#dragging out color schemes and easily forgotten lines

[shadedsecrets]

Why Pavel is Important:

AKA Why Cheth and Phaedra need therapy and Phantomarine won’t leave my head--

The sheer importance of Pavel as a character and what he does hit me very hard today and I needed to share.

Cheth the Red Tide King is an ageless being who has been betrayed, mutilated, and discredited for a comparatively short 500 years out of his thousands. Everything he was, everything he had, taken away by someone who was supposed to be his equal and someone who his feelings about seem to be very... complicated. Even then, he didn’t even get to die, just watch as more as more was stripped away so not even the people’s memory of him remained unwrapped. His only company was himself... and a few fleeting moments with people who feared and hated him. If that didn’t fuck him up a bit, nothing could.

If he was to be made the villain until some nebulous future that might not even come, why not lean into it and have at least a shred of vengeance and amusement? The perfect target is right there, after all, a royal line dedicated to the church that sullies his memory with lies is right there. Why *not* torment them when they pass, why not make those ruthless bloodthirsty puppets feel despair? After all, he knows who is calling the shots. He knows she doesn’t care one bit once she can no longer use them...

The Red Tide surrounded and transported at least three sea bite victims to shore that we know of, however. Doubtless there are many more lives he has tried to save from a painful and premature death. But he can only be so many places at once... And it is rather telling that every seabite victim we have seen so far has been a child.

He thought Phaedra no better than a tyrant early in her reign when she came down to his domain. That she could not possibly know the loss that had occurred because of her people’s actions. That none of her line could, because ***she*** was pulling the strings... And of course, she would never trust him, so to get her to do anything, of course he had to lie. She had been manipulated all her life and was clearly none the wiser, even now when contradictions begin arising. And really, he has no patience for it anymore, for stubborn fools who refuse to hear him.... and Cheth is far too out of practice to do anything about this himself.

Phaedra is lugging around centuries of religious propaganda and pressure, as well as being young, inexperienced, and grieving the loss of her father. Her whole life has been surrounded by the church and it’s teachings, of her future responsibilities in relation to them, who her immortal enemy was and who her biggest inspiration should be. She was very literally tailor-raised to hate Cheth. 

His actions don’t help alleviate this either. I doubt he was lying about being able to bring back only one soul, but not being clear about it broke what trust Phaedra was ever willing to put in the god. She was not nearly as hostile towards him until that little snag, and has seemed only to double down on this stance ever since, her color scheme changing from yellows to blues. She will find the most bad-faith read of his words and believe that to be the only correct answer. His penchant to not being completely clear and honest with his intentions also clearly vexes her.

Clearly though, she cares deeply about people. She took up her father’s tradition to ease the grieving. She was willing to do whatever it took to save her friends, and feels incredible guilt for ‘dooming’ them to a these last months of not-quite-life. She wants to help people, really help them... but she can only see ‘help’ in such a narrow worldview and has been taught there are some people you just shouldn’t help.

And then... there’s Pavel. And the very first thing we learn about him is that the boy has more heart than sense. Vanna raised him well, but the kind of deep empathy to care for the very beings that killed his father and basically gave him a terminal disease with heavy stigmas that forced him to leave the life he loved for ***seven years*** takes a little more than teaching.

Pavel has defended almost every single being that has harmed him.

He understood that sea ghosts just couldn’t stop themselves and that they were people once because he trusted his mother and her research. He understood that his friend Eddy was scared and alone and lashing out because of that. He questioned and pushed back against Sofia’s manipulations and the bad faith readings of the Mantaluna crew, but tried to understand that they must be having a pretty hard time. He told the Manta Princess to her face that *Cheth was hurting too* and asked a literal deity to be nicer to the biggest pain in his neck.

