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andsohegetstodieasaint · 2 years

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touch starved ☠️

Alone time with your favorite patient I sure hope he doesn’t fuck you like he’s trying to kill you or anything!

pairing: ghost x reader

word count: 5.4k

tags: slow(ish)burn, mutual pining, mask, ((tw medical environment, descriptions of wounds and medical procedures, reader is a medic)), vaginal penetration, choking, blood kink, overstimulation, nipple play, spanking, rough sex,

“Alright, I promise not to fall in love.” Turning on your heel, you approached the counter with a couple emesis bins full of supplies. The quip earned a raspy chuckle from your patient, but he complied— sort of complied. The hard won compromise you’d been able to reach was an incomplete removal of the mask. He’d roll it forward just enough for you to get at the stitches. Stubborn fucking bastard. With the lac running from the sagittal suture down to the zygomatic arch, you had a fair bit of ground to cover today.

Unwillingly, your arm remembered his bone-crushing grip on your wrist when he’d first come through triage and you hadn’t known of his strange way. The chalky rub of so many little wrist bones, like crunching pebbles underfoot. You’d never had a soldier argue with you undressing them period— medical emergency or not. Here as well as in many other areas, was where Ghost was different from the rest. His check ups with you now happened in a private room and though certainly not as stoic as usual, he still didn’t relent on the mask.

He’d cleared your field, moving the hood away and holding the front of the mask to his face with his hand. The wound looked good, the skin was fused, no redness, swelling or broken stitches, you'd been betting on at least a little dehiscence with a cut curved so wildly.

“Ah, I see you’re keeping it nice for me. And here I thought you were looking for reasons to visit.” Another small chuckle, only made special by the habitual reticence of the man under you. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the room as you gently ran a swab over where you’d be working. “How’s it feelin? Any pain?”

“Not for the past few days. I’ve healed through worse.” You’ve ‘eeled ‘ave yew? The jeer slid back down your throat when you saw jagged discolorations along the flesh of his neck— a burn scar so nasty he had to have been hospitalized. A fraction of your mind wondered how far down his scars might go, if his skin would feel rough and calloused, or maybe extra sensitive to touch.

“I believe it He-Man, I only need you to sit still.” You let your voice come through a little more gently, gloved hands starting to snip away at the stitches.

“Not possible.” He sat like a stone in your chair. You ignored every warm feeling you got from hearing the smile in his deep voice. Despite yourself you were growing fond of him. The patients you saw only ever came back hurt again, or worse, so it was best not to get attached. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy your time together.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, and you focused on string and scissors and tweezers to blot out how badly you wanted to focus on him. Unbeknownst to you your patient fought a similar urge. The line of duty left him mildly touch starved and though the feeling of the stitch removal he could do without, your hand gently cradling his head as you worked awoke a frightening vulnerability in him. He almost wished he were in body armor under fire— there he knew what to do.

It only got worse as you worked farther down to the side of his head, now gently cupping his cheek. He swallowed thickly when your breath brushed his neck. It embarrassed him, but he was always worked up after your sessions. Lately you’d been talking to him a little more lively, not realizing it multiplied the effect you had on him. He didn’t want to cross a line but after so much time alone he was pent up. He couldn’t make himself not want you.

“This is looking really good actually,” you paused, leaning back to consider the entire wound. “It may not even scar.” ‘Looking really good’ struck his mind like a bell, it still fed him even though you meant healed and not handsome.

“What’s one more at this point?” Ghost said, voice cool, not betraying how flustered he felt. A small win for him.

You laughed softly, an exhale. “Right? It just adds to the charm.” Focused, you swabbed with another round of antiseptic before laying down strip-bandages in place of every other suture. You were using half the damn cabinet in terms of bandages on this man.

His dark eyes flicked over. Charm? He’d think about that when he was fucking his fist in his bunk after this. “Exactly.”

In the back of your mind you were wondering if you were flirting too much, it seemed okay to keep toeing the line as long as he kept toeing it back. During the last few sessions you two had been playing footsie all over it. “Keeping it all hidden away is so merciful of you. It’d be hard to do my job with my hands shaky,” you said, turning to dig through the bin to find more fucking steri-strips.

“I know, I know. I do what I can,” he drawled through what sounded like a big grin, shit eating, even. The giggle you let out made his chest, and something lower in his stomach, rise with warmth. Getting cut up was turning out to be worth it for him. He savored the last moments of contact as you started snipping again, taking out the final sutures before covering where they once were with more strips. Your hands were on him with professional grace– not how he wanted them at all, though he’d been pushing those thoughts away. Mostly.

“Alright, one more.” He’d gotten the second laceration in the process of defending from the first one. It ran from right around the ulnar head about three inches down his forearm– he’d stopped the blade just before it made it to the neck, and in deflecting it upwards the cut ran up his head.

He pulled his arm up to show you as you sat down on a rolling stool in front of him. “This one doesn’t feel ready yet.” He gingerly tapped the side of the bandage that covered another set of stitches. The gentleness of the motion was funny coming from the intimidating mass of man in front of you. A man who almost got stabbed in the neck– and who had definitely stabbed others in the neck before. “It was deeper, it may take longer to heal than the first one. What we’re worried about is a problem in the healing going uncaught and leaving you with complications in the future.” You’d pushed away, rolling to the counter on the opposite side of the room to look at his chart. Inwardly smiling at his attempt to prolong your sessions.

He watched your legs move as you maneuvered the rolling stool wishing, with a little bit of guilt, that you’d put your hips into it so he could watch. One special thing he’d always loved on women was how far their thighs– and ass, flattened out when they sat down. Watching you move, he wanted to bear the weight of them so badly. Ghost wondered if you’d be shy, if you would need encouragement to put your full weight on him. The slope of your hips looked like the perfect handhold to pull you down if you did. He swallowed, opening and closing his good hand, watching the tendons flex as if to erase the image of you from his mind. It didn’t work. He didn’t want it to.

“So I still have to check it– to see how it’s healing before we leave here today. Okay?” He missed everything you said while you were moving the stool around. “Yes ma’am,” he said, voice throaty. You had gathered new supplies in a new bin, the old bin now full of removed stitches and gauze.

He laid his arm down on a small rolling table that you’d made a big deal about cleaning. You’d told him about it too, explained why and everything, he just didn’t absorb it. With the way his arm laid on it his hand hung over the edge and was dangerously close to touching your thigh. He wondered how much give there’d be if he got to grab it— if the soft flesh would fill his hand the way it filled out the chair. He balled his fist.

The bandage was on the outside of his forearm, which meant you were gonna have to turn his arm a bit to get it off. You took up his wrist and twisted gently, looking down the length of the laceration. Holding his arm it was impossible not to note the thickness of it, you’d already borne witness to the strength it contained. That first day in the emergency bay you tried desperately to break his grip on you, eventually digging your other hand into the wound to get him to release you. His crew hurried to explain but they hadn’t been fast enough.

“I’m sorry about that,” he’d broken your reverie. “I remember that day, it was wrong of me to grab you.” He paused, unsure how to fully make it better. “I thought you were–”

“Yeah,” you smiled abruptly. “You hit your head.” The grip he’d had on you that day hurt, your wrist still clicked a little. But the effortless strength in his hand had dogged your raunchier thoughts as of late. It had been a little while for you, and seeing only a fraction of what he could do left you curious as to how thoroughly he could manhandle. Had you been prepared for it– or had it been somewhere else he grabbed, you would’ve happily remembered it in your bunk that night. “At least mine didn’t need stitches.”

“Alright now-” you cut him off with the snapping of a new pair of gloves. “Sit still, I can make this hurt.” He was glad it was smoothed over lightly, but it did bring him a sense of deeper quiet to know you didn’t hold what he did in a daze against him. You peeled the bandage faster than he was ready for, but gentler than you usually would have. His sigh stuck to the back of his throat, he was right, when they’re ready to come out they aren’t this painful.

“Yeah,” he could hear the frown in your voice. “Looks like we will have another session; fear not.” The black surgical thread stood out angrily against his healing skin, it stung just to look at.

As you turned away towards the bins you’d gathered he looked over his arm without the bandage. This had been his first opportunity to see what remained of his tattoo. “I did what I could,” you said, not turning around. “Used a simple interrupted suture to keep the scarring down, luckily the lac ran in the direction of your lines anyway.” He looked at the back of your head unable to say anything, he felt touched that you’d consider something small like that for him. “Thank you.” It released a whole new flare of warmth in his belly to subdue. He was about to take in the full picture of your back when you started to turn around.

“Of course,” you turned back with a smile. His dark eyes hung on you for a beat longer than usual. Warmth flared up your belly, it made you nervous he’d read your thoughts earlier. His new clean bandage went on without a hitch. Cleaning up your makeshift station you snapped your gloves off last, revealing the deep tissue bruise from where he’d grabbed you.

“Fucking hell,” he was on his feet with you in seconds. He made a gentle motion out towards your arm. When you recoiled from him, a sucking pit opened up in his gut. “Medic, I-”

“Don’t worry.” He couldn’t tell if your other hand on his shoulder was to keep him away or to comfort him. The joy he’d expected with your touch came tainted. He’d hurt you. “It looks worse than it is. It’s a bruise.” Darkened abused flesh rolled out from the carpals of your wrist down two or three inches. The swelling had subsided over days but not evenly, leaving you bumpy and stiff. As your other thumb ran back and forth along the outcropping of his shoulder, he placed his hand over yours, gently, like you were made of glass. Holding it there with a cautious comforting warmth, ready to fly away at any second. “I’m so sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have let this happen.” He started to break away from you, he wanted to pace the room until it collapsed in on him. You kept him there, hand sliding to the back of his arm. “You were barely conscious, it was just a reflex. Do you really think this is the first time a patient’s hurt me?” He quieted, recognizing the look on your face as the one medical people wore when they were leaving a lot unsaid. Truthfully he hadn’t considered that before, but the thought turned his already sinking stomach. It made him want to shadow you, and break anyone else’s hand before they could hurt you with it.

Your hand dropped from his tricep to his wrist, indulging in a very small, hopefully imperceptible squeeze against your better judgment. “You didn’t get out unscathed either, ya know.” He looked back at you. The mask hiding everything else made the movement of his eyes all the more fascinating. Where there usually was a sleepy downward slope and the harsh cut of a bag underneath, his eyes were now bright with alertness. The squeeze was not hidden well. “I’m the reason you needed the internals. Jammed my fingers in there pretty good.” Your smile spread across your face so easily that he wanted to laugh, nervous energy needing to escape him somehow.

The internal row of stitches hurt like a bitch. He’d never gotten cut that deeply before, body armor usually taking the brunt. He had wondered, in passing, how this one had taken him so deep. But now knowing the culprit, he couldn’t find the same anger he’d planned on for vengeance. The flare from the memory of pain twisted together with the heat of wanting you that still hadn’t died down in him.

It wasn’t dying down anytime soon with you feeling on his arm like that. “You felt me up.” The abruptness he said it with made it sound like an accusation, your first reflex was to defend yourself. “What? No-” He brought his hand outside your arm and slowly felt upward to your shoulder, squeezing exactly as you had. It brought your breath to a sigh. Embarrassed, you tried to suppress it only making it sound shakier as it came out.

“If that’s not feeling up,” he paused, getting closer, “why’d it make you sigh like that?” His hand came up to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head back to look up at him fully. His gaze was too intense, you turned away, or tried to. His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb in front of your ear and pointer finger behind it, the rest of his fingers caught up in your hair. “You’re gettin’ shy on me.”

Done for, you were unable to stop your smile. You met him with eyes that felt too heavy, finally letting him take the weight of your head though it felt unwise. Leaning into his hand. “I’m actually not feeling shy at all right now,” your words came out easier than you’d expected.

“Ah,” part answer part exhale, he pressed the lines of your bodies together. He was wearing too many clothes, you couldn’t really feel him underneath them. Now standing firmly in his space you were delighted when his other arm curled around you. Warm and excited, you sighed happily when the rough fabric of his mask ran along your neck and settled behind your ear. “D’you feel this comfortable around all your patients? Medic?” His voice low against you, bantering even now.

“It’s funny. I want to kiss you,” you turned and eyed where his mouth should be behind the mask, “but I can’t figure out how.” He suppressed his chuckle to a low hum in the back of his throat and mouthed down the front of your neck through the mask. It scratched along your skin gently, with the warmth of his interest behind it. It pulled a groan from you and woke up your clit, a warm line running up into your gut. “Sit down.” You put your hands back on the outside of his arms, directing him towards the bench in your exam room.

