speedboat anytime soon,” Grace teases as she carefully measures tequila in a cylinder and then pours a little more than the recommended amount just to be safe.

“Nah,” her partner winks conspiratorially. “Just my hand across a candlelit table will do.”

And so they light a scented candle on the dining room table and drink incredibly boozy margaritas and eventually eat Del Tacos takeout that arrives half-an-hour late because the DoorDash driver couldn’t find the beach house. And Frankie laughs about Grace tearing the poor delivery kid a new one. And Grace quietly admires that Frankie still gives the twerp a twenty dollar tip anyway.

“At least he’s got a stronger constitution than Bugs Bunny,” Frankie snorts as she closes the door on yet another shell shocked human being who has encountered the wrath of Grace Hanson.

“That isn’t an impressively tall bar to surmount,” Grace replies, wrapping a fond arm around Frankie’s shoulders.

They talk, they eat, and then they talk some more when all that’s left at the bottom of the brown paper bag are tortilla chip crumbs. They talk a little bit about everything, really—the surprisingly pleasant weather these past few days, Bud’s apparent penis problem, Robert being useless at the dishes, and how delicious Del Tacos is. 

And between them, talking about everything is certainly not the same as talking about nothing.

Because even if they’re only talking about the weather or the dishes or the abysmal states of their children’s genitalia, it’s because they enjoy each other’s company enough to implicitly understand that it’s nice to just sit together at the end of a long, hard day and hear each other’s voices.

Because the little things are nice sometimes.

The day-to-day minutiae and routine of living with another person.

Sharing space with them.

Being present.

Being kind.

And in experiencing another’s unadulterated kindness, becoming whole.

When Grace gets salsa on the corner of her pink mouth, Frankie reaches over and thumbs it off with a kind of casual intimacy that was hard won between them, fought for and so lovingly, so painstakingly earned. 

They love each other.

They’ve surpassed the point where they constantly have to say it aloud.

I love you, Frankie says when she takes extra care to clean the dishes just the way that Grace prefers—something Robert Hanson never quite learned after forty goddamn years of marriage.

And I love you, Grace replies when she unthinkingly puts Frankie’s phone on charge because she realizes it’s on four percent, and her friend can’t fall asleep until she’s listened to meditative whale noises on YouTube for an hour.

And I love you, Frankie doesn’t say when she extends her palm to Grace and tells her that they should stargaze tonight because “Saturn’s vibin’ in the sky.”

And I love you, Grace replies when she threads their fingers together so snugly that their rings clink and replies—without sarcasm, without judgment, without weight, “Sure.”

And I love you, they tell each other as they slowly stagger their way out onto the deck, Grace assuming the right cushion and Frankie taking the left, arm in arm until the very last moment when it makes more sense for them to let go, to find their own equilibrium as the sea breeze sweeps gentle fingers through their hair.

The sky is star-freckled tonight, blushing purple and inky blue.

In the natural silence that follows, however, the moon and the stars and the supposedly vibin’ planets don’t particularly captivate Grace’s attention for very long, so she finds herself staring at Frankie, who’s staring off into space, her tall features bathed in amber porch light.

Something has shifted in her expression in the few elapsed moments since they’ve been outside, her thin brow furrowed, a frown threatening to tug at her lips where there had once been an easy smile. Her slender hands are clasped below her chin in a gesture that Grace has come to associate with introspective thoughtfulness, tinged with a kind of subtle melancholy that Frankie has always maintained that she detests and tries to consciously avoid. 

“Frankie… are you—?

“We only fought for two hours this time,” Frankie interrupts softly, nodding towards the outdoor dining table where the Hanson-Bergsteins had yet another disastrous brunch together. (At least no one broke a bone or got hit with a wiffle bat this time.) “Ha, that’s a new record if I’ve ever heard of one!"

But the joke doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Grace’s heart sinks somewhere beneath her ribcage. It throbs in her uncomfortably full stomach. She had naively assumed that three margaritas in a piece, the two of them could just skip the part where they rehash the day’s events and openly reflect upon them—but she should have known.

These emotional reckonings are Frankie’s chosen form of healing.

She’s always processed better aloud.

“Fighting with you is the most uninspired pastime I can think of doing these days,” Grace tells her truthfully. “I’d rather resolve our conflicts in five minutes than five hours, so we can catch Jeopardy! together without sitting on the couch in passive aggressive silence… I think we’ve reached a point in our friendship where we can do that… yeah?”

The question comes out a little more vulnerably than she would have liked.

Open-ended and hesitant, it requests an equally honest answer.

And while she knows that Frankie has no qualms about being emotionally honest, Grace also innately understands that she has chronically shied away from honesty about all matters pertaining to herself. 

(When she initially told Nick that she wanted to redefine their relationship, she couldn’t have even told herself what the hell she meant either. She supposes she wants to have her cake and eat it, too—to be in a relationship with Nick and go home to Frankie. But maybe that means she doesn’t really love Nick, that she’s just using him for the ample entertainment he provides: the romance, the easy companionship, the sex. And maybe, at the heart of that unsettling hypothesis, she’s just as much of a stone cold bitch as everyone around her seems to think. Her husband is in jail, and she doesn’t lose any sleep about it. In fact, in her queen-sized bed in the beach house she shares with Frankie, she’s slept better than she has in all the many elapsed and miserable weeks since she said, “I do.”)

“Of course!” Frankie exclaims, her brows arching in surprise. “You say tom-ay-to, I say tom-ah-to, and then we kiss and passionately makeup. That’s exactly where we are nowadays.”

“Then why do you still look like a kicked puppy?” Grace asks shrewdly, folding her arms across her chest. “Or like Sol after his supposedly well-trained dog shit in his Birkenstocks.”

“Does being marginally tipsy on tequila count as an acceptable answer?”

“Nope.”

“Fine then and damn,” Frankie sighs, waving a defeated hand around the empty air. “But don’t hold it to me if I’m not making sense, Grace. I’m thinking rabbit trails tonight. And not, like, rabbit trails of criminally-tampered-with poop, but circles and other weird thoughts that don’t seem to be heading anywhere.”

“Hey, I'm not going anywhere—I’ve got all the time in the world to listen,” Grace replies easily, and this is love, too, without ever uttering the word.

Twenty years ago, she did everything short of making up a holiday to not spend a single moment alone in a room with Frankie Bergstein.

And now, she's done everything short of divorcing her husband to ensure that they're never apart.

Frankie's eyes briefly widen in pleasant surprise at this seemingly unexpected gesture, her parenthetically enclosed mouth curving into a gentle smile—tender and sweet.

Lord, she’s beautiful, Grace thinks to herself as Frankie mulls on her next words.

She thinks this at least twice a day and chalks it up to passive jealousy that someone can look so radiant without ever really trying, by just simply being herself.

“Mm, okay... so I was just thinking about how my thing might actually be worse than yours… and you killed my son’s beloved rabbit,” Frankie says bluntly.

And so clearly!

Like she already fully believes it.

Grace blinks rapidly, not entirely computing what she just heard.

“How the hell did you come up with that conclusion?” She asks, nonplussed. “Like you said, I killed your kid’s rabbit and lied about it for some twenty-odd years. You and Sol just played an elaborate game of hooky.”

Frankie looks torn on whether to laugh or shake her head in clear exasperation of Grace not getting it.

“But the ethical jury in the sky isn’t in on me creating a religious holiday just to avoid you,” she protests with a half-smile. “Or even worse, admitting that’s the reason after all these years. I hurt you, Grace, and I don’t wanna hand wave that away just so we can watch Jeopardy! in peace. I want to check in with you and make sure you’re really okay.”

Even after many years of slowly but surely becoming acquainted with Frankie’s uncanny sensitivity to her emotions, somehow, it’s always still a pure shock when Grace is met with the unadulterated and unconditional extent anyway. She’s still unlearning Robert’s idea of emotional care, which largely involved having a stockpile of generic gifts to placate her various moods and whims.

And frankly, she’s not the most empathetic woman of the year herself.

I hurt you, Frankie said candidly and made no attempt to defend herself, to excuse her actions.

I hurt you, she declared, and it was an I love you at the exact same time.

Grace can hardly swallow, her throat a hundred emotions thick. 