This little boy is a critical bridge. He can just *feel* when people are coming from a place of genuine care or hurt and tries to explain that to others who are being overly harsh in his opinion. There is a reason he is neither Cheth’s nor Phaedra’s color scheme. *This tiny boy is the one neutral party that both of these stubborn powerful people will listen to, now.*

Phaedra only turned sour when the talk got a little too close to questioning the very foundation of her beliefs, and she just went cold and tried to make Pavel change the subject. She was so relieved to know she hadn’t hurt him, wanted to do everything she could to make him comfortable and did not even question if they should help him get somewhere safe. And Cheth... Cheth loves children and hates having to welcome a single one into his collection, I think. He tried to mock Phaedra with how many *orphans* her father’s last battle created. He became *angry* and cold at even the implication that he would have lied to Pavel. And Cheth does everything he can to make sure a child survives a sea ghost attack.

Without Pavel... neither of these two have any hope of working through their shit, because neither of them are able to view the other and their reactions clearly. Cheth IS AN ASSHOLE AND VINDICTIVE. Phae IS NAIVE AND OVERZEALOUS. And Pavel is the once person who can read them both as say it like it is. And that is going to make for one hell of a boat ride.

[hatterstan-shameblog]

Prompt My Own Damn Self # :He’s Not the Guy You Marry, But He Is The Guy You [REDACTED] in the Night Club Bathroom at Two O’Clock in the Morning, Which is Also Important

Summary: Literally what it says in the title, except we find out what [REDACTED] means, which is very fun and exciting. That’s right, everybody, we’re 👏 going 👏 there 👏

Warnings: ‼️18+‼️ Extremely Explicit Sexual Content. Do NOT be uncool and read it if you’re not of age. Otherwise, there’s alcohol involved here (wow what a surprise 🙄), like one mention of drugs, and smoking. Aside from that, it’s pretty straightforward.

Genre: Mediocre Smut

Pairing: Hatter/Fem!Reader

Notes: There are two types of people in this world: people who are very attracted to the weird sexy hat guy who started a death-game pyramid scheme, and LIARS.

Real talk, though: this is pretty explicit. More explicit than I’ve gone in a very long time, so I’m a little rusty. It veers into “hate sex” territory, which was kind of fun to write, honestly. I live for the banter. (Also, the “you” character in this is kind of great? I like her.)

HEY! Just another reminder! This is 18+ so if you’re not of legal age, do yourself a solid and ditch this little thing, okay? Okay.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

It starts with tequila shots.

Salt licked. From your wrist. His chest. The hollow of your throat.

Lime bitten. Held between your fingers. Between his teeth. Between your pushed-together breasts.

Music pulses. Lights flash. He’s got a hand on your ass. You’ve got your lips on his neck.

“Wanna go somewhere?”

“Yes.”

And he leads you, hand on the small of your back, away from the bar. People stare. You like it.

‘Somewhere’ is, apparently, a two-stall women’s restroom, tucked away in a narrow little hallway which runs to the left of the bar. A place for shooting up drugs. A place for scribbling on the walls with permanent marker.

A place for sex. Hot, sweaty, anonymous sex.

...Well, semi-anonymous, anyways. It’s impossible to live at the Beach and not know who the man in red is, the man who sells a shot at salvation for nothing more than a few playing cards.

You lean against the tastefully cream-colored counter which hosts, among other things: a sink stained pink with cheap soap; three forgotten tubes of lipstick; a small mirror, holding an abandoned credit card and two small lines of cocaine; a crumpled up hand towel; a half-finished bottle of Asahi beer; and what was probably once a wedding ring.

“Great ambiance,” you murmur flatly. The harsh light of fluoresent bulbs burn your eyes, diverting your gaze to the white floor, “Been ages since I got fucked in a classy place like this.”

“Ages?” Hatter flicks the lock on the door with a low thunk.

“Hours,” you answer, mournful tone betrayed by a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, “Had you not come along, my dry spell might’ve gone on through the morning.”

“Perish the thought.”

And he does not so much approach you as he descends upon you, mouth sucking at your collarbone and leg pushing between your thighs.

