#but make no mistake. entire neighborhoods burned down
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mxwhore · 1 year ago
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so right now a whole ass chunk of chile is burning down and it is really Fucking Bad. it hit and spreaded so fast im like. 90%!!!!! of the jardín botánico de viña del mar burned down in one night. four in ground workers died. i am absolutely heartbroken for them and the treasure in biodiversity gone. and thats just 4 out of +100? lives lost in this chaos, that is still ongoing.
because of this, i will be splitting my patreon income evenly between care for gaza and techo chile, for the foreseable future. donate if can you can! it would really make a difference
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Suites & Sweets
freshman year at Jujutsu University Tokyo seems like it will be uneventful. and, well, that's true... until you meet the boys in the suite across the hall, and one in particular piques your interest.
satoru gojo x reader | jjk college au | no curse au | fem! reader | fluff, angst, & slow burn | SMAU & writing <3
introduction | previous | next PSA: this series deals with a lot of mental health struggles, but in this chapter, we delve deeper into more darker, sensitive topics. If you are in any way sensitive to subjects relating to: addiction, drugs/alc use/abuse, manipulation, infidelity, or feel in any way uncomfortable please do yourself a favor and skip over this for your own sake. ily all! take care of yourselves <3 ₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.
ˋ°•*⁀➷˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 19. 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓐𝓦𝓐𝓚𝓔𝓝𝓘𝓝𝓖 ⍣ ೋ⋆.ೃ࿔*:・ ... wc: 4.8k
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Of all the things Ino regretted in his life, the one that stood above the rest - the one that clawed at him in quiet moments and loomed over every misstep - was befriending Naoya Zen’in.
If he could go back in time and make it never happen, he would in a heartbeat. Becoming friends with Naoya was his ultimate mistake, a blunder with consequences he feared he could never fully escape from.
When Ino was five, he and his mother moved into a run-down condo in a dingy corner of suburban Tokyo. It was a fresh start for his mother, freshly divorced and struggling to make ends meet. The condo was small, the walls thin enough to hear every argument and every sob from the neighbors. The plumbing was unreliable, and the residents fell into two distinct camps: those who pried too much into others' lives or those who preferred to keep to themselves in a manner that screamed... sketchy. It was perfect for the two of them.
When Ino was five, he moved into a run-down condo in suburban Tokyo with his mother, freshly divorced and trying to make ends meet. The walls were thin, the plumbing was unreliable, and the neighbors were either too nosy or entirely sketchy.
At the edge of their modest neighborhood stood an anomaly: a pristine Zen’in grandiose family mansion, with high gates and sprawling grounds. Its polished exterior seemed designed to mock the surrounding houses, towering over the other homes.
Inside that mansion was Naoya Zen’in, a boy born with a sharp tongue, an even sharper attitude, and a bank account that rivaled small nations. Even as a child, Naoya wielded his family’s wealth and status like a weapon. He was the kind of kid who had the newest toys, wore the best clothes, and flaunted his superiority with a confidence so unshakable it made the other kids resent him yet also crave his approval.
Ino was, admittedly, no exception.
At first, when Ino's mom began getting coffee on the regular with Naoya's mom, the Zen'in boy ignored Ino entirely. Ino was too quiet, too unpolished, and too beneath him. Ino was awkward, skinny, and wore his cousin's hand-me-down sneakers. He was nice, yeah, but he had nothing much to him, and he was not up to the standards Naoya held for his friends (though, to be fair, such standards were so high, he had no friends). Naoya barely even bothered glancing in Ino's direction.
One summer afternoon, the day after Ino's eighth birthday, things forever shifted. Ino accidentally kicked a soccer ball over their fenced lawn and into Naoya's pool. Panicked, Ino scrambled over the fence and snuck into their backyard, only to freeze when Naoya appeared, lounging on a deck chair like a king on his throne, sipping an overly sweet lemonade.
Naoya's smirk widened as he picked up the ball, holding it just out of the reach of the intruder. "You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today," Naoya hollered, a sly grin plastered across his face. "Try not to be such a klutz next time. I get second-hand embarrassment from you."
Ino, desperate for acceptance in a neighborhood where he already felt like an outsider, laughed along. His face was hot with embarrassment as he stammered an apology, but Naoya waved him off. "Relax," he rolled his eyes. "I guess you're not the worst person children can manage and get away with.
From that moment on, Naoya decided Ino was his new project - a loyal sidekick; a shadow to his bright, obnoxious spotlight.
Years passed and their dynamic remained largely the same. Ino played his part well. He laughed at Naoya's jokes, even the ones that made his stomach churn. He followed along when Naoya decided they were too good for the other neighborhood kids. He turned a blind eye in middle school, when Naoya began to wield his family's wealth and influence like a weapon, Ino found himself caught in the crossfire, complicit in ways he didn’t like to think about.
High school was where the cracks began to really show. One core reason for this was that Ino met you: someone who saw past his facade he wore around everywhere and made him feel like he could be more than just Naoya’s shadow.
Ino really thought he could take control of his own life when he began dating you. Month by month, however, he slowly lost his grip, slipping back into the behavior he knew best and blindly following Naoya's lead.
Naoya didn’t take kindly to this... distraction. So, he made every effort to be rid of it. He guilted Ino when he made plans with you, claiming he was choosing a random girl over his lifelong best friend. He would argue that Ino could do so much better and have someone so much more compliant, since you weren't wife material, too opinionated and outspoken. Naoya would complain whenever you were around, and when you weren't, he would somehow find ways to complain about you. He poisoned the air with snide comments until Ino began to doubt even his own feelings.
And though Ino tried to stand his ground - more so at the beginning of your relationship - he always caved in the end, too scared of losing the only friend he’d ever had, even if that friendship was toxic and led him to losing others. He felt he owed it to Naoya, who took him under his wing and shaped him to be well-liked from the awkward boy he once was. For that, in Ino's mind, whatever Naoya wanted from him never seemed too unreasonable. Naoya only exploited this weakness of Ino's, wielding their shared history like a leash.
Which meant hurting you.
It all became too much to handle, really. He loved you. He loved you so much. But Naoya had too much hold over his life and person, he was more of a puppet than a human being. It led him down a path he swore he would never go down, especially after what how his father treated his mother. Ino found himself partying nightly: different girls all over him, different substances effecting him, different places and DJs, yet all the feelings within him numbed to practically nothing. By becoming the one thing he swore he wouldn't, Ino finally found peace in his terrorizing mind.
Some may call the way Ino acted a self-fulfilling prophecy. Others may call it the effects of his father's actions. But nowadays, Ino likes to call it how it is: his own fault.
He knew what he was doing when he shit talked you, another girl on top of him. He knew these were the things Naoya loved to use against him, which was exactly what he did. When he felt Ino drifting apart, he would reel him back in the only way he knew how - leading to him sending you the video of the scene, and leading to six months of hell for both you and Ino.
But Ino knows he's responsible for all of that. He was always able to say no, even though it really felt like he couldn't. He was the one who let the girl all over him, he was the one who reciprocated her touchiness. He was the one who, knowing Naoya was recording, said whatever he wanted him to. He dug his own grave.
After that, for some unknown reason you stayed. Maybe you knew he was struggling and you wanted to try and help, or maybe you just had zero self-respect. All he knew was that he did not deserve you, but he was happy and ready to make a change. He was ready to become better for you.
Something about you was off, though. You were untrusting and hesitant, and the relationship was rocky with tension. You were quick to accuse him of cheating, you wanted nothing to do with Naoya, and you were, frankly, not doing the best mentally. He saw that, and he knew he was the cause.
Yet, for some reason, instead of changing for the better, he decided to dig himself a deeper hole. He delved further into his cycle of partying, girls, alcohol, drugs, Naoya, and then apologizing to you a couple times a week, promising he will be better.
You both knew he was lying, every time. For some reason, you still stayed.
The reality check for Ino came when Naoya hosted the prom afterparty junior year. It was supposed to be a celebration, but it turned into a disaster. Ino went to prom with you, and everything was great, and it was nice to have a night with just you, regardless of the unspoken tension, of course, but then the party happened.
Somewhere between the music and the drinks, Naoya handed Ino a pill, smirking. “Lighten up,” he said. "You need it."
What followed was a haze of colors and sensations, blurred edges and muffled sound. When the bathroom door slammed open and your face appeared - shock and heartbreak etched into every feature - Ino blinked down at himself, at the girl draped over him, and felt his world tilt.
The image of you standing there, eyes brimming with tears from the sting of betrayal, burned itself into his memory. No amount of Naoya’s empty laughter or substances could drown it out.
Now, years later, Ino couldn’t erase the mistakes he made under Naoya’s influence. The permanent shadow Naoya casted on his life was overwhelming and inescapable. But he also couldn’t escape them. Naoya’s shadow loomed large over his life, a constant reminder of every decision he wished he could undo. Naoya's intimidation, manipulation, and overall power had such a hold on Ino, he feared he would lose everything if he cut Naoya off.
But he already lost you.
He wasn't exactly sure when it clicked in his mind that he had control over his life. Maybe it was the existentialism unit in philosophy class senior year of high school, or maybe it was his frontal lobe finally developing further. It doesn't matter, though, because at some point, Ino knew he had to cut Naoya off, and he had every right to. He came to the realization that his life was in his control, not anyone else's, and especially not Naoya's.
Slowly, but surely, Ino stopped responding to Naoya's texts and answering his calls. At first, Naoya hadn't noticed, but after Ino ignored him for two entire days, the Zen'in came knocking at his door, yelling about how disrespectful he was being. Ino was about to give in again, but remembered he had to hold firm, or his life was never going to change from the miserable state it was in. He was graduated and attending college. He was an adult.
Naoya leaned against the doorframe of Ino’s house, his arms crossed and his signature smirk plastered on his face. “You’ve been real quiet lately,” he sneered. “What, too good for me now that we're out of high school?”
Ino hesitated, his resolve once again wavering for a moment. Once he thought of all the nights he’d spent hating himself for letting Naoya control him, for hurting the people he cared about, he took a deep breath and stood straight up. If he feigned confidence, maybe he could feel confident.
“I’m done, Naoya,” he said, his voice firmer than he thought it would be. “Done with all of it. I’m not your sidekick anymore.”
Naoya’s smirk twitched, and for the first time, Ino saw a flicker of something resembling disbelief in his eyes. “Excuse me?” he said, his tone dangerously low.
“You heard me,” Ino said, stepping closer, growing bolder. “I’m not your servant. I’ve got my own life to live, and all you've done recently is fuck with it.”
Naoya’s face twisted into a sneer. “You think you can just walk away from me? After everything I’ve done for you? What, you think you're better than me?”
“Yeah, actually,” Ino said simply. “Because everything you’ve done for me came with a price. I'm not paying that shit anymore. Find a new minion.”
Naoya’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say another word. He turned on his heel and stormed off, slamming the wooden door behind him.
For the first time since he met his now ex-best(?) friend, Ino felt like he could breathe.
Until last night, standing in the backyard of the Sigma Pi frat party sipping on a lukewarm beer, Ino thought he could finally put that part of his life behind him. He was at a new school - college, Jujutsu University - with new people. It was the fresh start he needed. He was finally free from the chains of his childhood. He ended things with the girl he was halfheartedly dating since (and during) when he was with you, leaving the last crumbs of Naoya's influence behind. Things were looking up - he finally was in control again.
That was until Sukuna cornered him.
The air around the frat house was thick with the scent of spilled beer, cigarette smoke, and damp grass. Laughter, conversation, and music invaded the air, but it all seemed muted as Sukuna stepped into the dim glow of the backyard's string lights. His presence was suffocating. The man was an enigma, intimidating and unflinching, and utterly unapproachable. Ino's mind raced with what he could possibly say to him.
“You’ve got some nerve hanging around Zen’in, Beanie” Sukuna said, his voice a low growl.
Ah, there it is.
Ino froze. The nickname stung more than he cared to admit. “I’m not hanging around him,” he replied after a pause. He took a gulp of his drink, tightening his grip on the neck of the bottle. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore,” Sukuna echoed, a ghost of a smirk curling his lips. He creeped a step closer and Ino instinctively shrank, the dark shadows on Sukuna's face making him look scary, almost inhuman. Sharp, red eyes bore into him. “You used to, though. Long enough to know how that shitty snake operates.”
“I made mistakes, okay,” Ino admitted, his voice quiet. His palms feel sweaty, as if they're losing their grip on his beer. Sukuna's unblinking stare makes it that much harder to talk. “But I’m not hanging around him. I'm not that person anymore.”
Sukuna chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. "Mistakes," he echoed again, almost amused at the words spewing from the boy's mouth. "That’s a cute way of putting it. But the thing about mistakes, Beanie, is that they don’t just disappear because you’ve decided to grow a conscience."
Ino’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his fingernails clawing at the skin of his sweaty palms. He wanted to argue, or to tell Sukuna that he wasn’t the same weak, spineless kid who let Naoya control his life. But the truth was, he didn’t know how much of that was true. He was still figuring out who he was without Naoya’s shadow hovering over him and scrutinizing his every little move.
Sukuna leaned in, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Do y'know why I’m even wastin' my time talkin' to you right now?”
Ino shook his head, unable to form words under the intensity of Sukuna’s gaze. The movement is hurried, nerves making his movements jittery.
“Because Zen’in," he spits, "still thinks you’re his little bitch. He’s been sniffing around places he shouldn’t, thinking he’s untouchable. And you?” Sukuna jabbed a finger into Ino’s chest, the pressure just shy of painful. “You’re just a pawn in the cruel games he plays with other people's lives. I mean, why else would you be standing alone, outside, at a party like mine?”
Ino’s stomach dropped. He thought cutting Naoya off meant he was free, but Sukuna’s words planted a seed of doubt. Could Naoya still be using him somehow, even now?
“I’m not in his life anymore,” Ino said, his voice barely above a whisper, throat straining. His pulse quickened as his face settled on an expression somewhere between angry and ashamed. “I swear.”
Sukuna’s smirk returned, but it was colder this time. “You better not be. Because if I even think you’re involved in one of his schemes, I won’t bother warning you again.” His hand gripped Ino’s shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to make his point clear. “And believe me, you don’t want me as an enemy.”
Ino nodded quickly, his throat dry. “I understand.”
"You ever hear what he did to my brother?” Sukuna’s voice cut through Ino’s spiraling thoughts like a freshly honed blade. The shift in his tone was subtle but lethal.
Sukuna’s grip tightened slightly, and his eyes narrowed, as if daring Ino to answer incorrectly. Ino shook his head again, his voice trembling as he managed to whisper, “No, I haven’t.”
The pink-haired man let out a dark chuckle, releasing Ino’s shoulder with a rough shove that sent him stumbling back a step. “Figures,” Sukuna said, his tone dripping with disdain. “Zen’in’s good at keeping his little secrets. Let me clue you in on something, Beanie. My brother? He doesn’t get involved in petty games, and he sure as hell doesn’t cross paths with people like Naoya. After a dumbass martial arts competition where Yuuji carried their team to regionals and won the whole thing, Naoya was pissed. You know what happened?”
Ino’s silence must have been enough of an answer because Sukuna continued, his voice low and icy. “He hurt him. Not physically - Naoya doesn’t get his hands dirty like that. But he went after my brother���s name, his reputation, his livelihood. Claimed he was possessed, a freak. Naoya turned people against him, twisted words, and when he couldn’t win outright, he lied until he could.”
Ino’s stomach churned. This wasn’t a side of Naoya he had seen firsthand, but it was one he could believe all too easily. He had seen the way Naoya manipulated people, the way he used his charm and his name like weapons. But Sukuna’s brother? What could Naoya possibly have gained from targeting him?
“Why?” Ino croaked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
Sukuna’s expression hardened, and for a moment, Ino thought he might regret asking. But Sukuna answered, his voice a low growl. “Because he could. Because my brother bested him, and for some reason, Naoya saw even his soft ass as a threat. And because Naoya’s the kind of bastard who doesn’t just want power - he wants submission.”
Yuuji, despite his unassuming nature, carried himself with a quiet confidence that didn’t fit Naoya’s worldview. He wasn’t deferential to Naoya like so many others were, and that alone was enough to draw the Zen’in heir’s ire.
Ino felt sick. He had known Naoya was ruthless, but hearing this painted a much darker picture than he had ever let himself imagine. He had been so overwhelmed by the idea of Naoya controlling him, he never stopped to think too deeply about how Naoya controlled others as well.
Sukuna stepped closer again, his towering presence suffocating. “So here’s how this is going to work. You’re done with him - fully done. You don’t talk to him, you don’t even breathe the same air as him if you can help it. Because if I catch you even looking like you’re on his side, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Ino swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “I'm telling you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m not with him. I’m not.”
Sukuna stared him down for a long moment before stepping back. “Good,” he said simply. “Then we won’t have a problem.”
Naoya might have thought he won with Yuuji, but he didn’t account for one thing: Sukuna never forgets. And Sukuna never forgives.
Sukuna hovers for a moment before continuing, “You think Naoya’s done pulling his shit? Think again. He’s got his sights set on someone else now.”