“Hey now,” she eventually rasps, “don’t go all revisionist on me now. I was so fucking mean to you. We don’t play wiffle ball anymore at waffle-and-wiffle brunches because I hit you with a bat.”

“You told me there was a bee in my hair,” Frankie rubs the back of her head wistfully. 

“There totally was,” she grins painfully, “but the bat was a highly unnecessary measure.”

“Grace!” Frankie groans. “Don’t get me sidetracked. I’m trying to be real with you here—I wasn’t a saint by any stretch of the imagination! I could be shitty to you, too.”

But Grace firmly shakes her head at this, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her rebuttal already locked, loaded, and innately known to be true.

“Not as often as I was to you, and rarely did you instigate because I’d already started it,” she insists, venom in her voice, raw and undeniable self-loathing. “If I’d been you dealing with me… God, maybe I’d have needed to make up a holiday, too…”

And even as she says it, the uneasiness in her stomach suddenly solidifies into sharp clarity and even crueler pain as she realizes what’s really been bothering her these past few days—a burgeoning feeling that she’s every bit as “harsh” and “vindictive” as Robert told the FBI lady she could be, even though she’s sworn she’s changed, even though she's wanted to be better.

God knows she's tried to be.

Because of Frankie.

Or maybe even for her.

The two reasons are interchangeable in her mind.

“I… I wasn’t like you, Frankie,” she eventually continues, glancing away so she doesn’t have to face the other’s expression—fearing confirmation of all her awful feelings, monstrously craving pity she’s sure she doesn't deserves. “Hell, I’m still not like you. The fact that my ideal marriage includes my husband being in jail more or less proves that.”

Grace Hanson doesn’t tip confused delivery boys thirty-percent after botched deliveries.

She doesn’t make up fantastical stories about magically disappearing bunnies for her kids so they believe in themselves.

She rarely apologizes for her mistakes.

And she makes a hell of a lot of mistakes.

“Robert called me harsh and often vindictive,” she chuckles humorlessly. “Well, I guess he’s got my number almost better than anyone.”

The ensuing silence following this proclamation stretches long and thin, like a tightrope strung precariously taut, and Grace is about to cave in to the temptation of looking at Frankie again when all of a sudden—

“Bullshit!” Frankie exclaims ferociously. “That’s a whole lot of bullshit, Grace Hanson.”

“Frankie, don’t defend—“

But she quickly reaches over and tightly curls her palm over Grace’s spiny knuckles, demanding her attention and getting it.

In so many years and throughout the span of them, she has been the only one to ever truly earn it.

Grace turns her head and finds Frankie’s oceanic eyes inches away from her face, storm-like in their intensity, piercing all over.

“Robert doesn’t get to use the present tense with you because he doesn’t live with you anymore,” Frankie insists when she knows she has Grace, when Grace can no more look away than a rabbit can actually disappear in a hat. “He doesn’t get to see you the way I do. And let's be honest here, I'm not sure he ever really has."

“And how do you see me?” Grace can barely breathe, only dimly aware that this is yet another needy question, one that can only engender a frighteningly vulnerable response.

Her heartbeat quickens.

She feels the exact striation of Frankie’s finger that is resting on the quarter of a million dollar wedding ring Nick bought for her in Vegas.

In the semi-lit darkness, Frankie’s sharply hewn cheeks feather themselves sunset pink. 

Grace blindly assumes it’s the humidity.

“As someone worth discovering,” she murmurs, “and by discovering, understanding that you’re a pretty darn amazing person to love beneath all those expertly erected walls.”

Frankie leans forward then and presses a chaste kiss on Grace’s head, quick and habitual, like she’s done it a hundred times before. Her floral perfume wreathes her like a warm embrace. Beneath the perfume, she smells like acrylic paint and sea breeze and strange but rich incense—complex and earthy and full of so many vibrant notes.

Heat rises to Grace’s face.

This must be the humidity, too.

“Some people don’t get that,” Frankie continues, moving back to her own cushion again, “and that’s their loss. They’ve never had to carve a pretty statue outta stone before, have never had to work on a relationship with you over time.” 

“So what you’re saying is that it takes work to love me, huh?” Grace raises a teasing eyebrow, even though she's not exactly sure that this is the appropriate time and place to make a joke. But the alternative to lightly joking is to internalize the words that Frankie just said, to truly contemplate what it means that there's at least one person in this world who'll wait for her—despite her many walls and damn them.

“It takes work to ever love anybody, really,” Frankie shrugs easily. 

It’s an unsurprisingly sage take—Frankie’s always been good at emotions and relationships and all of the other important and dauntingly human stuff—but it’s also one that gets Grace to thinking about Nick again, about his kindness and his persistence and about his dedication to wanting to make things to work.

She’s beginning to get an inkling of what it might mean that she doesn’t want to meet him halfway, kind and persistent and dedicated though the man might be.

That if she had to choose again between husband and home, there would be no contest.

There would be no hesitation.

So perhaps there are two people in the world who would wait for her, but of those two, Grace knows there's only one whom she would invite to stay.

“Happy Grankiekuh, Frankie,” Grace says, leaning her head against her best friend’s shoulder. “I like discovering you, too.”

“Well, you should! I’m a fucking delight.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Ha, never.”

But in the end, Frankie intertwines their hands together, and the silence of this action is its own unmistakable and resonant reply.

I love you.

Grace Hanson is loved.

[lexibugsblog]

Making Friends

Just one more scene that has been buzzing around my head since i first watched this and just finally got sat down to write it, hope you enjoy!

After the death of you father, you are forced to move to a new school where you befriend a girl named Lenora and finally meet her brother Arvin.

As I walked out of the double doors of the school I saw Arvin sitting in the same parking spot he always did, waiting for Lenora. Lenora had been about the only friend i had made since i moved here a couple months ago. She would always go on about what an amazing brother Arvin was, but i'd never actually met him. Deciding to take a step out of my comfort zone I walked over to the car, smoke coming from the drivers side window. I see him narrow his eyes at me, putting out his cigarette as I approach. He says nothing as I lean in the passenger side window, so I do, “Hi, I'm Y/N.” 

“You need somthin’” he was a bit more blunt then I had expected, Lenora always talked about his sweet demeanor. Granted i had called that into question when i heard about what he had done to Gene Dinwitty and a couple other of his friends. 

“I’m a friend of Lenora’s,” and like that his steely vale lifts.

“Oh, you’re Y/N? Yeah, she mentioned you a few times.”

“Well anyways,” I push my hair behind my ear, “I just wanted to say hi, she talks so much about you. I figured I should meet the legend himself,” I smile. He scoffs ready to deny what i had just said but before he can Lenora walks up.

“Y/N! You two finally met!” she beams.

“Yeah, I was just about to head out, It looks like it's supposed to storm soon and i've got a long walk home.” I explain, but Lenora waves her hands in the air as is shooing away the notion, “Nonsense, Arvin can drive you.” she says throwing her bag in the backseat

“I couldn't impose.”

“You're not! Arvin doesn't mind do you Arvin?” Lenora nods at her brother.

“You really don’t-” I start

“I’d love too,” he smiles back at me, he seemed genuine in his response, “I just have to drop her off someplace first if that's okay?”

“Of course.” I thank him, pulling open the door and sliding in beside him. The drive was quick and mostly quiet aside from Lenora interrupting the silence every once in a while talking about her day and how'd she'd done on exams. As we pulled into the cemetery I noticed Arvin glance over at me to gauge my reaction. I didn’t have much of one, people at school made sure to fill me in on everything about Lenora and Arvin once they noticed I had started talking to her, maybe hoping I'd steer clear of them. 

“Drive safe,” she bids a farewell to Arvin and I as she tucks her chin into her chest, books clutched to her chest as she exits the car. I felt bad for her, not because of all that she had lost but because she felt that she needed to be ashamed of it. “Do you need to go home right now?” Arvin inquiries, I was a bit surprised at this question but nonetheless I answered honestly, “No. They think I'm walking so I've got awhile.”

“Can I take you some place?”

“Sure.” I agree as Arvin pulls out the cemetery drive. Arvin turned on some back roads, leading us further into the woods. With any other man I'd probably be a little nervous about how this would end, but Arvin made me feel oddly comfortable and safe. We park the car at an overlook of the town. 