Ignoring the annoying crinkly paper he did as you said. So easy to follow orders when you liked where they were going. It turns out he was luckier than he’d hoped, you weren’t shy about being on top of him at all, legs filling out his lap much better than they ever did the rolly stool. He reveled in the pressure of you grinding on him, strength in your legs he hadn’t anticipated. “Fuck,” his breath came hard against your neck, “I’ve been thinking about this since I laid eyes on you.” He punctuated with squeezing hands on your hips, savoring the motion of your waist and how plush the skin was. The pressure was good but it wasn’t enough, he buried his head in your chest and nibbled on your collarbone. The sound it pulled from you made him leak. He tilted his hips up to rub against you harder, muscles in his legs happy for the strain.

The pressure of him growing more solid underneath you was lost in the thick fabric of his pants. “Ghost.” At your call he looked up to you, detaching himself from your chest. “Take your clothes off.” The forwardness surprised him. Without meaning to, he paused, fully registering the moment. Your hand put gentle pressure on his throat when he wasn’t moving fast enough, “Please.” The squeeze took him by surprise, his voice came out in a rushed sigh “God.”

Your vision flipped, he’d moved you under him so quickly that you didn’t have time to register he‘d used a fighter's roll to do it. He was so practiced in close combat he didn’t even feel the strain, controlling you with ease. He’d lined you up on your back, hips above your navel, thighs parting around him. He seemed to hesitate there, massaging the flesh on your thighs and grinding against you before taking his shirt off and working on his belt. His body was lanky but solid; big. His pale skin was littered with scars, cuts and chunks taken out.

You wanted so badly to feel the patch of hair that ran down from his navel, end still hidden by his pants. But with how he had you, your own weight was holding you down. You struggled to get a grip on your shirt— on anything, hands scrambling. “Don’t worry love,” he shucked the scrub shirt above your head quicker than you’d ever been able to. Leaving you suddenly cold in your cami, cold enough that the peak of your nipples through it stopped his train of thought.

Burying his face in your chest again, his hands kneaded on you gently, when his thumbs pressed on each nipple and rubbed up and down the moan you let out pitched up to a whine. Looking down you saw the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing and rolling as he pulled the cami up from where it was tucked in your scrub pants, his hips still rubbing against you as he worked. His breath came out hot against you now bare, taking a nipple into his mouth and letting his tongue lap against it. The extra friction from the rough-hewn fabric of the mask all but contracted your legs for you, clinging to him tighter as the sensation built you up.

Your nails digging into the soft flesh of his inner arm turned him on more than he was willing to say. He wanted you to scratch him hard. Ghost liked to get it as good as he gave and so far you hadn’t been reluctant to be a little rough with him, his dick twitched at the thought, starting a new pool of pre cum in his boxers. He grazed his teeth against your nipple and when you gasped he bit down, nipping at you in between rolls of his tongue. Your noises were addicting, he settled in to stay there a while longer.

Finding his ear you gripped him harder than you should have, stretching the thin skin you’d spent so long nursing back together. He sucked in a shaky breath and moaned an exhale, dark eyes flicking up to you with an intensity usually reserved for combat. A warm thin line drew down his jugular and it excited him more than he’d expected. The sting of the cut reopening made him groan, swallowing hard as he stared down at you. You were too excited to wait, throbbing of your clit matching the runaway pulse in your chest. “Fuck me now.”

In one motion he pulled your pants and underwear off. Legs now above you, he folded your knees to your chest, tilting you up further so he had more control. Too impatient to undress all the way he let his pants fall around his thighs and pumped himself in his fist a few times, smearing pre and wetness he’d gathered from you down the length of him. The angle let him sink into you deep, he was curved perfectly to push on a sensitive spot far back. Eyes wet with the sting, you were wishing he’d come near you again so you could squeeze the shit out of him, overwhelmed from the pressure of him inside.

With how he had you positioned you couldn’t rock against him or meet him halfway, it left you focused instead on the sensation of being so full. He’d given you time to acclimate but now he started up in earnest. The force from his thrusts started to send you up the table and away from him. Leaning down to you his hand met your neck, strength pinning you to the table to hold you still while he fucked you harder and deeper. The sound of skin slapping skin completely filled the small room, and unfortunately probably also the surrounding hallway.

The weight of him was pressing the breath out of you, your head was going flush with the need to breathe. Without thought you gripped his wide forearm squeezing as hard as you wanted, feeling heat creep through your fingers. Letting your head loll to the side, you focused on the feeling of him all the way in you as that warmth spilled on your chest. It felt like his head had a distinct ridge, when he pulled back it suctioned deliciously along the top wall. His curve made it a “come here” motion, and his length made it too deep to think of anything else. You couldn’t decide if it felt better going in or out, the pressure of your impending orgasm built quickly in time with his thrusts.

He released you when it had been a little while since you made a sound. Seeing how your lips had plumped with the blood rush he couldn’t resist bending to you, kissing like he meant to eat you from the mouth down. You kissed back at what felt like his mouth, letting the mask move against you, just another sensation. He moved down to your neck, biting through the mask as he had done before, thrusts slowing down but getting deeper, pressing even harder. He was savoring you. You felt warmth drip from his neck to yours, sliding slowly down your jugular to the junction of your collarbone. You started to wonder how he’d started bleeding until his head pushed especially deep, forcing a gasp from you. Your legs and feet flexed gripping around him,mind completely blank of anything else.

Gripping at his thick shoulders you dragged your hands down, intending to mark him. His groan twisted in his chest and came out a little strangled, he was sensitive from the scarring on his back. The sting from your scratch rallied the fire in him, he pulled back and pulled out, needing a second to stave off his ending.

You watched his chest heave from underneath him and idly followed how the blood from his neck mixed with the sweat to smear down his chest. You had wet spots on your neck, hand, and chest, where the cool air of the room now bit you. The professional part of your brain wanted to stop and bandage him, you were ripped out of the thought when he threw one of your legs aside and flipped you over.

Your hands held you up on the annoying crinkly paper as he gripped the hinge of your hips, lining himself up with your entrance. Before going in again he took a minute to run his eyes along the curve of your ass, tapping his dick on it lightly and committing the ripple to memory. The soft bounce was too enticing, he grabbed a handful and kneaded while his dick strained to be touched. When you wiggled against him and sent his dick bouncing back and forth he let out a groan like a man starved.

Arm like a vice around your waist you were confused when he turned a bit away from you until you felt a harsh smack on the flesh of your ass, reflexes tensing you away. “God, sweetheart,” his breath came through a sigh, “I could do this all day.” He’d paused, kneading, see how you reacted, if you’d be okay with more. His eyes shot you the question. Your expression had a fine glaze, your higher function mildly fucked out, but the sharp smile sent over your shoulder gave him the permission he asked for. He held you too tightly for you to move against him like before, but you let him feel you try, struggling against his strength.

He could only savor a couple more smacks before he had to be inside you again. New angle drawing him in even deeper. The strangled whine you let out made him grip you tighter, he wished you’d make that noise again. He resolved to make it happen.

The curve of him felt even better flipped over. Punching the sensitive spot like a bullseye, it was impossible for you not to clench around him, only making the pressure better. His hands on your hips gripped you tightly and pulled you back on him as he came forward, force increasing. With every hit your voice came out a little, out of your control. It seemed to egg him on, he kept meeting you harder and harder. Eventually pulling your wrists out from under you, he tipped you further downward. “Like the way you sound,” he grunted out his words.

Walking his knees up even closer to you he held you up a little higher, your knees almost coming up off the table. While repositioning he made one long heavy scoop motion, it brought you so close to the edge that you keened and your hands fought for purchase behind you. Unable to reach him you dug into the flesh of your own thighs, starting to brace for the end. The noises he was relishing came muffled with your face now squished against the bench. His pace forced them into half sobs as a small tremor started to run through you. He recognized it and fought the urge to go harder and faster.

Feeling the growing pressure of you squeezing around him, he knew the moment when you were about to finish. Ghost watched your body lock up underneath him, curling in on itself and shaking in waves as the grip you had on him tightened around his dick until he had to fight it to move. Fight he did, fucking you through it although admittedly slower and steadier than he would’ve liked to. When your breath came in a string of inward gasps and your hand splayed weakly against his stomach he slowed to a stop even as it made his body scream. You fought your words out through the smaller convulsions, “I can’t stop.” A fine tremor in your voice matched the shaking of your hand on him. “Don’t have to,” his voice had a soothing thread, “just take it for me, love.” His hands massaged the flesh of your ass before he straightened out your legs, you were getting too shaky to stay up on them. “You can do that, yeah?”

At your small nod, he started up slow again, pulling all the way out before pushing back in. He’d put you completely flat on the bench while he straddled the back of your legs, planting his elbows up by your shoulders. Missing your sounds from before he snaked his hand under you to reach your throat, he groaned at the feeling of your voice against his palm– groaned right into your ear. Laying flat made the pressure feel different, he was coming straight down on you now, but the curve of him stroked the back wall so well your sensitivity hardly died down. With him close now you grabbed at the outside of his neck and held on while he started to approach his earlier pace. Your voice grew higher as he pounded at the too-sensitive flesh over and over. The more you mewled the tighter he gripped you, the tighter he gripped you the more you clenched, the more you clenched the faster he went, turning each other on in a fevered pitch.

Tears pricked at you as your voice came out of your control again, so sensitive it didn’t take as much as before. Trembling as you felt another, hotter buildup, you squeezed at his arm that gripped you, starting to struggle against him. “Tap your clit,” his voice came strained but assertive, rushed from feeling his own end around the corner. He went as deep as he could while your hand played around him, finishing you in a fit of contractions even he couldn’t move through. The force drew him in and wrung him dry. Head against the back of your neck he finished while you still shook beneath him, his breath unsteady as it came back. His orgasm was quicker than yours, you were still contracting in waves while he had grown too sensitive to do anything but suck in breath through his teeth.

Almost pained with the sensitivity, he pulled out and slumped to lay down flat on the bench with you. Big and broad, he realized he took up a lot of the room on it. Trying to make up for it he curled you to his chest with his arm. The silence of the small room in the wake of so much noise seemed unnatural. With the heat fading from both of you, you were a little cold even with him on top of you. Inwardly giggling as you pressed cold hands to his chest, you giggled out loud when he hissed from the surprise.

When you started to wriggle out from under his arm, his heart sank a little. He had the possessive urge not to let you go, but after taking a moment to appreciate how your body felt against his he released you. Committing it to memory, he convinced himself he’d be happy with only that. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for you to run away and never speak to him again, or worse– to turn around and say something cruel. Being treated horribly in the past left him presently looking to defend from it around every corner, a reflex he couldn’t stop. When you returned with a blanket and snuggled back against him he was glad for the mask. Blinking away the sharpness of his earlier thoughts, he laid his cheek on your head, grateful he could lay there with you a little while longer.

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #oneshot #smut #minors dni #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost #cod mw22 #lemon #he's sensitive because i say so #i wrote this

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thetolkientroubles · 2 years

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Orcs (And Uruk-hai) are such an integral part of Middle-Earth, and as a byproduct of the influence of Tolkein on the fantasy genre as a whole, part of colloquial understanding of fantasy.

Almost every fantasy story has Orcs and goblins, or goes to great length to distance themselves from these creatures, embracing the concept and thus the concepts of high fantasy that are to be assumed with the orcs, or entirely avoiding orcs, letting the consumer know that this is different fantasy, and to expect the unexpected. But how can one look at (Or read) about something and know it’s an Orc? Well, Tolkein didn’t often describe the orcs in detail, as they more represent the evil, but he did sometimes tell the reader what they looked like, at least vaguely, saying “his broad flat face was swart, his eyes were like coals, and his tongue was red” (Fellowship Of The Ring, p. 325) The word swart in there means Swarthy, which is an old timey way of saying Dark-Skinned.

