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pathologicalreid · 2 months ago

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prisoner | s.r.

in which you and Spencer conduct a custodial interview with a serial killer - Spencer's first since he was released

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: post prison reid, fwb but also mutual pining, serial killers, prison, panic attack, chiromancy word count: 3.66k a/n: i originally came up with this idea in 2023 😭 😭 it's about time i finished it lol. definitely suffers from exposition overload but i don't caaaaare.

Fourteen times.

You had asked him fourteen times if he thought he was going to be okay doing the custodial interview. No one else was available to do it, but you still had your reservations. Sending Spencer to a prison felt wrong, even if he wasn’t on the inside of the bars anymore.

Without telling him the reason, Emily elected to send you with him to the facility, she said it was because you had never done one before, but you knew it was deeper than that. “How many victims?” You asked, not taking your eyes off the road as you drove to the destination.

“Eight,” Spencer answered, looking through the case file. The killer had asked for the interview, hoping to be transferred to a minimum-security facility. The odds weren’t good, but you needed to oblige the request even if it wouldn’t prove successful.

You hummed, turning down the road, you pulled up to the security station. Presenting your credentials to the guard, he lifted the gate for you, and you found your reserved parking. “Do you want to take the lead?” You asked him, trying to gauge how he was doing.

Nodding, Spencer got out of the SUV. You shut off the engine and followed suit. “Unless it doesn’t seem like he’s responding to me, I’d rather not present him with someone who fits in with his victim pool.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you said sardonically, grabbing your bag from the backseat before locking the car and following Spencer inside.

The two of you went through security, locking up your weapons and going through metal detectors. It wasn’t until you went inside the first gate that you noticed it; Spencer was fiddling with the belt loop of his slacks. “I can feel you staring,” he whispered so only you could hear. You watched his posture relax when the gate buzzed and opened in front of him.

You smiled softly, “I can see you fidgeting,” you responded. At work, the two of you were merely coworkers who knew each other really well, so you couldn’t just reach out and take his hand. Not that you’d want to, in a prison full of serial killers.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, implying that he wasn’t right now. The smile fell off your face as the two of you followed the guard into the warden’s office.

At the sight of you, the warden stood and smiled, “You must be Agents Y/L/N and Reid, thank you for making the trip down here.”

Raising your eyebrows, you reach out your hand for the warden to shake, “He’s Dr. Reid, actually.” You corrected, seeing as Spencer didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Ah, my apologies, Dr. Reid,” he responded kindly, gesturing for the two of you to follow him.

Spencer gently brushed your hand as you followed the warden. It was so subtle that someone else could’ve brushed it off as an accident, but Spencer Reid never did anything without purpose.

“Marshal Lukins is the most prolific killer we’ve had in my time here, we aren’t expecting anything to come of this, but you know as well as I do that we have to humor the psychos,” Warden McCall told you, stopping in front of a gate and calling out for it to be opened.

You raised your eyebrows, deciding against telling the warden that Lukins profiled as a sociopath, not a psychopath. “How’s his behavior been here?”

The warden shrugged, “He won’t be winning any merit badges any time soon, that’s for sure. Spends most of his time in solitary, really.”

“His file said he had gotten into an altercation with another prisoner, what was that about?” Spencer asked.

McCall cleared his throat, “turf war. You know, prison gangs can get rowdy. Especially when they find out the feds are coming.”

You raised your eyebrows, grateful you couldn’t see Spencer’s expression. “Oh, yeah,” he said quietly.

Then you were in front of a serial killer, someone who had been put away years ago, but the way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. “Marshal Lukins?” You confirmed.

“Why hello, pretty lady,” Lukins responded, rising from the chair. His legs were chained to the ground, but his hands were free.

Behind you, Spencer cleared his throat, “Sit down,” he ordered. Taking a tone of authority that you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him.

Taking your seat across from Lukins, you looked him in the eyes, “You may call me Agent Y/L/N.”

Your interviewee shrugged, “I’ll call you whatever I want in my mind later.”

Ignoring the hairs that stood up on the back of your neck, you rolled your eyes at the skeevy pervert. “If you want to be transferred, you’re not making a very good first impression,” Spencer intervened, likely aware of your discomfort.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first criminal to make a pass at you, and in your line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last.

“I’m not much worried about first impressions, people usually have a first opinion about me before they even hear my voice,” he responded, leaning back in the chair.

You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from responding, yeah, that happens when you murder eight women. “What would you rather our opinion of you be? That you’re misunderstood? Did you find god in prison, Marshal?” You asked him.

He leaned over the table ever so slightly, yellowed teeth flashing beneath the fluorescent light that hung above the interrogation table, “Would you like me to show him to you?”

Raising your eyebrows, you maintained a bored disposition while flipping open your files, “No.”

With custodials like this, you weren’t allowed to have photos in your files. Lukins was a sexual sadist, and the profile that Aaron Hotchner had put together was damning, describing the man in front of you to a T. He even got the age correct, right down to the receding hairline. Even though Lukins was in prison, you’d never provide him with visual aids to relive his crimes.

“Why did you request this interview if you weren’t interested in playing nice?” Spencer asked, setting his own files on the table in front of him, but he refrained from opening them. He managed to memorize their contents on the drive from Quantico, enabling him to weaponize his memory.

Lukins put his hands up in mock surrender, “I was hoping they’d send me someone nice to look at, make a good conversation with, and boy am I glad I took that chance.”

Spencer clasped his hands together and set them on the steel table, “Thank you,” he responded, keeping himself stone-faced in the presence of the killer.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the criminal in front of you snapped, jutting his chin in your direction.

Bored, your partner spoke up again, “Yes, you are,” he corrected. You were unable to communicate with Spencer without tipping off Lukins, so you let him continue, trusting that he knew where he was going with this. “In your trial, you said all of your victims were your sheep,” Spencer recalled from the file, “Is that why you shaved their heads before gutting them?”

Lukins scoffed, bored easily within the confines of the interview, “My sheep were my friends, but every sheep needs a wolf. Isn’t that right, Bo Peep?” He asked you, meeting your gaze despite the fact that Spencer all but told him not to engage with you.

You narrowed your gaze at him, tilting your head innocently, “Would you have let me be one of your sheep?”

He gave you a look that made you feel like you needed a shower, “You would’ve been a nice addition, could’ve rounded out my numbers.”

He reached out a hand, trying to take a piece of your hair between his grimy fingers, but you stood up quickly, stepping back from the table and almost tripping over your chair in response.

A few prison guards came in at the sudden movement, and Spencer had a vice-like grip on Lukins’ wrist, keeping him away from you. Tossing his arm back at him, Spencer glared at the killer, “No touching,” he instructed, looking back at you to check-in. He opened the door to the room, ushering you out before looking at the guards, “I want him in cuffs.”

With a hand on the small of your back, Spencer herded you to the private space that the two of you were expected to inhabit for the day. “Hey,” you spoke to him once the door was shut behind you.

Spencer was filled to the brim with nervous energy, shaking out his hands in an attempt to expel his nerves, “We should just go back to Quantico.” He shook his head, brown curls fanning out around his face, “There’s no way he can tell us anything that will get us to endorse his transfer.”

Watching him like this made your chest ache, and you had no idea what to do with that emotion. Your relationship with Spencer was strictly horizontal—usually—and you found yourself floundering when it came to how to act outside of bed. You wanted to take his hand, desperate to run your fingers over his knuckles and find the familiar callus from where his pencil rests on his finger, but you just couldn’t get yourself to reach out.

You hadn’t known Spencer before he was arrested in Mexico, but you made your mark on him without ever letting him lay his eyes on you. You sent letters to him along with the rest of the team, refraining from talking about cases and instead choosing to use your letters as a personal diary, chronicling your first three months with the Behavioral Analysis Unit with your prison pen pal. Periodically, you put money in his commissary account, despite the rest of the team telling you that you shouldn’t feel inclined to.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, your eyes tracked his pacing in the conference room before you started to voice your concern, “We have to go back in, Reid.” You grabbed a water bottle from the counter and twisted the cap off before handing it to him.

He took the water begrudgingly, glaring at you as he did so, “Why do we have to go back in, exactly?” After taking a sip of the water, he handed it to you so you could have some. You could’ve grabbed your own, but surely this was quicker.

“Lukins said I would’ve rounded out his numbers,” you told him, nervously fiddling with the cap of the water bottle as you waited for him to get it.

Spencer adjusted his tie, pulling the silk fabric further from his neck, “Yeah, I heard him.” It bothered him, the slightest implication that you were endangered in that interview room put him on edge, but all you could do was sit down and watch him.

You sighed, “We only have a record of eight victims. We don’t know what he’s rounding to, but that’s at least two more bodies that we don’t know about.” Lukins could be rounding up to ten, which would be the closest option, or you were looking at the possibility of a considerably higher body count. Your fear was that he would use those additional kills as a bartering tool to get a transfer.

He stopped in his tracks while he processed what you were telling him. Spencer turned to you, lips parted before he nodded, eventually agreeing with you even if it pained him to do so. “We should call Emily and let her know what’s going on,” he told you, taking a seat across from you and placing his head in his hands. “I’m gonna step outside for a second,” he said, getting up just as quickly as he took a seat and swinging the door open, leaving you alone in the conference room.

Holding your tongue, you stopped yourself from voicing your approval, even though you did think some fresh air would be good for him. Instead, you watched the door click shut before fishing your phone out of your pocket, tapping on Emily’s contact before bringing the phone to your ear.

“How’s it going?” Emily asked you as soon as she answered, and you couldn’t help but picture your unit chief waiting by her phone, hoping to hear from you or Spencer.

You sighed, inadvertently cluing her into how the custodial interview was going, “We might have a problem,” you told her. Continuing on to explain what had happened between you and Marshal Lukins, all the way up through your discovery that he might have a higher victim count.

Prentiss clicked her tongue on the other end of the line, “What does Spencer think?”

The question didn’t come as a surprise to you, neither did the fact that her inflection told you that she was sneakily trying to ask you how Spencer was. Wiping your free palm along the fabric of your pants, you leaned against the table, “Reid thinks Lukins is out for blood.” You opened your mouth to continue but were interrupted by an alarm being tripped, your head snapped up as lights started to flash on the walls.

“What’s going on?” Emily questioned you over the phone, but you could barely hear her over the blare of the alarm, a low-pitched buzzing sound that made your brain feel like it was vibrating within your skull.

Clambering to your feet, you grabbed your water bottle and walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind you as you looked aimlessly around the prison for someone who could offer you an explanation. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurted into the receiver, stuffing your phone in your pocket and making your way to the front of the prison, ignoring the men who shouted at you from behind bars.

You looked down the walkway, watching as the failsafe on the doors was triggered and they slowly started to shut, triggering you to try and make a run for it. “Y/N,” Spencer called out your name, picking up his own pace from the opposite direction.

It didn’t take you long to realize that you weren’t going to make it, skidding to a halt as the bars clicked shut in front of you. You weren’t scared until you watched Spencer pull at the door, frantically trying to slide it open, “Reid,” you said his name, trying to get his attention. “Reid,” you shouted that time, trying to make sure he heard you over the alarm.

He didn’t pause to look at you, he simply continued to pull at the bars.

“Spence,” you said desperately, and that time his eyes snapped to yours. Wide brown eyes bore into yours as you placed one of your hands on his, both of them encircling the bar. “It’s not going to open,” you reminded him. A fact he was well aware of but didn’t want to acknowledge.

Silently, he leaned back into the wall, sliding down the side of it and looking up at the ceiling, pulling at his tie again, this time taking it all the way off. “It’s a lockdown,” he panted helplessly, “They’re in a lockdown.”

You nodded softly, having drawn that conclusion on your own, “It’s okay,” you told him softly, reaching through the bars and taking one of his hands in yours. “You’re alright, Spence,” you continued, your tone bordering on a coo.

He pulled his knees to his chest and slung his free arm over his legs, hugging himself.

It broke your heart to watch him like this. You pointed in the direction he came from, “Look. Hey, you could be free to leave, I’m the one who’s locked in,” you told him, highlighting the fact that the bars were blocking you, but Spencer could make his way back to the entryway.

“Not helping,” he told you, his voice almost a gasp as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Your shoulder’s slumped forward slightly, “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

Spencer just shook his head, squeezing your hand in response when you started sweeping your thumb over his knuckles. You ignored the buzzing of your phone in your pocket as you watched him, completely focused on making sure he was okay before you did anything else.

With your free hand, you grabbed the water bottle that you took from the conference room and slipped it through the bars. “Here, take this,” you murmured, setting it on the ground next to him when he didn’t take the bottle from you.

He visibly relaxed when the alarm stopped going off, but the lights were still flashing, which offered somewhat of an explanation as to why the door hadn’t opened yet.

You fiddled with his hand, opening up his palm and tracing the lines on his hand with your index finger, “Have you ever had your palm read?” You asked him, twisting your head to get a better look at it.

He looked at you, the panicked look in his eyes had subsided, promptly replaced with incredulity, “When have I ever struck you as the kind of person who would get my palm read?”

Shrugging, you slowly traced his love line, “You like Halloween, I thought maybe you’d let your curiosity get the best of you.” Although you supposed if Spencer really wanted to have his palm read, he’d just do it yourself. “When I was in college, my summer job was reading palms in a booth at an amusement park,” you informed him.

Spencer chuckled at your revelation, and the sound made your heart sing, “That is… oddly endearing.”

Nodding, you looked at his hand again, “Chiromancy says men were born with their left hand, and their right is what they accumulate throughout life,” you told him softly, sliding your other hand through the bar.

“Actually, I was born with both of my hands,” Spencer responded, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, studying his left hand intently, “You have water hands,” you said, showing him his own palm as if he’d never seen it before.

Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “Well, now you’re just making things up,” he openly teased you that time, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Humming, you furrowed your brows and pointed at his hand, “This is your head line,” you explained. “See how it’s long and straight? It sort of tapers off before the end of your palm—that means you tend to think realistically.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he challenged, but his eyes were following along as you pointed at his palm.

You shook your head and sighed, “Here’s your life line,” you said, pointing to a different line and tracing it with your fingertip. “It’s straight and goes down to the edge of your palm, which means you’re cautious about relationships,” you continued softly, leaning your head against one of the bars of the door.

He was silent after that one, briefly taking his bottom lip between his teeth and looking down at his hand. You could tell that even though he didn’t quite believe what you were saying, he was perfectly fine with humoring you.

“This is your fate line,” you told him, entirely expecting to lose him the moment you began discussing fate. “It’s broken down the middle and curved in different directions, and that means you’re prone to a lot of changes in life. Changes influenced by external forces.”

Gently, Spencer pulled his hand away from yours, flexing his hand before looking down at it, “You’ve officially lost me.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, “I’m surprised you lasted this long.” Just long enough apparently, the doors buzzed soon after, and you withdrew your hands from the slots as the bars slid into a hole in the wall.

Spencer got up first, dusting off his hands before he extended a hand to help you up. Your hand lingered in his for just a moment too long, the exchange oddly intimate for the two of you before his arms dropped to his side, “Thank you,” he murmured, a shy smile on his face.

Shrugging, you crossed your arms in front of your stomach, “There’s nothing to thank, Reid.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that it was disappointment that flashed across his face at your reply.

The warden had rather unceremoniously asked the two of you to leave, citing security concerns and letting you know that he’d be in contact with Emily to reschedule. Emily had called you six times during the lockdown, but you’d texted her once everything was clear.

Which left you heading back to the SUV with Spencer, there were prisoners out in the yard, so he walked on the inside, blocking your body from the view of the inmates. “Are you alright?” You asked him, feeling more free to inquire now that you were in the open air.

He nodded, “I’m fine, I just really wasn’t expecting something like that to happen when I asked Emily to send me on this custodial.”

Your footsteps faltered at his words, “You asked to go on this custodial?”

Spencer frowned, “I was on this case originally ten years ago, so I asked Emily to let me go.”

“And she said yes?” You asked incredulously.

Spencer opened the back door for you to place your bag in, “Not initially, but eventually she realized that I’d be her only option if she wanted to get it done today.” He shut the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, “It’s a lot earlier than I thought we’d be getting back, do you want to stop and get lunch on the way back to Quantico?”

Your eyes went wide and you were grateful that he couldn’t see your expression, “Uh, sure. Why not?”

“Perfect,” he said, “Maybe I can get you to tell me why you avoided reading my love line.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #margotober #angstober

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tpwrtrmnky · 4 months ago

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exposition

[ID: Four panel comic with crudely drawn stick people.

Panel 1: A blue person with sunglasses and dog ears is talking to an orange person with dog ears.

Blue: "Ah, young Orange."

Orange: "I, uh, aren't you younger than-"

Blue: "I understand that you have approached me to discuss an issue. As is the doctrine of our anarcho-caninist commune, we shall conduct this meeting in expository form, speaking as if intent on being observed by an unknown third party in need of being spoonfed everything we, as individuals, are already aware of."

Orange: "Wait-"

Blue: "Let us begin by stating our medical histories: I am on gel that makes you blue and have had dog ear implants."

Orange: "I uh. I know. You told me yesterday."

Blue: "It is your turn. State it!"

Orange: "…You can look at me and tell that I'm-"

Blue: "You cannot rely on the third party knowing how you became orange!"

Orange: "…Gel. It's gel."

Panel 2: An extremely tall, hot pink person with fluffy bits around their chest and extremities, as well as floppy dog ears and a bandana worn as a mask, interjects into the conversation between the two.

Hot Pink: "I sense that this discussion is at risk of becoming an argument. Let us recite the Acknowledgment of Legitimacy, as per the doctrine."

Blue and Hot Pink: "We recognise that opinions are held by individuals and do not represent everyone of their chromatic alignment. We understand that if any individual is found to be in the wrong, it does not delegitimize their identity, only their viewpoint."

Orange: "I uh. Does anyone not believe this? Who are we disagreeing with here?"

Hot Pink: "I am on injections that make you hot pink and have taken topical fluffy fur gel. Now we may proceed."

Panel 3: Zoom in on Hot Pink and Blue as they continue spoonfeeding unnecessary exposition to you, the reader.

Blue: "Before proceeding we must also clarify that the doctrine is an idiosyncracy of our commune, and not reflective of wider anarchist nor caninist movements."

Hot Pink: "Indeed. Furthermore, I would like to establish that we exist in the context of the past affecting the present, as individuals with personal histories that affect our present state, and have established this doctrine in response to said history."

Orange: "I- how- what history- are you explaining that the past exists??

Who is this for?

How did you decide to talk like this?"

Panel 4: A green person with a tail and long, pointy dog ears appears opposite of Orange to make it all make sense.

Green: "You bring up an excellent question. I am on a combination of pills that make you green and pills that block my naturally occurring red, which I do not personally consider a medical condition but which is often pathologized as such. Before proceeding and getting to the point we must go over the historical context in which this conversation is taking place."

Orange: "Wait, no, I know history, please-"

Green: "Caninism, as formulated by Barx in the 1800s…"

End ID.]

Bonus panel:

[ID 2: Presumably sometime later, the green dogperson is still talking.

Green: "You see, the Expository Doctrine is primarily a performance art critique of the tendency to demand that media explains everything to the viewer, and how pandering to this demand causes dialogue to be unnatural, stilted and unnecessarily verbose."

