#but the logic behind his character still leaves me floored

[hvhvmoc]

🖤🖤🖤

Characters : Art the Clown (Terrifier), afab!reader

Warnings/CW : kinda slowburn, Art almost kills you on purpose, funny stuff, rough smut, wall sex, spanking, hair pulling, overstimulation, choking, pussy slapping, oral (f! Receiving), multiple orgasms, you pass out mid sex, Art is stumped and confused, you're ok tho, talks about blowjobs, bit of fluff at the end, tell me if I missed anything

A/N : I have nowhere to go this Halloween ☹️ just stay home, write and take photos of myself

Its around midnight, you're in your kitchen cooking dinner. Usually you don't cook at midnight but you were busy all day and it just got pushed back. Plus, your boyfriend wasn't home yet. The infamous Mikes County Killer, Art the Clown. He was taking his usual time out there, spilling blood, guts, and pain, while you were home, working or being lazy.

You're surprised your still up with this much energy. You did wake up really late today, since you didn't have work that day. You took that time to organize the house, clean everything up, shower, maybe even trim your hair with a pair of random scissors you prayed didn't belong to Art- knowing what he does with them- and knowing that although he has okay hygiene, he doesn't properly clean his weapons like at all.

You switch between mixing and checking on the red rice, stirring the big pan of cooking chicken, stirring the smaller pan of cooking beef, and finally stirring the pan of cut up bell peppers, broccoli, corn, and onion. The rice finished cooking and so did the vegetables- the chicken and beef still needed some time- when Art busted through your front door, a scowl on his face, his leg and torso cut up a bit from (what you can only guess) a victim fighting back, and blood all over him. He drops his bag of weapons and goes to find you, the scowl not leaving his face.

That expression would've terrified anyone. But really, you were used to it. The more logical side of your brain knew it was only a matter of time before he treats you like any other victim of his; scalping, cutting, drugging, stabbing, torturing. But you decided to just play along with him. Maybe if you act nice and continue to treat him like this, he'll make your death less brutal. Hopefully. But truly you don't know. Nobody but him knows what's going on in his head. He's like a wild animal; sometimes you can get close and they look still- froze- waiting for you to get close and closer, before they pounce on you and attack. Brutally attack.

Art stands by you, not really doing anything but standing with the scowl on his face, staring at you. You smile and wave up at him, giving him a little "Hi baby", before turning your attention back to the food. There was silence, the only thing making noise being the food cooking.

You feel something cold on the back of your neck. You look up at Art and in the corner of your eye, you see his hand outstretched behind your neck. You can't really tell what it is he has but you will admit, it's scarring you. You tried not to show it though. You know Art loves when his victims show fear. If he has thoughts of killing you, fear will only fuel it.

He lowers his hand while you watch. Now you can see what he had pressed against you. A knife- which is probably the least painful object he owns for killing. You again, tried to show now fear. Your eyes didn't widen and your breathing stayed like before. But your heart is beating faster. That's something you can't control. You just showed confusion. Art drops the knife onto the floor- thankfully missing his and yours feet- and turn around, leaving and disappearing into your bedroom.

Once he leaves, you sigh. What the fuck was that? This isn't the first time he's pressed a weapon against you but it still shakes you up everytime. And maybe that's what he wants. You bend down and pick up the knife, throwing it in the sink. You continue cooking, acting like your boyfriend didn't just hold a knife against you.

You taste test everything, ensuring that everything's thoroughly cooked. When the taste is up to your standards, you go to turn off the stove. As your reaching for it, you hear a loud "honk" right in your ear. You jump and turn around, more terrified than when he held a knife to your neck. Art is there, now fully cleaned of blood, and silently laughs. Hard. And buckles over in laughter and pointing at you. He then puts a hand of his heart and mocks your shocked expression and the way you jumped. You bend over the counter, holding your head and laughing too.

Art comes over and grabs a hold of your waist, wrapping both arms around you and lifting you up. He swings you around a bit and kisses your neck. You laugh as he does, now forgetting about the past incident. "Baby-" you laugh. Art perks up and looks at you. "Go sit at the dinner table, I'll bring out your dinner." Art rolls his eyes and gives you once last squeeze before he lets go and slumps over to his spot on the dinner table.

You serve two plates; Art has some chicken, beef, rice and vegetables, which yours has the same but less beef. You bring out his plate first, setting it in front of him and kissing him on the lips. And go back to get your plate and when you come back and set your plate down across Art, you notice his vegetables are gone from his plate and... on the floor, a very thin, useless napkin covering them.

"Babe." Now it's your turn to scowl at him. Art was some of the beef in his mouth. He looks up at you, dumbfounded. "Why the shit is your food on the floor?" Art shrugs and looks around at the floor around him and looks puzzled, like he's pretending the food on the floor doesn't exist. "Art." You glare at him and he just looks like he doesn't know what you're talking about, doing hand movements to tell you you're crazy.

You opened your mouth to speak but Art held up a finger, shushing you. He points to the beef and then his arm, his eyes questioning. "What?" He does the same again. You shrug, looking confused. Art rolls his eyes like you're the dumb one and points to the beef and then to you and him. "I dont-" Art rolls his eyes harder, throwing his body back in dramaticness too. He points to the beef again, and shrugs, looking at you like it's so obvious to know what he's trying to ask you.

"What is it??" You ask, trying to guess what he's trying to say. Art nods, happily and relieved that you finally got it. "It's beef. It's cow." You say and start eating, taking a bite of the chicken. Arts grin is quickly wiped off his face and he slumps. "What?" You ask and eat. Art does a handmovement to say "oh nevermind" and he starts eating. "I'm not cooking human, Art. Don't even think about it." You scold and Art mocks you in response. You just roll your eyes and eat, forgetting the vegetables on the floor.

🖤🖤🖤

After dinner, you two clean up the kitchen. Art washes the dishes while you put the dishes in the sink and wiping down the counters and sweeping the floor. You have music on, singing along as Art bops his head dances a little to the music.

After cleaning, you two go to your shared bedroom. As soon as your door closes, you pounce on Art. You wrap your arms around his neck and smash your lips against his. Almost like he was expecting it, Art instantly grabbed onto you and kissed you back, using tongue and gripping onto your pajamas.

Art pushes you against the wall, his hands still gripping your hips. Your hands reach behind his back and zipped down the zipper on his clown suit. Art starts peeling off your clothes until you're completely naked. You pull off arts clown fit until he's naked too, just his facepaint and mini tophat on.

Art flips you over so you're pressed against the wall. You open your legs a bit and Art grabs your asscheeks, opening them apart and angling his dick with your pussy. He spits on his dick and slowly slips into you, his hands moving to your hips. You let out a soft moan and press your cheek against the wall, looking back at him. Your full body is against the wall, your ass poking out a little.

Art starts slamming his hips against you, his pace getting rougher and rougher. Your body jolts and you moan louder. With every thrust, your thighs slap against the wall. Art reaches around your neck. He wraps his bare hand around the front of your neck and he flips you two over. His back lays against the wall, one hand on your hips as he continues to thrust into you. He pulls your head back by your neck, squeezing a little. Your hands reach back and grab onto his legs as his pace becomes almost unhuman.

Art slaps your ass hard as he does, grinning at your yelp in response. He trails is hand down, roughly grabbing your tits, then trailing fully down to your hip. He pushes down on your back to make you bend over and his other hand grabs a fistful off your hair and pulls your head back. Art grabs your thighs with the hands that was once on your back and opens your legs more. He then grabs your hand and places it on your pussy, and you start mastutbating yourself. All the while his pace stays harsh and rough like usual.

After a while you warn Art of your upcoming orgasm, to which he replies by slapping your ass harshly a couple more times until you cum on his dick; your fingers still circling your clit and Arts pace not faltering. Art abruptly stops his movements, planting himself balls deep into you. He lets go of your hair, his hands just resting on your hips. You slowly stand up straight again. Art grabs the hand you used to pleasure yourself with, pressing it against his lips and into his mouth, licking your juices off your fingers. His other hand pulls your hair back. He slowly turns to look at you, a grin on his face, and he dives in to kiss your lips.

He lets go of you and peels you off his dick, walking you to the bed and pushing you on your back, onto the bed. Art opens your legs, kneeling between them. He uses his fingers to massage your clit for a while before he raises his hand up and slaps your pussy. Not too hard but enough to sting. When he hears you moan and watches your legs jolt, he does it again. And again. And again. And again, till your pussy was wetter and red.

Art stops slapping you, then leans down and starts roughly eating your pussy. You moan loudly and wiggle a little as he does. He forces your legs open and keeps them there as he makes out with your pussy. You grab his head and push it closer to you, his large nose pressing against your clit.

You grind against his face until you cum on his face and he keeps eating you out. Your body spasms. He finally pulls away and licks his lips, standing up again. He lines his dick up with your pussy, instantly pludging himself into you and his expression contorts at the feeling. He starts moving his hips again, fast.

You cry out in overstimulation, your nails digging into his arms as his hands grip your hips tightly. A single tear runs down your face. Art sees this a grins, enjoying the pleasure- and pain- he's giving you. He licks the tear, biting your cheek a little before he comes back up. Your legs shake and tremble and your face looks disheveled. But Art loves when your helpless like this with him. Because of him.

Art winks down and at you and blows you a kiss. He then slams into you, hard, and stays there for a second, balls deep inside you. Then he does it again. And again. And again. He grins wider and wider with every moan you scream out.

He then wraps his hand around your neck, tightly, and starts up his fast, rough pace into you. Your hands claw at his arm as he chokes you, but not too hard. Well... not at first at least. After a couple more minutes, and a couple more orgasms pulled from you, he grips your neck tighter. Your face is now redder than it's ever been.

Art slams into you, cumming inside you, his grin not leaving his face, his eyes shifting from your eyes to your pussy. Even after he came, he kept going, moving fast like before. Like he had all the energy in the world. He squeezed a little tighter at your neck for a second, cutting your airways for only a second before he let you breath again as he fucked you.

Your body slowly became more and more limp, your eyes getting loopy and your heart racing. Your moans start getting fainter and quieter, which makes Art falter a bit but he doesn't stop. Seconds later your body goes limp and your eyes close. You passed out. Whether that be from the choking or from the overstimulation, you don't know. You just know you knocked out.

🖤🖤🖤

You woke up minutes later, now laying against a pillow on the bed. You have a blanket over your still-naked body and the ceiling fans on. You see Art sitting next to you on the bed, now in sports shorts and a T-shirt. He's looking down at you as you wake up, and you have a feeling he's been like that for the whole time you've been asleep.

Art has confusion and... fear in eyes. Fear for Art is rare. Rarer than rare. Someone like Art is never scared. Confused yes, he's sometimes confused, but not scared. He's watched you almost cut a finger off while cooking and his eyes looked more hungry and like he was holding back than scared for your life. But now he's scared. There's finally some human emotion in his eyes.

You two don't do anything but stare at eachother for some time. Didn't Art almost kill you when he got home? Why does he look worried now? It's like he's not even blinking.

Arts tilts his head, looking down at you. He slowly inches his hand to your neck, lightly touching the red marks of his hand left behind. You turn on your side, smiling tiredly as you look up at him. Art touches your face and raises his eyebrows, still confused on why you just knocked out mid sex. "Ya kno-" you stop talking when you hear your own voice. It's very very raspy. You clear your throat and go to talk again. That didn't help. Still raspy. But you talked anyway.

"A girl can only take so much, baby." You laugh. Art rolls his eyes and mocks you. He's back to his usual self. "Whaat??" You laugh again and wrap your arms around his waist. Art ruffles your already-messed-up hair, grinning down at you playfully again.

"Maybe if I wake up first tomorrow, I'll wake you up with a blowjob." You rub your elbow on his crotch and he instantly gets hard again. You get off him and lay back on the bed. He looks down at you with a frown. "Tomorrow." You remind him. Art huffs and rolls his eyes, getting into bed with you. You two sleep, clinging onto eachother.

🖤🖤🖤

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

[echantedtoon]

Let's Summon An Oni! Part 2 Mine

(Hey everyone. I just wanted to thank everyone who read this far and liked my story enough to read it to it's end. I had a lot of fun writing it and it makes me happy knowing some people loved it enough to read it fully. If you liked this consider checking out my other works. Thanks to everyone for reading this, faving it, or leaving a nice comment. And thank you to Koyoharu Gotouge for creating such wonderful characters and giving me the opportunity to make this wonderful story.

Warnings for yandere themes, someone gets wounded real bad by slashes. )

Taglist: @lavenderdrxp

The next morning arrived but you could find no ring.

Your friends had helped you clean up the mess off your floor come morning and you all practically tore apart your room trying to find your great grandfather's engagement ring while your great grandmother's was ...around your ring finger? You could've sworn that you had left it in the jewelry box last night but woke up the next morning with it on your right hand...You must've put it on your finger last night and remembered wrong during your worry and sleep deprivation. However despite moving the bed and shuffling around everything enough to rearrange your entire house five times- There was no signs of any stupid rings.

"Don't worry about it, Y/n," one of your friends had assured you with a pat on the back. "It'll turn up when you least expect it. Things always do."

Maybe she had a point. Things did seem to turn up when you least expect them but that didn't mean you weren't upset with it! And your room still smelt like a hundred bath bombs went off in it. It annoyed you to know end but there was little you could do about it. After all there was the fact that you had to go work and attend the nearby college classes so you pushed your troubles to the back of your mind and tried to focus on the project in front of you at the moment. Papers shuffled in your hands and a nervous smile on your face.

"Ok. So I'll write the essay part, you make the 3D model, and then we'll both present it Friday?"

The man next to you nodded and hummed in approval. "Seems good to me. "

"R-Right..*ahem*." You nervously pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "Ah anyways..Are you busy tomorrow?"

He rose a brow at you from the sofa. "Yeah actually. Why?"

"I was thinking maybe w-we could see a movie? Or maybe coffee-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" His hands were held up all of a sudden. "Look. You're very nice but I don't roll like that."

You blinked. "Huh? Like what?"

"I'm not a cheater!"

"Oh! Y-You have a girlfriend?"

"Uh- No. But I'm going to be putting up with any drama from your boyfriend." 

His hand pointed right at your neck or more specifically your necklace and when you looked- You froze. Your great grandfather's ring was out again but this time it was slung around the necklace you wore every day along with the cute little charm your necklace usually had. Your mouth dropped open looking at it then at him..a hand reached out to rub over your necklace, more specifically the ring again. 

"I-..I D-don't know where this ca-came from?!"

"Yeah right!" He abruptly stood up making the sofa move with his movements. "Do I look stupid to you? I'm not about to become a chick's side piece because you think I'm cute, and if your boyfriend has any sense he'd dump you too. Don't talk to me again unless it's about the project!"

He turned and started stomping towards the door. Papers fluttered to the floor as you stood up and held out your hands towards him. 

"W-Wait! I really don't know how this got there!'

He didn't listen. You winced as the door slammed behind his retreating form shaking the foundation of your home ... Before you looked back to the ring on your necklace again. It was your great grandfather's ring alright. Complete with a diamond in the middle. But how did it end up on your necklace? You threw it back into the jewelry box three days ago and you didn't put it on your necklace. The only logical answer you could think of is that you must've put it there but forgotten about it (even though you KNEW that you didn't) or it must've gotten entangled on the necklace inside the jewelry box and you didn't notice when you put it on the necklace. You never noticed the reflection of a man in the mirror watching your lab partner leave or how he also left the reflection after him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The quietness of the study was unbroken as the man silently studied along the table. The silence was only filled by the ticking of the clock behind him and the crackling of the fire in the fireplace that filled the study with warmth. The light danced across the shadows and lit up the place in the dark. It was a rather cozy room with many shelves of books, comfy chairs, and the table with a giant map sprawled upon it. Yes. His father would be pleased with the surveillance work he made of the new farmland he purchased. They should be able to divide it enough for the blueprints for the many houses. Renting the houses out to people would certainly bring plenty of money he could use to help pay off his student loans. A yawn escaped from his throat as hands reached up to remove the glasses before a hand ran over his face. It was getting late. A hard day's work deserved a good rest. The man stood leaving the comfort of his warm study before walking away to exit into a hallway. It wasn't too hard to find his bed inside his bedroom. With a small action of placing his glasses on a nearby table, his body curled up inside the bed cozy and warm.

But not safe.

Shadows moved. Elongated alongside the wall. Red eyes narrowed. An arm extended itself out.

" Looking so peaceful in slumber. Not a care in the world...I wonder what hellish escapades you'll have within a world of nightmares." 

The elongated form of claws reached out from the hand extending out towards the slumbering form. 

"A fitting vengeance for an intruding obstacle. Let's make you fear ever speaking with a certain person ever again. You'll learn not to disrespect my once even in your thoughts nce I'm done with you."

A fingertip pressed against the soft skin of the man's forehead. Manic rising as the brows furrowed more and more. And soon his mouth opened up as eyes shrunk at a shadowed figure. And a scream shrieked out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Did you hear about Sabo?"

The clanking and clacking of lockers shut around you before you looked up at your friend who looked concerned at you. 

"Huh? What was that?"

Her brow rose annoyed and a hand placed itself on her hip. "Didn't you hear a word I said?"

"S-Sorry. I've been... distracted by work lately."

That was an understatement. You kept waking up with the ring on your body in one way or another. Two days ago you decided that you were overacting about the ring after your lab partner left you stranded and to ensure that you didn't lose another ring, you put a combination lock on the jewelry box after you chucked the ring back in. Now you couldn't misplace it again. However you were exhausted when you went to work and accidentally fell asleep at the cash register only to be startled awake by a customer shaking your shoulders. You rang him up as usual feeling a bit out of it, however you nearly had a mental break down when you once again found a golden band on your finger.

You practically tore the lock off fiddling with the numbers and dumping the entire thing out, and finding no ring inside. You KNOW you put it back! You KNOW that you locked it up right! You KNOW that only YOU know the combination! And you KNOW that it was still locked when you came back!! So how the hell did it get out of the box and on your ring at work?!

There was only one explanation.

You were being haunted! Your great grandparents must be angry at you for losing the other ring! You didn't believe in anything supernatural at all but this was the only thing you could think of that made even remotely sense. You knew you weren't crazy so what else could it be? However you hadn't told anyone yet. Then they'd think you were REALLY crazy! The stress was getting you to space out in front of your gym locker and made your friend groan.

"I can see that. Did you hear about Sabo at all?"

You shook your head. "Not sense three days ago. He didn't answer any of my texts and the project was due TODAY and only the essay was ready! I had to stay up all last night and finish it!"

You had to quickly slap together a 3D model online as accurately as you could and just present the entire thing yourself because he didn't even bother showing up to class! You just hoped it was just good enough for a C or B. 

"I don't know what he thinks he's doing ghosting me like!"

"Probably because he walked himself into the hospital."

You paused before looking at her. "What?!"

"Some kind of wild animal broke into his house a couple nights ago and really tore into him. They had to take him to the hospital and they haven't found what did it get. At least that's what I heard. "

"Oh my God. Is he ok?"

"Dunno. I'm only telling you what I heard and from what I did, he was barely alive when they found him the next morning."

That was terrible! But also why you never slept with the windows open. You felt bad about Sabo but hopefully you can get the both of you a decent grade for the project. 

However you didn't know the bigger problem awaiting at home just for you.

You were so worried about the ring and tired from not getting any sleep last night that you didn't even consider anything else was wrong. You stopped by the grocery store on the way home and just barely was able to balance three paper bags in your arms and unlock the door. Pushing it in and then closing it behind you. Tired eyes just passing by the living room and crossing into the kitchen.

You passed by a man sitting on your comfortable fluffy rug and reading a book from your shelf. Clink- A small teacup clinked as he gently took a sip before he gently placed it back down and started reading the next page as if the woman didn't walk past him. 

