#but i do appreciate the concept of drafts and the ease of use

[yooniivrse]

hating you, craving you | ksj

summary. you don't exactly remember how the man you hate most ended up between your legs, but you're not complaining.

pairing: seokjin x afab reader

genre: co-workers to ??, implied enemies with benefits, smut

word count: 1.1k

warnings: cursing, explicit sexual content, pussy eating, petnames (princess), oc gives seokjin blue balls lol

notes: this has been in my drafts since the day jin's office concept pics dropped :3 comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so appreciated!! i hope you guys enjoy <333

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main masterlist

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Seokjin is a very unlikeable man.

He's arrogant, lazy, overconfident, selfish, and oh — did you mention arrogant? He wears that stupid smirk on his face constantly, using it as a leverage to get everything he wants. It was a pathetic sight, watching your co-workers stutter and stumble over their words in front of him while their skin grew deeper in the familiar shade of embarrassment.

You've always been the one person exempt from his charms — you're pride refusing to let you kneel to him like everyone else.

Which is why he’s the one with his knees digging against the hard, wooden floorboards, and his head between your thighs.

How you ended up in this position, you honestly have no idea. But none of that matters right now because fuck, did Seokjin’s mouth feel heavenly against your pussy.

His lips suck and lick at your cunt softly, his tongue delving in and out, exploring all of you. The fabric of your tight, pencil skirt is hastily bundled up at your waist — both of you had been too impatient and too worried about the lack of time you had to properly strip.

Seokjin’s fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, keeping your shaking legs steady on the ground.

Your hands tug at his hair every time a shiver of ecstatic pleasure courses through you, followed by a lazy attempt at muffling a moan by pressing the back of your hand against your mouth. You can practically feel his lips curl into a smirk against your pussy when your actions go in vain.

“That good, huh princess?”

You look down to meet his eyes — pupils completely glazed over either lust.

“Sh-shut up.”

A muffled chuckle vibrates through your cunt and the feeling has you pressing his head closer into you. Your throbbing in his mouth, your back arching up as you feel your orgasm build up.

A plethora of curses fall from your lips; sinful pleads and lewd slurps filling the air of the almost-abandoned storage room. Any moment, the door could open to expose your little rendezvous. More arousal than worry fills you at the thought, and your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

Seokjin seems to be drawing out the alphabet with his tongue all over, taking his time to bring you over the edge — time that you were pretty sure neither of you could afford. But you were so fucking addicted to his mouth on you that you couldn’t bring yourself to protest.

“Shitshitshit. ‘m so close.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and one of your hands move from Seokjin’s hair to grip on to the side of the table, the pads of your fingers turning white from the force. His lips latch and lock against your folds, coaxing the knot in your stomach to come undone.

“C’mon, princess. Wanna taste you.”

Your orgasm washes over you like a strong tide, making your walls clench around nothing in steady waves. Seokjin eases on his pace, letting you ride out your orgasm in his tongue.

Your chest rises falls rapidly, small pants dropping from your lips. He licks a long strip along your cunt, collecting your juices on his tongue. Your hand snakes its way to the nape of his neck and you pull him up for a messy, sloppy kiss.

You clean the wet arousal that coats his chin and mouth, tasting a mixture of you and his saliva. His hands wrap around your waist securely, and you ease your weight off your buckling knees.

“When do you have to get back?” you ask, your voice breathless and your mind still fuzzy from the pleasure.

A kiss. “Don’t know.” Then another. “Don’t care.”

You giggle. “Wow, so professional of you.”

“Mhm. Don’t act like the idea of being caught doesn’t turn you.”

You’re rolling your eyes when three sharp knocks rap against the door. The two of you are blocked from view by the rusty shelves, but you still try to make yourself as small as possible.

The door doesn't open, but Jungkook's voice is unmistakable from the other side. “Hyung, you better hurry up. Namjoon’s gonna throw a fit if you don’t find him the file in the next five minutes.”

You keep your eyes on Seokjin, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he lets out a sigh of annoyance. “Tell him that I’ll be there in a bit, Kook.”

“You better.”

Jungkook's footsteps trail off, and you finally let out the breath you were holding.

“Yeah, no. We’re never doing this in here, ever again.”

Seokjin lets out a sigh. “My bad. That kid’s always ruining something,” he groans, pressing his lips to yours again.

“Keep it in your pants, Seokjin.”

He scoffs. “You cannot be saying that right now.”

“You heard him,” you say with a shrug. “You can’t stay in here any longer.” You step away from him, pulling down the fabric of your skirt roughly. Despite the shivers of ecstasy that still faintly ran between your legs, the events that had just transpired had began weighing down on you; you let Seokjin eat you out during work hours in the file room, and he was never going to let you live it down.

Fuck.

Seokjin runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh — one clearly laced with annoyance. "Fine."

You smoothen down your shirt and quickly fix your hair as he steps off to the side. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark pants and leans his head against the wall.

"You coming?" you ask.

"Give me a minute. You go on."

You can't stop the teasing smirk that tugs at your lips and Seokjin avoids your gaze. At least you know that your not the only one affected by his charms.

Your walk off but come to a stop after a few steps. You turn around and his eyes meet yours. The words lie on the tip of your tongue, but you're pride tries to stop you from letting them tumble from your lips.

Fuck it.

"Want me to make it up to you tomorrow?"

A beat of silence passes, and regret instantly starts bubbling in your chest. But before you take back your offer, Seokjin lets out a small laughing breath and nods.

"Sure. Text me whenever you want, princess."

[apriltempleos]

october 1st 2024: drafts!

preacher: i'm attaching slightly improved versions of our original drafts, but i'll also include mine and scott's garbage sketches under the cut because i think they're a little bit funny

(image id available through tumblr's accessibility options)

this is a slightly revised version of my original concept for "APRIL".

the main functionality i wanted for "APRIL" was for her to be able to read out words from the templeOS god word app, and ideally without needing keyboard input – hence the microphone. ideally all of her parts are going to fit inside a hollowed out mannequin or doll, which will probably just be the torso, so that she's more portable. for the same reason, i want her to run off a power bank – i want to be able to take her places!

if we manage, we're going to give her an animated LED face which moves to indicate when she's speaking. the way i first pitched it, i wanted it to also change a bit depending on how she "felt" – for example, frowning if the environment was hotter than ideal for the raspberry pi to operate on. but that's a bit beyond our current scope right now. i don't think we even ordered a thermostat.

scott drew the following wiring diagrams based off my original sketch. here revised digitally for readability's sake.

(image id available through the tumblr accessibility options although i fear it's not very good in this case. feedback appreciated).

scott: I decided to go with the raspberry pi zero 2w because it's what I've got experience coding on, it's relatively cheap for the "brains" of the operation (heh) and can perform both tasks from the godword prophecy generation, speaker operation and led matrix operation simultaneously. Plus its small enough to keep the circuit lightweight and fit inside the initial mannequin design.

This drawing fits no kind of engineering standard by the way lol. It was an initial sketch closer to a wiring diagram to see how it'd physically setup and wrap my head around transforming it from mains power to being theoretically portable and running on powerbanks. Unfortunately the LED matrix is really fucking power hungry so needs its own power supply of really specific voltage and current draws hence all the converters.

Also because Im using the smaller and cheaper pi, as oppossed to a stronger system like the pi4, it doesn't have any audio out jack so I plan to use the micro usb for audio out which means yet again I need another adapter for a soundcard and usb to micro usb adapters and all that jazz. Usually sound out can be done through the GPIO pins but the LED matrix takes so many pins that I cant really take anything form them so I had to look for other ways of doing it. Plus this way I get to add a soundcard so if we wanna add microphone support or anything later on we can :)

(Also this is all a little obtuse because I'm trying to do it as much as plug and play and screw terminal style as possible rather than actually solder connections for ease of access and initial setup, but this also works for modular design and component swapping later too so its cool.)

preacher: another reason we're going with plug&play is becauuseeeeee i don't own a soldering iron 😭 it's ok. it's ok.

our silly initial drafts under the cut for your viewing pleasure.

preacher: these were made around 2 weeks ago, so about september 15th ish.

as you can see the first "APRIL" drawing was beautifully drawn with my fat fingers in the facebook messenger photo editor. i think it holds up. lol.

[vamphorica]

hello hello! So sorry if I'm bothering you at all, but I've been following your work for a bit and I like it a lt a lot, especially the analysis posts! I've never written DN (or Mello) fanfic before, but I really want to try, except I rarely share my writing and I'm very scared of mischaricterizing characters

I feel like the concepts I'm working on should be explored but I don't think I'm the right person to do it, which is why I end up not finishing anything.. you've written so many good pieces, do you have any tips to ease this anxiety?

hello anon! first things first, you are absolutely not bothering me at all - i love receiving asks, particularly anything related to writing. thank you so much for reaching out, and i really do appreciate the kind words :)

writing anxiety is really difficult, especially when you're trying something new for the first time. i'm currently writing my first multi-chaptered fic and it can be so tricky when you're overwhelmed by the nuances of characters and the scenarios that they find themselves in. i think a lot of writing advice that goes along the lines of "write the fic you want to read!" or "enjoy the process!" is very well meaning, but doesn't necessarily take into account that you not only need the confidence to believe in what you're writing, but the resilience to continue once you have begun.

it sounds like sharing your work and characterisation are two of your main concerns, so i will offer some advice regarding both of these, which i hope will help!

sharing your work is always a very vulnerable experience, and remember that you are under no obligation to share anything before you feel it is ready. i have several notebooks i use to write, but many of them will never be seen by anyone other than myself. however, with that being said, i do strongly believe that one of the best things to have helped me in my writing is to have a trusted network of people with whom i can share my work with before publishing. this was terrifying when i had to start doing it for university (i studied creative writing) and there is most certainly something to be said about sharing early drafts with the right people. i won't derail by talking about how to accept criticism, but if you find people who you know believe in your project, and want to see it at its best, these will be the best beta readers. it could be someone not familiar with the fandom, for a less subjective approach, or a discord server of other fans and writers who have their own interpretations and ideas about the characters. i appreciate finding these people is difficult, and you don't want to be judged for something you are putting so much love into, but again, the right people will not be ones who tear your work to shreds. if it is constructive then it will encourage you to keep working on the project, it just requires pushing through that initial discomfort of exposing your work in its early stages.

for what it is worth, anon, my inbox is always open if you want to share any ideas, but there is absolutely no pressure ♡

i have some good news about characterisation, especially when it comes to writing fanfiction - you are already invested enough in the character to want to write about them. this means that there are aspects to this character - Mello, in this case - that have attracted you to explore through writing. use these attributes as your starting point. what is it about him that is so interesting to you? how does he respond to the environment you want to place him in? why would he behave in that manner? notice here something important - this is about you, the writer, and your perception of the character. there is no need to justify to anyone the decisions you have made in writing him, so long as you feel it reflects your own ideas about who he is.

what you may want to consider is how to flesh this interpretation of his character out, so as to have enough material to work with. you want to know your character well enough that he begins to tell his own story. there are two avenues to doing this, one of which i only recently started doing myself but has helped greatly.

firstly, going over the canon text again, and doing a little bit of note taking and analysis. don't go too over the top, but any interesting mannerisms, speech quirks, habits, that you like and want to integrate into your own work, highlight and keep a record of. say what you will about death note, every character has a lot of complexities that although might feel overwhelming initially, can be really fun to delve into. you are also allowed to dismiss canon as well - do not feel as though you must rely on it for perfect characterisation, otherwise you will probably end up feeling more under pressure.

this leads me on to my second tip, which is to look for your characters in alternate media. i am being very broad in my use of 'media' here - saw a textpost on tumblr that reminded you of Mello? save it, and use it as inspiration. read a book that discusses the american mafia that feels pertinent to the fic you're writing? note that down. i am currently reading banana fish, another manga, in which the protagonist Ash Lynx resembles Mello to me in a multitude of ways. yet because this is set in a different universe than death note, it gives me a better understanding of how this archetype would respond in different environments. just as you should use your lived experiences to inform your writing, use the media and even the people around you to define your characters. they may not behave exactly as they would in canon, but that shouldn't be the goal, either. many fic readers want fresh interpretations of the characters they are reading about.

i will direct you to the post that morphinejunkie - the author of crush - made about characterising Mello too, because i find it extremely helpful. it should go without saying, but reading other fanfiction will inevitably help you with working out what characterisation styles you like, and which ones you may wish to avoid.

i do apologise for rambling (although if you are familiar with my blog, i fear you have come to expect as much from me by now), but i do genuinely hope some of this was helpful! please do believe that your ideas are important and that you are more than capable to write the fanfiction you are envisioning. it will be difficult, and you will find that you doubt yourself because unfortunately, it can be so easy to compare your work, or to place a lot of worth on the opinions of others, but i mean this in all sincerity - there will be people who will love your work. it will be completely worth fighting your writing anxiety for, and you never know what wonderful things that await you down this path... good luck!

[p-receh]

HEYOOOO I'M FINALLY FREE!!!!

...not really but at least some major events have done so at least I'm at ease... For now

I'm finally back to Boboiboy again! 😆😆

And to start my wholesome mood, here's a tiny test draft of my upcoming chapter from my hiatus story, 319.

At this point, I might not make the story in regular text words, some of them will be just drawings. I realized that cuz I'm so so bad at managing both skills regularly.

Here's the link to my AU

So I sincerely appreciate it if you guys still remember this or you just happens to stumble upon this story.

Greatly appreciate it!😄👍

An explosion sound caught his alarm. Drained in sweat, arms and legs went lump, dizzy headache, and slow-heavy breath came from his mouth. Yet his sight was still sharp looking at any chances behind the huge wall loosely on the verge of collapse. 

“Hiding will not get you anything! Why do you fight against us, ______!?”

BOOM! BOOM!

Such a miracle it kept intact to delay the fate…for now. 

“....He’s right. We cannot hide anymore.”

A hush, almost exasperated, whisper voice beside made him turn sharp towards the source, “And surrender like others?!  No! they already got Gopal and Qually, Fang!“

“So are the girls, ______ !”

 

BOOM!

They immediately shielded themselves as the shockwave of smoke and debris were splashed at them. No one could resist the pure shock from the aftermath. Another missile landed roughly close to their hiding spot. 

It was only a matter of time until the next attack would land… no. He dared not finish the thought. 

 

“I… “ He could not bear to hold his fast heart rate and deep breath any further. He then looked down to the watch on his right hand. Observing all colorful seven symbols circling on the blue screen one by one. 

Although he could not see the face, the frustration seemed to be radiating from one point to another like a colorful dance. It jumped from the red symbol to dark blue, next to light blue, continued to orange, then to green, and later to yellow before finally settling on a deep brown before repeating the pattern all over again.

Almost pleading for them—

For him… 

—to give a clue, advice, aid, hint—anything! He needed a solution to end this misery!

Yet he cannot do anything. Only helplessly watched the whole situation through the boy’s eyes. He absolutely wanted to lend a hand, talk to him. It devastated him due to the fact that's not how the watch works. That boy knew it too, but still kept pushing it as if he was depending his next second around the mere watch.

A desperate groan went out loud as he grabbed the watch and began twisting the case. The clicking sounds stopped in both the brown and the white-yellow colored symbols. 

A slight tug awakened inside him. Like receiving a rough poke from inside. This was not the confident call he always yearned for. This time, it was rather a faint, weak cry towards him. 

“I have to do it! Either we're next or so help me! ______ Dual Split!”

A bright flash illuminated the watch and it resonated within him. Right, he could worry about it later. Every kind of call was always important. It was his duty to protect as usual. Nothing more, nothing less.

…protect? 

The shine illuminated the whole dark area. It bloomed wide as a sun, circled into a disc while showcasing two symbols of white-yellow and brown colors. Not missing a beat, two new figures disembark from that disc with one of them already on guard to smash and create a giant stone wall.

He was sure he shouted something from his mouth, yet he couldn’t decipher what he shouted. A mantra? A spell?

The big ground slam fractured the floor apart and a wall of black stones raised abruptly into what essentially covered him and that purple haired survivor. 

“We got this Fang. I suspect there’s another shelter located on the east side of the central base. Go there and call General Kaizo.”

Another sound behind him talked to the purple one. He had the same voice similar to the boy, but this one was in a firmer tone. As if he was calculating something not directly to his ally.

“And leaving you guys alone?!”

Leaving him? 

…No. 

He was… Protecting the boy's friends. That was the first thing he thought the second he came out. 

Protect. Again with that word.

That was his mission. A direct order from the boy. To make sure that person was out of the danger area as soon as possible. 

But what relationship did the person have with him? Who was he protecting from?

“We don’t have much time, Fang! I give you time to escape, now!”

Even though the voice was similar to the previous boy, he remembered the harsh tone he shouted to him while barely holding the wall in tack from non-stop missiles. He could sense which spot was mostly damaged. He could tell how many of them had rocketed. And he could feel that the wall would not stand this much longer with how drastic the condition was on the other side.

“...tch! Make sure you all stay together or so help me!” 

He still could not see the reaction from the receiver, but the running footstep in distance confirmed it. He was relieved for a moment. Was this enough? He silently pleaded. 

Pleading … ? To whom? Who was he talking to?

His heart sparked a slight warmth like small matches that lighted up. The response made him lower his eyebrows further. It was enough to warn him that his job was far from done. 