Orange: "I know. You say this every day."

Green: "Indeed, part of the performance serves to emphasize how in a serial but episodic medium, such mandatory exposition quickly becomes frustrating and repetitive!"

End ID 2.]

Start - Previous - Next

#Orange is like #25-28 or so #in case you were wondering #pills that make you green #ptmyg

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fuckyeahisawthat · 1 month ago

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Dune: Prophecy episode 1 thoughts, tried to keep it vague to avoid major spoilers:

Wow there is a lot of exposition. Like a LOT of exposition, especially in the first 10-15 minutes when we're not invested in any of the characters yet. I hope this is a first episode problem.

Ah they went the coward's route and used "Great Machine War" instead of "Butlerian Jihad."

There's an interesting "history is written by the victors" thread there right from the beginning that I hope they pull on some more.

I love how they did the Voice, which appears early in the episode, because both the actor's performance and the sound design of it are slightly different from the films. It really feels/sounds like the character using it is straining to access a new and unfamiliar power, in contrast to the effortless, overwhelming assertion of control it comes across as in the films.

Salusa Secundus looks so green and lush in comparison to how it looks at the time of the films.

I realize this is probably an unfair complaint for something made on a TV budget (even an HBO TV budget), but imo the production design doesn't quite measure up to the films. I think the best work is on the props. The key to the genetic index room, the little slides that Valya and Tula are looking at with students' info on them, the Emperor's projection table--those all look great and have that feeling of "future filtered through the past" that I think is key to the Dune aesthetic. Many of the location exteriors are gorgeous, too. Some of the interior sets are quite striking and others are underwhelming. The costumes are...mid imo; there are some beautiful elements and others that look too identifiably modern. Including Princess Ynez's red gown unfortunately which looks like a department store prom dress. I realize it's a high bar--the films were really really good at making everything look both futuristic and ancient, layered and textured--but you do notice the difference.

So! Many! Women! Pretty racially diverse casting too. But also omg so many characters and I already forget half their names. I'm gonna need Dune: Facebook for the next episode.

Emily Watson and Olivia Williams are already very compelling, even if you don't quite know their characters' full agendas yet. Heckin ready for some Machiavellian women scheming.

Love some of the more fucked up shit that just slides by and the information it gives you about the world. Adult (? idk maybe she's supposed to be in her late teens) woman getting engaged to a 9-year-old. Practicing Truthsaying on prisoners, some of whom have fresh bruises on their faces.

Arrakis is...the same. This one is honestly fucking me up. I know time scales in Dune are absurd and really kind of incomprehensible in comparison to real Earth history but can you imagine your home being passed around various imperialist powers for resource extraction for ten thousand years?? FOUR HUNDRED GENERATIONS. 80 years of Harkonnen rule seems like nothing. We're talking about whole eras of colonial control and resistance here. Like damn. No wonder so many Fremen have come to believe that only a messiah can save them. Imagine being someone like Chani and feeling the legacy of not decades or even centuries but millennia of struggle on your shoulders. It is gonna take me a while to fully absorb this one. Holy fuck.

Travis Fimmel's character has an...ability that we haven't seen in the Dune universe before and I'm super curious to see where they're gonna go with that.

Overall it feels like this episode was mostly setup but there's a lot of potential? Like there are a lot of potential threads that could develop into something cool and twisty and interesting. I'm not sure where any of it is going yet but I'm ready to find out.

#dune #dune prophecy

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ramp-it-up · 3 months ago

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Knock You Down: IV

Photo credit to @thebluemage. Edit mine.

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. Finally! Date Number Threeeeee!

This is a follow up to Part III

Word count: 3.5 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This is the final part! (For now) I think that this is one that I will definitely write in answer to asks. I just love these two so so much! Thank all of you for rocking with me on this one. This was in part inspired by Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run 🫠, and partially inspired by an old song by some problematic people, lol. This is the result. As usual, I am Basil Exposition, so this is broken into parts.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. SMUT!!!! The end of the Slow burn, now it's burning very fast 😅. Cursing, flirting, jealousy, apologies, Bucky cooking (a warning!), kissing, dry humping, dirty talk in both English and Romanian, voice kink, oral sex (m and f receiving), protected sex (yay Bucky!) And these two are so fucking fluffy. I'm scared, y'all. I want it to be good enough for the build up.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

As soon as he entered the Brownsville Arts and Culture Center, James Bucky Barnes was hot. Blood was rushing to his ears and he needed a drink. He wasn’t sick; his symptoms were all due to you.

The black dress that adorned your body contained all of his hopes and dreams, but you seemed to be flirting with another man, twirling for him and then giving him a hug. To add insult to injury, you had the nerve to laugh and smile with the punk.

You in that black dress was everything in the world that Bucky could want, except maybe you out of that black dress. As his eyes traced down your form, he noticed the 5 inch red bottoms that you had on. Yes. You, out of that dress with just the red bottoms. That was what he needed in his life.

But first, he had to take care of that other man.

—-

“Benson’s work emphasizes the subjects’ spiritual essence over their physical appearance, don’t you think?”

You turned around at the sound of the deep baritone.

“Well hello, Mr. Rogers. How are you today? Delivering an art analysis given to you by AI? Oh. I forgot. You are an ‘art dealer.’ An art dealer who goes to Soul Cycle in Brownsville all of a sudden?”

Steve clutched his heart.

“Ah. I’m hurt, Y/N. I thought we were cool. But I guess I deserved the air quotes. I do actually love art. I took some art classes when I was a kid and I still love to sketch.”

“Hmmmph. Okay. I’ll give you that. But how is it that you popped up in my Soul Cycle class? Don’t play me, Steven.”

Steve raised his eyebrow at you and grinned. He understood why Buckiy was so drawn to you. Not only were you gorgeous, you were a spitfire. That was hot.

“I would never try to play you, Y/N. I also actually love Soul Cycle. Used to teach a class in Park Slope.”

“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”

Steve’s eyes slid over you appraisingly.

“Speaking of. You look very, very nice today.”

You twirled for him, feeling as safe as you would your brother.

“Nice. Okay, listen. I’m sorry about the other day. I was just trying to protect my friend. And you.”

Steve sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve never seen Bucky like this. He’s never been this smitten with someone before and let them into his life. But I get it now.”

Steve’s blue eyes were almost as beautiful as Bucky’s.

“Bucky is my family. Since we were kids. He’s always taken care of me. And I will do anything for him.”

He raised his eyebrow at you.

“I can see now that means that I will do anything for you, because I have a feeling that you’re gonna be around a lot. So do you forgive me?”

You considered Steve. He was not too different from his best friend, and you couldn’t hold a grudge. Not after Bucky laid it all out to you last night You opened your arms.

“Let’s hug it out.”

Steve chuckled and gathered you into his warm embrace. You pulled back and giggled, grinning at him.

“So what makes you think I’m gonna be hanging around?”

“Well, judging from the look on Bucky’s face, he’s serious about you.”

Steve nodded behind you, toward the door. You looked that way and saw James Bucky Barnes headed straight for you.

And he didn’t look happy.

—--

“Good morning, Frumoasă. You look stunning today. The exhibit is amazing, the space looks great and it seems that the right people are in the building.”

Bucky came up and placed his hand on the small of your back as he spoke to you, ignoring Steve. His blue eyes were storm clouds at the moment, and his touch was electric.

“Thank you, James. You’re so observant, I appreciate that. And you look very handsome today.”

You looked him up and down and bit your lip, meeting his gaze and the way he kept eye contact as he inclined his head in response.

Bucky was attractive as hell in his black on black shirt, blazer and slacks. You noticed that his collar was unbuttoned; the medallion hanging on his chest made you want to take it between your teeth. You stared at it for a moment, imagining such a scenario where that could happen and then met his eyes again, prompting desire to roll through you as Bucky licked his lips. He was right there with you.

You smiled at him in a way that you didn’t smile at Steve. Who was Steve Rogers, anyway? You could hardly remember meeting him as your mind went to the feel of being in Bucky Barnes’ arms.

You sensed an air of proprietariness as Bucky took your hand and kissed it, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Possessive Bucky Barnes felt like a sin you wanted to indulge in. You cleared your throat and looked at Steve, as if surprised to find him still standing there, watching the show.

“Well, I see some board members over there, I’m going to go do my job. Talk to you later, boys.”

You walked away and gave them a wink over your shoulder, and you caught both of them looking at your ass. You shook your head and chuckled as you went on your way.

“You trying to steal my girl?”

Everyone stopped when Steve laughed, his deep boom a distraction. Bucky still wasn’t amused.

“Oh. So you’re in love.”

“What?”

“You’ve never worried about me taking your leftovers or vice versa before. Hell, we’ve even shared–”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Bucky snapped at Steve who put his hands up.

“Whoa, there. Just yanking your chain, buddy; I know she’s special. I wouldn’t dream of making a move on her. Not that she knows I’m alive. When you walked up, I thought I was going to have to take off my jacket so you two could fuck on the floor.”

Bucky was barely listening to Steve as his eyes followed you around the room. One thing Steve said was echoing in his mind: “So you’re in love.”

—-

You floated through the rest of the day on a cloud. The exhibit was a smashing success with the

Board of Directors in attendance. Securing Howard Benson’s penultimate work from Rebirth was the feather in your cap.

And you had Bucky to thank for it.

Bucky’s visit was also a hit; he and Steve charmed the board members with the help of Sam and Nat, who arrived later. They all made amends for what occurred that week and you were left very impressed with James Barnes.

After a couple of hours at the event, Bucky came over to let you know he was leaving.

“I will see you later, Frumoasă. I have much to prepare for tonight. Nico will pick you up at 7:30.”

“See you soon, James.”

He kissed your hand again.

“See you soon, Y/N.”

—---

“It is actually insanely attractive how you handled yourself in the kitchen.”

You were seated with Bucky on his couch in his living room, looking over the New York skyline from his Brooklyn penthouse. The dessert had been delicious and the wine in your hand was spectacular.

“I was sure you’d order something in and just play it off. But I watched you create a meal in front of me, and I should have known that if you said you were going to cook, that you would do just that.”

Bucky’s heart beat double time at what you were saying. He wanted so much for tonight, but most of all, he wanted it to flow naturally. He saw that you were relaxed and open to him, which pleased him immensely.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Frumoasă. I enjoy cooking for my friends and family. Cooking for a beautiful woman is a treat.”

Bucky’s eyes slid over your form. You had changed to jeans and a color block sweater that just put your cleavage out there for the world, which was Bucky Barnes, to see. You also wore the same red bottoms from that day, and Bucky was beginning to think he had a foot fetish as you took them off at his entryway.

You took a sip of wine.

“How often do you do that? Cook for a woman?”

You barely hid your curiosity.

Bucky smiled and drained his glass, reaching over to refill it.

“Not as often as you’d think. Never had any other woman over here. Food is not usually the top priority with them.”

You pouted, which was so cute. Your spark of jealousy inspired Bucky.

“But I don’t want to talk about anyone else. Tonight is about me and you.”

Any uncertainty that arose was quelled by his assertion. You grew warm, so you finished your wine and rose to go to the window.

“This is the most gorgeous view I’ve ever seen.”

“Absolutely agree.”

You looked behind you and Bucky was still sitting on the couch, hands spread out on the back of it, checking you out. You gave him one of your adorable smiles and he came to stand behind you, and took you in his arms.

“I want you to know that you deserve everything, Y/N. To be cheered on and protected every day. And thoroughly ruined every night.”

You turned around and his hands went to your hips. It was the perfect moment.

“James?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

Bucky’s eyes dilated, and he moved his hand to your cheek. He licked his lips as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Ah, Frumoasă. I thought you’d never ask.”

His first movement was a subtle brush of your lips. He pulled back to assess the situation, and you didn’t know why, but that made your nipples tighten into stiff peaks. You gasped as Bucky watched you hungrily.

The air seemed to change around you, and you shivered. He lowered his head so his lips could meet yours again, and this time his mouth was gentle but demanding. You gasped at the spike of electricity that flared between you and Bucky took the opportunity to dip his tongue into your mouth, scorching your lips and soul. With a low groan, he shifted your angle, bending you backward a little to kiss you deeper and ripping a moan from you as you melted against him.

Good lord, could the man kiss.

At that point, he was holding you up, one hand on your hip and one hand on the back of your head as you molded yourself against him. Bucky’s fingers dug into you, sure to leave bruises the next day. You relished the thought as you moaned into his mouth again, giving him the opportunity to continue destroying your soul.

Bucky dragged his lips from yours reluctantly and stared at you, eyes almost black with desire. He brought his thumb up and wiped the moisture from your bottom lip. Motivated, you captured his digit, drawing it into the hot wetness of your mouth. He stared at you, mouth open, as you looked him straight in the eye and started sucking.

Bucky moaned as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth, and walked you back to the couch. He extracted his finger, watching the show your lips put on as he pulled it out, leaving them in a delectable pout.

“More,” Bucky demanded as he crouched down and took your head in both hands as he kissed you again.

His hands wound up in your hair, tugging gently, then on your back, then your ass as you arched your back to fill his palms. Bucky picked you up, then deposited you on his lap as he sat down on the couch, and you felt how aroused he was. His thick length was where you needed him most.

“Fuck! That feels good.”

Bucky was watching you grind on him like it was the best show on earth. Then he looked up at you.

“Yes, yes it does.”

He leaned forward and captured your bottom lip between his teeth, a preview of how rough he wanted to be with you. Then, he went in for another kiss. That continued for a good five minutes until he pulled away to stare at your swollen lips, and down to your cleavage, which was practically in his face.

When his eyes met yours, you were entranced.

“You good? You want this to happen?”

You nodded and took his hands in yours, guiding them up to your breasts, squeezing yourself with his hands. You rolled your hips, causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

“Like you said, James. More.”

You continued to grind on him, causing him to just gape at your body moving on his.

“I’ve dreamed of this so many times…”

“Yes? Tell me about your dreams, Baby.”

His hands moved to find your nipples through the lace of your bra and the wool of your sweater. He found them in no time, and pinched them lightly, then more roughly when you moaned.

“Mmmmnnnn. So fucking hot.”

Bucky kissed you again and then pulled away as he stared you down and tortured you.

“I dream about marking you up,” he kissed your neck under your chin, “to your clavicle,” a kiss there, “and all over this beautiful flesh until I get to your nipples.”

He looked at you for any signs of discomfort as he slipped his hands under your sweater to find the thin lace there. He found your hard peaks again and started rolling them both in his fingers.

“Then I want to kiss and suck them until you come in my arms.”

“Holy god, Jamie….”

Bucky’s eyes rolled at the second pet name you called him and continued.

“Wake up so fucking hard every morning since I met you. Then, I daydream about how wet and tight you will be after I made you cum, and how good it would feel to… to give you my cock. Do y’like that idea, Frumoasă?”

“Y-yesssss!”

“O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă.”

You almost came right then.

“D-don’t know what you said, but yes to whatever you just suggested.”

Bucky pulled you to him, and then chuckled into your ear.

“It means that I want to make you cum over and over again on my cock.”

You were already making a mess in your jeans, but you knew he could feel you soaking them at the moment.

“Please. Give it to me?”

Bucky groaned and kissed you again, this time encircling your waist in his grip and pressing you down on his bulge.

“You know I can’t deny you anything. Are you certain?”

“Yes, James. Please…”

He lifted you easily, kissing you as he walked you down the hall to his bedroom, depositing you on his bed.

“Y’look so fucking good.”

He crawled toward you on the bed and settled between your thighs as you hitched your leg over his. You pressed your core against his bulge and it had you muttering.

“Too many clothes.”

Bucky leaned up and you were fumbling with his button and he with yours. You looked up and laughed.

“Maybe faster the other way.”

“Agreed.”

You two made quick work of your own garments, flinging them around the room between frenzied kisses. The way your eyes widened when Bucky got naked made his chest swell. He wanted you to always look at him like that.

“Wow…,” you said as your eyes roamed his physique.

His cock seemed massive as it slapped him on the abs.

“Wow, indeed,” replied Bucky as he took you in hungrily.

Your white lace underwear looked amazing against your skin and against your cunt it served to make him hungry.

He moved toward you again, kissing up your leg until he got to the edge of your panties and nudged his nose there, making you squirm.

“Smell so good, look so good…”

Bucky kissed at the edge of your underwear,

“I just know you’re gonna taste good too..”

He moved to the center of you, placing a kiss over your lace-covered sodden slit. Then, he looked up at you and smirked before he leaned down and licked you over your panties.

“Fuck.”

He pulled your panties to the side and gazed at you there.

Those blue eyes threatened to steal your soul as he gazed at you and confessed, “This is the most gorgeous pussy I’ve ever seen,” and proceeded to lick a rude stripe up the center of you after he tore your panties away.

“Oh my god, James.”

You rolled your hips again and reached down to feel Bucky’s soft hair. He pulled your hips closer and his lips suckled you with more pressure, adding one finger, then two to stretch you out.

“Gotta get you ready for me, my love.”

Your eyes rolled back into your head as you moaned through Bucky thrusting his tongue inside you, then pulling back to focus on your clit.

“I c-can’t.. I–”

“Give me my cum, Frumoasă!”

You locked eyes with him as he buried his face in your cunt and shook against him as you came embarrassingly fast, pulling on his messed up curls.

“So fucking delicious. Taste.”

He took your head in both hands and kissed you deeply, and you responded by sucking your essence off of his tongue. You reached down and started stroking his cock, overjoyed and a little bit scared that your fingers didn’t meet around him as he unclasped your bra.

Bucky whimpered as your thumb came up and stroked his sensitive head, spreading his precum over the wide, mushroom cap.

“You’re so fucking huge, Bucky…”

Bucky pulled you toward him as he reached into his bedside drawer for a condom and a bottle.

“And you’re so wet, Furmoasa. We will make this work. Believe me…”

You continued to stroke and watched him as he brought the wrapper to his teeth and him tearing it open was about the hottest act of sexual protection you’d ever seen. Somehow, your mouth ended up sucking his tip as you watched his eyes roll back into his skull.

“That beautiful mouth…”

Bucky put his hand on your head as you tasted him experimentally, wondering if you’d ever be able to take it all. He seemed to read your mind as he spoke next.

“Don’t worry, I plan on us having a lot of practice with this later, but if you don’t let me put this condom on, I’m gonna cum all over your face, Frumoasă…”

You looked up at him and grinned as his cock jumped in your mouth, but you finally pulled off of him with a pop.

“I need to feel you around me when I cum love. S’all I’ve been dreaming of all week.”

Now his chest was heaving as he rolled the condom on, and he pushed you back onto the bed as his hand went to your core once again. You were even wetter than before and Bucky smiled at you, lining up and kissing you on the forehead as he began to breach your folds.

When he slid inside, your fingernails curled into his shoulders and your eyes grew wide. Bucky stopped, concentrating while his cock pumped, barely inside you.

“There is nothing. In the world. Like being inside your soft, wet, cunt.”

“Fuckkkkk!”

You became even wetter and he slid fully inside you. There, Bucky waited for you to get adjusted around him.

“So fucking tight. And hot. Just like I knew you would be.”

“More, Jamie!”

Smiling, Bucky started moving and you gripped him as he stroked in and out.