"Good evening, Dear."

"Hi." Your tired brain automatically responded without a thought as you placed the bags on the table.

"What are you cooking for dinner?"

"Tonkatsu and rice." Again you responded automatically just tiredly reaching into bags and setting things up on the table.

"Ah. A simple but delicious dish. I haven't had that since a man left it on my shrine fifty years ago for an offering."

"Uh huh."

You passed by the doorway towards the stove with a package of uncooked rice. Step. Step. Ste-....Tired eyes suddenly blinked open wide nearly bugging out of her skull...Feet slowly turned around and walked back towards the doorway. Step. Step. Step. Half her body leaned back out of the doorway...Thud. A bag of rice fell from her hands and fell to the floor with a loud thud seeing the figure of a VERY tall man sitting on the floor of her living room in a meditative state, one hand holding a murder mystery novel as the other gently lifted the teacup back to his face which was mostly obscured by long burgundy bangs. 

You stared staring like one of those comically large eyed cartoon characters. 

A long sip was calmly given before he spoke again. "You dropped the rice."

"W-WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!" You were wide awake now. Panic setting in from the sudden realization that there was a STRANGER IN YOUR HOUSE!! "H-HOW DID YOU GET INTO M-MY HOUSE?! DID YOU BREAK IN!?"

"Spouses share an abode. Cease your loud voice. It's unbecoming."

"Wha- L-LOOK! I-I don't know w-w-who you think you are-" Your hand fumbled badly for the phone in your pocket. "-b-b-b-but you better leave O-Or I'm calling the police!!" You made a threatening gesture by holding up your phone in a badly shaking hand. 

"Even if you do, they will not see me unless I want them to. Now put down that ridiculous object." 

"I'm warning you! I-I will!"

"Really? With what?"

"With my-"

You froze. Eyes going small as ashes fell from your hand that was holding a phone just two seconds ago, and instead a new shiny ring was again snugly sat on your finger. You jaw fell open.

"That's better. You'd better stop taking it off. It's tiring to keep putting it back."

You started breathing heavier head turning back to him. Fear slammed into your vertebrate like a railroad spike being hammered into the ground. "W-Who..are you?"

"Every human asks me that but I don't see why you shouldn't know who I am, considering that you were the one that summoned me and proposed."

"P-P-Proposed?!" The book closed with a sound and his hand tilted towards you. It was then that you saw the dazzling gleam of a shiny golden band on his finger. You knew what it was instantly. "My great grandfather's ring." Your eyes then narrowed again as you pointed. "THAT'S MINE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH IT, THIEF!?"

"Thief? Hardly. It was presented to me when you proposed fourteen days ago." He slowly stood from where he sat and you suddenly realized how small you were compared to him. "You asked me to become your husband and I accepted your offer. Was that not your intention when you summoned me that night?"

"Summoned? What do you-..."

You fell silent as his head turned. Burgundy hair framed a face as six pairs of eyes stared down at you. Lungs heave. Panic swam. Senses heightened as you rushed to turn around only to scream out as the face was now standing in the kitchen inches away from your trembling form. A clawed fist clamping itself around your forearm like a hot iron ensnaring you frozen to the spot. The silence carried on as you both still stared as your face horrified, and then a clawed hand held up a shiny golden band around his ring finger. 

"I accepted and now we are bound in matrimony, My Little Wife."

"W-Who are you?!"

"I go by many names. Your people still revere me as Moon God, while others of the past called me Demon. You may call me by my true name. Michikatsu." Those beautiful eyes widened even more, especially when a hand reached out to tilt her chin back up to him, the feeling of his claws making her shiver under his careful grasp. "Or as Husband. I have decided that I accept this coupling."

Your hyperventilating lungs breathed- GASPED for air. Lips. Trembled. Body shook. Tears welding up. "I-I.. Can't accept."

"I'm afraid you have no choice but to honor those vows because now-" The Ring burnt again your flesh like a clamp, death sentence for your new fate. "..Not even death will do us part." 

[gghostwriter]

Entangled Strings of Fate

Chapter 8. Time heals (almost) all wounds

Spencer Reid x Fem!Original Character

Summary: Caltech, Pasadena - Cleo considers herself a woman of logic. With an IQ of 158 and an eidetic memory, how could she not. But meeting Spencer, the boy genius to hers, had her believing in intangible theories like the invisible string and the fates. Now, if only he would notice the depth of her feelings. Set in Caltech, pre-season 1 and will progress from there. w.c: 1.9k a/n: ngl i had a hard time taking this fic off of hiatus. There were some instances where I just wanted to drop it all together but i persevered so here we are, slowly back in the game. The updates would be irregular since I’m also working on other ideas behind the scenes but hope you all still enjoy and support. Comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated! previous chapter || series masterlist || next chapter

”If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” - Frederick Douglass

Change was a peculiar thing.

If Spencer Reid was to describe it from his own experience dealing with his fight with Dilaudid, he’d liken it to the well-known ‘five stages of grief’—denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and acceptance. His progress was never a linear thing, there were days his emotion would swig back and forth within stages like some sort of pendulum. He resented it. It made him feel weak, resentful, and angry. At the world, at the people around him, and most of all at himself.

The first and second stages were denial and anger. Two emotions he regrets to know too well and deflect to others poorly. 

“Reid,” Morgan’s tone coming off harsh from restrained anger. “What was that? I just saw Cleo—” he pointed behind him towards the door. “—rush out and crying.” 

He scoffed. “Nothing. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Yeah, well let’s talk about the elephant in the room then. Since when had you had those?” Morgan nodded his head in the direction of the medicine bottles left haphazardly on the coffee table.

“Since Tobias,” he shrugged nonchalantly, opting to go with a half truth and a half lie to try and throw his fellow profiler off his trail. Not that it would ever work with how tenacious Morgan was. “He must have slipped it in my pockets before his murder—”

“Murder?” Morgan picked up on his specific choice of wording. 

“—and its not like I used it.” 

A lie.

“Kid, we both know that was self defense and Cleo told me the truth, don’t like to me.”

Spencer averted his eyes, finding all the scuffles on his floor suddenly interesting. It was indeed self defense, he knew that, but Tobias didn’t deserve to be killed—not really. He wasn’t like the rest of the unsubs that they have hunted down. He was just a victim of bad fate and his own fractured mind. Inside, the real Tobias still saved him and for that he felt grateful and regretful that his way of repayment was made through by a bullet. 

“Reid, I thought you were getting better. What you went through was traumatic but this isn’t the right way to cope—drugs and pushing away probably the person who cares for you the most. This isn’t you, Reid.”

“Yeah well, maybe this is the new me, have you thought about that?” He glared at Morgan. “I don’t even know why you’re here lecturing me about keeping secrets and coping, we all their own demons locked up, don’t we? The members of the BAU aren’t really known to be the most trusting and forthcoming with our pasts. We brush the trauma all under the rug and hope it doesn’t catch up to us.”

Morgan sighed as his shoulder dropped, all the fight in him leaving. “Come talk to me when your anger has passed—” he stepped back until he was almost by the door. “—and Reid, let’s hope this isn’t the new you ‘cause if it is—” he trailed off, shaking his head.

As the soft closing of the door echoed through the apartment, Spencer felt relief. Relief in being free to do what he wanted without judgement and relief to unknowingly hit rock bottom as his trembling fingers reached for the sealed bottle of Dilaudid. 

———

The third stage was bargaining.

Spencer didn’t know how he got here. Here being the present without the two strongest pillars in his life, Cleo and Gideon. One he pushed away and the other, leaving him behind with just a letter to his name. 

The team felt incomplete. He felt incomplete. 

As a man of science, he didn’t believe in higher power or the cosmos but one late night, he found himself on the rooftop of his apartment complex, cursing the stars and bargaining for the past to come back to the present.

If the star placements that night were different, maybe the present would be too. If he had worn a different combination of socks, maybe Cleo would still be by his side. And if he had not separated from JJ, maybe he would be here—at rock bottom.

It was a place he never thought he’d be in. Did he really have 187 IQ for nothing? Was all those knowledge in his expansive brain useless in recognizing wrong decisions made? 

He sighed as he watched the sun break the horizon.

Another day powered with no sleep.

Another day of wishing things had been different.

And another day of missing the one he pushed away.

———

The fourth stage, depression, hit when he least expected it and with it, came an immense regret that threatened to pull him under it’s ravaging tides.

By definition, depression was a general emotional dejection and regret was the act of feeling sorrow. Easy to understand in wording but difficult to explain when both were cruising through his body.

If Spencer was to explain what both were beyond it’s dictionary definition, he would liken regret to a bone injury that was never reset right and depression to deep, self inflicted wound that had been picked on numerous times that caused it to scar permanently. He felt himself riddled with both—fresh and old, reminders of his inactions and wrongful judgement. The optimists would wade through it and wear their progress with pride. These so called life battle scars that lead them to a better future but he wasn’t one of them.

No, he carried his with such shame causing his shoulders to hunch further forward from the accumulated weight of his whole life’s misfortunes. The heavy, heavy weight of sorrow from not being good enough for his father to stay. Remorse from not being strong enough to carry his ailing mother’s load and having her admitted in a facility. Disappointment from choosing the easy way out of his drug addiction—lashing out and using behind closed doors. Heartache from pushing away the only person in his life that cared enough to be angry and concerned, Cleo—his constant, his number one supporter. 

A rhythmic knock on his door pulled him out from under the waves. Blanket draped over his body, Spencer sluggishly made his way to it—ignoring the hunger pains in his empty stomach. It was nothing compared to what his heart was going through.

“Spencer,” Garcia uttered as she took in the boy genius’ form in worry. 

He cleared his throat, rough from the lack of use. “Garcia, what—what are you doing here?” 

“Taking care of you since it’s obvious you’re not going to,” the tech analyst maneuvered her way through with a Tupperware on hand. She headed straight to the kitchen regardless his small protests.

Garcia worked fast in plating him soup and a slice of bread. If this were a normal evening, he’d feel grateful and enticed by the smell but this wasn’t so all he felt was an urge to retch. 

“I don’t want it,” he mumbled, shuffling further away from the source of the stench.

She sighed. “Reid, what day is it today?” 

The question threw him off a loop. What does that have to do with forcing him to eat?

“Friday. It’s just Friday.”

“It’s Sunday,” she walked closer until he was reaching distance. “I’ve been calling you and you haven’t been picking up so I took it upon myself to visit you instead. Now—” dragging him to the dining table. “—I need you to eat. Even a little bit ‘cause I know you haven’t eaten at all.”

He brought a trickle to his drying lips. It was chicken soup and if he didn’t know any better, it tasted familiar. Homemade, even.

“How is it?” Garcia asked.

“Did you make this?”

Her eyes widened before her hand waved in front of her face in jest. “What? No—no, I got it from the restaurant near my apartment.” 

That was a lie.

A lie that Spencer didn’t question. He had lied about worse things and he had no right to question where the soup really came from when he knew the answer.

From Cleo. 

Or at least it was Cleo’s recipe.

The thought of her still being part of his life, no matter how inconsequential, warmed his insides more than the chicken soup had. 

“Do you think I’m bad for taking those drugs?” 

She gave a brief pause, enough to have Spencer worry. “No. I don’t have the right to judge you on your actions but—”

“But?”

“—it’s sad that other people bore brunt of your anger, which wasn’t your fault but wasn’t your greatest moment either.”

“Do you think—” he downed the last few spoonfuls. “—she’d forgive me?” 

It was what kept him awake most nights. The thought of never being part of Cleo’s world any more than a passerby was a living nightmare he hoped to escape from. Losing her felt like he lost his own limb. It threw him off balance. It broke Earth’s gravitational pull to his self. And when he does sleep, he wakes with this fog that he never pushed her away—never hurt her like a phantom limb before he drops back down to reality.

She reached into her glittered purse, rummaging through before she found what she was looking for. “I’ve been keeping this with me since that night and I think it’s time I give it to you.”

The single piece of paper looked worn at the edges and its folds. It looked non-descriptive. It was the contents that mattered. That truly mattered.

Law Enforcement: Narcotics Anonymous

(555) 657-02149

  All hastily written in Cleo’s loopy handwriting

“Oh.”

———

The final stage, acceptance, came with a physical change in the team. A new old member was stepping up to the plate in Gideon’s place.

David Rossi.

He had been feeling like his past self for a while now. All in thanks to the support each member has extended to him. As he started his climb up from the abyss of addiction, he had realized that his team—Hotch, Morgan, JJ, Garcia, and Emily, were there to cushion his fall should be falter and as the warmth of daylight hit his face on the way up, he wondered why he decided to stay in the darkness for so long. 

Why he had to lose two pillars before realizing that this is where he belonged? That this is who Spencer Reid is—a paradox of good and bad, a person who chooses the good no matter his demons.

And although adjusting to a new BAU member would take a while, he felt optimistic that everything would turn out just right. That it was time to finally let go of self loathing and make amends to those he can, no matter what the outcome.

That was how he found himself penning a letter to the one person he hadn’t seen in months.

To the one person who mattered after his mother. 

To Cleo. 

Comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 5: killer

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: Your very first Hunger Games as a mentor comes to an end, and you are forced to reckon with the aftermath.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 9.3k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Bee has disappeared, but the alarm remains silent, and the girl from 2 is still swinging. You force yourself to blink past the tears rapidly welling in your eyes; you will have to save them for later. As of right now, you still have a tribute in the Games. But where is she?

From his place before the camera, Lucky Flickerman cries out in excitement at the feat. 

“And Little Bee from 10 pulls off a miraculous disappearing act!” He displays an array of cards, waving them back and forth before making them vanish in one smooth movement, punctuating the end of his sentence. To your left, Treech sinks further into his seat, frustration palpable. You are still standing, heart beating at the erratic pace of a jackrabbit, and time moves unbearably slow as you continue to scan the screen for some sign of life.

And then it comes, and really, you aren’t sure what to say. The boy from 11 appears first, crawling out the shrub’s other side before Bee joins him, her hand tightly clasped in his own. They are careful, making little noise as they emerge, but the quiet does not last. The moment they are on their feet, they are moving with a speed that can not help but be loud, feet pounding against the forest floor. The girl from 2 makes no effort to chase, seemingly accepting the defeat of the moment, and you note, with a sinking feeling in your chest, that Bee turns back, for just a second, to eye Colt’s unmoving form, sprawled across the ground. Still, she does not stop running.

It catches you off guard, the nudge from Teff, but you follow his finger as he indicates the television with Bee’s face spinning in a slow circle. Her sponsorships. They are increasing. You want to scream, to admonish the people of the Capitol for their pity money. She had no worth to them before, and now here was her grief, a commodity to them. You say nothing but give a curt nod in thanks to the District 11 mentor for pointing it out.

When the boy tugging Bee along eventually pulls her to a stop, it is in a clearing already occupied by another: Trawl’s girl, Mags. She spins on her heel, clearly readying a speech of some sort, but stops herself when her eyes settle on Bee.

“What the fuck is this?” Her voice is tense, not like you expected from the girl who put her life on the line to hold her District partner as he lay dying and took in the alliless boy from 11.

“She needed help; I saved her,” he says.

“We don’t need another person. She’s gonna slow us down.” And you know it is not her intent to be cruel, only logical, but her words sting.

“She’s smart. And she’s small; she can hide like me.”

“Jadam– I am barely taking care of us; what made you think I could handle someone else?” Mags’s arms fly out in exasperation.

“I just thought that–”

“No. Okay? I won’t kill her, but she has to go.” The panic in your chest begins to rise. You have to do something, and quickly, too. Your eyes flit to Bee’s mounting donations, beginning to dwindle at the 430 mark before traveling down to your screen and the price of bread. A single loaf would cost you 400. All her sponsorships out the window in a single move. Still, it is a risk you have to take, your chest constricting with the knowledge that if she loses this alliance, she will have no one. You slam down on the button. 

On the screen, Jadam turns to Bee, an apologetic look painting his features. Mags only eyes the forest floor behind him, arms crossed and clearly set in her decision. In the distance, there is a noise. 

All three heads dart up in seeming unison as a drone comes into view just above the canopy of leaves before beginning to lower itself slowly to the ground. There is a tin attached at the bottom, but the trio of tributes remain frozen with fear. It is Mags who eventually moves, after several moments of silence, to inspect the device. Slowly, she pulls the tin from the drone, before opening the small container. A note tumbles out from inside, and she dips to collect it, but her eyes do not leave the contents of the metal box. She is hungry; this much you know from having watched her closely the past two days. She has yet to eat.

“It’s for you,” she says, her jaw growing tight as her eyes travel up to meet Bee’s gaze. The smaller girl moves forward with caution and, after noting the bread, pulls it from the container and begins to tear it into separate parts, handing one to Mags and tossing a second to Jadam before squaring her shoulders and making towards the large expanse of woods ahead, her section of the loaf clutched tightly in her hand. Come on. Don’t let her leave. 

She is almost out of sight when Mags calls out after her.

“Wait.”

Bee whips around, features unreadable as she pauses, allowing Mags to continue. The older girl only sighs, the sound dripping with defeat.

“You can stay.”

The sentiment has barely left her lips when your shoulders sag in relief, and you are off, headed for the doors.

“Bathroom,” you hiss at the Peacekeeper who moves to block your path, and he shifts to let you pass. 

It is all you can do to halt the muffled sob that threatens to escape your lips the minute you set foot in the hallway. The heels of your boots make a distinct echoing sound as they come in contact with the cold marble floor, and succession of clicks is so loud you almost miss the second pair of footsteps ringing out behind you.

You whip around, prepared to warn whichever victor has just followed you out to stop tailing you. To plaster a blank look across your features and tell them you are fine. It is not a victor. You recognize Dr. Gaul from the beginning of the Games, clearly on her way in as you make your way out. She has made several appearances over the last two days, though none too prolonged, mostly spent at the back of the large room, whispering to the man with the white hair. To Snow, you correct again subconsciously.

“Ms. L/N,” she says, nodding in acknowledgment. “I saw what happened to that boy of yours. Pity, really.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re concerned. What’s one more kid when you’ve already killed so many?” You grit out, unsure where the courage to do so has emerged from, but holding firm. Refusing to look away.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you must be confused. I was talking about the boy from 7. That’s too bad about his tribute. Although I must admit, it was disappointing to see the other one go. He truly would have made a strong contender. Much better, I’m afraid, than the little girl.” Fear, cold and sharp, travels down your spine at her words, and you fight the urge to flinch away from the woman, instead fumbling to defend yourself.

“Treech is not–” The doors to the lecture hall bang open, and the very man on your lips appears in the doorway. 

“Interesting,” she notes with a dangerous grin before turning on her heel to enter the room. Treech eyes you with concern, one brow raised in confusion.

“What was–”

“Fuck off. You have to fuck off,” you cry out, and it almost sounds as though you are pleading with him as you swerve, avoiding his touch and making for the bathroom once more. All you wanted was a minute to cry in peace.

“What the hell? What is your problem?” He demands, anger creeping into his tone, but don’t respond, reaching the bathroom door and giving it a harsh tug. He slams it shut, planting a firm hand over your head. 

“You. You are my problem!” You are inches apart, and your chest is heaving. Treech only looks lost, features plainly read for once. His lips are parted, body warm. The smell of cedar invades your personal space once more. You give him a shove, hard and meaningful, before darting inside the bathroom. He follows. 

You want to scream in frustration, and the tears you have been fighting begin to wet your cheeks as he turns to lock the door, his eyes doing a quick scan of the walls. No cameras. At least as far as you’re aware.

“What is going on with you?” He hisses, and a wretched sob wracks your body. Treech takes a step forward, and you inch back.