BOOM!

The shield worsened fast as the missile kept coming. He had no choice but to disintegrate the walls as he dodge the attack— 

“_____ JUMP!”

?!

The shouted spell occurred at the same time he was blinded by the sudden light. The shots of white light blinded his view. Within the next second after it faded, he landed in a different place. It was dark and cornered. Far away from the amount of rubbles and explosions like before. Yet, He couldn’t stand his shaky breath. 

He never knew he was meeting the end of a life…wait.

Hold on… there was something bothering him.  

The muffled sound slowly regained his focus, he was sure someone shouted at him. But the dizziness clouded his mind to speak. He heard a loud sigh from the opposite and said something sharp. He didn’t get what that person said yet he still released his laugh effortlessly. 

Laugh? Why was he laughing? Who was he laughing at?

His reaction caused the opposite left a dumbstruck. The person retorted back. It was then he thought he was being lectured instead of talking to him. But he did not mind it at all. If anything, it slowly cleared his gloomy mind that kept bugging him. 

Wrong… this was awfully wrong… Where was he?!

The visions were now cleared. His sense of danger spiked high when he spotted an object flying, Fast, towarded him and—!!

 

“Watch out— Solar!”

[ladyartemesia]

TEASER: Kim Seokjin and the Mean Omega

Pairing: Nerd Alpha Kim Seokjin x Popular Omega Reader

Genre: A/B/O • Enemies to Lovers • (Sorta) College AU • Best Friend's Brother AU (Who is surprised? No one?)

Teaser Word Count: 3.6K

Teaser Warnings: A/B/O sexual dynamics • suggestive content

Rating: Explicit (18+) (Teaser is PG-13)

Summary: In the modern world, alphas are almost unheard of so why even bother learning about them? After all, as a spoiled (but reasonably kind-hearted) omega who is used to getting whatever she wants, you have better things to do. However, when unexpected circumstances throw you in the path of (extremely) nerdy and (probably?) shy Kim Seokjin, you're shocked to discover that he won't be wrapped around your little finger as easily as all the rest. Bringing that infuriating geek to his knees quickly becomes your personal mission in life... But it turns out that Kim Seokjin is not what he appears to be and the mean omega who eats beta boys for breakfast is about to get way more than she bargained for...

Author’s Note: This story would not be here without the love, support and friendship of my incredible support system. You talk with me, you laugh with me, you listen when I’m crying, and you read my chaotic drafts when I am ready to pull my hair out of my head in frustration. I love you all. @ppersonna @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen @lemonjoonah. ALSO thank you to each and every one of you who encouraged me to post this story. This fic is dedicated to all of you as a token of my love and appreciation. Your support keeps me writing. Never doubt that for a second.

“...due to discriminatory anti-alpha policies in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, alphas were nearly eliminated from the general population…”

You heaved a weary sigh and rolled your shoulders—stretching the buttons of your high-end Oxford shirt to their limit. The beta sophomore to your right whined audibly and you smirked.

“...despite efforts to restore the genetic balance of designations, alphas currently comprise less than one percent of the population…”

Your back arched slightly as you crossed your legs, letting the absurdly short hem of your skirt ride up even higher. The poor boy you were tormenting shifted miserably in his seat.

How was he supposed to focus on a Human Biology and Designation Studies lecture when the living breathing embodiment of every sweaty undergrad’s fantasies was twisting her fingers in her hair and wrapping her pretty pink tongue around a strawberry lollipop right there in the middle of class?

“...unlike betas and omegas, alphas possess enhanced strength and the ability to compel other designations with their voice. Unmated alphas especially were often baselessly feared and distrusted...”

You knew exactly how you affected boys like him. You were a shameless tease who relished their attention and the power it brought you. Who needed drugs when driving a man mad with desire was a rush more potent than any high?

“...and that’s all for today so please read pages 450-466 in the text over break and remember to turn in your essay on scent and consent in intimacy—”

That poor sophomore looked like he had finally worked up the courage to speak to you, but you were already out the door and tearing down the hall toward your beautiful (and entirely platonic) counterpart, Kim Taehyung.

“Do you think Professor Moore is unaware that class is over at 3:25 or is he just torturing us for science?”

Taehyung shrugged, falling into step beside you with practiced ease.

“I mean I would torture you for free so it’s hard to say.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his characteristic dry humor, but the irritation at being held in that sweltering lecture hall for an extra ten minutes had frayed your temper.

“It’s the last class before spring break, I’m sure he was on some sort of twisted power trip.” You dug around in your purse for some chapstick, ignoring Tae’s amused snorting, “Alphas barely exist anymore and none of us are likely to meet one. Why bother learning what they can do?”

Taehyung tilted his head in amusement.

“You might be surprised.”

The final party before the beginning of spring break was always a laid back affair.

Many people had already caught planes to their various destinations, but your flight was scheduled for early tomorrow morning—leaving you with some time to kill.

Taehyung pressed his newest experimental concoction into your hand within minutes of entering the house (a surprisingly neat bachelor pad owned by two seniors, Jung Hoseok and Min Yoongi) and then darted back to the kitchen to craft more questionable alcohol potions like a deranged party warlock.

You had just found a comfortable place on the couch and were contemplating whether sampling your best friend’s mad scientist elixir would be worth the probable damage to your body when—

“H-Hello...”

It was that sophomore from your Designations Studies class. What was his name again? Jungwoo? Jinwook?

“Jungkook,” you smiled, delighted to have remembered before it became awkward. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You motioned to the empty cushion next to you and the man in question scrambled over like he’d won the lottery.

“I—I know we don’t know each other well, but I noticed you were absent during Professor Moore’s lecture on intimacy and scent consent so I—” he blushed deeply, “I wrote the essay for you—and I brought a copy on my flash drive if-if you want it.”

Your heart melted immediately.

“Oh my gosh Jungkook, that is so sweet of you!”

Your gaze darted over his muscular form and thick brown curls.

Sweet indeed.

“I don’t want to miss out on the learning though,” you pouted, placing a hand on his tattooed bicep. “Can you explain it to me?”

Jungkook nodded vigorously even as his wide eyes fell to where your fingers were sliding slowly over his chest.

Scent consent was a pretty basic and universally known concept, but you really were touched by the handsome sophomore's consideration.

Why not give him (and yourself) a little reward?

“Um so basically if two people are involved in...intimate activities—”

You leaned forward to nip his ear lightly and he whimpered.

“Like this?” you asked innocently.

“Y-Yes. Like that.” He gulped. “In an intimate situation consent or refusal can be smelled. The scent of refusal or reluctance in intimacy is strong, unmistakable, and has a high chemical potency.”

“Is that so?” you drawled, sliding over onto his lap. Jungkook’s eyes rolled back into his head and you bit back a grin.

He was adorable.

“Uh-huh—it—oh my gawd,” (you were nibbling on his ear again) “it can immediately block sexual arousal and performance in the other partner. Meaning, if consent is not present, then it becomes difficult or—ahh” (his voice began to waver under your continued attention) “—or even impossible to continue with intimate acts.”

Your hand slid up to his cheek, bringing him closer till your lips were almost touching.

“Then what does it mean if I’m still so turned on right now?”

“It means,” Jungkook shuddered—nearly delirious with your scent, “that I really really want you.”

Across the room, Park Jimin chuckled as he watched you seduce his enthusiastic friend.

Jeon Jungkook was such a sweet kid.

Hopefully he wouldn’t get too attached.

“Wow... Some people are genuinely born blessed I suppose.”

Jimin turned to see Jung Hoseok eyeing the dimly lit corner where you and the eager young sophomore were exploring each other.

It was a rather...provocative spectacle. Not quite raunchy (you weren’t truly an exhibitionist)—just insanely sexy.

Jimin’s gaze lingered on the smooth curve of your thigh where Jeon Jungkook was currently holding on for dear life.

Lucky bastard.

“Ah you know how she is,” he sighed. “That boy isn’t going to get any farther than anyone else.”

It was relatively common knowledge that you liked to mess around but rarely—if ever— fully hooked up with anyone.

Jimin asked you about it once during a drunken game of truth or dare and you had just shrugged, mumbling something along the lines of avoiding STDs (which—to be fair—was at least part of your motivation), but the truth was a little more complicated than that.

In terms of experience, you weren’t a virgin, but... you hadn’t actually had sex in years.

You loved the chase, the foreplay, the build-up—the game of cat-and-mouse between two people who were attracted to one another.

But the final consummation was always so…

Wildly unfulfilling.

Every encounter left you frustrated. Empty.

Grumpy—even.

So you stopped bothering with it all together. (That was what sex toys were for after all.)

At the end of the day you were perfectly content being labeled a tease—it meant that people tended to know what they were (or rather weren’t) getting into when they rolled the dice with you.

Besides…it hadn’t even put a dent in your throng of admirers.

You were sunny, spoiled, indulgent, almost universally adored—

And you loved every minute of it.

“You know…” Hoseok took a long sip of his drink. “I always thought she would end up with Taehyung, but it’s been three years.”

Like you, Kim Taehyung was a trust fund brat and it was only natural that two beautiful and absurdly privileged people would gravitate to one another. You met at a freshman pledge party and had been an inseparable (and formidable) dynamic duo ever since.

The undisputed king and queen of campus.

Yes—maybe the two of you were a little self-absorbed at times, but it was hardly your fault that people tended to instinctively cater to the force of your combined looks, wealth, and charisma.

And it didn’t hurt that neither of you were ever intentionally cruel or unkind.

Just... habitually thoughtless.

(Though not when it came to each other. If anything your friendship was one area where you were both a little more human.)

Jimin shook his head.

“Nah that’s never gonna happen.” He tapped his nose. “They’re scent-crossed.”

Hoseok’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

Scent-crossed pairs didn’t smell sexually attractive to each other.

Like. At all.

No matter how physically or visually appealing an individual might be, it would be near impossible to form a sexual or romantic attachment to them if you were scent-crossed. Alphas, betas, and omegas were all subject to their noses first and foremost in the realm of attraction.

You and Taehyung smelled like comfort and home to one another...

But you were more turned on by a crisp cup of apple juice than you were his scent and the feeling was quite mutual.

He might as well have been your actual brother.

“That explains so much.” Hoseok snorted as he watched a drunken Taehyung do a flying leap on top of both you and Jungkook.

“Why is sunlight so offensive?” you croaked, dragging yourself and your luggage toward the boarding ramp next to an equally miserable Taehyung.

“The next time I book a flight before 9 AM, please shoot me,” he grunted.

Your parents were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with a month-long European cruise so your best friend had graciously invited you to spend two glorious weeks of spring vacation at his family estate.

The invitation had actually come as somewhat of a surprise because—for all your closeness—Taehyung was uncharacteristically tight-lipped about his family.

Not that he was deliberately withholding information per se… It was just that he never really brought them up beyond an occasional passing comment.

The one time you did ask him about them directly he sighed and said—

“We’re very close, but… I suppose we’ve just gotten used to being very private.”

There was clearly more to the story, but you were confident that Tae would share it if and when he was ready.

“My parents are in Seoul opening a new branch of the company. They took my little sister with them and my older brother has his own house so it will be just us.” He snuggled deeper into the first class seat directly next to yours. “We’ll hang out by the pool and chill during the day, then hit up some of the new clubs or whatever at night.”

“So… No one from your family will be there?”

Perhaps the invitation was not so surprising after all.

“Nope. Just you and me and thirty acres of ocean front property.”

You grinned.

“Perfect.”

“Whose room is that?”

The two of you were lugging your bags down the main hall of Taehyung’s expansive mansion when a strange hint of...something caught you right by the nose.

Your friend turned to find you frozen and staring curiously at a familiar door near the balcony.

His eyes widened, but you were too preoccupied to notice his momentary concern.

“That’s just Jin’s room.”

A firm hand wrapped around your wrist and dragged you away, but your eyes stayed glued to the source of the mysterious scent until you were around the corner and out of sight.

Your suite for the next two weeks was right across the hall from Taehyung’s. There was a whirlpool, a full bath, a balcony, and an ocean view that would rival the cover spread of any travel magazine.

Tae headed for the shower (to ‘wash the airplane off’) immediately after showing you the room and you were thinking of doing the same except…

Your mind kept going back to that door and the hint of scent you detected.

There was something… different about it.

It was faint—and far from fresh (which made sense considering that one of the few things you did know about Kim Seokjin was that he hadn’t lived in this house for years).

But still…

The need to smell it again pressed insistently at the back of your mind.

Suddenly the sound of Taehyung singing raunchy lyrics in the shower carried over through the walls and you found your feet moving almost of their own accord.

What Tae doesn’t know won’t hurt him, you rationalized, making your way down the hall toward Jin’s door. Besides—it’s not as if I’m going to steal anything…

You just needed to find that scent again.

By the time your fingers closed over the knob every one of your nerves was strangely—acutely—alert but nothing could have prepared you for what was waiting behind the door.

Oh. My. Gosh.

“What a colossal nerd.”

The room was covered floor to ceiling in Nintendo memorabilia.

Bright primary colors assaulted your eyes from all directions in the form of action figures, posters, pillows, and every other conceivable merch variety known to man.

In the center of the suite stood a large king-sized bed covered in a custom black couture toile-style Mario-verse bed set (that looked every bit as expensive as it was geeky) and a mountain of high quality Nintendo character plush toys.

Everything was simultaneously luxe and nostalgic—a rare combination of sophisticated aesthetic balance and childlike indulgence.

And the scent was there.

It was faint and covered under layers of cleaner and air fresheners, but still lingering just below the surface—too weak for you to get a really good whiff, yet potent enough to torment you.

You moved forward unconsciously toward the strongest source of the hypnotic smell—the strangely inviting expanse of Kim Seokjin’s mattress.

Suddenly the urge to climb—no crawl—across the bed itself and roll around in it like a kitten in catnip gripped you out of nowhere.

“What the hell?” you muttered, rubbing absently over the mating gland at the base of your neck.

Something very odd was going on with your body.

Your restless gaze zeroed in on one of the stuffed toys piled atop his pillows. It was a cute little mushroom man your brain recognized as a Mario character named ‘Toad’.

Take it.

Your mouth dropped open in shock.

You need it.

“Am I going insane?” you wondered aloud.

You have to take it.

Muscles in your hand began to twitch involuntarily. You bit your lip.

Bring it back with you.

Several minutes later a freshly washed Taehyung wandered over to your room and found you sitting perfectly still on your bed while staring off into space.

His head tilted in curious concern.

“Everything ok?”

You started a bit at the sound of his voice, but recovered quickly.

“Never better!” you chirped—almost too brightly. “Let’s go get some dinner, I’m starving.”

Then you grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall toward the kitchen—shutting the door before he could catch a glimpse of his brother’s stuffed Toad doll stashed underneath your pillow

“...a critical water main rupture in the city’s New Market district early this morning has forced several residents out of their homes as flood water swelled up to nearly two feet. The governor declared a state of emergency and ordered hotels around the city to accommodate the displaced citizens. Crews are still clearing the water and assessing damages. We expect—

“Hey!” you shouted through a mouthful of cereal, after Your best friend switched off the television, “I was watching that!”

“And what you should be doing is getting ready for the pool.” Tae snatched your cereal bowl and dragged you by your shirt collar toward the stairs. “It is the first morning of our vacation. I’m not trying to waste any time. Now go.” He shoved you forward, smacking your ass for good measure.

You swatted back at him half-heartedly as jogged back up to the room where you enjoyed a surprisingly restful sleep last night.

Kim Seokjin’s door glared at you accusingly as you shuffled past—unable to let you forget that you had kidnapped it’s little mushroom man in an unexplained fit of kleptomania, but that was a problem for your future self.

The you of right now was going to zen out in the Kim family's premium glass-enclosed indoor pool (it was still a little chilly for the outdoor pool) with her best friend and bask in the simple joys of good company and no responsibility.

...Or not.

A few minutes later you bounced into the living room wearing a simple black tankini with a cute floral cover only to find Taehyung on the phone with his head in his hands.

“Yes, sir. I understand… I...I know this is my responsibility...”

That didn’t sound good.

After a few more tense moments, Tae hung up and collapsed backward into the couch with a heavy sigh.

“That water main break you heard about on TV this morning was the last straw between the province and its current contractor. They called an emergency meeting for new bids.”

Your heart dropped as you sank down beside him.

“Your dad wants you to go...doesn’t he.”

Taehyung nodded miserably.

“He can’t leave the Seoul opening on such short notice and managing government construction contracts is part of what I’ve been training for. This could be huge for our company.”

“Well...why doesn’t your brother go?”

“Jin is the brains behind most of our patented gaming and tech innovations. He wouldn’t even know where to begin with this sort of thing. Besides,” his lips quirked up in a rueful grin, “my brother doesn’t have the patience to stroke entitled geriatric egos for hours on end—which is likely what I’m going to have to do.”

The two of you headed back to Taehyung’s room where you helped him pack some suits and toiletries for his trip.

Naturally you were disappointed but...this was a great opportunity for your best friend to prove himself in his chosen field and you both knew it. In fact, he was already starting to brighten a bit.

“The meeting is about a hundred miles north of here. My dad’s secretary already handled the flight and hotel room.” His eyes darted around the suite to see if he was forgetting anything.