“Please don’t stop. Harder!”

Bucky grabbed the headboard and gave you what you wanted. His other hand pulled your hair and his strokes became more intense.

“Wanted to last longer, but I can’t, Baby. So beautiful. Pussy made for me. Cuming soon, but later… O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă. I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

You orgasm whited out your vision and your throat burned as you screamed. Bucky roared, filling the condom with copious amounts of cum. Your cunt was milking him and he hoped it would hold. He stayed sunk into you as long as he could before he had to get up and rid himself of the prophylactic.

He was only in the en suite for a few minutes as you floated in and out of sleep, lust drunk and exhausted.

Bucky climbed back into bed and got both of you situated under the covers, whispering in your ear.

“Stay tonight.”

“Of course. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

Both of you chuckled, because you knew it was true. Bucky kissed your ear and waited for your breath to even out. When he thought you were asleep, he whispered again.

“I’m going to be a better man for you, Frumoasă.”

“You are exactly who you need to be, James Barnes. Just keep moving forward. Tomorrow is another day to do that.”

After a few more minutes, you spoke again.

“Tomorrow will only be a week that we’ve known each other. Imagine that.”

Bucky buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.

“Guess I better wait until tomorrow to ask you to marry me.”

You laughed a sleepy laugh.

“You got jokes.”

“You know me, Frumoasă. A professional comedian.”

But somewhere in the dark of Bucky Barnes’ closet, a diamond found some light and sparkled.

——

The next morning is here ;)

Please, please! Let me know!

#ramp-it-up falloween 24 #falloween #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #seb stan #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff

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youreyeson1y · 5 months ago

Text

still got so much to find out

pairing: bang chan x producer!reader(f)

title:i like it by stray kids (album: ate)

cw: swearing, mentions of drinking/getting drunk

synopsis: chan thought there was something between you both, but when he saw you put your arms around hyunjin's waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he began questioning the whole situation.

tags: fluff, mutual pining-ish, miscommunication-ish heh, stubid :( and petty chan, minor minho + chan bonding, loong exposition, hwang siblings = real siblings (!!)

link: ao3

note: there were some issues with the povs I faced while writing this, so for the first part, it'll be in 2nd person, while the last 3/4th of the story is in 3rd person. sorry for the confusion !

word count: 2.9k

enjoy !

“I think you need help, man.”

“What’chu talking about, I’m fine.” The man you were basically carrying on one shoulder tried to stand up, tripping over his feet and words.

“See?” He stumbled, standing up on one foot to prove his sobriety. “Are you proud of me now?” He flashed an endearing smile at you. Your face flushed at the sudden eye contact. You covered it with a groan as Chris fell right into your arms again.

Instead of the quiet evening you had planned, you had never imagined that you'd end up spending your Sunday night at a restaurant watching over eight guys drinking as if it's their last day and telling a very drunk Christopher that you were proud of him for standing up.

You turned around as you heard a click sound behind you, and saw a chuckling Felix clicking pictures of their leader.

“Aw man,” Jeongin looked over his shoulders. “That has such good blackmail potential.”

“Or a really cute birthday post.” Felix cackled.

“Hey, come on now guys, don’t—” Felix turns his screen towards you with a smirk. “—forget to send that picture to me. Anyway, instead of smiling like fools, come here and help me get him in the car.”

Changbin and Jisung walk towards you, followed by Minho and Seungmin, who were the most sober of the bunch, and helped carry Chan off of your shoulders.

“Hey, no, wait,” Chris whined as soon as Changbin pulled him off of you, his senses seeming to come back to him. “Let me drop you home, y/n.”

“Chan,” Your eyes went soft with a smile. “I would love to, but neither of us are sober enough to drive, and I—”

“She's coming with me, man, not with your drunk ass,” Hyunjin walked over, casually draping an arm over your shoulders. “Lets get going, y/n. We can't be late.”

As you gave Christopher’s hand a squeeze and walked over towards Hyunjin, it felt as if you had squeezed the life out of Chris.

Had he misunderstood you this whole time?

As Chris sat sandwiched between Jisung and Changbin in the backseat, he saw you and Hyunjin get into another car while you were giggling with an arm casually wrapped around his waist.

As you got into the car, he saw Hyunjin hand you a present.

Chris thought you and him had something going on; he didn't know what, but he sure felt something. And those feelings were stronger this evening, when each smile he brought out of you made his heart ache and his lips twitch up.

But was it only him who was feeling that way?

“You okay, Chris?” Minho called out from the driver's seat, looking over at him with concerned eyes. “I've never seen you drink so much.”

“Ah, yeah, don't worry about me,” He rubbed his face with a groan, the effect of the alcohol making him tired. He smiled as he felt Changbin and Jisung’s heads fall on his shoulders with a soft thud. “You know how hectic it has been with the new single. I guess I just wanted to let loose for a moment.”

“I get it,” Minho paused, debating on whether to continue or not. “I just… I hope you're not pushing yourself too much, Chan. We're here to help you if you need… and y/n’s here too. So just, reach out, okay?”

“Mhm,” Chris smiled. “I will. Thanks, Minho.”

Usually it would seem weird that they were having a heart to heart after a night-out when one of them was sober, but Chris understood where Minho was coming from.

It was unusual for Chris to drink, let alone get drunk, so he might think that something was on his mind for him to drink like that.

But little did Minho know, it wasn't something, but rather someone.

Chan wasn't even planning on drinking, knowing he had a producing session the next day, but when his stupid friends suggested a game of a shot for a secret, he couldn't help but comply, intoxicated not by the soju, but by the need to learn more, to know more about you.

But as he remembered seeing you wrap an arm around Hyunjin as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Christopher didn't know what to feel.

The only thing he was sure of now was that no matter how he felt, the feelings of his brother came first; he could never do something that would hurt Hyunjin, or put you in an awkward position.

Y/N, although a fairly new producer at JYPE, was already popular amongst other artists. She had almost received a celebrity status, when even the public knew a song produced by y/n was sure to top the charts.

But as a kpop fan since her younger days, for y/n, her job was more like a paid hobby, where she got to meet and collaborate with other artists.

So, when she was proposed to co-produce several songs for Stray Kids’ new album, she jumped at the opportunity; not only because of the group’s popularity, but also because she was a die-hard fan of the group.

She was obsessed with their music, their vision and the momentous impact they’d had on artists and fans around the globe— she felt honored that she would be able to leave her mark amongst their talent.

She was excited to work with them; even while casually greeting them in the halls of the building, she found their energy to be highly contagious. And that feeling remained when she became close friends with the members only after a few weeks of working with them.

While becoming friends with all the members, y/n couldn't help but want something more with a special member.

Maybe she did have a tiny crush on him even before they started working together; greeting him in the elevator or bumping into him while getting coffee used to be the highlight of her day.

But after spending more time together, it wasn't just his extremely handsome face, but he became incredibly attractive to her once she saw the way he treated those around him, his commanding but caring personality and his charming aura.

Being co-producers, she always had to spend time with him, and looking at him in his element, his passion is what made her look up to him as a fellow artist too.

Y/n was down bad, but how couldn't she be?

Because the person living rent free in her head was Christopher Bang of all people.

But what excited her, was the fact that maybe she wasn't the only one feeling that way—

From asking her to hang out with them during dance practice, to purposefully going on coffee-runs together, or going on late night drives on the guise of dropping her home when both of them knew they had drivers.

Y/n couldn't help but feel delusional and believe that Chan was doing these small gestures as a way to spend more time with her.

And maybe. Just maybe, her suspicions were proven right last night, when in a crowded restaurant, it felt like it was just the two of them.

As the group decided to go out to celebrate, everyone expected Chan to look after them, as always, and stay relatively sober for his session the next day. But contrary to popular belief, when y/n saw him gulp down shot after shot to know more about her, y/n couldn't help but feel special.

As the other members were immersed in their own conversation, Chris and y/n were in a different world.

They shared their hopes and dreams and desires, and the moment that y/n knew that this moment counted for something, that it was different, is when Chris told her, the most relaxed and genuine she had ever seen him, that “It's nice being just Chris, for once. Thank you for not being bored of Christopher y/n.”

She knew as a leader, and as a performer in general, how much responsibility Chris had to shoulder on a daily basis. And hearing him say that made y/n feel somewhat proud of herself, for letting him let go for once.

In the dead of night, when half the city was asleep, she whispered in the softest voice, almost unknowingly, as she helped him walk out of the restaurant.

“I think I'm in love with you, Chris.”

But as he stumbled over invisible rocks, y/n felt thankful for drunk Chris because spilling it out like that felt like a mistake.

But once hearing it out loud, she understood these feelings were here to stay, so she decided she would have a conversation with him once he sobered up.

But now, roughly an hour had passed of them sitting uncomfortably in the recording booth, and for the life of her, y/n couldn't figure out what the hell was going on with Christopher Bahng.

As she had entered the recording booth an hour ago, she’d felt herself smiling instinctively as she saw Chris sitting on the couch, nervously clutching the hangover medicine in her hands.

“Hey,” Y/n stood in front of him with an uncharacteristically nervous smile. “How are you? Yesterday was wild, right? I brought hangover medicine for you… I wanted to make sure—”

“Oh, I'm okay.” Chan replied nonchalantly, not looking up from his phone. “Just so you know Changbin and Jisung will be late, so you can probably save it for them, I guess.”

This was different.

Chris, no matter how busy or preoccupied he was, always made an effort for the other person, may it be the other members or a polite barista.

The thought hitting her like a pile of rocks, y/n realized what if he had actually heard her confession last night and this was his way of rejecting her?

But no matter what, they still had to work on the songs together, and y/n thought maybe this was for the best, so that they could still continue working together as if nothing had happened, because no matter what, y/n did not want her own feelings to meddle with Stray Kids’ performance.

But as an hour had passed with them making little to no progress on the new song, y/n was fed up.

They usually had such good chemistry, and it felt like their production and arrangement styles merged perfectly, but honestly, she felt like Chris was being a major asshole now.

Chan was working as if she wasn't even in the room, or when she made a suggestion, he added it without as much as a thought, making her feel as if he was just humouring her.

Okay, maybe it was hard to work with someone you know has a crush on you, but did he have to act as if he couldn't even stand when your hands brushed together?

Y/n was hurt, but as a workaholic, she was also frustrated by his closed-off behavior. She was surprised too, because she knew how much Chan valued his work, so it made no sense for him to be acting this way.

“Okay, man.” Y/n finally snapped, when they'd been replaying the same three second audio clip from the last fifteen minutes. “What's your problem?”

“What's my problem?” Chan had the audacity to act surprised. Y/n hated how she still found his accent attractive in this situation. “I don't know, maybe you'd like to answer that when you've been the one silently just sitting here s—”

“What else do you expect me to do when you don't even want to acknowledge my presence in the room?”

“What do—”

“Okay you know what,” Y/n had to address the elephant in the room, or else they'd be going back and forth the whole day. “I know I fucked up, okay? And I guess you must hate working with me now, but can we just forget about it and act like nothing happened? I swear I won't do anything weird.”

“Wait a minute, back up;” Chan’s face flushed. “Can you tell me exactly what you're talking about? Did… did something happen last night?”

“What the hell, man” Y/n wished the ground would swallow her at this point. “You want me to say it aloud? Is this your way of making me more embarrassed than I already am?”

“No, I—”

“I confessed, okay? I said it.” She blurted. “And now you're uncomfortable, I understand, but please try to—”

“You confessed… to me?”

“Are you dumb? Of course, Christopher, who else?”

“Wait but,” He didn't know what to feel, happy or distressed. “What about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin? What about him? I—” Y/n was confused, but then her eyes opened wide in realization as she covered her mouth in shock.

“Oh my God, are you with Hyunjin?! Shut up, I'm so sorry! He did tell me he was with someone but I never thought… Oh my God, Chris, I never meant to—”

“What the actual fuck? No?!” Christopher stopped her, unable to hear her talk about this for another moment. “I'm not with Hyunjin, okay? We're literally like brothers. And why aren't you mad… aren't you dating Hyunjin?”

“Me… and Hyunjin? Ew, no!” Y/n looked like she was about to throw up. “He literally is my brother. Well, my cousin, but still. What the hell, what made you think we were together?”

“Hold up, you guys are cousins?”

“Well, yeah. I mean we didn't want to be public about it because people may think I got the job only because of him. Honestly I thought he told you guys, but it may have slipped his mind.

"And I didn't think it was my place to tell you guys, so I guess its kind of like a secret?” She scratched her head. “But what made you think we were together?”

“Well,” It was Bang Chan’s turn to be embarrassed now. “Last night I saw him give you a present and you both went together to—”

“Don't even finish that sentence.” She made a mental note to have a talk with Hyunjin and the members and finally tell them about their relationship, otherwise she was going to loose her mind. “It's Ye-ji’s birthday today, remember? Since the three of us are close, Hyunjin and I had planned a little something for her to wish her at midnight. So the present you saw was for Ye-ji, not me.”

“Oh.” The silence that followed was the most awkward moment of Chris’ life.

After what felt like eternity, it felt like the ice had finally been broken has they broke out into unfiltered laughter once they met each other's eyes.

“Wait,” Y/n smirked. “Does that mean you were jealous, Chris?”

“Whatever,” Chris gave her an endearing smile, the same one from last night. “I was okay? I was jealous, and I'd never felt anything like that before. I just didn't want to put either of you in a difficult position, which now I realize was a pretty stupid move from my side because I guess I could've simply just asked either one of you.” Both of them chuckled.

Chris gently took y/n’s hands in his as he continued.

“So, I tried to distance myself from you. But I realized, I just couldn't. We're a great team, and I think it's because we truly understand and know each other, which is a surprise, because I've never felt like this about anything or anyone in a long time.

“And not only that, you're one of the most talented and amazing people I've had the honour of knowing. Unfortunately, I do not remember what you said last night, so, I'm going to shoot my shot and hope i don't make a fool of myself.

"I think I'm in love with you, Y/n. It may be a risk, but you're a risk I'm willing to take. So I want to ask you, y/n, would you please—”

Before he could finish, Y/n, misty-eyed and overjoyed, reached forward to kiss him, and she felt relieved when she felt him smile against her.

“I guess that's a yes?” Breathlessly, Chris smiled.

“Yes, yes, yes… A thousand times yes, Christopher Bang!” Y/n laughed. “I think I'm in love with you, too. You—”

The two of them jumped in their seats as they heard something fall. As they turned their heads, they saw Changbin and Jisung standing near the door, looking at everything but them.

“Oh, hey, guys, didn't notice you there!” Jisung said in an extremely high-pitched voice. “How are you?”

Changbin, the voice of reason for once, smiled knowing. “We were going to say that we're sorry we're late, but I guess you did not really feel our absence.”

Chris knew that smirk— it was that of him winning a bet. “We can complete this song another day if you want.” Changbin said, smacking Jisung on the head for acting so dumb.

“It's okay guys,” Y/n wanted to die. She knew she was never going to live this down. “We were just waiting for you—”

“No, you know what, thanks, Binnie.” Chris held y/n’s hand with a smirk as they stood up and walked towards the door. Chris knew they were not going to live this down anyway, so he might as well take this opportunity. “We'll let you know when we'll be free. Don't call us!”

As Chris and y/n walked out of the room in a fit of laughter, they heard Changbin laugh just as loud.

“Sweet!” Changbin cackled. “I’m gonna be 50 dollars richer!”

a/n: honestly i never really thought how hard it would be writing an xreader fic, because at one point i literally started using you as a name instead of a pronoun lol. literally was so much harder and i had actually written a snippet weeks ago before i abandoned it due to writer's block but then ate dropped (go stream y'all !!) and the new era has been living rent free in my head, so that gave me the motivation to finally get back to that and make it what it is today lol.

my first xreader and honestly channie was the best person as my muse ♡ i can only say i may write more hehe

i hope you enjoyed and please lmk what you thought and leave comments in my ask box, on ao3 or the tags !! requests are also welcome ♡

untill next time 💌

bang chan masterlist

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alexanderwales · 1 month ago

Text

One of the funny things that comes with editing something I haven't touched in a while is that I'll get to some little piece of a sentence or paragraph and because I'm in editing mode, I'll think "ah, I should have had a line there that explains that he doesn't know her" or "ah, should have had a description of that". But right as I've resolved to add in this thing that I've decided would make the work better, I read the next line, and it turns out that it's right there, like I've already anticipated my own suggestion.

The much worse version of this is quickly editing in the needed exposition or description and finding out it was already there only later.

#writing

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daflangstlairde-art · 3 months ago

Text

lightning in our fingertips today

Work 1 of DFL's Whumptober 2024

Summary:

Donnie and Leo get hit with a wayward body swap spell. You could say it gives Donnie a new perspective on the matters of his dear twin. When was Leo going to tell them that his Ninpō hurts him?

—

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Draxum rubbed the bridge of his snout, sighing, already tired of their crap.

“And you're sure you don't know anything else about the spell that you are being affected by, the caster, or their method of casting?” he repeated.

“Nope,” Leo repeated, popping the p sound.

“So then how do you expect me to, and I quote, fix this?” Draxum raised his eyebrows.

Donnie shrugged. “You're the mystic guy, right? Isn't that kind of your job?”

“I–” Draxum sighed again, dragging a hand down his face. Donnie couldn't help but feel greatly amused by it. Judging by Leo’s expression, the sentiment was doubled. “Can you at least discern whether the spell affects only your bodies or your minds as well?”

...Donnie and Leo shared a look.

“...Uh, what?” Leo asked the question for them both, thankfully, looking at Draxum.

Draxum sighed yet again. He should check his lungs.

“Swapping spells and curses can function in a variety of ways,” he began explaining. “They can only switch your bodies—the way you experience being in that body remains the same as you’d experience the world in your own body. Or they can, ah... let’s put it like this—they can swap out your self but put you in the experience of the other person,”

“Ah, they can swap our essence through mystic-magic-whatever but they don't swap our brains,” Donnie echoed, “Ergo all those neural pathways and malfunctions and whatnot remain the same,”

“Hey! Don't call it malfunctions,” Mikey chastised. Him and Raph were mostly here for the Exposition™.

“I... suppose you can put it that way,” Draxum blinked. “Though don't take it so... literally. As I've mentioned before, spells, curses, any sort of mystic–”

“–involvement can be highly metaphorical and swayed by our mere perception of things, yes, I remember,” Donnie said like he was in pain. Eugh. These are some of the parts of magic that he wasn't strongly affectionate towards. He didn't like their loosey goosey rules.

“Well?”

Oh right, Draxum had asked them a question.

“I mean, I dunno,” Leo scratched his head, “I guess I kinda think more... uh... like Donnie? Sometimes?”

Donnie frowned. “...Huh, that would explain your sudden willingness to view your own mystic powers through a more scientific lens,” he realized.

Leo cleared his throat, “Right, yeah, that's what I was talking about,”

Donnie sent him a look, but didn't have time to question it.

“And you?” Draxum turned the question to him.

Hmmm.

Had he noticed any odd behaviors in himself? Anything that wasn't very like himself?

...Hard to say.

Him and Leo overlapped in many a manner, and where they didn't, they differed greatly.