“Thanks for looking out for her,” To my surprise Arvin breaks the silence, I raise an eyebrow at him, prompting him to elaborate. He sighs, finally taking his hat off, running his hand through his hair,” She tells me the things you do for her in school. How you stand up for her and all. I just want to say thank you.”

“Well, thank you, but I will say after what you did to Dinwitty, you have made my job a little easier.” He laughs nervously.

“My uncle thinks I could have gone a bit easier on them.”

“It got the message across didn't it,” we both laugh, “No, with people like that, they only learn if you take things that far.” I add once the laughter dies down.

“How do you know that?” he looks over at me, concerned.

“I wasn't super popular at my old school either, so what Lenora is going through, I've been through, in a way anyways.” 

“Lenora said you went to an all girls school.”

“Yeah, trust me girls can be just as bad as boys.” I assure him, I finally look up at him and a mix of pity and guilt fills his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“Lenora's lucky she has you. The way you two came together is terrible, but I think you both do a lot of good for each other.”

“Ahh, so you heard about that.”

“Yeah people wasted no time filling me in.” The silence settles over us again, I couldn't imagine what it was like, a stranger knowing your story without you telling them. “Can i ask you something personal?” 

“Yeah,” he shifts in his seat, turning his body slightly towards me. “Lenora finds so much comfort in God, for her mother. Have you ever found your way back?”

“No,” he answers quicker than expected

“Is it bad that that actually makes me feel like less of a terrible person?” I chuckle nervously, he looks at me, his head tilted, “After my dad died, everyone kept telling me to pray and that god would help me through these through times.” I reiterate “But I couldn't bring myself to worship the same god that took him from me, but everyone else did, still do... sometimes i wonder if i'm a bad person for it.” I fiddle with my fingers in my lap, until I feel Arvin place a hand over mine, I look up at him. “I don't think we're bad people, I think people just find comfort in other things. For Lenora it was God but for me it was my family, or what family I had left, but i don't think that makes me a bad person, do you?”  I shake my head, his eyes piercing mine, just then it starts pouring down raining. Pulling us out of whatever that was, he clears his throat, 

“Right, I should probably be getting you home.” He puts the car in reverse but I stop him, putting my hand over his, I can feel him tense up so I take my hand away. “I just- um- I don't like driving in the rain, that’s- that’s how my dad died. I’m sure that sounds stupid, but-.” I begin to apologize but I stop when he puts the car back in park and relaxes into his seat once more, arms behind his head,” Its not stupid, plus, I don’t like driving in the rain anyways.” I didn't entirely believe him, but I appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. 

“I always liked the rain before,” I state, Arvin opens his eyes once more, “It brought me comfort, but now...” without saying a word, Arvin turns up the knob on the radio before opening the car door. I look at him confused as he walks around to my door, opening it for me, holding out his hand for me to take. Unsure,  I take it, stepping out, the cold rain pelting against my skin causing goosebumps to rack my body. 

Arvin placed his hand on my back, my arms on his shoulder, and our free hands finally met. Together, we danced to the music, our feet in perfect sync to the beating of my heart. As the song progressed I felt relaxed, and allowed a small smile to form on my lips. He slowly dips me, a loud laugh erupts from my lungs as he pulls me back up. He really was handsome, I thought to myself as he smiles down at me, rain dripping off his nose. Our lips nearly bush together and we both freeze, we had just met, but we both knew so much about each other, he didn't feel like a stranger. I lift my head up slightly pressing our lips together, to my surprise he kisses me back, his lips felt so soft and warm compared to the rain. As we both pull back, a small smile playing on both our lips, I couldn't quite look him in his sweet puppy dog eyes, so I simply rested my head against his shoulder, as his nuzzles in the crook of my neck. I knew it wouldn't last, but I couldn't ever repay Arvin for the amount of comfort and content I had found in the rain at that moment because of him.

“Thank you,” I mutter as we continue to sway along to the music in the rain.

[akvtsuki-ari]

Be Mean

Warnings: smut, femdom, degradation, sub!spencer, mild masochism, choking, generally mean shit lol 

Length: 5.3k (ik) 

Authors Note: uhh happy valentines day! not the fic anyone was expecting today and extremely self indulgent but valentines day is about self love too right? lmfao anyways, hope yall enjoy

Summary: Spencer was just a little too into the way you cuss people out and it was starting to weigh on him. You’re more than happy to help him out. 

Words were falling from your lips with grace. Your back was straight as you leaned into the table - the unsub just inches away. He was a narcissist, and his hatred for strong women became increasingly clear the moment you stepped into the room. He wanted to prove he was smarter, tougher, and better than you - but the challenge you reproached him with left his knuckles white. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, and that same grace - analyzing and cold, never seemed to escape you. 

It didn’t take long for the arrest to fall through - his confession leaving him as he tried to express his pathetic anger towards you. He called you names but nothing creative, not as smart as he seemed to be but you couldn’t help but laugh at him. Soon after he delves into explaining his own genius and the pieces continued to fall together - it was a good case and luckily he didn’t get far after his first 3 victims. Not something that the BAU gets lucky with very often, you think. 

Spencer watched you in the interrogation - eyes fading over your body language carefully. You were unnervingly confident - always were no matter whether it was a killer or not. He took notice of many little things that seemed to make the details of your existence culminate further in his mind. You licked the inside of your lip when you were getting close to breaking the unsub, and your eyes would get a little lower when he started to speak. You rolled your shoulders when you watched him get escorted and that warm, sweet version of you returned to you with no trouble at all. 

It was easy for people to call you BAU’s resident sweetheart. You were charming, witty, and intelligent but also kind. When the team needed someone who people can trust, you were always up there on the list. Your skills of diffusion were particularly helpful, you worked homeland security for a long while and it showed. Your capabilities to ease a tense moment as well as interrogate a criminal in a provocative way has proved helpful time and time again - but who you were was always up in the air. It was a valuable trait to be mysterious in that sense. 

On one hand, Spencer really did like plain Y/N more than anything. You were always particularly kind to Spencer - you remembered his birthday and always texted him right at 12 beating the entire BAU, even Garcia. You brought him soup and cold medicine when he was sick because you were close by and he needed some company. You helped him babysit JJ’s kids because you could and you were fond of them. You were never too impatient and you let him work in silence rather than making commentary about his process. You just got him, and it all seemed to come naturally though you knew things someone could only figure out through careful observation. 

Y/N the Agent was different, though. Still you, when she needed to be. Any cases involving young children, or innocent people in general really showed the other side of you. But you had this moment in every case, where your hyperfocus became so sinister everyone in the department could feel it. They were different sides of the same coin, your traits manifesting themselves in different ways but Spencer had a very particular notice of it. For one, it fascinated him a lot. How could anyone not be fascinated by that? 

Of course though, that wasn’t the only reason but the other half of this whole spiel was a lot more embarrassing but - 

Spencer got unbelievably turned on when he watched you interrogate criminals and - listen he knows okay? He really understands how absolutely not good that is but the memory is so burned into his brain he can’t help but think about it every time it comes up. 

The team was in Arizona working on ritualistic killings from a small tribe, native to the area. You and Reid had been assigned to talk to important community members and there was a head elder dude there who was particularly scummy - though not the unsub. He was too cocky to pull off such elaborate and patient murders so he was ruled out early but he was hiding something and you needed to know what it was. When interrogations went on, you confronted the man about his use of testosterone injections - something forbidden in the community since they believed modern medicine was extremely harmful, part of the killers M.O. 

The conversation between the two of you was short-lived but memorable, to say the least. 

“What happened, elder? Were the village girls not working for you anymore so you sicked your friend on them cause you couldn’t get it up? Was it worth it?,” your voice was thick with distaste and the elder lost his shit. He ended up confessing that he had a strong hunch but he’d only tell if they kept his secret and the lead was correct. 

Spencer's mind hasn’t been able to let go of that moment and every single time a case comes up where you have to confront someone he finds himself having to relieve himself in a bathroom stall or strain himself to get it to just go away. It was killing him really. He had a crush on you sure, always has but his body reacting like he was a 16-year-old boy every time you spoke was not going to cut it but he didn’t know what to do either. 

He finds himself in that same position now, on the plane ride home with the thought of you and your demeanor keeping him from focusing. You were asleep across from him, wearing comfortable clothes that slid just over your shoulders. He couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered on his skin and he tried his absolute best to ignore and go to sleep.