“Don’t act so concerned now. You’re the one who said this had to be nothing,” you spit, knowing it is undeserved, but you are angry, and with rage wrapping its thick hands around your throat, it is difficult to see straight. To see who should truly bear the burden of your wrath.

“You said it first!” Treech looks exasperated at best, but he does not approach again, treating you like a wild animal of some sort as though afraid you might spook and disappear.

“You didn’t answer my letter!” Unfair. You are being unfair. But you will do anything to get him out of here. To make him leave you alone. Because at least alone, you are not a threat to his life.

“Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.” He shakes his head, frustration lighting his features once more.

“So it’s my fault?” And by your third attempt to corral him out the door, you can feel your resolve weakening. Can see it in the mirror too.

“No! So it’s no one’s fault! You think I don’t– Every day I spend with you, I think about this. Us. And every day, I have to remind myself that it would get us both killed. But fuck, I–” His words feel heavy where they should fill you with excitement. With joy. And suddenly, awareness of your situation burdens you again. And he looks so earnest, the words tumbling from his lips in a regrettable stream. So vulnerable.

“Gaul knows.”

“Knows what?” He is taken aback, and you know it is not the response he wanted.

“She was calling you my boy from 7. She knows about whatever this is.” And once you have begun the words come pouring out in quick succession. 

“She knows, and Teff and Trawl know. And at this point, I’d be surprised if Lucky fucking Flickerman hasn’t been made aware. And I am exhausted. And scared. And Colt is–” But you don’t finish, as all the emotions from earlier make their way back in, and the weight is unbearable, forcing you to your knees. Treech rushes forward, and this time, you do not stop him as he catches you halfway to the ground, pulling you close as he had two nights ago. And really, today’s frustration all comes back to that. Colt is dead, and no amount of screaming and crying will make it not so. Maybe that’s why you let it happen. Allow Treech to gently rock you on that bathroom floor and whisper soft words in your ear. Maybe that is why you turn to curl into his chest. To pretend, in spite of the lurking anxiety just beneath your skin, that this is alright. That there will be no consequences. No one to answer to. Just for a moment.

Treech reenters first, and by the time you step through the archaic double doors, it has been thirty minutes, and the girl from 6 is dead. You make for the back table, eyes fixed straight ahead, and pour yourself another coffee. Eight kids left. Something has to happen, and soon. 

The walk back to your chair feels eternal, and you slump in your seat upon arrival, fixing the screen with your gaze. The sun has set, and Bee sits crosslegged beside Mags, who watches over the sleeping form of Jadam, his head in her lap. 

“There’s no food out here. No water except for that fucking hellscape of a river. We can hide all we want, but we’re never gonna survive if we keep going down this route,” Mags sighs, her shoulders slumping.

“At this rate, we’ll all just starve to death,” she laments, eyes softening on their path over Jadam’s features.

“They can send us bread from the outside. Like today–” Bee supplies, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone. Your own gaze flits down to her sponsorships, measly and non-existent after your splurge on her peace offering.

“They need money for sponsorships. Money that no one is gonna send if we’re just sitting around doing nothing,” Mags reasons, and a sick feeling in your stomach tells you she is right.

“There’s food in the cornucopia,” Jadam mumbles, and you realize with a start he was only feigning sleep.

“What?” Bee asks, head turning to consider him and his words more carefully. 

“There’s a whole box of it in there. I saw it on the first day, during the countdown. There’s apples, bread probably–” Mags cuts him off.

“Yeah, there’s also the boy from 1. The girl from 2. Or are you forgetting that?”

“I’m just saying–” Jadam tries once more, but the older girl will not let him finish.

“Well, don’t. It’s not safe. We’d be walking into an ambush. Completely weaponless. It’s not happening.”

Bee stands from her place beside the pair, brushing the dirt from her clothes before turning to make her way out into the woods.

“Where are you going?” And it is more of a demand than a true question, sharp and cold though tinged with worry as Mags asks it.

“Bathroom,” Bee explains easily, though her eyes do not meet the older girl’s before she spins on her heel and disappears. Your shoulders tense, gaze fixed on her departing form. Jadam rolls onto his back, eyes trained upwards on the twisted expression of concern on Mags’s face.

“She’ll be alright,” Jadam whispers, and Mags almost appears to flinch at the words of comfort.

“We’ll have to split from her soon,” she states, clearing her throat, and your own heart sinks deeper into your chest. It is true. They cannot stay together forever without eventually needing to kill one another.  Still, Jadam asks the question you have already found the answer to.

“Why?”

“There can’t be many of us left, and I don’t want to have to kill her when it comes down to it.” 

“What about me?” His words echo out across the room, quiet now from the lack of academy students, and you feel your gaze being tugged toward Teff, his brow creased into an unreadable emotion as he watches the screen.

“What about you?” 

“Won’t you have to kill me? If we stay together?” There is a look that passes over Mags’s face, one you recognize from Colt. From the way he looked at Bee. From the way you look at Fawn. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The truth hangs in the air with a heavy silence, broken only when Bee reappears. She thrusts something onto the ground. An object, heavy in weight. A trident. Not just any trident, the one that killed Colt.

“Where did you get that?” Mags demands, shock evident in her voice.

“Found it.” You know she is lying. And you thank God they have no fire lit because you are sure her face would appear blotchy and swollen. 

“What–” Mags begins.

“You said we were weaponless. Now we aren’t.” And a wave of pride passes through your system, at little underestimated Bee and her bravery. It is quickly smothered, though, by disgust with yourself, thick and rampant at the realization that she should not have to make this stand in the first place.

“Bee–” 

“Look, there’s two of them and three of us, and now we can fight. We need food. So let’s go get food.” 

Something big is coming; you can feel it in the way your hands shake, gripping the fine china of your mug. Only it feels sinister, and with each second that creeps by it settles into certainty. The 11th Games is coming to an end. All there is to do is sit and wait.

The girl from 3 dies in the night, along with the boy from 6, which brings the number of remaining tributes to six. Neither gone of natural causes though, you note, with a worrisome lurch of your stomach. The fierce duo from 1 and 2 is on the hunt, and they show no signs of stopping.

You feel uneasy as you fix the screen with a watchful eye, camera trained on three small backs, lying in wait. It is Bee who speaks first, turning to Mags with a hushed whisper.

“I’m telling you, they’re not there. They must be out looking for other tributes. This is our chance.” Mags appears hesitant but eventually gives a nod, and the three creep out from their place in the tree line. 

They make the jump across the river separately, and though Jadam nearly slips, both girls lunge forward, pulling him to safety. A soft yelp passes his lips, but Mags is quick to shush him, jutting her head in the direction of the cornucopia. Her implication is clear: they could still be inside. 

As they get closer, the three take care to press themselves against the wall, with the District 4 girl in the lead, taking a shaky breath before readjusting her grip on the trident in her possession and peeking her head around the corner. Her shoulders drop in relief, and she delivers a curt nod in the direction of the others. They are safe to move forward. 

The trio creeps inside, splitting up to peel the lids off of several boxes and fish around their contents. There are several long beats of shuffling and silence before Jadam clears his throat, lifting his head with a sly grin on his face and producing from the confines of the plastic container, a bag of apples. 

And you can’t help it, really, your own slow smile at the small victory, especially as glee and relief plaster themselves across Bee and Mags’s faces. Finally. A win.

And then there is screaming. Distant at first, but quickly approaching. And the camera view changes and the girl from 7, Treech’s girl. Hazel is making a mad dash from the woods towards the center of the arena, the pair from 1 and 2 hot on her tail.

“Fuck.”

The trio has barely made it to the mouth of the cornucopia when she makes it over the river, hurtling herself with a violent force, the remains of the pack just behind her.

“We’ve gotta go,” Mags begins to rush, ushering the pair of younger tributes ahead of her and making toward the bank. It’s then the ground seems to begin shaking, all six remaining tributes hitting the ground, and suddenly, the center of the arena begins to shrink, pieces breaking off into the river as the water continues to engulf the chunks of land indiscriminatley. 

The girl from 2 is up again, a twisted growl darkening her features as she lunges Hazel, still splayed out from the fall. It is quick and merciful, the sword passing through her chest, and before you can truly process it, she has gone limp, and the buzzer signals her death. Beside you, Treech flinches. 

On the screen, Mags’s head whips around in several wild motions, trying to calculate an escape route. The trio edges closer to the river, and the pair from 1 and 2 notes their presence for the first time, the girl turning her mean scowl on Bee, the mark of Colt’s attack stretched across her face in a jagged scar. She starts to run, and the ground begins to shake once more.

A piece breaks off, this time not unpopulated. Jadam hits the water with a splash. Mags lets out a cry of concern, lunging forward to pull him from the river. Her free hand connects with his, but there is a clear tug at his figure, and he screams in pain, accidentally pulling her in with him. The girl from 2 is nearly on Bee when both of them disappear beneath the surface. 

One half of the pack takes Bee to the ground, and you resist the urge to reach for her. Beneath the water, there is movement. Both heads resurface, but Jadam’s lulls awkwardly to the side, and his eyes are unblinking. You feel like throwing up as the buzzer sounds again. 

Mags seems to notice as well, her eyes welling up and a strangled sob escaping her lips. And then she is lifting the trident, stabbing down and something seems to give as she moves through the water towards the shore, gripping at the dirt and pulling herself up. Her eyes are cold, and she barely seems to notice as she turns, as though on instinct and impales the oncoming boy from 1 with her weapon before discarding him into the river. 

The girl is next and, from behind, poses less of a threat. Beneath her, Bee has stopped struggling so much. Something is wrong. The trident pierces the girl from 2’s throat, and with several wretched choking sounds, she falls to the side, revealing Bee, drained of color beneath her. She is still breathing, though barely, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths and a large gash painting her stomach. She looks up at Mags with eyes filled with tears, and you wonder if the older girl will deliver the final blow just to get it over with. She seems to consider it for a moment, and Bee’s eyes squeeze shut, awaiting the impact.

The trident hits the ground, cast aside in one harsh movement, and Mags sinks slowly to her knees, pulling the younger girl into her lap. Her features grow tired, though admittedly warmer, and she begins to stroke Bee’s hair. You choke back a sob.

The careful braid you had pleated into her chestnut locks is almost completely undone, and Mags runs her fingers through the strands, undoing your work and then beginning to work at the knots that had formed in the Games. There is no need for the braid anymore. There will be no more fighting, no more days spent working in the slaughterhouse. Instead, her hair falls loose around her shoulders in the way a little girl’s hair should, wild and free. Uncontained. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mags whispers, the words croaked and wet. 

“Don’t be. I was never gonna win.” The response comes, weak and small.

“Could you do me a favor?” Mags only manages a nod, and Bee flashes her with a half-smile.

“If you ever make it over to 10, tell my mom not to worry about me. And that I love her.” 

“I will. Of course, I will,” Mags promises, tears falling atop Bee’s fragile form. She is quiet for a time before speaking again, moving her hand to lay over Mags’s.

“Do you think there’s another world where we could have been friends?” The older girl’s lip shakes as she takes a minute before responding.

“I’d like to think we don’t need another world. That I can tell people we were friends in this one.” Bee smiles, real and bright, though fading by the second.

“That’s nice. Friends. I’m sorry it wasn’t for longer. I think I really would’ve liked getting to know you.” When she finally stills, Mags lets out a final shuddering sob before loosing a scream, angry like no other you’ve heard before. She does not hear as they announce her the victor, barely seeming to notice the Peacekeepers entering the arena through some passage in the cornucopia. Instead, she leans forward to press a kiss to Bee’s head and clings, shuddering to her form until they pry her from it, pulling her towards the exit.

The first thing you do upon arrival at the victor’s suite is take a shower. It has been days, and you scrub at your skin with a ferocity previously unknown to you, but the ghost of the Games does not wash away.

Trawl has been called elsewhere, likely to meet with Mags, but the rest of you have been told you will remain in the hotel until called upon for further ceremonies, and so you do. Wait, that is, as the hours tick by in a vile silence. Several of the other victors depart towards their rooms to rest or perhaps escape the group and the constant reminder they provide of the events that have just occurred. And really, you should sleep. In the last five days, you’ve probably only managed to crash for a grand total of two hours, and even that time had been dispersed in fifteen-minute chunks. But closing your eyes means seeing them. Colt sprawled out, his eyes still open and the ghost of a smile on his face in spite of his leaking chest, and Bee, whispering her final words to the girl from 4, her hair a messy halo in the grass. You wonder what will become of what is left of them. 

It is a thought that has plagued you since your own Games, what the Capitol does with the remains of the District children. The first few years, they had shipped them home in boxes, though little had been done in the way of embalming, and often, the children arrived in a condition so bad that parents were denied the privilege of even seeing them. One year, the Capitol sent patches torn from the clothing of the deceased as a means of commemoration. But eventually, they ceased pretending to care about the families of fallen tributes, and in the last few years, when your child died, you were left with nothing but the memory of them and an empty grave.

Your hands shake as you enter the kitchen, barely noting the other mentors in the room. You haven’t eaten much in the last few days; the Games made you feel sick, and keeping anything down felt difficult. Still, the lack of care seems to be catching up with your body, so you force down some toast from the plater on the counter as well as a piece of bacon before turning to observe the suite.

You note Treech’s absence almost immediately, and though a good part of you longs for his presence, you know that after the events of yesterday, you should keep your distance. Teff is seated alone at the dining room table, hunched over and scribbling something. Probably a letter you note. Probably to Jadam’s parents or Olive’s. You shake the thought as it brings in a torrent of others. Should you be writing letters? What do you even say to the mothers of two children who will never see their homes again? Nothing. At least nothing they haven’t heard before, and certainly nothing that makes the absence feel any less cruel.

On the couch, Octavian sits, stiff as a board, his eyes glued straight ahead. The television plays something you don’t recognize and, therefore, must not be the news, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him. He stares blankly past the screen, gaze fixed on something you’re certain isn’t there. 

Beside him, Antonia has begun to nod off, though she jerks awake every few seconds, eyes doing a desperate search of the room before landing on Octavian and, noting that he is safe, closing once more. Further down, several feet away from the pair, Lux sits, feet tucked primly beneath her and a magazine in her hands. You note that the pages turn too quickly for her to possibly be reading the text, but the movement seems to calm her, apart from the occasional fidget. You make your way over, taking the seat beside hers.

“What are you doing?” She asks without so much as looking up from the task before her.

“Sitting down?” You snark in return, sinking further into your seat.

“You can’t sit somewhere else? Further away?” She turns to face you now, nose crinkling in mock disgust, but you ignore the twisting of her features, hoping mostly for a moment of normalcy.

“Lux–”

“We aren’t friends,” she says plainly. And bickering with Lux feels normal, but her statement still strikes at an odd place between your ribs.

“Jesus, I know–” You begin once more.

“I’m not gonna sit here and play patty-cake and braid your hair.” This has you rolling your eyes, a soft snort escaping you.

“Would you calm down? I’m sitting next to you, not asking you to marry me.”

“Well, I would hope not; I’ve seen the wedding customs you have in 10; frankly, they’re a bit barbaric,” she taunts, flipping a long strand of hair over her shoulder and just barely missing your face. Still, there is something about the conversation that feels better than sitting catatonic like Octavian and staring at the wall.

“I’m sorry we can’t afford to be quite as gaudy with our ceremonies as–”

“Gaudy? We are very tasteful– I suppose you’d just have us walking down the aisle in work boots?” She sputters at the notion, and you know you are under her skin. Still, you do not stop, pushing forward with the jest.

“You know honey, maybe it would be better if we just eloped. I never really got the whole fuss around weddings anyways.” And suddenly, Lux breaks off in a laugh, though her brow remains raised in surprise as though she hadn’t been expecting to enjoy your company.

“I wanted a big wedding,” she admits after a long beat, turning to face you as though telling some sort of secret. 

“When I was a girl, I would dream about falling in love and getting married. Perfect dress. Perfect venue. But nobody wants to lie in bed next to a killer. At least not back home. Not now. And by the time this Capitol plan kicks in and changes their minds, I won’t be me anymore, and that little girl will be long gone.” Her face has gone sour by the end of her confession, and you feel your own heart sinking in your chest at the turn in conversation. You want to say sorry. To reach out and comfort her. But she is Lux, and to do so would only encourage scorn, so you nod, trading a secret of your own.

“I always thought I would never marry. I wanted to work on the ranch like my dad; I thought that was what freedom looked like. And then it turned out all the ranchers ever really talk about is home. Their wives and husbands and how much they missed them. And I realized freedom doesn’t have to mean being alone. We don’t wear boots to our weddings. At least, not all of us do. It’s a ranching tradition. The whole bunkhouse saves up for a pair, and then the night before the wedding, you gift them to the person marrying into the ranch life. Like the things that are important to you become more important because they’re sharing them with you. And even though I didn’t believe in weddings or marriage, I started dreaming up those boots, what they would look like, and who would be wearing them. And then it didn’t seem so bad, falling in love.” Lux snorts at the notion, but when she dips her head to take in her magazine once more, there is a soft smile spread across her lips.

“You’re not so bad,” you say, quiet so only she can hear.

“I guess I’ve had worse company,” she replies, and you feel a piece of the weight chip away, just for a second.

For two days, the Capitol seems to forget entirely that you exist. Mags makes several television appearances accompanied by Trawl, but neither so much as enters the hotel. As for the rest of you, the space feels suffocating. At night, you escape to the lobby, seeking a change of environment and anything strong enough to drown out the Games that haunt you from every screen in the Capitol. The day proves to be more difficult, and you pass the hours making strained conversation with the other victors. 

Several times, you consider writing Bee and Colt’s families, but the thought continues to bring bile to your throat, and you decide you will visit with them instead upon your return.

On the third day, there is a knock at the door. Several people enter all at once, including a pair of Peacekeepers led by a man you’ve never seen before. He has a sharp nose and eyes that remain guarded, almost appearing glassed over as he speaks. In addition, they bring Trawl and Mags, the former drawing you into an embrace upon arrival.

His companion shows signs of obvious discomfort, keeping close to her mentor as he makes his way to the couch. The man takes his place before the television, and you note he is likely here to pass on information regarding the next steps in this process, though you feel surprise creep into your system, wondering what has happened to Coriolanus Snow. Probably basking in the glory of his successful undertaking. It is a sour thought, but you have no doubt it is mostly true.

“Hello there, we haven’t met before. My name is Hilarius Heavensbee, and going forward, I’ll be working with Coriolanus Snow to oversee the mentorship program.” He is met with silence, but you all file in, aware there is likely a speech in store. He squares his shoulders before continuing.

“I’m here to let you know we’ll be keeping you here a little longer, mostly to get you prepped on what the first-ever Victory Tour will look like. Additionally, as part of our campaign to endear you to the public, each of you must pick a talent to cultivate and integrate into your personality.”

“Talent?” Antonia asks, a sneer decorating her features.

“Some sort of interesting skill. Drawing, poetry, dance, frankly, I don’t really care what you pick, as long as it’s something,” he says dismissively, though his posture conveys that there is a layer of deception to the aloof nature he presents.

“I’m good at chopping down trees. Can that be my talent?” Treech speaks up from beside you. Lux snorts, and he shoots her a glare.

“No. No, your talent needs to be something that distinguishes you from your district. Remember, on your new victor’s earnings, you will no longer be a part of the working class. This should be something you do for fun. A hobby,” Heavensbee prompts.

There is a wave of muttering that passes through the room, and you hear as several times the words fun and hobby are tossed around in a tone that indicates little more than confusion.

“Right, well, you’ll have until the end of the day to decide on something. And try not to pick the same talents; we don’t need nine victors who can knit,” he says, clapping his hands together before moving to depart and leaving the suite buzzing with confusion.

“What are you doing for this stupid talent thing?” Treech does not knock before entering your room; only thrusts himself down across the end of your bed and waits expectantly for your answer after closing the door behind him.

