#even are -- and he speaks about it in such a fascinating way

[princessbrunette]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

THE BOY IS MINE ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩ ariana grande — the boy is mine ♩

pairing: mayor!rafe x catwoman!reader.

cw: supernatural abilities, hybrid!reader, a whip, leather, violence, drugging, sexual content, dubious consent.

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day one.

mayor rafe cameron was a fascination.

he had a way of captivating an audience, without necessarily being smooth speaking and self assured. there was something… off about him. confident in himself, dare you even say arrogant — but with each press conference his eyes dart around, pupils enlarged, tongue poking out to lick his lips and he would often grow passionate and jump over his words. each night when you’d tune into his speeches on the television, claw grazing the static of the screen you would wonder — how could someone so untouchable seem so… human?

“and uh, to target this rat infestation across the city… we will be releasing the stray cats.” he speaks into the podium microphone, illuminated by the flashes of the paparazzi and press.

“yes, you will.” you whisper, face so close to the screen you could hear the buzzing of the electrics. he was just perfect.

you’d always figured ‘love potions’ were a little phony. how could a feeling induced by oxytocin and noroadrenaline be replicated with a drug? how could it replace the feeling of first locking eyes, or the warm tingling feeling in your stomach when you hear their laugh? desperation costed you sleepless nights in your apartment, failed scientific concoctions upon failed scientific concoctions until you reached a breakthrough. perhaps it wasn’t to be so phony after all, but you had one perfectly crafted dose — and there was only one way to find out.

you don’t like to waste time, so the next thing you know you’re standing in the pouring rain, suited up in skintight black, feeling free. you’d let your true self take its form, fangs glimmering in the city lights and twitching ears perfectly cupped by your suit hood. what was the point in hiding? if all went to plan, rafe cameron would love you for you.

leaping across the skyline, you travel to what can only be described as the most luxurious penthouse in new york city — the perfect place for the man of your dreams to rest his head. you figured it would be harder to find his address, but for someone who could create a love potion from scratch — it was child’s play. you wondered if you could see this place being your home too, resting your head on the pillow beside him, perhaps curling up on the windowsill.

the large window looking into his warmly lit apartment allows you perfect access. your heart pounds so fast with excitement that you think you might pass out as you squat over the view, large pupils darting about the room until they fall onto him. the mayor, in the flesh, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

he wouldn’t think to look up and see you there, watching him. of course not — what human being would be able to scale a building just to gaze through his window? he should have been perfectly safe.

should have been. it was a good thing you weren’t human. not fully, anyways.

you gaze over him as he goes about his nightly business, blazer removed and top button undone now as he looks over papers and sips at his drink. you take a moment to groom yourself, tongue rolling over the back of your knuckles to lay down the fur on the back of your ears over your hood out of habit as you practically salivate over him. rafe cameron was even more gorgeous in person, especially candidly, more relaxed, when he thought no one was watching.

he wanders off to the bathroom, and you take your opportunity, slithering in through the window he’d left open. he always did like the sound of the pouring rain, there wasn’t so much of that back in the outerbanks, where he was originally from (according to his wikipedia page, anyway.)

it had been a rough day for rafe, dropping his glass down on the sink counter as he leans against it — staring down his visage in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. he wasn’t always sure if he was cut out for mayor. really, releasing the stray cats to tackle the rat infestation problem? there was a myriad of reasons that could potentially create more problems, bring disease and an even dirtier appearance to new york city — but he was lost on what to do. times like this, he wondered if this was what he truly wanted to do rather than what he knows his father wished for him.

he cups his hands beneath the running water, leaning down to flush his face with the cool liquid. another problem for another day, he decides. for now, he could clear his racing mind with none other than the beloved white powder he told himself he was quitting. who cares, today was a special occasion.

rafe stands up straight, and before he can bother to fix his messy curtain bangs, now a mess and haphazardly stuck to his wet forehead — he could have sworn he’d seen a dark black mass lurking by the doorway. it disappears as quickly as he’d spied it, and he blinks the droplets out his eyes as he stares through the mirror. he couldn’t tell you what he saw, its appearance too quick for him to comprehend — but it had unmistakably existed.