It was clear he was nervous, though you were sure he didn’t need to be. Kim Taehyung was a trust fund brat, but he was also talented and deeply passionate about his family’s company.

Someday this would be the norm. The two of you were stealing time in college, determined to live a little before the expectations of your powerful families transferred fully onto your shoulders.

It was becoming more and more clear, however, that your carefree time was slowly running out.

Mother had already spoken to you about potential marriage alliances and your father expected you to intern with his Vice President this summer just as your elder sister had...

Taehyung’s voice suddenly interrupted your bittersweet introspection and you couldn’t help but smile at how grown-up he looked in his suit and briefcase ensemble.

Everything was going to change, but not quite yet.

“They estimate negotiations should take around a week or so…” He walked over and pulled you into a tight hug. “There should still be some vacation left for us when I get back.”

“Hurry back then,” you mumbled grumpily into his chest and he chuckled.

“I will.”

Taehyung had been gone for less than twenty minutes when you decided that the best use of your time would be to eat more snacks.

The last thing you expected when you skipped merrily into the kitchen was to find it occupied by a shaggy-haired homeless man in glasses.

Your first instinct was to scream which caused the homeless man to drop the apple he was biting right onto the floor where it rolled around for a small eternity before coming to rest at his ankles.

Your second instinct was to grab a butcher’s cleaver from the nearby knife block and wave it chaotically at the intruder while shouting something along the lines of—

“You’ve made a huge mistake! My boyfriend is the biggest, meanest mafia boss in Seoul! Leave now and he might let you live!”

The homeless man continued to stare at you with a mixture of confusion and shock, but made no move to run away in terror like you were hoping.

So you tried again.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?! The last man who touched me drinks his steak through a straw now! Do the smart thing and leave before my boyfriend comes down those stairs and it’s too late!”

Infuriatingly, the homeless man was still not fleeing for his life and frankly you were starting to get frustrated. You drew in a deep cleansing breath and were prepared to issue another grandiose threat when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry, miss. I... think there’s been some sort of mistake. Who is your boyfriend?”

There was no rational explanation for what came out of your mouth next, but it rolled off your tongue so smoothly and you didn’t even flinch.

“Kim Seokjin.”

For the first time in your entire exchange, the intruder looked truly alarmed.

Now that’s more like it.

“You’ve heard of him I see. He’s a dangerous man and my body belongs to him.” You slammed the cleaver down onto the countertop with a (hopefully) menacing slash. “Kim Seokjin doesn’t like when other men put their hands on what belongs to him.”

There was a long, unpardonably tense moment of silence…Then the stranger slowly reached forward and picked up a mobile phone from the table in front of him.

His eyes remained locked with yours as he pressed a quick series of buttons, brought the phone to his ear, waited a few seconds and said—

“Taehyung… Would you mind telling me why there is a half-naked, knife-wielding omega in our kitchen claiming to be my girlfriend?”

Hello! Please comment on this post if you would like to be added to the taglist!

You guys were all so wonderful, and encouraging, and excited that I literally got this teaser out in three days! If you like what you read so far, please let me know! I cannot put into words how meaningful and valuable feedback is to me. I truly treasure it! It fuels my creativity and keeps me writing. I would love to hear from you!

[fridayfirefly]

Lost and Found [Part Eleven]

Masterlist | Ao3

Despite the fact that he didn't get to bed until 2 AM that morning, Damian still woke up at 6 AM with the sunrise. Sleep deprivation was the last worry on his mind when his Soulmate - beautiful, breathtaking Marinette - was sleeping just one hall down from him.

He met Alfred in the kitchen, already preparing for the meals of the day. The waffle batter was already mixed, coffee was already brewing, and butter was already softening on the counter. "Do you need any help preparing breakfast?"

Alfred shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, but I pride myself in my ability to keep this kitchen under control, no matter how many visitors we have. Besides, I'm sure you would rather spend your morning getting ready for your day with your Soulmate than in the kitchen with me."

Damian nodded. "I'll see you at breakfast, then."

"I look forward to meeting Miss Dupain-Cheng."

Damian left the kitchen and made his way to the gardens, thinking about the night before.

They had gotten back to the Manor at 1:30 AM, too late for the Parisian guests to meet the Wayne family. Damian walked Marinette to her room to let her get some rest, wishing all the while that they could stay up together until the sunrise. Rationally, he knew that Marinette needed her sleep, especially with the drastic time change, but his emotions refused to let her go so soon. However, logic won out in the end, and he kissed her cheek and wished her goodnight. As Damian walked Chloé to her room, taking over for Jason while his brother packed his bags back in his Gotham apartment, Damian asked Chloé for a favor. There was a certain plan he wanted to put into action, that he needed some assistance with. Chloé agreed to help him out and their plan was set: in the morning, Chloé would bring Marinette to her room so that the two girls could get ready together, while Damian brought to Marinette's room a vase of fresh-cut flowers and a handwritten letter asking to take her on a date.

Chloé called his plan "sickeningly romantic", but said it with the sort of wistful smile that made Damian send a text to Jason advising his brother to bring flowers for his own Soulmate. Maybe it was sickeningly romantic, Damian thought over the concept, but he knew that it wasn't a bad thing. Emotions had been difficult for him at first, growing up the way he did, but he now knew better than to try and hide that part of himself from Marinette.

Damian already picked out which flowers to cut days in advance, fragrant purple wisteria and delicate white roses, which he got from the garden before the morning dew had burned off of them. He placed them in the glass vase, arranging and re-arranging them the whole way up to Marinette's room. He knocked on the door, and when there was no reply, he nudged it open. A flash of red by the window caught his eyes, but by the time his eyes focused on the spot, nothing was there. Shrugging it off as a trick of the light, Damian placed the vase of flowers on her bedside table and set down the note beside it. The note, which despite its simplicity had taken several drafts to perfect, read: Dear Marinette, I hope you slept well last night. Breakfast will be served at 8:00 AM. With your permission, I would like to spend today showing you around the city. Once the wedding approaches, I'm certain that we will both be busier, so I would like to get as much time with you now as possible. Sincerely, your Soulmate, Damian

With his plan completed, Damian left the room to go get ready for his first day with Marinette. He quickly sent a text to Chloé, giving her the all-clear to let Marinette return to her room.

Damian had just gotten out of the shower when he saw a note sitting on his bathroom counter. In what was unmistakably Marinette's handwriting, Dear Damian, I would love to go on a date with you today. Sincerely, your Soulmate, Marinette.

Damian breathed out a sigh of relief as the lingering doubt that Marinette might have changed her mind in the last six hours faded away. It is a silly fear, one that Damian wasn't used to indulging in. However, Marinette seemed to bring out all the little human characteristics that the League of Shadows had trained out of him when he was young. A younger Damian would have hated Marinette for it, but in the present day, in the privacy of his room, Damian smiled and let the feeling of relief wash over him.

——————————————————————

Marinette, Chloé, and Nino were all at the dining room table with Jon when Damian entered the room. Marinette brightened up as soon as she saw him. "Damian!" If Damian thought that Marinette looked beautiful last night (which he did) with tangled hair and tired eyes from a seven-hour plane ride, she looked downright breathtaking that morning, in a pretty pale pink dress, with her hair done up in a bun, tendrils curling around her face.

"Good morning, Marinette. I hope you slept well."

"I slept great." A look of annoyance took over Marinette's face. "Even though someone woke me up early on someone else's orders." Marinette's expression shifted from indignation to a bright smile. "I did appreciate the flowers, though, so thank you for those."

"You're very welcome." Damian was pleased that she liked them. He was a little troubled by how intently he was watching her facial expression. "Concerning our date tonight-"

Damian was cut off by the sound of voices coming down the hallway. Richard walked in beside Babs in her wheelchair, the couple having a lively debate about what to do for their respective bachelor and bachelorette parties. "We have to hire one. How often in your life do you get the opportunity to hire a stripper?" argued Babs.

"Alright," conceded Richard, "We get one stripper, and we have him split time between both parties. Now onto decorations - I'm thinking we each pick the decorations for each other's parties, and then it's like a surprise when we get there. And I'm not only saying this because I found the best bachelorette decorations on eBay and I already placed a bid."

Chloé broke the silence that followed in the dining room, as a muffled laugh escaped the hand she had pressed over her mouth. "I'm sorry, but aren't you Waynes billionaires? Can't you afford to hire two strippers?"

"Not billionaires," Tim chimed in as he walked into the room with Connor. "Every time Bruce comes close to being a billionaire, he increases the wages of all Wayne Enterprise employees except for himself and donates a ton of money to charity."

"I suppose we could hire two strippers, but then what if one of them is better than the other. That wouldn't be fair," mused Barbara.

"We could have them switch halfway through, that way we each get the same experience," Richard added.

"How about, instead of arguing the logistics of strippers, you greet the Soulmates who just arrived last night?" asked Jon, with a tone of voice that very clearly demonstrated how absurd he felt their conversation was. Damian had spent too much time with Richard and Babs over the past few weeks of wedding planning - nothing that came out of their mouths phased him anymore.

"Oh, hello Soulmates of my brothers and Soulmate of my brother's Soulmate's brother. I'm Dick."

"Babs," said Babs with a wave.

"Tim."

"Conner."

Richard started pointing to each of the Parisians. "You must be Marinette, Damian's Soulmate. You're Nino, Jon's Soulmate. And you are..?"

"Chloé, my platonic Soulmate," said Jason as he walked into the room.

"I can introduce myself," snapped Chloé, glowering at Jason, who looked a bit sheepish as he sat down in the chair next to her.

Jason picked up his fork and waved it between Chloé and Marinette. "So you two know each other."

Marinette nodded. "We've all known each other since we were kids. Chloé, Nino, and I have been in the same class since maternelle - which you call kindergarten in America. We've been best friends for years now."

"Now that's a coincidence. Both sets of three Soulmates knew each other before they met up with their other halves." Richard nodded, looking the three Parisians up and down.

"Coincidence is putting it mildly. Statistically, it's incredibly improbable. I didn't run the numbers, but I'm sure if I did, it would be in the range of one in a trillion," Tim piped up.

"Good luck, I suppose," said Marinette with a shrug.

"Luck, coincidence, statistical improbability - call it whatever you want to call it. It's still mind-boggling that out of 7 billion people, you three - best friends who go to the same school - end up with Soulmates who are all family."

The conversation turned to other topics as the table waited for Bruce to arrive before they started breakfast. Richard got Marinette talking about her aspiring career as a designer, and it instantly brought Marinette out of her shell. Her passion and enthusiasm were contagious; Damian couldn't help but smile softly to himself as he watched her explain to Richard and Babs the inspiration behind her latest collection of dresses named The City of Lights, which incorporated elements of Parisian fashion throughout the ages, with a focus on finding innovative ways to incorporate light into the dresses. As Marinette was explaining in depth the pros and cons between tea candles and real candles (according to Marinette, an open flame near your hand-crafted creation is a very big con, but she felt so strongly against tea candle that she would rather her dress catch on fire than ruin the integrity of her design), Bruce walked in, wearing a bathrobe with the words World's Best Dad on the back, plaid flannel pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. Overall, he looked nothing like the intimidating Batman and everything like a regular Dad on a Saturday morning. Damian had to admit, it was a good strategy for putting their new houseguests at ease, especially Marinette and Chloé, who were meeting their Soulmates' father for the very first time.

"Good morning everyone," said Bruce. He grabbed his coffee mug off the counter, filled it to the brim, chugged it all in one go, then refilled it and took it to the table. "What's for breakfast?"

"Pancakes," Alfred replied as he walked in with a platter stacked full of them. "Please don't spill any syrup on the tablecloth, it's a pain to get out. And before you ask, yes, I am talking to you, Richard."

"One time," Richard grumbled. "You spill an entire bottle of syrup on the tablecloth one time, and suddenly that's all anyone remembers."

Marinette laughed. "I take it I'm not the clumsiest person at the table, then."

"I'm not clumsy. I'm just sporadically situationally unaware," Richard defended.

"Clumsy," teased Babs, flicking Richard's nose and stealing the last bite of pancake off his plate. They were so effortlessly domestic, affectionate with each other all the time in a way Damian was beginning to envy. Damian kept his expression still as he sat in internal shock at the realization that he was jealous of what Richard and Babs had together. Damian was a naturally private person; he had assumed he would despise public displays of affection. However, with Marinette, he could see the appeal. Marinette had flipped his whole worldview on its head. Now he wanted romantic outings and for everyone to know that she was his. It was a strange and foreign feeling, but deep down it felt right.

——————————————————————

As breakfast winded down, Damian offered to show Marinette around the house. The first place he took her was to the gardens. Damian knew that Marinette didn't like surprises all that much, so he planned on explaining to her exactly what they would be doing for their date.

"The gardens are so pretty!" exclaimed Marinette. "Is this where the wedding will be held?"

"Yes. The ceremony will be at the gazebo in the center of the rose garden."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," said Marinette with a soft smile on her face.

"For our date today, I was hoping I could show you around some of my favorite spots in the city. If you would rather stay at the Manor, I understand but-"

Marinette cut him off. "I would love that. I might need to change my shoes though." She gestured to the three-inch heels on her feet."

"I would advise bringing along a pair of good walking shoes. I would hate for you to get hurt."

"It would be a shame to break my ankle on our very first date," agreed Marinette. "I'll just go grab a change of shoes and my purse, and then we can go."

Damian smiled at her. "I'll wait for you here."

Damian watched Marinette leave, thinking of all his favorite things he could finally show her, and all of her smiles he could finally see.

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[iturbide]

HOWDY BE PREPARED FOR THE SEVERAL ASKS COMING YOUR WAY Okay so as a precursor the basic premise is Byleth (who is male here bc male Byleth needs more love) jumps ship upon realizing that by protecting Edelgard, he somehow got drafted into a war he wanted 0 part in, any attachment to his students be damned (1/9)

(dropping the rest under a Read More because it’s a lot but it’s great and also major kudos for giving M!Byleth the love he deserves because I, too, and exceedingly fond of him and sad that I almost never see content of him)

Okay so first off: I don’t blame you for not playing CF.  It’s not worth it.  I regret playing CF, personally.  I’m sure there are people out there who enjoy CF, but I am not one of them.  But having played CF, I can tell you that Edelgard doesn’t actually take Byleth back to Enbarr after the incident at the Holy Tomb, everybody heads to a small imperial outpost to prepare for the next battle.  Unlike the other routes, you don’t get two extra weeks to prepare for the final battle -- you get one window of exploration to talk to all of your allies at this small holdover base, and then it’s straight into combat. 

So the fact that Byleth sneaks out in the dead of night?  That actually works perfectly with the set-up in the game, because it’s just a little outpost: all Byleth really has to do is get out through the gates and disappear.  Doing so with a gaggle of students would be difficult, and hopefully he didn’t recruit many (if any?) students from other routes to leave behind, because there’s pretty much no way Edelgard would turn on her main housemates, but the others...yeah, there’s less of a guarantee there.

I’m fascinated by the idea of an outcome where Edelgard doesn’t manage to take the monastery.  This perfect storm of circumstances -- Edelgard allying with Byleth and getting overconfident in their chances only to lose him, Rhea not having him as either a distraction or a target on the battlefield...sure, the damage to the monastery and surrounding areas would be significant, not to mention the losses on both sides, but having the Knights truly hold Garreg Mach has some fascinating implications, even if Rhea does end up retiring temporarily from her public role or hibernating for a period afterward and leaving things in Seteth’s charge. 

Speaking of, actually, If Rhea is still awake, would Seteth still be consulting with her on handling of the situation with the Empire, or would all decisions relating to the war be in his hands?  And if she has entered a hibernative state the way Byleth did in the game, how would Seteth be approaching things without Rhea’s direction?  He’s generally a pretty reasonable man, but I can’t imagine he’d take well to the threat that Edelgard poses to them; at the same time, though, the risks involved in meeting the Empire directly might well outweigh the benefits if Edelgard’s numbers outmatch the Knights.  Would he choose instead to fortify the monastery to weather further attacks, or would he attempt diplomacy with their northern and eastern neighbors?

I love the rhyme by the way that made me smile All of that seems very in-character for both Byleth and Edelgard, especially considering how Edelgard parceled out information to try and get Byleth on her side during the academy phase: she tried to only share enough to win her professor’s favor, but never enough to really confide in him as an equal.  It’s reasonable that she’d think she didn’t share enough, but perhaps a bit more would make them realize that she’s right and this is the only way -- meanwhile Byleth, who lived most of his life on the move with Jeralt’s mercenaries, would be an old hand at evasion, survival, and combat all.  Love the idea of him using hair dye to better disguise himself, too, especially since I’d imagine Edelgard has put out a bounty on information related to her teacher in a concerted effort to reclaim him.

...also I’ll be honest I completely forgot that “hook up” can have romantic connotations I totally meant join forces with someone else (but also you are my hero for providing gen content there’s not enough of it out there and I Need More Always).  I...also may have forgotten that the Abyss exists haha someday I’ll play that DLC maybe when I go back to another Golden Deer run.  But it makes sense that Byleth would lay low and avoid getting too involved with anyone, considering the risks involved.