_

When Spencer Reid arrived home, he was pleasantly surprised to see messages from you, asking to hangout in his apartment while your kitchen gets renovated. There was no way in hell he was gonna say no to that, so he tidied his things up and ordered thai food while he waited for your arrival. 

It didn’t take long for you to show, wearing black joggers and a tight tanktop that Spencer has never seen you in before. It looked good on you, accentuating the strength in your shoulders in back. He knew you were decently fit but this was surprising, even for him. You smiled wide as you stepped through the door, giving Spencer a tight hug. He can feel your boobs pressed up against his chest and he wants to kick himself for the shiver that runs off his spine as if he were a teenager again. 

“Hey, Spence. Thanks again for letting me come over today, hope I’m not intruding,” you say softly, as you settle down on Spencer's couch, phone in hand. He nods, smiling. 

“It’s no problem. The food should be here in a minute but do you want a glass of water or anything in the meantime? I also have some lemonade, if you want that,” Spencer offers. You readjust and Spencer watches the way your muscles tense. He shouldn’t be noticing something like that yet here he is. 

“Lemonade sounds great, thanks Spence,” you say, laying into the couch as you scroll through your phone. Spencer excuses himself to the kitchen, grabbing glasses from his cupboard and filling them up with lemonade before returning to you. He places the glasses on the table in front of you, before the sound of the doorbell alerts him. 

You get up, retying your hair as the smell of Thai food hits you. You let out an involuntary moan but Spencer just laughs. The food is set up in front of you, but its far too hot for either of you to eat so the both of you sip on your lemonade and chat instead. 

“Everytime we get a few days off, the paranoia of a case hits the ground running,” you complain, gently. Spencer laughs, nodding his head. 

“Oh definitely. I can’t imagine what it’s like not thinking about it all the time, though,” he explains. You nod your head in agreement. 

“Yeah, but time off is still time off so the plan is to spend the weekend alone with a glass of wine and some romantic films and relax,” you explain, sighing. Spencer looks at you curiously. 

“Didn’t take you for the romance type,” he states curiously. You sigh again, looking at him.

“I’m not for the most part, it kinda serves a different purpose for me than most women I’d argue,” you reply to him. Spencers intrigued by your comment and sits up a bit. 

“How so?,” he poses carefully. You place your lemonade down on the coffee table and scratch the back of your neck.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like being wined-and-dined like any woman. Romance itself is nice, love is wonderful - but the way I wanna be romanced isn’t exactly traditional,” your voice is airy when you speak, laughing at yourself but the revelation maes Spencers weak.

“Traditional?,” he manages to squeak out. You notice his shift in behavior, and you slow down for a moment. 

“We don’t have to talk about that kinda stuff, Spence. It’s more of a girls night thing I’d talk about with Garcia and JJ - though they already know about most of it,” you say lightly. Spencer chokes a bit as you continue to reveal details. 

“No, it's not that. I’m… interested?,” he says nervously, chewing the inside of his lip. You tilt your head, surprised by his curiosity. 

“Didn’t take you for a freak, pretty boy,” you comment, giggling. Spencer's face turns hot, but you reassure him you’re only kidding. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t really care for the whole subservient role, especially not in bed. I enjoy seeing someone do what I say, and having things go my way. I’ve always been like that, figured that out with my first highschool boyfriend, hah,” you say, sipping your lemonade. 

Spencer swallows at the realization that you’re probably experienced, very experienced in that department. He shifts in his set again and your eyes settle on him for a moment, neither of you making eye contact but rather observing each other

“I don’t know how to explain it all that well, but I like it when I can be just a little mean, you know,” you say, smiling. Your tone is joking but your words have weight to them. Spencer's throat is closing up as you speak but he smiles back at you fondly. You take notice but hold yourself back. 

“You sure you’re okay, Spencer?,” your voice is different this time. Knowing. Spencer's eyes flutter over to you and he’s aware rather suddenly of your being. The way your chest rises and falls as you speak, the smoothness of your lips around the glass, the way your hair falls over your face. He nods as you observe him. Your lips twitch up into a smile. 

“Spencer, could it be resident boy genius is a sub?,” you say incredulous. Spencers whole face flushes and you find your clit up at attention at the non-verbal confession. 

While he may be oblivious to it, you had a rather massive crush on Spencer. Something about his intelligence was remarkably sexy to you and knowing he was also a good person didn’t make the feelings any easier. Who could blame you for having a crush on Spencer, anway? Most people did - it was part of the reason you never told him. Based on his personality and dating history - it didn’t really seem like you were his type. You weren’t massively intelligent or particularly unique (at least you didn’t think so) so you couldn’t imagine Spencer having a crush on you. You were great, but you didn’t think you were Spencers type, thats all. 

However, that didn’t stop you from thinking about him - really the opposite. Every waking moment you’d catch him doing something absentmindedly you cute - your brain begged to see him fucked out and sleepy. He’d ramble about something for so many minutes and all you wanted to do was sit on his face and shut him up (and then let him continue because he was honest to god so cute like that)

The point was that Spencer really did something to you. You had countless lingering thoughts about him but to know that this was actually something he was into made your head spin. You couldn’t hold your expression back and maybe it was your own masochism that made you want to know more but god did you want to know more.

“How long have you known about yourself, Spence?” you interrogate. Spencer swallows and prays to every deity his mind can manage as he looks at you pleadingly but you can’t recognize what the pleading is really for. 

“How long have you been on the team?,” Spencer speaks before he can really understand the weight of his words, and the second he says the whole room stops. You look at him with delighted surprise and he shuts his eyes at contempt for his own existence. 

“No fucking way,” you can’t help the little inhale you do at the realization. Pure excitement just emanating from your being like nobody's business. You were genuinely going to lose your mind at this revelation. Spencer Reid discovered that hes a sub because of you? Were you dreaming?

If this wasn’t Spencer's apartment he would’ve run away. He just had to look at you instead and face the fact he just revealed his own sins. Your laugh at Spencer revelation made the little nagging voice in Spencers head just a little louder and that meant that - 

“You’re really into whatever you’ve been thinking of huh?,” you say, eyeing the hard-on in his pants casually. Spencer looks down and places a pillow on his lap, wishing to throw his entire existence into a fire and to never ever look back. 

“Shit,” he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s at total wits end with himself and is forced to deal with the repercussions of his horniness. 

On the other hand there was you, eyes full of delight as your mind raced with all the thoughts of what Spencer could be thinking about. Anything was good really, any level of him giving up his control to you was good. It all worked for you but whatever he’d been thinking about specifically had you itching to know. 

“What could it be? I mean - seriously, I have to know what has the beloved Doctor this flustered. You have to tell me,” you say smiling. Spencer just shakes his head. 

“Aww c'mon, do you want me to start guessing?,” you joke. Spencer looks at you that time and you realize that might be key. You look at him in surprise. 

“Okay, well let’s think. It started when we worked together which means it was probably when we were in the field,” you start profiling Spencer, which on one hand he’s not a fan of but on another he’s a little turned on by. 

You chew on your lip as you think for a minute. 

“The work I do on the field sorta depends, but mostly I diffuse situations,” you say softly, really to only yourself. “But also, I do a lot of interrogations, and with the way you reacted to that whole being mean thing, I’m gonna go ahead and place my bets on that,” you conclude. You look to Spencer for approval and his eyes are hazy as he nods a yes. 

You place your glass on the table, and move in front of Spencer. Normally your height isn’t all too important to him but right now your being towers over him and all he can do is look up at you. You wish you had the patience to do a little bit more teasing but you couldn’t hold back too much. Your knee is between his legs as you bend it and lean over him. Your fingers brush his hair back for a moment as you use your knuckle to pull his face up. He wants to refuse but he can’t so he lets you - looking at you tenderly. He’s cute like this. 

“Spence, you know I actually like you right?,” 

“No,” 

You laugh lazily. Your hands on the side of his face, brushing your thumb along his cheek as you look at him adoringly. 

“I like you a whole lot, probably a lot more than like - actually. So whatever we do after this - if you want to do something anyways, it’s because I actually like you,” you say softly. Spencer nods, blush staining his cheeks. 

“I - uh, like you too,” he says warmly. You chew your lip. 