...Donnie remembered the craving, the need for a second person’s presence from last night. Which also made him realize his inability to sleep wasn't born from obsession over a project, which was the reason why he usually couldn't sleep; he kind of just... wasn't able to, which... did sound more like Leo. They were aware of his insomniac struggles.

Huh. Donnie hadn't thought about it. This line of thought was making him view the last two days in yet another new way, comparing his behavior to Leo.

It wasn't much like Leo to freeze up in the middle of a fight—that one was admittedly more of a Donnie thing. However, it was supposed to be a thing of the past—a thing that happened when he was overly reliant on his tech, when it would suddenly be unavailable to him for whatever reason. Ever since he got on the same page with his Ninpō, obstacles like a piece of fried equipment or drained battery weren't so monumental.

...He suppose it was logical he’d return to that state of mind due to the sudden inability to use his trusty mystic powers. Which sounded a bit too uncomfortably familiar.

The meltdown it induced was more Donnie’s thing as well.

...Except... except...

...The way his thoughts sounded.

They... they didn't sound like Donnie. Whereas so far his mental voice still sounded the way it always did.

No no, they sounded... like Leo.

The realization made liquid nitrogen pool in his stomach.

He– he would have to reflect more on it later, because the others expected an answer from him. Donnie cleared his throat.

“Uh, yes,” he said, coughing awkwardly. “Yes, I have also noticed... the same. As what Leo answered,” smooth.

“...Ssssoooo,” Leo, thankfully, turned the conversation back to Draxum. “Can you do something about it?”

“Yes,” which made Leo grin, “I will do research,” Draxum stated, and Leo’s expression turned to a groan.

“Duuuudeee!”

Personally? Donnie wasn't all that mad about the fake-out.

Quite frankly, he had some research of his own to do.

“...Pluuss it would be too risky to initiate any spells involving your bodies and minds currently, considering one of you is concussed.” Draxum deadpanned.

Raph reached over and flicked the side of Leo’s head, making him loudly complain. Donnie snorted and Mikey giggled.

—

Night come, Donnie had two options.

A. Try to sleep on his own. Observe the effects it had on him.

B. Immediately head to somebody else’s room to spend the night with them.

He was a scientist, so of course he went with option A.

This yielded the expected results, though still, Donnie was unable to figure out the exact cause of his sleeplessness. Due to his usual modus operandi, he just wasn’t that used to pointedly analyzing his feelings, much less differentiating them from someone else’s. It was a bit frustrating, which did not aid the sleep matter!

Sooo here he was, once again rooming with Leo for the night. He’d kicked Leon to the outer side of the bed this time, so Donnie could lay on his left side, because his right shoulder was still hurting for no particular reason. And his shell, Leo’s shell, was aching. And once again, he felt nauseated after dinner, and he was starting to feel like that really wasn't just because of his personal sensitivities.

It was dark in the room, though not completely. There was a night lamp on. And the light of Leo’s phone. He wasn't sleeping either, just scrolling aimlessly. Donnie didn't pay much mind to it. He was here for research.

Aaand also to sleep, but, you know. Research.

...Though with Leo here, he was admittedly growing sleepy. It was just the two of them. Leo’s room didn't smell like much, but it still smelled like home. Donnie was laying on his side just passively observing the side of his twin’s face. His own face, that is, maskless in the night.

Just the two of them and their slow breathing. The subtle sounds of tapping whenever Leo would scroll down. He didn't even have the volume turned up. Some video popped up on his feed, and Donnie watched Leo watch it soundlessly for barely three seconds, with no indication of interest, before he scrolled to the next post.

Donnie idly played with the edge of the blanket over him (of course they had two separate ones because otherwise it will be WAR at DAWN). It was... a nice texture. He wondered if it would be a nice texture were he back in his body. He wondered if it felt nice only because he was sensing it through Leo’s.

He wondered how much this whole body swap thing was really affecting him. Draxum’s words made him realize there was a lot he hadn't noticed, likely because, well. He was operating like Leo now, and Leo acting like Leo wouldn't be odd to Leo’s perception. However, Donnie’s perception also still remained, and it was odd to him. But was it odd when compared to his normal or to Leo’s normal?

Gah. It was all so... so...! He wished this stupid spell had clearer lines!

But, alas, dramatic sigh. It does not, which meant Donnie had to map out the lines himself.

Was Leo not sleeping right now because of his usual insomnia? Or did he feel preoccupied with the desire to Do Something, which is what usually kept Donnie up?

...Was there a distance?

...It occured to Donnie that he wasn't entirely sure how Leo perceived his own Slumber Struggles. Donnie– hm. This situation was making him realize a lot of things like that, and it hasn't even been that long. He wondered just how much they didn't really know about Leo. How much they didn't think to learn, because it just... it just... it was just never brought to focus. Donnie wondered if that was just him, if Raph and Mikey did know. He wondered whether it was intentional.

Leo wasn't commenting on his staring. Donnie appreciated it.

“...You know you're supposed to rest with a concussion, right?” Donnie muttered.He frowned. “And– aren't screens also bad?”

Leo’s thumb (or, well, Donnie’s thumb, technically) paused. Donnie wasn't sure whether it was due to the comment or just because he was reading a post online.

“Yep, I know,” Leo said simply. Resumed scrolling.

“Theennn... why aren't you still up?”

Quiet.

The distant sounds of papá’s running shows. Some electrical hum. Soft breathing.

At last, Leo shrugged. “Can't sleep, you know how it is,” he glanced at Donnie just for a moment to throw him a grin, before returning to his task.

All in Donnie’s voice and with Donnie’s face. It made the action less smooth than it would be on Leo’s. Donnie wondered why, exactly, it felt that way.

“...I don't, actually,” he voiced his earlier thought. It came out flatter than he wanted, maybe because he was tired. “You've never really told us how it is,”

Leo paused again. Or maybe he was just idly reading another post, none of it really sinking into his brain. He shrugged.

He exhaled, and shut off his phone, slapping it somewhere on the bed to be immediately lost to the caverns of blankets and pillows. Donnie scheduled a morning expedition to dig out the lost treasure of Phone.

Leo shuffled a bit, getting more comfortable and laying down, blanket over him. Donnie could only see the larger shapes of his face in dim blue light from the night light.

“Happy?” Leo asked, and Donnie was pretty sure it was meant to be teasing, but it fell flatter than what was probably intended.

“Most definitely,” Donnie replied smugly, grinning, and shuffled to also get comfortable for some actual sleep.

Now it was just the darkness and the two of them. He felt relieved said darkness wasn't absolute, and when he caught that feeling and tried to examine it, he wasn't sure why he felt it.

The room was pleasantly chilly, so they felt just the right amount of cozy under their respective blankets. The air was well ventilated.

Donnie breathed in, and out, closing his eyes. He yawned. Leo yawned two seconds afterwards, and then mumbled an unintelligible complaint at Donnie for making him yawn. Donnie exhaled through his nose in mirth.

Why was his shoulder hurting? The shoulder Donnie remembered watching Casey Junior and Raph set after the Invasion? Why was there a persistent crick in this one specific spot in his shell? A spot that Donnie distinctly remembered having a crack post-Invasion? Mm, he forgot to ask Leo about it. Whatever. He’ll ask Leo tomorrow, or, something.

Donnie’s thoughts floated around, and he once again circled back to their fight with Baxter and his big robot.

In all fairness, Leo had been trying to get him involved in the tussle. He’d gotten quite skilled at coordinating them, actually. But he himself didn't want Donnie to use the portals if they hurt (hypocrite), and without them, there just wasn't much to do against a huge metal machine.

The plan was just to open it so Donnie could deactivate it. It went awry due to Mikey needing to step aside and Stockboy’s miscalculations. However, Donnie wondered if the whole thing would've gone smoother if he’d just sucked it up and used the portals. Their efficiency vastly overshadowed some mystic zippy zaps at his fingers.

...But it just– it just– it felt uncomfortable. There was an element to the faux shocks that felt... wrong. He couldn't quite describe it, but it made him feel... discomfort. Unease. Like sitting on the edge of a chair, a hard and lumpy chair. Like code that is ever so slightly buggy, even though he’s already spent hours making it as efficient as possible. Like that time his brothers (cough, Leo, cough) reprogrammed Shelldon. Something that just... isn't supposed to be Like That.

But for the life of him, he couldn't identify what exactly that meant.

Why did Leo fly directly into a collapsing building? Why did Leo keep a concussion away from their attention?

...Why did Donnie freeze up during the fight like that? Why was he hit with a meltdown like that?

...It just... it felt...

He tried to double down on everything he’d felt in that moment, like pressing down with your thumbs to locate a bruise.

There was just something about... something about...

It just overwhelmed him.

Watching debris and glass rain down in pieces, a curtain of destruction. Listening to the cacophony of car alarms, of people yelling in concern, sirens approaching.

His Ninpō was bust, his brothers were missing, his brothers were in danger. Two of his brothers were down for the count, and they were going to die and there was only one thing to do.

And it was terrifying and it was all his fault. It was the scariest moment of his life.

So Raph was off to save them, and he pushed himself to his feet. Even though his body was so sore, it all hurt from all the fighting, but he didn't have a choice.

Even as his knees betrayed him, he forced himself upwards. This was all his fault and it was choking him. He had to fix this, for his family.

A hulking figure in the distance. Metal and sharp and hateful. A red light, like a sign screaming GET AWAY.

But he couldn't. This was his last chance to just make. Things. Right.

It was a desperation that made him want to cry, so he set his expression and readied his stance.

The wind blew past him, as he shot forwards into the fight. And he lunged through a portal and he hurled his sword, and the Krang grabbed him and hurled his sword away and–

“YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING!”

–and–

“YOU WRETCHED–

–LITTLE–

–PEST!”

Each vitriol-packed punch from the Krang leader, massive and hulking and sharp and metal, rammed into his body with the force of an entire failed genocide.

Each hit was an admirable competitor to be his last. With each hit, the harm tripled—shell and bones shattering and collapsing, blood desperately trying to escape.

The only thing he had in his personal hell was a reminder of why and how he earned his place here in the first place.

Life swam in and out of his vision, everything blurred by pain until the pain blurred too. He dedicated the last flashes of color to that reminder, the most important thing in the world:

A small photograph showcasing his family’s smiling faces.

Tears rolled down his face, and he loved them so much it hurt. Everything hurt, and he was dying, and yet, and yet, and yet.

It’s okay.

They would live, this time around.

He hoped they would forget him, because selfishly, he didn't want to drag them down even in death, not more than he already has. He hoped they would thrive.

He couldn't help but feel... happy to be dying, haha. Because they would live, because they won, because it was over. Because he deserved it the most. It was right.

He couldn't help but smile.

“WIPE THAT GRIN OFF YOUR FACE, GAH–!”

–Donnie awoke with a desperate gasp for breath as his entire chest and lungs and heart collapsed under the–

–the...

...the nothing.

It was just him in Leo’s bedroom, trying to inhale in big wet gasps. Shaking in Leo’s body, washed in cold sweat, blanket half kicked off.

That... that was not a nightmare. There is no way that was just a nightmare. It was too, too... clear, detailed, too potent, too real.

Donnie would know, because after the Invasion, he had nightmares. It was like... leftover data from the avalanche that came with his connection to The Technodrome. Data, horrible data, that just needed an outlet, and his subconscious was the perfect ground.

“Leo–” Donnie let out, strangled, feeling around for– for–

Leo wasn't there.

Donnie shot up, but no, the half of the bed Leo had taken up was empty. In fact, Donnie had imposed upon it in his sleep.

The sight sent a fresh new wave of terror through his body, doing the exact opposite of helping him in this highly stressful situation!

Donnie stumbled to his feet, frantic, looking for his arm brace to track Leo down– no, wait, not the blue dot, he had to look for the purple dot–

—

“YOU!” Donnie leveled the shape of his twin with an index finger immediately upon stumbling out of the portal and onto the rooftop. Teeth gritted through the sharp sparkling between the layers of his hands' skin and flesh. “You gave me a HEART ATTACK!”

“Sorry,” Leo sheepishly shrugged, dissipating the purple constructs.

Donnie halted his terrified-infuriated momentum, gaping.

Wait.

Was Leo... training with his Ninpō?!

Did Leo. Get up in the middle of the night. And fly with Donnie’s hover shell to a random rooftop. To train with Donnie’s Ninpō?

The Ninpō that SUPPOSEDLY HURT HIM?!

Donnie was just beyond himself with this brother of his! His heart was in too fragile of a state to take this! He made strangling motions in the air, and Leo just looked amused.

“Are you– are– are you training with my Ninpō?!” Donnie exclaimed, incredulous.

Leo just shrugged, idly spinning his bō and turning around.

“No– no! You aren't– slithering out of this one!” Donnie seethed, following after the casual walk of his twin much less casually.

Leo just went to the edge of the rooftop and for a moment Donnie’s stomach swooped and his heart stopped–

(The portal collapsing on itself, an explosion, colors–)

–but Leo just... sat down. Legs dangling, but otherwise, considerably safe. Looking over the night life of NYC.

Donnie slowly exhaled, heartbeat erratic. He observed the figure of his brother, even if he was technically in Donnie’s body.

Dark, in the night. Though still visible, what with New York’s light pollution.

His back was to Donnie. He was looking out at the buildings. The bustle far down below.

He was... so... subdued. Smaller, even with one of Donnie’s shells on; smaller in presence, somehow. Like instead of spilling outwards and filling up a whole cathedral, his presence was kept neatly to himself. No more, no less.

Donnie rushed to be beside Leo, arms crossed.

“I had a nightmare,” he stated, and that got Leo’s attention. He winced, turning sympathetic eyes to Donnie.

“...Yikes, Dee, I’m sor–” he began, all soft and gentle and ready to turn the concern towards Donnie, but Donnie was not having it.

“I had YOUR nightmare,” he clarified through teeth.

Leo cringed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Augh, I’m really sorry about–”

“THAT'S NOT WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY!” Donnie yelled, throwing his hands.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Leo said, calm and gentle as ever, “I’m listening to you bro,” he affirmed, smiling.

Donnie clenched, unclenched, and re-clenched his jaw.

“You,” he whispered, “never told us you had nightmares.” he emphasized each part.

And Leo, Leo had the audacity to shrug.

“I mean, who doesn't, am I right?” he joked.

Donnie dragged a hand down his face, and sat down on the edge, next to him. At last, he tried to get his breathing under control. Tried to get his heart to stabilize. Tried to get the sheer horror thrumming through him to chillax.

That nightmare hit something sensitive. And not just to Leo’s brain.

Through all their altercations with all the different types of foes, there were few tragedies Donnie and his family experienced. Few real tragedies.

Because sure, it wasn't fun when, say, Draxum snatched them up to use them as bait for dad. It wasn't nice when Raph got Got during Big Mama’s Battle Nexus: New York.

But they handled it! Because they were still together! At the end of the day, they were together. And they could do anything together.

Shredder was one of those real tragedies.

Karai’s death, even though they didn't get to really know her– well. That is a tragedy in and of itself. They didn't know her well, but she was family and then suddenly she was no longer with them.

All of the Invasion still haunted them, in little and big ways.

But...

...That moment. That chain of moments.

(“Casey, listen to me. When I get to the other side, you close that door.”

“This is the only way.”

“Hero moves–”

“I’m proud–”

“–Casey, PLEASE!”)

Staring up at an objectively marvelous explosion as the portal closed around The Technodrome for good. Colors of light expanding, crystalline through his tears, it was the ugliest, most horrible thing Donnie had born witness to.

It was the scariest, worst moment of his life.

Donnie brought his feet up, propped his elbows on his knees to hold the sides of his head. Squeezed his eyes shut, tears prickling just at the memory of it.

He would go through the entire Invasion twice over, if it meant he would be sure to never go through that one moment ever again.

“You–” his voice cracked, and he swallowed. “You almost died, Leo,”

We almost lost you. I almost lost my other half, my mirror, the outline of my own existence.

How could you feel that was ever “right”?

“But... I’m alive,” Leo smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. Well. Donnie’s hand on Leo’s shoulder, technically. “Soo it's all good!”

Yes, Leo was alive, and that was all well and good. Except it wasn't, because Leo wasn't well and good.

And, to make matters substantially worse, none of them noticed.

His physical injuries recovered, and he bounced right back up. Better than ever. Less pestering, more serious, more dedicated. More sincere, or so they thought.

It was a beautiful act, crafted oh so carefully, and it was by design that none of them noticed. It was the second ugliest thing Donnie had ever seen.

“Hey,” Leo caught his attention, gentle and soft and caring. Because he was still directing this Donnie’s way, he was still trying to take care of Donnie.

Donnie glared at him. It wasn't as effective with the built-up tears.

Leo was unaffected by it, and even though he wore Donnie’s face, Donnie recognized the smile he was giving.

Leo opened an arm.

Donnie’s lip wobbled, and he readily sunk into the embrace. Immediately clutching onto his twin like he was going to perish right here and right now.

It was a little awkward, with the way they sat side by side on the edge of a rooftop. But it was good. Cars and people moved far below them, lights humming against the blue of the night sky. It was starting to smell like autumn chill. But being held by Leo, his twin, Donnie felt a little warmer.

He swallowed the distress, to say–

–Oh.

He winced as the sharpness of a concussion headache sunk in very suddenly.

Oh.

O– okay then. Huh. Hm. Well. This is... fine.

“Ack, wait, hold on–” Leo tried pulling away from his hug, because it was Donnie who was holding him now. Donnie didn't allow it, just squeezed him tighter to indicate he was not letting go under any circumstances!

Leo was going to be hugged and loved, whether he wanted it or not!!!

...Well, no, of course Donnie would let go if he was genuinely uncomfortable. But he wasn't going to let Leo deny himself some affection.

This was about him.

“My head hurts,” Donnie muttered a complaint, just to taste his voice that was his own yet again. Leo had the audacity to chuckle.

“Sorry,”

“Yeah, yeah,”

But... thinking about it... really, beside the head injury...

Donnie rubbed his fingertips together. There was no leftover static to it. No soreness, no displeasure, nothing. Even though Leo had supposedly been training for a bit now.

Donnie had been looking for something definitive, this entire time. But if there were any definitive signs, they would have noticed something was wrong much sooner. They didn't.

Something that would spell out, in no unclear terms, Leo is struggling. Leo has been struggling. Leo needs help. You aren't just overthinking this.

The nightmare-flashback, yes, but.

“...Using my Ninpō didn't hurt you, did it?” Donnie whispered.

Silence. Their breathing. Their heartbeats.

Minutely, Leo shook his head, now his head.

Why did you lie? Donnie didn't ask. How long has this been going on? he didn't ask.

“...Why does the magic born from the power of family, love and togetherness hurt you, Leo?” Donnie dared to ask, quiet. Like otherwise it would scare away the poor skittish animal that was vulnerability.

“I think,” Leo started, now in his own voice. In a tone that was trying to make it a lighthearted matter even as Donnie’s heart was audibly being ripped apart. “that if you're asking it like that, you... kinda already know why,” Leo answered in mirth, teasing.

But he was wrong. Donnie really, really didn't. He didn't know why. He didn't understand. He didn't understand why Leo would hide from them, why he would feel this way.

And all his well-informed theories hurt. They hurt. He supposed he knew why the feeling of Leo’s Ninpō was so... wrong.