Contrast to one of our heroes, Aragorn, the big good king returning from exile to save Middle-Earth, while the series offers very few details on Aragorn's physical appearance, we know he is tall and lean with "a shaggy head of dark hair flecked with grey, and in a pale stern face a pair of keen grey eyes." or perhaps, another of the Fellowship, “Legolas was fair of face beyond the measure of Men " (The Last Debate, RotK) and it becomes a slight concerning that our band of heroes are all fair of face and pale, and our sometimes mindless/sometimes corrupted mortals enemies, the orcs, are described as dark-skinned. Adding in, that in the past of middle earth, “in the First Age, there were the Easterlings and Swarthy Men who were evil” (Human Image…, 2014) draws an uncomfortable picture of the ideology and uncomfortable ideals around race, and problematic ethnographic details. And while Tolkein famously didn’t believe his writings were representative, “his role as a mythmaker is not complete in merely conjuring a world that he thinks should be real; it is also about universal truths and fundamental Christian values.” (Human Image…, 2014) And the issues mount throughout the main Lord of the Rings stories, where the ‘goblin-soldiers’ of Isengard are described as being ‘of greater stature, swart, slant-eyed, with thick legs and large hands’ and elsewhere as ‘large, swart, slant-eyed’ (Two Towers, pp. 415, 451). Additionally, a glimpse of the appearance of the Orcs is also given through the description of Saruman’s half-goblin or half-Orcish Men, the result of his having ‘blended the races of Orcs and Men’ (Two Towers, p. 473). Already in Bree we met a ‘squint-eyed southerner’, the companion of Bill Ferny, who is also described elsewhere as ‘swarthy’ and with ‘a sallow face with sly, slanting eyes’ (Fellowship Of The Ring, pp. 160, 165, 180) Which depicts a commonality of descriptors seen not only for the Orc, but the Uruk-Hai, the Goblins, and the mixed versions of the “evil races.”

In arguing one of the treatments for a possible adaptation of his work, Tolkien fought against an interpretation of the Orcs, where in the adaptation they had beaks and feathers and thus made more monstrous, Tokien responded in one of his letters that “The Orcs are definitely stated to be corruptions of the ‘human’ form seen in Elves and Men. They are (or were) squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types.” (The Letters of J.R.R.Tolkien, From a letter to Forrest J. Ackerman [Not dated; June 1958]) Which is not good. In fact, it’s so not good that it matches the description used to very racistly describe what is now an outdated and known racist term of Mongoloid, “Flat face with a low nasal root, accentuated zygomatic arches, flat-lying eyelids (which are often slanting), thick, tight, dark hair, dark eyes, yellow-brownish skin, usually short, stocky build” (Taken from Wikipedia) So it’s easy to see this and realise why so many within the scholarly community around fantasy literature and fiction are in recent years decrying the depiction of the Orc.

But one can argue that regardless of what Tolkein thought, whether he was racist and thought that Dark Skinned and Asian people were monstrous or not, he’s dead and we don’t have to engage with or support his writing anymore, and we’ve moved past racist depictions of Orcs. But in the fact that Tolkein essentially made the modern orc, and it really hasn’t changed from his depiction of it, there are still tonnes of baggage attached to the orcs and the idea of the monstrosity of it. The origin of the Orcs as being inspired by or extrapolated from a racist description of real life people continues its ramification in fantasy media. Despite the fact that Orcs in popular culture now often have what is called a Cockney accent, while English is also famously working class, and traditionally seen as a sign of lower intelligence by classist people. Additionally, Dungeon and Dragons Fifth Edition, the world's most famous roleplaying game, which has players build a character from fantasy species with lore nearly directly ripped from lord of the rings (Halflings or hobbits are sneaky and clever but want to enjoy a good life, elves are long lived, wise, and beautiful, dwarves live underground and have a great deal of greed, etc) gives players statistical bonuses to various attributes based on their character’s species. Dwarves are hardier and have more stamina, elves are more wise and graceful, etcetera. Then, in November, 2016, a new book allowed players to officially play as Orcs. They had a bonus to strength, but infamously, had a negative to intelligence. The smartest Orc player character, as set out by these rules, could never be as intelligent as the smartest elf or human. Thus, the continued implications of Orcs being less-than, as started with Tolkein, continues well into the contemporary fantasy media landscape. Unless authors actively work to undo this era of allowed racism, the problem will not go away, and while Tolkein offered a lot to Fantasy, it’s intolerable to allow these types of things to be perpetuated because of its status as a staple of the Genre.

-D.D

Sources:

Tneh, David. “The Human Image and the Interrelationship of the Orcs, Elves and Men.” Https://Journals.tolkiensociety.org/Mallorn/Article/View/51, 1 Dec. 2014, https://www.jstor.org/stable/48614822.

J. R. R. (John Ronald Reuel), 1892-1973. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien : a Selection. Boston :Houghton Mifflin Co., 2000.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. HarperCollins, 1991.

Volo's Guide to Monsters Wizards of the Coast, 2016.

#Youtube #the lord of the rings #the hobbit #tolkein #fantasy #orcs #goblin #evil #elves

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babanillustration · 4 years

Photo

Been working on these slowly for the past 2 months at the start/end of my streams! I didn’t annotate them on the sheets because my handwriting is baaaaad, but I’ll add design notes below:

- Ladies are generally taller than the fellas. - Prospitians have smaller eyes, Dersites have bigger ones. - They don’t shed their carapace, it grows in similar to skin and they have to maintain it by buffing it down, though it grows in a lot slower than skin unless they have an injury that’s healing. - Toe pads are like cat toe beans in that they’re more arched and have a bigger pad. - Most of the carapace has gradients between skin and tough carapace rather than harsh edges. There’s less chance of things getting jammed up or them accidentally catching it on anything. - Their faces are more fleshy and gradient up into carapace along what would be a hairline on a human. - Tummy and back plates are soft enough to stretch and twist. - Prospitians have black teeth - Size of the sclera in relation to the iris/pupil is similar to cats and dogs, you only really see the sclera when they look off to the side.

- Bifurcation down the middle of any plates that wrap around to allow for expansion and contraction. This is true of the torso and also the upper forearms and calves, but the carapace fuses along the seams around the wrists and ankles where there’s less muscle movement and bones would be closer to the ‘skin’. - Zygomatic and frontal bones are pulled back at the side to around the centre of the side of the head. Zygomatic arch circles back around into the temporal line making the circular swoop at the side of the head. - No nasal structure, so the Maxilla joins up to the frontal bone between the eyes.

Thank you for attending my Carapacian lecture, I will be taking questions after class. And yes, all of this will be on the test.

Redbubble | WeLoveFine | Teepublic | Zazzle

#homestuck #carapacian #carapacians #character sheet #character deisgn #art #artist #Illustration #illustrator

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homoose · 4 years

Text

Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part VII

Summary: Spencer’s unresolved trauma catches up with him. Reader gets her heart broken.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, I’m so sorry guys

Warnings/Includes: brief mention of violence and details of a case; brief mention of prison, past trauma; a lil self-loathing and self-sabotaging

Word count: 3.8k

a/n: I knew that this was where this story was going from the very beginning. The dialogue is one of the first parts I had written. It still hurts. Relevant to the story: I operate with the understanding that the Jeid arc does not exist, which also means that Spencer never went to therapy in season 15. Also, huge thanks to @reidscanehand for beta-ing and just generally being my hype person!!!!

Song Recs: Shrike by Hozier; Better As a Memory by Kenny Chesney (don’t come for me if Spencer made playlists this would ABSOLUTELY be on there)

Series Masterlist

———

Spencer made his way to Emily’s office, ignoring the team’s eyes on him— varying degrees of understanding, concern, and uncertainty plain on their faces. As he reached the threshold, he paused for a second before moving into her line of sight. When he moved into the doorway, she looked up and waved him in. He closed the door behind him.

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. Spencer hesitated for only a split second, but it was long enough for her to notice. He lowered himself into the chair and met her eyes.

She folded her hands on top of the desk. “How are you feeling?”

He drummed his fingers across his kneecaps. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. She bit back a sigh and flipped open the folder in front of her. “I’m finished with the official report. I wanted to go over it with you before I submit it to the director.” She looked at him briefly before reading out the report. “On January 9th, our team pursued a lead at the residence of suspect Andrew Hurley. We divided into teams to cover the two entrances to the home, as well as the barn behind the house.”

Spencer fidgeted slightly in his chair and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Emily continued, “During the raid, Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid became separated from the team and was ambushed and disarmed by the suspect in the barn.” She paused but didn’t look at him. “The team was unaware of the altercation for some time, during which Dr. Reid employed various approved restraint methods and was ultimately forced to utilize self-defense measures to preserve his own life. Consequently, Mr. Hurley sustained serious injuries.”

She did look at him then, a steady and unrelenting gaze that had him shrinking inside himself. “However, I have determined that Dr. Reid’s actions were justified in order to maintain his own safety.” She returned her eyes to the report. “Mr. Hurley was detained and treated for his injuries at Sebastian River Medical Center, and he is expected to make a full recovery. Based on the cognitive interviews and physical evidence, a grand jury hearing is scheduled for January 25th.” She brought her hands to rest on top of the report.

“I’ll sign off on it and deliver it to the director by the end of business today.” She let out the sigh she’d been holding back. “Reid.”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, torn between shame and vindication. “Emily.”

“What happened in that barn was unacceptable. And I need you to recognize that.” Her eyes were back on him, a leader’s gaze boring into a weak link. “You went against a direct order. You put your life in danger unnecessarily, and in the process you endangered this entire team. Furthermore, you could have cost us the ability to close this case, to put Hurley away and bring justice to his victims.”

“It won’t happen again,” he assured her.

“No, it won’t.” Her tone told him that if it did, he’d have bigger problems than a meeting in her office. “My recommendation to the director is that you transition to your next mandatory leave cycle early.”

“I can handle—”

“It’s not a request. You’re on sabbatical starting tomorrow. That’s an order, and one you’d do well to follow.” She closed the file in front of her. “We’ll see you back in the bullpen on March 7th.”

“I don’t need more time off, Emily,” Spencer snapped.

He could see her grind her teeth together at his tone, but he couldn’t seem to care enough to feel contrite. She took a deep breath in through her nose, leveling him with a pointed look. “If Simmons hadn’t broken it up, you’d have killed Hurley on the floor of that barn.”

His mind snapped back to the lifeless eyes of Hurley’s victims— eight year old boys in shallow graves. Boys who died afraid, and in pain, and crying out for their mothers. His thoughts raced to the feel of Hurley’s throat under his arm, the crack of the zygomatic under his fist. Emily was right of course. If Matt hadn’t found them in the barn and dragged him up and off of Hurley’s nearly lifeless body, Spencer would have killed him without compunction.

“Reid.” The stern edge was gone from her voice. Spencer refocused his eyes on her face, now showcasing an underlying concern that made his stomach turn. “I’m not recommending another cycle of mandatory counseling at this time, although I reserve the right to require it moving forward. But… I’m asking you to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot in the last two years. More than a lot.”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, but there was less fire behind it this time.

“And I’m not saying you aren’t,” she countered. “But I am saying that the person in that barn… that wasn’t you. That was not the Reid that I know.” Emily tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “The Reid I know uses his intellect and empathy to see angles that the rest of us miss. He depends on the strength of his mind and his unwavering compassion to diffuse conflicts without violence. He invites his friends to foreign film showings and puppet theater.”

When he didn’t budge, she let out a long breath. “I want you to take the next fifty days to find that Reid and bring him back to us.”

...

Y/N dropped into her desk chair with a huff. They’d been back from winter break for two weeks, and she already needed another vacation. But tomorrow was Friday, and then they had a long weekend. She could make it through one more day.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, tired in the way that only kindergarten teachers fresh off a long break can be. She heard the click of Anita’s shoes coming before she even entered the room, and Y/N couldn’t stop the twitch of her lips.

“Dude. How is it only Thursday?” Anita flopped down into the plush Calm Corner chair.

“This has been the longest week of my life,” Y/N agreed. “My kids were off the chain.”

“There is so much drama in middle school right now,” Anita groaned. “I can’t keep up with all the tea, and you know how I love to stay up to date on the freshest brews.” She shot Y/N a look. “Speaking of, where’s the good doctor?”

“I think they’ve had a lot going on at work,” Y/N surmised. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jareau in over a month.”

“Well, I’m getting antsy,” Anita complained. “Thought for sure you’d be going steady by now.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but feel a little impatient herself. If she’d known it would be this long before she’d see him again, she might have made a move when he’d volunteered. Then again, probably not. She sighed.

Her phone chimed with an email message, and she automatically swiped the screen open to read it.