“Tell me,” he pants into you ear, breath hot and fingers deft as he unties the strings of your bikini top, “How do you want me?”

“Now,” you hiss back, “Don’t care how, just—fuck, just give it to me.”

“Then, if you would be so kind?” He holds a condom between his index and middle fingers.

In truth, you’re glad for it—you’d rather not deal with the mess after all is said and done—but there’s no way you’ll give him the satisfaction of a ‘thank you.’

“Fine,” you huff, snatching the foil square from his grasp, “Don’t suppose you have anything better to—oh!”

Hands on your hips spin you around so you’re facing the mirror. You grip the edge of the counter, knuckles straining, and watch as he reaches around to palm your breast.

“Apologies,” he makes eye contact with you in the mirror, “but I seem to have my hands full at the moment.”

And that’s when you feel fingertips slipping beneath the seam of your bikini bottoms, an insistent press against the slick of your slit.

You spit a curse and fumble with the condom, desperation setting in as his hands continued to dance across your flesh. After some moments (too many for your liking), you’re successful in your endeavor, and pass the unwrapped nuisance over your shoulder.

“Much obliged,” he thanks, removing his hands to sort himself out, “You know, I appreciate—“

“I didn’t come here to talk,” you snap. He laughs in response.

“Ooh, you’re mean!”

And he’s sliding the crotch of your swimsuit bottoms to the side, exposing only what is necessary and lining himself up—and, okay, that’s the kind of semi-impractical hotness you were looking for from this particular encounter. Your muscles clench involuntarily around nothing and you cant your hips back to get him to move it along...but nothing happens.

God, what is this guy’s problem?!

“But, I wonder,” he whispers into your ear, “are you desperate enough to say ‘please?”

Of all the guys to pull for a quick fuck, of course you get the one who’s a total tease. So smug, arrogance blooming as he presses a soft kiss to your left shoulder. There’s no way you’re giving in to this asshole, so you glare at him in the reflection of the mirror.

“Fuck you,” you spit, teeth bared and mouth formed into a malicious smile.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Close enough.”

You both cry out when he fills you with a single, fluid thrust. And—fuck, fuck, fuck!—that is good. One of his hands curls around the jut of your hip, while the other splays across your collarbone, thumb and forefinger framing the base of your throat in a firm but gentle touch.

Otherwise, he remains still—perhaps he’s being gentlemanly and allowing you time to adjust? No, no, he’s definitely being a tease again.

Seriously, what is his goddamn deal?

Since he seems content to take his merry time, you take matters into your own hands, moving against him in a somewhat-awkward but still satisfying rhythm.

“You,” he says between heavy breaths, “seem eager.”

There’s something in his voice that seems amused, as if he finds your candor endearing. You lean forward a bit, angling your hips so his length is able to sink deeper and, oh, that’s much better.

“Want something done right,” you pant, “gotta do it yourself.”

“You don’t think I’d do it right?”

“Sweetie,” you coo with a condescending smile, “I know you wouldn’t.”

And you’re lucky that guys like him are all the same—arrogant, showy, desperate to prove their sexual prowess—because he finally (finally!) decides to get his sorry ass into gear and make something happen.

The hand that was around your neck gropes at your breasts, the cool metal of that stupid-ugly-tacky ring catching on your skin in an annoyingly tantalizing way. The other shoves its way between you and the edge of the countertop, deft fingertips circling your clitoris in a way that makes your toes curl in your sandals. You bite your lip to keep from crying out as he fucks into you, hips snapping hard but steady against the plush of your ass.

“You know, the people I fuck usually try to be nice to me,” he says, “nicer than you, anyways.”

The hand on your breast pinches your nipple, earning him a sharp gasp.

“Why be nice?” You clench around him, causing his rhythm to falter, “You’re just the means to an end.”

“And here I thought we were making love.”

Teeth scrape down the length of your neck, and fuck—you’re getting close. Your arms are shaking. Your heart is racing. You hate to admit it, but he’s good at this.