“Well, I already know how to draw, so probably just sketching,” you shrug, though it isn’t really a question; you’ve already decided.

“Urgh, this is so dumb,” he groans, burying his face in the duvet.

“C’mon, there has to be something you’re good at besides using an axe,” you tease, your lips twisting into a smile when he lifts his head to send you an indignant expression before the emotion on his face melts into something more contemplative.

“Sometimes I make little… things out of wood. For my sisters,” he says, slow as though weighing the option.

“There you go,” you encourage, pleased to have solved the predicament so quickly.

“No.” He shakes his head, setting it back down with another sigh.

“What do you mean, no? It’s right there. And you already know how to do it.”

“I don’t want them to have that. It’s– I want that to be for me.” And you cannot blame him for that, though the thought had not occurred to you before, and you think of your own talent. Of how the sole surviving symbol of your teenage dreams to become a veterinarian was the skill you would now hand on a silver platter to the Capitol.

“Okay,” you nod, thinking for a moment before speaking again. “Do you know how to play any instruments?” 

“Do I look like I know how to play any instruments?” He quips, voice muffled by the bed.

“Maybe you could try the guitar,” you say, and it is mostly a joke.

“As if. Do you know how ridiculous I would look trying to play the guitar?” You resist a laugh at the thought.

“Please, the women of the Capitol are already practically falling at your feet; just imagine if you could serenade them.” 

“Shut up,” he says, looking up at you with a pout plastered across his face. Still, you don’t stop.

“Play me your guitar, oh Capitol loverboy. Is it true? Are you really a tortured dark soul, like they say?”

“Shut up,” Treech exclaims, louder this time, and as the words leave his mouth, he lunges forward to muffle your remarks with his hand. You struggle to break free, laughter slipping from your lips as he pulls you closer in his attempts to silence you, but it is of little use as you continue to pester him with your remarks until you gain enough traction to whip around and face him. 

You are inches apart when your eyes meet his, and the words seem to die on your tongue as you note the distance, or lack thereof, between you. And for a moment, the world seems to stop. And his lips are so close, his eyes so soft. You recall the feeling of his curls between your fingers. You think you will never forget that feeling. His nose brushes yours, and your eyes flutter closed, cheek leaning into the open palm inches from your face. But you cannot. You know you cannot. So you pull away.

“Treech–”

“I know,” he cuts you off, allowing his hand to remain outstretched for a moment before dropping it to his side. His eyes linger though, tracing each crevice of your face with a look you cannot quite dissect.

“I should–”

“I’ll go,” he interrupts you once more and stands to depart. And your heart feels as though it is heavy enough to crash through all your vital organs, sinking into the bottom of your stomach. “I think maybe it’s better if I stop staying in your room.” He doesn’t turn around, his words projecting out towards the door, and you feel the biting sting of tears forming in your eyes. You want to speak, but you’re afraid your voice will break and betray you. He is gone before you can even manage a shaky breath.

You do not speak with Treech the next day, silence providing a strain between you, though you spare him a glance upon Hilarius’s return when he announces he will, in fact, be learning to play the guitar. 

Before his departure, the new hire announces that you are all set to return tomorrow, but not prior to engaging in one final festivity, a celebration set to be held at the President’s mansion. Lux nearly squeals with excitement, though the decision seems to breed more questions than answers among others. “They won’t even let you come in here without a security detail, and now we’re invited to a ball?” Teff demands, brow furrowed in concern. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“This is all part of the larger plan in reconstructing your image as victors. We want the people of the Capitol to regard you as favorites. That starts with getting you in the same rooms with them.”

“This is gonna be fucking miserable,” mutters Treech, and you cannot help but agree. You can hardly imagine a world where, upon being faced with you, the Capitol citizens can manage anything other than sheer horror. Still, if some party is all that’s standing between you and returning home, you’ll find a way to get through it, even if you have to grit your teeth and bite your tongue until it bleeds.

Your stylists arrive hot on the tail of Hilarius’s departure, and by 9:00 pm, you are all ready to depart. You find yourself standing by Mags in the center of the suite’s common space as you wait for the cars meant to transport the lot of you to arrive, and upon noting a fallen eyelash on her cheek, you reach out on instinct before stopping yourself and clearing your throat.

“Sorry, it’s just you have an eyelash,” you start, indicating its location with an outstretched finger. Her eyebrows lift and she quickly moves to dust off her cheek, but to no avail.

“Here, let me.” You reach out once more, this time making contact with her skin and brushing it from her face.

“It’s good luck, you know. They say you’re supposed to put it on your knuckle and then blow it off and make a wish,” you smile, offering it back. 

“Thanks, but I don’t think any of my wishes have a chance of coming true.” You nod, quiet understanding passing over your face before moving the piece of her to your own knuckle.

“Well then, I’ll wish for both of us that tonight goes decently well.” You shut your eyes tight and huff the eyelash out into the room.

“You’re not supposed to say it out loud.” And there is the ghost of a smile on her face at your mistake.

“What are the chances it comes true anyway?”

That was two hours ago, and as it turns out, the answer is zero to none. In fact, so far, the night had proved to be a disaster. No self-respecting Capitol citizen wanted to be seen talking to someone from the Districts, and so, as expected, no one spoke with you at all. Picking at the abundance of food lining the tables that fill the garden had only earned you several hard stares, and there came a point where even talking to Teff felt frustrating under the weight of so many watchful eyes, and so, about thirty minutes ago, you had pressed yourself into a corner, brimming with the hope that you might get lucky and simply disappear. 

At present, your gaze is fixed on Treech, locked in conversation with a woman you recognize as his mentor from the 10th Hunger Games. She is a pretty girl; hair twisted back and away from her face and a visage like a cherub’s. Not that you really take notice. Not that you’re jealous or anything.

“May I have this dance?” Your thoughts are interrupted by the sudden presence at your side, and with a jolt, you turn to meet Hilarius Heavensbee, looking slightly more preened than he had several hours ago in your hotel room. You cast another glance in Treech’s direction, though it reveals nothing new. He is still wrapt in his conversation with Vispania and you are still standing in the corner, only not quite so alone. 

“Shouldn’t you be sneering at me with disgust from thirty feet away?” And really, he’s done nothing to deserve it, but you are not exactly in the mood to be extending courtesies, and his offer seems to you more like an attempt to get under your skin than anything else.

“Well, I would, but then you’d be stuck standing in this corner, and I cannot think of a worse way to waste a perfectly beautiful dress.” You only snort in response, but the words seem genuine enough, and he extends you a careful hand, which, after several moments of consideration, you take. He leads you with ease, you note, as you settle into the pattern of his practiced steps, and you begin to relax in spite of your newfound position thrusting you into the limelight. Your eyes flit back to Treech, who, having noted your presence on the dance floor, appears distracted from his conversation with his former mentor, expression unreadable.

“How’s your night been so far?” Hilarius asks low and quiet in your ear. This conversation is just for you, meaning your biting tone from before feels at liberty to return.

“Is that a joke?” You scoff, meeting his gaze with a single eyebrow arched in question.

“They’re warming up to you,” he reassures, gathering the implication of your words, and you mull over his comment.

“Yeah, to Lux and Beau. And Octavian, I guess.” This much is true. The three had been the most successful in engaging with the other partygoers, with Lux in particular managing to charm a group of Capitol citizens who have yet to depart from her side. Hilarius only sighs before seeming to make a quick shift in conversation.

“Do you know the real reason I’m dancing with you?”

“Well, given that I saw the ring on your finger the minute you walked up, I’m assuming it's not an attempt to get in my pants,” you chuckle, eyes traveling to the golden band on his left hand. He grants you a smile, though his head shakes in tandem with the action.

“Look around. Look at the way they’re looking at you.” And you do. And he’s right, you note, not even having heard his reason, because the people of the Capitol have stopped glaring, fixing you instead with looks of curiosity and interest. It’s working. 

As the music comes to a stop, he steps back, taking your hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to the skin. You nearly jerk back in surprise.

“Was that really necessary?” 

“No. But you should see the look on your face.” You roll your eyes, casting your head around to gauge the reaction of your audience. The place beside Vispania is empty, and all that’s left of Treech is a retreating form headed for the house.

“I have to go, sorry,” you whisper, barely looking back as you set off after him.

It is not for lack of trying that you come up empty in your search for Treech, doing the rounds of both the gardens and the house for the remainder of the party to no avail. By the time you return to the hotel, it is nearly 3:00 am, and Treech is nowhere to be found. You crash into the soft padding of your duvet, not even bothering to wipe the makeup from your face, and the hem of your dress spills over the side of the bed, brushing against your ankles.

You think of Hilarius, of the dance you’d shared and the seeming sympathy he had lent you in his attempt to garner you even a modicum of support and respect. Your brain picks at his possible motivations: advancement within Snow’s ranks, better support for their sadistic project, a false sense of trust instilled in you as a mentor. Genuine kindness. You keep coming back to that answer, but it feels ignorant to let yourself believe, so you move on to other musings. To Treech.

It is incredible, you think, the amount of time he spends occupying your thoughts. You run your hands down your face, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself as you picture once more his retreating form. Was it something Vispania said? Or maybe, just maybe, was it you? Your dance with Hilarius? The thought feels indulgent, and your mind travels to earlier today. To your almost kiss. To the awkward battle, the two of you seem locked in, both wanting to give in but refusing for the other. Your mind begins to drift over the what-ifs. 

There is a knock at the door. You are on your feet in an instant, though upon reaching it, your hand hovers over the handle. What if it’s not Treech? Or worse, what if it is? What do you even say? That this is doomed. That the two of you are doomed. You twist it open, and he doesn’t even look up as the light of your room floods the hallway, soft curls hanging down in his face and his frame draped against the entrance. 

“I–” You begin.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He does not look up as he speaks, and his voice is strained as it travels in your direction.

“What?”

“When I’m with you, I can’t have you. When I’m ignoring you, you’re all I can think about. This is driving me insane. I feel like I’m insane and like no matter what I do, I’m losing. And I can’t just push it down anymore– Trust me, I tried. And I just knew I had to tell you. Well, technically, I’ve already told you, but this is the last time I’ll say it and–” And he is looking at you now, eyes wild.

“Treech–”

“When I saw you with him tonight, it felt like I was– Like I couldn’t– I’m not good at–” His struggle is palpable, but even as you move to interrupt him, you sense he has more to say.

“Treech,” you begin again.

“Like I was drowning.”

“Treech.” And this time, he doesn’t interrupt you as you move forward, placing a hand on his chest to still his breathing, which has become a bit erratic. He freezes, and for once, every emotion on his face is clear. Fear. Frustration. Adoration. It pools at the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. You are inches apart. Your mind flits to several days ago in the bathroom. To yesterday in your room. To all the nights you’d shared your bed. To that very first trip out to the Capitol, his pinky twisting around yours moments before you stepped out on stage. You take a shaky breath, and he leans in closer. Your noses are brushing. Now is the time to pull back. You can stop this here. But you can’t, not really. You don’t think an oncoming train could pull you away. Your lips brush over his, and his eyes begin to flutter closed before opening once more, fixing you with a questioning regard. 

You only need to nod once, and it is as though time, which had stopped, has started again. And the kiss, which is soft at first, becomes frenzied, his hands pulling desperately at your waist, your own traveling up into his hair. And you pull each other closer, impossibly closer, appearing for a moment to devour one another. Completely undivided. Completely unaware. 

It is early the next morning when the call comes; it sets the phone beside your bed ringing, and in your haze, you reach towards the sound only to discover Treech, who is closer, has released his hold on you to answer it. His voice is heavy with sleep, and you decide later that it was sleep that rendered you too dumb to perceive the danger of allowing him to pick up the phone. The phone in your room. Your room in which he was not meant to reside. But he continues speaking, in short, snippy phrases, before hanging up and turning to press a chaste kiss against your cheek. 

“I’ll be right back.” And again, it should have scared you, his getting up so suddenly to depart, but all you can manage is a nod before you curl back into the warmth of the bed, unplagued by concern.

Snow’s office is much smaller than Treech expected, though that does not prevent the cold from seeping in. He had been quick to dress himself after receiving the call to your room, a mistake he had only recognized after speaking. Not that it would have saved him the grief. It was him Snow was asking for, not you. That thought alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine. How had Snow known to reach him there? He pushes the thought away, toying with his hands nervously while the other man finishes shuffling through a stack of papers before turning to him with a nonchalance that should have almost lowered his guard. It does not. Treech only clenches his hands into two tight fists while waiting for the man in the pressed suit to begin.

“No need to look so nervous. As long as this conversation goes well, you have nothing to worry about.” Snow smiles, face contorting into the expression as though unsure how to proceed.

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here, though at this point, given your numerous indiscretions, I feel it should be a bit obvious.” Treech does not share the expressed sentiment and sets about wracking his brain for anything he might have done.

“Oh, come on, don’t look so confused. Your relationship? With the girl from 10? You didn’t seriously think I was that stupid, did you? And I mean, it was fine, all those sad puppy dog looks and missed glances, but then you had to go and do something about it, didn’t you?” Anything he might have done that didn’t involve you, his single gross oversight. And suddenly, it all falls into place. The call placed to your room, the teasing glint in Snow’s eye.

“How–” He begins.

“You’re in the Capitol, Mr. Elmore, my domain. There isn’t a single place in this city I don’t have eyes on.” And he’s not sure Snow even has to say it. But he does. And the words sink like a stone within his gut.

“Anyways, you’re in luck. It’s a simple fix, really. You cut ties with the girl, and I overlook this mistake.” Cut ties? He has only just gotten you within his grasp, and now he is supposed to, what? Throw you away?

“I can’t–”

“Oh, you can. And you will. I understand you have a family, several sisters? A mother? Not to worry, though. I wouldn’t start with them. You see, Miss. L/N happens to have a family as well. One that is very dear to her, as I’m sure you know. And wouldn’t it be a shame if that little sister of hers was reaped for next year's Games? A tragedy, I assure you, though it would make good press.” There it is. A threat strong enough to stop him in his tracks. A promise that his actions would result before all else in consequences for you and you alone.

“So what? I just stop talking to her? What if she won’t leave me alone?” It occurs to him that try as he might, it isn’t exactly in your nature to just let things go. 

“Well, then you make her. Frankly, that’s not my concern. Just make it happen.” And just like that, you are gone. No longer within reach. No longer within reason.

“You can go now.” And Treech is nearly at the door before he speaks again.

“But Mr. Elmore? We’ll be in contact. See, there are a few other things I’d like to run by you at some point, and now that we’ve gotten to know one another on this personal level, I feel I can trust you to make the right decisions.” Treech’s gut twists at the dismissal, but he says nothing, thinking only of you. Of what he is going to say. Do. How he is going to push you away with all his unspoken confessions pressing at the backs of his teeth. He makes it to the end of the hall before throwing up.

[realcube]

˖°.𓆩♡𓆪 .°˖ TROPE GENERATOR for @abbeevee

𓆩♡𓆪 part of my lovers level — 3k follower event

𓆩♡𓆪 chosen character: asahi azumane

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ YOUR TROPE IS...

FLORIST AU!

it has been relatively quiet in your store today, as to be expected when there is heavy rain pelting down outside, drenching anyone that dares to leave their home in a matter of seconds.

you sigh, getting ready to close up shop early for today. that is, until a massive figure comes stumbling in. wearing a beige trench coat with a baggy hood thrown over their head. though the material appears waterproof , it still seems to have soaked through, and your suspicion is confirmed when the tall individual finally tossed the hood off with a deep sigh, to reveal a handsome man with glasses that are covered with droplets and long brown hair that's dripping with water.

in fact, all of him is dripping with water.

when he realises this, he backs up so he is standing as close to the exit as possible, in fear of making a mess in the middle of your shop floor. "ah, i'm so sorry, excuse me." he pants, as though he has just finished running a marathon. "sorry for the mess."

you shrug, silently amused by how pleasantly shy this incredibly tall and intimidating-looking man is. "it's no problem," you hum with a slight tilt of your head, "i was just about to clean up anyway."

when he hears this, his staggered breaths hitch and he raises his eyerbrows, "oh, i'm sorry! i didn't realise you were about to close." he apologises once more, while holding onto the handle for the door, "i can go if you want and come back another time?" as he says that, he is already turning to leave.

"wait!" you call out after him, and once you've got his attention andhe freezes in his tracks, you beam, "we're open until six so i'm happy to serve you right now."

he slowly turns around, "really? are you sure it's not an issue?"

"of course; would i be offering if it was?"

that's pretty solid logic. asahi gently bows his head to you and smiles, "thank you so much; you're a life-saver."

"i'm just doing my job." you giggle at how serious this guy is being, as you walk behind the counter, "so, how can i help?"

"i'm going to visit my family soon, and i would like to order a bouquet to give to them."

you nod, picking up your notepad to jot down the specifications, "what size of bouquet? and which flowers would you like?"

"ten inches and uhm," he furrows his brows in thought, "my mother likes roses." he says in such an intonation that it it is as though he is the one asking the question.

"do you think she'd like this?" you slip out a pink rose from a nearby bouquet and offer it to him. when he takes it from you, his hand brushes your own, causing you both to awkwardly avert eyes for a moment.

he sniffs it and inspects the leaves; the way the various shades and pigments complement each other, then he nods, "this is perfect." he states while giving you the rose back, and you slot it back in the bouquet it belonged to.

"great. i will build a bouquet surrounding the pink roses and it'll be ready for collection tomorrow." you explain while writing down the details on your notepad so you could provide him a receipt, but as you are doing that, you notice he slides a soggy scrap of paper along the counter towards you. upon inspection, you realise it's his phone number.

a heat rises to your cheeks at his forwardness. happily, you take the paper and stuff it into you pocket, "thank you.. but i didn't even get your name."

he raises his eyebrows, "oh, asahi azumane."