But oh oh I can answer the VW question it’s partly because the general structure follows AM in regards to Faerghus’ fate more closely than it does anything else, but I think the big thing is really Rhea’s capture.  CF is the only route where Rhea’s not captured, and she goes with Dimitri directly to Faerghus where he’s crowned king.  The protection of their worst enemy prevents Cornelia from acting as she would have otherwise, which is why he ends up getting crowned and Cornelia bides her time in Arianrhod.  In every other route, with Rhea in their clutches the Twisted get much bolder and start acting to speed up the conquest of Fodlan, which includes Cornelia murdering Dimitri’s uncle before he can be crowned, framing the prince for the crime, and intending to execute him.  So with Rhea still free, the Twisted have a bit of a dilemma on their hands.  On the one hand, leaving Dimitri to inherit power in Faerghus means that the Empire has two forces to deal with (the Knights based out of Garreg Mach and the Kingdom forces to the north in Faerghus); however, if they do take Dimitri out of the running and gut the taking out the existing power structure in Faerghus, they run the risk of overextending their forces trying to keep the Kingdom under control while the Knights of Seiros remain united with the Immaculate One in the wings.  It’s a tough call, honestly, and either one has really interesting implications.

Claude remains a brilliant strategist and I deeply appreciate that.  Having control of Myrrdin as a safety measure is a very smart move, even if they are maintaining their neutrality; if Edelgard ever does get around to advancing on them, they might even have the option of approaching the Knights of Seiros with the promise of an alliance in request for aid, effectively turning every corner of Fodlan against the Empire.  It might well be that Hubert realizes that targeting the Alliance would prove dangerous to Adrestia, and chooses to plan his strategies on other fronts.

(Not gonna lie, though, I hope Claude does get to reconnect with Byleth at some point, even if Byleth doesn’t end up joining him in any official capacity.  Put at least some minds at ease.)

I am absolutely fascinated by this whole concept okay and I’m deeply curious how it would all proceed after the five year mark.  Would the stalemate hold?  Would things start to shift?  Would it be because of Byleth, or would it be the bigger forces like Adrestia, the Kingdom, the Knights, or even the Twisted finally making their move?  How does it all end up does Edelgard make any progress or is she pushed back and does she suffer consequences for this I am at the edge of my seat dying to know

[chupacabrahhh]

*~{ Garden of Golden Deer }~* a Fire Emblem: Three Houses Part 1 drabble

okayyy this is kinda brazy, I've never written fanfic for a video game before but man fe3h really got my imagination juices goin, and it's all thanks to my wonderful Golden Deers Q v Q

[ set during the aftermath of ch5 when Miklan is defeated & you rescue the Lance of Ruin. I recruited Sylvain the previous chapter and he replaces Lorenz in my house. The professor tells her students a story her father Jeralt once told her long ago. ]

~

It was nearing late afternoon, and the end of the Golden Deer’s lesson for the day. Byleth had everyone practicing combat moves they had drafted earlier, the sounds of weapons clashing ringing throughout the training grounds. The professor herself was locked in special dedication with Sylvain, the Sword of the Creator parried against his newly acquired Lance of Ruin. This was the first time he was allowed a feel for the relic in combat, but his clammy grip and furrowed brow gave insight to inner turmoil unlike Byleth had ever seen on her student’s face, especially when wielding a lance with which he was already very proficient.

“Of course he must still feel some type of way over Miklan. I bet he hasn’t laid a hand on the relic that stole his brother’s humanity since the day it was handed over to him. This must be very difficult for him..” she thought empathetically. Next to Claude, Sylvain was her most cocky and skilled student with their weapon of choice. She had never seen him mishandle a lance or without a confident smile on his face, but in front of her now he kept changing grip position and shifting the weight of the Lance of Ruin away from him, his body language screaming that he still wanted nothing to do with the thing. Byleth wished she could ease her student’s troubles, but she didn’t know what to say to comfort him about wielding this Hero’s Relic when she herself still wasn’t all that acquainted with the Sword of the Creator. And her past experience as a mercenary made her nothing if not numb to the taking and end of life, either around her or by her own hand. Suddenly, a memory from years past flickered back into her consciousness from a time when she was very small and had questioned death for the first time, before it became a daily part of her existence.

“Sylvain, that’s enough for today,” she nodded at him with eyes as kind as she could emote, and sheathed her sword. “Everyone, wrap up your sparring and meet me underneath the oak tree outside of the training grounds.”

She turned her back to the sounds of her students exclaiming victories over the others or getting into teasing squabbles. Byleth grabbed her water canteen on the way out and took a few gulps, knowing she would need the hydration for what she planned next. A part of her felt nervous at the coming prospect but an even greater part was assured in the comfort she hoped to bring her Golden Deer. Taking a seat on a large rock underneath the shade of the great tree, Byleth closed her eyes and tried transporting herself years back in her memories of being a small girl in her father’s arms. She could recall the feeling of his fur coat’s neckline as she gripped it, could smell the crisp air of winter’s final gusts as spring made its grand appearance across the land. At this time the mountains were still capped white but the valleys were turning lush and verdant, and buds of the bravest flowers were starting to stand tall, yet withheld the magnificence of their blooms.

Opening her eyes now, she gazed upon seven colorful and expectant faces all looking up at her with mixed expressions, her own little garden she was tasked with tending. Sigh, but the face of their biggest problem plant- er, child, was not among them.

“Claude, get your golden butt over here and sit down with the others. I haven't dismissed you yet.”

“Augh Teach, I was just a few steps away from making it home free, if only you had stayed in your trance a moment longer,” the house leader lamented teasingly but obediently plopped down in the back of the bunch beside Leonie and the Lance of Ruin, which Sylvain had expectantly distanced farthest from him as he sat towards the front of the bunch.

“Professor, are you going to make us meditate because that’s really not my thing and I already promised to meet someone for tea so,” Hilda piped up next and smiled sweetly as she twirled the ends of her pink hair, hoping to be obliged to leave as well.

“No, Hilda, we are not going to meditate and I promise this won’t be long. I’d like to share a quick little story with you all.”

“A story?” Lyisthea spoke next with a twinge of annoyance coloring her tone, but her doe eyes gave away her true excitement.

“Yes, this is a story my father told me back when I was a young child, and it’s stuck with me ever since. As we continue receiving missions that send us onto the battlefield, you’re all going to have to become very acquainted with death, which still might be a difficult or painful concept for you to grasp, understandably.” The mood had shifted from playful to pensive as she brought up death, and the change had caused that prickle of anxiety to return. Lecturing about battle tactics was something she had been forced to get used to by now, impersonal, automatic and well within her wheelhouse, but storytelling with colorful language and emotional sentiment was definitely leagues outside of her comfort zone. She gulped back the fear quickly and cleared her throat to begin, not wanting the silence to stretch any longer than it had.

“This is a story about what becomes of those who die on the battlefield.” Her opening statement grabbed the attention of all her students, with Leonie leaning in the most, obviously setting her expectations high as she hungrily awaited the words of Jeralt. “It was around the end of the Lone moon and I was small enough to be carried by my father but had already seen the handiwork of what he and his fellow mercenaries were hired to do. The image of bodies lying facedown on the land had been imprinted into my mind, and as we walked among the melting snow and coming flowers, I asked him what would become of those who died fighting? Accomplished nobles had grand sendoffs, and villagers were lovingly prepared by the hands of their families, but what was to become of those violent strangers who met their end in a random battlefield? Without missing a beat, he said…”

Byleth took a moment to appreciate the looks on her deer’s faces, with Sylvain’s amber eyes gleaming the brightest of the bunch.

“They become flowers.”

“Flowers!?” Raphael booming incredulous tone contrasted the professor’s soft spokenness.

“Yes, the fighters become flowers. As their blood and life force seeped out of their bodies and into the land, the great exchange was transmuted by the goddess into the most delicate and lovely creation, flowers. What’s more, he explained, was that the soul of each warrior who had taken life as their means of living would spend their next reincarnation as a flower, to learn the lessons of fragility, powerlessness, and surrender. A brief moment in their soul’s journey back to the goddess where they embody what it means to be defenseless. A child could come running along to pick it, a deer grazing and eat it, or at the end of the year it withers to the natural cycle of the seasons, never once harming another soul in its lifetime. He says that is how balance is restored  and how all warriors learn the lesson of gentleness.” Byleth concluded her storytelling with a breath and leaned back with a tiny amused expression watching the unexpected existential and poetic tale turn over in their minds.

Leonie was the first to speak up. “Pardon me, Professor, but I have trouble believing Captain Jeralt the Blade Breaker came up with a story so… uh, flowery.”

“Very perceptive, Leonie, you do know him well. You’re right that that tale didn’t originate from his thoughts. My mother told it to him. But I can assure you he does believe in its message.” Leonie blushed and huffed embarrassedly at being praised by her one-sided rival but nodded once in acknowledgement.

“So Teach, do you believe in that myth? That you and he and all of us will reincarnate as flowers in the next life?” Of course she was expecting that from Claude, a languid smirk on his face as he awaited her answer with interest.

Byleth pondered her inner self for just a moment then nodded slightly. “Yes, I do.”

“Oh, I knew that to be true, Professor! I always noticed that wherever you walk, you always take care to never step on flowers. It’s something I always admired about you..” Marianne was softly glowing with a rare joy then remembered she was in the company of all her classmates and immediately wiped the smile from her face and looked downwards.

Ignatz spoke next, the stars of inspiration lighting his whole body language. “Professor, thank you for sharing such a moving tale! I believe it must be true, as it aligns with all that I believe the goddess values as well! A-and if I may, Professor, I believe that in your next life, you will be a grand and magnificent tree, just like the one we’re all gathered under.”

“Ignatz, so bold! I’m impressed with you!” Sylvain smiled teasingly and ruffled his peer’s olive bowlcut, causing the boy to blush an even deeper shade than his proclamation had him before. “And I have to say, I agree with you. The Professor has to be a majestic and wise tree,” he said, turning his smile towards her. Byleth noticed most of the darkness had left his amber eyes and his inner light was shining through once again, so even though the storytime was a bit embarrassing and uncomfortable, seeing him embody a bit of his old self again made it all worth it, as much as the wonder in the rest of her Golden Deer’s faces. Yes, she felt herself smile genuinely, they were indeed a vibrant garden of individuals.

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 20

Hey so uhhhh, I feel like this took forever?  

Ao3

00000

“I just don’t understand how you aren’t bored.” The first thing Hiccup hears is Astrid’s voice, on edge and at ease all at once, close enough to surround him entirely. When Astrid’s fingers drag softly through his hair, he doesn’t care about the hazy confusion of waking up somewhere other than his bed. He knows exactly where he is. “There are obvious problems in the league—“

“Problems like the Patriots being the greatest and Tom Brady reinventing the game every year he postpones retirement?” Snotlout snorts, slurring the edges of his words slightly. Drunk maybe, but Hiccup doesn’t care because of Astrid’s touch lingering under his ear. “Those aren’t problems from my side.”

“Ok, but you have to acknowledge that in a league of thirty-two teams, the fact that the competition is between one team and everyone else means that there’s something wrong.” She’s emphatic but quiet, one step below a whispered yell, and she twirls a lock of hair at the nape of his neck around her finger, her nail barely dragging across his scalp. He wishes he could fall back asleep before Snotlout’s reply, but he’s not fast enough.

“Or that the one team is just that fucking awesome.”

“That’s literally impossible.” Astrid’s hand grazes along the back of his neck and pauses to rub at the least pressing knot of muscle in his back.   “The entire point of the draft and the salary cap is to keep the league competitive.”

“But that doesn’t apply, because Brady plays for less because he loves the game.”

“Is that another way to say that he married someone richer than he is and he’s a little bitch who cries when he loses?” Her fingers brush across Hiccup’s forehead before she drags fingernails through his hair again, absent-minded and sweeter for how habitual the motion is. His hip and lower back feel like he’s been sleeping for hours without moving and he gets the feeling that she’s been touching him this whole time.

His arm is asleep and his eyes feel sandy and dry, but he can’t remember the last time he was this comfortable.

“You think men can’t be emotional? That’s pretty sexist of you.”

There it is, time to wake up.

He yawns, stretching slowly with a wince and lifting his head off of Astrid’s lap, elbow on the couch cushion to hold him half upright. It takes a couple blinks to detangle his eyelashes and when he does, Snotlout is staring at him, pale but distinctly smug in the way he only gets when he’s winning arguments about sports.

And he’s in a hospital bed instead of on Hiccup’s dad’s chair at the apartment. His shoulder is wrapped in gauze and his eyes are morphine bleary instead of happy Saturday night drunk.

Right, the hospital.

“Morning sleeping beauty, are you done being a spaz?”

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” Hiccup looks at the window, trying to judge the time. It’s too bright to be morning, the sun peeking through dispersing clouds. Early afternoon, he’d guess, given he feels at least partially back on schedule.  

“You were snoring,” Snotlout tells him, forever helpful, “and sleep-talking.”

“Oh,” he sits up, looking sheepishly over at Astrid, “what did I say?”

“Nothing coherent,” she shrugs, rolling her shoulders and folding one leg underneath her, probably stiff from being his pillow for however long he slept. Her blue eyes are bright, teasing above the worry, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “Emphatic though. You really meant whatever you were mumbling about.”

She’s too pretty to be here, smiling quietly at him and cocking her head while he sits up the rest of the way and rubs his face. His greasy, stubbly face with gritty tear streaks from crying. Apparently he got enough rest to be embarrassed that this is the condition of the head he rested on Astrid’s lap for hours, so that’s something.

He preferred being half-asleep, her hands in his hair while she and Snotlout argued in useless circles, like this was just a usual night in a world he wishes he lived in.

“How long was I out?” He stands up and twists slowly side to side, willing the deep stiffness in his lower back to fade and losing the argument.

“Long enough to watch the same football game one and a half times,” she glares at Snotlout, standing to take a sip of water from a second glass that appeared on the bedside table while Hiccup was sleeping.

“Hiccup, you should probably get this sore loser out of here before she starts being sexist again.” Snotlout rolls his eyes, hunkering down further in his pillows and Hiccup recognizes the painkiller grogginess in his face.

That’s how Hiccup must have looked in the hospital a decade ago, down a foot and wishing his dad would leave and let him sleep off the dizzy fog in his head, while his dad insisted on staying, gray-faced and worried.

There’s a short list of days in Hiccup’s life that transected reality and made it impossible for him to go back to living how he did before them. His leg. His parents divorce. His dad dying.

Meeting Astrid makes the list, and the anxious twist at the thought of trying to explain the gravity of that to her builds on the depth of the line being drawn right now. On the precipice of a relationship he’s never thought he’d be able to manage after what happened with his parents, he’s here hovering over someone recovering from a gunshot wound, too involved to let them sleep.

Like everyone with a complicated relationship with their parents, Hiccup has of course feared becoming his dad. He always thought it would have something to do with gaining an unfortunate appreciation for bagpipes or the law, and more than that, he always thought it was impossible as long as he kept generally failing. If he didn’t try, he couldn’t come up short.

But even five years of tax dodging unemployment couldn’t save him from becoming himself. Accidentally like his dad enough for it to hurt, but entirely lacking the easy to avoid roadmap of his father’s footsteps.

“You ok?” Astrid asks, hand twining more easily than he deserves with his.

“Yeah,” he lies, “I could use some fresh air, maybe—”

“Like that’s possible until you shower,” Snotlout rolls his eyes, “it smells like the locker room in here, and it’s not Mr. Sponge-bath’s fault.” He points at himself with his good arm and Hiccup takes a self-conscious step away from Astrid.

“Ok, then some not-hospital filtered air. Will you be—I mean, if I go home for a while—”

“If you don’t, I will call Sharon to kick you out.” Snotlout’s hand hovers over the nurse call button, “don’t test me, Haddock.”

00000

It’s bright enough outside that he checks the time, squinting at his phone screen in the sudden sunlight appearing from behind a cloud. A little past two, but that seems irrelevant, considering he’s not quite sure of the day.

“So, shower?” Astrid asks too brightly, her voice snapping him out of his head for the third time in the last hour.

“Huh?” He blinks at her, sure he must have heard wrong. “If my head was so greasy that you feel like you need a shower now, I apologize. Sincerely.”

“Not at all,” she wrinkles her nose, half-teasing and half looking at him like he’s crazy and he scratches the back of his neck.

“Right, and now that I drew your attention to all this,” he waves his hand in front of his face, “I’m assuming you’re not offering to join me.”

“Hiccup!” She smacks his arm, hard but not as hard as he knows she’s capable of, and he doesn’t know how he feels about the fact that she’s laughing. A real laugh, a relieved laugh. At him, absolutely, but not unkind.

“Wait, are you?”

“The concept of a shower was the only thing to get you out of that room in three days, so I reminded you,” she blushes even though her reasoning is sound, maybe because it’s embarrassing to be essentially propositioned by someone who probably looks like they’ve written off soap as a concept. “You seem a little out of it.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Do you need to go back in there and get yourself checked out? Maybe you concussed yourself sleeping on that shitty couch?” The worried lines between her eyebrows make him want to smooth them out, to assure her the way she did him when nothing but the difficult truth could.

“No, I guess it’s just that nearly losing Snotlout is somehow summing up every trauma I’ve spent the last decade avoiding.”

Great, that’ll ease her mind.

“Every trauma?” She smacks his arm again, sort of gentler, “you’ve been holding out on me, I thought I got your whole traumatic past on our midnight tour.”