“Can I kiss you, Spencer?,” the way you ask makes Spencer's heart melt. This was you, all at once. No sides of any coins, still kind and warm and thoughtful, but still mean and intimidating in the way Spencer likes. He wants to scream yes, but he nods instead. 

You brush your lips over his for a second, smiling as he moves forwards to gain some contact. You don’t hesitate to kiss him forreal that time, lips pressed to his as your hand lays at the base of his necks, fingers pressing into his throat as he sighs. Your lips are warm, your touch is soft and Spencer could cry with how gentle you treat him. You pull away and brush your nose against his. 

“For someone who kisses like that, I’m surprised you’re so into the idea of being degraded,” you chuckle. Spencer coughs and just looks at you shyly. 

“Yeah, I really am,” his voice is hoarse.

You straddle yourself in Spencers lap and move the pillow. All the sudden contact makes his skin flush and he looks at you needy. Your pants are loose but your tank top is tight, and he finds his eyes looking at your chest before he can think about it. You roll your eyes at him, leaning into his neck to press a kiss on it. He whimpers and you smile - he really is desperate.

“Perv,” you murmur to him.He laughs. 

“Can’t say you’re wrong,” 

“Before we go any further, I wanna give you a safe word. I wouldn’t normally be doing something like this the first time for the purposes of semantics but I want you too badly to wait that long. I want to make sure it doesn’t get to be too much for you, in a bad way at least,” you say softly. Spencer looks at you and kisses you, and you laugh. 

“We can do Red for Stop, Yellow for Slow Down, and Green for Go,” you explain warmly. He nods. 

“Okay,” he says it back to you as he buries his face in your neck. You pet his hair and place a kiss on his head. 

“Tell me what you want, angel,” you say first. Your voice is smooth like silk, the word angel rings out in his mind. It’s too pretty for what he wants you to do and maybe that's why he likes it so much. The juxtaposition to be something so pretty when all he wants you to do is ruin him. 

He wants so much all at once he has trouble verbalizing any of it. It’d come out so incoherent even if he tried but he wants it, whatever the case may be. He feels your hands on his chest while you stare him down. He makes eye-contact and when he tries to look down again your hands force his chin up. 

“Gotta look at me when you say it, baby. Otherwise, I won’t know who you’re talking too,” you say thoughtfully. Fuck - thats hot. Spencer swallows and nods, looking into your eyes as his mind racks itself with possibilities. 

“Wanna fuck you,” he can’t believe how it sounds. He has so much more that he wants - he wants to fuck you while you absolutely take away his ability to cum. He wants to hear your voice when you talk down to him about it - about how hard he is when you get like this, and about how dirty he must really be. He wants to hear you threaten him with the possibility of being blue-balled hanging over his head. He wants you to be so fucking mean to him because he knows it doesn’t matter - he knows all the choice is yours and he really does love to please you and he knows he’s quite the masochist for it. He doesn’t care. 

“I think you wanna do a little bit more than fuck me, Spence,” you giggle. Your eyes turn a shade darker as your hand moves to his throat. His hands are planted to his sides as your grip tightens around his neck - voice cold as you whisper into his ear. 

“I think you want me to fuck you instead, yeah? Watch your teeth sink into your lips while I sit on your dick and make fun of you for how easy you twitch when I move. You’re so easy, Spencer,” the words leave your mouth and spill like wine. The words stain his whole mind with lust - absolutely aching to hear more. Fuck did he want that. 

“Take your shirt off,” you don’t ask. He does so without warning and his eyes beg you do the same. 

“I’ll take mine off when you’ve earned it, unzip your pants,” you reply nonchalant. He holds back a whimper and does so, his cock stiff against his boxer-briefs. You stand up and slide your pants off and your wearing boy-shorts, making Spencer sigh. 

He looks up at you pleadingly, and you smile at him. You walk up to him again and smile, as he looks up at you. You let him lay his head on your stomach as he looks at you, your fingers tucked into his curls. 

You tug them as you force him to look up at you. He groans from his throat as your other hand is placed on the side of his face. His eyes are weary as he looks at you. Your hands threaten to place a hit on him. 

“You should get all that begging under control before there's a handmark on that pretty face of yours love,” you say softly. He looks at you with challenge.

“I don’t think I can, miss,” he says softly. You want to kiss him but you refrain. 

“Color?,”

“Green” 

You lift your hand and place a firm hit on Spencer's cheek. He relishes in the pain, the demand your fingers have in them. You command respect and he knew it deep in him. He groans at the feeling.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” your commentary is sly like Spencer likes it. It’s mean in a witty way, not degrading just to do it. It fits perfect with your demeanor and Spencer adores it. 

You grab a stool from near one of Spencer bookshelves and place it between his legs. You’ve picked up tie from the ground while you sit yourself in front of him

“Stand up and turn around, and put your hands together behind your back,” you say, voice laced with faux boredom. Spencer does as told as you tie his hands together. You stare at him like that, taking note at his figure. He’s slim and it’s cute to you. 

You pull his boxers down and spit into your hand, reaching around to wrap your hands around his cock. He hisses at the feeling, finding his hips rutting into them. He was so desperate for it. 

“There's so much to do with you, I don’t even know where to start,” you sigh. Spencers mind races as your hand moves across him, wrapping around his length tight and letting your thumb run over his slit - just so you could feel how it twitched. 

“I could make you cum like this, facing away from me - too focused on being degraded to care. You’d still get off on that wouldn’t you, angel?,” you say warmly. You stand up and place your hands under his chin. He looks down at it. 

“Spit,” 

He does as told. You drip it across his length and he shivers as you take him back into your pals, fingers curled tightly around his base while your other hand plays with his nipples. Your thumbs flick across them carefully and he whimpers, knees nearly folding at the sensation of pleasure. 

“You don’t seem like one for visuals but maybe it’d be more fun for me if I fucked myself in front you with your hands behind your back. All of what would be on your dick, slick on my fingers instead. If I were nice, I’d let you taste me,” you muse. Spencer throws his head back at your words. 

“Or maybe that type of torture isn’t your cup of tea. What’d you prefer Spencer? You cum so many times you nearly pass out from all the pleasure? At the end of all that, you’d have been so ruined that you’d have nothing to show for it when you came. Your whole body aching pleasure but with nothing left to give,” your thoughts come to you in phases but to Spencer the sound like holy scripture. Dry orgasms sound painful but Spencer was certainly intrigued. 

“I wonder if you’d cry for me, baby. When your dick gets all red and sensitive and it hurts, would I have to wipe the tears off your pretty face? Sounds nice,” your voice is light and makes Spencer want to smile. He didn’t take you for that much of a sadist but he finds himself pleasantly surprised by the revelation

Your grip on his shaft tightens rather suddenly and Spencer whimpers. His voice is shaky, bare chest rising and falling at the feeling of your hands gripped around him. 

“Fuck, please,” Spencer begs you to ease up but he doesn’t really want you too. You sigh, placing a kiss on his back. 

“Please, what? You want me to stop?,” you ask, knowing damn well that it was the opposite. He shakes his head. 

“Please let me fuck you, please,” the need in Spencer's voice was rather nice. You pull your hand off and tell Spencer to lay down on the couch. He does so without question but aches with how much he misses your touch. He moved against his restraints to try and get some friction but no luck.

He watches you as you pull down your underwear, giving him a view to how wet you are. A slick spot just sitting between your thighs, pretty as can be. Spencer's throat is dry, the urge to touch you sending his mind into agony. 

“You talk too much,” your actions speak louder than words as you position yourself over Spencer's face. His neck cranes up to get a taste of you, tongue flatly along your slit trying to get some friction. You groan at the feeling, as Spencer laps at you. Flicking his tongue back and forth along your clit, curling around before sucking it into his mouth for a few seconds at a time. 

“Jesus, Spencer,” you moan out to him, finger gripping in his hair. He wished he could verbalize how grateful he was, but he tried his best to show it instead. He could do this all day if you let him, and if his hands were free he’d wrap them tightly around your hips so you’d lean more weight on him. You could break his neck, honestly. It wouldn't matter to him, the way you had him feeling. 

You grind your hips, rutting against Spencer's tongue as you ride yourself closer to orgasm. The sound of you getting off mixed with the taste of you on his tongue made Spencer feel like he was living off of you and he didn’t mind. You were so good to him. 