"sweet! my name's abby." your lips curl into a cheesy little grin, as you rip of the information you had written down for him, "here you go! please come back tomorrow at one. the bouquet should be ready then."

asahi tilts his head, slight puzzled by the arrangement, "i thought you would ca—"

that's when it strikes him. he assumed that you would call or text him sometime tomorrow when the bouquet was ready, which is why he gave you his number. he didn't realise you'd give him an alloted time. so when he gave you his number, you must think he's hitting on you.

which he doesn't nessecarily take issue with because he undoubtably thinks your beautiful, but he was planning on doing what he usually does when he sees beautiful women: nothing. or more specifically, being a nervous wreck.

but somehow he has successfully given you his number, by accident.

he inhaled sharply as though there was a shortage of hair and pressed his lips together in a fine lip, snatching the receipt and darting out of the shop and back into the pouring rain, "okay, thank you, bye!"

as he rushed out, he wasn't sure how to feel that he magically made a move on the cute flortist, unbeknownst to him. but he was certainly relieved. at least mother nature was looking out for him, even after she ruined his favourite jacket.

for @abbeevee: i was very excited to see you request asahi bc he is sooo underrated 😖 i hoped u liked this thooo

[doctormage]

ok I have my veilguard thoughts. I put both things I liked and didn’t like here. it’s not a complete list and I reserve the right to add more as I think of them. godspeed

narrative thoughts

shouldn’t have been surprised but was genuinely floored by how racist they were about the qunari. my god.

like I think it might be worse than inquisition. they literally distorted their voices and hid all their faces. deeply insane

also very disappointed that the culture with the most potentially interesting approach to gender (the qun) was just pigeonholed into being like all the others’. esp bc the trans companion was literally qunari. what happened to roles in the qun being their genders, like….

and on the note of racism/orientalism, what the actual fuck did they dress Isabela in. why are all the lords of fortune armors like that. gun to my head I could not have predicted this

almost no reference to the long standing conflict and prejudice bw tevinter and the qunari. and almost no reference (outside codex entries) to Actual Fucking Slavery in tevinter. all very bizarre

I think a lot of shit got ignored because they were trying to make the game as marketable as possible to players new to the franchise. which I logically understand but hate in practice, bc how are you gonna decide this game is “character driven” and then make almost every character from the previous games, including our choices as the player characters, irrelevant

I mention this in the immersion section but it’s relevant here too. all the stuff that got left behind or unmentioned made the world feel small to me. the world building and lore are, imo, important and load-bearing components of this franchise. I’m still thinking on how they could’ve done it differently, or what missing pieces were most crucial, but for now I’ll leave it at that

appreciated that characters’ feelings of anger and injustice (like Harding about the titans or Neve if you didn’t save Minrathous) and/or weirdness and guilt (like Bellara and Davrin about the evanuris) were respected and discussed. I won’t say everything was perfectly handled but it’s miles away from the shit we’ve seen in previous games

I’d been afraid they were gonna completely rehabilitate solas as a mostly good guy and I’m glad he was still shitty in a lot of ways LMAO

I’m still mulling over his ~penance~ of holding up the veil w his life force or whatever but I do appreciate that they weren’t just like “ok the evanuris are gone and the veil can stay up and everything’s fine now” about it

wait brain blast this goes PERFECTLY W MY SOLAS/ATLAS PARALLELS (1, 2) ACTUALLY HELLO!!! HELLO

gameplay thoughts

wasn’t in love w the combat system but I didn’t dislike it as much as I thought I would. I felt very limited by the amount of abilities I could have usable at a time though

enjoyed that both play styles for a mage (staff vs orb+knife) had viable ranged and melee components. also the orb and knife combo was just cool in general

I like the companion-specific abilities instead of just class-specific, makes them feel more important as a person than just a function

wish I could actually switch to the other companions tho. wouldn’t really do anything but still wish I could lol

that said I do like the very specific ability branches for the companions too bc it makes my life easier lmao

as mentioned previously, I miss armor crafting terribly 🤧 feel like pure shite just want her back xx. anyway. I wore the exact same armor literally the entire game and just kept upgrading it

didn’t love the da2 style “you can’t put your companions in just ANY armor” thing but didn’t hate it either. I appreciate the dedication to the vibe

the hero of the veilguard armors everyone got were really cool (tho I didn’t love bellara’s. sorry my love xoxo) and I’m interested to see what they look like if you pick other choices for their personal quests

unsurprisingly I wish there’d been more stuff to loot and collect out in the world but that’s just who I am. Picks Every Single Elfroot In The Hinterlands Gang rise up

moving around was kind of annoying but I think again that’s just personal preference. plus I’m a fog of war enjoyer (satisfying to clear a whole map of it yk) so do with that what you will

the way the maps were set up isn’t badly but it did kind of discourage me from exploring the way I did in dai, sort of how exploring felt like a huge bitch to me in da2. so it would’ve been nice to have more incentive to explore other than like, a rarity upgrade for a weapon I never use from a chest that took me 15 minutes to get to lol

already said this but I’ll say it again: bring back 4 person parties I miss my friends

really enjoyed how the banter was place based and REALLY really enjoyed how they would be like “what was I saying?” and repeat it if banter was interrupted by combat or something

no fancy party quest or level!!! v disappointing. we had so many options. we even had 2 parties in the game and they were both lame :(

very much wish they’d made it clear that completing certain main quests will lock you out of others. I only missed one companion side quest bc of this but it haunts me

honestly. extremely unpopular opinion but I never minded all the dumb little fetch quests in DAI lmao. I love you quarries I love you logging stands I love you astrariums. I don’t love you ocularums but that’s bc you’re made of tranquil skulls. fucked up

immersion thoughts

way, WAY fucking better at taking your character’s background into account regarding dialog (both in conversations and in cutscenes) thank god

it felt…..small? I wasn’t expecting it to be set up like inquisition with a bunch of big open maps per area, but it felt a little stretched thin. might just be me though

this also sort of ties in w the stuff in the narrative thoughts, about how a lot of historical conflicts and issues (including SLAVERY!!!) were barely touched on at all. the intranational problems add depth to these places as much as the international ones

(btw isn’t the “black divine” supposed to be kind of a conspiracy theory??? is it not meant to be heretical and shit?? that tevinter has their own secret divine and they don’t respect the authority of the southern chantry??? this was not addressed at ALL?????)

some of the areas felt very removed from like, the rest of the country they were in, if that makes sense. eg, the rivain map was weirdly isolated to me and I’m like. where do people live. lmao

the gender stuff is. weirdly handled. as excited as I was to have the opportunity to play as a nb rook and to have a canon nb companion, it was extremely immersion breaking to hear them all say “non binary.” there are a trillion ways to go about this without making it feel like a weird anachronistic DEI seminar

could not fucking tell you how long the events of the game take. ik this isn’t a huge deal to everyone but it is to ME lol

most decisions felt like it made sense that rook was the one making them. or at the very least, it made sense in context and wasn’t just like “hey Cole, you should be more human/spirit.” for example I liked how the way you talked Harding down is what solidifies her narrative one way or the other; we’re not straight up telling her what to do

loved the companions’ book club and notes and conversations. legitimately so endeared by it all. I wish what conflict there was had felt more serious so that the resolution felt earned, but all in all I really enjoyed their dynamics

the golden/black city being arlathan is just. not fucking discussed after we discover that!!! like we all just decide not to completely disprove andrastianism and then go on our merry fuckin way I guess!!!

other thoughts

Solas doesn’t like raisins 🫶

I fucked hard with the solas and felassan memories, and the various notes from felassan you could find

I was never a huge fan of the “ancient elves were spirits that took physical form” theory (though not for any particular reason) so it makes me sad to know my tweenage solas musings are decidedly debunked 😔

mythal fragment stuff was weird. wasn’t a fan

what happened to solas’s elf army. lmao

also what happened to the foci/orbs. aren’t those titan hearts or something. didn’t we discover this in trespasser

where is solas going once he binds himself to the veil??? the same place he put the evanuris? couldn’t he just…..make it different lmao like he created it. I get being all martyr-y and masochistic abt it to atone for his mistakes or whatever but if he’s bringing lavellan can’t he make it suck less?? 😭

feels like we got a LOT of old questions answered (yay!!!) and not a lot of new questions to think about (sad)

THE MUSIC WAS LACKING IM SORRY. I AM STUNNED THAT HANS AND LORNE DID ME LIKE THIS BUT YOU KNOW WHO WOULDNT HAVE DONE ME LIKE THAT IS MR TREVOR FUCKING MORRIS

major choices

dalish veil jumper elf mage rook

romanced bellara 🩵

saved treviso, which hardened neve and blighted minrathous

lucanis spared illario (just to see what would happen tbh. the answer is basically nothing)

gave the griffons to the dalish

softened(?) harding? idk I picked the “remember who you are” dialog that got her the child of the stone relationship title thing

taash embraced rivaini culture

emmrich revived manfred

bellara saved the archive

made a deal w the threads

davrin ultimate sacrifice :( I didn’t know :(

neve kidnapped by elgar’nan :(

redeemed and saved solas. happily ever after w my lavellan as god intended. sorry

idr where I put everyone to help w factions while fighting elgar’nan but everyone survived the final battle (except davrin obv who died before. RIP my absolute king im so so fucking sorry)

[capseycartwright]

can you post a sneak peak of the set it up au for wip Wednesday 👀

seeing as u asked so nicely. yes of course.

Once the working day was over, and most people had cleared out of the building, leaving the security staff behind, their corporate tower became a bit of a playground. Angus liked Buck enough to sneak him a keycard that made the other floors accessible, and Buck liked to take advantage when Bobby was in one of his late-night meetings.

Corporate America ran on gossip, and you always got the good gossip at nighttime.

“I didn’t think you were allowed on the other floors.”

Buck grinned at Eddie. The other man was sitting at his desk, a tired expression on his face as he blinked at the bright screen, the rest of the office in darkness. “You’re not,” he hummed. “But Angus likes me.”

“Coming to infiltrate and get some magazine related secrets to take back to Bobby?”

“Bobby doesn’t value my opinions unless they’re about his dry cleaning,” Buck said wryly. “He wouldn’t believe me even if I tried to say I found something out.”

“Glad we’re working for essentially the same person,” Eddie made a face. “I tried to suggest a different restaurant for lunch, and Athena basically told me to know my place.”

“Don’t mess with a woman and her overpriced Sweetgreen salad, eh?” Buck leaned against Eddie’s desk. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Eddie sounded pained. “It’s been – fine.”

“That looked like it physically hurt to say.”

Eddie was quiet for a second. “It’s – man, it’s awful. I feel like I live here now. She’s so – she’s so demanding. I made her coffee wrong on the first day and she screamed at me for a half an hour. I have never met someone so like – insufferably angry.”

“That’s because you haven’t met Bobby Nash yet,” Buck countered. “They’re uh – characters. Right?”

“That’s generous of you,” Eddie sighed. “I was going to say they’re awful people. Like – it’s eight o’clock at night. Is there any logical reason any of us should still be here? Do they not have like – families, partners to go home to?”

“I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there,” Buck glanced toward Athena’s office. “Bobby doesn’t have a family – not one he talks about, at least.”

“Athena is divorced,” Eddie whispered conspiratorially. “I know she’s got kids, but I think they’re older – in college.”

“So, there we have it – no one to go home to, so they’re happy to stay sitting in their fancy glass offices and argue with people about magazines,” Buck sighed. “I mean – I can’t judge.”

“No one to go home to either?” Eddie asked, looking immediately embarrassed. “Sorry – that’s a really personal question.”

“There was,” Buck interjected, saving Eddie from having to apologise. “But we broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” Buck shrugged. The Tommy of it all was – well, it wasn’t the most exciting story to tell. He’d kissed a hot pilot, speedrun through a bisexual awakening, fell into a relationship that didn’t fit quite right, and broke up with Tommy when he realised the older man hadn’t shared the same vision for life that Buck did. It was hardly the stuff of romance novels. “I broke up with him.”

Eddie grinned. “Then I imagine he’s sorry.”

[sillygoose1777]

Chapter 2: First Night Home

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 2835

Trigger Warnings/tags : mentions of abuse, whumpees kept as pets, multiple whumpees, carewhumper, og characters, supernatural/nonhuman whumpees, supernatural/nonhuman whumpers, mind reading whumpee, guard dog whumpee, muzzled whumpee, dehumanization (from whumpers), drugged whumpee, non con stripping, unconscious whumpee, og ocs, og world, og story, mentions of past abuse, mentions of medical whump, neglectful carewhumper, attention seeking whumpee, defiant (kind of) whumpee, talkative whumpee, quiet whumpee, possessive whumper (kind of), clingy whumpee, rich whumper

Other notes: Btw Kori (the lynx) is about the size of a toddler. Valerian LOVEs Zenith and often needs a lot of attention from him. Hudson is a tursian (og species), Valerian is a harpy, Kori is a lynx (og species), and Zenith is a dragon breed. 

Hudson watched as Zenith went inside the house to finish his phone call. He was still holding the lynx in his arms, not knowing if he should put it down or not. It was a tiny thing, curled up in the crook of his arm with its blanket. He waited until the workers had finished unloading the other pets into Zenith's garage before he took his leave. As soon as he shut the front door behind him, Valerian jumped up from the couch over to him. 

“Hudson! It took you long enough, I wish I could have gone with you guys. Did Zenith find anything? He was on a call just now and completely ignored me. Couldn’t even give me a spare glance,” Valerian rambled on, huffing annoyingly. “What are you holding?” Hudson hesitated before shifting the lynx in his arms to show Valerian. 

“Is that a fox?” Valerian asked, coming close to inspect it. 

“It’s a lynx,” Hudson corrected.

“Close enough.” Valerian reached out and brushed the lynx’s fur out of its face. Hudson tensed slightly but didn’t nothing to stop Valerian. 

“Why are you bringing it inside? Doesn’t Zenith normally keep them in the garage?” Valerian asked.

“It’s Zenith’s new pet.”

“Like us?”

“Like us,” Hudson confirmed. 

Valerian looked down at the lynx again. “Are we not enough?” he whispered. Hudson didn’t answer. Not that he thought they weren’t, but because he wasn’t the one to make the judgment. 

“I’m going to our room,” Hudson said after a moment. 

“What about the lynx?” Valerian asked.

“What about it?” 

“Doesn’t Zenith want to see it or something?” 

“Zenith never took it from me,” Hudson stated, hoping that was enough to keep from getting in trouble with Zenith. Zenith rarely argued against his logic. 

Hudson left the front room and walked deeper into the house. Valerian hesitated for a moment before following closely behind. Hudson led the way in silence while Valerian hummed to himself, letting his wings drag on the floor. When they reached their bedroom, Hudson made a beeline for the beds. He gently laid the lynx on the bed before building a little blanket dome around it. Valerian had takening to jumping up on one of the hanging beds high up that Zenith had installed for Valerian’s benefit. He was watching Hudson work with interest, but not enough to help. 

Once Hudson had finished with building the little fort, he hesitantly left to go look at the bookshelves. Zenith had allowed him to keep a small library, constantly rotating books out for new ones for Hudson to enjoy. There was a small bookshelf where he kept his favorites. He remembered seeing a book about the different species types there were. He found the book and skimmed through the pages. He found the chapter he was looking for and made his way back to the lynx. He sat down on the floor and began reading. 

After a couple of hours, Valerian came down from his bed to join Hudson on the floor. Hudson didn’t look from his book right away, ignoring Valerian. It wasn’t until Valerian started waving his hand in front of Hudson’s face where he looked up, albeit with a glare. 

“What are you reading about?” Valerian asked.

“About lynxes,” Hudson deadpanned, flipping the page. 

Valerian sat down on the floor, resting his head on Hudson’s shoulder. Hudson gave him a sideways glance but otherwise didn’t move. 

“Anything interesting?” Valerian asked.

Hudson sighed and halfway closed his book. “Well, at the market the lynx was being used to create swords. It was able to hold burning red metal without a single burn, and I wanted to know why. It turns out their species is immune to fire, it’s what fuels their mana. The sunlight as well.” 

“Mana? Like what allows us to use our magic?”

“Yes. Everyone relies on mana, you, me, Zenith, everyone. It’s how we are able to use magic. Everyone pulls from some sort of energy source, usually a core element like the sun or the earth.”

“I already knew a lot of that,” Valerian grumbled. Hudson rolled his eyes and opened his book again to read. “But besides that, anything else?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Like?” Valerian dragged out the word with annoyance. 

“Like where they’re from and the type of civilization they normally live in,” Hudson mimicked in Valerian’s tone. Valerian huffed with annoyance and seemed to be content with Hudson’s answers. He thought that he might be able to read in silence again. Valerian turned his body where he was still leaning on Hudson but was looking back at the lynx. 

“I feel kind of bad for it,” he said softly. 

Hudson fully gave up on reading and set the book down to look at the lynx with Valerian. “So do I,” he whispered like it was an admit of defeat. 

“I thought they were supposed to be extinct,” Valerian said.

“Why would you think that?” Hudson looked at Valerian. Valerian didn’t meet his eye. 

“I don’t know. I heard Zenith and his business partners talking about it one time. They were saying how some research team made a discovery of ancient history from the lynxes. Said it was a big advancement or something because they couldn’t ask the species themselves.”

Hudson sat back for a moment, trying to remember if he was there for a conversation like that. He couldn’t remember any instance like it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen. He decided to take Valerian’s word for it. 

“If that’s what the world believes and it turns out it's not true, that makes this lynx a one of a kind. Or he is the key to what the researchers need to find the rest of them. Either way that makes it very valuable.” 

“How valuable?” 

“Priceless. Enough to start wars over.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the afternoon, staring at the lynx. Trying to comprehend its importance with its seemingly helplessness. 

…

Zenith finally got off his phone call with a potential buyer. It was something that could have been easily handled by his employees, but the man on the other end of the line only wanted to speak to him. No matter, the phone call was over now and Zenith could get back to his earlier tasks. He looked out his window and saw that the sun was beginning to set. He got up from his desk and left his office. 

He had three things on his list tonight. 1, to make sure the pets from earlier had been properly situated and brought to their correct rooms. 2, to have dinner with his personal pets and update them on tomorrow's plan. And lastly, 3, to get the lynx prepared to see the medic tomorrow. 

Zenith made his way down to the basement, where he normally kept the other pets in his house. His basement was split into three sections, a wine cellar, a supply room for his servants, and the rooms for his other pets, which he called the domestic. He had the domestic remodeled a few years ago so that a hallway cut down the middle with four rooms on each side, making it 8 in total. All of the pets would have their own room, never giving them the opportunity to be completely alone with each other. A bed and bathroom were provided, and they were fed twice a day. Sometimes he would let the pets move in with their trainers, and other times he kept them in his basement until they were ready to be sold.  

He walked down the pristine white hallway and looked through each door's window to make sure there was a pet inside. He would then check the corresponding electronic chart next to the door, making sure it matched up. Once all 8 rooms were checked, Zenith gave the go ahead to his servants to have them fed. From there, the servants would take up the routine, only notifying Zenith if the pets were acting unusual. 

Zenith left the domestic to go back to the ground floor, making a mental reminder to jot down all the trainers he needed to contact in the morning. He arrived at the edge of the kitchen to find a cart of food, like there always was, ready for him. He lifted the metal domes covering the plates to make sure it had everything they were supposed to. A greener diet for Valerian to keep up his appearances, and a more protein based diet for Hudson to build up strength. He set the domes back down and pulled the cart behind him to his pet’s room. 

He gently knocked on their door before entering with the cart behind them. The room was one of the biggest in the house, almost the same size as one of his ballrooms. He had many walls knocked out in this room to make sure it was big enough. On one side were his pets beds and their own little areas for their hobbies. On the other was a dining area, a hallway that led to a large bathroom, and a small library. Behind the dining table were large arching windows that lead out to a balcony, though he always kept those doors locked. And above it all was a mini jungle gym that had anything from hanging beds to enrichment toys like stings and perches, all installed for Valerian. Even though it was meant for a harpy, he made it accessible for anyone to get up, though it would take a lot more effort. 

His two pets looked up from where they were sitting on the floor of the beds. Valerian immediately got up and rushed over to Zenith, wanting his attention. He was happy to provide, giving Valerian a very welcoming hug. When he pulled back, Valerian was already talking.

“--your meeting? Did it go well? It seemed really long for just a normal phone call. Me and Hudson were waiting here for you the whole time. Mostly talking about lynxes and stuff. Oh! The lynx you got is so cute!! He’s all curled up in a little ball with his tail tucked, you should come see.”

Valerian was sprinting back to where Hudson was, who hadn’t moved once from his spot. Zenith left the food cart behind to join them, slightly curious on how the lynx was doing. He knew that it would be out till the morning, that's what the technician said. Hudson was watching him warily as Valerian continued to ramble on about lynxes. Behind where Hudson was sitting on the floor, up on the bed was the lynx curled up like Valerian had described. It was still holding its star blanket close, which reminded Zenith that he needed it washed. 

“It’s been out all day,” Hudson informed. 

“I know, I had a technician give it a sedative that’ll last till morning.”

“When are you going to take it to the medic? It looks like it really needs it,” Valerian asked, interrupting their conversation.  

“That’s what I was here to talk about. Let’s discuss it over dinner,” Zenith said. 

As Zenith turned his back he heard Hudson getting up while Valerian rushed ahead of them. Valerian had already begun setting the table by the time Zenith and Hudson joined him. Once the table was set and they had all taken their seats, Zenith began talking. 

“As I'm sure the two of you know, I will be taking the lynx to the medics tomorrow as per my normal routine. That will also mean that both of you will be going as well.”