Spencer Reid Re:

Are you free today? If you are, I’ll be at Soho.

...

Spencer sat at the table in the corner of the coffee shop. He sipped absentmindedly at his tea, almost gone cold. He hadn’t waited for a reply before leaving Quantico. He drove straight to the city, figuring he’d wait at Soho until he felt some semblance of calm returning to his body.

He didn’t know why he’d emailed Y/N, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to show up. Usually he’d talk to Penelope or maybe JJ. But he’d wanted to get as far from the BAU as possible, and he didn’t want to drag Penelope away from the colorful, safe corner of the world she’d created for herself. He didn’t want to fill it with all the tragedy she’d tried so hard to leave behind.

If Y/N did show, he was certain he could keep the conversation vague, focus on her and the classroom, ask her about her holidays. She wasn’t a profiler, didn’t know his tells well enough. She’d be none the wiser, and he’d have her warmth and presence to focus his energy on, if only for a few hours.

Every time the bell chimed, his eyes flew to the door, searching for her. He knew it was ridiculous. He’d only known her for one hundred and eleven days. Pragmatically, he knew she shouldn’t be the one he wanted to talk to. Realistically, he wasn’t planning to burden her with all of the mess of the past week, the past year, his entire life.

But in the six hundred and forty seven minutes he’d spent with her since September, he’d felt more like himself than he ever had. He was never afraid to be himself with her— the silly story voices, the ridiculous costume, the magic trick, the vulnerability about his mom. All of these pieces of himself were things he usually waited years to show people. It had taken her a matter of weeks to draw them out.

He couldn’t help but believe that if he wanted to, he could tell her everything. She’d know exactly what to say. She’d listen for as long as he could keep talking. She’d cover his shaking hands and wrap him up in the warmth of her spirit. She’d give of herself to guide him back to the person he used to be. She’d be more than willing to use her radiance to illuminate the dark so that he might have a little light again.

The bell sounded, and his eyes focused, and there she was. She was wrapped up in a puffed jacket, a bright blue scarf tied around her neck. Her nose was adorably red from the cold, and she rubbed her hands together as the door closed behind her. Her eyes found him immediately. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and she gave him an enthusiastic wave. And he knew that he was right about all of it.

She approached the table, unwinding her scarf. “Hi!”

“Hi.”

Her eyes flickered over his face, and then settled on his mostly empty mug. “I’ll get you a refill, and then we’ll catch up?”

He nodded, and she headed to the counter. There had been a part of him that thought she wouldn’t come, but of course she did. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, she liked talking to him. Even among his closest friends, he was often made to feel self-conscious about his tendency to ramble, but Y/N had literally asked him to. She sought him out, asked him questions, listened intently, and remembered things he’d told her. She was kind and thoughtful and genuine. Of course she came when he called.

She returned with two mugs, carefully setting them down on the tiny table. She unzipped and removed her jacket, hanging it on the back of her chair and revealing a crew neck sweater covered in tiny astronauts and rocket ships. When she sat across from him, her hands wrapped around the mug and her eyes met his.

“Hi.”

He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching, despite the events of the day. “You said that already.”

She laughed, and he felt the weight begin to lift. “Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you in forever, so— I’m just making up for lost time.”

“Sixty one days.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s been sixty one days, eighty eight minutes, and approximately,” he looked at his watch, “fourteen seconds since we saw each other last.”

She laughed again, and his mouth completed its curve. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I like that you’ve been counting.” She let her chin come to rest in her hand, eyes studying his face. “How are you?”

He wanted to lie, but she was looking at him so earnestly that he mumbled out, “I’m managing.”

She mirrored the way he’d looked at her across this same table nearly three months ago. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” That was a lie, too. But asking her to meet him was enough of a burden.

“Okay. Well, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Until then, I can just regale you with all the kindergarten stories you’ve missed while you were out saving lives.”

And regale him she did. For almost an hour, he listened to her tales of love (budding crushes were taking over recess time), loss (the class pet— a stuffed zebra— had accidentally taken a swim in the Atlantic on a vacation to Florida), and lessons learned…

“So, in case there was ever any doubt, we are now painfully aware that we shouldn’t attempt to flush our underwear.” Y/N let out an exasperated laugh.

She’d been talking to him for fifty three minutes, and his heart already felt one thousand times lighter. “I’m really glad I wasn’t there for that one.”

“I really wish that was the only poop story I had.” She shook her head. “There are a lot of things they don’t tell you in grad school. I think there’d be a global teacher shortage if they warned you about the amount of bodily fluid management involved in teaching kindergarten.”

She toyed with the edge of her empty mug. He watched the movement of her fingers.

“Do you—”

She laughed and gestured for him to speak first.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

…

They ended up in Mitchell Park. The trees were bare and the grass was brown, but he was with her, and so it was beautiful.

They’d been walking in comfortable silence, when she asked, “Did you change your mind? About talking about it.”

Spencer put his hands into his pockets. “It’s, um— it’s kind of a lot.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got time.”

“I don’t mean— I mean, it would take some time to get through it all. But it’s also— it’s a lot.”

“We don’t have to.” He could feel her eyes on him. “Do you talk to— someone about it?”

“I talked with my unit chief today,” he answered.

“Okay. But— I mean, have you ever— talked to someone. Like, a professional.”

Spencer bristled slightly. Although he knew she wasn’t passing judgement, her question exposed the reality that she thought he could use it. “I’ve had some mandated counseling over the years.”

“Obviously it’s your choice whether you talk to someone or not,” she mused. “I just— I know that I’ve benefited a lot from seeing my therapist.”

Spencer was unsure of what to do with that information. Here she was, confessing that she went to therapy— sweet, lovely Y/N. In comparison, he wasn’t sure if even daily meetings with a counselor would be enough to tame the darkness that had grown and festered inside him over the years. That sometimes threatened to swallow him whole.

For a long while, there was only the crunch of the frozen ground beneath their feet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an uncertainty about them that felt uncharacteristically heavy. He was hyper aware of her presence, and so he felt her pace slowing down before she came to a complete stop. He walked a few more paces before it became clear that she wasn’t planning to catch up.

He turned and saw that she’d taken a seat on one of the park benches. He carefully made his way to the bench, sitting beside her quietly. She didn’t look at him, but instead studied her fingernails intently. She cracked her knuckles once, twice, and then turned her body slightly toward him on the bench.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she hedged carefully. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do, or like, imply that there’s anything wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. I just—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer assured her. The way she looked at him then— like he was something fragile, delicate— made his eyes burn. He kept his voice even. “I know what you meant.”

She smiled, eyes crinkling and filled with something that felt familiar and far away all at once. “Good. I can’t have you out here thinking you’re anything less than wonderful.”

He couldn’t stop looking at her, attempting to solve the impossible cypher behind her irises. As he failed to decode it, his inability to read her blinded him to what came next. He missed the dilation of her pupils, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, the increase of the beats in her carotid. So when she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, he was momentarily paralyzed.

Her lips were so soft against his slightly chapped ones, pressing with a perfectly gentle pressure. She brought her hand up to cradle his cheek, the pads of her fingers just barely ghosting the curls falling around his ear. She sighed into his mouth and pressed a little closer. He took one peaceful moment to bask in the realization of a desire he’d had for almost four months.

And then she swiped the very tentative tip of her tongue against the seam of his mouth, and his hands involuntarily wound into her hair, dragging her closer. He opened his mouth against hers to swallow her sweet little gasp. His grip on her hair tightened, and she let out the tiniest mewl, and like a switch had flipped— suddenly his mind was full of the darkness she’d spent the evening chasing away.

Y/N beneath him in the dark. Maeve in a pool of blood. His hands around Cat’s neck. His mother’s slap against his cheek. Max walking away from him. His fingers pressing the plunger on a dirty syringe. The slam of the door behind his father. Y/N calling out his name. A knife at his throat under a canopy of bones. Innumerable sets of lifeless eyes staring up at him. His life being snuffed out on the dirt floor of a shed. The clanging of metal bars and fingers ghosting over old bruises. Y/N looking at him with warm, loving eyes. The violent crack of bone underneath his fists. Y/N’s face, lovely and perfect— and then twisted in pain.

He broke away from her, releasing his hold on her hair and pushing her back into the bench. He took a second to gather himself before he dared to look at her. Her hair was tousled from his rough grip; her eyes were half-lidded and focused on him; her lips were red and kiss-bruised and turned up in a small, sweet smile.

And all at once he knew he had to hurt her, and it had to be now. Because what Cat had said about him was true. He might have escaped his mother’s illness, but he hadn’t been able to outrun the violence— and unlike her, he didn’t have the excuse of being sick. He had hurt people, and he had enjoyed it. He would have killed Hurley, and he would have slept soundly. He was no better than the men his team hunted.

Every time he thought he’d moved past it, that wickedness lurking just under the surface would grab him by the throat, choking everything else out. Emily’s directive rang in his ears. Find that Reid and bring him back to us. He knew who she was talking about. The problem was, he wasn’t sure that person still existed.

He was going to hurt Y/N eventually. Better to do it now, before things got too far.

“You’re Michael’s teacher,” he said, as evenly as possible.

Her smile faltered, and she pressed her lips together. He could still feel the phantom press of them against his own, and he was sure he’d never forget it. She cleared her throat. “You’re right, you’re totally right. I, um— I won’t be in a few months, and maybe then—”

“You don’t even know me,” he interrupted.

Now there was confusion in her eyes. That much he could read. She huffed out a small laugh. “I— I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

He looked directly at her. “Why? Because you read my bio on a university website? Because we got tea a couple times?” His voice sounded harsh, patronizing, and he hated it.

Her confusion shifted into shock, and he ignored the tug on his heart. “Are you serious?” she questioned, genuinely searching for a sign that he was joking.

“Dead serious.” He shrugged, and it felt like his bones were breaking. “You don’t really know anything about me, Y/N. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“Where— where is this coming from?” Her voice was small, close to breaking. He lined up the last nail on the lid of the coffin.

“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression. I’ve appreciated talking to you. Volunteering in your classroom was entertaining. But I don’t— I don’t see you that way.” It was a lie, and if he didn’t have such a practiced poker face, she might have seen through it. As it was, his poker face had helped get him banned from every casino in Vegas, so he watched her as he hammered the final nail. “You’re just Michael’s kindergarten teacher.”

“Oh.” The hurt flashed across her features— the furrow of her brow, the tightening of her mouth, the storm clouds in her eyes. “Well, I— I really read this wrong, huh?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Yeah.” He put his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her, the desire to comfort her a strange juxtaposition to the pain he was intentionally inflicting on her. “I guess so.”

She opened and closed her mouth twice before taking a deep breath and nearly whispering, “Okay. Well. I’m— I’m gonna go.”

She brushed some imaginary dust from her pants and then stood. She turned to him, and he waited for her to explode— to scream and curse at him. But it didn’t come. She didn’t look at him at all. “Um— yeah. I’m gonna go.”

He didn’t say anything, and he knew she’d take his silence as indifference. But he had to keep his mouth shut, because if he didn’t, he’d beg her to stay. He’d tell her every single random piece of information he had stored in his brain. He’d tell her that he loved her from the moment he watched her help a child pick a solution from a pencil box. He’d tell her that he only ever dreamt of two things these days— her or the lives he didn’t save. He’d tell her every single one of his deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tell her that sometimes he was so afraid of himself that he could barely breathe. And if he told her all of that, she’d walk away anyway.

So instead, he watched her turn and start back up the path, hugging her arms around herself and swiping her cheek against her scarf.

When she disappeared over the slope of the path, he scrubbed his hands over his own damp face and let himself break.

———

Permanent tags: @andiebeaword @averyhotchner @pinkdiamond1016 @shadyladyperfection @coffeeandendlesswords @justanothetfangirl @no-honey-no @ajeff855 @sapphic-prentiss @eevee0722 @rexorangecouny @rainsong01 @goldentournesol @blameitonthenight21 @moviequeen51 @90spumkin

Series tags: @spacedikut @uhuhuh @itsametaphorbriansblog @magenta145 @annesauriol @watermelongubler @ampal98 @meowiemari @mrsmyaweasley @mggsprettygirl @ceeellewrites @daybabyx @joalsglasses @chevyimpala00067 @misshale21 @ilzieah @froggybagels @gublersbooblers @matthcwgraygubler @takeyourleap-of-faith @mrs-dr-reid @flklrevrmre @andromedasstarship @joodeduarte

Broken tags: @saspencereid @this-is-gublerween

#spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer x y/n #spencer x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid imagine #homoose writes #tmsidk

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songofsutarima · 2 years

Text

A Story & A Promise

10:20, a work day done,

Parking at home, 10:51.