Ino’s stomach dropped in knowing. “Who?”
Sukuna’s gaze was ice-cold. “You know exactly who. And if you’ve got any shred of decency left, you’ll make sure he doesn’t get the chance to ruin her again like he ruined so many others. Including you.”
Ino’s mind was all over the place, memories flooding back of Naoya’s snide comments and veiled threats about you. He thought he’d escaped Naoya’s shadow, but now it was clear that shadow still loomed over him. And if Sukuna was right, you were standing right in its path.
For the first time in a long time, Ino felt a surge of resolve. He couldn’t change the past, but maybe, just maybe, he could stop Naoya from hurting you—or anyone else—again.
Ino nodded slowly, trying to process Sukuna’s words. His mind wandered, unbidden, back to high school. He remembered a conversation he’d had with Naoya during their junior year, late one night after too many beers. Naoya had been ranting about some kid who "didn’t know his place," someone Naoya had "put in his place for good."
Could he have been talking about Yuuji?
“I… I think I remember him mentioning your brother once,” he admitted cautiously. “He said something about teaching someone a lesson.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did he now?”
Ino swallowed hard, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. But now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “It was years ago. He didn’t say much, just… that he did something to get back at your brother. Something big.”
Sukuna took a slow, deliberate step closer, and Ino felt his pulse quicken. “And you didn’t think to do anything about it?”
“I didn’t know what he meant!” Ino stammered as he tried to defend his past actions, an old habit he was having trouble getting over. “I swear, I didn’t know it was your brother. I didn’t know anything. Naoya's cryptic and won't let others in on his plans, only parts of them. I only heard because I had come over to his house and he didn't know.”
Sukuna’s gaze bore into him for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply and turned away. “Typical. The brat's always been good at keeping his hands clean while everyone else does his dirty work.”
Ino hesitated, his mind racing. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to think long and hard about the kind of people you keep around,” Sukuna said coldly. “And because if Naoya’s pulling the same shit now, I need to know.”
Ino’s stomach churned as he thought back to the way Naoya had treated you, the way he’d manipulated and belittled everyone around him. If Sukuna’s brother had barely survived Naoya’s games, what did that mean for the people Naoya was targeting now?
And then it hit him - a memory from high school. Naoya had once mentioned wanting to make you "pay" for something, though he hadn’t elaborated. At the time, Ino had brushed it off as idle talk, but now, in light of Sukuna’s words, it felt more sinister.
Ino’s voice was shaky when he finally spoke. “I… I think Naoya might still be at it. I don’t know what, but he’s planning something.”
Sukuna’s expression darkened further, his jaw tightening. “Then you’d better hope you figure it out fast. Because if he so much as breathes wrong in her direction, there’s not a force on Earth that’ll save him from me.”
“If you see him messing with someone important to me - anyone - I expect you to act. Understand?”
The implication was clear. Sukuna wasn’t warning Ino for Ino’s sake. He was issuing an order, one that came with unspoken consequences if ignored.
“Yeah,” Ino mumbled. “I get it.”
With that, Sukuna turned and walked away, leaving Ino standing there, shaken and alone. He let out a shaky breath, his mind racing. Sukuna’s warning wasn’t just about Naoya—it was about everything Ino had let himself become under Naoya’s influence. And if he was going to change, truly change, he couldn’t just cut Naoya off. He had to figure out who he was without him, and he had to start now.
Sukuna’s words rattled around in Ino’s head, a constant echo that refused to fade. For the first time, he found himself questioning everything - his friendship with Naoya, his choices, and most importantly, his role in the mess that had hurt you so deeply.
The guilt lingered like a shadow, heavy and inescapable, until it finally drove him to pick up his phone after the party. He stared at your contact for a long time, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, knowing the likelihood of getting blocked by you was high. And when you did, and it stung although he wasn't surprised, he didn’t stop there. He sent a message to the one person he thought might actually listen to him: Satoru Gojo.
As much as he tried not to, Ino was a lurker. He couldn’t help it. Late at night, when the weight of everything felt unbearable, he’d find himself scrolling through your Instagram, looking at the fragments of your life that he was no longer a part of. It was self-inflicted torture, but he couldn’t stop.
So when you began hanging out with Satoru, he was curious.
It wasn’t a surprise that you had met someone new, but it still stung. He had lost his right to expect forgiveness a long time ago. From the photos, it seemed like you were happy now. There were pictures of you laughing with friends, trying out new cafes, and exploring places he’d never been with you, and never will. It gave him a strange, bittersweet sense of comfort.
At least you were doing okay.
At least you’d moved on.
Even if it hurt to watch from afar.
It gave Ino a tinge of hope. Yeah, he screwed over all of the chances you gave him, but at least you're happy now, even if he can only watch from afar.
That was why, when you started hanging out with Satoru, Ino’s curiosity got the better of him. At first, he told himself it was nothing - just a passing friendship or a coincidence. There were subtle, fleeting comments, and casual mentions from mutual acquaintances. Ino was sure that you had a lot of new friends, and Satoru was simply another one of those.
Yet the more he saw, the more his unease grew.
At some point, Satoru wasn’t just in the background of your stories; he was an entire presence. He was an character in your life with an active role. Satoru was in the comments, cracking jokes and bantering with you in ways that felt too natural, too intimate. He was the one taking candid photos of you laughing in the kind of way that felt too personal to be platonic. There was a new energy in your posts, a lightness in you that Ino hadn’t seen since before you were together, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who was responsible.
What Ino was feeling wasn’t jealousy, exactly. He knew had forfeited his place in your life, and he knew it. But seeing you with someone like Satoru - a guy who had everything he didn't - left a bitter taste in his mouth. Whether it was shame or regret or whatever, he didn't know. He just knew he hated it.
Satoru was everything Ino wasn’t: confident, charismatic, unapologetically himself. He didn’t shrink under the weight of anyone’s expectations, least of all Naoya’s. And you? You looked free with him. Happy in a way that wasn’t curated for the camera. Genuine smiles, the corner of your eyes wrinkling in the kind of way that radiates joy. You were glowing, your smiles wide and unguarded, the kind that used to make his heart skip a beat. It gave him a bittersweet sense of comfort.
Ino told himself it didn’t matter. He was just curious. Just watching from the sidelines. But as the days turned into weeks, the guilt gnawed at him with increasing intensity. It made him think of all the times he’d laughed along with Naoya instead of standing up for you, and of all the ways he’d let you down because he was too afraid to push back.
He told himself it didn’t matter. He was just curious, just observing from the sidelines.
But the truth was that somewhere in the back of his mind, he craved a sense of closure he feared he may never find.
The least he could do was try and help, right?
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@diearama
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getting to know a bit more of Ino's perspective <3 i wasnt going to make this this long but i kept typing and here we are... hope you enjoyed!
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starryriize · 1 year ago
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so pretty | riwoo
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— ✧ • ˳೫˚ part of my valentine event!
೫ pairing: bf! riwoo and fem! reader
೫ genre/word count: fluff, really suggestive (my bad y’all) 703 words!!
೫ summary: a typical late night drive with riwoo turns into something more
೫ author’s note: ngl this was so 🤭 i had a lot of fun writing and editing this <33 also this isn’t proofread bc i was falling asleep trying to edit this :((
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Reaching your hand outside, you sigh happily feeling the cool night air rush against your skin. The city was bustling, a passerby chattering as they left the shops, another laughing with friends as they strut down the sidewalk. Oh, how you loved driving through the city as it allowed you to admire the good-natured fun of strangers. It was easy for you to forget just how dazzling Seoul was since you’d simply gotten used to how beautiful it was. 
However, your mind was focusing not on the skyscrapers, the traffic, or the organized chaos of the city center. Your eyes were fixed on how Sanghyeok’s hands flexed against the wheel, how the veins tensed as his finger flicked the turn signal on. He takes a glance at you, a slight smirk rising on his face. 
God, you hated how fine he looked. You fidget with the Tiffany bracelet he gifted you, mind racing the more you look at his hands. You look forward, opting to try and think about something else. Something besides how good his hands look in your- you shake your head, forcing your eyes to look at the now red light. 
“You like what you see?” His voice snaps you back to reality, honey practically dripping from his lips. Your muscles tense, feeling shy at his sudden question. Taking a breath, you face him, replying, “Yes.” His deep-set eyes burn into your figure as the moonlight reflects a captivating glow against the side of his face. A smile grows on his lips as he leans toward you, the smell of his cologne making you dazed. His breath fans against your lips before he presses a soft, yet desire-filled kiss against your plush lips. It was only a moment and only one kiss, yet...you wanted, no, needed more. 
He pulled away, the stain of your lipstick clearly on his lips. Not bothering to rub the smear off, he drove through the green light, focusing on the road again. Feeling a blush rise on your cheeks, you collect yourself, adjusting your skirt, shooting a glance at Sanghyeok as you try to compose your pounding heart. He looks too fine to not fantasize about, sitting there in his pressed suit. You cross your legs, unable to distract yourself from the way his fingers tensed on the wheel or how his eyes were so intense a moment earlier. 
He takes one hand off the wheel, firmly placing it on the expanse of your thigh. You shiver at the feeling of his hands, the cool metal of his rings a sharp contrast to the warmth of your skin. The car had been blowing warm air in your direction the entire ride, and now you wished the air was off. You could feel everything burning, the passion, and it was making both you and Sanghyeok lose your composures. 
Distracted by his hand slowly moving up and down your thigh, you don’t realize that the car has stopped. You tense. Pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he brings his hand off your leg to undo the seat buckle, the slight click barely registering in your mind. Making the mistake of turning, you lock eyes with Sanghyeok.
Smiling softly, he whispers in your ear, “We’re home, sweetie.” Blinking in surprise, you turn away, noticing the familiar neighborhood and the door to your house. Sighing disappointedly, you adjust yourself, putting your hand on the door handle to leave the car. Right then, you feel a hand on your chin, gently turning your head towards your boyfriend. He stares at you, eyes dazed with a hint of desire as his gaze flicks from your face to your lips. He breathes deeply, lips a few inches away from yours as though he was trying to resist kissing you. What seems like an eternity passes, he gives in, capturing your lips in his in a delicate yet desperate kiss. It was a soft, innocent enough kiss until he pulled away, muttering, “Oh honey, the night isn’t over yet!” The corner of his lips turns into a smile, giggling as he opened the car door.
Safe to say, that night Sanghyeok showed you all the various ways that he loved you.
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farfromstrange · 8 months ago
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Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader
Chapter 26: Seven Devils All Around
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Masterlist ° Chapter List
Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader (she/her)
Summary: When you arrive at your apartment, you notice that the door isn't locked. You make the mistake of entering without calling the police first, and you pay dearly for your recklessness.
Warnings: ANGST, blood, violence, break-in, mentions of suicidal thoughts
Word Count: 3.4k
A/n: It took me a while to get this done because I just wasn't happy with it, but I finally got it done. We're starting to get knee-deep into the next angst arc, so I hope you're prepared for some tension, twists, and turns!
The view behind the windshield blurs through your tears as you navigate the streets of Dublin, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turn white. 
You push your foot down on the gas. You want to go home, but you also don’t. Your apartment hasn’t felt like home in a very long time. After meeting Michael, and everything was still somewhat okay, he became your home, but even that seems like a distant feeling now. Your feelings toward him haven’t changed, of course, but the pile of shit you have to deal with keeps getting bigger, and you can’t catch up. You don’t know what to do. The helplessness adds to the pain of being in love—of worrying about the man you love and the family he was born into who seems to only want the worst for you and him—and that makes feeling at home a sheer impossibility. 
The motor of your car roars, but you keep going at a speed that might cost you your license until you pull into the dark street of your neighborhood and finally manage to park the car before you break down. 
Your sobs echo through the small space. Every hiccuped intake of oxygen rumbles in your chest, burning through every quarter of your lungs. It’s getting significantly harder to breathe. 
Leaving was a spur-of-the-moment decision that seemed right at the time. You had to leave. You were drowning, but the hand Michael offered was too far away and too high up to reach. Miles stretched between you; if you had tried swimming toward him, you would have never reached the end alive. You had to save yourself. 
Leaving was the right thing to do—at least that is what you kept telling yourself on the drive home. Now, though, you're starting to question what you were thinking, breaking apart at the seams after desperately clinging to a life buoy of paper. 
You used to be such a rational person. Perhaps it was the constant ignorance of reality—the lying to yourself and pretending all was well—that made everything easier. You became complicit with your trauma’s need to forget everything and move on because facing the truth was just too painful, and you tried telling yourself that you could barely remember most of it, anyway. The things you could remember, you swore to take care of once you had it figured out, but that was a foolish lie you concocted for the sake of your peace of mind.
After meeting Michael, reality only started seeping in again. Because his reality and your reality have both turned out to be brutal in their essence. Though after all this time of pretending and being eaten alive by the things you knew and couldn’t share—didn’t want to share, even because you knew the consequences could cause your entire life to fall apart—reality has become a weight you forgot how to carry. Now, your world is falling apart anyway, and there seems to be no way out. 
You knew this would happen, but you didn’t want to face the truth. That is the problem. And that is, you think, on you entirely. You should have been more careful, knowing your delusions would become your downfall eventually. 
And you can’t blame Michael, no matter how badly you want to. You can’t hate or degrade him, not even in your mind. He was worried, he was upset, and he was angry because he had to find out that even after trying so hard to stay on the straight and narrow, his chances of getting custody of his daughter would remain lower than the deepest parts of the ocean. He ran against an invisible clock and still lost, even after making it on time. You tried to help him, and he tried to help himself, but your attempts were futile. Now, after everything, he is scared of losing you, too. 
He gave you one condition; stay home and don’t do anything stupid. You couldn’t even do that, and the worry made his fuses blow. That’s not his fault. 
You don’t know why you did it. The nagging feeling wouldn’t leave you alone, and you acted on your feelings rather than common sense. You were angry at the world; Frank coming over and confronting you with the pictures that weigh heavy in the pocket of your jeans was merely your last straw in a game you felt like you were going to lose right this second if you didn’t do something other than sit around and wait. 
You faced your fears today and hated what you saw. You couldn’t stay, not when your lives are starting to pull you in different directions. Sticking together is a dangerous game, one you no longer know how to play without either one of you—or those around you—getting burned. You’re no good for each other, especially not now, and maybe you have never been. 
You couldn’t stay, but right now, crying alone in your car as you’re falling apart, you can’t help but wish Michael was there to hold you through the earthquake that takes you under. 
Pushing people away is your defense mechanism as much as it is Michael’s. You should never have let him this close in the first place, knowing the past you’ve been hiding from the world. You were so focused on yourself, playing down the risk behind it that you turned yourself into a fool. 
You can put a butterfly bandage on his forehead; you can love him, and you can accept the love he can give you, but none of that will fix something that has been broken from the start. None of that can fix your broken family or bring your sister back to you. 
Love, bandages, not even a nail could solve the issue you have been grappling with for years, and it won’t magically condemn your father to a lifetime of torture like the one he subjected you to. Saving yourself comes at a cost, and sometimes the leftover debt becomes too high to pay with an empty bank account. What do you do then? What do you do if you don’t have the means to pay the cost, not even to fight? 
You slam the car door, locking it with the press of a button. You’re not thinking straight, you try telling yourself, but your body has a mind of its own. 
The stairs leading up to your apartment creak under your footsteps. You take two at a time. Last-minute flights are more expensive, but you have some emergency cash stashed away in your wallet; that should be enough to pay for a flight to London. This is wrong. This is beyond reckless, and if Michael knew, he would move mountains to make sure you would never make it to the airport without opening your eyes and rethinking your decision, but it’s not rationality that drives you. 
Every time you breathe, the hourglass loses another grain of sand. Every time you move without a purpose or care, another second is wasted into oblivion. You can’t run fast enough, but you have to try. 
Hot tears continue to stream down your cheeks, staining your skin with a mixture of sweat and salt. When you finally reach your floor, you search for the right key on your chain with shaky fingers. It has to be somewhere. 
You approach the lock. When you left, you locked it. You know you did. You wrote a note in your phone, just in case you were to wonder if you turned off all appliances and locked the door on your way out. You can never be too careful. Michael’s family plays a huge part in your newfound care. It’s no secret that monsters are no longer just lurking in the dark shadows of an alleyway or under your bed. They are in your head and the people around you, and they are even part of your family—your own flesh and blood. Monsters are everywhere but in the places you expect them to be.
You insert the key, and you stop breathing. The door budges under your touch. You locked the door when you left. You closed it. All windows are shut, and one of your neighbors would have noticed if you had accidentally left one open. They would have called you about any suspicious activity because the old lady in the apartment above yours likes to watch. You’re certain you took the necessary precautions, and yet you push against the wood once, and your door opens completely. 
Your ribs are starting to hurt from how hard your heart is pounding against the sturdy bone. “What the—” you mutter under your breath. It’s a warning sign you expertly ignore.