Something like that wasn't supposed to hurt him.

Was that... really... how Leo felt about it? About their, their–

Donnie squeezed his eyes shut again. Might as well make them match, both tearing up due to his emotions.

“My head hurts,” Donnie said, just a bit choked up but you have no proof.

“Sorry,”

“You already said that,”

“Sorry 2.0 then,”

Donnie snorted. Damn Leon.

“We are going to bed,”

“Whaaattt! Dude–”

“Do not argue with me, Leonardo, or I sweear– you are going to sleep,” Donnie emphasized, squeezing Leo tighter.

Leo complained, but didn't resist being dragged to bed.

They still had to work on fixing his Ninpō. Donnie had questions to ask, including the matter of Leo’s shoulder and shell and his persistent nausea and on and on the list went.

But for tonight, this was enough.

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elodiah · 3 months ago

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Seven Sentence Sunday

No rest for the wicked! Or for the possessed fic writer, whatever. Just dropped fic #2 out of 25 for Bad Things Happen Bingo, and now I’m moving on with a handful of other WIPs for the same project. Today we have a little bit of exposition for a sick!Mobius ficlet (probably ficlet, IDK yet), and this one is set in the same universe as what @thosegayoldmen and I affectionately call “Sickly Bitch Loki”, as featured in In Sickness and in… Health? and Always Read the Label. This one will be more serious h/c though, rather than pure silliness.

At first Loki basked in the novelty that, for a change, it wasn’t him having to reach for the box of tissues on Mobius’ desk every few minutes. Then it dawned on him that he was very likely to blame for Mobius getting sick, abruptly transposing the smugness to remorse.

Loki had, as intended, picked up a virus from a town gripped by an epidemic on a planet they had recently visited. It started out as razor blades in his throat, accompanied later in the day by sniffles, then topped off with a brutal fever and chills that began after several further hours. Loki had hidden it masterfully, however, so as to be included in the mission the following day, instead of being forced to stay at the TVA to get better. He was absolutely fed up with being unwell, and badly needed a break, so he lumbered onto the timeline with an unusually oblivious Mobius and sneakily healed himself… guilt over the deception now inevitably plaguing him instead.

Because at the time, Mobius had no idea that Loki had been contagious with anything — although he really should know better by now, Loki thought bitterly — and so he hadn’t taken any of his usual precautions to assist in infection control.

Ah, Hel.

Tagging @kcscribbler , @lokimobius , @in-my-loki-feels , @thosegayoldmen , @loki-is-my-kink-awakening , @mirilyawrites , @silentxsymphony , @andthekitchensinkao3 , @impulsemuppet

#lokius #loki #mobius #loki series #loki fic #loki fanfic #fic writing #seven sentence sunday

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serensama · 1 month ago

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I think we're getting low on onions again...

Chapter 4

Heavy dialogue, hardly any exposition. Too much bravado throughout. ALSO- I’m willing to believe in Antiva, there is a dialect of mostly Italian and one mostly Spanish. It is the only way I can take the mashing of it all in DA:VG. That is all.

Read on Ao3 Prompt 2 out of 25: Braggadocio Rivain.

How he loved the bustling docks, the scents of the sea and the vibrant, carefree atmosphere of the coastal city. There was no better place apart from his beloved Antiva.

The city was always livelier whenever big names fought in the Hall of Valor- and with Rook in the city as Isabella’s headliner, it felt almost like Satinalia with the amount of people clamouring about. Everyone wanted to see the person responsible for leading the charge against the Elven Gods and saving the world.

Apart from the buzz of excitement and the heady aroma of rich spices- there was something different in the air. As he moved between the market stalls, a familiar tension began to coil in his gut, like the soft whisper of a shadow moving just beyond his sight.

A voice broke through the din of the evening crowd.

"Well, well, if it isn't the infamous Zevran Arainai. I heard you spent most of your time in Ferelden now," the voice was smooth, not unlike his own, with the same lilting accent of his homeland. Zevran turned, his hand instinctively reaching for a dagger. Standing across from him was a man, sharply dressed in impeccable dark leathers, his eyes gleaming with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were capable of.

Lucanis Dellamorte.

Lucanis had no intention of ever taking up the outstanding contract on Zevran. It was almost an urban legend within the Crows, that only those who wanted to die took it up, and this angel of death granted them what they had so craved. He did not give it much credence, he knew the target was just a highly skilled Crow with a grudge (not that he could really blame him).

Lucanis never thought he would come across the man, the world was wide and if he wasn’t looking for him, the odds of finding him were little to non-existent. But the Maker worked in mysterious ways. When he saw an elven man with golden hair and tattoos along his face sitting beside Isabella, he knew exactly who he was looking at. He had the tell-tale posture of someone who had once been a killer for hire, the dark glint of experience in his eyes—the former Crow was unmistakable, even after over 20 years since leaving his House.

"There is a contract on your head," Lucanis said without flourish, not wishing to do a disservice to the legend before him. This did not need flair, or a witty rejoinder to follow up the killing blow. "You can come quietly, or you can resist and die. Either way, you're coming back to Antiva to answer for your crimes against House Arainai."

"Ah, the newest Talon himself. Your reputation precedes you, Lucanis. Must we do this? I had not intended to join in fights in or outside of the Hall, but I must admit, I am intrigued. It has been a while since I’ve had a good scuffle," Zevran smirked as his fingers danced idly over the hilts of his twin daggers. "Tell you what, Fledgling —if I win, I walk free, and you return to Antiva empty-handed with an amazing story to tell. If you win, I will go back with you and face whatever punishments await. What do you say? Nothing too formal like a duel to the death, some Talons can take time to kill and I’d rather make it in time for the opening rounds at the Hall of Valor."

The ebony haired assassin narrowed his eyes, sensing the weight behind Zevran’s challenge. Plainly said it was obvious the man didn’t want to kill Lucanis, but he firmly held the belief that he could. There was no hesitation in his stance, and he expected no less, as one could not exterminate six Eighth Talons in succession through sheer luck alone.

"Very well. Let us see if the man truly lives up to the stories history has told about him."

“Ahh you flatter me, Fledgling. To know that the Crows still speak about me warms the cockles of my heart,” the older assassin grinned whilst he unsheathed his weapons, the steel glinting in the light of the setting sun.

“In truth, you are mentioned as more of a cautionary tale, a ‘don’t do what this idiot did and bring shame to all of Antiva’, sort of deal,” Lucanis chuckled as he pulled out his prized wyvern toothed dagger.

Zevran threw his head back in laughter, his own daggers hanging limply at his sides. “Wonderful! Nothing makes me happier to know this. Well, it has been fun, Baby Talon, but let us make this quick yes? I would like to get something to eat before the show starts.”

Lucanis rushed forward and the civilians around them dispersed quickly, far too used to seeing this type of scene happen in their city. Whether it was a fight between pirates, lovers' spats or just two very drunk people, it was not uncommon for disagreements to end with blood being spilled. The two rogues were left in a large circle in the middle of the thoroughfare for the two to fight without the worry of hurting a random passer-by.

For the most part, it seemed the two rogues were evenly matched. Zevran still moved with the grace and agility of a Crow in his prime, his blades flashing in and out of the fading light as he tried to find an opening in his opponent’s defences. Lucanis danced around nimbly with sharp, precise motions- each step and slash made with the controlled, measured quality his House was renowned for. Zevran was as fast as Lucanis was shrewd, and neither could afford any mistakes. The two were a blur of steel and shadow, determined to test the other’s mettle.

“This cannot be it, Baby Talon,” Zevran clucked his tongue at him, knowing that the man trying to kill him was holding back. “If you do not pull out something special, I will be taking that pretty dagger with me as a prize.”

Lucanis knew he was taunting him to make a mistake, to get a rise out of him and if it were any other weapon, anything other thing- he would not have reacted. But this was Rook’s first gift to him, he valued it more than his own heart. Lucanis’ eyes blazed as a surge of energy wrapped around him like a cloak. In an instant, he took to the air with eyes aglow and the ends of his wings sharpened – to cut the Old Crow!- for threatening to take something that was theirs. Zevran cursed under his breath as Lucanis darted well above him making him impossible to reach, weaving through the air with inhuman speed.

Zevran, however, was no stranger to adversity and was always on to think quickly on his feet.

“The rumours of you being a good old fashioned abomination are true then? My goodness it has been a while!” he yelled out over the clashes of their weapons.

“Not abomination! Partners! We made a deal!” Spite sneered as he dove once again, his raw power undeniable but his movements erratic and void of the focus Lucanis had.

“You see, that is exactly what an abomination would say,” the older Crow snickered as he continued to skirt around him. “I’ve killed my fair share, though not enough to get a fancy and apt nickname like you, oh Demon of Vyrantium,” he guffawed, ducking a swipe aimed at his face that if it had connected, would have rendered him blind and vulnerable.

“Oh you think I’m fancy? I’m honoured,” Lucanis retorted, taking back to the sky. “But make no mistake, the greatest honour will be collecting your contract and putting this business to rest after all these years!”

Their weapons sparked after Lucanis’ attack was blocked, pushing the former assassin closer to the edge of their unofficial arena. They stilled for a moment, both breathing heavily and sizing the other up, before Zevran managed a soft laugh.

"You will make a fine First Talon, Lucanis, truly. You have been a worthier opponent than most," he complimented the younger man, rolling his wrists and spinning his blades with unexpected dexterity for a man so long out of the Crow’s employ.

Lucanis dropped lightly to the ground, his eyes narrowing. He was not so green to trust that his enemy was not biding his time or using it to plan something to gain an advantage over him.

"My thanks. You’re not bad yourself, it is a shame the Crows lost you, you would have made a fierce Eighth Talon yourself if you had been so inclined. But your kind words will not win this battle, Master Arainai. You will answer for your crimes against the Crows."

Zevran, ever the charmer, flashed him a devilish smirk. It was not the first time he had heard those words and he knew it would not be the last. "Perhaps I will not win today. And you are right, I will have to face the consequences of all my actions eventually. But not today, and certainly not by you."

Lucanis’s lips quirked slightly as he looked at the elf, respect passing between them hidden underneath their snarky comments. A silent understanding born from their journey as Crows; fraught with hardship, and all the pain, blood and tears shed to get them both where they stood.

“Before we continue, I hope you can humour me, First Talon.”

“Certainly.”

“Tell me, Lucanis, are you as turned on as I am right now?”

Lucanis asked Spite to repeat what Zevran had said, unsure if he misheard the man. Apparently, he did not.

“What?!” Lucanis balked, afraid his eyes were bulging out of his head. He was a trained master assassin, things did not often surprise him but that- that random and invasive question confounded him.

“Come now, you are a handsome young man, you must know this dance well,” Zevran grinned at his challenger's reaction.

“Dance of Death? Absolutely. Dance of whatever the hell you think is happening between us? Not at all!” Lucanis lurched, taking an unconscious step back. This was exactly why he preferred to get in and out as quickly as possible when it came to his contracts, whenever he stayed too long things got awkward; not much one can say to someone they’re there to kill without it being a little uncomfortable. Mind, he’d never been this kind of uncomfortable with a target but he supposed there was always a first for everything.

“Look at you! So young and innocent to it all- it is so refreshing! The Crows sure have changed since-”

“Since you brutally and systematically slaughtered those Eighth Talons? Yes, yes they did. Not completely, and not all for the better, but changes were enacted thanks to the uh... consistent changes of leadership we faced, or so I was told,” Lucanis admitted thinking back on his past conversations with Teia and Viago.

Zevran smiled and looked far too proud of himself for Lucanis’ liking upon hearing how he shook up the inner workings of his once beloved Crows. He felt like celebrating, not fighting- change was progress, change was good.

“I propose a new duel, we take each other to bed and the first one to fall to the raptures of bliss, has to let the other one go. The Loser has to be edged for the rest of the evening,” Zevran said as his eyes raked over Lucanis’ body appreciatively. “To be fair though... I wouldn’t mind being the winner or the loser.”

The younger Crow stared at the lascivious man like he had just passionately made out with Caterina in front of him.

“As...flattering though misguided your attempts to pitch woo at me are, I must deny you and insist we continue as we were,” Lucanis replied, cursing his body for reacting to the ex-assassin’s flirtations, his cheeks burning under the man’s gaze. Zevran was older, yes, but as an elf, he remained somewhat out of time’s clutches and looked merely 5-10 years older than the new head of House Dellamorte, and still as handsome as all the senior Crows had described.

“Pity. It would have been fun to frolic about with you and your lovely inamorata,” Zevran teased, falling back into a crouched position and readjusting his grip on his daggers. “Rook, right?”

“You will not. Touch. Our. Rook!” Spite seethed with jealousy and possessiveness, monstrous waves of energy pouring out of him, alarming the crowd around them. “You should not breathe the air she breathes. We pity. For your chosen. You are Disloyal. Unfaithful. You dishonour them.”

The change in Zevran’s demeanour was imperceptible to most, but not to Lucanis. At the mention of someone the assassin held dear, the man’s bloodlust finally reared its head.

“Your demon friend has quite the mouth on it, Baby Talon,” he hissed with such an edge that had it been a knife in his hand, he would have been the one to claim first blood. “You should teach it to speak only when spoken to and only on matters it understands. Your inamorata must be desperate indeed, to choose to lie with an abomination.”

“Old Crow talks too much. Knows nothing about our Rook,” the demon said, glaring at the blonde rogue, spinning his knives menacingly.

“Is that so? Well I do know that my Sereda is by far the most exquisite being to walk the world, in Orzammar and Thedas, and even so- she chose me freely.”

“My Rook is incomparable, resplendent and unrivalled in both the physical world and in all the Fade! The woman could have anyone but she has decided to stay at my side.”

Zevran scoffed, pointing the tip of his blade at Lucanis’ head at the implication that anyone was more beautiful than his lover.

“Sereda once killed seven enemy soldiers in succession using only her bow, three arrows, a dagger and a fork. She somehow managed to beat 2 of them to death with the end of her bow.”

Lucanis snorted at his vain attempt to one up him through his lover’s accomplishments. For who could outdo Rook?

“That’s nothing! Rook killed 20 darkspawn in a matter of 5 minutes- including two ogres!”

“Impressive. But Sereda, an exiled dwarven princess, managed to make the human nobility of Ferelden bow to her whims and follow her judgements. She united clans of elves, werewolves, mages and dwarves to fight for her, together, under her command!”

“Quite the feat. However Rook was once a Tevinter slave, and she rose up to defeat a blighted Qunari conqueror and saved Treviso from occupation- and that wasn’t even part of her saving the world, she just did it because she is a good and kind person!”

“Blighted? You want to speak of Blights? Sereda, was the Warden who ended the Fifth Blight in a year and killed an Archdemon! And during her downtime she chose the next King of Ferelden and Orzammar!”

“So what? Rook played personal matchmaker to Fen’Harel and the Inquisitor at the same time as stopping the whole world from being destroyed by the Elven Gods! On top of that, together we’ve killed two blighted dragons and two Archdemons!”

“...You did?”

“What... like it’s hard?”

“Seriously. How are you not turned on at all?”

“I know I am!” someone else chimed in behind them, startling the two rogues. Perched on top of a stone bench was Rook, grinning widely at them and waving all too casually. “Please continue, as a Lord of Fortune I heartily believe in relishing in one’s successes. Continue on telling everyone how amazing I am, Luca! Please, do not stop on my account. I’m about three more outlandish compliments away from orgasm.”

The dwarf standing beside with her arms crossed shook her head and chuckled at the younger woman, her brash nature reminding her of herself back when she was running amok on the surface more than 20 years ago, flirting with everyone with a pulse. Rook glanced over her shoulder and turned back to the warring Crows. “Oh and please continue saying lovely things about my new friend Sereda Aeducan! Isabella introduced us, apparently the two of them go way back!”

Zevran sheathed his daggers and smiled at his lover, leaving his neck thoroughly exposed to Lucanis. A rookie mistake. He had to exert more influence over Spite to ensure the demon did not prey upon it – it’s right there Lucanis! I could even bite him to death! -knowing that the man knowingly chose to end the match and no longer wished to fight. He could not bring himself to strike him down in good conscience, especially when Rook was looking at him so intently.

“Principessa! Where have you been? I’ve been walking up and down these docks for hours waiting for your ship to come in!” he called out, completely disregarding Lucanis as a threat. “I was getting bored but some entertainment found me and kept me busy for a time.”

“I can see that Zev,” the Hero of Ferelden replied, glancing over to the First Talon. “Let me apologise for him, unfortunately once a smart ass Crow, always a smart ass Crow. I hope he didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

“Mi Amore! You wound me! I was minding my own business, when this man decided he wanted to collect on my long standing invitation. Did you just want me to accept and get killed for the sake of forgoing a little trouble?”

“Zev, I do not believe that for one second!”

“It is alright my Lady Aeducan, he was no bother to me at all actually,” Lucanis called out, offering her a deep bow, scandalising the former Crow. Zevran, known for his quick wit was unable to reply with anything other unintelligible noises and offended expressions to anyone who was paying attention. Which unfortunately for him was no one but Spite, who cackled manically beside him. “It is a great honour to meet the Hero of Ferelden, I read of your accomplishments whilst growing up, I never thought I’d ever get the chance to have the pleasure of meeting you.”

“You realise that I was the Warden’s companion throughout the Blight, yes? I helped!”

“Yes, yes that’s nice Arainai. Say, Lady Aeducan, have you ever come across a wyvern in your travels? I know you’ve travelled extensively and wanted to know the best places to go to see one in the wild nowadays.”

“Oh yes, you’ll find the Hissing Wastes have many, and Crestwood has been known to have a few there too,” she replied, giggling at the childlike expression of awe her newest acquaintance wore. “I adore them, I spent three whole days just camped out at the Wastes, just watching them all go about their business. If you get me a map, I can mark where they were last and where I camped.”

“That would be amazing, thank you! I adore them too! Rook! Imagine, three days of wyverns!” Lucanis chirped excitedly.

“I can’t believe I’m getting ignored for a glorified lizard,” Zevran whined, catching Rook’s eye who smiled at him apologetically.

“Before you get too invested in planning our trip to the Wastes, Lucanis, Sereda and I were chatting and she told me Morrigan was also her friend. She was part of her team battling the Fifth Blight- what a small world right?!” Rook squealed, her feet tapping against the cobbled stone path.

“Friend is… such a strong word,” Zevran chuckled as he took the dwarf in his arms and stole a kiss from her, not frightened to display his affection in public. Lucanis had a sneaking suspicion the elf probably enjoyed being watched. “Let us say she was a good acquaintance. A friendly tag-along. A mostly cordial associate who only occasionally threatened to make us eunuchs if we came a little too close to her fire at camp.”

Rook hummed thoughtfully to the woman who assisted them since the start of their journey. “Are you remembering right? Our Morrigan was always so polite and personable, I can’t think of her to be anything else.”

Zevran stared at Rook, his expression full of doubt and then back to Sereda who looked at the mage with surprise.

“Huh. The only time Morrigan was ever personable to me was when I stole her mother’s grimoire for her… and then again when I killed her mother for her,” Sereda thought back, scratching her chin.