Hudson grimaced while Valerian groaned. It was common knowledge that none of them liked going to the medics, despite it usually being necessary. 

“I know neither of you like going but not only would it be convenient to do it now, it would also replace the appointment you have a couple months from now. In short, if you go now, you won’t have to go for another routine check up for about 6 months.” 

Valerian still picked at his food like it had suddenly become unappetizing by the statement Zenith had said, which he figured it had. Zenith let the room sit in silence for a moment, letting his words sink in. 

“Do we have to watch the lynx get examined?” Hudson was the first to break the silence with his question. 

“No. I figure its appointment will run significantly longer than the both of yours. When you are finished, I’ll take you somewhere while we wait for the medics to finish up with the lynx. Does that sound fair?”

They both nodded reluctantly, not daring to fight against Zenith’s word. They finished their dinner quietly with minor small talk here and there. As Zenith was loading the food cart with their dishes, he could tell his pets were waiting on him. Normally after dinner he would spend time with them. Usually he would play chess with Hudson while Valerian watched, most often cuddling against him. But tonight he would have to put that off till later in the night, maybe even tomorrow if he had too. 

“Are you staying tonight?” Valerian asked, his eyes making it obvious that he was hoping that Zenith would. 

“I don’t think so. I have to get the lynx prepared for the medics and it’ll be well past your bedtime by then.”

He watched as Valerian’s heart sank, his wings even changing a slightly different color to match his disappointment. Zenith felt pity for him but stood firm by his statement, not allowing a bird to manipulate him. He walked past his pets and over to where the lynx was sleeping. He scooped it into his arms like a kid that needed to be carried inside from falling asleep inside the car. He made sure to grab its blanket. Its head lolled with dead weight and he held it against his shoulder. The lynx’s muzzle pressed against his shoulder and he tried to remember if the technician was supposed to take it off or not. 

He walked back to his other pets, and ruffled Valerian’s hair. He gave him a hug before letting go and turning to Hudson. He gave him a nod, respecting his wishes not to be touched. Then he left his pets in their room. He waved to a nearby servant and told them to grab the food cart he had left behind, then continued to walk on. Once he made it to his own room, he shut the door behind him and gently laid the lynx on the bed. He stepped back out into the hall with the lynx’s blanket and hailed down another servant.

“I want this to be washed and placed on my desk before I leave for the medics tomorrow.”

The servant nodded and whisked away with the blanket. Zenith then stepped back inside of his room and began getting ready for bed. He took a shower and changed into different clothes. He had grabbed another blanket while he was in the closet getting dressed, and brought it with him for the lynx to have. He examined the lynx’s clothes and decided they were too dirty to stay. He stripped the lynx and then covered it in the blanket to make sure it could stay warm. He took the rags that had been mistakenly called clothes, and threw them away without any expectation of needing them again. 

He made a mental note to go shopping with Hudson and Valerian while they waited on the lynx. He was slowly compiling a list of things he would need, which he knew would only grow after the medic would give him some recommendations. Zenith took the bundle of blanket and lynx off of the bed and carried it to the kennel that was sitting not very far from his bed. While he wanted to leave the lynx on his bed, the lynx was not yet trained and there was no saying what it would do. So he left the lynx in the cage while he himself slept in a real bed, waiting for the sun to rise and the new day to begin. 

Taglist: (lmk if you want to be added)

@melopomenelamusa @what-if-i-just-did @user-583 @imtheperkiness

[narrators-journal]

Sorry to ask again for more king!leo tatsuya I wanna see more of him giving in slowly with his title until he’s crazy crazy

You wanted Tatsuya to go crazy, and I hope I delivered. If this feels lacking in the insanity, think of it as it simply being an unreliable narrator. I hope it scratches your itch, it was fun to work on lol. Though, at the same time, it was a bit of a challenge bc I haven’t delved into psycho-type characters in a long while, and Tatsuya doesn’t strike me as the type to realize he’s gone off the hinges.

The title of ‘King Leo’ belonged to Sudou. It belonged to the arsonist who had tried to blow him and his friends up multiple times over, tried to frame them as terrorists, and was arguably to blame for the entire catastrophe that had become the tall brunette’s life. That was who King Leo was. That was who the old gas-scented, bloodied and charred coat that Tatsuya wore once more belonged to. Tatsuya, was simply Tatsuya. He was Jun Kurosu’s childhood friend and he didn’t want to be anything else.

He didn’t want to be a wildcard. He didn’t want to be some puppet or toy in Nyarlethotep and Philemon’s petty game. Not like Sudou had been. He just wanted to keep the promise he’d made to Jun in the past and protect him. So, some part of him was...kind of happy to have a second chance to fulfill that promise. Though, of course, the more logical side of the brunette knew how selfish and insane that morbid spark of joy was.

Jun’s finally free of Nyarlethotep’s control, he’s got a mother and father who loves him, he doesn’t need me in this timeline. I should leave him alone, that’d be for the best.Tatsuya thought with the acrid scent of smoke in his lungs, and bubbly floor wax beneath his feet.

Yet, at the same time that the brunette knew there was truth in the thought, his chest ached under its weight. Possibly a worse ache than the one that filled his chest when he thought back to the life he left behind, or when he’d...orchestrated things. Which…at least partially, was why he was in the hallway that burned around him. Some painfully selfish part of him refused to leave Jun’s side, even if the ravenette had a perfect life. Probably because he brainwashed me. When I was playing King Leo for him. He thought, though it didn’t stop him.

His progress was a bit slow due to the wax that clung to his shoes and threatened to melt the rubber in the soles, but he pushed on to climb the smoke-choked stairs to the roof. Which, as he’d expected, oozed out more of the thick, inky clouds and had playful flames that peeked out of the holes of crumbled and cracked material. And, among the crowds of scared children and frazzled teachers, was a familiar ravenette. “Jun,” he called, getting the shorter man’s attention and confusion easily. “Wha- who the hell are you?” He asked, the anxiety and fear in his voice like a dagger into Tatsuya’s heart, but he still smiled. Even as the aerospace museum shook dangerously beneath Tatsuya’s feet. “How do you know me? Have we met?” Jun asked, those dark eyes locked onto Tatsuya, and the tall brunette instantly wanted to kiss him, or hug him at least. But, he refrained. “Um…” I should lie, right? I’m not supposed to be around my friends, they’ll remember the other side and the world will be destroyed.He thought while he admired Jun’s charcoal-dark eyes, But… Before he could weigh the consequences further, he spoke, “Yeah. I’m Tatsuya Suou, remember?”

That was all it took. His name, that was all it took before those beautifully dark pits lit up with melancholy. Adoration, excitement, regret, guilt, Tatsuya could almost see when each memory sank back in. It was like some domino game, all too easy to knock over. As proven when the ravenette’s eyes filled with horror, anger, and agony. “Oh, Tacchi...why-” Jun whispered as his eyes slowly filled with tears before Tatsuya wrapped his arms around him and crushed him into his muscular chest. “Because. I made a promise to protect you, and I’m going to.” He said warmly with his arms locked tightly around the shakey ravenette, “I’m going to stay at your side no matter what, Jo- Jun.” He assured, even though he knew what he’d just done.

[ofmermaidstories]

ok lemme tell you about the dream i had last night, with the end of the world, and bakugou, and his little classmates.

I’m on a beach. It’s overcast; the sea is white and gray and violent. this is the culmination of an earlier part of my dream, but i don’t remember it. all i know is that i’m standing on this beach with my graduating class except my graduating class is made up of BNHA characters and also, everyone else beyond the beach is dead.

the beach is split into two halves; our half, and then this massive, yellow sandstone structure in the middle, built like a fortress, and then the second half of the beach on the other side. The fortress blocks out most of our view of the other half of the beach—Class B, from my hero, are over there, getting ready in the same way we are. i’m worried because we have no way of communicating with them without physically going through the fortress but there’s bigger fish to fry—we’re getting ready to hold of an attack of zombies.

it’s stupid. they play by dream-rules. we just have to hold them off through the night, in the dark, until the morning when the sun makes them useless. but also being by the sea is stupid too, because they can come through the water. we’re basically left open for attack and we just have to do the best we can. no one’s expecting to survive this last wave, i think; everyone’s lost family or friends, we’re literally the last dredges left. it doesn’t matter: the zombies come. through the water, behind us from the dark green embankment. i’m trying to fight them off with small things—screwdrivers, ice picks, whatever is pointy but i’m getting too close to them, one grabs me and i yelp as i try to wrestle a kitchen knife into it’s eye (i win). i stumble away from it when it drops, and there’s a red wheelbarrow with a shovel and i grab it, ready to drive it into the soft decaying gaps of their necks but it’s daybreak and everyone else is cheering—the zombies are gone, we’ve survived. i’m relieved, but now i’m like, oh, fuck, i have to pack for the evacuation.

(i dunno what evacuation, but just bare with me)

but there’s a problem. everyone on our side of the beach is dropping in gratitude, or pushing the bodies out sea, cleaning up and as i’m picking up things around the fortress, the back pathway behind it that leads to the other side and the other half the beach, i realise something: i can’t hear any noises, any sounds of similar celebration, from the other side. the other class.

my stomach drops. the fortress is very tall, and very silent and is like, a warren of hallways and rooms and blind corners. i think, no, surely not—

but Bakugou’s behind me, silent and suspicious. maybe he’s noticed the same thing, idk, idc, but there’s a few others now and we’re paused, on our side of the pathway behind the fortress, when kendo and tetsutetsu shuffle out.

they’re grinning at us. kendo’s wearing tetsutetsu’s jacket. he’s shirtless. it makes it easier to see the gouging in his stomach, the way his innards are spilling out, loose and too few. she’s covered in blood and her mouth is covered in blood and i’m going to be sick, and they lurch at us and it’s Bakugou that incinerates them.

“they’re all gone,” i say in horror. “there’s no way—”

bakugou’s mouth just thins grimly, and eventually our cleanup party extends to taking out the rest of the walking dead that was their year mates.

(the dream starts to trail off here, like the world and the in-dream logic is beginning to crumble. i’m in the fortress, edging around corners, wary of zombies: instead i find a bedroom with a huddle of my old toys on the bed, all sentient and all very mad with me, because i am leaving them behind to evacuate. i don’t know what to say. i’m a little scared of them—why the fuck are they talking?���but also i’m trying to explain to them that i can’t take them, i don’t have the space or luxury to, i can’t fit them and what i need into my bag. Bakugou’s there, still frowning, keeping the floor swept of zombies. as i explain to them they can’t come, he’s trying to clear a space in his bag so i can bring one, or two. but then it’s a matter of choosing who leave behind, and despite how much they freak me out, i feel bad.

we have to leave soon. i wake up and it’s an overcast day.)

[wikifuck]

Keep it fresh!

I have been struggling with a project of mine for ages now, and one of the many ways I have tried keeping it fresh has been this: I wrote a spinoff/fanfiction piece of my own work.

Considering that this is a piece based on a different writing project of mine I find it ironic that the temporary names I ended up giving these characters make it sound like Batman fanfiction.

Dear Tumblr, I call this one Office Work

“Sorry,” Joker said with a bothered voice as he quickly wheeled himself past Bruce as he held the door open.

“Don’t apologize.” Bruce smiled. “It’s no problem."

Joker held his gaze down and continued to the reception area. At least this time he didn’t respond with another apology. Bruce hurried after him.

“Wait.” Joker glanced up in surprise. Bruce came to a halt next to him. “I was thinking about going to the coffee shop down the road on lunch today…” He explained. Joker blinked up at him, perplexed. “Did you want to come with me?” Bruce continued, now a little unsure. To his relief, Joker gave him a quick smile. 

“Maybe… I wasn’t thinking of leaving my office today, but sure.” With that, Joker gave him another quick smile and disappeared off to the elevator banks. Bruce watched in that direction, wondering if he had fucked up. He had thought helping Joker with going to physiotherapy had given him enough brownie points to ask him out, but the bothered look in Joker's eyes still haunted him. Should he have ignored Joker coming to work in a wheelchair again, had he asked too soon? With many questions repeating in his mind, Bruce wandered to his work desk on floor four. His fellow cubical slaves greeted him, some tried to start small talk, but Bruce barely noticed them, deciding to drown his worries in work. 

It was 10 minutes before lunch when he awoke from his work-induced trans. He rubbed his eyes, making charts and numbers float in front of his eyes as he closed them. He tried to get some more work done when a message on his phone caught his eye. 

Joker:

“Sorry, I can’t leave the office right now, a meeting is dragging on. I hope you have fun without me though.”

Bruce sighed. He shot off a quick response.

Bruce:

“np. I can still grab you something, what would you like?”

No answer. Bruce’s logical brain assured him that Joker was still busy in the meeting and couldn’t see the notification, but the louder, emotional side told him that it was just an excuse, obviously Joker had had the time to send the rejection text. Defeated, he thought of just going to the cafeteria in the same building, but the fear of seeing Joker there alone, or worse, with someone else made him go to the coffee shop anyway. The excuse he came up with greeted him as he entered the reception area, Leslie, the receptionist was still with her hands full as usual, probably dealing with some idiot's IT problems that the IT professionals didn’t have time for. She looked eternally grateful as Bruce promised to grab her a coffee and a sandwich on his way.

With that, he made his way to the coffee shop. The scent of fresh brew flowed through him when he stepped into the tastefully decorated shop. Black pipes and dark wood decorated the walls and all the seating and tables were assembled from different recycled materials. Behind the display glass sat everything from muffins to croissant sandwiches to burrito wraps. As he stood in line he started idly scrolling his phone. His subconscious got him to open his texts with Joker. As he scrolled up the messages, a picture he had sent of a muffin with dark and white chocolate chips on top, two weeks ago caught his eye. Joker's response read “Oh wow! I need to try that, it looks amazing!” A lightbulb went off in his head. 

When Bruce got to the front of the line, the clerk greeted him by name.

“Can I get you the usual?” She asked with an upbeat customer service tone.

“Yeah, that, and couple other things.” He smiled back. The cashier packed his things into a to-go bag and soon he was out of the door. He quickly dropped off Leslie’s lunch and then made a beeline for Joker's office.

Praying that Joker was done with his meeting, Bruce knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Joker’s muffled voice called from inside. Bruce opened the door, pondering if Joker had sounded distracted or if he had imagined it. He froze when he saw Joker at his desk, with another man leaning on a file cabinet next to him. Both were sipping on coffee. Joker seemed positively surprised seeing him, that at least as positive.

“Um… I figured I would bring you a muffin and a latte…” Bruce started wearily. “In case you don’t get to the cafeteria on your lunch at all.”

Joker's eyes lit up. “My goodness, you shouldn’t have, thank you.” The string of sentences blended together as they escaped his lips. He thanked Bruse again as he handed the items over the desk.

Bruce finally noticed the orange cups the two had been drinking from were the weak stuff from the cafeteria, the cheapest coffee available. Joker’s expression was like that of a kid on Christmas as he pulled a pretty plastic cup of latte and the muffin out of the brown paper bag with the coffee shop's logo on it. 

He held the muffin in the air. “This looks delicious.”

Bruce smiled coyly. “Yeah, you said you wanted to try one.”

“And here I was planning to get through the day with just coffee!” Joker laughed and looked to the other guy. The stranger forced a lopsided grin onto his lips. Bruce stole a couple of glances in his direction. Had he seemed disappointed by the intrusion? The man pushed off the cabinet and stood. 

“I’m gonna head to my office now, have a good break.” He smiled to Joker and gave Bruce a nod as he passed. The genuine expression made him question if he had imagined everything earlier. 

Bruce’s gaze followed the stranger as he disappeared out the door.

“You did get lunch for yourself too, right?” Joker's voice startled him back to reality.

“Yeah, of course, I always get a latte and a croissant.” 

Joker gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Care to eat with me?” His voice had a hint of insecurity hidden in it. Without thinking, Bruce plopped down on the soft chair and spread his lunch on a free spot on Joker’s desk. 

They shared a couple of bites of each other's lunch and before Bruce knew it, their break had stretched 10 minutes over time.

[gust-jar-simulator]

Been thinking about Wind Waker and pirates, and I have written pirates before. So. Buckle up lads, this is a taste of my original work since I want it on this blog to stare at.

These were also a bit of an experiment with pronoun anarchy. There is an internal logic to the pronoun switches, but just accept the insanity. Goodness knows it can't be more confusing than referring to eleven characters in one scene with he/him. Both characters in this are different flavors of nonbinary.

Source: Original work

Characters: Shénme Outis, Chrysaor the Bloodless

Warnings: Smoking, violence, some suggestive themes

~🚬🩸🚬~

“You still haven’t explained what you’re doing on my ship, Outis,” Chrysaor told her whetstone, eyes on the gleaming edge of the cutlass.

Shénme Outis, grey of hair and young of eye, slipped her pipe from between her teeth with a silvery little hum and blew clouds to the salt-stained air. They’d appeared one morning in the green hour before dawn, sleeping like a cat on the ship’s rail in a nest of their own pipe-smoke, and when told to grab a mop or get off had promptly slipped away to give the deck the scrubbing of the century. Chrysaor still wasn’t sure how. None of the crew ever saw them work- a glimpse of tied-back hair, shoulder muscles working in the shadow of the rigging, but when it was given an order the work got done and they’d be spotted leaning somewhere precarious with their inexhaustible supply of pipeweed.

Chrysaor was satisfied to call it fey magic and leave it alone, and kept an iron dagger under the bed.

“Working,” the pain in her ass smirked around a mouthful of smoke, white mist curling up their cheeks like ghosts. “Am I not satisfactory, captain?”

“I get the distinct impression that if you weren’t I wouldn’t be able to throw you off.” Unimpressed, she turned the cutlass to catch the light, running a thumb over the leather hilt wrap with a critical squint. “Why did you come to my ship, Outis.”

The spill of hair falling over the windowsill shifted, in the corner of her eye, and there was the distant sound of a pipe being tapped out. “You’re very forward for a man in contempt of the law. I scrubbed the figurehead yesterday.”

A sharp snort, and the cutlass went neatly next to a row of other weapons arranged atop the massive desk, adjusted minutely for precision despite the slow rolling of the deck floor. “Do you want praise?”

“No, captain,” and the silk in that voice rubbed up her spine entirely the wrong way, steel posture stiffening further as Shénme’s tone slid across the space between them like sunlight down a blade, “But if you have a need, call me.”

“Excuse me.” Whirling on a booted heel, Chrysaor shot up from her seat to get a better look at the audacity in the other man’s smile, and the quicksilver flick of metal clanged once like a harsh note out of tune.

A dagger clattered to the floor, and Chrysaor stared at the tagalong’s slender little pipe.

Behind it, he wasn’t smiling.

Not quite frowning, however- something blank and strange, the intent tilt of a brow towards an interesting riddle answered incorrectly. “I didn’t mean that, ma’am.”

“Lie.” She always forgot to breathe like a person when focusing through outrage like this, but she’d never forget the sound of that pipe parrying. It’d felt like steel.

“I didn’t mean only that,” and this sounded a little more true. “But I am here because I find you interesting. Find reasons to talk to me, and we may both benefit.”

Chrysaor’s stony lip curled back very minutely. “That sounds like a cad’s wager.”

“What wager isn’t?” The other man slipped down from the windowsill to the deck like a wraith, quiet as sea mist, and gently reached for the window. Chrysaor wasn’t sure when he’d put the pipe away- his hands were empty.

She stepped up to the sill and hung off of the frame to look at him better, and at the polite cock of an ear let the words fall firm as a judge’s hammer. “Don’t style yourself the fanciest puzzle box ever unbroken, it won’t go well for you.”

Shénme’s eyes were laughing, even if his tongue stayed courtly. “What if I don’t need to be broken, Alexander?”