Anyone else would have called the police at the first sign of foul play, but you can’t bring yourself to pull out your phone. If someone played with the lock, or if someone broke into your apartment, there are many things they could have taken, and you have never felt so sick to the pit of your stomach—not even when you were beaten senseless or had to confess to your father that you got a bad mark on a test, knowing he would make sure the injuries no one could see would hurt a few days longer, perhaps even scar so you could never forget what he did to you. But even without the scars, the memories are fresher than daisies on a spring morning. 
The floorboards creak. Blood rushes to your cheeks. You reach into your bag, fingers wrapping around the small bottle of pepper spray you ordered online one night after a few glasses of wine and a scary encounter with a stranger on your way home from work in the dead of winter. You clutch the small bottle so tightly, you wouldn’t be surprised if you end up spraying yourself. 
The silence is deafeningly loud. It screams into your ear. You’re met not with darkness but with a faint string of light streaming into the hallway from the direction of your living room. You should call the police, you really should, but you don’t. Instead, you breach the doorway and step inside. 
Documents line the floor like a thin carpet. Some pieces are torn while others are still held together neatly in the corners by fragile paper clips. 
You swallow. After Michael accidentally found the file in one of your drawers, you learned from your mistake and hid them somewhere they couldn’t be found. You thought you did because, between the two of you, you are the only ones aware that it even exists. You tried everything to make sure something like this wouldn’t happen. Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, but nothing could have prepared you for this. 
The blood freezes in your veins. Your hands run cold. Your desk is tipped over, and your couch has been ripped apart at the seams, probably by a sharp blade that cut into the fabric to check the filling inside. You don’t keep any money in the apartment, but the paper trail tells you instantly that whoever did this was not looking for valuables. 
Only a handful of people would profit from that file: those who want to hurt you, and the one person who would take it to protect himself—the Kinsellas and your father. 
Tears spring to your eyes. The fear that spreads through your body at a speed faster than lighting works as a paralytic.  Your father isn’t a criminal mastermind, but he’s ruthless and who knows what he would do if he found out what you are doing behind his back. He wouldn’t just let out all of his anger and frustration on you, he would kill you. If only he knew what you were doing, he would make sure another gravestone would be added next to Ellie’s. He is that kind of person, but not the kind of person powerful enough to orchestrate this. At least that is what you would have believed a few days ago. Now, you’re not so sure anymore what to believe.
The Devil likes to hide in plain sight.
You can only stare and pray to the heavens above that you’re just dreaming. That this isn’t real. That you’re not standing in ruins. You were so careful…
Again, the floorboards creak, but you didn’t take a step this time. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your skull burns as though someone is glaring daggers into the bone. You can feel another presence in the room, breathing down your neck. Your thumb brushes over the trigger. 
The light switch on the other end of the room cracks under the weight of a heavy fist. This is it, you think. You’re going to die. But—and even if it’s just for a moment, it still crosses your mind—maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Your ragged breaths break the silence in the sudden darkness. Without warning, a pair of strong arms wraps around you from behind. You cry out, but a gloved hand finds its way over your parted lips. The taste of the leather makes you gag. 
Fear takes over in a storm, but your mind refuses to let you curl up and die. You throw your head back, arms flailing as you scratch at his forearms. DNA is crucial, and no matter what happens, you must fight back. 
You fight back with every ounce of strength left, but it's like struggling against a force of nature. The masked man is relentless as he crushes you against the wall.
With a deafening crash, the wooden shelf next to the still-open front door topples over as he backs against it with you pressed to his sturdy chest, sending shards of glass and ceramic crashing to the ground. 
The pain explodes like a dirty bomb at the side of your skull. He smashes you against the bricks that hide behind the white wallpaper you chose not to paint over after moving here. In the darkness, you can’t see the crimson stain that forms underneath, but the shadow glistens in the moonlight. 
You hit the floor hard, the man tossing you to the floorboards. The impact pushes all the air from your lungs. You gasp, and it burns, but you can’t get the oxygen back where it needs to. 
Desperation claws at your throat as you reach out, grasping for anything to defend yourself. You are okay with dying, but not without putting up a fight. And is the easy way out really what you want to take to your grave after making it so far? You doubt that. Survival moves to the forefront of your mind. Before you can even muster a coherent thought, the masked stranger is on you again, hands locking around your throat. 
You choke, trying to pry him away, but it’s useless. You kick your feet up and forward, desperate for air, and finally knock him off balance. With a growl of frustration, he releases his hold on you.
In the dim moonlight, you catch a glint of porcelain on the floor next to the scattered shelf. It’s the vase that held the flowers Michael gave you on your first date. You didn’t throw them away when they started to wither because you wanted to hold onto that sliver of happiness for a little longer. The sharp piece scratches the inside of your palm, but you continue to reach for it, your teeth gritted as you struggle against your attacker. Eventually, your fingers wrap around the sharp edges, and you try to jab it into his bicep. 
The man leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. “Just stop…fuckin’ fighting,” he hisses. You don’t recognize his voice. It doesn’t even cross your mind to try and do so; your only motivation is to get out. 
He catches the shard before you can hurt him though. You half-expected him to keep choking you until you pass out or die. Instead, he turns your makeshift weapon around on you. 
Time slows to a crawl. With a primal scream of defiance, you lunge forward, trying to get it back. Yet, it's too late.
The glass pierces your flesh, tearing a gash into your side. The pain knocks the remaining air right out of your lungs. You can’t scream. You can’t cry. 
Blood wells up against your skin. With a final, vicious twist of the glass, the stranger wrenches the shard free from your body. The walls start caving in. You’re trapped in a box, and the water is rising in your lungs.
The floorboards from the apartment above that make up your ceiling start to creak, and the man sits back on his heels, chin tilted up. He curses under his breath. 
You try to catch a glimpse of his face, but the darkness is overwhelming. Again, the floorboards above creak. You want to beg for mercy, maybe even scream for help, but nothing wants to come out. 
The weight on your chest disappears. Your eyes flutter, but you force them to stay open, patting along your trousers. Where is your phone? You hope to God you didn’t leave it in the car. You should have called the police. You should have…
It was foolish to think you would stand a chance against an intruder with a mere bottle of pepper spray. It seems as though he was trained for this very moment. He destroyed your apartment, and now he is reaching for what you were trying to preserve. You don’t know who he is, but he seems to know exactly where to find your little secret, and that makes you sick. The pain makes you sick.
How did he know?
Through blurry eyes, you see the masked figure playing with the file in his hand. He passes by you, the mask moving where he’s smirking. 
“No,” you choke out. “Please…”
He sighs a condescending breath. “Little girls shouldn’t stick their noses into issues that don’t concern them.”
‘What does that even mean?’ you want to scream back at him, but the only sound that passes your lips is a gurgled moan as the tip of his steel boot starts to dig into the wound on your side. 
You reach for him, but he disappears as soon as the light outside turns on and the stairs creak under the weight of your upstairs neighbor—the old lady who once introduced herself as Lilian after you helped her carry her groceries. 
The invisible noose around your neck tightens. You haven’t been this scared in a very long time. If you’d stayed; if you and Michael had talked it out, and if you’d tried to be more rational instead of letting your heart take over, this wouldn’t have happened. 
You fumble for your phone, your fingers slick with your blood. They tremble against the surface of the screen, leaving crimson fingerprints behind. The screen doubles and distorts before your eyes, the numbers dancing mockingly out of reach.
You manage to hit the speed dial for Michael—yes, him, not the police, and that little voice in your head is baffled that you continue making such bad decisions. Your voice is a hoarse whisper as you plead, “Please pick up, please pick up, please…” But there's no answer.
Panic claws at your chest. The phone slips from your grasp, clattering to the floor beside you, into a pool of blood and the remaining shards of the vase. 
Lilian calls out from the other side of the door, her footsteps hurrying down the stairs.
With a last, desperate surge of strength, you reach out, fingers brushing against the cold floor. “Help,” you croak. Your head pounds. It sounds as though you’re screaming.
The door doesn’t budge. Didn’t she hear you? You press the call button again, desperate, but again, Michael doesn’t pick up. You can’t hold your eyes open much longer. You can’t…
The world spins dizzily around you, the darkness threatening to claim you and drag you toward the light. 
You sob, reaching for the throbbing wound in your side. It’s time to accept it for what it is, you figure. Lilian pounds on the door, but the sound is starting to fade as your heartbeat pounds harder and faster against your ribcage and your throat, trying to catch up. You realize it won’t. Not in time. Your heart will grow weak soon. 
You’re unsure how long you lie there, floating in a weird middle space between consciousness and a depth you have never been in before. You dip in your toes, but it won’t quite accept you just yet. You want to jump in. You want to learn to swim, even if you have to drown first. The pressure is taking you under. God, you want it to end. It’s too much, and you hate that you can’t do anything.
Denial works until it doesn’t. 
The door breaks off its hinges. It couldn’t have been Lilian. You feel a hand on your cheek, and the man it belongs to slaps your skin rather roughly. Your eyes flutter open, weak and sensitive to the light.
The old lady must have alerted your other neighbors. Their voices overlap, grow louder, and then disappear. You can only hear your racing heartbeat in your throat. 
Someone applies pressure to your wound, and you cry out. At least you think you do. Your fingers twitch, reaching for the man’s arm. He’s looking at you softly, trying to keep your attention on him, but it’s not him you care about. 
Michael.
It comes out as gibberish. 
“Save your strength,” your neighbor says. “Help is on the way.”
But you fear that the help he mentioned might not make it on time as your eyes close and you decide to succumb to the darkness. You put up enough of a fight for one day. You’re tired, and so you decide to let your eyelids flutter shut and fall into blissful oblivion. 
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Tagging: (let me know if you want to be tagged, too!) @bellaxgiornata @mattmurdocksscars @ms-murdockswift @your-not-invisible-to-me @shouldbestudying41 @glowstick-lesbian @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @norestfortheshelbywicked @1988-fiend @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mattkinsella @schneeflocky @harperdoodle @ravenclaw617 @lunaticgurly @mattmurdocksstarlight @ebathory997
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blametheeditor · 3 months ago
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Voretober Day 14 | Pool
Voretober Prompt List
First | Previous | Next
If given the opportunity, would you take the chance to go to space and travel the stars? What if the person offering to take you was someone you trusted more than anyone else?
What if that person is no longer entirely human?
CONTAINS SOFT VORE
Content Warnings: Soft, non-sexual vore. Unwilling prey. Mentions of body horror. Mentions of experimenting on people. Mentions of death and murder, violence. Being trapped against one's will. Dehumanization. Abductions. Cursing. Darker themes/tone
___________________________________
Scott felt like he was suffocating, both literally and metaphorically. And despite the fact something is physically constricting his chest, he knows from experience the sharp, twisting pain of being unable to breathe comes strictly from the latter. 
It’s a sensation he’s all too familiar with. The one he felt when Daniel knocked on the Cawthon’s door to ask if Vincent had stayed the night or if Scott knew where the eldest brother was. The one that grew and grew as they scoured the neighborhood, the woods, the town, searching high and low for any sign of where Vincent could have gone. The one that left him sitting in the room shared by Vincent and Anothony, staring blankly at the door as the Wright brothers talked about what they learned from their own investigations, praying his best friend would come sauntering in to ask why everyone was huddled up together. 
Never did he think it would ever be caused from Vincent betraying him.
It felt like an eternity from when his best friend swallowed him whole, to when he lands in a nearly pitch-black area where the walls aren’t crushing him on all sides, making it impossible to even scream. But despite his newfound freedom, Scott can only curl into a ball, breaths fast and shallow as he tries to wrap his mind around what just happened. 
Vincent ate him. Vincent ate him. He was just swallowed by his best friend. Was given nothing more than a sorry before he was eaten. 
Oh God, he was eaten. He’s inside his best friend’s stomach oh God. 
At the realization he’s most likely sitting in a pool of acid, Scott frantically scrambles away with a fearful scream, flailing in the attempt to wipe away the substance coating his arms and legs in the desperate hope he can get it off in time before he gets burned. 
It’s an impossible task. He can’t tell what’s saliva and what isn’t, and in his attempt to get away he only succeeds in colliding with a wall. One that’s warm, and wet, and it seems to wrap around him. 
Scott doesn’t scream, doesn’t try to get away. He knows all too well how impossible it is to escape from a giant. So instead he breaks down and sobs. 
Why? Why did Vincent eat him? Scott trusted him, didn’t even ask about what made purple man ‘inhuman’. Because no matter how long it’s been, no matter where he went, it was still his best friend...right? 
Apparently it’s not. Apparently Vincent got replaced by something pretending to be the person Scott trusted more than anyone, had missed more than anything, couldn’t stand the idea of letting him leave again. Apparently this was a mistake. 
Maybe he should’ve asked why Vincent didn’t originally want to bring Scott with him. Maybe he should’ve demanded to know what happened during those 6 years. Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted so blindly. 
As he finally allows himself to mourn for his best friend, something he never so much as contemplated before knowing Vincent would come back to him, he slowly becomes aware of the sounds around him. Of a familiar heartbeat that now echos around him. Of a low rumbles that seem to be words that are too distorted to understand. Of a quaking thud that’s rhythmic and steady before dying down to start back up after a few moments. 
Recognizing them as footsteps, Scott feels another wave of despair roll through him at the knowledge he is insignificant to the giant. Despite all they’ve been through, what they promised each other, he means nothing to Vincent. 
That’s when the wall he’s leaning against seems to shove him, earning Scott’s attention. Not wanting to go down without a fight, he elbows it hard, anger at being treated like some kind of snack winning over his terror at knowing what’s going to happen next. And for a moment, nothing happens, letting him curl back up to properly wallow in misery peacefully. He’s given a full minute before he’s shoved at again. 
A yell of anger erupts as Scott turns to place both his hands against the warm wall before shoving back with all his might. Sputters when it pushes back. Because even though he’s never been inside a stomach before, he’s fairly certain that’s not supposed to happen. 
Now more confused than anything, Scott finally properly takes in his surrounding. Jolts at the realization he shouldn’t be able to really see anything right now, and yet there’s definitely a distinct glow. 
That shouldn’t be possible. Skin isn’t translucent, and humans don’t have lights inside of them. Then again, they also can’t grow to the size of a skyscraper to eat their best friend, so who’s to say there aren’t more things Vincent can do. 
...and things he can’t. And suddenly, Scott remembers he had been told the purple man can no longer eat. That it’s impossible for him to. 
Stunned, Scott’s eyes slowly trail over his arms currently covered in saliva. Winces from disgust, but not from pain at a burning sensation. A pat down reveals he has absolutely no injuries with his clothes still completely intact. 
“Are you serious, Vincent!” Scott screams. 
Once again, his answer is the echoing sound of a swallow. 
Before he can think about what that could possibly mean for him, a dark shape lands about a foot away from him. One that sits up and seems to look around before jolting. 
There’s a soft gasp. “Are you Scotty!” 
Scott’s mouth falls opens. Because that was English. And that’s the voice of a young child. “W-What?” 
“Sorry, did I say it wrong?” they ask. “Scott-y?” 
“N-No, that’s right,” Scott breathes, now not entirely sure if he isn’t still sleeping and currently having the worst nightmare imaginable. “Uh, w-who are you?” 
“Vincent calls me Mikey!” the figure introduces as they make their way over. As they get closer, Scott can finally make out their features. Feels his chest tightens when he sees two eyes, a head of dark hair, an expression of genuine elation. “It’s really nice to meet you!” 
It’s a human boy. Scott is currently speaking with a human child who looks no older than thirteen. Someone who has been gifted with a nickname. 
This was the person they were looking for. And Vincent just swallowed him. 
Suddenly, everything around them jumps, Scott gasping at the brief feeling of weightlessness. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but in its place the footsteps are now much quicker with Vincent’s heart beating twice as fast. 
“What happened?” he asks, unsure who or what he can trust, but there’s only so much he can do while inside a God forsaken stomach. 
“Lady Bal didn’t want to sell me,” the kid, Mike begins in a somber tone. “So Vincent grabbed me when she wasn’t looking and tried to sneak out. I think she realized though, so it sounds like he’s running instead of hiding.” 
It’s a surreal feeling being told that Vincent’s currently running. It certainly sounds like it, but it’s nearly impossible to tell other than the footsteps being a little more prominent. It’s eerie not knowing what’s going on. It’s horrifying to know he was eaten only minutes ago. It’s also a little concerning just how much a fellow human isn’t effect by the fact he too was swallowed whole. 
Scott looks down at his companion. Realizes the kid’s been watching him with wide eyes. 
God, what a day this turned out to be. “So you’re the one who helped Vince get back to Earth?” 
Mike perks up at being addressed, nodding his head fervently. “I did! And you’re his best friend he told me lots about!” 
And yet this is one more thing said best friend failed to tell him about. But his anger is toward the person they’re talking about, not who he’s speaking to. “He didn’t share an embarrassing stories about me, did he?” 
The kid gives a wry smile. “Nope, only good ones.” 
The corners of Scott’s mouth twitches at the response word for word exactly what Vincent would have couched someone to say for such a question. “That’s a shame. For every story he told, I would’ve had to tell one of his.” 