On my balcony, wife and cats

My calm and comfort, that.

And then appears suddenly, a little down the way,

A man who I thought I left on good terms with the other day.

“Hey you, come over here”

Nah, bro, you come, chill, have a beer.

But something in the eyes wasn’t right.

And then it was evident it was time for a fight.

I sent my loves inside, lock the door.

I don’t know what this guy wants to fight for.

Drunk, (I think confused also) agitated, simply irate.

Because of something someone said he felt was said in hate.

I said something in hate in front of your girl? Are you sure?

Because the one time I was at your place, she slept. I never met her.

I tried to calm, to have his anger quelled.

But he kept on with the p**** and f*****, and a fight is what that spelled.

Hit me once, a thought across my mind,

He hit me again, break legs, arms unbind,

Hit thrice, fine. The snooze button I’ll find.

Dip, then quickly up, touch the zygomatic.

Lights out, sleep is automatic.

I asked when he woke,

“Chill dude” is what I spoke.

But on his feet again, he restarted.

I watch the swing, easy deflect,

But make his head ring, I reject.

A touch on the jaw, just to stumble.

I don’t want this stupid, unnecessary rumble.

Eventually, finally, he leaves, thanks to a friend with a phone

Who heard the scuffle and didn’t want me fighting alone.

No blue boys called, but the threat was enough

To stop someone who apparently has unsettled stuff.

So with this in mind, I think I might have changed.

I am patient, I am merciful, it’s what I’ve chosen and arranged.

But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I need to be more violent.

Because maybe it’s wrong for me to let him yell and insult while I’m silent.

Know now, next time I’ll be faster

And next time I’ll put your head through the plaster.

You stupid motherfucker, attack me at my home?

Scare my wife to be alone?

Next time, I won’t let off til it’s a bloody mess of a dome.

Next time. You’ll be begging me to let you use a phone.

Because yeah, maybe I write poems, that’s how I flow.

I am soft and gentle, and have that glow.

But I wasn’t born in softness, I came from blood-soaked lands.

And I promise, poetry isn’t the only art I make with these hands.

#new poem #rhyme poetry #story poem #poems on tumblr #poetry #literally so angry this happened #im not a violent person #29 and this is the only fight I’ve had

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valdemart · 3 years

Text

Fweckles

ValdemarxReader fluff. No warnings.

“Valdemar…I’m bored.”

There was no reply. They didn’t even look up from their desk where they were writing gods only knew what.

“I said I was bored.”

“I heard you perfectly fine the first time,” they answered finally. “I was ignoring you.”

You huffed and marched over to them before nuzzling yourself against their shoulder like a cat.

“Don’t ignore me.”

“I am working and you are fully capable of entertaining yourself for the moment.”

“But I’m lonely.”

You watched them write for a moment before realizing they were writing in a language you were unfamiliar with.

“You’re welcome to sit quietly down here with me.”

It took a great deal of strength to keep you from rolling your eyes.

“Can’t we do something together? Something fun? Something…not this?”

“Perhaps when I finish. Until then, I will not stop my work to indulge you.”

“Vawdemaw…Pwetty pwease?”

That made Valdemar stop writing immediately. You knew it would. Not because you had ever tried it on them before, but rather because it had made everyone else you had tried it on throw something at you. No one liked the ‘UWU’ voice.

Like an owl, they turned their face sharply towards yours, the slight curl of their upper lip their only sign of disgust.

“Is that what’s meant to allure me, Dearest? That infantile voice?”

Their voice was completely flat. It didn’t hold the ice it did when they were exceedingly annoyed, so you pushed.

“Well…Is it working?”

You grinned at them, grinning like the cat that got the green canary. Even when they slowly returned your smile, you hid your worry and your smile never faltered.

“You seem to be under the impression that, just because my instruments are not nearby, I cannot cause you a great deal of discomfort.”

Turning their chair around to face you, they held their quill up long enough for you to see the sharp point before bringing it to poke lightly into your neck. They weren’t applying nearly enough pressure for it to be even slightly uncomfortable. Slowly, they drug the point up your neck and across your face, causing you to shiver lightly as goosebumps covered your arms.

“I’ve not yet heard of anyone completing a transorbital lobotomy with a quill,” they explained, bringing the quill point to rest right outside your medial canthus. “I could write a very interesting paper after becoming the first.”

It was hard to be afraid, knowing that there was no way Valdemar could possibly slip accidentally.

“You wouldn’t want me lobotomized.”

“Perhaps. Although it’s quite a shame I let you keep your brain when you never use it.”

Valdemar lowered the quill and waited for your response. You didn’t really have anything witty to say, so you decided to double down on being annoying.

Leaning forward slightly, you planted a light kiss onto the tip of Valdemar’s nose.

“Fweckles.”

Valdemar was silent for just a moment.

“Excuse me?”

You leaned forward again to place a kiss on their left zygomatic arch.

“Fweckles. I like yo fweckles.”

“Cease this horrid chatter at once.”

“Can’t. Gotta kiss da fweckles.” You placed a third kiss to the right side of their face.

“One.”

You pulled back and observed Valdemar’s face. Their eyes were sharp but their face was neutral. You waited for them to continuing counting, but they didn’t. They weren’t counting down to your dissection? Slowly, you leaned forward to kiss the bridge of their nose.

“Two.”

Oh.

Now they were keeping a tally of your transgressions? No doubt it was also the number of repercussions coming your way as well. You wanted to ask Valdemar what they had planned, but you already knew they wouldn’t tell you.

“Three.”

Your lips lingered on theirs for a moment, their skin chilling you slightly. No, you had no idea what they had planned, but you figured you could handle three of whatever they planned to dish out.

It’d be worth it.

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

What were they counting? Orgasms? Spankings? Toes removed? You get to decide!

Working on Valdebreed Part 2 now that I finally got this out. Stay tuned!

#quaestor valdemar #valdemar the arcana #valdemar x reader

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ashayatreldai · 3 years

Text

His Face - Fic

Find this on AO3 or read it here.

Among Su She’s effects is found a bundle of sketches of Hanguang Jun, which inspires a lifetime of exchanges between Wei Wuxian and his husband.

***

Wei Wuxian yawned, barely remembering to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn’t as though Lan Wangji minded; he still marveled at his husband’s calm acceptance of his less than perfect behavior. And it wasn’t as if he were really tired. They’d been back in Cloud Recesses only a handful of days and most of that time Wei Wuxian had been able to rest, to wander the back hill, to play with the rabbits, to tease Sizhui and Jingyi, to play Chenqing to the birds and the rainbows the sun cast in the light mists of Gusu’s waterfalls. No, he supposed. He yawned because he was warm, well-fed, secure and safe, and in the best company a person could desire, let alone have all to himself.

Lan Wangji sat on the other side of the desk, and in spite of the hour was still working through the backlog of mail which had accumulated in his absence.

“What’s this?” A bundle of papers caught Wei Wuxian’s eye, and on impulse he reached and drew them out of the stack.

Lan Wangji looked up. “After the events at Gyanyin Temple, members of the Lan Clan disposed of the bodies, sealed the coffin in which Red Blade Master and Jin Guangyao are buried, and otherwise put the site in order. Among these activities, Su She’s body was searched and his personal effects catalogued. A quiankun pouch was found, containing an assortment of items. This bundle of papers was also in the pouch. I assume it was forwarded to me because I am the subject.”

Wei Wuxian leafed through the pages. It was a collection of sketches in a variety of media, all of Hanguang Jun’s face, mostly sketches of his eyes. They weren’t half bad: the artist had captured the micro-expressions which concealed everything but hid nothing of Hanguang Jun’s thoughts. But as he examined the pile, he experienced an increasing sensation of wrongness.

“I wonder what he was trying to capture. I mean, here’s ice, here’s anger. I think this one is arrogance or being haughty; and this one has to be indifference. And this,” he huffed out with a half smile, “has got to be ‘you are the scum beneath my shoe’.” That was a micro-expression Wei Wuxian had seen often on Lan Wangji’s face when they were young, as he kept poking and prodding until the carefully cultivated mask his friend wore finally slipped. He spread out the pictures, his eyes searching for the clues he knew he’d find. “Why would he want to draw these things and exclude others? I know a lot of people are afraid of you, Lan Zhan, because you look cold and imperturbable. But anyone who knows you and watches closely can see that there’s so much more to you than that.”

“Su She was cast out of the Lan Clan because he betrayed our secrets to Wen Xu. He was known for being desirous of imitating me – poorly. We can only speculate as to his motivations otherwise,” Lan Wangji commented quietly.

“Mmmm,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “He hated you, but he also idolized you. Who’s to say what came first? Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. “The fact he captured your eyes with these strong antagonistic expressions suggests he hated himself, and perhaps wanted to make you the one who hated him in his own mind. It’s easier to hate someone than to live with the pain of feeling rejected or not even noticed.”

“I never hated Su She.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to hate anyone, Hanguang Jun.” Wei Wuxian felt a surge of protective affection for this dear man. “Not even those who deserve it. Su She unfairly judged you and didn’t know you at all. Still, when you think about what people say about me, the scary deranged Yiling Patriarch, anything’s possible in terms of what people do to themselves to justify hatred. Blargh!” He made claws with his hands and pulled a terrifying crazy Yiling Laozu face.

“Wei Ying.” There was amusement dancing in Lan Wangji’s eyes. “You do not scare me.”

Sometimes Lan Wangji could abruptly light a fuse in Wei Wuxian and leave him smoking. He laughed and crawled around to Lan Wangji’s side of the table, climbing into his lap to sit with one leg either side of Lan Wangji’s waist. His husband’s hands came up to support his lower back. He put both hands loosely around Lan Wangji’s neck.

Lan Wangi had removed his silver coronet and tendrils of hair that usually were wound up to hold the headpiece in place trailed either side of his face, making him look softer and younger and so much more vulnerable.

For some time they sat simply looking at each other. Wei Wuxian took in the flawless face, reaching one hand to trace Lan Wangi’s eyebrow, feeling the soft hairs brush beneath his fingerpads. He gently followed the line of an eyelash, delighting in the butterfly kiss as his husband blinked. Out over the swell of zygomatic bone, cupping around his perfectly shaped ear – he really was like exquisitely carved jade, warm, living, and here. He cupped Lan Wangji’s cheek, his thumb finding the hollow between nose and lip and the soft breath of life it held. And those lips, now quirked in a loving bow.

He pulled himself up to kiss the forehead ribbon, to plant gentle brushes of his lips over all the places he’d touched. When he came to Lan Wangji’s mouth, he finally let go, giving all his worship as they joined tongues, teeth, desire, losing themselves in each other.

They released the kiss, and held each other, Wei Wuxian’s head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Between them energy sizzled – it would be sated later, but it was sufficient for now to enjoy the beatitude of the moment, the closeness, words unnecessary to communicate the depth of heart each held for the other.

***

Wei Wuxian was traveling. His absence itched acutely just under Lan Wangji’s skin, a constant worry. He rued the duty which pinned him in his current dual roles: Chief Cultivator and Acting Sect Leader, keeping him grounded at Cloud Recesses instead of off night hunting with his husband.

It was necessary, he knew, for Wei Wuxian to move; the whole man was a study in movement, in ceaseless energy. He knew the staid and stable pattern of life at Cloud Recesses felt like a box to Wei Ying, and while he could endure for a season, he needed more than what life in Gusu offered, even with rabbits and a back hill to wander for hours.

But oh, he missed him. And he worried too: who would defend him when he had so little sense of self-preservation?

This journey, Wei Wuxian had set off to attempt to mend things with Jiang Cheng before making his way up to Lanling to see Jin Ling. One of the highest values for the Lan was family, and Lan Wangji understood the deep need his husband had for those connections – had encouraged it.

It was just as well Wei Wuxian had mastered the butterfly talisman (and enhanced it). Morning and night he would wait for the silvery wings to alight with Wei Wuxian’s messages of love and thought to whisper through his qi. Sometimes they were profound, poetry. Sometimes playful; sometimes just a kiss. Lan Wangji came to depend on those messages, and on being able to send some back himself: I love you, I miss you, come home soon.