“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you,” is the last words you say before you cum all over Spencer face. Riding your orgasm out, you move and look down at Spencer, face flush. He smiles at you, absolutely ecstatic and you can’t help but laugh. 

“I’ll untie you now, you did so good for me baby,” you praise softly, untying Spencer's hands. The first thing he does is sit up and wrap his arms around your waist. He places kisses along your naval as you pet his hair. He looks up at you, your orgasm still clear on his face. You cup his jaw and kiss him, just a little messy. 

“You're soft, baby,” you note. He nods, seeming sleepy already and you wanna coo at him. He looks up at you again and shakes his head. 

“Be mean to me, please,” his voice is shaky. You’re surprised, leaning down to give him a kiss on the forehead before you agree. 

“Sit back,” you demand. He does so without question as you straddle his lap. He can feel his tip brushing back and forth between your folds as you look at him adoringly, face full of affection mixed with an urge to give him what he’s so kindly asked for. 

You wrap your hands around his neck as you sink down on Spencer cock. It stretches you out slowly, wrapped tightly around Spencer. He hits your cervix with ease. His breathing is labored, his hand holding your wrist as you choke him. 

“Look at you, my love. I’m taking your breath away, and you're giving it up to me just like that? You want me to wreck you that badly huh? I didn’t take your for such a slut,” you utter that last word with false confidence but the way Spencer adores every second of it gives you real confidence instead. He could cum right then and there - hearing you call him a slut makes him feel something rather unexpected. It’s an ultimate powerplay, because the both of you know that right now he’s only giving it up for you, but it implies something so much greater. He likes it so much, likes the sound of bombarding him with pleasure and degradation that when he moans, voice strained as the column of his neck gets squeezed - he doesn’t really know how to stop himself from saying again. 

“You like being a slut for me baby?,” you ask, bouncing up and down on Spencer cock, feeling the way he twitches in you. You let go of his throat, and he coughs before looking at you softly. His fingers run over the feeling of your hands. Your mouth moves to his neck instead, marking hickies into it as he holds onto your hips and fucks into you. He nods his head yes at your question. 

“You’re so needy, love,” you remark, pulling back and using your fingers to rub your clit as Spencer fucks into you. You cum again a second time, convulsing around Spencer's length as you moan his name.

“Please, please can I cum?,” Spencer asks politely. You’d love to tease him more, but you figure it may be too much for him so you just nod. You kiss him softly. 

“Anywhere you wanna finish?,” you ask. He looks immediately at your chest. You take off your tank top and bra and get on your knees for Spencer as he finishes on your chest, voice groaning your name. 

“Y/N - fuck, oh my god,” His eyes are shut in pleasure and you can’t help but smile at him. When he comes down from his high and sees you stood up, looking for your clothes - he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you and pull you down to the couch. You giggle as he does. 

“You did so good for me, baby. You’re such a good boy,” the praises fall from your lips with ease as Spencer mutters a flushed thank you. You reach to the table for a tissue as you wipe the cum off of your chest, making Spencer snort. 

You turn around to be facing Spencer, naked bodies just holding each other. You play with Spencer's hair pressing constant kisses into his shoulders, or on his forehead. Anywhere you can get them really. 

“It’s time for aftercare soon, but we can sit here a little longer if you like. Just no sleeping until we’ve showered and eaten and you’re taken care of, okay?,” you say lovingly, tucking Spencer's hair back behind his ear. He smiles at you softly, the feeling of being pampered like that holding him close.

“Hey, Y/N,” he looks at you with adoration “Will you please be my girlfriend? Cause I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” he says with sincerity. You can’t help but chuckle as you kiss him slowly. 

“Yes, Spence, of course. I’m in love with you too, by the way,” you say back. Spencer simply smiles, hugging you tight and hoping to never let you go. 

______

taglist: @cynbx​ @skrrrrrrrrrrt​ @zephyr-studiesjp​ @reid-187​

[kettle-on]

All right, here we go. My first Monty Python fanfic, and only my second attempt at writing fanfiction since 2005. Bear with me.

This one is Eric/Mike/OFC. I do hope you enjoy! Here’s Chapter 1 of I don’t know how many yet, and it’s a bit of a slow start.

Chapter 1/? January 1978 Heron Bay, Barbados

          As the taxi pulled away and he got his first deep inhale of ocean air, Michael Palin quickly discovered he’d made a very good choice indeed to join his friends and colleagues for a working holiday in Barbados.

          At first, the idea of travelling abroad just to continue working around a table on their typewriters had seemed mostly unnecessary and rather expensive. Together with Terry Jones, he believed they’d made – as usual – the sober and sensible choice to stay at home in England and finish the script for their next film there. Much more convenient and economical.

          Unfortunately (or, fortunately, in this case), their colleagues Eric Idle and John Cleese could boast enough enthusiasm to coax Terry’s curiosity, and bend even Michael’s righteousness. Now they found themselves outside an enormous coral stone villa, and surrounded by trees and grasses that reached up into the bluest blue sky that either of them had ever seen.

          An elaborate Victorian door creaked open, and from inside emerged a red-faced John, an especially golden Eric, and the rarely seen but often spoken-of Y/N, who Eric had now been seeing for many months and with whom he declared he fell instantly in love.

          “So you’ve come to join us at last, have you?” called John, striding toward them and lazily wrapping a warm drunken arm around Terry’s shoulders. “Did you really need quite so much convincing?”

          “I suppose I did, yes. Mike not so much,” Terry admitted, coolly slipping free of the Cleese grip. He surveyed the impressive stonework and columns in front of him, and slowly he, too, warmed to the idea of a working holiday in the sun.

          “How are you both?” Eric greeted them in an unusually relaxed tone. Clearly the combination of sunshine, warmth, and probably a good woman by his side had done wonders for him.

          “I hope the trip was awful,” he added.

          “Absolutely dreadful,” said Michael, “I’d packed all twelve of my favourite books, ready for the flight, and hardly got past a chapter before I conked right out and missed everything.”

          He could feel the jet lag slowly sinking in, but a warm laugh from Eric and Y/N kept Michael alert, and he gazed wide-eyed at his surroundings.

          “You’re looking well, Y/N,” he said, taking in her now familiar appearance.

          “It’s so good to see you, Mike,” she replied with a disarming smile, and tried to remember when they’d last seen each other in person. “That’ll be all this sunshine and fresh air, I think.”

          “Yeah, sunshine, eh? What a concept!” said Eric, “Christ, if I never see snow again, I’ll be a happy man for the rest of my life.”

          “I suppose it does have its charms,” Terry conceded, already very pleased that they’d decided to travel after all. “Come on John, show me where I can find whatever it is that’s got you like that.” 

          His and John’s voices followed them through the door and down a corridor, echoing off of the stone walls and floors as they headed to the nearest drinks trolley for a cocktail.

          “Ooh yes, that’s a good idea,” squeaked Eric. “Now come on, love, I’ll show you to your room.”

          “You’ll do what?” Mike exclaimed with pretend outrage, “You mean I’ve come all this way, to this big grand mansion which has seen the likes of Churchill himself, and I don’t even get to choose my own room?”

          “Well, I figured if I left it up to you, darling, you’d wanna kip with me, and we can’t be having that,” replied Eric in his favourite Mumsie voice. “Well, not just yet, anyway,” he quietly added with an exaggerated wink.

          Even on holiday, the lads of Monty Python took any opportunity to jump into character.

          “Oh Mike, you’ll just love it,” Y/N encouraged, herself adopting a strange and posh character of her own creation. “There’s a simply marvelous view of the road from your room. Truly inspiring!”

          Michael returned her phony sentiment with a squinty, full-cheeked smile and shifted his bag strap onto his shoulder before following Eric up the front steps and indoors. Y/N stayed behind, choosing to give the two old pals some time to catch up alone.

          “I still think we could finish the script much more quickly in London, but I see why this place is so enticing.” Michael conceded to Eric, who had returned to the soft and kindred version of himself that Michael knew very well, but only ever when they were alone. In a crowd, Eric was loud and gregarious, with endless jokes and witticisms to keep his company rolling with laughter. But there was a side of him, reserved for only his closest confidantes, that was quiet, thoughtful, and romantic. Here was the man behind the madness.