“Ahhh that Flemeth! Part of me wished we had let the old bird live. If we got her out of the swamp and into some nicer clothes- she could have been a Wynne-level beauty and maybe she would have let me rest my weary head on her bosom.”

“Was that before or after you beheaded her?” Sereda snorted.

“YOU BEHEADED MYTHAL?” Rook shrieked, horrified at what she had heard.

“Mythal? What are you talking about? Who is Mythal?” Sereda asked, openly confused.

“The All-Mother of the Evanuris and my people! She was an elven goddess who took refuge in Flemeth!” Rook grimaced, remembering her time with her in the Fade. Thank goodness she hadn’t tried to kill her and just used her words- how many times was that woman murdered?!

“Well hey look at that Baby Talon, my Sereda helped kill an Elven God too!” the fair-haired rogue rejoiced, finding another reason to brag about his lover, the woman in question only staring at him and shaking her head at his need to best the other man. He was impossible.

A loud voice called out over the crowd, reminding them that the matches were set to start in one hour and to get to the Hall of Valor as soon as possible if they wanted seats.

“Oh we need to go, Sereda!” Rook quipped, “They’ll be waiting for us.”

“Us?” Lucanis asked, brow crinkled with curiosity.

“Isabella managed to twist my arm and have me fight in the arena with this one here,” the dwarf grinned, pointing to Rook with her thumb. “Isabella has pools running on which one of us will be able to get more kills.”

“I’m willing to take Sereda for that bet,” Zevran said, pulling out his rather hefty money pouch and jingling the coins within.

“Not so fast, I’ll double it, in favour of Rook ,” Lucanis countered and brought out his own very sizable purse from inside his jacket.

“Not possible, Signore, for I will bet thrice of whatever you will put down!” Zevran chimed, pulling another pouch out from the sash at his waist.

“Alright, alright, I can see where this is going- no need to pull out all your sacks and measure whose is biggest,” Rook grinned, waggling her eyebrows.

“Well there’s no doubt, obviously the heir to the House of Dellamorte is going to have the biggest sack,” Sereda said matter-of-factly, much to the irritation of her lover. “But if we’re talking cocks, that’s got to go Zev.”

“… I beg your pardon?” Rook asked, her laughter ending abruptly. “No no, Lucanis has the biggest sack and cock arou-”

“Child, the thing of beauty between my man’s legs-”

“… Do you feel a little dirty?” Lucanis asked Zevran, watching as their partners loudly debated their penis size for all of Rivain to witness.

“Yes. And not in the good way,” he answered, his face clearly displaying his distaste at the downward trajectory their discourse was headed. “Ladies! Ladies- truly the only way we can ever know is if we all band together tonight and we celebrate the old fashioned way- an orgy with Isabella. For old times’ sake.”

“… One orgy, 20 years ago and I will never live it down,” Sereda muttered, sending him a look of muted annoyance. “Come Rook, let me see what this generation of god killers can do.”

“Hey did I hear him right? You killed a soldier with a fork?!”

“Yes, it’s remarkably easy. I’ll show you when we’re in the arena.”

The two Antivans watched on as the women linked arms and headed towards the Hall, leaving both of them standing alone in the streets. Their original purpose for fighting each other long since forgotten after talks of wyverns, gods and testicle euphemisms.

“So,” Lucanis began, “it seems you did manage to charm the Hero of Ferelden and keep her for all these years. I guess not all the stories about you were as embellished as your fighting prowess has been.”

Zevran bit at the knuckle of his forefinger, laughing at the audacity of the younger Crow.

“I like you Baby Talon, I think you and I will become good friends yet, orgy or no. So please don’t make me dispatch my first, First talon. There are not enough Dellamorte’s to succeed you like in House Arainai.”

“I’d like to see you try. Unlike Rook, I also know how to kill someone with a fork.”

Zevran sighed happily and threw an arm over Lucanis’ shoulder, ignoring the hiss from the demon that resided within him. If the future of the Crows, and the world, were in the hands of Rook and her Talon, perhaps it wouldn't be too long until he could return to Antiva as a guest and not as fugitive-

“He might be okay with you. But I don’t like you, Old Crow. I’ll eat your face when he goes to sleep.”

… Maybe not.

#lucanis dellamorte #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age the veil guard spoilers #lucanis x rook #dragon age the veil guard fanfic #dragon age #rookanis #zevran arainai #zevran x warden

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ivystoryweaver · 10 months ago

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Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #10: A Quiet Place

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Summary: You and Steven get a few more answers before he takes you home and shows you how much he's missed you.

Pairing this chapter: Steven Grant x f!reader

A/n: I know I promised Jake, but I switched the order of 2 chapters, and I promise you'll like this one!

Word count: 2.1k

Content: exposition again, domestic fluff, steven gets to shine, fingering, p in v, bit of language, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

PREVIOUSLY on Spectre…

"Ms. Marjorie, why does she look the same? What happened to her body?”

"When I cast the spell on her," Ms. Marjorie explained, leaning forward on her elbows, "It's like I froze time for her. She is exactly the same as the night she died, except no longer in her old body."

She turned to you, smiling softly. “Their love essentially made you…materialize, just as they perceived you to be. I really don't know a better way to explain it."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“Let me get this straight,” Steven said. “This shop completely vanished, o-or I was hallucinating. What is actually going on here?”

"As I said, it’s Halloween," Ms. Marjorie explained. "Not a holiday you’d associate very closely with love, I suppose, but - you see - love is the most powerful magic in the world.

“Your lovely partner here wasn’t haunting you, as you’ve told me Mr. Spector feared,” she went on. “She was simply suspended between the world of the living and the dead."

“Then, why were you pretending to work here?” Steven inquired, gesturing around him animatedly. “What even is this place?”

“My shop," she simply replied.

"But...it disappeared," Steven argued. "When I needed answers most, it wasn't here."

"Ah yes," Ms. Marjorie smiled warmly. "When you needed answers most," she nodded your way, "you found her. When you were ready." She shrugged, beginning to tidy up the tea cups and saucers. "The rest was all a bit of witchcraft, nothing more."

You pondered your words for a moment before smiling fondly. "Thank you, Ms. Marjorie, for everything. You and Steven - both of you saved my life.”

"I fudged a spell that was meant to save your life, but if it turned out well in the end, then I suppose I did some good and for that, I am grateful," she chuckled.

"And we are grateful as well," Steven chimed. "Thank you for helping me, and for your kindness, but I do believe I may need to ask you one more favor."

"What is that, Steven?"

Steven took a deep breath. “The man who killed my partner. Do you know anything about him? Did you see anything else?”

“Nothing that will be of much help, I’m afraid. not that night anyway. But something mystical is at work here. Your grandmother called out to me because she sensed your danger from beyond. She’s connected to all this somehow.

"But enough time spent with an old lady. Go on and enjoy yourselves," Ms. Marjorie instructed, gazing at you pointedly. "Enjoy life."

"Thank you again." You stood, giving the older woman a warm embrace. "You’re an angel to me."

"Oh I doubt that," Ms. Marjorie chuckled. "But happy to help."

Golden-hued trees, late autumn sunshine and the changes that had infiltrated in your hometown over the last few months took your breath away as you passed them by.

Steven glanced over at you worriedly, reaching for your hand.

"This is all so unbelievable," you uttered, awestruck. "It's like I'm in some other universe. It's magical. But it's a lot."

“I can’t believe it either. We should get you some things from the drug store, but someone might see you. Maybe I should take you home first, and come back,” Steven suggested.

“No. No, I don’t want to be alone. I’ll just come with you,” you quickly protested, your racing heart reminding you just how alive you really were.

By the time you gathered some necessities and checked out at the drug store, Steven noticed you seemed a bit glassy eyed and short of breath.

"Let's go home, love," he said softly. "I've got you."

Back in your kitchen, you eased down on a chair, watching Steven carefully as he unloaded the bags from the store and put on the kettle.

"We'll order you some things online. Some clothes - whatever you want."

He watched you for a response, but you hadn't said much since you walked into the drugstore earlier.

Kneeling down in front of you, he reached for your hand. "Darling, I know this is all...impossible. But I'm here."

You nodded, mutely.

A line of concern creased his forehead as he chewed on the corner of his lip. But he was determined to take care of you. A few moments later, he set your favorite tea in front of you, despite the fact that you drank some with Ms. Marjorie.

The tea comforted you almost as much as when Steven brought Jeremiah to sit on the table beside you.

"I'm sorry," you finally uttered, tracing your finger over the cool glass of the fish bowl. "It...I think it feels too good to be true, it can't be true. It can't be."

"That's the way I've always felt about you, love," he sweetly returned, warm, earthy eyes locking with yours. "An absolute wonder, you are."

"Steven..." you whispered, your heart - your entire body so full of love an awe. "I think my head might explode if I think about this any harder," you confessed.

Steven brilliantly distracted you for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. He put on the most mundane documentary - just enough to hold your slight interest but keep everything calm.

Then he got the laptop and helped you pick out some basic clothes from your favorite store. They would arrive tomorrow because he paid for expedited shipping.

When your mind would start to wander, he would take the laptop and pull you close, even kiss you deeply. Once the documentary ended, he read to you for a little while.

The people on your street and the surrounding ones knew you had passed away, so not too many trick-or-treaters rang the doorbell, hoping not to disturb Mr. Spector, but Steven was prepared with a couple of bags of candy from the drugstore. You stayed out of sight as to not give the young ones a real fright.

The next time the doorball rang, it was for a dinner delivery, which somehow seemed like the most delicious thing you'd ever eaten. Before long, you grew sleepy, simply because existing was so damn draining. At least today.

You felt a little distant from Steven, not because there was anything wrong between the two of you, but because you hadn't spoken to him much all afternoon.

Still, he'd given you exactly what you'd needed. Just enough mental stimulation to keep your mind from wandering and getting overwhelmed. Just enough tenderness to make you feel special.

You ended the day feeling cherished, with a full belly. And you had clothes, shoes and other necessities on the way.

"I feel like I bored you to death on my first day alive," you finally joked after brushing your teeth.

"You know that could never be true," Steven refuted, wiping his mouth with a towel before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"Thank you for today," you said seriously, wrapping your arms around his neck as you stared deeply into his eyes. "You're like a touchstone. I feel so safe with you."

"I would do anything to keep you safe," he whispered against your lips, taking them captive for a tender but sensual kiss, squeezing your hips possessively. "Come on, love, let's get you to bed."

"I slept a lot today. I really am boring," you joked.

"Oh we won't be sleeping," he cheekily returned, goosing your ribs which made you squeal.

Whatever slight distance you had felt with Steven evaporated once you were in bed, as he gathered you to the warmth of his chest and slotted his mouth against yours. Hungry hands gripped the t-shirt he'd slid over your head not ten minutes ago as he kissed you until you both needed air.

"Can't even say how much I've missed you," he murmured, pushing his fingertips over the curve of your back, easing your shirt upward. His thumbs grazed the sides of your breasts, underneath your arms, causing your breath to stutter.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he went on, sampling your lips one at a time, only pausing when pulling the shirt over your head interrupted you.

His eyes flickered down to your mouth, then your chest as he licked his lips. "Never thought I'd see you this way again."

You swallowed hard, your breath quickening under his hungry gaze.

"You alright, darling?" He smiled gently, brushing his hand across your collarbone. "Too much?"

"No," you breathed out - your fingers twisting through his curls as you pulled your bare chest flush against his cotton-covered one, sharing his breath as your body bloomed with desire. You tugged his hair a little too hard, desperate to somehow drag yourself closer still.

"Missed that," he moaned out, smiling against your cheek even as he rushed to get his own t-shirt off.

Your lips fused together again as the heat of his bare chest, the sweet warmth of his breath in your mouth - the soft seduction of his tongue tasting yours - and the possessive grip as he slid his hands once more up the curve of your back - set your body aflame with need.

Steven was clear that he wanted you, but still, he took his time - every nip of his teeth, soothed with the heat of his tongue. Every desperate grip eased into a seductive caress, and when his fingers finally slid between your legs - when he found the core of you hot and wet for him - he caressed you only once before pressing his forehead to yours.

"Let me make you mine again," he begged, fingertips twitching with the need to touch you - the thick outline of his bulge pressed hungrily against your bare thigh.

"Steven," you gasped, his possessive claim making you wild with desire. Your legs fell open as he coaxed you open, plunging his tongue in your mouth and two fingers deep inside you.

Your hungry moan spurred him on as he fingered you just the way you liked. Steven was all sweet seduction. It was fun to make him whimper, but he could really pull you apart when he wanted to.

But tonight wasn't about anything but cherishing you, here, alive.

So, as you worked him free of his pajama pants and stroked the velvet length of him, you found that you didn't want him to take his time. Not tonight. Just in case.

"Please, Steven," you sweetly begged him, tugging him seductively while grinding against his hand. "Need you inside."

He groaned at your touch, and your hunger to feel him, relieved that it wasn't too much for you. Soon enough, your remaining clothes were discarded and Steven climbed on top of you, caging you in with his surprisingly strong forearms. His biceps flexed deliciously as he held up his weight, positioning himself perfectly.

He knew your body as well as his own - better, maybe, since he shared his body. Without another thought, or a hand to guide him, he pushed inside you, tilting his hips exactly how he knew -

"Oh fuck Steven..." you gasped, your back arching off the bed.

Your partner knew how to please you, hitting that spot that only familiar lovers could find so easily - like the steps of a well-rehearsed dance.

"My beautiful girl," Steven breathed against your neck, between spine-tingling open-mouthed kisses laid seductively on your throat.

Slow, devastatingly deep thrusts made you whimper with both satisfaction and yearning.

"Stay here with me," he begged, hands touching you all over, finding a home on the curve of your hips as he worked himself in and out of you with fierce possessiveness. "Stay with me. Please stay..."

You whimpered his name, gripping the breadth of his shoulders as your bodies twisted, hot and wet and alive, faster and deeper until he spilled inside you only seconds after your body seized in absolute rapture, clenching him with your velvet warmth.

Steven kissed you messily, hungry and sated at the same time, hips slowing and finally stopping as his weight dropped down, caging you in. He quickly attempted to pull away, as to not crush you, but you slung your leg around his thighs and held him there.

"Stay," you echoed his plea from earlier. "Stay right here. Stay inside. I need you." You murmured plea tickled his ear, making him shiver with desire, even though he felt sated.

"Likely to crush you love." You felt him smile against your neck, his damp curls tickling your cheek. "But I'll stay right here as long as you want."

"Forever, Steven."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You jolted awake - your dreams vivid and intense once again. Cool air kissed your skin where you kicked off your comforter, finding yourself alone in bed, still naked after making love with Steven, but clean. He must have woken up and taken care of a few things.

"Steven?" You called out, sitting up, attempting to push down the anxiety stirring in the center of you. Maybe he was in the bathroom.

Drawing a cleansing breath, you tried to steady your breathing. Damn dreams.

"Steven?" You tried again, but before you could push yourself off the bed, you heard someone else.

"Cálmate, mi amor."

The smooth voice of your partner washed over you as you blinked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

"J-Jake?"

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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pico-farad · 5 months ago

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I hit episode 90 of Vrains! Season 2 is long, so I'm stopping here to put down some thoughts.

But before that, I wanted say that I was blown away by the response to Secret Identities AU! I didn't even know the Vrains fandom was still alive, but clearly I was mistaken. I plan to make a part 2 going over more characters and changes I'd make, but I'm going to hold off until I've finished the series, so that I can factor in the larger arc of the story.

For now though, here's my thoughts on the second third of Vrains (up to Aoi vs. Bohman). I had too much to say again, so this part will cover Soulburner and Flame.

Critique is meant in good taste. I don't think the Vrains writers will be offended.

All Vrains season analysis posts

⇀ Soulburner

Well, I saw this coming. With a protagonist like Yusaku, the writers need a character who can engage him and generally fill up that "Yugioh friend" role, which was sorely missing in Season 1. Naoki, Go, or Ai? Not marketable enough. They needed to make an anime boy, and they sure did.

That said, I was expecting more from Yusaku and Soulburner's relationship, it's a little... nondescript. They had the same problem in season 1, where the writers don't leave room for the characters to just be characters and bounce off each other, it's all just plot and duels and exposition. At least season 1 had the excuse of Yusaku's trauma alienating him from others, but not only has Yusaku already resolved to overcoming that barrier, but Soulburner is one of the only people who can connect with him because of that experience.

I really would have liked to see them connect more on both being victims of the Lost Incident. Season 1's emotional conflict resolved with Yusaku putting his trauma behind him, so Season 2 needs a new emotional conflict. This would be an excellent use of Soulburner's character, except they've made the strange decision that Soulburner has also already overcome his trauma... offscreen.

Don't get me wrong, the Soulburner vs. Blood Shepherd episodes are good. Having Soulburner and Flame trick Blood Shepherd with their acting is a fine gotcha, but think about what we could have gotten if Takeru was allowed to grow through the story itself -- Yusaku and Flame both encouraging him, Takeru finding strength in Yusaku, the only person he knows who has been though the same trauma as him, but was able to stand up to Hanoi nonetheless. Instead, we don't even get to see Yusaku's reaction to Soulburner's backstory, he's stuck outside the bubble.

I can see why people like him though. Both his designs are good, he gets some funny lines, some good duels. I like his trait of fanboying over the heroes who saved Vrains, EXCEPT that the duels vs. Go and Blue Girl were unforgivable and I WILL go deep into that in their sections, mark my words anime boy.

Most of all though, I like his relationship with Flame.

⇀ Flame

He's funny. Like if Jack was five inches tall. I like how he just casually puts words in Soulburner's mouth. ("Prepare yourself! Soulburner never shows mercy!" "What? I didn't say that." "You didn't?") Flame thinks he's the Ratatouille rat in this relationship, both of them think they're the one calling the shots, and that's great.

I wish that element of their relationship had come back in the Soulburner vs. Windy duel, which is another case of introducing an interesting challenge for the characters -- in this case, the idea that Flame should want to be independent of Soulburner -- only to once again go Psych! Bamboozled! They were just acting the whole time!

Ah yeah, they sure tricked me into thinking we would get some good character development...

It's a shame, because I think Windy actually does raise an interesting point. The audience is biased towards thinking of Soulburner as the one who calls the shots -- he's the one who plays the cards, who declares attacks and announces effects, while Flame is the one who looks like a mascot and provides standard Yugioh audience commentary. It makes complete sense for Windy to instill doubt in Flame this way, because the conflict between the Ignis and humans is that humans think AI should only serve humans, and Ignis believe in their own free will.

For reference, here is the exchange that happens (paraphrased) after Soulburner refuses to listen to Flame's advice not to set a card (though this is just part of the act)

Windy: Don't you want to fight using your own will, Flame? Partners are just a nuisance. That's why I got rid of mine. Soulburner: Nuisance? During the Lost Incident, the captured spent every day in an unimaginable situation. Despair, day after day... When we were freed, we were so happy that our hope became reality! But you stole that away from your partner because you thought he was a nuisance? Flame: Windy, we were able to be created because they spent day after day enduring despair. We should be thanking them. We have no right to steal their hope!

Flame's rebuttal to Windy is so bizarrely essentialist. The Ignis don't owe anything to the Lost Incident victims, much less gratitude. They didn't ask to be created, and they are not responsible for the crimes of SOL. The message should have been something like "I chose Soulburner with my own free will."