He sighed. This morning had grown tedious. Today was the end of the accounting period for Clan matters, and while there was staff to manage the minutiae of bookkeeping, as Acting Clan Leader LanWangji was examining the records before tomorrow’s visit from the auditor. Not for the first time he lamented his brother’s seclusion, necessary though it was. Dealing with finances was the part of the role that least appealed to Lan Wangji; he felt a headache brewing and was contemplating taking a break when there was a knock on the door.

“Hanguang Jun, mail has arrived,” the disciple said, handing him a bundle.

“Thank you. Please ask the kitchen to send me some lunch,” he requested, taking the pile.

The disciple departed, and he began to sort the items: those about Clan matters, those for the Chief Cultivator. One letter stood out, a simple scroll tied with a red thread. Putting all the other mail aside he carefully opened the scroll and took a breath.

It was an ink painting of his eyes, creased ever so slightly in an expression of amusement. On his brow the forehead ribbon glinted silver, his hair loosely framing his cheeks. He instantly recognized the artist, tracing a finger over the brush strokes as if that touch could unite him with the hand that had made them.

“Wei Ying,” he said, infinite fondness filling him.

Throughout the rest of the day he kept the picture on his desk, glancing at it from time to time. And when it was time to turn his attention to other things, he gently placed the picture in his sleeve to take back to the jingshi.

Every couple of days another picture would arrive. This too became something Lan Wangji expected, an important and significant marker in his day, each picture a symbol that he was one day closer to seeing, holding, touching, tasting Wei Wuxian again.

***

300 years later

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao had come to the Forbidden Room in the Library Pavilion seeking a book she’d known had been here years earlier. Back then she’d been a mischievous girl seeking a way to prank Shufu, and she vividly remembered the green cover. Lan filing methods hadn’t changed in hundreds of years, so that wretched book had to be here somewhere.

She moved a pile of dusty scrolls, cursing under her breath when she knocked a stack of bamboo books which went tumbling over the floor. Patience, she told herself strictly. Breathe and control.

Feeling a little more composed, she bent to restore the mess to order. A red cover caught her eye on one of the lower shelves. She’d not seen that before, and she was sure she’d have recognized it if she had. It was quite distinct, a deep red, tied shut with of all things a Clan ribbon.

Intrigued, she opened the volume, carefully untying the ribbon and leafing through the pages. Page after page were pictures of a handsome man’s eyes: crinkled in delight, weeping with sorrow, dancing with affection, on and on they went. Sometimes the whole of the man’s lovely face was shown: in some he wore the elaborate silver coronet her ancestors had favored, in others his long tresses floated around his face, and the artist had clearly captured a treasured, private, and vulnerable moment.

Around half way through the volume the pictures changed: a spritely young man in black, his underrobe a vivid red (the same colour as the cover of the book, as it happened – and she wondered whether it was indeed cut from the same cloth), a red ribbon in his hair, holding a black dizi. This array of pictures had a different hand, a more understated eye which captured the young man’s energetic aura, as well as pensive moments – the youth had clearly been to hell and back, and Lan Shuoxiao could almost feel the immense love with which the person who’d drawn these pictures had made each stroke.

There were so many! Page sized varied: a compendium gathered together of odd scraps. The last page bore an inscription:

In loving memory of my parents, Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang Jun, and Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Laozu. The true faces of both, in their own hands. Love letters sent to dearest him who was, alas, away. Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui, Chief Cultivator.

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao’s heart thumped wildly in her chest. Clan records declared Hanguang Jun’s partner’s name to have been Lan Ying, Lan Wuxian. How had they never made the connection before that “Lan Wuxian” was in fact the infamous Yiling Patriarch? Given that the two had Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui’s name inscribed under theirs as offspring, Lan Shuoxiao and many others had assumed Lan Wuxian to be female.

She looked closely again at one of the pictures of the young man in black and red. He didn’t look like the evil dictator of legend. He looked mischievous and full of life, an impression caught in the laughing smile, and so… youthful.

Not that demonic cultivation was these days the issue it had been for her ancestors; these days cultivation was emphasized to be about harnessing the yin of negative energy and the yang of positive energy, holding them in balance and using each appropriately. She doubted the people who had so feared and hated the Yiling Patriarch would be able to recognize as righteous the way all cultivators now practiced as a matter of course.

As for Hanguang Jun… She flicked back to a picture in which his whole upper body had been captured as he played guqin, a study of someone completely caught up and focused on the music, almost in ecstasy. Another private moment revealing something about the essence of the man. He was so beautiful, captivating. And such a contrast from all the other images she’d ever seen of him. Hanguang Jun had a reputation even now, 150 years after he had Ascended, for being cold, somewhat forbidding, distant, just, merciful and benevolent, untouchable, unrivalled in almost all fields. That was how he appeared at the Gate of Gusu, carved of jade, opposite his brother, Zewu Jun, the famous Twin Jades of Gusu Lan now its guardians, their representations inscribed and infused with talismans and ward tethers. Rumor was that no evil could come to Cloud Recesses as long as the Twin Jades stood at the gates. How was anyone to reconcile that formidable image with this? This picture of a very human, vulnerable, gentle man, who was clearly so very much loved by the artist who drew him.

Lan Shuoxiao found herself on the edge of tears. It felt like an injustice, looking at these intimate sketches, that history had forgotten Wei Wuxian as little more than a footnote. And that the righteous Hanguang Jun had been immortalized as a stiff, cold and distant deity rather than someone’s beloved whose heart beat wildly in his chest in longing, and whose blood was warm and red and thrummed with reciprocated affection. She wondered how they had found one another, wondered about the history in which they must have been caught up: how did it affect them? What trials had they passed through before they finally found their way to each other’s arms?

She reverently closed the volume, her original mission in coming here put aside. Thoughtfully, she collected up the scrolls and bamboo books and reordered them, and then closed the Forbidden Room.

***

Several months later a new scene was depicted on the climbing path around the residences of Gusu: a beautiful, crowned Lan sat cross-legged in the back hill meadow, covered in a blanket of rabbits. His loving gaze was fixed on the figure opposite him under a peach tree in full bloom, who was standing and playing a dizi. The legend beneath read: Hanguang Jun and his cultivation partner Yiling Laozu, Lan Wuxian.

FIN

#the untamed #ao3 #mdzs #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan sizhui #myfic

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graffitibible · 3 years

Text

You've faced down more terrifying things than a singular scarred, wiry detonator with a foul mouth and a fouler temperament. Ghoul swears as easy as breathing. He swears in other languages, he swears in the abstract, he swears seemingly on reflex or for lack of anything else to say, oftentimes settling for rolling the consonants aloud in a perpetual echolalic stream.

It's hard to say how old he is. Younger than you, you suspect, though not by much. His size doesn't help, but at least it makes it easy for you to simply pick him up and move him out of the way when he bothers you. Ghoul reacts to unasked-for touch much in the same way Poison does, only with a much more explosive temperament. Everything about Ghoul, however, is explosive.

The culture of questions between you and Poison does you no favors. You can't very well demand to them why they've elected to keep this detonator along, except you think maybe you can guess and you hate that that about yourself. This burner was alone, alone for weeks on end, and it's obvious just looking at him what's wrong with him.

Maybe "wrong" isn't the right word, but it's the one Battery City would use. And he’s from the city, you're certain, just based on the way he talks and moves and carries himself. Beyond that, it's in the way everything about them exists in extremes. Too brute-force, too off-putting, too outspoken, too impulsive. Not a good team player. He would have flunked out of the SCE6 within the first five minutes. Lower-income kid? Probably. Maybe a Ritalin Rat. Lobby runner. Hard to say how long they've been out here.

You clock him like you would any other prospective opponent. Dark olive skin. Dark, ovular eyes, almost black, and creased in the corners. Hard to guess what he is in specific - like many people in the Zones, he's mixed in a way that isn't obvious to someone unless they're old enough to know that kind of history, which you aren't. Something about the arrangement of his features feels evocative of others you've seen but you can't say how. It's the thick hair, maybe, long and falling past their shoulders...but it's not just that. It's in the wide, flat nose that you can tell has been broken several times past and didn't really heal clean. It's in the angles of their cheekbones and the slope of their forehead and the sharp curve of their jawline. So much of him is coated in the ephemera of his life that it's the visible wreckage that draws your eyes first: the split in his left eyebrow and the slash of scar tissue bisecting his lips. Even if you hadn't gauged him for a Lobby runner based on everything from his poise to his vocabulary, it's apparent from the wirework of scarring worked into his skin, the chipped teeth and crooked smile, the place where the zygomatic arch of his cheekbone was once hit hard enough to crack and has left his entire face slightly misaligned. He carries his past on his skin: letters inked into his fingers, long twines of shading unfurling up the outsides of his arms. For someone lacking in much in the way of surface area, they've wasted no time in coating as much of it with color as possible, save for his hair. His hair is so black you assume it must be dyed.

Fun Ghoul is a detonator - a type of zonerunner who excels at piecing together explosives, bombs, firecrackers, noisemakers, anything meant to leave craters. Most crews benefit from having at least one person with that mindset among them, but neither you nor Poison have ever claimed to be a crew so much as you are a duo, and your duo is all you've ever needed.

Again, it's because you were content to let questions lie that you feel you can't demand to know why they're indulging this stranger who tried to rob you both of the only form of transport you had. The car isn't exactly home because home, to you, is less tangible and more abstract than that, but it's what you think of when you think of the kind of safety the Zones allow. Home is Poison in the driver's seat, gloved hands on the wheel and the wind tearing through their red hair while they belt out every word to the Mad Gear track playing on the radio, because Dr. Death Defying knows how much they love his self-titled EP and likes to indulge their taste.

At no point does your definition of "home" include a third, unwanted stowaway who laughs too much with no provocation and who seems to take a special delight in tormenting you specifically.

#danger days #*snippet #so far im abooooout 12k into this section #not sure how long it's going to be yet #progress stalled out cause of my wrist but im hoping it can pick up again soon ish #anyway i just liked this bit where kobras trying to figure ghoul out #there are a couple moments like this one where kobra tries to profile him and can kinda clock him right but not always #its also very funny to me how much poison and ghoul end up butting heads down the line when kobras initially the one who cant stand him lmao

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silhouetteofacedar · 3 years

Text

When We Drive, Ch. 6: Ghost Ships, Bruises, and a Pretty Damn Good Kiss

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated M

I-66 East, Fairfax County, Virginia

7:34 PM EST

November 19th, 1998

The Bermuda. Goddamn. Triangle.

Scully never thought much about Bermuda; if she ever entertained the notion of visiting the islands, it would be in the context of a vacation. Not fishing her waterlogged, unconscious partner out of the Sargasso Sea.

But Dana Scully doesn’t get vacations. Hell, the last time she attempted one she ended up microwaving an evil doll and coming home with nothing to show for it other than a Maine t-shirt and a tiny unopened bottle of hotel Merlot.

Maybe someday, she thinks, we’ll go someplace nice.

That thought gives her pause. We. That’s… unsettling.

She has feelings now. Extremely inconvenient, potentially dangerous, unpartnerly feelings. She tries to ignore them, stuff them into a file and bury them in the recesses of her mind, but it never works. No matter what she envisions for her future, Mulder is always there; a fingerprint on the lens through which she views the rest of her life.

Another day, another narrowly averted disaster, another long drive home from the airport. Her life is absurd and mundane simultaneously, and it’s beginning to wear on her. She wants out of the damn car; despite being in the driver’s seat, she feels as though she can’t steer her life in any satisfying direction.

Mulder makes a soft snuffling noise, signaling that he’s awake.

“How are you feeling?” Scully asks gently.

“Mm,” he responds, wriggling deeper into the passenger seat of the car, his eyes still closed. “I’ve had worse Thursdays.”

“It’s Friday,” Scully reminds him.

He yawns. “Point still stands.”

Scully briefly takes one hand off the steering wheel to reach out and brush her fingertips against his cheek. “This bruise is pretty nasty; from the state of the boat you were on, I’m surprised you didn’t end up fracturing you zygomatic bone, or worse.”

“I love when you talk Doctor to me,” Mulder mutters, causing a flash of heat in Scully’s cheeks. “And actually, that bruise is your fault.”