“I know we said that wasn’t a date, but I was still following the first date rule of baggage dumping.” He snorts, “you know, get the dead dad thing out of the way so you subliminally didn’t worry about impressing a future father-in-law, but the missing leg would have been a lot. I wasn’t looking for pity.” He can say it because he knows Astrid would never give that to him.

He fell on her when he was at his lowest, most terrified point, and she was nothing but honest and solid, and that’s more comforting than he would have ever expected.  

“Well, I would have had more warning when we found your old leg attached to a murder victim,” she nudges his elbow and starts walking, freeing his feet from the pavement they felt glued to. He thinks if she weren’t here, he’d walk right back to Snotlout’s room, compelled but entirely unable to help.

“Second out of three,” he sighs, back internally creaking like a cartoon door when he forces his gait even, “and there was the foot? With the Ryker letter approximation?”

“I haven’t thought about the note in forever,” she shakes her head, pausing to tap too many times at a crosswalk button, “not that I forgot it, I definitely didn’t forget it.” The light changes color and she starts walking again, pulling him away from the hospital in the only way he’d be grateful for. “But no, we’re talking about your trauma, not Grimborn.”

“The letter attached to the foot sent to my apartment isn’t exactly Grimborn, is it?” He understands the blurring line attached but tugs at it anyway, seeing where in the web of Astrid’s ever-fascinating mind it’s connected.

She sighs, shoving her hands deep in her pockets like having pockets is a novelty. Then she looks up at him, biting her lip and refusing to wince at what she’s about to say, facing the truth again like he trusted her to do when it mattered most.

“Snotlout’s really high.”

“That’d be the morphine for his gunshot wounds, plural, what did he say?”

There was a time where Hiccup would have been mortified to leave Snotlout alone with anyone he was interested in, in any capacity. Let alone Astrid, or someone he felt this way about. Except no, he’s never felt like this about anyone, and her Snotlout tolerance is only part of it.

A part that lets her fit into a life he wants but doesn’t understand how to have yet, sure, but only part of the reason he likes her so much.

“He told me about your dad,” she shrugs, sheepish, and he wants to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. A sexy chin grab, she called it, mortified and adorable but he shuts that thought off before he can follow it to blood and police and complication.

“I already told you about my dad though,” he laughs, “back when you thought you’d get murdered on a tour with me, which, I guess geographically, we were both close—“

“This, he told me about this.” She stops and faces him, looking so much like she wants to shove him that he looks away, trying to be distracted. The Ripped Tavern is right there, drawing him in like a perpendicular source of gravity, but he can’t focus on it with Astrid staring twin blue lightning bolts into his face.

“My tendency to change the subject?”

“He told me about how it was when he moved in.” Her voice is as gentle as the grip on his arms isn’t. The grip tethering him rudely to present day Berk, the land of trauma wards and messes he has to figure out. The land tethered to Grimborn through mystery, one important and one ephemeral and endless, a mystery resort for fascination without commitment.

As much as people want to live on vacation, when life’s consequences follow, it gets less fun.

“He told me how you found Grimborn-ology.” Her hand slides up to his shoulder, bracing, a little uncomfortable, and worse because he knows how much he trusts her. How right she always is. “And how before, you hadn’t been leaving the house or…”

“I’d just moved here, ok?” He starts walking because he doesn’t know how to talk while standing still. Because the Ripped Tavern is an eighteen-fifties pub that makes him feel grounded and he wants to be closer to it when he says too much and untethers himself again. “When everything happened with my dad, I’d just moved here to this city that he gave his life trying to protect. It felt hostile, but going back to live with my mom would be letting the thing he died for go. And…Viggo Grimborn was the only thing that made it feel like anyone had lived in this city before my dad died in it.”

The words shed more weight from his shoulders than he thinks they will, but for once, feeling lighter is worse. Dizzy, even.  

“And now someone obsessed with Viggo Grimborn keeps killing people.” Astrid makes the leap he’s glad not to be bold enough to and he sighs, resting his head on the wall of the tavern. It’s old brick, sturdy brick, the kind of brick that weathers things it shouldn’t have to. “Centered around you.”

The bass inside kicks up a notch and the ‘Happy Hour, 3-6’ sign to Hiccup’s left catches his eye when the wall vibrates like it shouldn’t.

“Did…did Heather renovate?”

“What?”

“These walls should be solid,” he grabs Astrid’s hand and presses it against the brick, “they shouldn’t move with bass like this unless someone drilled speakers into the walls. Hundred and fifty-year-old stone walls with some cheap Amazon speaker system crumbling the mortar…” He exhales, voice heavy and tired, “there was no building code, just organized chaos relying on intuition, and when you drill into that...”

“Do you trust me?” She asks, chin set stubbornly forward like no isn’t an answer, and it hurts that she doesn’t automatically know that.

“A frankly alarming amount.” His fingers curl around hers against the wall and she nods.

“Good, come on,” she grabs his wrist and drags him after her, explaining over her shoulder as she yanks him around the corner and through the pub’s front door, “we never finished our private tour.”

He freezes just inside, bending his knees to keep her from pulling him over. It works, barely, and she turns around, head cocking under a row of tee-shirts that say ‘Grimborn 1883-?’ in drippy, red lettering, hanging on a newly installed rack on a freshly whitewashed wall. “What’s wrong?”

“Look around,” he gestures with his free hand, “she painted—is that an Alexa? I was joking about the Amazon speakers—“

Astrid cuts him off with a palm pressed a little less than gently over his mouth and chin and she’s too close for him to be this desperate and floating. He bites his lip to keep from kissing her hand like an idiot or licking it so that she jerks back and he can complain about HGTV and how it’s destroying the city’s landmarks.

“You said you trusted me.” She doesn’t let go so he nods, “then let’s finish the tour.”

“Some of the rafters in here are probably American Chestnut, and they’re coated in enough latex paint to look like shiplap,” he says as soon as she takes her hand away, “it’s—“

“You said it was my tour,” she cuts him off, pointing at the side door, her hair bouncing on her shoulder with the motion, “I want to finish it.”

“You said if you knew it was your tour, you would have specified for me to wear the hat.”

“As much as I like the hat, you don’t need it.” She pulls him towards the side door again and he looks at the old wooden booths, buffed smooth and half re-finished. “Hiccup—“

“Just a second, ok?” He impulsively kisses her too casually on the forehead, stubble scraping over her temple, and stumbles with a right-footed hop up to the bar. He raps his knuckles on the newly smooth wood counter and the busboy looks up, startled that someone is interrupting him cleaning a tap, like that’s not an insult to the impoverished people who once depended on beer drippings for calories. “Do you have a pen? And a napkin?”

The busboy stutters something to the affirmative and hands Hiccup a napkin and a branded pen that he chews on for a second to think of his message before scrawling ‘Drilling through hundred fifty year old mortar to install smart speakers, very Orwellian of you’ and sliding the napkin back across the bar.

“Give this to Heather for me when she comes in, alright?”

“Who do I say it’s from?” The busboy frowns but tucks it into his apron anyway.

“Oh, she’ll know.” He pats the counter and turns around, walking with the only immediate purpose he has left to the side door of the bar where Astrid is waiting, thumbs tucked in her pockets, “so, finishing the tour?”

“Or starting a new one, either way,” she opens the door that he’s never opened in the daytime and a direct beam of sunshine streams through, cutting paint fumes the way it never could the tavern’s usual dust.

Hiccup steps outside and half-wonders where he is, because he’s definitely not standing in the creepy, ancient alley he’s started three tours a day in for the better part of five years.

The alley is idyllic in the early spring afternoon, cobblestones clean from what could be rain if he didn’t know about the crime scene cleanup. The usually weatherized lamp post is glimmering and the crowd of people gathering between quaint, ancient brick walls could be from a picture of the outskirts of a small European city just now being recognized by tourists.

Hiccup blinks twice, his eyes measuring automatic distances from the wall to the storm drain, facts about Mary Johnson flitting through his head.

He remembers the first time he saw this alley, at the end of his first Grimborn tour when he was lucky enough to be standing at the exact spot Mary Johnson was found, just how Astrid did on the tour she attempted when she was deciding whether to have him arrested or not. Both times, it was cold and damp and the alley had a foreboding cloud hovering above the ground Hiccup still sees blood when he looks at, and he struggles to put the two images together in his head.

This alley looks like it goes with the Ripped Tavern as it was, before Grimborn-ology got a hold of it. A place where people live, a street that gets them places.

“So, fourth site,” Astrid elbows a guy out of the way of the storm drain and stands on just the right spot, “what do you have to say about it?”

“Ok,” Hiccup rubs his hands together, trying to find his rhythm with the small but irritated group of people filtering past them and trying to stand on the drain with Astrid. Oh, not people, Grimborn tourists, a phrase which makes his stomach churn like he never thought possible. One jostles her and she glares, looking back at Hiccup to hurry up. “Right. Mary Johnson, the fourth site. She was a prostitute looking for—”

“I know that,” she cuts him off, “I know all about the investigation and her last bar tab and how her murder is what got Ryker off of the suspect list for good. I’m asking why you care about it.”

He snorts, “it was always quiet. Lonely almost, except not lonely, because under that light,” he points up at the incandescent bulb that so accurately mimics the gaslights of a hundred years ago in the dark and sees a slightly cheesy-looking, oversized eyesore, “it was like stepping into a bubble where everything was the same as it was when—”

“Are you doing a tour?” A woman in a sparkly new Ripped Tavern shirt interrupts him, jostling between him and Astrid. “I thought all the tours were at night, I wanted to do one, but with the murderer still on the loose…”

“It’s a private tour, actually,” Astrid turns to stand beside him.

“He’s doing a tour!” She calls out anyway and a plump older man with a well-loved copy of that idiotic Krogan book under his arm steps up beside her. “I told you I’d find a daytime tour.”

“Do you also do a nighttime tour?” The man asks, “I think I’d prefer it with the ambiance, but my wife is scared.”

“Usually, I do, but…” But Snotlout. But the murders. But the fact that somehow in the last few months, giving tours has turned from getting to talk about his favorite thing to deflecting insensitive people away from questions that make him check corners twice before turning around them.

“See? It’s not safe to be out at night,” the woman giggles, grabbing her probable husband’s arm and tilting the book under it to better show its cover.

There’s a silhouette of a man in a top hat, brandishing a long, wicked knife and sneaking up behind a buxom silhouette of a historically inaccurate prostitute at the end of a dark alley. Hiccup bets the dog-eared pages along the bulk of it, spaced into four conspicuous chunks, are about bodies he doesn’t ever want to describe again.

“The Krogan book,” Hiccup flicks the cover with one hand and grabs Astrid’s hand with the other, “not quality research, half the dates are wrong, and he doesn’t know the difference between a ritualistic Jewish slaughterhouse blade and a steak knife at the Outback steakhouse they tore down the old kosher slaughterhouse to build.”

“Well, I’m not paying to be insulted,” the man huffs, tapping on his book and opening his mouth to make a point Hiccup can’t bring himself to listen to.

“You’re not paying at all, because I’m not giving tours,” he clears his throat like he’s doing exactly that, getting most of the attention in the alley before continuing, “you know, the great miracle of the Viggo Grimborn case is that by documenting a volatile period a little better than normal—”

“Deputy Ryker’s documentation is shit,” someone else in the crowd tries to start another argument that Hiccup doesn’t care about.

“Just a second, I’m leaving, I just want to throw something out there for you all to think about.” He pauses and Astrid squeezes his hand, encouraging even though he doesn’t need it right now, “Maybe, if you all thought about Viggo Grimborn as a fascinating window to what life used to be like, instead of fixating on who died here and how disgusting it was, maybe, just maybe, someone wouldn’t be copying it now.”

“Let’s go,” Astrid tugs his arm, half jogging past the crowd of stupid book wavers and laughing when he stumbles after her. A couple people try and follow, yelling something about the tour leaving, and he pulls her sideways into the narrow alley he hasn’t used since the night he found Jennifer’s body by the storm drain.

Two turns to the right down familiar passageways that welcome them with a faint echo of footsteps and the cool relief of damp air and he feels like he can breathe again, maybe for the first time in weeks. Maybe longer.

He’d like to think that the tall brick walls were thanking him for defending their architectural honor, separate from blood. Really, it’s him thanking them for the quiet as he pauses at the next turn, pressing his hand to the solid, cool stone.

“I doubt that counts as the rest of a tour,” he lowers his voice when the first word echoes and Astrid shrugs, a tentative, almost smug smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

“It did what I wanted it to.”

“Which was?” He steps closer, just barely, cocking his head and pressing against the ghost of a boundary when his eyes dart to her lips.

“I have dealt with so many Grimborn-ologists in the last few months,” she pokes the center of his chest and looks so defiantly at him that he can’t help but lean in, “you’re not one.”

He stops short and frowns, “what?”

“You aren’t well-adjusted—”

“We’re doing this now, ok, odd choice, I thought you were trying to cheer me up—”

“I’m not,” she smiles, pressing her hand flat against his chest, “I’m trying to tell you the truth, which is that you aren’t one of those weirdos obsessed with Grimborn.”

“I’m confused as to how you came to that conclusion,” he shrugs, gesturing at the alleys around them, “considering how we met and half of what we talk about and where we are.”

“I deal with people trying to steal Grimborn artifacts from the archives every week, at least, more often lately. A Grimborn themed bar just painted over a hundred and seventy-year-old building, to make it more comfortable for tourists to take a watered down walk past places where people died horrible deaths. Someone so obsessed with Grimborn’s methods that they had to replicate them has been terrorizing the city for weeks and murder tourism has only gone up.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Hiccup chews his lip and she sighs, shoving him gently away and crossing her arms.

“Exactly.” She shakes her head, “you have an interest, sure, but it’s like you just said, you’re interested in how people lived, not how they died. And learning that you got into Grimborn because of how much your dad loved this city…”

“So, I spend five years giving tours and you’re saying I’m a fake Grimborn geek boy?” He wants to be irritated just as much as he wants to laugh, but the result of the combination is too flat to echo even in the narrow alley. “At least my hat is an actual antique—"

“I’m saying there’s nothing cruel or destructive about the way that you learn things.” She says it like a compliment, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking importantly at him, like she can beam the meaning into his brain if she stares hard enough.

He doesn’t know how much gets through, but the fact that she means it this much makes his chest ache.

“We finished your tour, what now?” It’s either the exact wrong question or the right one because her expression softens to something like worry and she shrugs.

“I’m thinking I should probably go get my phone so that I can ask Fish if his spare room is still available,” she looks around, trying to see daylight at the mouth of one of the alleys, “how do we get out of here?”

“Here,” he gestures for her to follow him around the next corner, “why do you need Fishlegs’s spare room?”

“Because the twins couch is getting old really quick,” she squints as the sun pours into the mouth of the alley, pausing just before she trips on the low gate at the end.

“What’s wrong with your place? I thought you were pretty determined to fight off the serial killer onslaught with the home team advantage.” He stumbles slightly over the gate and catches himself on her shoulder, not that she seems to notice.

“I still haven’t been back after what happened to Snotlout,” she crosses her arms again but it’s more like she’s hugging herself than keeping him out. “I know I should feel better now that he’s obviously going to be ok, but—”

“He was sh—hurt at your place?” Hiccup feels himself go pale and Astrid’s eyebrows furrow, concerned and determined.

“No one told you.”

“I guess location wasn’t important when they didn’t know if he’d make it.”

“Hey,” she rubs his arm through his jacket, “he’s going to be fine though.”

“He was almost the fourth victim, wasn’t he?”

Astrid was right about Grimborn being destructive.

“But he wasn’t,” she assures him, “and now it’s over, the copycat has four murders under his belt—”

“But Snotlout isn’t dead—”

“How would they know that?” She trusts him to keep up with her logic and he doesn’t want to let her down, so he nods for her to continue. “The last thing they saw looked pretty dismal for him and the news hasn’t said anything about it.”

“It’s a break from method, it’s—all those other slum murders in eighteen-eighty-three that people try to put the Grimborn name on to make it a more gruesome story, we know it doesn’t fit because the injury profile was different—”

She kisses him to shut him up, hands on both of his cheeks when she pulls back, “the other sites are in alleys, even today. The first is in an inhabited apartment building that’s not in an awful part of town anymore, a drive-by was probably the most Grimborn thing they could pull off.”

“I don’t want you to stay with Fishlegs,” he tugs her hands away from his face and squeezes them in his. “He doesn’t like me, remember?”

“I don’t care, because I like you, and you have enough going on with Snotlout, you don’t need me in your hair.”

“You like me now, sure, but after a couple weeks with that moustache?” His lame teasing gets a barely there twitch of a smile before she nods to herself.

“I should still get my phone.”

He could let her go alone, he knows that, it’s the middle of the afternoon and there’s nothing dangerous about it. Especially because it’s Astrid, so she’s right, the murders are over.

She’s been good enough to tell him the hard truths though, and she deserves the same.

“I know I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving you a tour right now, but I think if you stopped telling me what to do, I’d be back at the hospital annoying Snotlout and feeling even more helpless than I do now.”

“Come with me,” she suggests but something about his expression stops her, “if I don’t want to see it, you probably really don’t.”

“I just had the Ripped back alley spoiled for me by sociopathic murder tourists, let me enjoy the ‘All Safe’ wall another day.”