“Darling,” he growls into your ear, “I do believe you’re about to come.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying desperately to sound cool and unaffected despite the fact that your composure is about to shatter and there is not a goddamn thing you can do about it.

“Well, go on then. After all,” he hisses, “I don’t have all night.”

What starts as anger is quickly overtaken by pleasure—white-hot and blinding, enough to make your knees shake and your eyes spring with tears. It’s exactly what you were looking for, exactly what you had been expecting from the most notorious sex fiend at this God-forsaken place.

Apparently, he must’ve come too, because he’s pulling out with a surprising tenderness—gentlemanly in one way, at least. He even makes sure to right your bikini bottoms, making sure that they’re once again covering you completely before turning his attention to himself.

“You know, I didn’t know people could glare their way through an orgasm, but you made it happen.”

“I’m a woman of many talents.”

Before you choose to look in the mirror, you fix the rest of your bathing suit with a tremble in your fingers. You can feel him watching you, and honestly, you’re not sure how you feel about that. Good, mostly, but tinged a bit orange with annoyance. You try not to think about that too much and, with a deep breath, look at your reflection.

The first thing you do to assess the damage of your little liaison is check your makeup—your eyeliner is a bit smudged, but that’s easily fixed with a few swipes of your littlest finger. Your hair, however, is another story, so you set to fixing it with a dissatisfied huff.

You hear the snick of a lighter behind you and the scent of fresh-burning nicotine hits your senses. You turn around to see him leaning against the tile wall with a cigarette between his lips and smoke curling in wisps towards the ceiling.

He raises an eyebrow when you approach him, then chuckles when you snatch the cigarette right out of his mouth and take a long, deep drag. It’s almost as good as the sex.

“You know,” he says, “I think you might be a bit in love with me after my spectacular performance.”

That makes you choke, your lungs switching from laughter to coughing and back again.

“Spectacular?” You quell your sputtering with a gulp, “You were passable. At best.”

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re getting awfully close to giving me a compliment.”

You take a step closer to him, shoulders squared, fingers ashing the cigarette onto the floor.

“Not your sweetheart,” you say, taking one last drag and blowing the smoke directly into his face. You smile when he flinches.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you say, pressing the mostly-smoked cigarette between his lips, “I have somewhere to be.”

You turn on your heel and begin to walk away, making sure to sway your hips just so as you do. There’s no way his eyes aren’t glued to your ass, and the thought makes you smile triumphantly.

“Until next time, then,” he calls—and it’s cute that he sounds so sure that you’ll come crawling back to him.

You exit the bathroom with a self-satisfied smirk, enjoying the thought of him lighting another cigarette and trying not to chase after you.

Three days, tops. That’s how long it’ll take for him to beg.

You can’t wait.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

also just in case you were wondering, he DID leave the sunglasses on—BUT they were on his head kinda holding his hair back because I truly believe he would do that. also the kimono has pockets and he thinks it’s very cool to carry around all his stuff in there (for example he keeps a granola bar on his person at all times because sometimes you just get hungry yknow?)

[astarisms]

anything bo can do

fandom: beneath the ark pairing: autumn/abby word count: 1799 rating: sfw summary: abby’s certain she could do this whole autumn thing better than bo can. literally. read it on ao3!

When she had accepted her assignment, she had known it was going to be interesting.

A Michael imposter was a rare treat. His intentions were fuzzy but intriguing, and he had caught Serah’s interest almost immediately. The girl he had dragged into his mess catches hers.

Abby folds her hands beneath her chin, inclining her head to watch as “Michael” tugs the strawberry blonde in behind him and sits her on the couch.

It will be fine.

I’ve got you.

Don’t worry, Autumn.

All hollow reassurances, if anyone would have bothered to ask her, but it was none of her business. She tests out the name silently on her tongue, and decides she likes the way it feels. But it doesn’t seem to fit.