Scully merges into the leftmost lane, clears her throat. “How is that my fault?”

“You punched me. The you in 1939.”

“Mulder, there was no ‘me’ in 1939. We’ve talked about this.”

“I didn’t hallucinate it, Scully. You - or some version of you - were there.”

“Fine,” Scully sighs. “So why did this version of me punch you in the face? Though I suppose I could think of a few good reasons myself.”

Mulder doesn’t respond; he reaches into the airport newsstand bag at his feet, extracts a bottle of water.

Scully watches him out of the corner of her eye, his soft lips pressed to the mouth of the bottle as he drinks. In a flash of passing headlights she sees a heavy droplet escape his mouth and trickle down his jaw. She licks her upper lip, refocusing quickly on the cars ahead of them on the highway.

“I kissed her.”

Scully whips her head towards him, then back at the road, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “I don’t know that that entirely warrants a violent reaction,” she says, trying to sound casual, “Unless you did it wrong.”

“It was one of my better ones, I think,” he muses.

Fuck. Scully shifts in her seat. “Well then what was the context of this… expression?”

“It seemed fitting at the time,” Mulder says, rubbing his eyes. “I was about to jump overboard, to either get out of the timewarp or drown. Real heroic shit,” he says with a tired grin.

Scully shakes her head. “To be fair, you did almost die. But that’s nearly routine for you at this point.”

Mulder drops his chin in a short nod. “Anyway, you - she - hit me with a mean right hook, the evidence of which is still on my face. So you can doubt me all you want, but bruises don’t lie.”

Scully shakes her head and smiles in spite of herself. “Mulder, have I told you lately how crazy you sound?”

“No need; I’m fully aware,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest and sinking deeper into the passenger seat. “Mind if I nap?” he yawns.

“You better,” she replies. “You’re still out of it.”

“‘M not,” he mumbles in reply. “Wake me if somethin’ exciting happens.”

Scully reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze. It’s a grounding gesture for herself more than for him. She loves this man; this impulsive, paranoid, brilliant man who’s scrappy as an alleycat but surprisingly tender beneath the five-day stubble and wild theories. Every time he runs off into trouble she is reminded of the fragility of her own heart; how the loss of one singular human would collapse her entire world. It’s terrifying.

A low, quiet voice cuts through the hum of the engine. “What I told you, in the hospital. I know you didn’t believe me,” Mulder slurs, “but I meant it.”

Scully is silent for a long moment, taillights ahead blurring in her vision. She blinks them back into focus, shifts her palms on the steering wheel. “Which part?” she asks in a near whisper.

When Mulder doesn’t reply, she glances over and finds him asleep, head resting against the car window.

#my fic #when we drive #txf fic #msr #xfiles #triangle #this one took me a while to get to huh #whelp here it is #looking forward to getting into DIANA ANGST

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echo--flowers--writes · 4 years

Note

ajhhh!! i’m a huge fan on ao3 && it’s only now i’ve followed on tumblr :,)) congrats on 50 followers you absolutely deserve it, luv!!

okie, okie..this is weird but i have a request for a drabble for classic,, what would i be like for our ketchup loving gremlin man to dating someone who’s different from him in the sense where s/o is not only really stylish but also is kinda a punk, where they use to be a huge troublemaker as a teenager, although they are a huge softie for their skeleton. how would you imagine it?

!!!!! AAAAA! Thank you so much, love! I really appreciate the support! ❤

Okay, this was really fun. Thanks for the request!

You never imagined yourself dating someone like Sans. The two of you were so different. You were a punk, he did nerdy science stuff and all that jazz (or pop, if you wanna get technical).

But when you met the ketchup-loving skeleton on that fateful night in Grillby's, you couldn't help but be drawn to the pun-throwing gremlin. He absolutely lit up the stage when he performed, cheers and uproarious laughter following his every joke or story. He had the crowd captivated, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like electricity, waiting for his next joke.

And when he came down from the hot spotlight, blue sweat dotting his cranium, asked Grillby for a whole bottle of ketchup, and processed to chug it? You knew you had to get to know him.

By the end of the night, you had gained both his friendship and a huge soft spot for the goober. And that was saying something. You didn't often grow close to someone so fast, especially given your shoddy past. Weeks turned to months, and before you knew it you'd know Sans a whole year. He accepted the not so innocent things you did during your teen years, from skipping school to the fights and everything in between.

He just... shrugged it off with that charming grin of his, saying that everyone can be a good person if they tried. At that moment you knew that you had fallen head over heels for the slouching, disheveled, pun-loving, mess of a skeleton.

And that brings you to today. It's your second anniversary with your gremlin of a skeleton. You sighed with a fond smile as your mind drifted to your bonehead. Your reflection mirrors your smile as you run your hands down your chosen outfit for tonight. It was a simple little ensemble, not too far off from the ones you usually wear (so different from your date-mate, who wore the same jacket and shorts till Papyrus forced him to wash them).

"hey, babe. lookin' good." A small shiver ran down your spine as the atmosphere right behind you shifted and, with a soft clicking sound, your skeleton was suddenly lounging across the bed in all his bony glory, Titanic style.

You rolled your eyes with a smile, meeting his soft eyelights in the mirror. You straightened the sleeves of your dress shirt and strike a dramatic pose that Mettaton would be proud of, earning a hardy chuckle from Sans.

"You like what you see, boneboy?" You winked at him through the mirror before turning to face him with a wicked grin. The look on his face was priceless. He tugged at the collar of his work shirt as a flustered blush splashed across his face. "you know i do, sweetheart."

You pressed a kiss to the dome of his skull before sashaying out of your shared bedroom. "When you're finished rebooting, meet me downstairs cutie." You called over your shoulder teasingly.

A few minutes later, Sans appeared beside you. You take in his slightly cleaner shirt and sweatpants with a smile. He cleaned up nice.

"ya ready?" He wrapped an arm around your waist with a wink. You could feel the warmth of his phalanges through the thin cotton fabric of your shirt.

You pulled him close with a wink. "You know I was born ready."

The last thing you saw was a cyan blush light up his zygomatic bone and his eyelights blazing with wide-eyed delight. Despite your past and your clear differences, you loved this skeleton. And it was pretty clear that the feeling was mutual.

#undertale #fanfic #ut!sans #sans x reader #clovetowne

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dontmindmyshadowhunting · 3 years

Text

The new Shadowhunter Academy (Fan Fic) - Chapter 1

In the mood for a bit of Shadowhunter Academy drama so there goes chap 1 of my new fic (it's part of my "To never being parted series" though it can be read as a standalone story).

Ao3 link here.

*****

This is how I die, Ash thought. He was surprised by how indifferent he was to the news. He had always imagined he would have more fighting in him.

If he were honest, it was not such a bad place to die. Green grass had started to grow again in the lands of Faerie, where there had only been wasteland and death before. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Ash was exactly what he had been named after. Ash, the symbol of rebirth, his blood fertilizing the land and giving way to lush vegetation and the chirping of birds. Through his blurred vision, he could see Jace lying a few feet away, unconscious. He held on to the steady rise of his chest that told him he was still alive. But barely.

Ash coughed up blood in the already drenched soil. He tried to lift himself up, but the muscles in his arms were failing him and the slightest move equalled to excruciating pain. He felt as if all the bones in his body had been crushed into small pieces that were piercing through his organs.

He thought about the girl he had met in the weapons room, the girl in the drawing. Drusilla Blackthorn. There had been loneliness in her blue-green eyes, yet there had also been a fierce will to live despite everything. A hope beyond despair. You and I are the same, he told her in his mind. We witness the worst horrors, suffer the most intense grief, but keep our chins up and stand ready to fight to live another day. We do not give up.

Ash craned his neck sluggishly to get a better look at his opponent.

The new King of both Seelie and Unseelie Courts, a Herondale no less, who looked more like a Californian surfer boy with his tousled blond hair and unforgiving bright blue eyes, was standing before him, hands curled into fists against his hips, his white wings tipped with gold rustling behind him. He was glorious, an angel of death, and Ash idly wondered how someone so beautiful could be so cruel.

“Stand. Now. There is no fun in striking someone lying on the ground,” the King said, his blue eyes rolling in a very unkingly manner. Even his voice was not that of a monster. It was a nice, clear voice, that sounded like it belonged to a sweet boy. Ash knew, though, that he was anything but. He needed to distract him, to play for time.

“All these faeries that you have massacred,” Ash managed to utter through the blood in his throat. He flinched at the pain that the mere act of talking caused him. “And you call yourself their ruler… I don’t understand. Why this… bloodbath? What did they do to you?”

“What did they do to me? What did they do to me?” If the King’s face bore any expression at all, it would be pure hatred and contempt. “How about what did they do to my mother? And her parents, and their parents before that? Did they really think I would never find out, stay in the dark forever? Remain a blind and helpless mundane my whole life? I see them every single night in my dreams, you know… I am haunted by the cries and howls of my ancestors. Always running, always hiding, never allowed to rest, never allowed to live. No more. I crushed the faeries who stood in my way as if they were cockroaches under my shoe. If there was still such a thing as Shadowhunters, I would have them suffer the same fate, if not worse, for they have betrayed my bloodline just as much.”

As the Herondale King talked, Ash slowly moved his hand to clutch the folded paper inside the left pocket of his jacket. The psychopathic witch that had grown so fond of him – Annabel, the mere thought of her still sent shivers down his spine – had at least taught him one useful thing. How to get out of this hell hole.

He held on tight to the drawing in his bloody fingers. If he focused enough on creating an interdimensional Portal to her… Surely, he would go back to where he came from himself. The drawing had probably been made with material found in Thule, but the artist… the artist was from the other world. Maybe it could work. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance he and Jace had.

My blood, willingly given. He had lost enough blood as it was, but it had certainly not been willingly given. Trying to grab his sword, which was lying a few feet away, would draw too much attention. A deep paper cut could work. That’s how potent his blood was. He brought the paper to the palm of his hand and sliced through the skin, murmuring the incantation.

As the Portal started shimmering before him, Ash heaved a sigh of relief, causing a sting in his lungs. That was the first step. Now, how the hell would he find the strength to haul himself and Jace through it, without being stopped by the Faerie King?

“Wow, you will have to teach me how to do that,” the Herondale King said, showing for the first time a flicker of emotion. “I mean, I probably have enough power for that – Aren’t you like a cheap knockoff of me?”

Ash was spared to give an answer as the King whipped around at the sound of swords being drawn out behind him. The Riders of Mannan. There were only five of them left.

“You again?” The King rolled his eyes. “Ever thought of a retirement plan? Aren’t you like, thousands of years old?”

One of the Riders shrieked. “You killed two of our brothers. It has become personal. We will never acknowledge you as our new King. So that leaves us with only one option.”

“Yep, got it. You pick option B. Getting your decrepit asses kicked by me, myself and I.”

The Faerie King advanced with a casual stride on the five Riders, drawing two longswords that he immediately started twirling as if they were cheerleaders’ batons.

This was Ash’s chance.

He crawled to Jace, grabbing their two swords - Heosphorus and Phaesphorus - on his way. Pulling on a strength he didn’t know he still had, he finally managed to stand, ignoring the ache in his limbs – he had known torture and pain had become a familiar companion – and hauled Jace’s body up and they both stepped through the Portal, with only two swords and a folded bloodstained paper as their interdimensional trip’s luggage. He let himself be transported in between worlds, drained and already fainting from the strained effort.

When he came to, he was lying on a sand beach, the sun barely peeking out from the horizon, casting a reddish glow on the sea. He inhaled deeply the clean and salty air, like a treat to his lungs, so pure compared to the one in Thule. He turned his head to find Jace’s limp body a few feet away. If only he had been taught how to draw the Angel’s Runes his uncle had told him about. The ones that could heal the wounds and ease the pain.

He heard voices and started to drag Jace’s battered body behind a nearby rock, breathing heavily as he did. The fresh air and the sound of the soft push-pull of the ocean made him feel better already.

He peered around to see three figures approaching.

He instantly recognized the girl. Drusilla. She looked a little bit older than he remembered but she had the same thick and luscious dark brown hair and freckled milky skin. She was wearing her pyjamas, black fabric with a pattern of white skulls. She was laughing carelessly, throwing her head back, and it made Ash smile, his zygomatic muscles almost aching as they awakened from their deep slumber. They hadn’t been put to such use in a while. She was holding the hand of a younger boy with rumpled hair of the exact same colour. Their eyes shared the same singular summer-blue shade. Probably her little brother. He seemed to be around ten years old, but Ash wasn’t very good at guessing age.