“The ‘Al, I. Safe’ wall,” she corrects and he chooses to cement the image of her courtyard wall behind her, stealing his hat and correcting his tour because she couldn’t stand him thinking he was right when she thought he wasn’t, into his head. He doesn’t think it’ll do much against another pressure-washed, professionally, historically scrubbed patch of the ground, but it’s nice for now.

“Maybe you’re the Grimborn-ologist,” he teases, taking her hand and attempting a step towards his apartment, but she refuses to move her feet, one eyebrow raised. “I’m just saying, you’re awfully smug about a post-murder message.”

“A murder that I don’t even think was connected, by the way,” she insists as she starts walking beside him. The alleys aren’t much quicker than the main roads from here, and they’re close to Gruff’s anyway, so he stays on the main road, crossing the street one intersection early to avoid the alcove that Astrid doesn’t mention either.

“You’re still on that?” He nudges her side and she rolls her eyes, bumping her shoulder on his.

This should feel like taking Astrid back to his place for the first time, and it does, but the butterflies in his stomach are tired, more than tired. Suffering from insomnia, actually, because they absolutely didn’t get any rest while he slept on her lap.

She seems to doubt him for a second when he drops her hand and fishes his keys out of his pockets, taking a step back and looking up at the apartments with wide eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she watches the key easily turn in the lock before continuing, “this is just a nice place, for a guy who couldn’t afford frozen yogurt.”

“It was my dad’s,” he steps back to let her go first up the stairs, “it was paid off when I inherited it.”

“That explains it,” she smiles over her shoulder at him and he stumbles, catching himself on the handrail. They’re too close on the tiny landing as he unlocks the front door but it’s not close enough.

Of course, his phone rings right as he’s swinging the door open, still on full blaring volume from the hospital when he was worried he’d fall asleep in the waiting room when someone needed to reach him.

“Shit, sorry,” he frowns at the Caller ID as they step into the living room and vaguely recognizes the number.

“Who is it?” Astrid looks over his shoulder her face lights up with recognition, “oh, that’s Ruffnut.”

“Oh,” he swallows hard, wondering how much Astrid knows about the last time he saw Ruffnut, “I should get this but um, make yourself at home?”

Snotlout always sounds like an adult saying that to people he brings home, but Hiccup feels like he’s about to have to scramble for an adult to take the important phone call. But he is the adult, and for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he doesn’t want to run from that.

“Sure,” she nods, looking absently at the poster above the couch while he picks up the phone.

“Hey Ruff, what’s up?”

“Is Astrid there?”

“Uh, yeah, I didn’t realize she’d hired me as her secretary though, I definitely didn’t accept without seeing the benefits package.” He shrugs and Astrid holds out her hand for the phone, seemingly understanding what he’s hearing.

“I’ll negotiate for you if you hand the phone over,” Ruffnut sounds almost panicky enough to drown out the suggestion, “don’t worry, you’re in good hands, I know all her terms.”

“Is she asking for me?” Astrid reaches for his hand.

“Yeah,” he hands it over and Astrid holds it away from her ear for a second until Ruffnut is done with her evidently loud usual greeting. She listens for a second before sighing and sitting on the couch, hand over the receiving speaker for a second.

“Sorry, this might take a minute.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He sits on the other end of the couch to take off his shoes and watches out of the corner of his eye as Astrid does the same, punctuating Ruffnut’s chatter with a couple bored ‘uh-huh’ type sounds and rolling her eyes. She bites her lip when Ruffnut says something particularly objectionable and curls her feet underneath her on the couch, fingers of her free hand fiddling absently with the patch on the arm’s old leather.

The comfort he felt waking up in the hospital with Astrid and Snotlout’s gentle bickering above him hits again but harder, closer, purer without hospital antiseptic smells. He wants Astrid curled on his couch, mildly annoyed but flicking impossibly fond eyes at him when she catches him staring more than he’s ever wanted a Grimborn letter he practically bankrupted himself for. He barely stops himself from blurting that out as he jumps to his feet, hands curled into awkward fists at his sides.

“I’m going to go take that shower really quick, ok? Cool, see you in a minute.”

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and sighs, not entirely sure that wasn’t a worse thing to blurt.

[thundersolstice]

Lion-OxTygra WIP (R, discontinued)

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Unfinished! Extremely OOC! PWP! Gratuitous kink worship (I don’t know what this kink is called but I’m pretty sure it has a “normal” version name? Basically Lion-O and Tygra bang while Tygra is invisible). Summary/Notes: This is an early draft WIP for a fic I probably won’t finish because there’s too much wrong with it–can’t be salvaged without starting over–but what brainless smut that’s written is fun if you can glance over flow/clarity errors and forget how painfully OOC everyone is. I’m sharing because there isn’t enough fic in this fandom, and I wish to acknowledge kinktober since I can’t participate all month lmao.

I have every intention of writing this basic concept (Lion-O x Tygra with Tygra invisible) properly, but I couldn’t say when/if it’ll ever get done and posted, so.

Tygra stared at him, bemused. “Why?”

“Why not?” Lion-O bounced in place on the edge of the bed, fingers drumming against the bedclothes with nervous energy. When Tygra failed to look delighted and aroused, he added hastily, “We don’t have to or anything, I was just, y-you know, curious—”

“No, it’s fine,” Tygra said, still bemused. He uncrossed his arms but remained leaning against the bedpost—no sign of irritation, still close enough to touch. A knot eased in Lion-O’s chest, and he stopped bouncing.

“I just don’t know why you’d want to,” Tygra continued. “I didn’t think you were like that, Lion-O. Will you ask me to tie you down and flog you next?” His tone was amused, a little dry to mask the lingering sense of bafflement, but Lion-O received the mental image with crystal clarity; his mouth went dry.

He had to take a steadying breath before he could reply, affecting a tone of sly seduction. “Are you offering?”

“…If you really want it that badly?” Tygra said, and he was back to being bemused again, gaze askance.

Lion-O leaned forward and bumped his forehead against Tygra’s arm, smiling now. “I’ll settle for your other skill this time.”

“Alright.” Tygra straightened and strode across the room.

Lion-O watched his back while he rummaged in a drawer, heart pounding. When Tygra turned around with his whip in hand, Lion-O became aware of the aching tension between his legs like a punch to the gut. He tried to stand, found his legs were shaking, and sank back down on the side of the bed while Tygra crossed the room.

He stopped in front of his brother, eyes drifting, and tapped his smirk with the handle of the whip. “I haven’t seen you gagging for me this hard since our last patrol.” His eyes lingered on Lion-O’s face during his second, more successful attempt to stand. “What was it that had you so bothered at the time?” Tygra continued while Lion-O, lost for words, nuzzled his neck and pressed their hips together. “I took off my shirt, wasn’t that it? And you abandoned the mounts to wander so you could lick my stripes before I put my shirt back on. Honestly, I’ve been under the impression you liked looking at my body.”

Lion-O dragged his tongue through the fur on Tygra’s throat, pressing his erection urgently into his brother’s crotch. “I might love your body more than you do,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is a new way to experience it.”

Tygra draped one arm around Lion-O’s hip and tapped the back of his thigh with the whip; he buried his free hand in Lion-O’s mane and yanked him into a rough kiss.

Lion-O made a desperate, plaintive sound and applied himself with helpless fervor, enough to leave Tygra gasping and decisively aroused. He was wearing a pair of loose white pants, placing his erection on display, and Lion-O reacted to this sight like he usually did: he dropped to his knees and mouthed his brother through the material. Tygra groaned and placed a hand on top of Lion-O’s head, holding him steady so he could thrust into his mouth as much as his clothing would allow. When he pushed Lion-O back for breath, the front of his pants were marred by a transparent wet spot clinging to his skin.

Lion-O very nearly ripped Tygra’s pants down and crashed forward, sucking him fully into his mouth before the material had hit the ground. He moved aggressively, pulling off and sucking him back in quickly enough to knock him off balance. He wrapped one hand around Tygra’s wrist—the one with the whip—and slid the other between his legs to massage and squeeze his sac. When he looked up, he found Tygra’s teeth clenched and his eyes closed, eyebrows drawn together; Lion-O abandoned Tygra’s balls in favor of his own.

All told, it took a remarkably short amount of time to get Tygra ready. Once he was fully erect, Lion-O licked the precum from his head and then required Tygra’s aid in stumbling back to his feet. Their tongues and lips met eagerly between pulling one another’s shirts off, and they remained fastened together until Tygra reached around and slid fingers down Lion-O’s back and between his legs. They broke apart together, Lion-O gasping at his brother’s touch and Tygra smirking faintly at what he found.

“Have you been wearing this all day?” Tygra purred, eliciting another gasp from his brother and driving his hips forward.

“I w-wanted to be ready for you,” Lion-O gasped. He jerked and nuzzled into Tygra’s fur while those fingers slid the dildo out and twisted in and slid back out, dribbling lubricant every time it was drawn out, and driving a heavy stream of precum into the fur of both their stomachs every time it was driven back in.

“I like this.” Tygra did something that resulted in a less-than-masculine yelp. “You should do this more often for me.” He drove Lion-O’s hips forward, forcing him to grind his cock between both muscled abdomens.

Lion-O wound one arm around Tygra’s neck (and did not release Tygra’s whip arm) and hooked one leg around his thigh, groaning and thrusting helplessly at Tygra’s direction. “Please, brother, please, I'm—” Which was all the warning either of them got before Lion-O tightened and cried out and jerked while Tygra continued to work his ass to the very deliberate outcome of a throbbing, spurting mess between their stomachs. When Lion-O’s muscles loosened, Tygra pulled their toy out and let it fall to the ground with a wet clatter, then slid his fingers into his brother’s body to twist and press and stroke him in places Tygra knew better than Lion-O himself.

“Love the slick,” Tygra purred, a definite growl in his voice now. “Did you use an entire bottle on yourself? Feels like it.”

Lion-O whimpered and writhed, struggling to avoid the over-stimulation and increase it all at once. Tygra knew what he was doing, of course—they’d been lovers for the better part of a year, and he knew exactly what it took to bring Lion-O’s enviably brief refractory to an even briefer end. Not a minute passed before he was rock hard again, and very eagerly pushing himself onto Tygra’s fingers.

Tygra released him and stepped back, twisting his whip arm free. When Lion-O made a shaky attempt to step forward, Tygra pointed the whip at him. “Do you want me to use this?”

Lion-O rocked back onto his heels, still breathless. His eyes darted from the whip to Tygra’s face to his stomach, where Lion-O’s seed had been smeared liberally. He touched the fingers of one hand to his own stomach, smearing his ejaculate into his fur and muscles. “Use it,” he whispered, gaze dropping to Tygra’s dripping cock. “Please.”

“Bed,” Tygra said, and Lion-O obeyed with alacrity, if clumsily.

The whipcrack seemed to snap the room in two, and Lion-O froze, both hands and one knee planted on the bed. His pulse skyrocketed. How long had he imagined this scenario, writhing and thrusting alone in Tygra’s bed? How long had he waited for this?

Tygra’s steps were silent, but Lion-O detected his touch a second before it came by the disturbed air. He jumped anyway and twisted, staring over his shoulder. The room behind him appeared empty, but the warm fur-ruffling hand sliding up the inside of his thigh was absolutely real.

“Like this?” Tygra purred, and his fist closed around Lion-O’s cock and began stroking.

Lion-O grunted and dropped back to his hands and knees. Between his legs, his cock was squeezed and pulled by a hand that didn’t exist (except it did, oh, gods, it did). “Y-yeah,” he whispered, watching and feeling his balls being squeezed and then released. “This, exactly this…” Another hand squeezed a thigh and then slid up, and fingers were inside him again. Lion-O gasped and jerked his hips, thrusting into Tygra’s fist and driving himself onto Tygra’s fingers and—Tygra’s touch disappeared, and Lion-O nearly fell off the bed, flailing briefly.

He was still pushing himself up when Tygra’s hands returned. This time, the grip was hard, closing around his hips and flipping him onto his back and forcing his thighs apart. Disembodied hands dragged him toward the edge of the bed until his hips were suspended impossibly in the air. Lion-O braced his elbows on the bed while Tygra arranged his legs over his shoulders and then nudged at his brother’s slick entrance. Lion-O whimpered, eyes wide and taking in the empty room between his legs.

“This was a good idea,” Tygra’s voice murmured, somewhere between aroused and amused. “You should see yourself, little brother. Dripping and hard and panting all alone. I can see you opening up for me while I push in.” They both groaned while Lion-O stretched open around an invisible cock, a visual Lion-O could appreciate even if he couldn’t see it.

Lion-O let his bottom lip slide out from between his teeth. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice broken and shaking. “A-and after this, I want you to lie on your back so I can ride a cock nobody can see, and then I want you to pick me up and fuck me in the air, and then I want you to suck me and let me see me shooting into the air and disappearing, and th-then I—”

“Fuck, fuck,” Tygra snarled, “you’re going to make me come!”

Lion-O got in a breathless, trembling laugh that quickly died when Tygra dragged him almost violently the rest of the way onto his cock and then bent forward to silence Lion-O’s cry (and his orgasm-inducing fantasies) with his mouth. Lion-O wrapped his arms and legs around his brother and moved his lips against a mouth he could not see. He was vaguely aware of Tygra’s whip, tied around his waist to leave his hands free, but was far more focused on the way his ass was held in the air, how it must look to see him being opened and pounded by a cock that could not be seen, the hot slide of Tygra’s cock and the splattering drips of excess lubricant, in and out of his body—what of his lips and teeth and tongue, did they disappear between Tygra’s lips or was his tongue being sucked into a mouth only he knew existed, a fantasy both real and unreal, a spirit or a spectre with the hard, hard, hard thrusts of his brother, and the taste of his brother’s tongue?

Lion-O grabbed two handfuls of Tygra’s hair and met his thrusts with gasping, open-mouthed cries,

(that’s all she wrote, folks)

[xheartsigh]

yoonkook week day7: visiting studio for the first time

genre: fluff setting: producer yoongi and solo singer jungkook, set in the same universe as prelude (can be read separately but it makes more sense if you read that before) words: 1.8k

Ever since it was decided at the meeting that kpop sensation Jeon Jungkook will have his next album produced by award-winning producer Suga, it made it to every possible news station it existed in South Korea. The music industry has been buzzing in anticipation even though their work has barely even started.

Yoongi would like to think it’s not because of him. He works just as diligently as always, if not harder to find the kind of music that would fit the singer’s voice. However sadly, the young idol’s tracks are usually too autotuned to appreciate his smooth voice and natural talent. The producer has heard him sing live and he knows he’s great but without a good management and production team, his talent will go to waste. That’s why he has asked Jungkook what kind of music he wanted to make but the boy never directly contacted him ever since. He would send music samples with his manager or via the official BigHit e-mail, so Yoongi’s best guess is that he’s still embarrassed of their first encounter despite knowing that the fact he didn’t recognize the elder doesn’t bother the producer at all. So after all that fuss it's a big thing when Jungkook willingly agrees to come to his studio to listen to a few rough drafts.

Genius Lab isn’t the studio he welcomes most of the artists. It’s more private since it’s his safe place. Only a few people know how to get in, so when he asks Hoseok to accompany Jungkook to Genius Lab when he arrives, the assistant looks at him as if his morning pills got flushed down the toilet. The producer isn’t stupid. He knows that this work with Jungkook is very beneficial for both companies and he doesn’t want to mess it up. Also there’s something about Jeon Jungkook, maybe the way he talked when they first met in the elevator shy but determined that he can’t shake his mind off.

Sure Yoongi has met enough trainees and idols to know if he sees real talent, a talent that shines because the owner loves music and that’s Jungkook. Even if he has a shitty company going for too mainstream stuff to maintain his popularity. And the producer set his mind to change that. He wants to give the boy a song – or songs if he wants – that he really likes, that’s made for his voice, for him. He also wants to prove the entertainment that there’s no need for clichés, overused beats, corny lyrics or autotune for his fans to like Jungkook and his beautiful voice.

When the doorbell of his studio rings, he pushes himself away from the computer and standing up he turns the doorknob to let his visitor inside.

“It’s been a while, Jeon Jungkook,” he greets the idol casually, with a slight hint of smirk on his lips. The singer does a better job of hiding his blush than last time. Though, he has the same determination in his eyes like he needs to prove something.

“Hello hyung,” he waves a bit, a boyish smile clear on his face which is endearing but the producer tries not to feel too affected by it.

“All alone? No manager?” Yoongi raises a brow because he’s got used to the company of idols’ bossy managers during studio visits. Not that he’s against being alone with the nation’s favourite boy.

“Ah Jin hyung dropped me off. He will come and get me after we’re done,” Jungkook shrugs still fidgeting by the door frame until Yoongi beckons him closer.

“That might take a while,” he says firmly and there’s no hidden intent behind it. He just takes producing seriously and he isn’t satisfied until the work is close to perfect which of course makes it a time-confusing activity. The singer seems to understand.

“I warned him.”

His bunny smile takes the elder aback for a moment but then he shakes his head dismissively.

“Okay then. Close the door, will you? Or are you that afraid of staying alone with me?” Yoongi teases softly as he steps backwards, falling back into his leather chair. Even though he doesn’t mean anything bad by it, it’s funny to watch the idol’s face taking up different shades of red.