Autumn the month is bold, a kaleidoscope of a million changing colors before shedding them altogether. Autumn the girl is huddled in on herself as her companion abandons her, dressed in muted colors and showing as little skin as possible for the occasion.

Abby briefly mourns such nice legs being obscured by dark tights with a desolate sigh. She’s quick to shrug the thought off, though. It’s so rare to get such a cute girl in her neck of the woods, she supposes she ought to just appreciate the view while it lasts.

The first guy slithers up next to her and Abby rolls her eyes, slumping against the bar. Autumn doesn’t seem too keen on his introductions, shying away from him and laughing nervously at his advances.

Sweat beads on her forehead and she glances up at the clock on the wall, then over her shoulder. Her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh.

She’s stalling, Abby realizes, right before the shooting starts. Before she can blink, Autumn is on her feet, ushering all the women in the club outside. Curious, she follows, covering her head and quickening her steps to blend into the screaming crowd around her.

Abby stands among the throng, waiting for something to happen. Autumn pulls the doors shut behind the last of them, and stands with her forehead pressed against the wood for several long moments. The gunshots cease, and Abby watches the tension drain out of her shoulders.

You poor thing, she thinks with pity, what is he putting you through?

She takes several steps back from the door, and it opens to her companion. They share a look and Autumn smiles breathlessly at him, but the moment he looks away, it falls. She moves behind him and wraps her arms around herself, but Abby doesn’t have the time to reflect on it before “Michael” is working the women around them into a stupor.

She slumps to the ground with the rest of them. The two heroes are distracted, speaking in low voices even though everyone around them is unconscious, and Abby slips her phone out from the garter hidden under her dress.

The picture she snaps is right before they turn away, and she types out a quick message to Serah before hitting send and tucking her phone back into its slot.

Her eyes follow them to the end of the alley, “Michael’s” hand hovering over the small of her back, then she sits up, running her hands through her hair and looking around her.

“Kind of rude of them to just leave us out here on the street,” she mutters as she climbs to her feet. “Might as well have just handed us over to the sex traffickers.”

She steps over the bodies littered on the ground, and lifts her dress as her phone buzzes against her thigh.

Get them here.

Abby bites her lip to hide her grin. Oh, with pleasure.

***

She watches from a safe distance as they walk up to the movie theater, Autumn looking uncertain and her companion sporting a wide grin. He pats her shoulder and jabs a thumb behind them at the box office, before leaving her standing alone.

He does that a lot, Abby notices, tugging her ballcap lower over her eyes as Autumn looks around. Gives her reassurances and leaves her alone.

If she were her date, she wouldn’t let her out of her sight for two seconds. She looks so sweet, Abby would be worried someone would come along and snatch her up.

She taps her nails against the back of her phone as she lets her eyes wander.

Tights again, she thinks with pursed lips, but it’s a cute little number that Abby would be hard pressed to say looked good on anyone else. Her date doesn’t deserve it.

Autumn’s hands flutter restlessly. First she brings them up to the collar of her turtleneck, where they hover for a few seconds before she winces and wraps her fingers around the strap of her bag instead. Abby’s eyes narrow at the dark material around her neck, wondering what she was hiding.

She doesn’t have long to linger on it, though, because Autumn glances back towards the box office, then turns her gaze up when thunder rumbles across the sky. Abby’s lips twist into a pleased smirk as she watches the imposter rush back to his date, tickets in hand, and freeze.

His eyes dilate and she watches with equal parts glee and disgust as he ignores Autumn, looking around wildly. First to the sky, then around them.

The color drains from his face.

Abby briefly considers following his gaze, but she already knows what he’s seeing and she decides his reaction is much more entertaining.

He takes Autumn’s wrist, finally looking back to her and nodding frantically in agreement to whatever she’s saying. He then spins on his heel and takes off, pulling her behind him, the forgotten tickets fluttering to the ground.