The third person was a very tall boy, with hair as black as a crow’s feathers, walking along the water’s edge. Ash couldn’t see his face because he was looking away, toward the sea. There was something fragile, almost poetic, in the graceful curve of his neck and the delicate line of his jaw. Something hypnotising about the careful yet purposeful way he moved his long limbs. Ash almost felt disappointed he could not see the face of the person they belonged to.

“Tavvy!” Drusilla cried out as the younger boy released her hand to run to the edge of a tide pool.

He picked something in the water and held it up in triumph.

“Starfish,” he yelled, hopping up and down excitedly. “I have found a starfish!”

Tavvy ran, though not in the direction of his sister, but of the older dark-haired boy.

The tall boy held out his hand and the younger one put the starfish gingerly into the other’s palm.

“Pisaster ochraceus, also known as the purple or ochre sea star,” the mysterious boy said, after a single, swift glance at the starfish. He had a deep, raspy voice.

“It’s beautiful! Please! Please! Can I dry it and keep it in my bedroom at the Institute? I could have it framed, and maybe even painted by Jules!”

“It’s a keystone species that controls mussel populations. It was nearly wiped out by the sea star wasting syndrome. In other words… Waste of a perfectly good starfish,” the voice of the graceful boy caught at his last words and he trailed off, his head still turned toward the sea, almost as if he was no longer talking to Tavvy. He lifted his free hand absently to grasp a shiny object - a silver pendant? - resting on his chest.

The three Shadowhunters snapped their heads in the opposite direction from where Ash was hiding, when a fourth person called. A blond-haired girl – probably a Shadowhunter as well, though she had pointy ears - was coming down the beach wearing slippers, an apron tied around her slender body.

“Breakfast is ready! I have managed not to burn the whole stack of pancakes this time.”

Ash heard his stomach growl. How long had it been since he had last eaten? Probably days. But much sharper than the pain caused by hunger or even by the battle wounds, he felt longing… Longing for a normal life, in a normal happy family. What would he not give for carefree strolls on the beach in the dawn, surrounded by loved ones, followed by something as simple as a breakfast of – even burnt he didn’t mind – pancakes?

The landscape swirled and changed into the dark, dirty and moisty walls of a cell. He was so thirsty, so hungry, and so cold. Two Unseelie guards were staring at him through the bars, with a smirk on their narrow faces.

“We are here to bring you to your bedroom. Yes, you will get a bedroom. How fancy is that? The King just wanted to make sure you knew it was in your best interest to fully cooperate. From now on, and for as long as you behave, you will benefit from the most luxurious accommodation befitting to your royal lineage.” Ash – the younger, clueless version of him – found he did not care for a fancy room. He had known the most decadent living conditions and the worst. Knowing the full spectrum, he had realized nothing really mattered but a place to call home. Mom, where are you when I need you the most?

The door rattled and one of the guards came in.

“You have a pretty face, skinny boy,” he said, as he opened Ash’s bloody shackles. “When we will have cleaned you up, maybe you and I could have a little fun.”

Ash spat on the rude intruder.

The faerie was about to slap him when the other guard grabbed his wrist.

“Careful… He is the Seelie Queen’s son. You can’t take liberties with him as you can with other regular prisoners.”

“He may be of royal blood, but his father Sebastian Morgenstern died leaving us alone to bear the consequences of his mad plans, to suffer the Cold Peace. The traitor is the reason why the Fair Folk are treated as if they are less than nothing.”

A wave of pure hatred – that he had not felt at the time, having never met his father – woke Ash up from his dreams, his whole body drenched in sweat. He almost sighed in relief as he realized he was in his wide bedroom, in the house in the hollow hill.

There was a pain in his stomach, different from the one caused by hunger. He immediately ran to his bathroom and retched above the sink. There had been no time to run to the toilet. He opened the tap and splashed water over his face. As he stared at himself in the mirror, he noticed there were dark circles under his eyes and that his features, although smooth and ageless as all faeries’ were, bore the permanent mark of having seen too much horror, suffered too much pain, loneliness, and sorrow before he had even reached adulthood. He swiftly schooled them into the mask he wore in public. He had become good at that.

****

“Riders of Mannan, tremble!” Mina cried out as she burst into the kitchen and started running around the table on her little legs, brandishing her Cortana baby-sized wooden replica. Her dark hair was now long enough that she could wear them in two tiny braids. It was Kit’s job, and Mina loved to barge into his room at ungodly hours with a hairbrush to jump up and down on his bed until he had performed his daily task. So much for privacy.

“Oh no, here comes Emma Carstairs!” Kit raised an empty pan from the stove to use it as a shield. “Quick, run! Or she will end us all!”

“Nooooo, Kit-Kat” Mina paused to strike a dramatic pose and rolled her eyes. “You are not a Rider.”

“No? What am I today?” He asked, putting down the pan.

“My fiancéééé!”

“Ooooh.” Kit drew himself to his full height, putting on a very serious don’t-mess-with-mine-and-I-won’t-mess-with-you face and brushed his hand through his hair in a mock nervous gesture. “Beware Riders, I will strike you with my wits, if not my crossbow.”

“No. Not Julian. I have changed my mind. I want to marry Tiberius Blackthorn!” She said and shook both her hands in front of her the way she always did when she was very excited about something.

“Oh. Oh. Well don’t tell Julian that, I am not sure he will appreciate the swap.”

“Do Tiberius! Do Tiberius!” Mina exclaimed, hopping up and down. Kit knelt in front of her and rested his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. “Do him, please!” Mina whined.

“Sure, Min. I will imitate Tiberius but please stop shouting that,” Kit said, feeling heat rush up his entire face.

“Yeaaay! Do him!”

“SHHHHhhh,” Kit said, putting a finger on her pouty lips. “Understood, Min-Min. I will play Ty’s part.”

Their parents were in the room next door and though both knew that he and Ty were a thing now, Kit had obviously not gone into detail as to the physical part of their relationship. He expected that they would simply guess and leave it at that.

He had a vivid memory of the time he had been cornered to sit through the “sex talk.” Tessa and Jem had made some Earl Grey tea and scones for the occasion and had taken the opportunity during one of Mina’s naps, to go through the whole process of explaining to Kit that it was the most natural thing in the world and that he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable raising any questions he had on the subject. Kit had dutifully listened, his head bent and his ears red, slouched in the middle of the couch, fingers knotting and unknotting where they rested on his lap. As the awkward conversation had gone on and on, he had disappeared little by little into the plump cushions, wishing he could vanish entirely inside the furniture.

Jem had been the old-fashioned gentleman, talking about “mutual respect” and “the shared responsibility of contraception and adequate protection”, but had been clearly as red faced as Kit, while Tessa had been the modern mom, freely and animatedly speaking about “exploring one’s sexuality” and “ignoring peer pressure and imaginary standards”.

When Jem had started listing all the STDs he had encountered in his life as a Silent Brother, Kit had secretly hoped there was poison in the tea. Dropping dead in the middle of the living room would have made for an adequate diversion. Fortunately, Tessa had silenced Jem with a glare.

In the back of his mind, Kit had wondered if Ty had gone through the same ordeal. He had imagined scary-overprotective Julian discussing sexual intercourse and condoms and had suddenly been profoundly relieved that – where Kit was concerned – the task had befallen to Tessa and Jem.

Kit had to admit, they employed the same thoroughness and dedication in everything they taught him. With Jem, Kit had learnt how to fight, how to heal wounds, how to waltz and – though that part still required a lot of training to get over his bad habits – how to behave like a gentleman. Tessa had taught Kit how to drive, how to cook and how to uncover and harness his First Heir powers. Both his parents had given him history lessons and they were the reason why he now knew how to speak five languages. He had read more books since he had joined their home than throughout the rest of his previous life. While Johnny Rook had taught Kit how to pick locks and steal pockets, Tessa and Jem had taught him trust and boundless generosity.

Truth be told, they were the best parents he could ever have dreamt of. He had the best family he could ever dream of, he thought, watching Mina’s big dark eyes widening as her gaze caught the plate of homemade chocolate cookies.

“Oooh you baked cookies! Can I have one Kit-Kat? Pleeeeeease?” Thank God for her short attention span.

“You already had a croissant this morning, Mina. You can have a cookie tomorrow. Remember, us Shadowhunters must eat healthily.”

Mina raised her eyebrow at him, in a way that reminded him of his boyfriend. Kit slipped a cookie in her tiny fingers.

“One. And remember how generous I was when I am sent away to sugar-addicts rehab and I beg you for one last shot of candy for the road.”

Mina nodded. He loved the way she always acted as if she understood his ramblings.

“Kit?” Tessa called as she entered the kitchen, waving her phone. “It’s Jace. He tells me you’ve been dodging his calls.”

“I am not here,” Kit mouthed.

“He told me you would say that. So, he wants you to know he still has this picture of you from last Christmas and he will not hesitate to send it to a certain dark-haired Centurion if you don’t take the call.”

Kit shot out his hand, palm up, and Tessa handed over her phone.

“This is blackmail.” Kit tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he swept the plate of cookies away from sight.

“Never said I was above blackmail. Just make sure it’ll work if you are ever to use it.”

“Is it another one of your cardinal rules and guidelines to being a proper Herondale? I am pretty sure half of them are made up.”

“They’re not.”

“They are,” Tessa mouthed, grimacing, as she whisked Mina away from the kitchen.

“So, here’s the thing. I usually act as a guest lecturer at the Academy, you know, for basic stuff. Learning how to jump and fall properly, balance in swordfight, choice of weapon… I was scheduled for next week, but Clary decided to plan her art gallery opening at the same time. So, I was looking for the best person to fill my shoes and of course immediately thought… who else than Kit?”

“Liar. I know you asked Emma first. What’s her excuse?”

“She sprained her ankle during training two days ago.”

“She posted a video of herself dancing in a nightclub with Cristina and Mark. That was yesterday.”

“This girl sure knows how to put on a brave face.”

“She was doing backflips in front of a cheering crowd.”

“Like I said, brave face. So, you’re in?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“Not really, but I thought it would be nicer if I asked.”

“Whatever.” Kit grumbled.

“Great. You won’t regret it. I will even buy you dinner in Manhattan while you’re in New York. Fancy restaurant with amazing desserts.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Jace Herondale?”

“Just lie down and let me do the rest.”

“WHAT?”

“Sorry, not talking to you. I’m in the middle of a training session. We’re stretching. Have you trained this morning?”

“It’s 2 PM here, Jace. I’m on my break. I already trained for six hours, starting at the crack of dawn.”

“You put us all to shame.”

“So, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“I was not finished.”

“Raziel, what else is there?”

“The Scholomance is sending a Centurion to represent them and provide a two-days training course for the Academy’s senior students who wish to apply to join them after they graduate.”

“Oh,” Kit said, with a familiar flutter around his stomach. “Do you…” He swallowed. “Do they already know who they will send?”

“Probably that Joshi guy. But it’s not set in stone. Jia Penhallow told me they have been trying to convince their best Centurion to go for months now, but he keeps saying no.”

“Oh, so he gets to say no.”

“I told her Herondales can’t resist a challenge...”

“You didn’t.”

“… and that I had a secret weapon to convince him to go this time.”

“You mean me.”

“Use your body!”

“WHAT?”

“Not talking to you, sorry. Beatriz, use your whole body’s strength, not just the muscles in your arms!”

“Thank the Angel.”

“What was I saying?”

“You were using me to try to convince Tiberius Blackthorn – who absolutely loathes talking in public, by the way – to give a two-days training course at the Academy for Scholomance applicants. Jace, I don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t want him to feel obligated in any way, just because…”

“… just because you let him play with your sword?” Jace offered.

“God, Jace. I am going to pretend you never said that.”

“Make us proud.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you, too. Gotta go. Catch up later.”

“Jace,” Kit groaned in frustration, but Jace had already hung up.

Tagging @gabtapia <3

#the dark artifices #the wicked powers #kit and ty #kit herondale x ty blackthorn #kit herongraystairs #kit herondale #ty blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #jace herondale #jem carstairs #tessa gray #mina carstairs #tsc fan fiction #cassandraclare #the shadowhunters chronicles icons #the shadowhunter chronicles

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