The kid looks like a deer in headlights, caught between wanting to hear what blackmail there is against the purple man, and trying to keep his promise of not revealing how much Vincent’s told him. “Can we trade?” 
“We can trade,” Scott agrees. “What do you have to offer?” 
Anything to get his mind off the fact his best friend ate him. Forget he’s having a conversation inside a stomach. Occupy him so he doesn’t think about how much time it will take until he’s allowed out, if he is. 
“Hmm,” Mike hums thoughtfully, trying to find something worthy enough. “Oh! When he first grew, I followed him everywhere to help him practice walking around someone super small. But he was so afraid of accidentally crushing me that if I got too close, he’d sit down on the ground and stay there until I walked away. The first few times he did it, though, I thought he was offering me to climb up, so he’d sit there for hours because he didn’t want to pick me up.” 
Scott won’t lie, that’s something he can definitely use against Vincent in the future, especially with how confident he is at letting someone walk right next to where he’s about to stand. He’s a lot more interested in what the story implies, however. That Mike is the reason the purple man had so much practice at being a giant. That the kid was there when Vincent first grew. 
“Now your turn,” Mike grins before Scott can ask for more information. “Do you know what happened that made him hate ba-nan-as?” 
There’s no stopping his smile at the memory of why exactly Vincent holds a personal vendetta against that particular fruit. “That was actually because he was making pudding. He had a few overripe bananas set aside to use for it, but while he had his back turned, one of his brothers came in carrying a big box. When they put in on the counter, a corner landed on them and made them explode everywhere. It took him forever to get the smell of banana out of his hair and swore never to cook with them again.” 
The kid’s head tilts with interest. “What does it smell like?” 
The young man hesitates. “Have you never eaten one before?” 
“I wish,” Mike murmurs. “I’ve also really wanted to try pasta, but the closest thing Vincent could find was...I think he called it red? No, bread!” 
Scott stares for a moment. “Have you ever been to Earth, Mike?” 
He regretted asking as soon as the words left his mouth. Because he knew what the answer was. Knew the kid who spoke of being totally unafraid of following a giant who doesn’t know how to be a careful one and didn’t blink twice at the fact he was eaten couldn’t have grown up on the planet where such things were impossible. 
He could’ve kept himself blissfully ignorant, should’ve. But there’s no taking it back, not as Mike shakes his head. 
“No, but Vincent says it looks a lot like Colossus!” 
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mushroombrainz · 6 months ago
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The First Year (An Arcane Drabble)
Hello.
I have mushrooms in my brains telling me to write and my first victim for a proper fanfic since middle school is arcane.
This was supposed to be part of a larger silco x reader thing but then i totally changed my mind on the concept and will be rewriting it, but i didn't want the first chapter I wrote to go to waste.
This is the first scene only, full work is 5485 words and up on ao3.
No warnings, gender-neutral reader
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Silco didn’t like you.
Well, that would be painting your relationship in one rather bold stroke, and Janna forbid you ever do that with the likes of him.
Still, you were certain that he wasn’t particularly fond of your presence, not in the same way he respected that of Sevika or straight adored Jinx whenever he had the time to be near her in a fatherly way.
But, you’ve worked for him for a while now. Entire years at this point, three if you were to be precise. It was an achievement you couldn’t scoff at, knowing how things usually went in this line of work. Then again, you only dealt with “in-house” issues and didn’t go out on any revolutionary missions, mainly tending the bar at The Last Drop, employed a short while after it had been taken over by the Chem-baron and new unofficial leader of the Lanes.
It was late June when you first walked into The Last Drop. The air outside grew thicker, the smog harder to tolerate with how humid the climate got around this time of year, reminding every citizen that despite not feeling like it, they were most certainly in a tropical country, no matter how chilly winters could get, especially down in the Fissures.
Cold, ventilated air finally washed over your body once you stepped inside, ready to go on ahead with your little interview when you found yourself face to face with Silco, a man most Lane-dwellers despised with a burning sort of passion.
Oh, and did they hate it when he took over The Last Drop. Especially those who were still on Vander’s side, they outright refused to step foot through the door of the that bar they once frequented, slowly but surely being infested by Silco’s presence. Alcohol stock went up, the produce more expensive, imported, wallpaper was changed, the warm lights from before switched to wilder colours that fit the look of a nightclub more than your average neighborhood pub, and of course, the music selection was nearly entirely swapped out. A bright neon eye was installed outside instead of the large sign from before which held the name of the establishment- a subtle warning, you’d assumed at the time, that this was the locale of one ‘Eye of Zaun’.
“Who’s this?” Your voice rang out through the empty dance floor, having just ushered the last drunkard outside and set about getting your stock counted for when a small mop of wild, poorly cut blue hair appeared on the scene. Big eyes and a toy squeezed close to her chest, the child which had stumbled upon you was no more than 10-ish years or so, making your face shift into a slightly friendlier and open expression, though confusion persisted in your furrowed brow and reluctant smile even as you tried to reason that the kid certainly just made a mistake. Stumbled into the wrong building looking for someone, that’s all. “Hey, kid…” You hesitated, unsure what to do with a child this age in such a place, setting your clipboard aside and bending down until your hands pressed against your knees.
What could you do? Throw her out? She hardly seemed neglected like most kids out on the streets, her clothes not new but clearly patched up as they lacked the holes yours had when you were around her age and her face was entirely clean of soot and the like, yet her parents were nowhere to be seen. Hair as brightly coloured as hers wouldn’t have entirely slipped you by, no matter how much the purple-pink lights above disturbed your palette.
You didn’t know how the kid might respond to you either, you didn’t exactly look the friendliest with your sharp Zaunite-born features and your choice of clothing which was the farthest from elegant, friendly, feminine or colourful. Nothing people wouldn’t expect from someone born in the Sumps, though.
A hand reached out to the girl after, trying to keep it as non-threatening as you could with your palm facing upward, showing her your bracelets which decorated your bare wrist, no concealed weapon or anything of the sort.
“You can’t really be here, you know?” You spoke soft though hardly babied the kid, keeping your tone entirely normal as if talking with any other client, but that wasn’t completely true. If you knew someone that shouldn’t be here had walked through those doors when you weren’t looking, you would have hardly been this polite about it.
“Why not?” Her question back to you held no real confusion or curiosity, but a bite of offense, daring you to try and say something about her being here again. If you hadn’t known better, you might have even said she looked like the kid of some Piltie, all soft around the edges even as she attempted to narrow her eyes dangerously at you and put on that bratty attitude. “Well, this isn’t exactly a place for kids to be, you get me? Lots of bad people, alcohol, all that stuff you should stay away from ‘till you’re older.” You explained in a straight forward but watered-down manner what was so bad about The Last Drop, excluding the newfound drugs that were being peddled in this place between customers like little bags of candies. Vibrant liquid candies that came in little vials or syringes.
Your hand dropped back to your knee when the only reaction the kid deemed you worthy of was a mean pout she threw your way, her entire body turned away from you as if to refuse your explanation, deny to leave, making you let out a sigh as you more sternly took hold of her shoulder and prepared to guide her out towards the front door of the place. You barely got her away from the bar when the stairs leading up to his office creaked with a sudden, new weight pressing down on them.
Looking up, you were faced with the judgmental, pinning eye of Silco. It was one harsh way to learn that he apparently had a kid.
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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 1 year ago
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David Horsey, The Seattle Times
* * * *
Great democracies don't fail when they are tested. We haven't before, and we won't this time either.
LUCIAN K. TRUSCOTT IV
DEC 7, 2023
Have you ever thought about the role guilt has played in our national life?  It’s not omnipresent, it’s certainly not felt by everyone, most especially those sinned against, but I would say guilt rivals pride as the thing that has most motivated us.  Think about it for a moment.  The founding of this country wasn’t an immaculate birth – for one thing, there wasn’t a Founding Mother among all those long-heralded Founding Fathers, and one of the two greatest mistakes they made the day they came to an agreement on our founding document was what they left out.  They didn’t award women full citizenship, and they failed to deal in any way with the sin of slavery.
But an important portion of what makes America exceptional is how we have endeavored to fix our mistakes.  We have yet to make adequate amends to the Native Americans who were here before we were and were systematically murdered and kidnapped and abused as this country spread West before and after its founding.  But in fits and starts, we’ve been trying – some of us have, anyway – to make amends. 
Out of the frying pan of the abject mistake of slavery and into the fire of the Civil War went our first attempt to deal with what we may as well call our founding errors.   It took a century that included decades of Reconstruction and Jim Crow and tens of thousands of dead black bodies and burned-down churches and homes and seized land and wealth until the moral clarity and power of the Civil Rights Era forced us as a nation to begin to repair the damage we had done to our fellow citizens who were Black.  Even then, the passage of the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Act faced massive resistance.  Laws against segregation had to be enforced in some cases by armed soldiers to be carried out in schools and colleges in the South.  We stumbled through fights over busing in cities like Boston and neighborhoods like Canarsie.  White flight from cities across the nation – Detroit and Baltimore among them – damaged tax bases, hurt schools, and let’s not forget the continuing PTSD of having been on the receiving end of the racism behind it all.  How would you like to have been a Black family that moved into a white neighborhood anywhere – South, North, East, or West – and watched the “For Sale” signs go up around you and the schools to which you sent your kids nearly empty of white kids?
And we must not forget what this country did to its women.  It took until 1920 and the ratification of the 19th Amendment to the Constitution for women to get the right to vote.  That is more than 130 years that women were what is commonly called second class citizens in this country.  But I would go further:  the everyday work of women was used to build this country. By giving birth to new citizens, women, alongside immigrants, created the population that made possible the formation of territories and then the new states that would comprise the United States of America – all 50 of them.  When men went off to war, women stepped up and did every single job a man had done in their place.  And what did they get in return?  For decades, a one-way ticket back to the kitchen and the nursery.  Women had to start an entire new movement, the Women’s Movement, to begin the long process of realizing some modicum of equality with men in the workplace and in the home, and as we all know, it’s not finished.  Women earned 57 cents for every dollar earned by men in 1969.  Today, the gap has closed to women’s 80 cents for every male dollar, but jeez, 23 cents over 54 years?  That’s an improvement of only a half-cent a year.
It would take a lengthy book to discuss gender inequality in the eyes of the law.  Before the Women’s Movement made rape an issue with the publication of Susan Brownmiller’s epic “Against Our Will:  Men, Women and Rape” published in 1975, complaints by women that they were raped were often brushed aside by police and prosecutors.  It took decades for laws to be passed against using women’s sexual history against them in rape cases.  Women are still dealing with inequality on college campuses on countless grounds – how charges of harassment and abuse are dealt with, inequities in sports, inequities in employment of women by colleges and universities.  And practically every time women have thought they have secured a right they have fought for and won, it is either challenged or taken away altogether, the right to abortion being the prime example.
We have made great strides in the rights of LGBTQ people, but with the right wing attacking trans people and forbidding the teaching of LGBTQ books in schools, we’re not finished.  We’re not finished with any of it – with how we treat Native Americans, Blacks and other minorities, how we treat women, how we treat immigrants…we could go on and on and on. 
The only people who haven’t been crapped on in the 236 years of our history are white Christian males, and now with God only knows how much of the nation’s wealth and land, they are whining about being discriminated against by the people on whose shoulders they have been standing, if not stomping further into the ground.
We have been tested before and found wanting, but as a people, we have found a way to rally and at least attempt to overcome the problems we have faced since our founding.  Often the tests we face boil down to politics, because within the political process has lain the solutions we have found, often by enacting laws to forbid the bad and elevate the good. 
We are being tested yet again.  The Republican Party, which was once the party that stood against slavery and for equality, has made an about-face on so many issues, it’s hard to list them, but race, equal rights for women, gay rights, immigrant rights, and equality of economic opportunity are certainly among them.  And now they have chosen a leader, and even elected him president for one term, who not only wants to turn back the clock of progress on so many of the things that have made this country a shining light to the world, he wants to destroy the democracy that has haltingly, imperfectly, but steadily made progress possible. 
What I’m here to tell you today is this:  look back at the long and often difficult history of our country.  Almost all of these things that have been problems since the day of our founding are still with us in some measure, but we have accomplished the end of our original sin of slavery and we are at least still trying to make amends for the original sin of the slaughter of the people here on this continent before us who are now our fellow citizens.  We’ve done the same with the other people and issues I have cited here.  We must look at the victories we achieved in these fights with pride and renewed determination to overcome what stands before us in the next election.
He is one man.  He may lead a movement, but it’s a movement that has lost the fights we fought to get where we are.  He, and they, are not the future.  They represent the dead, rotting flesh of our disreputable past, the awful instincts of man to which we first had to admit guilt and then find a way to put behind us. 
I am telling you that if you look back at our accomplishments as a people, you will see our democracy is stronger than maybe we have been thinking.  We keep hearing that our democracy is under threat, but our democracy has been threatened before. We defeated Hitler and Hirohito and saved the world from a monstrous end, just for starters.  We are strong.  We have united in the face of adversity before.  It’s not all of us who will rally in defense of our democracy this time, but so what?  It wasn’t the entire nation who rallied behind Civil Rights, either, but we did it, and we can do it again, not with guns and bombs but with our ideas and our ideals and our votes.  There are more of us than there are of them.  Remember that.
[Lucian Truscott Newsletter]
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checkoutmybookshelf · 2 years ago
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Of Fire and Featheringtons: Chapter 1
Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!
Like the other one, this fic is safe for work, but a few warnings do apply! If house fires, house fire injuries, mild gore, and mild blood aren't your thing, then don't be afraid to give this fic a pass. I'll be updating it every week here and on Ao3, so check back for updates.
I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!
Penelope jerked awake to the sound of watchmen’s bells and shouts, which were quickly echoed and amplified by the voices of their neighbors and servants. The bed flexed beneath her, and she shivered as the warmth of Colin’s bulk lifted from the mattress. She waited beneath the covers as she listened to the rustles and grumbles of Colin pulling on breeches and a shirt; if their butler didn’t knock to wake them, she wouldn’t need to—
A sudden flurry of polite knocks sounded at their bedroom door.
Penelope sighed and rose, slipping a pelisse over her chemise and collecting an unlit candle from a small table to light from the one their butler would be carrying. She heard the door open and Colin’s voice, still thick with sleep but carrying an undeniable tone of urgency.
“Whose house is it this time?”
“The Earl of Chatteris, sir,” replied the butler.
“Oh no,” gasped Penelope. “Lady Holroyd is with child. I’ll take Anna and collect her immediately.” The butler stepped back to allow Penelope to pass, but Colin caught his wife’s hand as she slid past him.
“Be careful, Pen,” he said quietly, pressing a quick kiss against her temple.
“Don’t worry, Colin,” she replied. “If we are very, very lucky, this has just scuppered next week’s Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale.” Colin’s soft snort of amusement faded behind Penelope as she trotted down the hall to collect Anna and some blankets to keep Honoria Holroyd, née Smythe-Smith, Countess of Chatteris, and her maids warm while the men of the neighborhood tried to save as much of their Mayfair townhouse as possible.
Penelope had little hope of the latter; it was mid-July, and they had seen precious little rain all summer. Things were dry as kindling, and several families’ townhomes had had their burned to the ground. That there hadn’t been any fatalities yet was three-quarters of a miracle, particularly because the Queen, Lady Danbury, and Penelope were beginning to suspect arson.
It was not uncommon for fires to break out in summer; however, the small fire brigades were highly effective, and it was rare to lose entire structures, even in the poorer parts of London. Losing an entire building in Mayfair was typically a once-a-decade occurrence. Five buildings had been lost in three months this season, and there had been increasing numbers of false alarms as people began to panic and mistake flickering but controlled firelight as an imminent emergency.
The ton was beginning to panic.
That more than any particular affection for the Countess was why Penelope had taken to making sure she was on the scene of any ton house fires where women and children were present. Panicked would-be firefighters tended not to notice if they knocked to the ground and trampled small children or women. The Bridgerton carriage that Pen and Colin maintained, while not as substantial or fancy as that of the Viscount’s, was still substantial enough that it would not be casually knocked asunder, and had the space to get any maids, ladies, or children out of the way and keep them safe. They couldn’t plan ahead for hot bricks, but with sufficient blankets and bodies, the carriage ensured that nobody died of exposure while waiting for the fire to go out or while being transported to the homes of family or friends.
The carriage slowed and stopped after a brief ride, and Penelope opened the carriage door on a sadly familiar scene.
The structure was fully ablaze, and the flickering light of the fire at night made things glow and move in an almost unearthly fashion as it completely ruined the night sight of all and sundry. The fire brigade for the neighborhood was already on site. and Penelope caught sight of a shock of Featherington red hair next to a set of shoulders that were intimately familiar to her among a group of other neighborhood young men running buckets back and forth. Colin had fetched her cousin, Felix, who was staying with them that summer as a favor to a branch of country Featheringtons, before heading to the fire. Colin and Felix would have been on horseback, unencumbered by the carriage, and beaten her and Anna to the scene. Penelope spared the second to sigh at the whining she would undoubtedly hear from Felix once all this was over. The young man had a disappointing lack of awareness of community and fellowship, which was made sharper and even less admirable by a disagreeable nature. But Felix would be a problem for Penelope later.