“What? No!” the boy protests quickly and firmly like the possibility of being afraid could make him less of a man. It doesn’t.

Yoongi finds it cute as it reminds him of their first meeting. He gulps and then leans over his computer. They might as well start on it, right? That’s why the idol came over.

“I checked your music evolution to find your voice. The genre and vibe that fits it,” he explains what he has been doing in these weeks since they didn’t meet.

“Yeah?” Jungkook asks shyly as he plops down in the seat next to him, knees touching when he slides closer the his hyung who clicks on a few files searching for his latest works.

“You used to rap on your debut album,” Yoongi says out of the blue but it sounds like s question. The younger looks up and finds those deep, mysterious eyes already on him and understands what the man is asking: why did you stop?

He shrugs again.

“Yeah but the agency decided against it. They wanted a cute boyfriend image,” he winces slightly embarrassed just by talking about it.

“Cute?” the producer snorts, unconvinced since the sight of the idol lifting his shirt during performance that had been fried into his brain since the last MAMA awards screams everything but cute.

“Well it changed when I came of age,” Jungkook admits with a half bashful, half cocky smile. As they stare at each other, a strange feeling settles in the producer’s chest.

They haven’t talked much, not face to face. They know each other’s music but not the person behind them. They are practically strangers, co-workers for a while and yet, Yoongi feels something he rarely has a privilege to feel with ‘practically strangers’: he feels at ease. Like he can freely tease or coo at the younger because the other knows when to take him seriously. He hopes Jungkook doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as he did during their last meeting and he needs these kind of small talks before talking about work to ease up to it, to break the ice. He can already feel it melting.

“And what do you want to do?” he asks which receives a surprised blink.

Jungkook gapes at him, eyes wide, mouth hung open. It’s an unusual question in this industry, the producer knows. There’s no such thing as requests when you are only one of the thousands of trainees that line up each year. Either you get lucky because you are that talented, the agency will form an image for you, but if you’re not then you can go to hell. Yoogi knows it, he lived it. That’s why he started as an individual producer: because he didn’t want to do anything with entertainments that act without taking the artist into consideration.

“I love softer sounds, melodies,” the idol finally says, breathless, like it was a dream waiting to come true. Yoongi hums.

“You like piano?”

“Yeah,” the singer nods slowly, his gaze shifts to the synthesizer in the room, eyes longing and fingers twitching.

“Can you play?” the producer can’t help but be interested. Jeon Jungkook is a phenomenon that intrigues him.

“A little. Not too well.”

“Show me,” he asks and it’s a little bit like plea. He’s curious.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything, just sits close to the instrument and takes a deep breath. He opens and closes his fist before laying his long fingers on the keyboard trying the sound. His eyes flutter closed for a moment and then he starts to play.

It’s a slow melody, an awfully familiar one therefore it’s risky but Yoongi barely notices mistakes in the harmony. It warms his heart and when the song ends, his voice is stained.

“It’s my song,” he says with other question hidden behind the vowels and consonants: why?

The way Jungkook smiles at him as if he’s proud that he made the great Min Yoongi a bit speechless is dangerous. It’s hard to remain unfazed.

“Yeah. I really like it. It’s on my inspiration playlist,” the idol admits and Yoongi has to clear his throat to change the subject.

“So softer sounds it is,” he concludes and goes back to click more on his computer. He invites Jungkook closer and they listen to the snippets, the drafts, check the lyrics he has previously made and talk about the concepts. They talk for hours until their stomachs grumble and they have to order food because neither of them wants to go out. Not yet. The song and even more songs starts to come to life, gaining their forms. Yoongi is on the roll because Jeon Jungkook is a best muse if he’s ever had one.

Sometimes the singer’s gaze lingers on him, a touch is more fleeting than it should be or their thighs press together firmer because they sit so close. It’s all these little things and Yoongi would be a liar to say that he didn’t fall for the nation’s favourite charms like everybody else.

It’s only then when sometime after 11pm Seokjin rings Jungkook quite annoyed after many ignored texts. They are so so close to the finished product but they can’t prolong it any longer. The younger has to go. He has a concert in Taiwan tomorrow evening.

“I– I have to go. I have an early flight,” the singer mutters as if it wasn’t obvious. Yoongi understands, that’s his job after all.

“Okay.”

Jungkook seems unsure to leave, he just fidgets with the too long ends of his sleeve and looks around searching for something, anything. The producer clears his throat to gain his attention. Those doe eyes snap at him immediately. They exchange a soft smile.

“Can… can we continue it after I come back?”

And oh, Min Yoongi is a weak man. How could he say no to that?

“Of course. Just don’t be a stranger, Jeon Jungkook!” he casually leans against the doorframe and he hovers over the singer while he packs, shoving the bag onto his back and catches the glint in his eyes.

“I won’t. Thanks hyung,” he mutters and waves cutely just like when he came but his gaze holds more confidence now. Yoongi sighs as he watches him go, heart aching in a good way. Very good indeed.

[bgharison]

Jot It Down July -- Whumpnesday the 4th

Okay, technically the 5th but only because . . . again.  I do not understand the concept of “jot”  First draft-y, again, but I’m finding that I like this process of throwing out a draft here and not letting myself overthink it to death.  I’ll do that later.  

I’m still working on POV -- this starts with Mary’s POV and then there’s a coda to the coda that’s Steve’s POV and if anyone has feedback for me as to whether or not that works well, I would be most appreciative.  

 Coda to Season 1 Episode 13

 She’d held it together admirably, all things considered.  And the look of pride on Steve’s face, Kono’s admiration -- honestly, it made getting kidnapped worth it.  Really worth it.  She’d almost broken down at the soft touch of his callused finger, tilting her face up to examine the deepening bruise on her cheek, but she focused on telling him what she had done, who she had called, what she had pieced together.  

 “Stay here, do not leave this building,” Steve had called out, at some point, before rushing out to follow up on a lead.  So she’d puttered around his office, her fingers tracing over the awards and commendations on the walls.  Milestones, accomplishments . . . none of which she had been aware of, much less witness to.  She wondered if anyone had taken pictures, had taken him out for a beer after, to celebrate.

 A text message came through at one point.

 Food in breakroom.  Don’t leave building.

 She had rolled her eyes and smiled, and found a surprisingly tasty cup of noodles to heat up in the microwave.  Exhausted and full, she wandered back to Steve’s office and curled up on his sofa.

 *********************************

 “Mare?  Hey.  Mary?”

 Steve’s voice was soft, his fingers carefully brushing her hair away from her face.

 “Hey,” she rasped, struggling to sit up.  Muscles that she didn’t know even existed were aching.  Her head was pounding.

 Gentle fingers ghosted over her jaw as a white light seemed to explode behind her eyes.

 “Ow,” she protested, trying to turn her face away from the light.

 “Hold still,” Steve fussed, flashing a penlight into her eyes.  “I couldn’t get you to wake up, you scared me.”

 “I’m fine, just tired.  It’s been kind of a big day for me.”

 Steve chuckled at that.  “I think you have a concussion.  Come on, let’s get you home.”

 “Finally,” she groaned.  “I want a shower.  No, a bubble bath.  No, first a shower, then a bubble bath.”

 “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, gently easing her off the sofa.  “Would shower gel make bubbles?”

 “What are you talking about?”

 “I know I have shower gel, not sure about bubble bath,” he said, his hand resting warm and solid on the small of her back, steering her to the elevator.

 “Why --”  Her brain wasn’t keeping up as she shuffled along.

 “You’re coming home,” he said.  “Home.  With me.  There’s no way I’m letting you stay alone.”

 She started to protest as the elevator doors slid closed, but his hands wrapped around her shoulders and he bent down, looking at her earnestly.

 “It’s not up for debate,” he said.  “I’ll pull rank and put you in protective custody if it comes to that.  With Mamo.”

 She raised her hands in surrender and leaned against him when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

 ***********************

 There was a warm breeze blowing across her face.

 “Mare?  We’re home.”

 Steve was standing at the open passenger door of his truck, reaching across her to unfasten her seatbelt.

 “Already?” she asked.  Her muscles were stiff again.

 “You were asleep before we hit the highway.  You snore, by the way.”

 “You lie.”

 Tears pricked hot and sharp behind her eyes as she made her way up the sidewalk and onto the front porch.  

 “I don’t know how you do it,” she said quietly, as he entered his updated security code and opened the door.

 “Do what?” he asked absently, not bothering to pretend that he wasn’t clearing the house as they entered.

 “Stay here, where Dad was . . . I just -- doesn’t it bother you?”

 He was silent as he set the alarm and locked the door.

 “Yeah, sometimes,” he said.  “You still want dibs on the entire contents of the hot water heater?”

 “Yes,” she said firmly.

 “Go on.  I’ll make us something to eat.”

 *******************************

 She padded down the hall, her hair dampening the collar of the Annapolis t-shirt she’d rummaged out of the laundry room.

 “Cute,” he said, grinning at her as he came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray.  She followed him into the living room.  “I made peanut butter and banana, I hope you still like it.  Go ahead, I’m going to grab the first aid kit, patch your head back up.”

 She curled into a corner of the sofa and picked up a plate from the tray.  Peanut butter and banana on wheat, the crusts cut off, the sandwich cut neatly into thirds.

 Just the way she liked it, when she was ten, and still.

 Tears were streaming down her face when he returned, a small kit clutched in his hand.

 “Mare?” he called softly, rushing to the sofa.  “What is it, what’s wrong?”

 She pressed her hand against her mouth and shook her head, trying to hold back the tears that had been threatening all day.  

 “Ah, kiddo,” he whispered, dropping the kit onto the table and gathering her in his arms.  He held her close, his hand cradling her head against his shoulder, just as he had when he’d pulled her from the trunk of the car earlier that day.  “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

 “I’m sorry,” she choked out.

 “Sorry?  What -- no, what are you sorry for, hunh?”

 “I didn’t mean to cry, I’m not even really hurt that bad --”

 “First of all, you do not ever need to apologize for crying, do you understand?  And you did get hurt today,” he said.  “You were hit hard enough to split your forehead open, you took a solid hit to the jaw --” His voice started to shake as he recounted her injuries.  “You got knocked out, your hands bound with duct tape, and thrown into the trunk of a car.”

 He pulled her close again and rocked her gently as she finally allowed herself to cry, hot tears splashing onto his neck as he rubbed gentle circles on her back.  When she settled and leaned back, wiping her eyes and looking up at him, she was shocked to see his eyes, red and filled with unshed tears of his own.

 “You came for me,” she said, cupping his face in her small hand.

 “But I could have lost you today,” he whispered.  “These men, they killed mom, they killed dad . . . they could have killed you.  What if you hadn’t had your phone, what if --”

 “I did, though, and you got to me,” she repeated.  “And I’m okay, Steve, I am.  I messed up, I asked too many questions.”

 “And got us closer to answers than I did,” he said.  “You really are something else, Mary.  I’m so proud of you.”

 “Yeah?”

 “Yeah.  Yeah, I am.  And Dad would be, too.”

 She smiled at him as he brushed the last of the tears from her cheeks.

 “Your head’s bleeding, let me take care of it,” he said.  She sat still as his impossibly gentle fingers dabbed antiseptic cream onto the abrasion and then covered it neatly with a clean square of gauze.  “There. All set.  You knocked a guy’s tooth out?”

 “Self-defense classes are big in LA,” she said, shrugging.

 “So, you’re like a freaking ninja?” he teased.

 “Like my big brother,” she said.

 “I’ve missed so much of your life,” he said.  He took her hands in his, one at a time, and gently rubbed more antiseptic cream into the red, broken skin there.

 “I didn’t know you had so many awards.  From the Navy,” she said.  “I mean, I knew you were kind of a big deal but . . .”

 He was silent for a long moment, and when he finally looked at her, his eyes were filled with regret.

 “Mary,” he started.

 She knew, then, she knew what he was going to say.

 “I can’t stay, can I?” she whispered.  

 “I will make Oahu safe for you,” he promised, “and the minute it’s safe, I will send for you and bring you back.  I can’t -- I can’t risk losing you.  I can’t.”

 She nodded and swallowed around the lump in her throat.  His fingers brushed over the bruise on her jaw again.

 “You understand?” he asked softly.

 “Yeah.  I understand,” she said.  “We both do, now.”

 ********************

 She opened her eyes in the dark, her head pounding.  Raw, unadulterated panic wrapped cold fingers around her throat, and in a fleeting moment she was back, bound and helpless in the trunk of a moving car.

 “Steve!”

 He was by her side before the sound of her scream had faded from her own ears.

 “I’m here, Mary, you’re safe,” he said, as he scooped her up out of her childhood bed just as he had the night that their mother was killed.

 She winced as he shifted her in his arms and carried her to the living room, a pillow and blanket on the sofa and a soft lamp glowing.

 “Are you hurting?” he asked.

 “You slept out here?”

 “Yeah, I wasn’t taking any chances.  What hurts?” he repeated, placing her gently on the sofa.

 She sighed and leaned her head against the cushion.  “Everything.  You must think I’m --”

 “I think you engaged in close quarter combat this morning,” he said.  “You held your own, but you’re going to be stiff, sore.  Like . . . after a car wreck, when you hurt more the next day.”

 “That’s exactly what I feel like,” she groaned.

 He smiled down at her sympathetically, absently rubbing the back of his neck as he snagged a bottle of Motrin off the end table and offered it to her, along with his glass of water.

 She took two tablets and then looked up at him.

 “Wait.  Why are you taking this?”

 He settled into the sofa and spread the blanket over both of them.  She tucked into his side and rested her aching head on his shoulder.

 “When those guys busted in here this morning --”

 “They took my key!” she remembered suddenly.

 “When those guys unlocked the door and walked in here this morning,” he amended, “they tased me.  Knocked me flat on my face.”

 She patted his knee sympathetically.  

 “Go back to sleep,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.  “I’ve got you.”

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

 He’d held it together admirably, all things considered.  And the soft smile of appreciation and affection on Mary’s face made it all totally worth it.  He managed to flash a smile and a shaka to her before turning and fleeing from the airport.

 He kept the emotions at bay by immersing himself in the photos that Mary -- clever, brave Mary -- had taken.  He let Danny’s news of Koji’s death distract him, fuel him with purpose, pushing the hurt and the pain down underneath.

 He would have gotten away with it, too, had Danny not shown up at his house, looking tired and disheveled in sweat pants and a NYFD t-shirt.

 “Danny?” Steve asked, confused, pulling out his phone.  No missed calls or texts.  “We get another lead?”

 “No, we are fresh out of new revelations and stunning leads for the day,” Danny said.  “And no new kidnappings, either, just to put your mind at ease.”

 “Okay, then . . . not to be inhospitable, but it’s late, and I’m really tired,” Steve said.  He gestured at Danny’s rumpled appearance.  “And I’m sure you are.”

 “It’s been a long, hard couple of days,” Danny agreed.  He held out a six pack of Longboards.  “Thought you might need to unwind a bit.”

 Steve hesitated.  His plan had been to spend at least another hour looking over the evidence and then hit a few shots of whiskey so that he wouldn’t have to think about anything else.

 “You hear from Mary?” Danny’s soft question interrupted his thoughts.  “She get back to LA safe?  She okay?”

 “Yeah,” Steve sighed.  

 “She was really something,” Danny said.  “Kinda figured she had it in her, you know?  It’s the short sassy ones you really have to look out for.  They slip in under the radar and -- pow.”

 Steve looked down at him, at the person who’d had his back every minute of the last two harrowing days.  Danny, filling a bag with ice for the base of his skull, throbbing from the taser; Danny, ranting about procedure and keeping him from going off the rails; Danny, keeping him steady, keeping him from sheer and utter panic; Danny, leaping from the helicopter to take down Mary’s kidnappers.  

 “Mary was kidnapped,” Steve blurted out.

 “Yeah, babe,” Danny said.  “Terrifying.”

 Steve lifted shaky hands to rub over his face.  “You saw me through it, Danny.  I woulda lost it without you today.”

 Danny’s hands wrapped strong and warm around his biceps.

 “I’m your backup, of course I saw you through it,” Danny said.  “What, you think I’m some schmuck, don’t understand how you feel about your baby sister?  Come’ere, sit down before you fall down.”

 Steve let Danny guide him to the sofa.  He rubbed irritably at his eyes again, knowing full well that he was fooling Danny exactly not one bit.

 “I almost lost her today,” Steve said softly.  “You were here.  I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to go through the last two days with me.”

 Danny nodded, his blue eyes locking steadily onto Steve’s.

 “I didn’t want anyone else,” Steve said.  “Just you.”

 Danny nodded again.

 “I don’t want anyone else,” Steve said slowly.  “Just . . . you.”

 Danny opened his arms, and Steve collapsed against him.  

 “I was so scared,” Steve murmured, pressing his face into Danny’s neck.  “You picked up that tooth, Danny, I -- “  Tremors racked his tense muscles and Danny held on tight, strong hands rubbing circles over Steve’s shoulders.  

 “You got her, and I’ve got you,” Danny said.  “It’s over, she’s safe, and I’ve got you.”

 “They destroyed my family,” Steve said, his voice breaking.  “They killed our mother, tore our family apart, they killed Dad and orphaned Mary.”

 “Not just Mary,” Danny whispered.  “We’re going to take them down.  I promise you.  We’re going to see this thing through.  I’m with you.  You’re not alone now.”