          “Pretty special, eh? I told you you’d have to see it for yourself.” Eric smiled. “I dunno if it’s the walls, or the porticos, or something about the way the breezes sweep the sun in through the windows… I think this must be what being a god feels like, y’know? Do whatever you please, driven by nature and desire, with absolutely no thought as to the consequences. Brilliant.”

          “That’ll be the Jagger effect, then,” said Michael, hinting at his friend’s rockstar associations.

          “The what?”

          Michael looked at him with all-knowing raised eyebrows.

          “Do you – do you know?” Eric questioned with hushed concern. Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones had asked Eric’s help in hiding him and model Jerry Hall somewhere beautiful and discreet, out of view of the press and public. Jerry was the girlfriend of singer Bryan Ferry, and in a very rock ‘n roll fashion, they had met up, gotten cozy, and ran off together. They were staying nearby in a fairly glamorous hut, and Eric and Y/N had already been enjoying villa visits and beach terrace dinners with the scandalous couple for a few weeks.

          “Of course I know. You bloody well told me, you silly fool!” Michael tutted, and recalled a phone conversation he’d had with a fairly drunken Eric a fortnight earlier:

          “‘Come on, Mikey,’ you said, ‘you’ll love it down here. Mick’s here with Bryan Ferry’s girlfriend, and we’ve all got our tits out!’”

          “Blimey. Trust me, eh?”

          “Never mind, Eric. Your secret’s safe with me,” Michael assured him with a sturdy pat on his shoulder before turning into what he decided would be his room for the length of his stay.

[ravenclaw-questions-gone-writing]

Trope Snippets Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 A Stolen Hood

Marinette dragged the vigilante she’d knocked out into their temporary base, an uncertain Adrien trailing behind her.

“Do you- I don’t think- Are you sure we should be doing this?” he asked, his voice higher and more feminine due to the voice changer Marinette had built into the mask of his hoodie. It was based off of Lila’s voice, because if they were going to do this, they might as well incriminate the annoyance. (No matter how temporary because there’s no way it’d hold up when the Bats actually looked into it.)

Marinette shrugged. “No harm no foul, right?” Her own voice changer - not that she needed one - based off that piece of- that thing Lila called a brother.

“You just knocked him out, that’s definitely harm!”

Marinette pouted at her partner in crime. “It was only a bit of-” she cut it off there, aware of the active com, and wiggled her fingers in the gesture for magic. “He’s not hurt, just asleep.” She said as she took Red Hood’s guns and tucked one away and sent the other one to Adrien. 

“It doesn’t last long, he should be waking up any minute now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s just pretending to be asleep since he no longer has a way to contact the other bats and we have his guns. Reconnaissance in an unfamiliar and possibly dangerous situation is a very basic thing.”

Marinette shrugged as she examined the com. Ritsu had already tampered with the tracking aspect of it. That should buy them at least another ten to fifteen minutes before the Batfam realizes, forcing Marinette and Adrien to relocate.

She smiled, she kinda wanted to mess with them. And, wow, she was spending too much time with her prankster parents. (The magic teachers she saw as parental figures, not Tom and Sabine, who were more like flatmate-siblings than parents.)

Adrien gives her a look and rolls his eyes, he knew she was up to no good - more than they already were anyway. “I’ll begin preparations.” He grumbled, not wanting to deal with it.

Well, they both dealt with the insanity of their reincarnated lives in different ways.

He wasn’t really one to talk. For every prank of hers, malicious or otherwise, he had a magical plant or creature - sometimes both - to create. And at this point, he’d probably recreated every non legendary pokemon the two of them could remember and then some other… more questionable creations.

Adrien pulled a metal bucket, some firewood, a set of stationery with a black chisel tip marker would be waiting alongside some paintball guns, two gallons of honey, and four pounds of birdseed from his pocket dimension and began counting their inventory to make sure they had everything and extras just in case.

“What are you planning to do with Red Hood?” demanded one of the bats from the com. 

Marinette, giddy with anticipation, could barely contain her snickers. “We’re not going to hurt him if that’s what you’re worried about. We just need him to do a favor for us.” She says, managing to keep her voice even. It came out more cheerful than she intended but it got the message across.

Red Hood turned with a snarl. “I’m not doing shit for you cra-” Red Hood’s snarl died down into a gasp. “Holy shit, you’re just kids. What are you, 12?”

Marinette pouted, she was 16, thank you very much. It wasn’t her fault that she was so short. And even though she preferred being on the shorter side, calling her a 12 year old was going a bit too far.

The assumption about her age would be useful in throwing off the bats so she let it be. 

“Speaking of favors, Mr. Red Hood, can I have your autograph?” Adrien asked from the other side of their warehouse.

“You knocked me out and kidnapped me for an autograph? ” Red Hood asked incredulously.

“Uh, no. He’s just a huge fan.”

“Oh shit, I didn’t think this through. What would he even sign it out to?” Adrien groaned.

“You could just use your assassin name? And I don’t mean the codename.”

Adrien shuddered and Marinette would have at least snickered if she hadn’t been through the same pain of having a Class 3-E codename.

“Assassins?” someone hissed on the other side of the com.

“Who are you affiliated with?” another demanded.

Marinette blinked and thought about it for a minute. “Uh… I stayed with the League of Shadows for a while some years back, does that count?”

There’s a stunned silence on the other side of the com before cursing fills the air.

Adrien groaned, “Why would you tell them that?”

“The most annoying thing for a detective is having a lead you can’t follow up on.” Marinette said, staring off into the distance as she recalled their attempts to track down Hawkmoth, who - in this universe - was not actually Gabriel Agreste. Surprisingly.

“Look, I’m not doing anything for Ra’s.” Red Hood snarls again.

Marinette frowned at him. “Who said anything about that old fart? No, we’re doing something much more personal.”

From the com, she could hear some suspicious coughing from the bats.

Marinette could tell Red Hood was startled and amused by what she’d called the demon’s head. The helmet was annoyingly in the way of reading his facial expressions but that’s what having a magical, very on-point, intuition was for.

“...Ok, you have my respect but I’m not doing any favors for someone who kidnapped me.”

Oh, right.

Sometimes, Marinette forgets that people don’t react like she does in kidnapping situations. But to be fair, she gets kidnapped like twice a week ever since she caught the Kudo curse from that trip to Japan, usually by some random amateur murderer, some burglar in all the cases they run into, or Talia Al Ghoul. It gets repetitive after a while.

“I think you’ve been spending too much time with Talia.” Adrien chirps from his place.

“A future mother-in-law is still a mother-in-law. I’m pretty much obligated to spend time with her.” Marinette huffs at Adrien. “And even if she wasn’t, she’s still my godmother.”

There’s choking, squawking, and a strangled noise of realization from the other side of the com. Red Hood himself was sputtering, Marinette wondered if his saliva was collecting on the inside of his helmet.

Really, that couldn’t be comfortable or sanitary.

“Nevertheless, if you won’t help us, we’re going to have problems.” she growled at Red Hood, before turning the comm off and tossing it aside.

“If you don’t want to help, I won’t force the issue.” Marinette pouted at Red Hood, then shifted her disappointment to Adrien. “I thought you said he’d want to help.”

“I really thought he’d want to.” Adrien said mournfully.

“Alright then, we’ll just keep you locked up until it’s over and release you tomorrow morning.” Marinette sighed, giving the vigilante a glance before turning back to her partner. “We don’t have much time, who else do you know is skilled with guns and would be willing to help us shoot the Joker?”

Red Hood spasmed and jerked up. “ Woah. Hey now, maybe I was being a little too hasty in my decision making. I’d be willing to give the plan a listen.” 

“Oh?” Marinette perked up, “That’s wonderful!”

Ch 2 Bonus

“He won’t work for you.” a gruff voice came out over the coms.

“So, Red Hood, what do you say?” Marinette prods her captive.

“Didn’t Batman just say I wouldn’t?”

“Well,”  Marinette replied petulantly. “he’s not the boss of you.”

There was a beat of silence and despite Marinette’s glee, she could feel the “oh shit,” silence from the other side of the com.

Then, Adrien’s cackling cut through the quiet. “Oh my gods, I can literally hear them all thinking, ‘Don’t do it. It’s a trap!’.”

Ch 2 Bonus 2

“Robin, who are we dealing with.” Batman demanded.

“Baby bird, was that your fiance, since when do you have a fiance? Or do we have another sibling we don’t know about?”