A scent reminiscent of bonfire pervaded the air, but it was somehow bigger and more violent than the friendly scent that accompanied the roasting of marshmallows, a new French confection that had gained instant popularity as a treat at country-house balls. This fire—like the others she had been present for—also had a greasy undertone to the scent. Penelope wouldn’t be at all surprised if an investigation revealed that delicate containers of oil had been planted and lit throughout the house to encourage the conflagration. Once they began looking, each fire that was investigated showed evidence of accelerant use, although Penelope’s sources disagreed on what precisely was used.
She couldn’t immediately see Lady Holroyd, and she didn’t bother calling for her; the roar of the fire nearly drowned out the men’s shouts. Her voice would be lost the moment it left her mouth. Instead, hand locked with Anna’s, Penelope circled the perimeter of the action, eyes sweeping for a stationary figure. Her experience as a wallflower served her alarmingly well, and she picked her way through the chaos quickly and with purpose, avoiding men whose eyes simply slid over her and Anna. Anna was tucked in so close behind Penelope that she barely had to yell for Penelope to hear her.
“There, to your left, Penelope!” Pen’s eyes swiveled as she tucked them briefly against a wall. Just as Anna had said, to Penelope’s left was a point of stillness, where a clump of maids surrounded an extremely pregnant, sooty, shrilly keening Lady Holroyd. Penelope’s stomach sank for a split second as she realized that Lady Holroyd was clutching her violin to her prominent belly.
So much for avoiding the Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale.
Seeing a break in the parade of running men, Penelope made a break for the clump of women, Anna practically glued to her hip to keep them both clear of men carrying buckets and ladders. What looked like three kitchen or house maids were clutching each other’s arms and crying. A lady’s maid, who looked to be made of slightly sterner stuff, had one arm around Lady Holroyd and the other clamped around the upper arm of an absurdly small young woman who was wearing the apron and cap of a cook. They were all sooty and had small burns from embers in their nightgowns and the various shawls and cloaks they were wrapped in. Standing in front of all of them was a woman Penelope recognized as their housekeeper.
“Mrs. Cooper!” yelled Penelope, over the noise. “Bring the maids, follow me.” She quickly took the blanket from Anna’s arms and with the lady’s maid’s help, got it wrapped around Lady Holroyd, who was still keening and whose eyes were darting back and forth, panicked. Anna had taken the maids in hand as soon as Penelope had taken the blanket, and Mrs. Cooper had taken charge of the very young cook. Rather than waste time trying to get through to Lady Holroyd herself, Penelope caught the eye of the lady’s maid as she took Lady Holroyd’s other arm. Once she was sure she had the girl’s attention, Penelope yelled, “Stay close, follow me.” The maid nodded, chivvying her mistress forward and keeping her pressed against Penelope.
A sudden groaning creak sounded behind them, followed by a shuddering, howling crash.
The roof, Penelope realized as she kept moving toward her carriage. A rush of hot air and sparkling embers like demonic fireflies hit their backs and blew past the group of women. Penelope was grateful for the long sleeves on her pelisse; they protected her from hot debris. The maids behind her shrieked and whimpered as embers brushed bare skin, and she briefly heard the sound of fabric slapping fabric, as though someone was putting out a smoldering patch on a shawl.
Some instinct made her stop dead in her tracks; six men in a pack barreled by within scant inches of her nose. Lady Holroyd screeched right in her ear, and Penelope winced, reaffirming her grip on the other woman’s arm. One more push, and they could get to the relative safety of the carriage. Penelope looked back and caught Anna’s eye; the other woman nodded, ready to follow. Taking a deep breath and looking to either side of her, Penelope sprinted the final stretch to the carriage, ripping the door open and bodily shoving Lady Holroyd in. The lady was rapidly followed by her maid, and Penelope packed the other women into the space before Anna planted a hand in her back and shoved, indicating that everyone else was in. Penelope squeezed into the packed space, caught Anna’s hand, and pulled her up. Anna slammed the door behind her.
Penelope pounded on the roof, and the driver pulled the carriage further down the street. They were still in sight of the burning house, but they were clear of debris and the widening circle as the men gave up on the townhouse and focused their efforts on a wider radius to ensure that no other townhouses caught fire. Penelope hoped that Colin stayed at ground level this time and let the more experienced firemen take positions on the roofs of adjacent houses to ensure that no clumps of burning matter landed and sparked a second conflagration. Two fires ago, she had watched him run a roofline with sopping wet sacking in one hand to beat a small patch of flame into submission. Her heart had nearly stopped then and there at the thought that he could slip, fall, and break his neck on the cobblestones before her eyes.
Now, as she had then, she wrenched her thoughts away from her husband and focused on the frightened, sobbing women before her.
“Did everyone get out, Mrs. Cooper? Is anyone hurt?” she asked, as Anna was checking small burns, wiping tears, and gently shushing the maids.
“As far as I can tell, the household made it out,” the housekeeper replied, her voice hoarse and scratchy from yelling and smoke. “My lady and the girls are all right; I can’t speak for the menfolk fighting the fire.” Anna was pressing biscuits into the hands of the maids and the cook now. The lady’s maid took hers and put it in Lady Holroyd’s hands, murmuring softly to her and encouraging her to have a bite. Lady Holroyd herself seemed lost now that she was safe and out of the immediate line of the emergency. The neck of the violin was nearly on a level with Penelope’s chin, and she kept half an eye on it to prevent it from poking her as she asked the next question.
“Once we collect the Earl and the rest of the household, where can we take you?” Taking a breath to answer, Mrs. Cooper was overcome by a fit of coughing, and Lady Holroyd, who’s head had come up when Penelope mentioned the Earl, piped up.
“Where is Marcus? We cannot leave him, I will not!”
“It will be all right, my lady—” began her lady’s maid.
“We will not leave him—” started Penelope, simultaneously. Both women were interrupted by a renewed yelp from Lady Holroyd in a significantly different tone, accompanied by the sound of liquid dripping onto the carriage floor.
“Now is not the time!” declared Lady Holroyd. “I want Mama. She promised she would be here for this!” Pen met the eyes of the lady’s maid and saw her own horror reflected back at her.
“Right, change of plans,” said Penelope, banging on the carriage roof to bring her driver to the door. Cracking it open, she ordered him to take them to the Smythe-Smith house, which was only a few streets over.
“Wait,” barked Mrs. Cooper. “I should stay to let my lord know where you have gone. Emily has my lady well in hand for now.” With an agility Penelope wished she possessed now, let alone at Mrs. Cooper’s age, the housekeeper extricated herself from the pack of bodies amidst Lady Holroyd’s moans and snapped the door shut behind her. The carriage leaped forward, and the end of the violin hit Penelope in the face as Lady Holroyd crushed her hand.
As they pulled up before the Smythe-Smith house, Penelope was briefly worried about how precisely she was going to explain arriving with a group of singed staff and a laboring Lady Holroyd, but a bellowed curse from the latter as soon as the carriage door opened that would not have sounded out of place in the sketchiest part of London’s dockside district brought Lady Smythe-Smith herself running. Within ten minutes, a footman had been dispatched for the doctor and Lady Holroyd had been bundled off to her childhood bedroom, and Anna had chivvied the female Holroyd staff members down to the Smythe-Smith kitchen for food, tea, and borrowed day dresses.
Penelope was left standing awkwardly in the foyer, clutching the violin until John and Daniel Smythe-Smith were shooed from the family’s rooms and invited Penelope to rest in their sitting room, where she abandoned the violin on a side table. Daniel rang for tea before awkwardly sitting next to his brother across from Penelope, both in rumpled breeches with untucked shirts under haphazardly buttoned waistcoats. Both lacked stockings, having shoved bare feet into shoes to get to their yelling sibling sooner. Lord Smythe-Smith soon wandered in, looking positively poleaxed.
“The doctor is here,” he announced vaguely to the room. A few moments later, a maid and Anna entered the room, both holding laden tea trays. The Smythe-Smith maid put down her tray, curtsied, and scuttled from the room, but Anna put her tray down and then came to stand before Penelope.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Bridgerton,” she murmured, as she plucked charred bits from Penelope’s curls. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I’m fine, and you?” Penelope asked under her breath.
“Fine, my lady. The Holroyd maids are settled. Will you be needing me for anything?”
“No, go get yourself something to eat.” Anna curtsied again—which, like her formality, was for the sake of the Smythe-Smith men; she and Penelope were on easy first name terms in private—and left for the kitchens, leaving Penelope and the men alone. Periodically, Lady Holroyd’s cries could be heard from upstairs as the four sat silently, occasionally sipping on tea.
Now that everyone was as well taken care of as she could make them, Penelope felt exhaustion creep into her bones. Her role was never as physically strenuous as that of the men who actively fought the fire, and she never felt the emotional strain of staying cool and in command in the moment, but the aftermath never failed to exhaust her. It was as though her competence wrote checks when it counted, and her body paid the bill once everyone was safe. She wanted nothing more than to return to her home and let the sound of Colin’s heartbeat lull her to sleep, but if Mrs. Cooper was going to tell the men that she had brought Lady Holroyd here, then she had best stay put; Colin would collect her here.
The Mayfair fire brigade was extraordinarily competent. They would remain and watch the ruined house until the ashes had cooled, but they would send the gentlemen and neighbors home as soon as the danger of the surrounding houses catching fire had gone. In the meantime, none of the Smythe-Smith gentlemen seemed interested in talking, so Penelope dozed on the settee, pretending to be intensely interested in her half-drunk cup of tea as the windows lightened with the oncoming dawn, and Lady Holroyd’s yelps grew more frequent.
John was gently snoring in a chair when there was hammering on the front door. He jumped so hard that he fell from the chair, and Penelope started so hard that she nearly dropped her teacup. The pounding was punctuated by an exhausted shout: “Honoria!”
“That will be Lord Holroyd, then,” said Penelope, as Lord Smythe-Smith stumbled out of the room, followed closely by his sons. She listened as doors banged and feet pounded across the floor and up the stairs. She was so focused on listening that she didn’t notice anyone else was in the room until a warm hand cupped her cheek, and a kiss was pressed to her forehead, filling her nose with the scents of smoke, burned wood, and singed cotton and wool.
Colin.
He straightened, and she smiled up at him.
“Do you know that you are absurdly tall up there?” she asked. He gave her a lopsided smile, which never failed to make her weak at the knees.
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He flopped down next to her in a distinctly ungentlemanly fashion, his body leaning toward hers without transferring any weight to her. As he did so, Felix was revealed, arms crossed and face pouty. He was no more singed or sooty than Colin was—indeed, a less generous eye would have said he was less smutched—but he bore it less well.
“Felix, please sit before you fall over. It’s been a difficult morning,” she said, gesturing to an empty but comfortable-looking chair. Where Colin had flopped comfortably, Felix minced toward the chair, and sat on its very edge. His body language was completely closed off, but Penelope could count on one hand the number of times she had seen his body language open since he had arrived on their doorstep in April. With a smile and a “there now, isn’t that better?” for her cousin, Penelope leaned forward carefully, maintaining as much contact with Colin as she could while still being able to pour both men cups of barely lukewarm tea and fix two plates of biscuits and finger foods for them. Colin downed the entire cup of tea and inhaled three biscuits by the time Penelope poured a second cup for him. His mouth was still full as she handed him the cup, and he spoke through a mouthful of biscuit.
“Mrs. Bridgerton, you are a queen among women.” Penelope giggled tiredly as Colin drank about a third of the cup and then sat back and really looked at her.
“Are you all right, Pen? You’re pale.”
“I’m just tired, Colin. Well, tired, and mourning the survival of Lady Holroyd’s violin,” she whispered, playfully. “She will teach the baby, and we shall be subject to a second generation of off-key musicales.”
“Dear God, how shall we survive?” Colin asked, through yet another mouthful of biscuit. Penelope was saved from answering by the arrival of Marcus Holroyd and Lord Smythe-Smith.
Lord Holroyd—who, by all rights, should have been thoroughly exhausted—seemed unable to sit still. In the time it took Lord Smythe-Smith to pour three drinks and hand one to Colin, Holroyd had transitioned between four seats and took up pacing before the windows. He was equally as disheveled, smutched, and singed as Colin, if not more so, and he had clearly shoved a nightshirt carelessly into a pair of breeches to fight the fire; only the front quarter was still tucked. The fabric over his arms and shoulders was speckled with tiny burn holes, and a few of them seemed to have burned through to leave angry red weals on his skin.
As she watched Lord Holroyd pace with Lord Smythe-Smith wordlessly following him back and forth, drink extended, Penelope fought giggles. Some combination of the absurdity, the tea, and the relaxed tension in her chest that Colin was here and not splattered across the cobblestones allowed her mind to grind slowly into gear. She wouldn’t get useful information from either Lord or Lady Holroyd; they were justifiably distracted from their house burning down by the birth of their child. She likely wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the lady’s maid, and the other maids and the cook were unlikely to have useful insights. She would visit the fire brigade later in the day with a basket of cakes and ask questions, but for now… Penelope rose, murmured something about finding Anna, and made a beeline for the Smythe-Smith kitchens to find Mrs. Cooper.
The Smythe-Smith house was one of the older ones in Mayfair, and the servant’s halls and kitchens were an old-style warren of narrow, twisting passageways and compact spaces. However, the current Lord Smythe-Smith’s grandfather had wanted to “modernize” his kitchens, so like the minotaur’s chamber at the center of the labyrinth, Penelope turned the final tight corner, and a spacious kitchen opened before her. It was packed with two households’ worth of staff, but they did all fit.
Not wanting to discomfit anyone in what was arguably their territory, Penelope kept her face down as she crept along the wall to where Mrs. Cooper was seated on a bench with a cup in one hand, a handkerchief in the other, and a couple of the Smythe-Smith cook’s famous honey and lemon lozenges in a half-open twist of paper in her lap. Taking advantage of a coughing fit to ensure that Mrs. Cooper wouldn’t have the opportunity to recognize her and try to rise, Penelope slid onto the bench beside her and took the cup so the other woman could use both hands for her handkerchief.
“Are you well, Mrs. Cooper?” asked Penelope, once the woman’s cough subsided. The housekeeper raised an eyebrow at her, which told Penelope that under other circumstances, she might have earned herself an excruciatingly polite scolding for being there and flouting propriety. Slowly, the eyebrow came back down, however, and Mrs. Cooper’s shoulders twitched slightly, as though she wanted to sigh but did not trust her lungs not to rebel if she did.
“I shall be, Mrs. Bridgerton. The fool girls panicked and hid in the kitchen, and I breathed more smoke than I meant to fetching them out.”
“You were very brave to fetch them out once the conflagration was clearly out of control,” said Penelope, passing the cup back. Something that would have been called a growl in a less dignified figure escaped Mrs. Cooper, try as she did to cover it with a sip from the cup. She did not bother to cover the grimace after the sip.
“Lord, that’s bitter,” she muttered.
“I thought it would be tea, but that is not the case?”
“Mrs. Hurst’s concoction, meant to help expel smoke from the lungs,” replied Mrs. Cooper, coughing briefly into her handkerchief again. “But you aren’t here to ask after my welfare, are you, Mrs. Bridgerton?”
“Not entirely,” admitted Penelope. “But I meant it when I said you were brave, and I am truly glad you will recover.” Mrs. Cooper’s evaluative gaze rested on Penelope long enough that, were Penelope any less than she was, she might have wilted. But as formidable as the experienced housekeeper was, her gaze failed to hold a candle to the queen’s fury.
“I understand why your Anna left a royal post for you, Mrs. Bridgerton. If it’s not too much license, ma’am, I trust I don’t need to say that you have a loyal lady’s maid in her, and I am sure you treat her accordingly.” Penelope smiled, nodding as Mrs. Cooper continued. “That conflagration was out of control before our fool chit of a cook tossed water on a cooking oil fire. I haven’t the faintest idea where my lady found her, but anyone with a nose should have been able to smell the spoiled cooking oil underneath that fire, and anyone with a lick of sense would have known not to sling a full bucket of water on it.”
“You believe the fire was an accident?” asked Penelope.
“Hardly. We don’t use cheap vegetable oil, and that’s what the kitchen smelled like. And no matter how much water the girl threw at a kitchen fire, it wouldn’t set the attic on fire. And the attic was on fire before I knew about the kitchen fire.” Mrs. Cooper did sigh then, her breath rasping. She took another deep sip of the bitter liquid before continuing. “The only reason for opposite ends of the house to be on fire at the same time is if someone set it, Mrs. Bridgerton.”
The pair was interrupted by Anna and a footman in Smythe-Smith livery. Anna dropped a curtsey, and if Penelope didn’t know her maid as well as she did, she wouldn’t have seen than Anna was as exhausted as she was.   
“Pardon me, Mrs. Bridgerton, but Mr. Bridgerton has asked after you, ma’am. I think he wishes to turn toward home.”