“You’ll notice I’m not a burglar, Harpocrates. I launch twelve pounds of iron into another man’s ship and watch him scream with his dying family.”

“The Bloodletter,” the other murmured in something like agreement. “Well, you go ahead and do just that. I’ll be waiting for some evidence of that enchanting wit, captain, while I check my pockets for that ship and family you’ve so harshly threatened.”

The worst insult was that he even shut the window softly.

><><><

Chrysaor the Bloodless was bleeding.

They took a breath around the bubbling gurgle of the sword in their chest, frozen in crystalline stillness as the clouds moved too slowly, living the moment between the ripple of the sail and its snap in the wind. The ship being boarded, at the end of the day, wasn’t a problem. The rank breath of the privateer at her cheek wasn’t a problem. The royal gunship anchored starboard wasn’t a problem.

That the crew could see her bleeding was a problem, and for all the wrong reasons.

Time sped up again, and the imbecile with the sword didn’t have the chance to be confused before Chrysaor caved his skull in like a soft felt hat.

Fine. Fine then, if that was the way of things- no man nor short-shorn woman would survive this breach. Every single privateer of the navy brig would die, and she- it- would see what remained of the Wyvernhail.

The deck was firmer than stone, and objectives lit across the babel- spines, stomachs, femurs, throats, skulls. A fish swims, and a deer runs.

Chrysaor grabbed the next man by the jaw, and a weapon began killing.

Distantly, he mused over the similarities of washer-women as he flung a soldier over the rail to slap them against the hull like a bloody rag whipped against the washboard, but beyond that he didn’t pay much mind to extraneous things. Meat, bone, sinew. A tendon like sail rigging, ribs collapsing like a rotted crate. Hard, messy, good work, blood the water to his fins, and a ship’s momentum only increases once it catches a sweet wind.

At one point someone grabbed at the sword in her chest, scrabbling for leverage, and she let it slip like a spent prick from the wound with mild disinterest before stepping on his kidneys, silver bubbling down their chest in rivulets.

When all was done, the enemy so much grapefruit pulp against the wood grain and their own ship to boot, Chrysaor turned to the remains of their crew.

Silence, mostly. Wide eyes and trembling hands in a few, backed into the shadow of the cabin and bracing one another. The cook’s face was buried in a gunner’s shoulder, and the navigator didn’t seem entirely present. Chrysaor didn’t look for Shénme.

They curled a hand into the silver stain of their shirt, and ripped it the rest of the way off to drop on the ruddy deck.

“If there is even one among you who cannot handle this,” they stated clear and carrying, “then I will drop him at the nearest port. You are what your gods and mothers made you, and I am the work of the hands that made me.” Like this, in the full sun with skin bared to the ripping wind, the gold tinge to his shoulders was not summer’s kiss. The edges of the wound in his sternum bent and buckled like punched tin. “Am I understood?”

There was the shuddering breath of someone in the group trying not to cry, and the cold laugh of the wind in the rigging.

They’d clearly spent too long among men, with this urge to bite their lip. Damn it all. Not again.

Not again, because a voice like good silk snagged them from the moment, head whipping up in a predator’s startle to see the man leaning both elbows on the rail of the forecastle, pipe held loosely in hand with a tasteful drop of blood on his cheek like an afterthought. His head tilted, pipe twirling an idle little gesture at Chrysaor’s chest. “Don’t you need that tended to, sir?”

It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.

Chrysaor stared up at him for a full second, which by their standard was full gaping. “Yes, but not before I know my crew won’t try to kill me.”

“Sir we’d never!”

That spurred movement, voices, the bustle of business and- concern? Somehow? But despite the distance it was somehow Shénme who reached his side first, Shénme who took his shoulder, Shénme who they told of the welding kit in their quarters as it pried them away from the hold of the crowd.

And it was Shénme who, when they turned to look and caught him wiping the blood from his own cheek to lick, met their gaze evenly and sucked it neatly from his finger like spare salt.

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Lab Rats

Word Count: 555 (oneshot)

[AO3]

Genre: Horror/Science Fiction

Characters: Hawks, Dabi/Todoroki Touya

Summary: Dr. Enji Todoroki's laboratory is a place of no hope and no escape. Two of his youngest experiments are determined to make their own.

Warnings for child abuse and body horror. Written for the @phoenixwingszine

~0~

He’s already forgotten how fresh air tastes.

Hawks runs his dry tongue around his mouth. Two days without food or water makes it pointless. Logically, he knows that something will have to come soon — if they wanted him dead, he would be — but his heart still beats frantically, every cell in his body desperate for sustenance. 

If he could, he would still be at the door of the holding cell, banging his fists bruised and bloody, screaming and begging and even apologizing. They were watching, of course, the adults are always watching. But nobody listens. Now he’s on the floor, too weak to move.

Blue light radiates from every wall: to keep them calm, Touya once explained. Touya used to tell him so many things, from facts to stories. He wasn’t supposed to talk to his father’s subjects, but then Touya did a lot he wasn’t supposed to do.

He’s too exhausted to be angry anymore. All that blue does now is wash out how green the trees were, how hot the sunlight was on his face, how the warm wind had caught him under the wings and lifted him high, so high he forgot the pain that binds these wings to his back...

Touya had been running on the ground, urging him on, with the biggest grin on his face. Everything had been perfect.

And then—

The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Hawks’ head jerks up, his mouth forming a silent plea: water?!

But the two scientists, clad in the usual blue hazmat suits and full face masks, aren’t carrying dishes. Instead, between them, they’re carrying — dragging —

Hawks’ breath catches. 

“T...Touya!”

The name bursts out of him in a raw, barely intelligible cry. One of the scientists snorts as they throw the other boy down on the floor next to Hawks.

“He won’t answer to that anymore if he knows what’s good for him. One-Eighty-Four, meet Two-Ninety.”

Their masks’ voice modulators make the other one sound exactly the same. “Doctor says he doesn’t deserve the name Todoroki anymore. He’ll help with his old man’s research one way or another.”

Sharp, static chuckles emanate from their masks as they leave again, the door slamming shut behind them. Touya — Touya, he’ll always call him Touya, Hawks won’t take away the name of the boy who gave him his — fell onto his face, and hasn’t moved. Hawks has to look very closely to see that he’s still breathing. 

“T-Touya? Are...a-are you...?” 

Hawks manages to turn him over, and the sight of his face is a punch to the gut. His skin is as pale as his hair, and every vein glows fiery blue. Hawks touches his cheek: he’s feverish and trembling.

Touya’s half-open eyes, with new lurid shine to the irises and dark shadows underneath, slowly focus on Hawks’ face. He looks disappointed to recognize him.

“Sh...sh-should...left me...”

Hawks’ throat tightens. He had been in the air when the shots started ringing out and the nets flying. He had been far enough to fly away, to escape.

“I should have...”

Then Touya’s cry of pain had reached him, and there was no choice at all. He had to try. 

He takes Touya’s hand, and squeezes as tight as he can.

“...But I wouldn’t. Ever. We’ll get out together. No matter what.”

[whoviancumberbunny]

Part Three:  Leave A Tender Moment Alone - A Scanlan Fluff Fic

Part one: Tentative Love

Part Two: Small Miracles

Leave a Tender Moment Alone

Scanlan Shorthalt & other Vox Machina Characters Created by Critical Role

 Lucy Collins-Shorthalt Created Melissa C. Scraper @whoviancumberbunny​

 It was their fifth anniversary and Scanlan knew it would likely make his friends mad that he was doing this without asking first. But he had learned this spell from exiled king from another dimension, by the name of Quentin Coldwater. “Damn it, how do the hand motions go again. I remember one of the last hand motions is crossing my fingers and holding my wrist. But it all has to be one smooth motion.” He  closes his eyes “This is for my wife.” He mumbles he loved to see her smile he gets the hand motions right and Suddenly Percy and Vax start singing backing harmony for a love song

 He grabs his mandolin and thinks back to day they met she was walking few steps behind everyone else because she hadn’t eaten in days and something made him want to look back at her even with sadness in her eyes there was still light around her “I don’t care what consequence it brings I have been a fool for lesser things. You needed me and I needed you too I intend to hold you for the longest time.”  

 Vex “they are so going to kick his ass later. But it is kind of sweet.”   She said “I wonder if she’s told him yet she is pregnant again.”

 Kiki “No telling. Grog  Lucy keeps telling you not to help daphne get to high spaces she is only three years old.”    

 They look on top of the book shelf and see giggling half gnome child, who always wore a beret to match her father.  

 He frowns “it makes her laugh. I like seeing her smile. Most kids are afraid of grog because I am a goliath.”  Vex goes over to the book shelf “Daphne go play with my kids okay sweet girl.”

 “Okay, Auntie Vexy.” She grabs her bongos off the floor and runs to find the playroom

 Pike “Whose idea was it to give her bongos.”   She sighs “that’s right.  Mine.” It wouldfine if she had the same musical skill as Scanlan. But Daphne was quite adept for three year old.

Meanwhile as Scanlan finishes the song and spell breaks “How the fuck did we end up in the hallway outside your living quarters Shorthalt?” Vax grumbled about to hit him over the head “It is their anniversary isn’t it.    We will discuss you shanghaiing us later. You little weasel. Happy Anniversary, Lucy.”

 None Quite understood how vax was alive logically he should have died three years before “Thanks, Vax/.go spend time with Kiki.” Percy hated hangovers from magic spells as he went back to the kitchen area to make something to eat.

 Lucy “I was thinking about that one time, the first time w made love. Before we rented the room at the inn.”

 “Oh when that guy was hitting on you and I used my polymorph spell to make myself a few inches taller than you. It took a while for the spell to wear off. That was the first time in my life I have never needed to use my magic music to convince someone to go to bed with me.”

 “that was first time I realized you were willing to protect me. For the few months in Whitestone I always felt like I was not going to find some place to feel safe.” She had never considered the battle with Gabriel them protecting her. She was no fighter. She had always felt blessed that Vox helped in so many ways  She he sits next to her “I want you to have this. It is the only thing I have that belonged to my father.” She puts compass on a chain in his hand “I love you Scanlan and gods helo us if either of these twins ends up being like you.”

 “Did you say twins?”  he places his hand on her stomach after placing the compass around his own neck “Quentin Percival and Elijah Vax’ildan, if they are both boys.”  

 “They are.” She had had prophetic dreams more like vision of the spirits of her mother and grandmother introducing her to two young boys. Because time wasn’t a straight stream when it came to her dreams  

“We’ll need more space.“ she caresses his face to calm him down

 “Going into panic mode isn’t going to help.  My handsome gnome.  You’ve been avoiding Kaylie since she arrived in Whitestone two months ago you know if you don’t speak to her she will just believe whatever her mom may have told her about the man you are.”

 The gnome looked down for moment “I Know. But I am just unsure what to say to her.”

“Just tell her the truth.   If you had known about her you would have been in her life.” He he looked down at his hand gently placed on her “All I can do is be honest with her.” He laughs when she reaches into his bad of holding takes out his beret.

 “You are braver when you have this on.” She put it on his head “Scanlan the revolutionary!” Lucy had Shaun become business partners when she had donated the money to help expand Gilmore’s Glorious Goods. Last time she had gone into town she had crossed paths Kaylie. More like caught the young gnome woman staring at her with Daphne.

 He laughed “You always know how to make me smile. You and Daphne are my world. For the longest time I felt alone.”  He kissed her “Twins.” He sighed, as he went into town to find Kaylie and when he finally finds her she punches him In the face “If beating me up will make you feel better, I will gladly let you.  But I am here to speak honestly with you.  I will admit that I don’t remember your mother’s name. I was a selfish asshole before I met my wife.”

 “The human with the scars on her neck.” They go to the inn to talk, a after few hours “I am not going to say I forgive you. But thank you for being honest.  Why this inn specifically I know there are three in Whitestone.”

 “Because every important moment in my life  that didn’t happen in front of the other members of Vox Machina, happened here.” It was even because of having family that he drank less when he was spending time  on missions with his friends.”  Lucy had her reasons she didn’t like alcohol

 “What’s the deal with the beret?”

 “I wear it when I want to be brave.” He said looking down “You’re welcome in my home. I understand if you never accept the invitation.” His face still stung where the bruises were forming and he knew pike would offer to heal them. But it was Karma for the man he was. He had heard somewhere that it took 20 positive experiences to override one negative one. All he could do was his best to help Kaylie understand that he is not the man he was.

 “Why does the kid wear one too?”

 “Diedre the hat maker gave it to her as a gift to match mine.” He said grinning, then he winces because the smile had made the bruises hurt

“Geez I am sorry I beat the crap out of you.”

 “I deserve it.”  He stood up “I need to go it is my anniversary. I will see you around.” went home “Let the bruises heal on their own. She needed to get her frustrations out.” He responded when Pike offered to heal him.  Now all they could do was wait and see what Kaylie’s next move would be

 “Vax’ildan, Percival I am sorry about casting magic spell on you. Lucy is pregnant with twins and we already decided if they are both male we want to name them Quentin Percival and Elijah Vax’ildan.”  He walks into the bedroom and leans against the door “Gods how is someone I only just met so much like me it hurts.” He goes over to Lucy “Thank you for making me talk to her.” And she takes his hands in hers. There was soemthing comforting about how it felt to look as his hand almost disappearing into the gentle caress of lucy’s grip

 A few months later the day after the twins are born, Kaylie cautiously enters the house “Hello My name is Kaylie I am Scanlan’s daughter.”

 “Welcome to the family. Come say hello to your new brothers.”   Pike says as she drags  Kaylie over to the bassinettes “It is hard to tell them apart sleeping.  Elijah has blue eyes and Quentin has brown eyes.

 Scanlan sat in his rocking chair with Daphne asleep in his lap “Before you ask the bruise on my forehead is from tripping over your sister’s bongos.”  He looks at them “remember everyone be quiet, Lucy just spent twelve hours giving birth to these little guys. “ he carefully stands up and takes Daphne to put her in her bed.   “I think she sees spirits like her mother.  she talks to them.”

 Pike “whenever I am called upon to pray for someone who is about to go to the clearing, Lucy comes with me to see if the spirits have any messages for the living.”  she said , they all wondered how she managed to stay  mildly sane when she could clearly view the veil between live and death

 To Be Continued…

Saturday, February 4th, 2023

[superconductivebean]

@simply-slytherin

I was mostly strolling around the quests to see if I had missed anything the last time I played HL in *checks notes* June??? My my.

I'll go in sections and I'll try to be short (as in these posts I tend to go astray and float away often).

Venomous Valor caught my attention when I realised the whole corridor seemed to was either a semi-personal study, or a research area, or a classroom. The sorry state of the area has to do with an abandon of Devil's snare and the subsequent structural damage as the roots were eating away the mortar and slither in every nook; these plants were left unattended and collapsed the ceiling, although, quite recently. The wood is moldy but is only yet to rot; a submerged and moldy door is still in recognizable shape.

I'd say, if the rumours are true and Professor Garlic did sabotage the former professor, then the corridor might've start to dilapidate around a year or two ago? Ceiling was the first to crumple, then the walls, then at last, everything else, as the wood in the area seemed to be yet unaffected by all this water.

Herbology Class is a Leander praise section, to be frank, something that had been told before; but I also added a date at which the class is set: September 4th, 1890. The logic behind it: if MC arrived at Sept 1st and The Troll Attack happened the next day on Sept 2d, then the venture to the Restricted Section should've occurred on the evening of Sept 3d, due to the urgency of contacting the Ministry in regards of Osric's death: then, if to assume that MC went to Fig in the morning of the Sept 4th asap after finding the book, so that when Leander says 'the other day I saw you going to Hogsmeade', he meant the day before yesterday, Sept 2.

Hence why Sharp had terrible limp on the day of the Potions class, as all these quests -- Tomes and Tribulations, Herbology Class, Potions class, and The Girl from Uagadou -- happen on the same day. He was on the 5th floor of DADA tower in the morning, of course he would have a bad leg day later.

Which brings me to Potions Class.

As you can guess by the pictures,

Sharp writes loremipsums! :3

His badge shines! :3c

For some reason, he keeps two piles of galleons on the table near what appears to be an artemisia kind of plant. I counted the coins (31 but may be 1-2 more), calculated a weight of an one coin, keeping in mind that a) a galleon is likely a 999 gold b) kind-of made up dimensions of 40mm in diameter and 5mm in height. The weight is therefore approx 121g. Weeks ago, I was curious as to how many galleons MC would've needed to buy an entire Hogsmeade, including the Shop. Although, sometimes it is stated that prices in the game are in galleons, it didn't make much sense to me, too much gold, truly, so I assumed these are knuts instead. TLDR; — 96g 5k. 96 galleons would be a whopping ~11.5kg of gold to carry around the village! MC is from Minecraft.

Ceiling screencaps were a tiny vent, pun intended. The class doesn't have ventilation.

Sharp's office: a) the bookcase full of Dark Arts-themed thingies; b) a Potions book that is a bootleg version of Moste Potente; c) The Dura, as I like to call it, on the table; I was curious: how do you wash it; d) carpets are forming a path of sorts, Sharp might need them arranged this way so that he would walk around the office somewhat comfortably.

Then I went on analysing The Feather Test. TLDR; — Sharp needed a test of his own, as MC isn't a first-year. They have a character to them, and Sharp would've liked to know exactly who was attending his class. I will leave that bit about the favour here, as it perfectly surmises the talk with Sharp after MC handed over the feather to Garreth but played dumb to Sharp: You will never know when you'd need to ask me to do you a favour -- and kid, you will not earn any by repeatedly failing at being responsible for your actions. aka Let's not become enemies lest you need one in me; I can help you out one day.

I can go lengths about Sharp; I am convinced his role in the main plot was severely reduced.

The last three bits:

MC has a taste for mentors, I can tell.

Sharp knows the colour is wrong while sitting at his desk, here we stan an expert.

I was confused: a) why would wizards use quills when around the time fancy people would use dip pens? It shouldn't be a problem to produce them with magic; b) why would npcs scribble something on perfectly flat tables with quills and inks, if the gravity would just empty the quill and ruin the parchment -- or at least, chances would be higher to ruin it writing something down this way?

#717: Hogwarts Inquires - 64 (rewind)

Как я писал в 12й инквари, с отъездом Фига в замке наступает chill. Единственный серьёзный квест — The Girl From Uagadou — нарративно стоит вечером.

Дробить инквари я больше не хочу, поэтому поступлю так.

Herbology Class

Чтобы не подрываться дважды, заодно распишу тут квест Venomous Valor. Что-то про него я писал здесь, а также упоминал в 12й его нарративное расположение, однако интерес представляет и сама локация.

Простите Yours truly скриншот поганого качества, но на нём хорошо видно детали помещения, где находится второй сундук.

На том конце крипты стоит кафедра, на каминной доске какие-то книги, со стены снята или отвалилась от потолочной балки меловая доска. У видимой стены наставлены одна на другую старые скамьи, у входа припрятано кожаное кресло и два книжных шкафа.

Значит, это или бывший лекционный зал либо же театр — в лекционных, обычно, нет углубления в полу; или какая-то study, которая может быть была и не совсем personal, судя по доскам и скамьям, а также отвалившимся дверям.

Секретной аудиторию я не назову; обрушение явно произошло вследствие продолжительного воздействия воды и в том числе грунтовых вод от садов и теплицы, расположенных сразу над коридорами ныне разрушенной секции замковых подземелий; произошло это не так давно, поскольку дерево и книги не успели сгнить, а основной деградач сконцентрирован на потолке. И ещё я так думаю, не в последнюю очередь благодаря силкам потолок и обрушился.

Несложно даже догадаться, почему так произошло: деревянные перекрытия и известняк, а точнее цемент, сами понимаете, под продолжительным воздействием сорняка и воды без ремонта и присмотра стремительно деградируют.