“I thought the league would want you to marry a woman to continue to the line. Why is your fiance  a guy?”

“Tt. She is most likely using a voice changer.”

“ She? That was a girl? ”

“ Robin. ”

Damian sighed. “I do not know her real name, I’ve always just called her Uma. As she said, she is my mother’s god daughter. She doesn’t break promises so we know she won’t actually hurt Red Hood, but what she’s after, I can’t say.”

“Try.”

“Father, it could be anything from wanting directions to a store to decorating the entirety of Gotham all the colors of the rainbow because she thinks it looks too dreary to needing information on a hit. In the League, she was most well-known for being unpredictable and chaotic.” Then, after a moment of debate, he added. “If you want an example, she is also known for being the main instigator of the zombie whale incident.”

“Excuse me?”

“The what? ” Red Robin squawked.

“Elaborate.” Batman growled.

“As she would say,” Damian replied dryly. “Long story short, she dropped a whale on my grandfather.”

[hailing-stars]

@febuwhump day 24 memory loss

some kind of dad

summary

Tony walked over and opened the balcony door, just as his suit landed with Spider-Boy in its arms.

“Peter,” said Tony. “There was glass there.”

All he got was a muffled groan filled with pain.

Tony directed his suit to lay Peter on the couch, where the boy ripped off his spidey mask and revealed a head full of blood caked hair.

“Jesus, kid, did you really hit the window that hard?”

OR

Peter interrupts Tony’s peaceful evening at home with some blood and a head injury. 

Tony kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and nursed a glass of scotch. His eyes lingered on the fireplace. Logs crackled under the pressure from the flames, and it was incredibly relaxing when paired with the scene outside of his penthouse window, the New York City skyline peppered with giant, puffy snowflakes.

He took a sip of scotch and savored the moment. A moment of peace was a rare oddity in the life of Tony Stark. Even rarer after acquiring an intern with zero self-preservation skill and an annoyingly large and burdensome sense of responsibility.

Tony had to enjoy the tranquility while he could. It was sure to be short-lived.

So Tony wasn’t shocked when it happened. When his peaceful night was disrupted. Actually, he saw it coming. Literally. He took his eyes off the fireplace, and glanced at the window. He saw a blue and red blur quickly approaching his penthouse.

He was wondering what kind of trouble this visit would bring when Peter hit the penthouse window like an insect against a windshield. Peter began to fall, and with a tired sigh, Tony told Friday to have a suit fly down and catch him before there were spider-guts all over the sidewalk.

Tony walked over and opened the balcony door, just as his suit landed with Spider-Boy in its arms.

“Peter,” said Tony. “There was glass there.”

All he got was a muffled groan filled with pain.

Tony directed his suit to lay Peter on the couch, where the boy ripped off his spidey mask and revealed a head full of blood caked hair.

“Jesus, kid, did you really hit the window that hard?”

“This happened before the window, actually,” he muttered with a grimace.

Tony figured that it made sense why he hadn’t noticed the glass and had smacked right into it. He’d already obtained a pretty gruesome head injury.

“That glass is hard,” whined Peter. He stared straight up, at the ceiling, and Tony felt his face crease with worry.

“Yeah, genius, it’s bulletproof.” It was more than bulletproof, actually. It was strong enough to withstand most blows. After aliens visited your planet, you didn’t take chances on home security.  

“And Spider-Man proof.” He sounded

Tony sat on the edge of the couch, and rested his hand on his leg in some foreign and awkward attempt to provide some comfort.

“How’s the pain?”

“Awful,” said Peter. He wiggled around on the couch, getting blood all over the cushion, while he tried and failed to get comfortable. “Downsize of fast healing is that it hurts like hell.”

“Better let me have a look at it.”

“No way,” said Peter. Tensing up.

“I’m just gonna look and see if it’s bad enough to warrant a trip to the medbay.”

The look of disgust and annoyance that flashed across Peter’s face was purely teenager.

“Either that, or I can just have Helen get a bed ready for you without me checking.”

“Fine,” said Peter, with a huff. “Just be… careful.”

“You act like I’ve never had to do this before,” said Tony.

The Avengers were prone to hurting themselves. Not even on missions, but in everyday, mundane situations, like that time Bruce slipped and hit his head in the lab, or when Clint had gotten stuck in the ceiling vent.

Tony stood above him, while Peter watched him warily. He gently swiped some of Peter’s bloody hair to the side to get a glimpse of the nasty gash on his head.

“It doesn’t look that bad, actually,” said Tony.

“Easy for you to say,” said Peter, through gritted teeth, and with closed eyes.

“Well running into a glass window probably made it worse.”

Peter popped a single eye open. “Does this mean I don’t have to go to medbay?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

Tony chuckled. “I have no idea why you hate it so much.”

“Overexposure.”

“That’s a fair point.”

He felt the strange urge to give him a lecture about being careful. Felt parental. Felt like something he’d promised himself he’d never do again again he’d wagged his finger around at the boy after that ferry incident, like he was somebody’s dad.

“Okay.” He clapped his hands together. “Medicine time.”

“I need the special -”

“Specially strong stuff for strangely superpowered kids,” finished Tony. “Yes, I know. I keep them stashed all over the place. With how often you get hurt, it’s like I have a damn pharmacy in my kitchen.”

Tony strolled over to the kitchen, and unlocked the cabinet he kept the pills in. He’s about to search for a bottle of water, when Peter started shouting requests from the couch.

“Got any ice cream, Mr. Stark?”

“You have a head injury and you want ice cream?”

“Sure,” said Peter. “It’ll give me brain freeze, and it’ll make my head injury so numb, I won’t be able to feel it.”

Tony rolled his eyes, though he wished the world worked according to Peter Parker’s logic.

“That’s what the medicine is for,” said Tony. He handed Peter the bottle and two small pills, and watched as he struggled a bit to sit up, ignoring Tony’s offer of assistance.

“No ice cream?” asked Peter, with the puppy dog eyes.

“Medicine first,” said Tony. “Then we’ll see if you feel like eating ice cream.’

“Fine.” He threw the pills in his mouth, and gulped down some water to wash them down. “Still think ice cream might’ve been more effective than pain relievers.”

“Yeah, maybe in a movie,” said Tony. “What were you doing out in a blizzard anyway? Don’t the weirdass villains you fight take snow days?”

“Wasn’t fighting a villain,” he grumbled. “I slipped on some ice outside of Delmar’s.”

“You make it a habit to go and get sandwiches dressed in your Spidey suit? And in the middle of a blizzard?” Tony didn’t think he could stress the blizzard part enough.

“That was just a pit stop,” said Peter. “You know, May’s stuck at the hospital for an overnight shift, and the apartment was kind of empty, so I just figured we could hang out? If you didn’t already have any plans -”

“I’d love to hang out, Pete.” Tony cut him off, stopping the kid mid-ramble, when it clicked that the kid got injured on the way over to see him, and that he wasn’t just coming to see him because he’d gotten hurt. “Besides, you’ve already bled out on my couch. It’d be just rude to leave now.”

Peter laughed.

“How’s the head feeling now? Double vision? Memory loss?”

“No,” he said. “I’m - I’m good.”

“Good,” said Tony. “Think you can manage changing into PJs without falling over? And cleaning some of that blood out of your hair?”

Peter’s nod was slow and uncertain enough to convince Tony that he definitely couldn’t manage it on his own.

Tony helped him to the guest room, where Peter had his own drawer of clothes. It didn’t strike Tony as odd until that moment.

His penthouse had changed in small, but significant ways, since Peter Parker had crashed into his life and made himself at home. The guest room might as well be called Peter’s room, the stashes of extra painkillers, the textbook Tony had pulled out of his couch cushions just a week earlier and had to deliver to Peter while he was at school.

He thought about this while Peter sat on his bed, and while Tony searched the drawer for something comfortable for him to wear. He stopped. Took another glance at the kid.

“You trickster.”

“What?” asked Peter.

Tony didn’t elaborate. He went back pulling out t-shirts and pajamas pants, mentally mulling over the fact that Peter Parker had turned him into some kind of dad, forever cancelling out any chance he ever had at a bit of peace and quiet, and he actually didn’t mind it that much.

Peace and quiet was overrated. Tony lived for the interruptions.