“Of course. Thank you, Anna.” Penelope turned to Mrs. Cooper as she rose, gesturing for the older woman to stay seated. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to send to us. Mr. Bridgerton and I are happy to assist. Thank you for speaking with me.” Mrs. Cooper half smiled and lifted her cup in a ghost of a toast in acknowledgement as Penelope, Anna, and the footman left the kitchen.
Returning to the sitting room, Penelope found a much calmer ambience than she had left. Lord Holroyd was slumped in a chair across from the couch that Colin and Lord Smythe-Smith occupied, and the plush chair Felix still sat in seemed to be slowly swallowing him. Holroyd was staring into a glass of whiskey and chewing mindlessly on a bite of a sandwich that he held loosely in his other hand. Before she could drop the requisite curtsey, however, there were rapid footsteps behind Penelope that did not quite cover soft burbling noises. She stepped rapidly to one side as a doctor bearing a small bundle entered the room.
“My lord,” he announced, “may I present your son?”
All four men rose, and Colin clapped the new father and grandfather on their shoulders in congratulations. Lord Holroyd was awkward as he took his son from the physician, holding him like porcelain and at an awkward distance from his body rather than cuddling him close, as Colin always did with Daphne and Simon’s son, Augie; Kate and Anthony’s boys, Edmund and Miles; and even Benedict and Sophie’s newborn, Charles.
“What shall you name him, my lord?” the doctor asked. His high-handed tone and utter disinterest in Lady Holroyd—who had performed the hard work, in Penelope’s opinion—made her intensely appreciate the Bridgertons’ insistence on doctors speaking to the patient, whoever the patient may be. The rest of the ton looked on that as a peccadillo that was better not mentioned in polite society, but Penelope found she preferred the Bridgerton’s method. It made her feel more human.
Lord Holroyd looked poleaxed by the question. “Honoria and I had not—not made a decision, we expected to have more time…” Lord Smythe-Smith laughed at that, extended his arms for his grandson, and held him far more competently than his son-in-law had.
“The first one always comes sooner than you expect, Marcus,” he boomed, grinning. “Best to be prepared.”
Colin took Penelope’s clenched hand and slipped it through his arm; his other hand went to Felix’s neck in a gesture that he would vehemently disagree that he had picked up from Anthony.
“Our congratulations, Holroyd, Lord Smythe-Smith,” he said. “We wouldn’t dream of intruding on you any further, given the circumstances, so Mrs. Bridgerton and I will take our leave.” Both men nodded, still focused on the baby, as Colin steered Felix and Penelope, flanked by Anna, from the house and into the carriage in full morning light. Colin and Felix’s horses were on long lead reins.
Once safely in the carriage and out of the public eye, Colin held Penelope close, studiously ignoring Felix’s rolling eyes. One of his hands snaked around her waist, coming to rest over the place where Penelope carried a palm-sized mass of scar tissue from an attack that revealed her to the queen as Lady Whistledown. Early in their marriage, Colin had often found his hand there, as though to remind himself that Penelope was with him, had survived. He did not imagine that Pen had not noticed that habit, but neither had she said anything about it. Once he had noticed that he was doing it, he had shortly thereafter noticed that when he did, Pen tended to tuck more closely into his embrace. 
“I am grateful Mrs. Cooper remained behind to tell us where you ladies had disappeared to. My heart nearly stopped beating altogether when we couldn’t find you, and I think Holroyd would have burned the rest of Mayfair down to find his wife. Not that I would have blamed him,” said Colin.
“You don’t trust Anna to look after me?” teased Penelope.
Anna, voice and expression perfectly schooled to textbook lady’s maid’s politeness, deadpanned, “Mrs. Bridgerton makes keeping her safe and within the bounds of propriety an eminently simple task.” Colin laughed outright.
Underneath Colin’s laughter, Felix grumbled, “I see no reason I had to be dragged from my bed tonight. I am no firefighter, and I have no acquaintance with these people.”
Penelope’s momentary flash of hope that Colin wouldn’t hear Felix was dashed, and her own ire rose as Colin’s shoulders tensed, subtly squeezing her. Generally affable, extroverted, and far-too-willing-to-see-the-good-in-people Colin Bridgerton had, for some inexplicable reason, taken an immediate dislike to Felix. For Penelope’s sake, Colin had spent the first month going well out of his way to be cordial and to include Felix in his trips to White’s, daily activities, and even an early hunting trip. Unfortunately, that hunting trip had revealed Felix as a bluestocking; he had fallen from his horse to the general laughter of all the gentlemen present.
Colin’s attempt to make up for it by introducing Felix to Lumley and his extensive personal library ended in catastrophe—Felix somehow managed to drop an entire pot of tea over Lumley’s first-edition printing of Byron’s The Corsair and showed poor grace in his apology. Penelope had gone so far as to appeal to Lady Danbury for help in tracking down a replacement tome once Colin had washed his hands of the matter and would have simply covered the cost of the original. The two men seemed at odds, no matter the circumstances. And yet, through that initial period, Colin and Penelope had worked together to try to make Felix a welcome, comfortable part of their lives.
That had changed after the first fire of the season. Fife had nearly suffocated in his bed in his bachelor lodgings; only the presence of mind of his valet had saved the young lord’s life. Fife had taken over Colin’s bachelor lodgings after Colin and Penelope married, so once the alarm was raised, Colin had collected Felix and the men of the household to help contain the fire. Felix had—unintentionally, he protested—managed to constantly be in the way of the fire brigade, tripped Colin several times, and had so badly fouled the bucket chain that a second structure ignited. The second building was singed, but structurally sound. Fife’s lodgings had burned to the ground, and Fife himself had been ill from smoke inhalation for a month. To top it all off, Felix had gone on a tirade as Colin watched his gasping friend be rushed to a doctor about how inconvenient the entire affair had been for him personally.
Colin had hauled off and punched Felix when the younger man had groused, “men let each other go hang all the time; why should we bother to ignore that simply because of an inconvenience?” In the end, Colin had returned home alone, waked the household with shouting, and Penelope had collected Felix and seen to it that he had a steak for his black eye.
In the light of the morning, Colin had calmed himself enough to explain that a house fire was a threat to the community, which meant that everyone had a duty to pitch in. It was truly more than Penelope had expected of Colin; he had been raised with that Bridgerton ethos, and it had been solidified during his travels, particularly the ill-advised trips through unstable regions where not pulling together would have killed the entire party. He had little patience for selfish scheming—as had been amply demonstrated by his handling of Cousin Jack’s would-be ruby scheme—and he tended to feel that the Bridgerton perspective was self-evident and required no explanation. She had attributed his willingness to explain his reasoning to Felix as a combination of relief that Fife would recover and a desire to make this arrangement work for her sake.
Felix possessed sufficient self-preservation instincts not to argue with Colin during the impressive lecture he was read. He had also learned to stay out from underfoot at subsequent fires. None of that stopped him from privately grousing to Penelope about all the reasons he should not be required to perform menial labor that the fire brigade was paid to perform for people who sniggered at him behind their hands in public.
Penelope felt herself caught in an untenable situation. She knew all too well the feeling of being ridiculed, how it ate at a heart and soul. And yet, there was a feeling of poison in Felix that was unfamiliar to her, and it seriously concerned her. Lord knew that Penelope had her insecurities and things she did not like about herself, even the odd thing that she had thought her detractors were perhaps not wrong in identifying as deficient. And yet, she had always had Whistledown, the one thing she could hold on to when she thought she might simply fly apart into dust at the cruel laughter or her mother’s careless barbs. Felix seemed not only to lack such a certainty, but he was also transplanted. Penelope had always had familiar surroundings and refuges, but Felix had been sent from his home. Despite her best efforts to make her home Felix’s, he never seemed truly comfortable. None of that was any excuse for acting the scrub, but Penelope thought she could perhaps understand, if not excuse, his behavior.
That sense of understanding had steadily dissolved with each fire and each incident in which Felix had the option to respond with grace and simply did not.
The vibrations of a growl deep in Colin’s chest pulled Penelope from her reverie. The growl was low enough that even she did not hear it over the clatter of wheels and hooves on cobblestone streets, but it left her in little doubt of her husband’s temper.
“I am not having this conversation again,” he snapped. “You will keep your tongue behind your teeth, Felix. Have I made myself clear?”
Felix rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and sighed, slumping back into his corner of the carriage. “Eminently, Mr. Bridgerton. Would you care to punch me again?”
Colin’s face went scarlet. Without a word, he pounded on the roof of the carriage, and bolted from it once it slowed enough not to break his legs. Moments later, Penelope watched him canter away on his horse toward their home. Colin had not apologized for the initial slap, and Penelope had not asked him to. He had privately confided in her that he was ashamed of the slap; he had allowed his temper and the situation to overcome him, and he felt he had behaved in an ungentlemanly fashion. How Felix had sussed that out, she could not imagine. She had initially thought that Felix had the same unfortunate tendency as Portia—to wound with words through a lack of sensitivity—but that barb had felt aimed and deliberate. Had she misread him? It had happened before, rarely. Penelope did not realize she had lifted an eyebrow to study her cousin until he glanced at her face, and an abashed look flitted across his countenance.
“I suppose you shall want me to apologize, Cousin?” he asked.  
“Not if you’re going to enjoy it.” As she heard herself say the words, Penelope’s brain caught up with her gut memory of the same expressions in Prudence and Philippa’s faces when they felt proud of a clumsy, backhanded apology. Had she not been exhausted, she might have raised her voice to her cousin for aiming such petty cruelty at Colin of all people. “It has been a trying night for everyone, and we are none of us at our best. Once we have slept, we should talk about this, you and I.”
“Cousin,” he protested, a whine creeping into his voice. “There is nothing to discuss. I simply feel no obligation to help a community I am so clearly not a part of.”
“Then we must work harder to bring you into the fold,” Penelope said, with what she hoped was enough finality to end the conversation there. As the carriage rounded the final corner, a familiar carriage parked before their home caught Penelope’s eye.
It seemed her rest would have to wait until after she and Lady Danbury had discussed the latest possible case of arson in Mayfair.
By the time Anna had gotten Penelope into a dress that was on the comfortable side of respectable for daywear, Lady Danbury had been settled in the front room with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. As Penelope walked in, she and her guest shared a smile.
“I could almost thank our arsonist twice over,” Lady Danbury remarked, without preamble. “Not only has he spared the ton a Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale, but he has spared you and I her Majesty’s displeasure about the amount of fuss Lords Holroyd and Smythe-Smith would have put up were they not distracted by the baby.”
“Lady Holroyd managed to save her violin, so I fear the musicale is less a reprieve than a stay of execution,” said Penelope, pouring herself a cup of tea and settling into her favorite chair, a battered, low-backed thing that had originally been overstuffed but softened with use to gently cradle anyone who sat there. It did nothing for proper posture, but after a sleepless night, Penelope could not have cared less.
“Ah.” Lady Danbury no longer tried to hide eye rolls from Penelope, who giggled.
“Surely you’re not here only to thank our arsonist,” she said. “Has something been found?”
Lady Danbury set down her teacup and reached into her pocket, pulling forth a bulky package wrapped in oilcloth. As she unwrapped it, Penelope’s sensitive nose wrinkled. Smoke, charred wood, burned paint, and—as Mrs. Cooper had mentioned—cheap vegetable oil that had turned and burned. In the package were a twisted hunk of charred metal and a slimy looking chunk of wood.
“I had my man in the Mayfair fire brigade on alert, and he delivered these to me early this morning,” said Lady Danbury. “He hasn’t any idea how the maids and that absurdly incompetent cook survived; that bit of metal is from a cast-iron frying pan. He thinks one of them flung a bucket of water on it, and the temperature shock shattered the metal.”
“I’ll have to drop a word in Lady Holroyd’s ear about her cook,” muttered Penelope.
“I’ve already spoken to her mother,” said Lady Danbury. “The girl is a menace. The wood, however, is somewhat interesting. I am told it is from a roof support beam of the kind commonly used in attics. It was found in a puddle of grease in a corner of the attic that fell away from the main house so it did not burn completely.”
“I spoke to Lady Holroyd’s housekeeper; she thinks the fire was set using cheap vegetable oil,” said Penelope, using a corner of the oilcloth to protect her hands as she turned the chunk of wood over. “This is the third incident we know of in which two fires were set at opposite ends of the house.”
“Have you found anything that can tell us how these fires are set?” asked Lady Danbury. “No one I have cajoled, bribed, or terrified into talking has had any theories; even the fire brigade is unsure how this is occurring. There are never any suspicious visitors or break-ins, and as far as anyone can tell, the fires begin simultaneously. I’m beginning to fear a pair of arsonists. One couldn’t set both fires and escape without notice, not with how quickly the fires spread.”
Penelope continued to turn over the shards for a moment before answering. “I see no way for a single person to achieve these results, but you know what they say, Lady Danbury. Two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead. I cannot imagine we should have lost six homes in Mayfair and not heard some rumor, some whisper of arson in the city. The problem with fire is that it consumes evidence, and it does so quickly. I have no alternative theory, but I also have not visited the Mayfair fire brigade today.” Lady Danbury’s lip curled at that.
“Yes, I am aware of your unique way of currying favor with them.”
“I’m sure you have also found that appreciation of a job well done can elicit information,” said Penelope.
“Yes, and without leaving a financial or paper trail,” said Lady Danbury. “Well, I shall not need to update the queen immediately, but she will not be happy to be without information for more than a day or two, Penelope. We must have a working theory for her soon. The ton are beginning to clamor to her for protection, and we still do not know who or what they need protecting from.”
Penelope sighed. “Yes, it seems that we have nothing but problems with no solutions.”
Lady Danbury raised an eyebrow. “That sigh seems to have more behind it than even the weight of an unknown number of arsonists. Is everything all right, Penelope?”
Penelope didn’t try to hide the small, ever-so-slightly sardonic smile that crossed her face at the question. It had not taken Lady Danbury long to be able to read her nearly as well as Colin and Eloise did. “Colin and Felix are firmly at loggerheads, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Ah. Is this the hunting incident or the Byron incident?”
“Either. Both. And Felix has been somewhat reluctant to come around to Colin’s way of seeing things when it comes to helping with the fires. I admit, I find myself at something of a loss.” Penelope picked at some invisible lint on her skirt. “I’m afraid I’ve read the entire situation wrong, Lady Danbury.”
Leaning across the small tea table, Lady Danbury took Penelope’s hand, interrupting her fussing. “Penelope Bridgerton, you listen to me. For all your remarkable gifts, you are still young, you are still newly married, and—forgive me for saying so—your mama’s family is still a thicket of brambles and nettles. I know you have heard the same rumors and gossip as I have. You and your Mr. Bridgerton have done everything—more—than could be reasonably expected to help Mr. Featherington acclimate to the ton and London society. I’ve never liked Cassius, but he is correct in his assessment that, for some men, the fault is truly in themselves rather than their stars. My second son was like that, and I suspect your cousin is as well. He will simply have to find his own way through the world. You may support him if you wish, Penelope, but he is not likely to thank you for it. I don’t believe you have read the situation wrong, my dear. Your instincts and your mind are top-notch; trust them.”
“I would trust myself, except… Colin mistrusts him. The only other person I’d ever seen Colin mistrust was Cousin Jack, and you know how that ended up.” Penelope’s gratification at Lady Danbury’s affirmation left a warm feeling in Penelope’s chest, but she still could not shake the feeling that she had misread something. Lady Danbury sat back, picking up her teacup.
“It could simply be frustration. Your Mr. Bridgerton is the rare generous soul in the ton, and your cousin is the antithesis of that. I shouldn’t worry too much, Penelope. After all, we have an arsonist to find.”
“Yes, I suppose we do,” said Penelope. The women spent another quarter hour chatting before Lady Danbury excused herself to meet with Queen Charlotte.
Despite her plans to visit the fire brigade with treats after Lady Danbury’s call, when Penelope put her teacup down, she found sitting in her comfortable chair in a sunbeam immensely appealing. When Colin entered the sitting room, Penelope’s head was pillowed on her arms, which were supported by one arm of the comfortable chair, fast asleep. He took a moment to admire how soft her expression was, and how the sunbeam she was sleeping in reflected off the fire that was her hair. He couldn’t remember a moment when she had looked more beautiful than she did just then. She did not so much as stir as he gently kissed her temple, scooped her up in his arms, and took her into their room. She murmured something incomprehensible when he put her down on their bed.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, climbing into bed beside her and pulling a light blanket over them. She burrowed into his side and settled once again.