Судя по количеству заваленных ходов и развилок с винтовыми лестницами, когда-то в этих подземельях находились и лекционные, и семинарские аудитории, театры и какие-либо другие помещения.

Возвращаясь к уроку Гербологии. Сказать о нём особенно нечего, кроме заметочки к таймлайну.

После второго сентября время в игре «отпускается» и ползёт своим чередом, поэтому может возникнуть неловкое ощущение потери во времени.

So far хронология такая:

Первое сентября: атака дракона, Гринготтс и Церемония шляпы;

Второе сентября: ДАДА и Чары, Хогсмид и набигание троллей;

Третье сентября, вечер: Запретная секция и Книга;

Почему четвёртое сентября — Гербология и Зелья:

На уроке Гербологии Леандер говорит:

Hello. Saw you on your way to Hogsmeade the other day. Nice to meet you. I'm Leander.

The other day — позавчера. Увожаемые инглишмены блога меня тут же поправят: the other day может относиться к любому дню, который не вчера, который будет yesterday. Однако жы, the day before yesterday относится к множеству [the day before yesterday ; further in the past) и таки употребляется в том числе для обозначения дня позавчера; МС не провела в Хогворце столько дней, чтобы Леандер сказал saw you a fortnight from now going to Hogsmeade, например.

Простите, что надушнил, но у меня есть ещё один аргумент в ладошке: когда МС находит Книгу, какой-то причины прийти к Фигу через три недели у неё нет, а самому Фигу нужно было разбираться со смертью Озрика поскорее.

В общем, так: Гербология, Зелья и разговор с Натти пр��исходят в один день, и етот день — 4 сентября 1890 года.

В копилку важных вопросов: Поппи интересуется:

Hmm. I wonder if Hippogriffs like knotgrass.

А также профессор Гарлик замечает:

Dittany's restorative properties make it a vital ingredient in the Wiggenweld Potion, as you all should know from Professor Sharp's class.

Well done! Once it can be harvested, your Dittany will be ready to use in Wiggenweld Potion. I'll let Professor Sharp tell you about that.

Во-первых, очень милое, когда два профессора объединяют свои куррикулумы. :3 Не пришёл на пару к одному из них — завалился у другого! >:3с Во-вторых, разрешите подушыть: душица критская используется в том числе в настойке душицы, которая заживляет колото-резанные раны (и, так думаю, настойка полезнее виггенвельда будет в большинстве случаев, ну правда; следовало упомянуть об этом в первую очередь, т.к. Виггенвельд — сильное зелье), а, смешанная с серебром, останавливает кровотечение при укусе оборотня. ЭТО БУДЕТ НА ЭКЗАМЕНЕ.

Интересное о Леандере: Я бы вот без прикола сравнил его с Себастьяном: предлагает помощь за тем, чтобы наговорить комплиментов и тоже себя как-то показать. Это важная черта его характера: не выёбываться и строить хуй пойми чо из себя — а целенаправленно искать способы ererererere самовалидации? признания в глазах других студентов?.. Имельда его, впрочем, осадит:

Leander, like all Gryffindors, your confidence is spectacularly misplaced.

(А ещё давайте все заметим: к Леандеру она обращается по имени, как и к Гаррету! :3с Было бы у МС проговариваемое имя, то и МС бы называла по имени! Weeee woooo!)

К тому же, Леандер пытается достичь не просто чьего-то признания, но безусловных лавров и быть безусловно принятым:

Typical Slytherin trick, dropping a dragon skull on someone during a fight. We Gryffindors fight with honour.

Сложно сказать, с чем это связано, но может свидетельствовать об обострённом чувстве быть к чему-то причастным, причём обязательно к великому, грандиозному и вообще-то выражению силы. Вот ещё пара цитат:

Vicious little bastards, aren't they? My kind of plants. Not like stupid Bubotubers and Bouncing Bulbs. The kind of plants that'd have your back in a fight.

Where are the lions? I would like to see a huge Gryffindor lion in this class for once.

И это я всё написал к тому, что Леандер, тем не менее, как потенциальный булли не считываем; по классической классификации Лурочки, Леандер — эпсилон, который во всём поддержит сильного, потому что так сам окажется в безопасности либо среди Очень Увожаемой Группы людей. Понимаете да; Леандер не инициатор буллинга, но может быть его участником — и если слушок, что Леандер помогал прятать гобстоуны Зенобии, правда, то так всё и было (с).

Тем не менее, Леандер может стоять и в стороне от буллингов, потому как быть гриффиндорцем, но буллить, у Леандера в голове может и не уживаться, чай не Джеймс Поттер; обижать слабых как-то не увязывается с понятием чести, достоинства и увожения.

Но тут, конечно, мы упрёмся в щекотливый вопрос: что считается буллингом, а что нет, в этой игровселенной. Я, тонкозвонкая душа в тёплых носочьках, и ситуацию Зенобии как буллинг рассматриваю. Так ли оно для Леандера? А х его з!

И вот при всём при том, Леандер под слоем выебончиков на самом деле милый парень и человек простой, zero comebacks tho, обычный your average guy, и тем хорош (но в силу возраста, требований учителей, окружения, желания дружить с крутанами, а также всяких там Имельд Рейес с оцм, пока этого не осознаёт):

Mum planted some in her garden last year to keep the gnomes out. Did save her the de-gnoming, but they left her Honking Daffodils in tatters.

Summoner's Court. The ever-changing game.

Glad that's over. I hate it when she uses me as an example.

Professor Ronen tends to go on a bit. We sometimes have to remind him to finish the lesson.

You were? I mean, of course. You're, uh, not someone to be trifled with, I see that.

Ах да, совсем забыл — список учеников на паре! Присутствуют:

Натти

Себастьян

Оминис

Виолетта

Поппи

Аделейд

Эверетт

Леандер

Ленора

Potions class

пЕРЕД ТЕМ КАК НАЧАТЬ, ДОРОГИЕ ПОДПИЩИКИ, ПАРАД ГИФОК И ПОДПИСЬ: BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK

А теперь к делу, то есть, к шитпосту!

Список присутствующих:

Амит

Натти

Виолетта

Гаррет (отвратительно громкие звуки потряхивания склянки)

Оминис

Себастьян

Саманта

Имельда

Поппи

Эндрю Ларсон

Перед тем, как начать урок, пробегусь по всем приметным местам класса.

Стол Шарпа

Когда-нибудь обращали внимание на листочки? А я вот обратил, Шарп лоремипсумы пишет!

Можно найти две кучки галлеонов, а всего монет аж 31 штука (но я мог пропустить 1 или 2)!

Лежат рядом с весами, что навело на мысль, не используется ли галлеон как мера измерения веса (но сколько тогда такая монета должна весить?), что — ой, девочки, доводят меня тут до греха, до греха доводят!

Итак, поскольку галлеон выплавлен из чистого золота и скорее всего является золотом 999 пробы, то его плотность — 19,3 г/см3. Размеры монетки: ну допустим диаметр 4 сантиметра (40мм), высота полсантиметра (5мм) => объём = 6.28см3. Значит, масса = плотность * объём = 19300 * 6,28 = 121.204 грамма.

В инквари 56 я посчитал, что для скупки всего Хогсмида МС понадобится ~96 галлеонов.

121.204 * 96 = 11,5кг золотых монет.

Таким образом, Хогворц Легоси — Майнкрафт!

Видите, какой у Шарпа урок полезный.

О, и а значок-то с блёсточками!

:3с

Обратите внимание на потолок:

Ни единого признака вентиляции!

Впрочем,

вот такой лючок может быть той вентиляцией, но он такой один, у фонаря и над преподским столом.

Кабинет Шарпа

По какой-то причине большинство учебников Зелий в этой игре выглядят как Moste Potente из HP&HBP, но называются лаконичным Potion:

У себя в кабинете Шарп не иначе из чувства ностальгии держит в шкафу всякую темномагическую дичь:

— в особенности примечу тут руку драугра:

На рабочем столе, — кресло к которому приставлено явно не с той стороны, да и кто против света-то сидит! — возвышается Дура:

Отставляя вопросы, что в ней дистиллируется и не потому ли на двери Шарпа появляется замок, чтобы ценное изделие случайно кто-нибудь не расколотил — хочу задать щекотливый вопрос.

как ето мыть

Испарить контент можно Evanesco, являющие чары тоже должны существовать, но мыть-то, как соскребать остатки, прочищать трубки, боже мой, там ведь ещё и краны какие-то. Девайс кажется мне страшно непрактичным, хотя и внушительным; идеальный зельеварский декор, может быть я тоже такой хочу.

Ну и напоследок, вид кабинета сверху:

Обратите внимание на расположение ковров: Шарп циркулирует вдоль если не чуть более мягкой, то хотя бы не такой холодной поверхности замковых, каменных полов.

Урок Зелий

В инквари 13 я писал и про урок, но больше о самом Шарпе; в инквари 16 — про одноклассников. У меня даже были претензии к локализации! Найти ссылки можно в закрепе.

Сейчас я хочу больше внимания обратить на сам урок.

Синематографическая красота пусть будет отставлена в сторону; личный тест Шарпа — вот оно настощее mwah и Ъ-прикол урока. Не знаю, кто бы ответственен за потенциальные квесты Шарпа, но этому кому-то следует поставить памятник при жизни.

Так вот начнём.

Начинает год Шарп с Виггенвельда — очень мощного зелья, которое, со слов Фига,

That stuff'll right you in a second.

Сварить его непросто, но МС справляется, что может говорить только о том, что МС до Хогворца должна была под руководством и присмотром Фига изучать Зелья чуть ли не в приоритете (как, быть может, и Трансфигурацию) над всем остальным.

Если у Шарпа есть prowess points, то это +1.

Далее, он просит МС попрактиковаться и сварить Эдурус — защитный состав, бла-бла-бла, важно тут вот што: даже если у МС все ингредиенты на руках, Шарп настоит на своём. Шкура монгреля и яйца ашвайндера — строго из его кабинета.

Мой следачий моск мне подсказывал: самое простое объяснение будет самым наивероятнейшим — ингредиенты Шарпа гарантированно хорошего качества и «везение» из уравнения успешного успеха на экзамене в классе выкинут.

Однако Шарп человек, подозреваю, любопытный и до сих пор не растерявший навыка проверять новых людей в окружении. МС не первогодка, а человек с уже оформившимся характером, предпочтениями, квирками, к тому же, не без истории за плечами. Шарп, конечно, и без всяких тестов примет в коллектив нового человека — но сами понимаете, когда человек ещё и подопечная Фига…

В общем говоря, Шарп знал, что за приглашением пройти в офис за ингредиентами неминуемо последует вмешательство Гаррета.

Притом неважно, что Гаррет решил сварить: в любом случае, его котёл подрывается на штокрозе; перо, кажется, на качестве зелья не сказывается.

Но перо сказывается на репутации МС.

Если не взять перо, Шарп скажет:

I saw Mr. Weasley speaking with you earlier. He can be quite persuasive. Glad you managed to resist.

Поправка: профессор, вы не просто видели, вы знали, что Гаррет с ней заговорит.

Не взять перо значит показать себя с хорошей стороны, но насколько эта сторона хороша — для Шарпа? МС могла повести себя как следует, потому что на уроке и потому что препод злой и гавкает. МС могла что-то утаить или схитрить, веры ей после отговорок Фига, повторённых слово-в-слово, — нет. Слишком много вероятностей, понимаете, слишком широк пул возможных негодяйств, припрятанных за хорошей миной.

Если взять перо, но не отдать Гаррету, Шарп скажет всё то же самое, но добавит:

And you can keep that Fwooper feather - this time.

Пул вероятностей сокращён — и хотя вопросом, как Шарп узнал, я задаюсь до сих пор, но есть у меня такая мысль, что у профессора ещё и отменный слух — и МС представляется человеком, который может украсть, потому что может. Или потому что интересно. Вау, блестяшечька, розовенькая, ууу. Срочно взять, вы не продаёте перьев, но кросивое жы, срочно в карман!

Обратите внимание: Шарп осторожно предупреждает, что воровать из его запасов не стоит.

Однако интереснее всего и взять перо, и отдать его Гаррету. Тогда Шарп скажет:

I'm surprised you had the time. You seemed rather busy helping Mr. Weasley brew chaos.

Пул вероятностей сокращён до минимума, МС — троблемакере!

Во-первых, это хорошо. С таким уже можно работать и строить какие-то теории, а не только лишь раскидываться гипотезами. Во-вторых, на таких проделках гораздо легче проверить благонадёжность, осознанность и прочие объективно неплохие личностные качества!

Если Шарпу наврать, он разозлится:

You will not earn favour with me by failing to take responsibility for your actions. I suggest you heed my warning.

Обратите внимание: поскольку earn favour говорит Шарп, значит, он и указывает на своё «благосклонное отношение», и услужливость. Как-то так: you never know when you'd need to ask me to do you a favour -- and kid, you will not earn any by repeatedly failing at being responsible for your actions.

Но если Шарпу во всём сознаться, он сразу смягчится (и не сказать, что перед этим он был как-то серьёзно сердит, стало быть, привык за столько лет (не просто же так он выделяет again)):

Taking responsibility for one's actions does go a long way with me. I shall assume that you've learned a lesson.

Подозреваю, смягчается он ещё и потому, что МС человеком кажется договороспособным и желающим навести прикол, но не его соображениями руководствуясь навредить.

Вроде бы что хотел, рассказал, заметил, пояснил. Теперь к сладкому.

Первое: Если вы не сидите так, то даже не задумывайтесь о том, чтобы стать мне ментором! (с) МС

Второе: Сидя за столом, тем не менее Шарп говорит:

Your potion should not be that colour, Miss McDowell.

Третье:

Чтобы писать пером, поверхность наклонная должна быть. Иначе вытекут чернила прямо на пергамент — который не из бумаги делают, а дублёной кожи. Ну дорого жы ну и грязно.

Кстати странно, что в магмире даже в 1890м году до сих пор пишут пером. Перьевые ручки, они же dip pens, к тому времени уже изобрели и активно пользовались; не сказать, что перьевая ручка дёшева, но у магов есть 1) магия 2) заклинания преумножения 3) так и так макаешь в чернила что-то.

Тксзть, если палочки целая одна семья Оливандеров изготавливает столько, что хватает магазин столько тыщ лет держать, то и ручки делать не должно быть проблемой. И это не только к хогворцу легоси вопрос, но и к гепе тоже.

@elianzis me again

[irhinoceri]

Not to be overly critical, but....

I’m about 3 hours into The Stolen Throne, and just got to Rowan’s introduction. First thing she does is punch Maric in the face with an armored gauntlet.

Right. I know she’s his eventual queen (and gets weirdly killed off between novels--since I’ve already listened to The Calling) so this introduction made me pause my audiobook and heave a deep, weary sigh.

First off, I do not understand Gaider’s characterization of Maric. I just don’t. I’m trying to remember back to his portrayal in The Calling and the Until We Sleep comic, and I don’t recall him being a buffoon, but this book is like “Maric is a useless clown who is entirely unprepared to be king” and it’s like the most uncharitable interpretation of Alistair only it makes NO SENSE.

Alistair wasn’t a leader because he was a bastard who was raised with no direction -- no one involved in his upbringing had any real idea that he would be in line for the throne because despite living in a brutal medieval fantasy world, no one expected Cailan to die without an heir. (In the game it’s hinted that Alistair is given the beacon lighting task specifically to keep him away from the battle so that if Cailan fell he would still be alive, but that’s 20 years too late to start planning ahead, of you ask me!)

Anyway, it’s understandable that Alistair isn’t “king material” and has to undergo a character journey (pushed along by your warden and others) in order to grow into someone who will take responsibility. (Shut up Dragon Age Inquisition, I see you trying to retcon that and would like to show you my gauntleted fist). It’s understandable because of his backstory. Raised not to be a king or leader of any kind, actually raised by people who didn’t care about him at all, who even were openly hostile towards him and tried to get rid of him. His joking and self-deprecation and unwillingness to step up and be a leader are all ways to hide insecurity and loneliness and the fact that he has never been loved or respected by anyone. I mean, Fuck Eamon and Isolde Guerrin, and fuck Maric too! Fiona entrusted you with her only son and you fucked up Maric, you fucked up!

Anyway.

Why is Maric an Alistair 2.0? Why the fuck is the son of the Rebel Queen so ill-prepared? I haven’t gotten a satisfactory answer and it’s been 3 hours. Like, I would understand if he were a pampered prince archetype who has been too busy enjoying being rich and privileged to put in the work necessary, that’s a good condemnation of monarchy in general, why someone is deemed fit to rule a nation just because of their parentage, etc. etc.

But let’s consider that his entire life up to this point has been one of exile and war. Yes, the novel makes it clear that he had some privilege because there were always people in Ferelden who support the Rebel Queen and give them a place to live. Much like Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen in Game of Thrones. Unlike the Targaryens, though, Maric still has his mother (father?) and grandfather growing up, and unlike the Targaryens, the Theirins are out of power because they were conquered by an invading empire, they were not deposed in a civil war caused by their own cruelty/madness. So even though Viserys and Daenerys didn’t end up making the greatest leaders (fuck you, GoT, never forgive, never forget) that’s not to say that I think it’s a 1:1 correlation and Maric couldn’t have been raised with his future Kingship in mind.

Anyway, I’m rambling, but I’m just so frustrated with how for 3 hours I’ve just been listening to how useless a king Maric is because he was completely unprepared for his mother to die. She was a great woman, a queen who inspired loyalty and led a rebellion, but she didn’t bother to prepare her son to take her place?? He should have been her second in command at this point! Really now.

If this whole thing was a condemnation of monarchal rule I’d be a little less irritated but I don’t feel like it is, I feel like this is all just a character flaw for Maric to give him an arc. And the problem is that I already witnessed and participated in this arc with Alistair. I was already in Loghain’s shoes playing as the Warden. And you know what, it was Better that way.

Side note, I am starting to realize why I’ve seen people who are pro-Loghain and Anora and hate Alistair/klill him/exile him (or at the very least don’t choose to make him king and have him stay a warden) cite The Stolen Throne as reasons why the Theirin line needs to end. When I played Origins I definitely saw Alistair as needing to rise to the occasion etc. etc. etc. but it’s like.... woof buddy... you really do come from a long line of idiots. I am so sorry.

I did like Maric in The Calling, though. I’m struggling to remember why, but I recall him being depressed and suffering from PTSD so that’s probably a big part of it. The Calling was just Maric and Fiona being sad and doing some sad fucking in the Deep Roads and I was like “Yes, Very Sad People Fucking. My Kink.”

(Joking.. sort of... but broken people finding some solace in one another? Chef’s kiss.)

Oh my god I nearly forgot what I originally meant to rant about.

As irritating as it has been to listen to the Maric and Loghain show, the fact that Rowan fucking decks Maric the instant she shows up in the novel pissed me the fuck off.

This is a guy whos mother was brutally murdered in front of him, has been on the run, got blamed for getting Loghain’s father killed even though Gareth was the one insisting on sacrificing his life for the glory of Fereldan Kings, and had to make a deal with a witch just to survive.... and Rowan’s reaction upon seeing him (knowing that his mother is dead) is to.... punch him?

And I’m supposed to go HUR HUR HUR, here’s a Strong Female Character. That’s right, Loghain, get a hard on for this Strong Female Character who just punched a man who was not threatening her at all, in the face, with a METAL fist because... he’s annoying? He talks too much? He DESERVED to get hit by his future wife because..... reasons!

IDK. I can’t stand Loghain, either. His PoV is very anti-elven and anti-mage (shocker) and I’m wondering when we’re going to get to the part that makes people into Loghain stans.

Anyway, I love Dragon Age.