“hey…” he drawls, wiping his dripping chin with the back of his wrist as he edges towards the door. one footstep, another, he continually creeps through the hallway until he’s back to his large, luxurious bedroom — now the scene at which you sit, ever so casually on his bed. just… smiling. “wh— who the hell are you, huh?” his voice trembles. he’s even more gorgeous close up.

“you shouldn’t leave your window open, mayor cameron. might let in a stray.” you practically pur,

he looked like his soul left his body. you expected that, expected some pushback — it’s why you had the dosage ready, the syringe of abnormal pink potion sucked up and ready to deploy into his delectable veins.

“alright look, i’ve got security armed to the god damn teeth downstairs okay so — so i suggest you get the hell out.” he licks his lips, irritation that you’d even try to invade his space crawling up the back of his neck in a wave of frightened heat. your clawed hand curls around the whip tucked into your side, tilting your head with a mischievous smile. he’s too busy taking in… you to notice, and just as he does you take action — cracking it right at him, the leather coil curling forcefully around his ankle and with a yank, he’s falling.

“jesus— the hell do you want?” he hollers as you drag him closer, closer. you’re walking to meet him halfway now and his eyes just won’t leave you. everything about you is so feline, down to the way you walk— hips practically rolling in a hypnotising fashion side to side. if he wasn’t so frightened, well — he just might fall in love organically.

“c’mon mr mayor cameron, be nice t’me. i wanna play.” you pout, and his struggles stop in awe once you lower himself over him to straddle him, his big body encased by your leather clad thighs. in all honesty, he was too confused and entranced to fight harder. rafe always had that weak spot with women. “hands by your sides or i’ll slice you open, handsome.”

he reluctantly does as you say, but when you present the syringe, he starts to struggle again — so you tighten your legs around him. “hey, hey— wh—what is that?” he raises his voice and you furrow your brows, a clawed finger pressing to his lips, surprisingly silencing him.

“shhhhh, shhhh.” you hush, before your finger slides down to his chin, grazing the skin with your claw. it slides lower and he daren’t move now, the extension of you so sharp that he fears it could slit him if he wasn’t careful.

“think you’re gonna get away with this, huh? breaking in like this?” as your claw slides directly down to his chest you smile, so casually — not a care in the world. you rip his shirt open, buttons clattering against smooth wooden flooring and his eyes widen, just so you can access the skin over the hard planes of his chest.

“you wouldn’t turn me in.” you tell him confidently, and he actually huffs out a laugh of disbelief, jaw tense and eyes wild.

“oh i wouldn’t huh? alright uh— and why the hell not? who the hell are you?”

you pierce his skin with the needle and his jaw drops, injecting the potion directly into his heart.

“the love of your life.”

rafe cameron’s eyes flutter shut, and it’s only a few hours later when he comes to— laying in the centre of his bed.

“hu—huh wait uh—” he croaks the second his eyes flutter open, only to be silenced by a claw over his flushed lips just like before. it was dark now, all artificial lights cut — you always preferred the light of the moon anyway. his eyes hadn’t adjusted and yet he knew it was you, felt your familiarity, your warmth all around. he pants, and you shush him.

“shhhhh, shh shh shh.” its like dragging your fingernail along velvet — soft, addictive, feeling each tiny feathery bristle caress the vulnerable skin beneath your nail. he stares, wide eyed and parted lipped, somewhat aware of the fact his hair is a mess. he doesn’t care to fix it.

you’re straddling him, all of your body weight and yet somehow you’re feather light — knees pointed upwards, the leather of your suit glowing and catching the light.