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davekat-sucks · 8 months ago
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The most ironic thing about the blog is even though it is a hater blog, the owner repudiates harassment and death threats while the fandom full of """good""" people has no problem with that These people want to make big waves in a little pond. Serving no purpose, splashing around in the waters of a meaningless fandom that we all waste our time arguing about. All we do here is futile entertainment. None of it holds any true weight. The ripples that hold meaning are in the ocean. Actually aiding survivors of crimes, fighting against human trafficking, raising awareness of cults and scams, doing community out reach, trying to aid other people in a meaningful way... spreading love and true empathy. Above all, having focus. But that is too hard. These people want to feel like they are doing something with their time. They want to roleplay activists. They want to pretend they are helping survivors by railing against people committing taboos they made up in their head. Thus is the current state of activism. Destruction. Nothing but pointless fights. Don't educate yourself on any issue, listen to the strangers on social media who don't want to explain the nuance of a subject. Don't read up on the issue. Don't learn history. Stay ignorant. Stay stupid. Stay entertained. Isn't it so fun to be controlled by anger? Isn't it fun to let your ego take full control over your life. Stay miserable and spread your misery. None of it is about helping. It's all about harming others and ignoring the pain you help cause. It's that way across the board. Violence is the language of the unheard, didn't you know? So burning down the black community was so very logical during BLM. Setting a car on fire in a predominantly black neighborhood will fight racism, I'm sure! We need to save lives so lets all spread the word that HRT is the best thing to do for confused teens! Ignore how high the suicide rates are for trans people. It's because the world doesn't accept them, didn't you know! Ignore how 90% of teens grow out of gender dysphoria when they reach adulthood. Let the medical industry make money off of their suffering. Because it makes so called activists feel better about their own mistakes. Once you go down that path, you can't take it back, but gatekeeping is oh so horrible. Detransitioners are harming the movement, not us! Ignore how small the numbers of trans individuals are in the population. This isn't a rehash or the anorexia craze in the 1990s where everyone wanted to be heroin chic. No, this is different this time. We have the moral right. We poked our eyes out so we could see. We sewed the mouths of victims shut so they could speak. They combat people attempting to explore an imaginary world through fanart because it makes them feel icky. The true fight is through education. Knowledge is something they don't wish to gain. They want all to stay ignorant, they have to work to keep up the facade. Everything in fiction must represent how the world should be. Everyone must agree in lockstep. Or the entire thing falls apart in their mind. This space is for them. This space is for their delusions to feel real to them. Because, it is all just roleplaying the hero.
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It hurts, Anon. It hurts a lot...
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justalildumpling · 2 years ago
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the amount of typos i made help😭
anyways the answers to those questions forever shall be a mystery
and LMAO trust me I'm scared too but I'll be like it's just a ghost in the game no way it's gonna come out and do smth but I'll be getting nightmares abt ir but i still play it the very next day
And HAHA HELP
He rlly would burn down the entire neighborhood if he could fr
brooo don't even worry, i make so many grammar mistakes on a daily basis it's actually concerning😭😭😭
i can't even, i will legit stay up all night because of one scary story/photo/game etc💀
my god hyuck is both a menace irl and in game frfr
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fizzigigsimmer · 2 years ago
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Mob Boss!Steve and Cop!Billy Au
Billy’s a legacy cop. His dad wore the badge and his dad before him, and he’s never really had much of a choice about it. Cause on the one hand, Neil’s a piece of shit who beat his mom while the entire precinct looked the other way; but on the other hand he can’t let Neil be right. He can hack it. He deserves the uniform. Maybe he’ll even track his mom down one day, just show up on her doorstep and not say a word. Just give her back the only thing she left him as a final fuck you - proof he didn’t need her to stay even though she should have. In the meantime he can put lowlifes and thugs like Neil behind bars, break their bones in the back seat of his cruiser with impunity because none of his brothers in blue are going to opose a little private justice. He knows first hand just how good they are at looking the other way.
Chicago is a tough beat. The mayors got the entire department busting up neighborhoods and sprinkling crack over the bodies of latin kings and small time gang members while he smokes cigars and drinks wine with the old crime families who have run this town since the days of Capone. Billy’s never been too sure where the line is between right and wrong, but it’s getting hazier by the year. This can’t be all there is. Shitty people shitting on other people, grinding each other into the dirt, and getting richer all the time off the grind.
One night he decides he’s gonna put a gun in his mouth, cause fuck it. Why not? But he wants one last drink at his favorite bar. He doesn’t know it, but someone’s been watching him. Paying attention to the young hot head who did a number on his enforcer because good talent and loyalty is hard to find and while Benny had both, here’s livings proof that he can do better. Steve Harrington always wants the best and always gets what he wants. It’s because he’s able to read people, wind them up and watch them go, and make them do what he wants. It’s laughably easy getting Billy right where he wants him, hooked on big lonely eyes, fearful confessions in the dark and soft neck kisses.
The man who offers to buy Billy a drink that night is deceptively normal looking. His suit says 9-5, and he’s got a soft nervous smile like he’s not used to trying to pick up guys in bars but he’s hopeful that Billy will be interested. He’s too soft for this world. Billy would break a guy like him in no time flat but he figures since he’s checking out anyway maybe it would be nice to have one last bite of something sweet. It’s a mistake because from the minute he and Steve touch, Billy’s sure no one has ever responded to him like that - like he’s unmaking them and putting them back together all at once. No one looks at him like he’s their entire world, like they’d let it all burn around them and keep their eyes on him the entire time. Like he’s the water of life in the dry dry desert.
Billy’s shocked when some instinct wakes him in the middle of the night and he finds Steve with his gun in his mouth, ready to take his own life. He stops him, doesn’t know much but knows one thing - he cant stomach the thought of the light going out in those doe eyes and live in a world absent of that hesitant laugh for even a single minute. Steve breaks down about how his dad is the head of the biggest crime family in Chicago and how far George Harrington is willing to go to control his life. He tells Billy the man Billy broke and put behind bars was the only one standing between Steve and his father. He’s a dead man walking and he’s tired. Tired of the bullshit. If this is all there is then it’s better to die. Isn’t it?
Billy realizes that no, it wouldn’t be. Beauty is always a terrible thing to waste, and Steve is terribly beautiful inside and out like a complex math problem without a solve. One whose numbers keep stretching into infinity, tickling the brain, whetting the appetite for what comes next.
It’s hearing words he thought himself not long ago as if they were plucked right out of his head… it’s that searing look in Steve’s eyes that peels back his skin and leaves him open like a wound… he knows this is no coincidence. Knows he has been seen. That he’s being manipulated and played with, and that Steve’s not the guy who coaches kids and admited a secret preference for girly drinks after the third beer. There’s so much more to him than that. He’s a viper. A snake poised in the grass. A dangerous man to refuse and a foolish one to love.
Billy doesn’t. Refuse him.
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mythicalmongoose · 3 years ago
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For a while now, I’ve seen complaints that Johnny hasn’t changed as a character. Or has changed but regressed in s4 or retreads old patterns ad infinitum. And I always get a little confused by that take because I feel like his has been one of the better character arcs on the show?
I’m not sure what people are waiting for. Character development =/= a character no longer making copious mistakes or having some big epiphany where they greet the world like Ebenezer Scrooge the next day and jaunt off to make amends with everyone they’ve wronged. Not all of their flaws go away and if they lessen, it’s gradually.
Johnny is always going to be a dumbass with a low emotional IQ. But he’s still a long way from where he started. For the most part, he’s not aimlessly meandering through life miserable anymore. He has a purpose. He can totally be derailed from it, but so far he’s gotten back on track. It happens; it would be unrealistic if it didn’t.
He’s more reasonable, better at recognizing when he fucks up and taking responsibility for that. To grab a couple of the more recent examples -- In season 4 he impulsively challenges Daniel to a fight and, despite initially handwaving away Miguel’s disappointment with his usual macho rhetoric, does ultimately realize that there’s probably a better way to work things out with Daniel.
But he’s technologically illiterate, accidentally drew an audience, and Daniel has had 24 hours to handwave Sam’s disappointment and decide, ‘No, this needs to happen, actually.’ He’s stubborn and refuses to take the out... Which is a character trait that’s part of some larger Daniel meta on the horizon, I’m sure.
Without going off on a Daniel + complicated grief + he’s a petty bitch (affectionate) tangent, “Don't you ever think you might be wrong about anything?“ is asked pretty reasonably. He’s willing to try talking it out again, but Daniel doesn’t want to hear the same “baseless argument” from the night before. And he has his reasons for feeling that way, but you really can’t expect Johnny to suss those out when even Daniel can’t and, even if he could, Daniel’s hangups aren’t his responsibility.
And then you’ve got what happens with Miguel at the end of the season. Johnny doesn’t have the context for why Miguel is so upset, and his emotional IQ is still perilously low. He fucks up but, when faced with the repercussions, immediately recognizes that, admits to it, and takes responsibility.
And, no, that isn’t something to applaud anyone for, but it IS character development. He can’t go back in time and fix past mistakes and he has a pretty limited skill-set when it comes to mending what he can. (Everything with Robby will go smoothly in s5, I am sure /s) He’s not a great person. He has fucked up and will, undoubtedly, continue to fuck up. At the same time, he is still markedly different than the Johnny we saw in s1. And, realistically, I’m not sure how much more you can expect without him becoming an entirely different character. Which I don’t really want, personally. I’m fond of this dumpster that is still on fire... but the fire is smaller now, less likely to burn down the whole neighborhood.
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ratsoh-writes · 3 years ago
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@scienceisfood has spoken lol
More oddly specific things that could kill the skelebros!!
Sans: being mistaken as the Michelin tire man
Papyrus: being gifted a tooth necklace only to find out the teeth are real
Star: a small room where all the walls are white plaster and the only thing left for entertainment is a single crayon that is also white
Honey: no matter how hard he cleans, his oven has this weird meaty smell that just won’t go away like something crawled and died in there.
Red: being trapped in a room full of extroverted happy soccer moms
Edge: getting coughed on multiple times in public but his hands are full so he can’t smack a b*tch
Mal: putting on face paint only to find its permanent. He has become the clown he’s always feared
Cash: biting into a pepper and not being able to taste the burn. In fact, nothing is hot anymore, there’s no spice in his life, everything tastes like sugar, god is dead
Oak: a roomba that has flashing lights, smells like windex and has a butter knife taped to the end at ankle height
Willow: one day, chaos acts like a normal chihuahua and never goes back.
Charm: watching cats 2019 while eating some edibles
Sugar: when that little sh*t with the Cheeto dust fingers sprints into the wedding dress closet
Lord: those packed subway trains in Tokyo. And the creepy old guys have mistakes lord for a schoolgirl
Mutt: having his fan base find the 50k word hunger games smut fanfic he wrote as a joke
Wine: kfc deciding to change their gravy recipie to make it more “low fat”.
Coffee: every single goddamn McDonald’s ice cream machine in ebott being down
Pop: a 12 pack of Red Bull and a bag of pixie sticks
Rhythm: parents demanding a twerk class for their kids
Pluto: finding out that the earth really is flat
Jupiter: waking up one day, looking in the mirror, and seeing that his beautiful muscly arms have become twigs
G: getting every single red light on an hour long bike ride. Every. single. light.
Green: scooping up one of those spiders with a piece of paper and having it explode into hundreds of tiny spiders
Peaches: always breaking the yolk of an egg when he crack it open. Never being able to make a proper omelette again
Rancher: finding out someone made an onlyfans for his farm animals
Snipe: being sent an untraceable package. Inside the large box is a series of smaller boxes until finally he opens the smallest box and inside is a single Kit Kat. There’s a bite taken out. No dna signature was left behind
Bruiser: having to jump an electrified fence while running from the cops. And on the other side of the fence is a pack of small angry dogs
Butch: being told he looks just like his father
Boss: getting a brand new suit and getting splashed by a car the second he steps out the door
Ace: a whole year where nothing illegal happens, no death, no murders, no mysteries. Just boring uneventful peace
Slim: wario x waliuigi brony style fanart
Rust: being about to fix the blockage in the sink when he sees one of the kids reach for the drainage disposal switch
Noir: going out of town to come back and find that a leak in the roof has spilled into his entire bookcase
Lilac: all of his prosthetic legs mysteriously being two inches shorter
Basil: one nice big neighborhood holiday barbecue would do the trick. The ones with the burgers, hot dogs and bacon sizzling on the grill filling the neighborhood with that delicious scent of freedom
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sturchling · 4 years ago
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First off I love your Miraculous Ladybug fics. Also I don't know if you are a Black Butler fan or not. But if you are could you please do a fic where Lila causes a that destroys Marinette's home/bakery, which kills Marinette's parents and severely injures Marinette. While in the hospital recovering Roland finds out what Lila did and talks with Gina, both recently have been diagnosed with cancer and want to make sure Marinette is taken care of when they die. Gina or Roland remember a story told to them by a descendant of the Phantomhive servants (In this fic it follows season 2 with Sebastian being able to get Ciel's memories back before Claude tried to brainwash him and was able to eat Ciel's soul) (either from when Gina was in traveling in England or someone who Roland's father knew during WWII) about a demon who acted like a caretaker for a child in the late 1800's. They both decide to sacrifice themselves so Marinette can be cared for. One summons Sebastian the other summons Claude. The terms of the contract are simple, in exchange for eating the soul of the person who summoned their specific demon the summoned demon would care for Marinette, act as her guardian, help her achieve her dreams, and care for her, her husband and their children until Marinette passes away from old age. The contract is accepted with both demons. While caring for Marinette it becomes sort of a contest between the two demons of them trying to out do each other in different ways (if Claude gets her multiple roles of different color spider silk fabric, Sebastian "accidentally" gets Marinette introduced to several high ranking nobles ["Hello, my ancestor worked for your ancestor's peer. What a small world. Might I introduce you to my ward?"] that become her clients. Due to the two demons' shenanigans Lila gets exposed, the Butterfly and Peacock are recovered, Adrien's mother is awakened, Marinette gets some real friends (Will, Ronald, Grell, and the Undertaker got reincarnated and regain their memories after a while) and falls in love with her future husband (either Will, Ronald, or the Undertaker. The only reason I don't do this fic myself is I can't write Black Butler characters even though it's one of my favorite animes.
Sorry this took so long, I wanted to try my best to make the characters accurate, so I had to rewatch some of the show. I hope I did good, but I am pretty rusty, writing these characters. But I tried my best! Hope you like it!
Lila was getting more and more dangerous. She didn't just want to ruin Marinette's social life anymore. Now she wanted to ruin her entire life, or even end it. One night, when everyone was asleep, Lila broke into the bakery and started a fire. She made sure that it would spread to the upper floors and then she raced from the building before she was spotted.
The fire spread quickly and soon the entire building, bakery and the apartment were completely engulfed. Marinette woke up to the smell of smoke and Tikki yelling in her ear. Despite the kwami screaming at her to leave the apartment, Marinette raced down to her parents room, to see if they had gotten out, but the door was blocked by debris falling from the ceiling. The thick black smoke was choking Marinette as she tried in vain to get to her parents. By the time Tikki managed to convince Marinette that they had to leave, Marinette was severely burned on her arms, legs, and back. As she blindly felt her way to the exit, a now exposed wooden beam in the ceiling, came crashing down, landing on Marinette's legs. With her legs pinned and unable to move, Marinette passed out. Thankfully firefighters had already been called and pulled Marinette from the flames before it was too late. On lookers from the neighborhood watched in horror as the bakery went up in flames. Once the fire was put out and Marinette was sent to the closest hospital, the firefighters went into the apartment and found Tom and Sabine. They had died in their room, unable to get out because of the debris blocking their door.
The next morning, the whole city seemed to be grieving. Tom and Sabine were well loved people in the city and everyone was distraught over the loss. But no one was more distraught than Marinette and her grandparents. Roland and Gina heard about the fire early that morning and were horrified to learn that Tom and Sabine were gone. But their one piece of solace was that Marinette had survived. They both raced to the hospital and comforted their granddaughter. But they had a bigger problem. Both Gina and Roland were getting older, now both in their late 80's. Both of them also had several severe health conditions and likely wouldn't be around for much longer as it is. And then who would take care of Marinette? That is when Gina remembered a story she had heard when she was in England. A story of two boys in the Victorian era who had made deals with demons, and those demons took care of the boys. Soon after, both boys' souls were eaten by their respective demons. As much as Gina and Roland didn't want to leave Marinette, they thought that this was the best thing for her. The only way to know that she would truly be cared for.
That night, after they left the hospital, they summoned the demons the same way as in the story Gina heard. The room became dark with shadow and two voices spoke from the darkness, asking the two elderly people why they had been summoned. "We summoned you to make a deal. Our granddaughter has recently lost her parents and we likely will not be around much longer as it is. We heard stories about how you two cared for two boys in the Victorian era in exchange for their respective souls. In exchange for our souls, we want you to take care of our Marinette. To help her achieve her goals, protect her, and care for her until she dies. Both demons agreed to the deal. After all, they had already cared for children before, so they had the skills to do it, and the souls of these two people who would willingly do this for their granddaughter would be nice to have. With the contract sealed, Gina and Roland wrote in their wills that Marinette was to be cared for by Sebastian and Claude, claiming they were old family friends. They also took the two demons to meet Marinette, so that Marinette would at least meet the two before they began caring for her. Once the legalities were taken care of and Marinette had met the two, Sebastian and Claude took their payment and Gina and Roland died.