Flame does not owe Takeru anything, but he chooses to be his partner, because the whole point of the Ignis is that they have free will. That is the proper resolution to Windy asking "Don't you want to fight using your own will?" The answer is no, they choose to fight together. Even if Soulburner appears to be the one calling the shots because he wears the duel disk, they are equals, and the reason Soulburner takes the lead is because Flame trusts him. 5D telepathy chess undercuts that.

⇀ Lost Incident Victims, and Alternate Season 2 thoughts

The more I think about it, the more I wish they used the different Lost Incident victims to explore different reactions to trauma. Yusaku used it to fuel him and his revenge, Takeru went down a route of self-sabotage and lashing out, Jin shut himself down, and Spectre, uh, decided to be Like That lmao.

Here's the set-up that I would have done for Season 2: after Jin is kidnapped, Yusaku decides to seek out the other Lost Incident victims to see if any of them have been targeted too, which could give them a clue on how to get Jin back. This is how he meets Takeru.

Yusaku has to learn how to connect with people, which follows up on the season 1 finale, where he resolves to open himself up to others and tells Revolver that he wants to be friends. By befriending Takeru and helping him overcome his trauma, and eventually the other Lost Incident victims too, it builds up to the reprise of Yusaku vs. Revolver, where Yusaku finally succeeds in connecting with Revolver, who he realizes is another victim of the Lost Incident.

Jin and Miyu get to be actual characters this way, too, rather than just damsel devices. I'd also pay to see the deranged interactions Spectre would have with Yusaku.

#yugioh vrains #pico commentary #vrains season analysis #ygo

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liketwoswansinbalance · 6 months ago

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Salt & Storybook

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

⸻

@heya-there-friends and @wisteriaum Yes, the whump fic is out! And here it is!

Hopefully, if I meet your expectations, I’d be like a magician announcing an act:

Step up, one and all, Evers and Nevers, young and old—step right up to witness the death-defying struggles of one Rafal Mistral! The great Rafal, horrifically maltreated by his own Pen, tortured within an enclosure of his own “design!” After all, there is no rest for the wicked…

Anyway, have fun. I sure did. Ngl, whilst I wrote this one, it kind of became a laugh riot at Rafal’s expense. So, don’t kill me. I’ve done a lot of damage.

CONTENT WARNING:

If you do not like dark humor, graphic depictions of violence and injury, and/or do not like the thought of Rafal being physically tortured, please, do not read this fic, or read it at your own discretion. I do not want to upset anyone. So, that is why I’m telling you this now: that probably, by most standards, I’ve been really cruel to him.

The fic contains the following:

Alcohol, vandalism, book burning, physical assault and punishment (by the Pen), disproportionate retribution as revenge, some swearing on the milder side, depiction of injuries.

Thus, potential for violence in my TOTSMOV41 WIP aside, this is literally the absolute meanest I’ve ever been to Rafal.

And, Rafal is a bit of a silly goose (not in a good way) due to his impaired judgment. Though, I tried to keep him in character. Rhian should’ve grounded him in the absence of their parents. But it was too late.

Summary:

Rafal does some much needed “spring cleaning” to remove every trace of Vulcan from his tower and gets far more pain than he bargained for in return.

Rafal has an idiotic episode after the resolution to the Vulcan fiasco while Rhian is oblivious.

Context:

This fic takes place during Rise, shortly after Vulcan’s murder and slightly before Rafal’s renovations to Evil and his torture of the Never students.

It is also somewhat plotless, so I could call it a character study. The exposition part towards the beginning was essentially my premise for writing the whump in the first place, which is why there is some lead-up prior to the action.

⸻

With an impish gleam in his eyes, Rafal blasted the glass display cases Vulcan had left behind to smithereens, spraying the stone walls and floors of his tower with razor-edged shards and splinters of glass.

Then, from Vulcan’s black desk, he dashed a cluster of black crystals to the floor for good measure.

The floor crunched underfoot with every step he took, a mosaic of inedible salt and pepper, as he whistled the shanty he’d composed, mentally gliding through the lyrics:

I asked the queen. . .

What is more pathetic than a Vulcan?

She said: Nothing I’ve seen!

He ground the shards into the grooves between the stone tiles, pulverizing most of what remained. The coarser flecks of glass dust caught in the traction of his boots, and it struck Rafal that he’d have to sweep up his mess before Rhian accused it of being a hazard to their eyes or lungs. Ah well. One more task to add to his steadily growing list. But it was all worthwhile.

No longer would his chambers be a stultifying “museum,” dedicated to the past exploits and conquests of that vile man. It was first and foremost his study.

Rafal sunk into one of the leftover black leather chairs, the one by the desk, and picked up the wineglass he hadn’t been attending to, swilling the garnet liquid around before taking another sip.

Just yesterday, when the brothers had supped together for the first time in six months, Rafal had gotten into an argument with Rhian about the restorations to be made to the silver tower and all the changes he’d already enacted in his School and its curriculum.

He would rather have lived in a bare cell than spend a minute longer in the company of Vulcan’s things, but Rhian had objected, saying the enemy’s furnishings were better than none at all.

And Rhian had further countered Rafal’s calls for immediate action, claiming they had all the time in the world, and to not be childish and impatient. With time, Rhian had said, he could devise a tasteful, new decorating scheme and between the two of them, they could even enjoy all the odds and ends Vulcan had left lying about in his wake.

Yet Rafal was having none of that. Their first order of business was not mindlessly pleasuring themselves but removal—no, it was the complete erasure and sterilization of the premises. That’s what would be done with the remains. Not the human ones though.

Rafal had eventually relented on that matter as Rhian had staunchly drawn the line at Rafal mounting Vulcan’s severed head on a wall as he’d once said. Thus, the head was discarded before it ever had the chance to rot.

Aside from Rafal’s efforts to claim a mortal trophy to no avail, everything else was proceeding smoothly—contrary to Rhian’s wishes. Rafal was still adamant that everything which so much as stunk of Vulcan’s musky cologne vanished from their sight as soon as possible. After all he’d endured to retake their School, he deserved to have his way, that much Rhian owed him.

Glancing out the window, he observed phase one of his plan already coming to a close as his chest swole with heady, vinous pride.

That very moment, thick, churning smoke laden with ash clogged the skies overhead, curling around Evil’s spires—physical proof he had retaken his School.

He stood up and inhaled the noxious fumes and drained the rest of his glass before setting it down again. He was recommitted all right. Here, he’d remain, ’til the end of time.

The spectacle far below was truly a sight to behold. Rafal had burnt the entirety of Vulcan’s life’s work in a great, purging pyre.

Gone now were the steaming, taxidermied bats, the mirror of molten, incandescent glass, the barechested portrait, warped and discolored, and more grotesque than ever, the deformed periscope Rafal had knocked the lenses out of, and the desiccated roses with their petals flaking off into the ether—it was all worthless memorabilia, everything, transformed into a charred, lifeless, amorphous mass that still smoldered this very hour, the objects caving in on themselves, the dying embers retreating into the disordered miscellany.

Rafal set his glass down, hesitated, and poured another up to the brim in celebration. The rising heat was hellish.

All that was left to do was buff away the gilded bats carved into the stairs and he would be rid of that loathsome viper forever. Then, his chosen renovations and agenda would commence, carried out by Humburg, his Stymphs, and the Man-Wolves.

But, he couldn’t get ahead of himself. He sipped from his glass, savoring the bitterness of the red wine, and set it down firmly.

Then he set to work, freeing the storybooks.

The benighted Vulcan had stowed the tales away in massive, black leather chests that had been ignorantly shoved aside, stacked slantedly like a slag heap in half-shadowed corners.

Coarse, drunken pirate. The imbecile was wholly unfit to direct the course of Evil’s future. Only Rafal could be capable of manning such an operation, charting such a course for the students once again under his eminent tutelage.

Hand aglow with black, he whisked his glass off the desk again, floating it over to himself, and took another swig before setting it on the floor beside him. He’d cleared away a small oasis for himself to sit in, until he swept up the shards decking the floors all around him.

The alcohol burned his throat, matching his surfacing rage as his head clouded.

No one would replace the storybooks on the tower’s shelves if he didn’t, he thought resentfully.

His brother had done enough damage already. Enough was enough. He wasn’t Rhian’s personal manservant. What a degrading role that would be.

But Rhian never remembered to clean up after himself, and the books had to get onto the shelves in some way or another.

Rafal exhaled. His brother was in dire need of a lecture, but first, Rafal carped to himself, the task of cleaning up lay before him.

He and he alone would restore the storybooks to their former, casual glory in their places of honor, just as the brothers themselves had been restored by the Pen.

Naturally, Rafal stacked all of Evil’s tales at the top of the tower’s shelves, for his own reference. Rhian surely wouldn’t quarrel with him after all the work was done.

Besides, it was true. Rafal was the only one willing to do it all. To forge order out of inscrutable chaos, mogrify the failed students at every class’ graduation, attend to the Stymphs, clean up the rubble, execute invaders, burn up the corpses—he took on all sins, all so his Ever brother wouldn’t have to lift a finger and stain his hands.

All for naught, was it?

No, Rafal consoled himself. Definitely not. Rhian couldn’t be trusted to do a thing.

Rhian was too cowardly and weak to handle the more gruesome chores on Rafal’s roster. He’d invited a numbskull substitute in, to replace his own brother with.

That batty substitute had no place in his School. Vulcan hadn’t even been a true Never. Not in name or in memory.

Rafal lifted his glass to his lips and tossed back more of his jewel-toned drink, blood and heat and vigor rushing to the surface of his alabaster skin.

If he had missed anything, every piece of evidence, every last little shred of a reminder would be burnt to the ground, even if it took both castles down with it, he decided right then and there. He would will it to happen.

He set his glass down on a stone tile.

No matter if the taxidermied bats could’ve raked in a tidy profit. He didn’t need material wealth when he had sorcery. The usurper’s mere presence had overstayed its welcome and Rafal intended to do something about it.

He picked up his drink again and downed half of it, swallowing the wine quickly as the rest sloshed onto the floor, glinting a deep ruby in the dim, afternoon light.

He scowled. More mess to clean up.

Rafal squeezed the fine, crystal stem of his wineglass with a vise-like grip. It snapped in two—just like how he would snap Vulcan’s spine in two, if the man ever dared return from the dead.

The glass had splintered under the pressure he’d applied, needly slivers sticking into his fingers, pricking his palm, until his pale hand was dotted with pinpricks of blood.

As always, the blood suctioned itself right in, drawn back by an invisible force, and the pinpricks sealed themselves up.

Rafal tended to cast off pain with ease, like it was just another one of his overcoats. By now, he was numb to little cuts like these, unlike his foolhardy yet absurdly delicate brother.

He scraped himself off the floor, up to his feet again, and staggered over to the last chest.

Then, he thrust the chest’s weighty lid back, and lifted out the first stack of storybooks.

His fingers grazed the gold-foiled title of the first book in the stack.

In a glaring, grandiose script, the tale’s cover read: THE UGLY DUCKLING.

Duckling.

Rafal grimaced as his temper flared, revulsion climbing up his throat. Then, his resolve hardened. He’d vowed to strip this place of Vulcan, and he would.

The other storybooks fell out of his grasp and clattered to the floor, face up at the one still locked in his grasp.

Duckling indeed.

Rafal flipped the front cover of the storybook open and tore out a single page.

The page sailed down and landed at his feet, settling lightly atop the broken display glass and fragments of wineglass.

Then, he grasped a stiff handful of pages, the heavy paper twisting, warping only slightly, and finally bending in on itself as he wrenched it apart from the book’s spine.

The paper’s edges sliced into his hand, drawing blood from cuts that vanished as soon as they appeared.

He let the handful he’d ripped out scatter to the wind.

Some pages flew out the window. Others dropped into the greedy, licking flames of the fireplace, curling in on themselves, blackening, joining the soot.

The rest of the pages, he extracted one by one, methodical in his process, tearing each painstakingly lettered sheet from its seams, which had been sewn together with care, as if he were plucking feathers from a wild fowl to be cooked—now, just a hollow, pageless shell of binding left in his hands.

Without a second thought, Rafal slung the storybook’s empty binding into the bright, steadily burning fire.

It caught on the fireplace’s grate, angled like a broken bird.

Rafal heaved a great sigh of relief. Gone. At last.

Then, fully satisfied with himself, he surveyed his efforts at cleaning up, even if the room looked worse than how it had begun this morning. Still, he cast his gaze over the terrain of reshelved tales, spilt wine, scattered glass and black crystal, and the few, loose pages pinned to the floor, wedged underneath the broken glass, fluttering in the breeze.

Despite everything, he felt accomplished.

It was only when he caught sight of the Pen, suspended and still, that he remembered he wasn’t alone. He was being watched.

Not long before, the Pen had stood, vertically suspended in the air over its lectern, its gleaming metal cool, but now, it scalded hotter and hotter, angrily searing hot as a branding iron. Then, it tilted, tip glowing red like a reproachful eye.

Rafal simply stared back, waiting for the Pen’s response. Yet, it did not move, a fact which puzzled him.

The Pen’s tip brightened to a blinding, radiant, white pinprick, as if it were readying itself to defend its tales from the scourge of Evil it had allowed to take up residence in its tower.

Rafal squinted at the light. What was it up to?

That was when he glimpsed something launching out of the fireplace in his peripheral vision.

The storybook’s binding rocketed out from its resting place, where it had nested in the grate, flying at him like a missile, sizzling through the air, like a shot bird with its flaming wingspan spread, its front and back covers open, its spine cracked.

A corner of the binding struck Rafal square in the eye. Hard.

Only one foggish, halfway lucid thought flashed through Rafal’s mind as he squinched his eyes shut: It was taunting him. Mocking his flight.

His face gnarled in pain as he doubled over before crumpling to the floor like an ungainly egret.

Splayed on the floor, Rafal hissed, clawing at his eye, knocking the smoldering mass away from his face. Then, he drew himself up into a crouch, his torso supported by shaking forearms, his hands pressed against the glass-strewn floor, jagged edges cutting through the fabric of his slacks at the knees and into his palms as he tried to sweep some of the fragments away.

Hell. Just Hell. He should’ve cleaned up sooner.

He supposed he was done with cleaning today, come what may, and that he should get started on the glass.

Yet first, Rafal strained his neck and examined his distorted, many-eyed reflections in the shards beneath him, prodding the skin near his wounded eye. His fingertips came away with bright blood.

A few areas of his face still bled slightly, gradually mending themselves, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his neck, criss-crossing in a fine, thorny latticework, ultimately staining his starched, white shirt collar.

He rose to his feet slowly and latched onto a shelf as he faltered for a moment, attempting to regain his balance. Then, he drew himself fully upright again, as if nothing had happened. And, with one hand still gripping the shelf’s edges, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, the one, restrictive one that always pressed against the base of his throat, so he could breathe properly and catch his breath.

Rafal sighed in relief. He’d served the absurd, seemingly arbitrary punishment the Pen had dealt him and it was now well over with.

Then, the Storian moved.

His every muscle tensing, Rafal clutched the shelf harder as it creaked under his death grip, his knuckles white as bone. About to bolt for the open window, he realized his legs were stiff and cold, a cramp shooting through his side from his last fall.

Straight as an arrow, the Storian tore through the air toward Rafal, dead set on harming him.

By some miracle, Rafal caught the Pen, letting go of the shelf as he dropped to the floor, not without taking the entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase down with him.

Rafal willed himself not to scream as his eyes widened in horror at a great shadow looming over him, deepening seconds before the crash as vertigo overtook his senses.

Were the pages whirling around him? It couldn’t be bats amid those ink-hatched illustrations. It couldn’t! Not when Vulcan was gone. Not when Vulcan was dead.

As it neared, the bookcase grew larger and larger in Rafal’s sightline, rushing forward rapidly, encroaching on him, almost eclipsing him. Blood roared in his ears and rushed to his head tossed back at a perilous angle, right before he shunted himself back, turning, his back towards the storybooks’ spines, as books fell out at random, several hardcovers hitting his flailing extremities as they poured out and passed him by en route to the floor, one solid thud after another.

The bookcase had narrowly missed his core, but it had trapped his legs, pinning him to the floor, slowly leaching away his vitality as his head swum and his vision dimmed, turning to a feathery blur.

All the bones in Rafal’s legs had shattered upon impact, when he made contact with the stone, bone spearing through his split skin, drenching his pant legs in hot, rapidly clotting blood as he choked aridly on what little spittle he had, too parched to scream, blinking away the blackness at the edges of his vision.

His bones immediately started to knit themselves back together, but refused to heal completely, for, the soul-crushing force of the bookcase still bore down on him, mincing all the unrepaired fragments in his legs.

Leaning on his elbows, Pen still clasped tight his grip, Rafal set his jaw, soldiered through his faintness, and tried to drag himself forward, out from underneath the suffocating weight of history, scraping slowly over the flagstones still littered with glass.

Suppose his bones joined the shards. Then what?

He freed his hips and one of his legs, struggling further, but found he was effectively immobilized for the time being. Only his ankle was caught now, but it would’ve been unwise to dislocate his leg from its socket by yanking it any harder than he was already.

The structure of the shelf collapsed further, the more he struggled beneath it, like a snare closing in on a bird, threatening to cut off its circulation—but if he could just loosen his foot from these damn planks, it…

It was like the Pen wished to teach him a lesson by entombing him, entombing him here, under the weight of every fairy tale he’d ever taught.

Rafal’s face burned.

EVIL SCHOOL MASTER ENCASED AMONG MANUSCRIPTS—he could picture the words emblazoned atop every paper in the Woods, documenting this final humiliation, all the next day’s headlines shouting and blaring in Rhian’s face.

The Evers would pop champagne bottles. His students would dance over his grave—dancing in the chequer’d shade… come forth to play, on a sunshine holiday—how’d that line go? And which tale was it from?

Wrapped in a delirium, he thought of the sprawling tale of Satan’s fall. Demon, chastened and exiled. Hell. What had he gotten himself into? Hell.

At least Rhian would mourn him, he thought grimly, and shook his head, his rage simmering. The boards wouldn’t loosen around his foot!

Rafal swallowed a heaving breath and let it settle in his chest like a stone. There he lay on his bed of glass, still holding the Pen, now hoisting it aloft, over his stone-abraded face, as it glinted in the light, his arms outstretched in a perverse kind of victory, absolutely sloshed and nearly slain, by his own shelf, by his own Pen, by his own hand.

Another thought surfaced suddenly, unbidden: He could lift it all with his sorcery.

But at that thought, the Storian sparked to life.

Hell. That Pen. To Hell with it.

The ancient script running down the side of the Pen glowed and cast shadowy glyphs across the floor, refracted light catching in the glass, piercing Rafal’s eyes, and the strange markings heated, the Pen’s shaft scorching against his palms, causing Rafal to loosen his grip slightly as he tried not to let go.

Yet, the Storian prevailed and wrested itself from Rafal’s grip, slipping out from his fingers with ease, likely readying itself for a second wave.

Gritting his teeth, Rafal steeled himself for action, both hands alit as he at once summoned the last of his magic, drawing from his deepest reserves, from his lifeblood.