What a pig, Abby scoffs, and stands up. She pulls the cap from her head and fixes her hair, before finally looking to the spot that had “Michael” shaking in his boots.

He’s at the other end of the park, and hard to miss. A giant of a man, cloaked in yellow, his face concealed with a dramatic mask, would certainly draw a lot of attention if his glamour didn’t deter unnecessary attention from his person. Abby has always thought it was a bit of a silly ability for the archangels to possess, but in his case, she can see why it might be more beneficial.

Crowds unwittingly part around him like a sea, and he strides forward with purpose. There’s no rush to his step, and it gives Abby an indescribable amount of joy that he had chosen to make an appearance here and now.

She waits until he’s closer, then she steps out in front of him. He stops, looking down at her, and she thinks she can reconstruct the expression he must be making beneath the mask from the few times they have crossed paths prior.

“Boss has a proposition for you, Hesediel.”

***

She can’t remember the last time she got this much pleasure out of an assignment. The fraud was interesting enough on his own, but Abby can’t stop thinking about Autumn.

It’s easy to justify paying more attention to her than her bumbling partner. She’s his best asset, and he seems to have taken a shine to her that goes beyond her visions. Autumn was the perfect tool to drop him right into Serah’s hands.

And if that means spending more time around her than her companion, well, that’s just fine with Abby.

She decides the jig is up, and it’s time to make her move. Hesediel and Serah are waiting, and as much as she’d love to be a little selfish with Autumn, she has a job to do.

Rounding the corner, the first thing she notices is that Autumn is lost in thought, looking up at the shelves but not really seeing anything. Abby uses the moment to take stock of her.

The turtleneck is gone, but Abby can still see bits of yellow flesh cutting a line across her throat. The rest of her appears to be intact, though it’s hard to tell with the baggy clothes she’s decided on today.

Abby pouts. It’s really not fair how she can make anything look so darn cute.

She only takes a second to admire her, then she molds her expression into one of pleasant surprise and rushes forward. Autumn is taken aback by her enthusiasm, and Abby can’t say she’s not just a little disappointed that she doesn’t remember her.

It’s not surprising since she’d been in the background all night, just part of the herd. Blending in was what she did, when she wanted to.

Still! she thinks, even as she grins with all her teeth and lunges for Autumn’s hands, pulling her in close.

She wants her to remember this.

To remember her.

It’s only fair after those big brown eyes have plagued her thoughts for weeks. And now that she’s staring right into them, Abby’s sure she’s only digging herself a deeper grave, but that’s alright.

Autumn’s fingers flex in her grip, and she sees the conflict in her eyes. Abby’s earnest expression must win her over, though, because she’s sighing and smiling and agreeing to meet Serah in the next breath.

Abby’s grin only widens, and she tucks Autumn’s hand into the crook of her arm, pulling her out of the library and down the street. She talks animatedly about Serah and what she’s done for her and how grateful she is the whole way to the little corner shop, because Autumn is tense again and Abby almost feels bad for lying to her.

Almost. One look at her neck and the memory of Autumn curled up alone pushing off unwanted advances in that club is enough for her spite to return tenfold. Bodan has had his fun for long enough, with the sweet, unwitting girl at her side being a victim to his schemes.

She doesn’t care a lick for his intentions or otherwise, especially not when they include Autumn as his pawn.

It’s strange, Abby thinks, looking sideways at her as they round the corner to the street Serah’s shop is nestled on, how defensive she’s become of this girl she’s only been following for a few weeks.

Maybe it’s her kind heart, or maybe it’s how easily she’s deceived. Maybe it’s something of both. Regardless, Abby has always loved a good story about a damsel in distress and if there was anything that Autumn needed, it was a savior. Bodan certainly wasn’t doing the job correctly with how often he’s endangered her in the short span they’ve been in contact.

Not to mention she’s always fancied herself something of a knight in shining armor, except she’s a demon in a red dress and killer heels.

Armor was far too stuffy, anyhow.