Marinette was overcome with the grief of not just losing her parents, but now her grandparents as well. Sebastian and Claude, who her grandparents had recently introduced her to, were declared her guardians and began watching over her. Roland had left Marinette his house, so she had somewhere to live. While Marinette began to settle into the new normal of her life, Sebastian and Claude got to work on the first order of business. They were going to get justice for Marinette's parents. They knew that the fire was not an accident and that someone had set it on purpose. The evidence was obvious, but the police were stuck. They didn't know who did it. But Sebastian and Claude quickly learned that it was a girl named Lila who had been tormenting their charge for years now. All they had to do was phone in an anonymous tip to the police about the girl, and the police searched Lila's apartment. Mrs. Rossi kept sayin this was a mistake and her daughter couldn't have done this, but the police soon found evidence of her involvement, including the accelerant used at the bakery. Lila was confused, sure that she had gotten rid of it all. But Lila was arrested quickly, as a crowd had now grown outside of her apartment building. Several members of Mrs. Bustier's class were there and saw Lila being dragged out in cuffs. As Paris looked on in horror at the arsonist that had killed the Dupain-Chengs, no one noticed the shadow like figures standing to the side, smiling coldly at the scene.
They also quickly figured out that Marinette was Ladybug and even figured out that Adrien was Chat Noir when he came over to check on Marinette. They learned this by sensing the souls of the kwami. Since the kwami's souls are obviously not human, and Marinette kept disappearing during the akuma attacks, it didn't take long for the demons to be sure of their suspicion that Marinette was Ladybug. After confirming this, they felt that defeating Hawkmoth fell under their duty of caring for Marinette so they set out to find out who Hawkmoth was. They were able to sense the souls of other kwami in the city. They sensed two other kwami in Adrien's house. With only two kwami present in the house, they were certain that this was the location of Hawkmoth. To confirm this, Claude used a smaller version of his demon form to enter the manor and watch the residents of the house. Claude soon saw Gabriel and Natalie transform with the missing miraculous. Now that they had confirmation, it was time to end Hawkmoth.
The two demons began to plague Gabriel and Natalie with nightmares and torment them constantly. In each nightmare, they made it abundantly clear that this was because of their actions as Hawkmoth and Mayura. Soon, Gabriel and Natalie could hardly sleep and were almost driven completely mad. They surrendered to Ladybug and the miraculous were recovered. Gabriel and Natalie were sent to prison for their crimes. When Marinette learned why Gabriel had done everything and what happened to Emilie, she used everything she had learned about magic to help revive her. Sebastian and Claude lent some of their power to this endeavor as well, not wanting their charge to exhaust herself in the attempt. Adrien had his mom back, and the two moved to England to get away from all the trouble Gabriel had caused as Hawkmoth.
With all the major problems in Marinette's life taken care of, Marinette could relax a bit and focus on her fashion. While she thought it was odd that her grandparents had left her in Sebastian and Claude's care, she did think they were doing a wonderful job. They helped to support all her dreams, any way they could. Claude once brought her several different rolls of fabric made from spider silk. This of course, renewed the rivalry between the two demons. Sebastian brought Marinette to England, making the excuse that it was to see her friend. While there, Sebastian made sure to 'run into' the descendants of some old friends. Several nobles and aristocrats found a charming man and young girl in front of them at many parties. The man seemed familiar to them all, especially the older guests at these parties. They were sure they had encountered this man before. When asked if they knew him, the Sebastian always responded with "My ancestor worked as a butler for one of your ancestor's peers. He worked in the Phantomhive manor as the butler to Ciel Phantomhive. It truly is a small world for us to meet. May I introduce my charge, Ms. Marinette Dupain-Cheng." Sebastian spent the whole night talking up Marinette's fashion business and Marinette would leave these parties with several more clients than when she arrived.
Claude and Sebastian kept trying to out do each other in their attempts to care for Marinette. Helping her with her designs, getting her fancy fabrics and equipment, even convincing several major fashion magazines to feature her work. As odd as the arrangement was, it did work. Marinette met several new friends, thanks to Sebastian and Claude's interference. She even met the man that she would marry. A man who looked suspiciously like Will, from all those decades ago. As the years went by, even after Marinette was an adult and didn't need caretakers anymore, Sebastian and Claude continued to watch over and protect her, as per their contract. And they would watch over her, for the rest of her life.
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thefvllsun · 2 years ago
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jaemin
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here:
❥ "touch me, tease me, feel me up" - love talk
actual name: talk to my skin
❥ "rebound"
actual name: on your rebound
synopsis: A public, handsy encounter with your schools’ star shooting guard sparks a string of run-ins on campus that can’t simply be downplayed as coincidences. After acknowledging the sudden spike in brushes, a connection blossoms between the two of you.
❥ night night
actual name: game night
❥ "yes, i can"
actual name: can you keep a secret? ♡
summary: after an unresolved conflict with photography club president na jaemin leaves him feeling sour, he's more than elated to find you head to toe in a skimpy maid dress at a cafe in the next town over.
fearing that your reputation as student body president is about to crumble right in front of you, jaemin assures you that he is more than willing to keep a secret.
but at what cost?
❥ stars 🌟
actual name: like the stars
summary: you'd had a crush on renjun for as long as you could remember, but your lack of experience always stopped you from taking the first step; it's a good thing you have your trusted friend jaemin to help you out
❥ “speak of the devil”
actual name: be there for you (m)
preview: “How can you be so ungrateful?” Jaemin pinches your chin with a sneer, jerking your neck back to look at him. “I’ve always been here for you. I watched over you, I made sure you survived.”
“You dragged me to hell!” You shout trying to twist out of his death grip.
“I saved your pathetic soul.” Jaemin snaps, pressing his nose against yours. “I sculpted you into everything you’ve become.”
“What do you want from me?”
Jaemin dips in further, blackened orbs burning straight into your mind. Lips writing words over yours with a low hiss ringing in your ears- “Everything.”
❥ the🦉& the 🌙
actual name: the owl and the moon | n.jm
synopsis: You’re stuck living a life that you don’t want, but when the boy with the owl tattoo catches your gaze from across the parking lot, you feel like you finally have the chance to be free.
❥ “Back 2 U (AM 1:27)”
actual name: back to you | n.jm
synopsis: They say whatever happens in the past comes back to haunt you in the future, but you don’t expect it to come in the form of the man who once loved you all those years ago.
To make things worse, he just so happens to be your daughter’s second-grade teacher and as your sudden crush on him grows, you have to face the fact that he’s got a ring on his finger and you don’t.
❥ thin walls
actual name: thin walls
summary: you try your best to keep quiet since you know jaemin’s room is right next to yours. turns out you’re not as quiet as you think.
❥ good morning
actual name: kiss you goodnight | n.jm
summary: you wake up, horny from a dream, only to witness your beloved boyfriend sleeping next to you.
❥ mission impossible (?)
actual name: rock me
summary: When you're hired as the band's hair stylist and don’t fall for Jaemin's charm immediately, he takes special interest in you, and makes it his mission to break you down and get you on your knees.
❥ truth or dare
actual name: all mine
summary: a ridiculous dare has you pushed back into the company of na jaemin, the true bane of your existence.
❥ oops!
actual name: oh! my mistake ; na jaemin
preview: ❝ this is such a girl code violation ❞
na jaemin, the college heartthrob and a part of your large friend group. he was also your best friends long term ex boyfriend. that's what you should've reminded yourself before you started sneaking around with the boy. oh god... when the truth comes out you're gonna be so done.
well, thats IF the truth comes out.
❥ backseat chronicles - n.jm | ridin' club
actual name: backseat chronicles - n.jm | ridin' club
synopsis: There is no reasonable explanation as to why or how you always end up in the backseat of Na Jaemin’s beloved car.
Almost routinely, he picks you up around ten in the evening with the stereo blasting the raunchiest lyrics for your entire suburban neighborhood to hear. The entire night remains purely friendly, a dabble of flirtatious comments because well, it’s Jaemin for fuck sakes. But all it takes is one suggestive gaze from his dark, lustful eyes and a drop in his voice that rumbles your core to have you climbing over the seats to get to the back.
❥ you're the only one
actual name: jaemin: the confident
synopsis: Stumbling out into the dark hallway, you didn’t expect to encounter the one housemate that only ever has eyes on you. Jaemin finally makes you realize just how special you are to him.
❥ something to prove
actual name: something to prove
warnings/summary: enemies to lovers, smut, mentions of drinking, vaguely dub con, fingering, oral (reader receiving), penetrative, degradation, public. And where Jaemin is kind immature dick, the reader is an emotional masochist, and together they’re both fucking morons, so I hope you enjoy. (Also sorry Jeno I used you for story development)
❥ “everywhere i go, bring the beatbox”
actual name: beatbox (m)
preview: “Hey hey, you a new transfer?”
The boy next to you appears horrified, offended with his jaw hung loose. Round eyes more pronounced behind bifocal frames, he splutters, licking at his prominent two front teeth.
“I’ve been in this class all year! You transferred into my grade! 10 years ago!”
“Huh?” You shrug, prodding the inside of your cheek in thought. “Really? Weird.”
“Y-yo-you have to be joking!”
“Anyway,” you flick his chin, smirking. “I need a tutor.”
❥ to the rescue
actual name: nothing more? | jaemin x y/n
summary: you were always getting into all sorts of trouble at your new apartment. and the person to always help you as if he was your hero - it’s na jaemin. your hot neighbour was always ready to drop whatever he was doing to come sort out your problems. But, he’s just your neighbour, nothing more. So you assume...
❥ love so sweet
actual name: hometown sugary ; na jaemin
synopsis: when she was fifteen, three crooked front teeth, acne line on her cheek, hair cut short around her ears and baggy clothes on her frame, kity kim left her hometown. she left the perfect kimchi fried rice of her too curious but oh kind neighbour, her school's music room with the worn piano that still smelled of damp rain, the roof of the old abandoned building, so high it could almost touch the sky and the stars, her messy but lovely group of friends, but more importantly ─ she left them.
. . . in which! twins kity and blair, despite their difference, shares the fact of having always been inseparable with their big honey eyes, jawline sharp, pretty smile childhood best friend, na jaemin ; until kity left town. years later, she’s back, and oh, so much changed. like, how for an unknown reason, jaemin seems to hate her guts more than anything.
❥ heart for two
actual name: heart for two
summary: you're in love with both jeno and jaemin
❥ love me
actual name: too good for me ── ・ ♡
❥ reputation
actual name: 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔲𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 — a luvpuffcore collab.
inspiration: ❝ let me say it again, louder for those in the back... we think we know someone, but the truth is that we only know the version of them that they have chosen to show us. there will be no further explanation. there will be just reputation. ❞
❥ [MASQUERADE]
actual name: [MASQUERADE]
summary: An incubus created a subliminal to feed off humans sexual energy, what happens when you become one of his victims?
❥ "missed you <3" na jaemin × fem.reader ☆ nsfw
actual name: "missed you <3" na jaemin × fem.reader ☆ nsfw
summary: w/ unprotected sex, filthy shit
❥ DUNK SHOT
actual name: DUNK SHOT
synopsis: you had no intent on getting into a relationship but then you bump into a familiar face, na jaemin, who has an offer your sex craved self simply can't resist.
❥ the way life goes
actual name: the way life goes
synopsis: for three months, after a hard breakup with your ex, you refuse to let another man worm his way into your life even if it was for love or pleasure to avoid that ugly feeling of heartbreak... but then you bump into jaemin
❥ 💃🏻
actual name: dirty dancing
❥ off limits?
actual name: — NO LIMITS , JAEMIN
synopsis: out of all the people in the world, you seem to have fallen for the one you swore was off limits.
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abookishdreamer · 3 years ago
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Character Intro: Hestia (Kingdom of Ichor)
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Nicknames- Tia by the other Gods
The Heart of Olympius by the people of Olympius
Age- 30 (immortal)
Location- Hearthwood district, New Olympus
Personality- Hestia makes it her mission to be friendly with all the gods and the people. She’s very humble, down-to-earth, caring, and friendly. She’s definitely the most level-headed of the gods. She never turns away anyone who might need her help, but don’t mistake her kindness for being a pushover. She’s known to get angry if she sees someone less fortunate being taken advantage of. Hestia’s also known to be the peacemaker and voice of reason between the gods- giving unbiased advice. Hestia’s an aromantic asexual. She’s one of the eternal virgins. She doesn’t see the need for romantic and sexual relationships, instead dedicating her life into helping the community.
Being the goddess of the hearth, home, and family, Hestia can show people past visions of their family history. She also has the ability of pyrokinesis (her fire being a rich deep red color). She can also communicate/shapeshift into one of her sacred animals- the donkey, as well as mules, hinnies, and domesticated animals. She also has the ability of typhogenesis (smoke generation/manipulation), fire/heat immunity, & fire mimicry. She can also induce the feeling of serenity in others and can even turn one singular ingredient into an entire meal (for example- one egg into an omelet).
Her immediate family includes her mother Anchiale (Titaness of fire), her father Hecaterus (Titan god of manual labor), her older brother Ktesios (god of the household), her younger brother Adranos (god of fire), her sister-in-law Soteria (goddess of safety), & her nieces Eleos (Ellie) (goddess of mercy, compassion, & pity) and Eulabeia (goddess of caution).
She lives in this cute quaint cottage estate in the Hearthwood neighborhood of New Olympus. There’s also the family log cabin (that she owns with her parents & older brother) located in the state of Argos. The cabin has a hearth that perpetually burns a deep crimson eternal fire- perfect for roasting marshmallows!
Hestia is probably one of the top three deities that have the highest approval rating amongst the beings of Olympius!
Her signature dessert, the honey cake, is Olympius’ national dessert!
She’s also one of the busiest too. Hestia operates many businesses including nationwide bakeries (Hollyhock's Bakery), diners (The Hearthside Diner), coffee shops (The Roasted Bean), pottery studios (Sparkling Ember), food banks, homeless shelters, and a company called Khlöómorphos Farm- which is the largest manufacturer of a wide range of food products like snacks, beverages, meat & seafood, fruits & vegetables, dairy products, baked goods, and grains & cereals. The symbol of the brand is that of a chaste branch with flames behind it. These products are sent to grocery stores and supermarkets where there are sold. It's the second most popular food brand in Olympius after Earthly Harvest, the food brand created by Gaia (goddess of the earth).
The Hearthside Diner is well known for it's warm 1950's aesthetic with cozy booths, shiny chrome accents, gold & red checkered floors, and neon signs. There's even a jukebox that plays music!
Hestia was also a major supporter of Queen Hera’s bill, The HHI (Harpies Housing Initiative).
She also has a home decor business a.k.a home furniture stores (A Hearth Design), an appliances and cookware brand called Hearth's Kitchen. Hestia also co-hosts her brother’s home improvement TV show Spíti & Estía. She also runs a popular lifestyle magazine called Hearthside.
Hestia also has an official glamour doll collectible. The sales from those went towards several charities.
Her bakeries and diners are very popular in Olympius. Even though she has the ability to generate & conjure up delicious food without a second thought, she opts for cooking the “mortal way," enjoying the actual process of making food.
Her eternal flame (which burns a rich red- the same color as her own fire) is situated in the city's square.
She gives free cooking classes at the local community center in downtown New Olympus on the weekends.
Hestia once gave each deity a quilt she made herself!
She’s always the champion of inclusivity & diversity when it comes to hiring people for her businesses.
Hestia is a HUGE animal lover! She has many pets including a yorkie named Brownie, a siberian husky named Lulu, two french bulldogs named Salsa and Guacamole, two guinea pigs named Peach and Coco, three cats named Daisy, Honey, and Lavender, and four rabbits named Blueberry, Hazelnut, Princess, & Yum Yum.
She generally has a good relationship with the other gods in the pantheon. Hestia was the first to reach out to a formerly exiled deity- Rhea (Titaness of fertility, motherhood, & comfort).
The only person she's not in contact with & doesn't seek out is Priapus (god of fertility, vegetable gardens, livestock, sexuality, & masculinity).
Hestia was an official mentor to Pandaisia (goddess of banquets).
Her favorite milkshake is the hazelnut caramel with a honey swirl. She also enjoys red wine, hot chocolate, sparkling water, white wine, sparkling lemonade, mimosas, iced tea, lemon drop martinis, & the french blonde (a drink made with elderflower liqueur, gin, white wine, grapefruit juice, and orange bitters).
Hestia’s even taken up beekeeping as a little hobby.
Hestia’s proud of her plus-size figure! She’ll rock the most fashionable vintage bathing suit while out on the beach. Her personal style is a perfect mix of late 40's/early 1950's vintage.
After a long day at work, when she gets home, Hestia’s favorite meal to make for herself is honey-lemon glazed fried chicken, baked mac n’ cheese, roasted potatoes, and spinach & kale feta salad topped off with a glass of red wine.
A guilty pleasure for her from Olympic Chef is an Olympian burger (with extra cheese & bacon), olympian sized cajun fries, a mini pomegranate pie, and a large vanilla milkshake.
In her free time Hestia loves doing pottery, cooking, spending time with friends & family, gardening, bike riding, reading, writing in her journal, knitting, sewing, roasting marshmallows or popping popcorn by her fireplace, baking, and cooking.
“I just want people to know when they see the eternal flame, no matter how lost they are, they are never far from home."
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