Working through his total exhaustion, he managed to lift the bookcase up at a modest tilt, by only a few hairs’ widths—yet that was enough for him to crawl out from underneath it.

He hauled himself up onto his feet again with most of his weight distributed on his better-healed leg, thinking about slaking his thirst, punishment presumed to be over.

Just then, a cool gust of wind blew in, battering the diaphanous, silver curtains Rhian had put up, as if it meant to revive him, and Rafal turned away from the Pen to the window.

That was the moment the Storian chose to attack with a new vengeance, redoubling its efforts against Evil incarnate.

Some unseen force from within the tower flung Rafal across the chamber, casting him onto his side as he skid across the dining table, long limbs catching in the folds of the tablecloth, his obtruding form sending Rhian’s once deftly arranged table settings—now clashing utensils and dishes and glasses—flying before they smashed against the far wall along with Rafal’s skull as he clenched his teeth at the sheer percussive force of the collision.

To wit, it had to be the Pen. What else? Rafal griped. A fairy-tale punishment fit for a fairy-tale villain?

His ears rang with the strident sounds of shattering bone china and clanging metal, ricocheting off the wall as plate shards rained down on him, the whole tumult reverberating like he was trapped in an echo chamber with a cavalcade.

The din resounded as his side throbbed and he kicked blindly at the bonds of tangled tablecloth wound around his legs. Part of the white cloth had settled over his head, draping like a sheet, and he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see any of the ruins about him, much less sit up.

Finally, he tore the cloth back viciously, reclaiming his sight in a huff. Apparently, a singular knife had skimmed past his heart and had instead lanced through the flaccid fabric of his shirt, burying itself between the stone tiles.

Rafal groaned and turned over rigidly, his shirt tearing around the knife blade as he settled for lying prone, bloodied cheek to the floor, small cuts abound, droplets of blood blooming across his shirt and the tablecloth.

Then, Rafal rolled his eyes back to the ceiling and noticed the Pen hovering above him. He dealt it a withering glare from below, not yet beaten into submission, and reached upwards with tremorous arms to grasp at it.

The Storian appeared to glare back as it flitted out of his reach, darting back and forth archly as if to tease him, rendering all his exertion futile.

That was when the Storian made to invoke a final crescendo to complete Rafal’s torture. It descended on Rafal with an exhilarating swoop as the School Master shielded his eyes, burying his face in his shuddering arms, bracing himself for excruciating pain, fervid blood coursing through him as he tried to propel himself onto his feet and act, but he felt as if he’d sunken into the floor. He couldn’t move!

And the Storian didn’t hold back.

Its nib ripped through the back of his shirt, tip to flesh, sharp as a spindle, glowing with white-hot ire. It then raked over his exposed back, his neck, and the back of his arms.

Eyes watering insanely, Rafal hissed and rasped for breath, abject fury surging through his veins. A strangled gasp left his lips—he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been choked to death by his own slit throat.

One stroke after another, the Storian lashed across his skin, slashing with a capricious flourish.

He was sure that it intended to flay him alive, and he’d never gotten the chance to say goodbye to Rhian, he thought morosely, head dulling.

These cuts were worse than the time the vampiric, literal blood-sucking, ruby-throated hummingbirds of Akgul had swarmed him. The Never mining kingdom bred them specifically to flit around, slit the throats and tear to shreds the clothes of any passerby who ventured too close to the vaults which were filled to the brim with riches.

Those cuts had been shallow, mere scratches that had closed in a matter of seconds. These lacerations were flesh-deep.

And the Storian didn’t cease moving. Again and again, it slit open his flesh.

Rafal choked out another gasp and pressed himself into the serrated glass and crockery below him as if he could escape the terror above, and shifted onto his side, realizing his mistake immediately as he remembered.

The salt.

The night before, his routine dinner argument with Rhian had culminated in his act of hurling a glass salt shaker at his brother’s swollen head, for being pompous and self-righteous that day.

Naturally, Rhian had become upset last night—not just because he’d been clocked in the head and not just because Rafal had obstinately accused him of being an aesthetic-obsessed egomaniac—but because, of course, this all had happened after Rafal had already swept three dishes onto the floor that selfsame week and broken them.

Smashing the fine china had started to convert itself into a regular dinnertime event, much like an extravagant, exceedingly costly, burlesque sideshow. Predictably, Rhian had insisted that bone china plates were a rank pain to replace. And then, he proclaimed that if this, this breach, this delinquent conduct, continued, he would never dine with Rafal again. In sum, this was his tirade directed towards an unresponsive audience of one, one thick-skulled, unsympathetically glacial brother, all the while dramatically bemoaning Rafal’s dramatic tendencies.

Shortly after, both brothers had refused to clean up, each claiming the mess was the other’s fault, Rafal alleging that Rhian was the source of his provocation, that Rhian drove him up the wall and had thereby caused him to lose the plot—and break his tenuous accord with the Pen since it had last resisted his will over the matter of Aladdin’s placement.

And, the miserable result of these acts was that the salt shaker had cracked open and emptied all its contents—all over the very tract of tower floor Rafal had just rolled over onto. All due to the Pen.

Damn the little devil! Rafal fumed, writhing as his flesh was stuck by glass shards and the spilt salt needled its way into his fresh cuts, aggravating them. And his cuts weren’t healing! Instead they stung. Even the shallower scratches hadn’t closed.

The Storian sliced his front, nearing his throat, as he tried to suppress the feeling in his every nerve, awash with a sense of mounting dread as his own movements repeatedly caused him to be pricked by splinters of glass and the rough, tearing grit of the salt, recurrently entering his open wounds.

Why had he thrown the salt at Rhian when Rhian had simply asked him to pass it?

And now, he was paying for his deed. He’d only compounded this, this agony, and the Storian was making sure he knew it.

How much of an absolute sodding fool he was!

Rafal thrashed further, and spat blood in protest once more at the infernal Pen, choking on nothing but air as his tongue went dry and his voice died in his throat.

His eyes turned bleary and itched. It was as if he could feel his nerves drying out and dying with every passing second as the salt absorbed his blood, the skin around his cuts shriveling, even if the cuts themselves widened, rubbed, and stretched open by the salt and debris, which irritated him like sand would’ve, if not for the chemical burn—the prickling, electric flares of sharp, white-hot pain.

And yet, the corroding burn shocked him awake with a revelation, shearing through his senses that had been suffused with the duller pain’s veil.

What if this torment wasn’t just punishment for desecrating a storybook? It was a petty, Evil act, to be sure. But wasn’t that to be expected from him? Why would the Pen retaliate like this then?

And what if it wasn’t just punishment for vandalizing the Pen’s tower? What if he was expected to apologize to Rhian?

Never. What an indignity that would be, he rejected the idea like a foreign body, then stiffened at his first instinct.

But could apologizing be any worse than where he lay now? Perhaps, he should. If he lived through the Pen’s torment, he probably ought to.

In that instant, his vision whirled, reddening, and his body betrayed him, surrendering to the Pen as he blacked out.

⸻

Rafal’s breath hitched as he returned to consciousness. Had the Pen yielded?

He fought to turn his head as he glanced over at the Pen, watching him from across the chamber at a tilt.

Then, the Storian righted itself, stationed back over its lectern, dormant, as if nothing had befallen its master, once again turning a blind eye to Man’s treachery when doing so suited it, as it always did…

A fairy-tale punishment fit for a fairy-tale villain.

What scraps remained of Rafal’s shredded shirt clung to his lean frame. The fabric was soaked through with blood. He shut his eyes for a moment and inhaled. He’d have to peel it off in the bath, likely.

As he sat up, the muscles in his back twisted, exacerbating the pain of the gashes crossing his back, which still stung, continuing to bleed.

The blood loss wouldn’t be fatal, Rafal knew. But, he wondered whether the Pen would let it go on until he fell unconscious again.

His blood wasn’t clotting regularly and it was all the Pen’s fault, for its magical interference, preventing him from healing any quicker than he usually did.

At this rate, he couldn’t foresee the Pen granting him relief from these wounds—not when it believed he deserved to live so he could suffer. All he could do was staunch the bleeding.

Rafal clambered to his feet for what he hoped would be the last time, stumbling forward before he thrust out his arms to hold onto the edge of Vulcan’s desk and keep himself from falling.

He decided to seek out bandages, or rather, any strip of fabric he could tear, save for the tatters of his grimy, thoroughly bloodstained and oxidized shirt, which looked a rusted brown, far from its former, crisp, white state.

The curtains. The curtains would serve well enough. He hobbled over to them, lit his fingerglow to assist himself, and tore away a strip from the gauzy swaths of fabric, shooting the Pen another glare as he trod, breathless, towards the bathroom.

Once within the bathroom, he planned to run himself an ice-cold bath, but first, he’d run the cuts on his arms under the water for a while, to numb himself, so he could recover a greater range of motion.

No need to undress. His clothes were unsalvageable at this point, and he was certain his brother would agree.

Then, anticipating the reprieve of the biting chill, he bent over to turn on the tap, and did not realize that he’d overcorrected himself, headrush returning, knees buckling, as he pitched forward and slammed face-first into the faucet, passing out.

The bathwater continued to gush and his blood continued to flow forth, mottled bruises already forming across his severe pallor.

Rafal’s body slid partway into the tub, and he awoke minutes later, wracked with a dull ache, half his frame slung over the side of the tub, smeared with blood. His head jolted up, hit by the faucet a second time, as shock permeated his body, which was half-submerged in the frigid, faintly pink water. Not that he could truly sense the cold.

He tried to collect his bearings, but found he didn’t want to move any longer. Nor could he. But he figured he’d wait out the pain, or numb it. Whichever came first.

Albeit, when he sat up, extraneous heat still streamed through his body, radiating outward from his core to his extremities, and he doubted the swelling about his cuts would recede that soon.

Fortunately, he couldn’t catch a fever. He was immune to all illnesses… unless the Pen revoked his immortality. Though, he’d be fine alone. And besides, he had no time to brood.

Rafal stared down at the lacerations lining his forearms. New, youthful skin was already beginning to pave over his cuts, at an imperceptibly slow rate, even if the process hurt like Hell.

To pass the time and staunch the blood, he conjured up strands of gauze bandages that unspooled in midair, allowing them to turn rounds, to twirl and spin before his eyes for an infinitesimal moment before he seized them.

Then, he wound the bandages loosely around his arms, making a poorly-executed, overall hack job of it as his stiff, frozen fingers lacked the dexterity required to tighten them any further.

Well, that would have to suffice for his purposes.

But, no sooner than when he tied the last bandage did he realize the gauze on his other arm had to be replaced since it had leaked through, sopping red once again.

Nevermind.

A copious number of bandages dangled from his outstretched arms as he shuffled back into the main chamber of the tower like one of the undead.

There he sat as the day turned to dusk, stewing silently, tending to the rest of his wounds, awaiting Rhian’s return, applying layer after layer of rapidly reddening gauze.

At last, when he was partly wrapped up, he resembled a dehydrated corpse that would be preserved for the rest of time, forever bound to his duties, like one of the undead, who hadn’t the mind to know when to let go, tugged along by the colorless skein of an immortal life.

He didn’t bother to light a candle.

⸻

As Rhian ambled up the tower staircase, he hummed to himself under his breath and wondered if Rafal had left him any wine. His brother was often a spoilsport and Rhian wouldn’t have been surprised if Rafal had tossed their last bottle.

He took stock of his mental checklist while he continued on his ascent. He’d left Rafal alone for the day, after their tiff last night. Perhaps, Rafal would be ready to apologize. But Rafal was often stubborn, and Rhian suspected he was still sulking.

Brothers. They were such work.

The new furniture he’d ordered from Gillikin would arrive by the School’s shoreside tomorrow, so the place had to be spotless.

Without a doubt, Rafal had finished the spring cleaning by now. And petulantance aside, Rafal never could stand disarray, so surely, he could be trusted with that simple of a task.

Indeed, maybe the Pen really was on his side, and Rhian could check that item off his list now.

He set his foot on the next step, and flinched at a cracking sound.

Rhian peered down at a fragment of glass, cleft in two.

That was odd. Rafal had probably missed a spot when he’d taken out the rubbish, Rhian reasoned, his stomach turning with a twinge of anxiety. Nothing to fret about. Nothing at all.

Rhian knelt down and picked up the shards, stuffing them into one of his jacket pockets. He had to remind Rafal about sweeping up after airing out the place—speaking of which, not one of the windows Rhian had passed had been opened. The air was stale, and it seemed that Rafal had forgotten.

Rhian sighed. He would do it himself later, before his shower. He’d had a long day of curriculum reform as his brother had demanded he add a new section to Surviving Fairy Tales, about distinguishing Good from Evil, because, Rafal had jabbed, even Good’s Master direly needed a refresher when he’d invited the worst kind of Evil into their School.

As he proceeded on his climb, Rhian observed that the stairwell was coated in dust, like it had been beset by a cyclone of some kind.

Now, it wasn’t unlike the Nevers themselves to bathe in dust, but their School Master was definitely above poor sanitary practices, at least regarding himself, if not his renovations. And yet, every surface was saturated with dust, oddly granular dust, that drew blood when Rhian pressed a particle of it between his thumb and forefinger.

Rhian winced at the stinging sensation, knowing his pain would fade soon. Was this glass? He’d told Rafal he didn’t want to compromise their lungs! But Rafal never listened.

Rhian watched as the blood seeped back into his skin, that closed where he’d been pricked. Well… that was a comforting sign. His bond with Rafal was still intact despite last night’s conflict.

He made his way further up the stairs. It was a moonless night and he only had the stars to see by.

Stray storybook pages flapped in the stairwell, and the steps were riddled with more glass dust and drops of blood?

What if they had been besieged by another intruder? Another Vulcan? That would explain the glass. What if Rafal blamed him for allowing an uninvited guest to break in? Had he cast the entry-sealing spell when he’d left their tower that morning? Or had he been preoccupied by, by Storian knows what! He couldn’t remember now.

Heart thrumming, Rhian raced up the remaining stairs in a panic and flattened himself against the wall by the entryway to the tower’s main chamber, to listen.

All he heard was the echo of rustling paper and the cool night wind.

Rhian lit his fingerglow. It burned with warm, pure, golden light, gilding the stones around him. He would vanquish any threat that lay ahead of him. And if Rafal was there, they’d face it together.

Trembling, Rhian swept the presumably monster-clawed, blood-encrusted, silver curtains aside, unsure of what dark horrors he’d be met with in the confines of his own home.

Stepping softly over the threshold, he picked his way into the pitch dark chamber, gold fingerglow illuminating the space, as a scene of total carnage flashed into existence.

Rhian gaped as his eyes flicked across the blood-spattered floor, his light spilling onto it and bouncing back into his eyes. All he saw was pure upheaval. The fire had long since guttered out as it had consumed all of its kindling. An entire bookcase, overturned. Water, pooling out from beneath the bathroom door, circulating along the grooves between the stones. And the tales. They had clearly flown across the room, tossed about erratically, like they’d been subjected to a storm at sea. And—

His gaze landed on a stooped figure with a ragged, irregular breath, shielding its eyes from the sudden flare of harsh light.

Rhian’s breath caught. Was it a Night Crawler? Or some other lethal creature of the night? Some undead thing? He backed up.

Finally, Rhian’s eyes adjusted to the light—was that Rafal?

He squinted down at spikes of snow-white hair, matted with blood, then, eyes widening with recognition, surveyed Rafal’s baffling state of partial undress. Rhian’s distempered brother had propped himself up at the base of the fallen bookcase, and hadn’t risen from where he sat.

Rafal stared up at Rhian in the lit doorway without a word, his eyes hollow and vacant.

“I-I thought you were a monster.”

Rafal’s frown deepened. “Lovely,” he breathed hoarsely. “You’re not the first to think that.” He snuck a brief look at the Pen.

Rhian’s chest flooded with relief. It was only then, after Rafal had spoken, that Rhian’s fears had evaporated. He recognized his brother’s voice and was now certain he was with the living and not one of the undead, some sinister being risen from the grave with the intent of taking over their School.

“Where’s our intruder then? Have you burnt up the corpse?” Rhian wrung his hands, glancing around.

“There is none.”

Rhian paused for a moment, processing his brother’s words. “Then whose blood—” Rhian stopped, unnerved. “Yours? It’s yours?”

Rafal nodded, grim, and began to placidly wrap more bandages around his torso, tightening them with the aid of his sorcery.

With narrowed eyes, Rhian peeked fearfully at his brother’s back and almost passed out in shock. It was all cut up and bleeding, crossed by haphazard strips of overlapping bandages that hung off his arms.

Concerned, Rhian stared at Rafal, haunted by the bloody sight, until he found his voice. “Wh—” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, trying to quell his nausea. “What happened?”

“The Storian.”

Rhian blinked at his imaginary monster, and gazed warily at the true monster, hard at work, diligently inking in a new tale, once and forever unmasked. It had been the monster all along.

What would they do now? Subdue it somehow? Though, Rafal’s trials were already over…

“Will it heal?” Rhian asked tentatively, wide-eyed.

“What do you think,” Rhian’s monster answered. “I’ll walk it off.”

That was when Rhian registered his brother’s resignation, and knew he should drop the matter altogether. But, he had one final question: “Why did it attack y—”

“Ice. Bring me ice.”

“But—”

“Now,” the Evil School Master cut out caustically. “And not a word about the Pen favoring Good.”

Stunned into dead silence, Rhian scurried away to fetch ice. The most damage always occurred within the shortest window of time.

Yet one fact held true in his mind: Rafal hadn’t learnt his lesson and never would.

⸻

Note:

I’d leap at any feedback you have! Please, if you’re up to it, I’d love to hear your reception of this fic, any thoughts, feelings, reactions, or concrit you have, any at all, especially as this is the most action and the least dialogue I’ve possibly ever written, given the unusual nature of the fic.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m almost always willing to elaborate!

In addition, I’m not of a legal drinking age in my country nor do I have any inclination to drink. So, apologies if there are any inaccuracies regarding the alcohol use. You can certainly let me know what the errors are, if there are any.

Did anyone catch any of the references I made?

In writing this fic, I realized it diverged a lot from my previous ones because it relies more on imagery than dialogue, so I personally had to really push the envelope with it. In fact, this was probably the most difficult fic I’ve written thus far because I think crafting dialogue tends to come to me more easily than action sequences do, and well, this fic is almost all action.

(And I wanted the fic to feel cinematic, as if it were panning over a train wreck or a hazard zone the audience wouldn’t be able to peel their eyes away from. Yeah, I know. It probably sounds strange, that the desired effect I had in mind while writing this was “vehicular collision,” haha.)

Trivia: My use of “Pen” versus “Storian” was very intentional here. For some reason, I just intuitively found that it made some kind of weird sense to call it “the Storian” when it had an active role and “the Pen” when it was an object acted upon or mentioned, with a few exceptions. It just felt right.

⸻

I even wrote a rhyme for the fic:

He gets bruised—he was struck.

He gets burned; he gets cut.

All done by a Pen

While he’d been drained of his luck.

And all befell him while salty and drunk.

⸻

Playlist:

“Fall Away” - twenty one pilots

“21 Guns” - Green Day

“Save You” - Turin Brakes

“Enemy” - Imagine Dragons & JID

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