 Steve pulled back and looked at Danny, searching his face.  “Because of you.  I didn’t . . . God, I’ve been an idiot.  How did I not know?”

 “Pow,” Dany said, a slow smile spreading, his eyes sparking.  ‘Under the radar.”

[opha]

HEY LOOK WHAT I FOUND BURIED IN MY DRAFTS: A MOSTLY-FINISHED SHIFTERVERSE LORE POST, AMONG SO MANY OTHER THINGS I LEFT TO ROT. HERE. TAKE IT.

some shifterverse blabs on genes and eventually the impact of hybridization i have to ramble about before they escape my head again. stuff in brackets are more my notes than actual legible info. pecking at the holes in this would be appreciated because i readily admit that my understanding of most things is utter bullshit.

Alright, quick rundown of the current shifter genetics draft: as-is, your average shifter is pretty prone to genetic mutation. Anything that removes you a step from the first shifters is going to increase that risk and generally affect your shifting ability (which means interbreeding with humans or POTENTIALLY shifters outside of your [[taxonomic order, suborder? family? clade? i don't know but i'll be saying species for now bc it's better understood than CLADE.]] There's no such thing as half-shifters; you either are or aren't.)

[[and if i haven't mixed things up in my head this is different from what odette's work was meant to do, because atm that kind of gradual breakdown doesn't occur universally or uniformly. her eventual goal is effective sterilization of the whole lot of them by making future successive generations unable to have viable offspring through similar means yes?]]

In the least potent (have been calling it 'newest' for ease of use) lines there are people starting to crop up that were born with features they can't shift and/or limited access to their shifting ability overall. see: Hawthorne, born with rosettes on their back, cat eyes which they can't shift to hide, fur in some places that they can hide, and a complete inability to access their fully shifted form without a life-threatening stressor.

Extremely prototypical here bc I haven't even settled on the chance of hybridization between two different species of shifter [[maybe it's different depending on the two species in question? and how am i giong to account for the 'atypical' shifters we have, if at all?]] but I'm thinking that hybrids are sort of wildcards in that their lineage doesn't affect their shifting ability and they tend to turn out on the stronger side of things. The tradeoff, though, is that they're pretty much guaranteed to have some pretty debilitating conditions coupled with that if they survive past birth. [[reduced regenerative capabilities too? was thinking of jan having some pretty bad bone/joint issues, but there's not much point if it'll fix itself easily. i don't think regeneration would fix what was already borked in the first place, though, and regeneration might not always be benificial. it's a return to what the body originally knew to be natural, not what we perceive as abled.]]

The chance alone of producing a hybrid pushes the whole mixed (shifter) species thing into the realm of taboo, much, MUCH more than the way that coupling with humans is just a sort of lip-quirked 'hrm.' BUT the crux of this post is how I've been thinking about the way shifter culture may have emerged as a result of how fuckin hard it would be to find out about AND fall in love with another shifter of your species with junk compatible for child-having.

There's definitely societal pressure to Do That Thing. I'm just gauging how far-reaching an impact that may have. If it's strong enough, that would mean for a lot of single parents, a lot of loveless coupling, or both. That's... kind of how western conceptions of romance already work to depressing degrees, so it's not unfeasible that it's just another extreme end to which I've taken things. Alternately, this could have given rise to an increase in the frequency of polyamory.

There’s even further pressure because shifters don’t tend to live very long. It’s partially that shifters have a relatively short lifespan, and that they live under constant threat of death.

[[I SWEAR TO HELL THIS ONE THING I WANTED TO HAVE MAKES EVERYTHING SO MUCH MORE COMPLICATED.]]

[silenciawrites]

Camp Nano Weekly Roundup

So I’m way too lazy to do a Camp Nano update every day while also doing Camp Nano, preparing to move, editing a project, and refamiliarizing myself with biochemistry, so I’m just going to do a weekly roundup of my stats and show you guys my favourite scene from the week. These are also going to serve as Snippet Saturdays for the month of July! 

Stats

Plan: Finish the first draft of Classifieds

Camp goal: 40 000 words

Currently at: 10 000 words

Week’s Best: 1 651 

Favourite scene

Vectra doesn’t have a great deal to do with her time, so she spends most of it observing. She identifies the stressed, the exhausted, the angry almost before they know it themselves; there has been more than one time that she recognizes an Alchemist not working to their full potential who disappears shortly afterward. Father does not appreciate those who don’t work to their potential.

(Sometimes she wonders why she’s still around.)

So perhaps it’s not surprising that no one else seems to have noticed that Father isn’t quite…right, these days. Doll Girl is always attending him now, fluttering around anxiously in a way she never used to do. More and more of the work she’s used to watching Father do is now being done by Doll Girl—in fact, she almost never sees Father outside of a few specific labs anymore, and she always used to have to plan her paths around avoiding his notice.

Chiara hadn’t given her the answers she wants, so she’s going to go up to his office and see if she can find the answers for herself. Kestid squeaks unhappily from her place on Vectra’s shoulder when Vectra relays this thought to her. Though Kestid doesn’t know or care much about where she is and what’s happening in the fortress, even she has managed to grasp that Father is one of the Big Ones that she ought to be afraid of. (This is no small accomplishment; Kestid’s long-term memory is uniformly terrible.) Vectra soothes her absently, petting the golden-brown shell with one finger. “It will be fine,” she promises, and Kestid eventually subsides. Not because she’s any happier about the idea, but because she know Vectra will not be dissuaded.

“Do you want to stay here?” Vectra asks at last, looking around the hallway. There are cracks in the stonework, some of which are new and some of which are not, but any of them would be large enough for Kestid to hide until such time as Vectra can come back for her.

‘Nonono,’ Kestid says. ‘My baby. My baby.’

Vectra has never been able to explain to Kestid that she’s not actually a baby anymore, that baby and human are not interchangeable concepts, and a while ago she had simply given up trying. Besides, it still makes her smile. “Okay,” she says, “stay with me, then.” She waits while Kestid crawls up the length of her antenna and hides in her hair—she’d forgotten about cutting it, but that will have to wait.

With her partner tucked safely away amidst her curls, Vectra walks through the halls of the First Generation, occasionally pausing to listen at doors. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the two or three that she stops at, though, and she gives up after the third one; she’d never heard anything about the Big One she’d let out last time, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Chiara at least suspects something. Besides, that isn’t what she’s come up here for.

She ducks into a few side halls to avoid the clomping of guards’ boots, mostly to keep herself in practice in case she ever finds another Big One she wants to send through the windows. When the area is silent, she finds her way to the one door in the fortress that she’s never tried to breach. She doesn’t even bother to try to use her magic on it; it will turn her away. Instead, she takes on her other form and skitters under the door—Father had never bothered to ward the doorway, since none of them should ever have been small enough to sneak beneath the door.

Once she’s through, she takes on her usual shape again, settling Kestid beneath her hair once more. She looks up the stairs and for the first time in her explorations, a tremor of fear works its way through her. She’s not supposed to be here, and unlike all the other places she’s not supposed to be, she feels it. It’s chilly on the staircase, threatening and cold. Kestid feels her hesitation and asks, ‘Go back?’

Vectra considers it for a moment, but ultimately shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I want to know.”

Kestid subsides into silence, and Vectra starts up the stairs.

Each step intensifies the cold and the dread, like the stairs themselves know she’s not supposed to be here and are trying to push her out before she gets in too far and can’t be denied. Vectra tugs thoughtfully on one antenna, staring up the spiraling staircase. If the door is spelled, could the stairs be also?

She doesn’t think Father is that paranoid, or that uncertain of his ability to deal with intruders…but she’d read once that magic soaks into building materials, into wood and stone. If this part of the fortress is just used to certain people, maybe it’s reacting to a stranger the same way a protective spell would. And if that’s so, then she should be able to protect herself from it. She doesn’t like being scared all the time in the outside world—she certainly won’t accept it in her own home.

Reaching inside herself for the warmth that always glimmers there, she tells the walls this is my home, she tells the stairs I live here too, she tells the stones I mean no harm. There’s no reply, but the cold fear slowly subsides, and when she takes the next step up the staircase, it’s with a quiet confidence that allows her to move with ease.

At the top of the staircase, she hears voices and pauses, pressing back against the stone wall of the landing.

“Of course, Father,” says a quiet, lovely female voice. “I’ll see to it.”

Vectra tilts her head, then drops into her Bonded form and scuttles into a tiny open space in the wall. She and Kestid huddle there, watching in silence as someone walks by on small bare feet. Once they’re gone, she nudges Kestid behind her and darts past the closing door.

The common area is mostly empty, aside from a pile of paperwork that looks like someone had just left it, so Vectra takes her human shape again with a relieved breath, rolling her shoulders. She looks back as the door clicks to. She’s not surprised to find that Kestid stayed out; why would she want to come into this place? Why had Vectra come in at all?

She tells herself answers, and moves across to the papers on the table. They’re reports, the daily kind that Vectra sees Alchemists filling out all the time. The only thing that’s interesting about them is that they aren’t on Father’s desk; she somehow can’t imagine him working at the table out here where any of his favoured students could come in and bother him at any time. Tilting her head and studying the neat stacks of paperwork, Vectra shrugs it off after a few minutes. She has other things she wants to do while she’s here, and she doesn’t want to stay long—most of Father’s students seem to be out, and she wants to be gone before they come back.

She glides past the table and looks down one of the halls that leads off the main room. Not that one. She turns to another and waits for a second, letting her sense of power lead the way.

Yes, there it is.

She makes her way down that hallway, following the sense of immense power that seems to roil through the halls. When she reaches the last door, she shifts back into her Bonded shape—it wouldn’t do to simply walk into a room where she’s not supposed to be, not if there’s the slightest chance that Father or one of his favourites might be there—and studies the crack beneath the door that now looks as wide as an archway. Then she turns away and crawls into one of the small tunnels of rock by the door’s hinges. Winding her way through it, she waits until she finds a connection between two of the cracks of rock and crawls into the room that way.

She peeks her head out and looks around. The Gryphon that is Father’s partner lies by the desk, wings slumped, great head resting on his taloned forelimbs. He looks tired, Vectra thinks in some surprise, and though not all the huge Fae’s dignity has deserted him, suffering seems to permeate the air in the room. And Father…

He’s at the desk, staring blindly out at nothing as he scrawls something on a sheet of parchment that looks like it’s been torn around the edges. Vectra isn’t nearly close enough to see what he’s writing, but from the drunken way the pen moves, she knows it isn’t being done in the tidy penmanship she normally sees signed with his name.

Her curiosity intensifies. Is something wrong with Father, or with the Gryphon?

…Or both?

Thoughtful, she studies the paper Father’s writing on. She’d really like to know what’s on it, but she’s not sure she can safely make it from here to the table without either Father or the Gryphon taking notice of her. It’s rare for anyone to notice her in her Bonded form, but if anyone would, it would be Father.

She considers what to do for a moment, but before she can come to a solid conclusion, Father gets up from the desk. He pushes the chair back a little farther than she thinks he should really need to, moving around the side of the desk with one hand resting on its edge. The Gryphon rises slowly to his feet and follows Father out the door. Where are they going?

Vectra has two choices: she can follow them and possibly get caught, or she can sate her curiosity about the paper and come back another time. She wavers, unsure, but Kestid squeaks through the Link, ‘Come back?’ and decides her. She will find another time to look in on Father, a time when she won’t have to explain quite so much if Father sees her. Right now, she wants to see what’s on that paper.

Buzzing across the room, she lands on the desk and crawls across the paper, painstakingly deciphering every letter—they are much too large for her compound eyes when she’s sitting right on top of them, and as she’d thought, the handwriting is dreadful.

The mountain, it says in scrawled, messy letters, angrily scored out with dark lines. The mountain, the mountain.

Vectra sits back on her lower legs, puzzled. The mountain? It means nothing to her, the writing looks like the scrawled ramblings of a basement creature, but at least she’s confirmed one thought: something is very wrong with Father.

‘Come back,’ Kestid complains.

“I’m coming,” she says, crawling back along the desk. She pauses at the edge of it and turns around to look, just briefly, out the window of the fortress. There’s nothing there, of course—why should there be?

As she flies across the room and begins the long crawl back to where she had left Kestid, she still can’t quite shake the unease.

Tag list: @falling--in--place, @lady-redshield-writes, @toboldlywrite, @thewriteblrchronicles (as usual, let me know if you want to be on or off the list!)

[deehollowaywrites]

I made a boo-boo while writing my first Thoroughbred project--ok, I made a few, including an entire draft that used ‘furlough’ in place of ‘furlong,’ but the error germane to today’s topic is the omission of Cheryl White.

The project was structured around a female jockey and a female archivist, the latter of which was putting together an exhibition similar to the one arriving in July 2019 at the National Museum of Racing. There are huge chunks of dialogue devoted to discussion of female jocks; there’s an impassioned pitch of the archivist defending her choice both of exhibition and the inclusion of the protagonist jockey, a wild child whose status as role model is occasionally in question. At no point in the name-dropping, from Kathy Kusner to Rosie Napravnik, does anyone mention Cheryl White.

The archivist character, it should be noted, is African-American.

A little while later, I wrote another project in the same universe, this time about a Black teen girl yearning to become a jockey. That manuscript also left out White, because the first time I encountered her name was well after all these flights of fancy were done, in the interesting, troubling book The Lady Is a Jock, where she merits an occasional mention in the sea of glam, sexy, or down-home white women riders. After learning, two years into my very jock-focused appreciation of the sport, that there had at one point been a Black female jockey of note, I went looking for Cheryl White elsewhere. Didn’t turn up much. Listened with avid interest to her interview earlier this year on Jock Talk. Wondered, as soon as NMRHOF announced the panel, whether she might appear at the museum to talk about women in racing.

Reader, if you’re a woman, do you remember the first time anyone mentioned the concept of ambition to you? Two instances stick out in my mind. There was my undergraduate advisor who asked what my ambitions were after graduating and frowned when I said I didn’t consider myself ambitious. There’s the foreword to The Blue Castle, of all unlikely books, which refers to L.M. Montgomery as a ‘serious and ambitious writer.’ It had not occurred to me by age nineteen to cultivate ambitions. It had not occurred to me that a writer of my childhood, associated with books for young people, could be termed ambitious. You can waft through life, an ingenue to whom things happen, reactive. You can carry out actions because you know you’re supposed to, because no one else will if you don’t. At some point, rote effort becomes intentional. At some point, you’re too old to keep on living without admitting ambition.

The ambitions of women like Linda Rice and Stella Thayer are not in doubt. Gabby Gaudet conducts her career with open eyes and full intent. Even the frontrunning, groundbreaking rank of jockeys like Julie Krone elides questions of ambition; it wasn’t whether they wanted to ride, but how they would go about it. There’s a lot to be said for sitting in the presence of icons--but at what point do icons cease to exist as flesh and blood, enacting will, and become those gallery bronzes? Thoroughbred racing is intimidating. Not being a fan of any other sports, I can’t say whether soccer or baseball have such high thresholds for belonging, only that I half-expect a prick of the finger when I pass through Spa gates, a blood test not for type but for class and breeding. Marylou Whitney six rows ahead in her hat, flanked on all sides by women (and the panel audience’s makeup was heavily female, no mistake) in the know: women who’ve been playing New York horseflesh for longer than I’ve been alive, women with connections, women who--as my girlfriend reported--happened to have a halter of Justify’s lying around to auction off.

Awe is not the healthiest of emotions.

It’s something, all right, seeing Charlotte Weber in the flesh, whose sprawling Florida farm I’d crane my neck for a glimpse at every time I drove through Ocala on the way to somewhere else. It’s something to listen to Krone’s stories, watch Rice’s wry smile appear, observe each woman’s reaction to a question--delivered in good faith or otherwise; Poe’s Law is always in play when a man is asking questions--about sexism in their sport. This is the top tier of a sphere I care about a lot. They’re known, for lack of any more scintillating vocabulary; they’re the basis for characters I’ve written and ones I’ve yet to write. They and other women are part of racing’s bedrock, the vein of that choice limestone that makes foals’ hooves grow strong… but what do we mean by women?

“Women in Racing.” You know what they mean. Whose stories are flattened by the broad application of female. The utility of female icons to institutions; the sinister ease with which appreciation becomes a checkbox, a cul-de-sac, proof of acknowledgment and feigned confusion over what more could possibly be done. Maybe it’s unconscious, an insidious natural selection of Cool Girls, in the Gillian Flynn sense, rising like cream to the top. Maybe that row of blondes, broken only by Blythe Miller Davies, was a coincidence. Walking through downtown Saratoga with my girlfriend a few hours after, I thought about how I would stock such a panel, or proliferation of panels. Jenine Sahadi. Kathleen O’Connell, maybe. Carol Cedeno, absolutely. Tammi Piermarini. Barbara Livingston. Sam Bussanich or Emily Gullikson. Cheryl White. Any number of grooms, assistant trainers, stewards, and veterinarians whose names I don’t know, but whose efforts make the sport run: a living record to prove the naysayers wrong, a testament to diversity, proof of racing’s vitality and its endurance, its breadth beyond the aristocracy of breeding and the heirloom of training.

Show me not only the vanguard behind museum glass, but the inheritors.

[essayoutlinemla919]

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