“you’re finally awake.” you hum, a vibration behind your voice, a true purr — like the hum of an engine. something below ignites, his crotch heats.

he’s overly aware of the fact he doesn’t mind you there, wishing nothing but to observe you for the moment. you lean back, bone coloured claw hooking into the zip at your neck as you drag it down, lower and lower — revealing the glow of soft skin beneath. rafe can’t look away, you’re like nothing he’s ever seen before. you’re beautiful. you’re… beautiful? the woman who trespassed onto his property? he urges himself, with everything in him to fight — and suddenly he’s catching you off guard, gripping your neck and flipping you onto your back.

you seem taken aback, a break in the confident routine as you blink up at him, the colour of your eye no longer visible, overtaken by inky black pupil. as your back hits the mattress, your plush tits bounce with the movement, now nearly completely exposed by your unzipped catsuit, cool metal zip below your belly button. at the sight of this, rafe winces — overcome by his desires and can’t help but press his erection harshly against the mound between your legs.

“the hell is goin’ on, alright — who — what did you do?” he emphasises with a hard squeeze to your neck making your eyes flutter, and yet your smile — all curled and deranged and your canines glimmer in the low light, the purring sound only getting louder.

“dont fight it, mr cameron. just do what feels good.” it comes out strained from the way he’s squeezing your neck and he lets go, sitting up on his knees but making no move to leave. dragging a hand down his jaw, he results back to staring. “cat got your tongue?” you whisper, sweetly amused. he licks his lips instinctually, moving to choke you again, stop you, but his hand rests there lightly — the two of you locking eyes. angrily, he leans down and kisses you, wet and sloppy.

you take the opportunity to lock your legs back round his waist and flip him back onto his back, grinding your crotch down onto his, making him groan.

“thats better, can’t have you trying to kill me again.” you tease before pushing his ripped shirt open to touch his skin. he winces, irritated and overwhelmed when you drag claws down his chest hard enough to leave chemtrails of pink skin down the muscled planes.

“yeah? thought you cats had nine lives?” he grumbles, gripping your hips and grinding you harder on his lap, causing you to mewl — digging your mouth into his shoulder and sinking his teeth in. “jesus— okay.” he squirms, unsure if you bit hard enough to draw blood.

he decided he didn’t care if you did. what was he so mad about again anyway?

[in-class-daydreams]

Imagine ex-husband Geto watching the new assistant the school hired being completely awestruck by you.

Naturally, before this meeting, Suguru had to disclose to the new assistant that you two were once a married couple. The details of your divorce, Suguru chose not to get into. Unfortunately, this information, considering how much the newbie admired him, only served to make you even more fascinating. After all, who could possibly be worthy enough to marry - and eventually separate from - Suguru Geto?

"--or so the Inspector General says." Suguru catches the tail end of your explanation regarding an unusual amount of cursed spirits in a concentrated area. He may or may not have spaced out for the last minute of you talking, but at least the assistant, though lacking subtlety, has been taking diligent notes.

The assistant, a young man a few years younger than you and Suguru, somewhere in his mid-twenties, looks up at you in awe.

"The Inspector General speaks to you directly?" he asks. "You must be amazing at your job."

The Jujutsu Inspector General. The high commander of all jujutsu society, the highest of the higher ups. Yes, he spoke with you often.

Suguru fights the urge to roll his eyes when you preen. You're no stranger to praise whatsoever, but you did love basking in everyone's admiration.

"Flatterer," you respond.

"No, I mean it!" the assistant insists. "The report you sent us was so detailed! It was flawless! You're really talented."

"Aw, thank you! Was my report up to your standards, Suguru?" You turn to your ex-husband.

"Sure," Suguru scoffs.

The meeting continues on without much more incident. You've only just given them the supplemental documents when you check the time.

"Looks like that's all the time I have for now. Feel free to contact me if you need anything else." You stand and incline your head to them both, a gesture they return.

"Nice to meet you," you tell the newbie. To your ex-husband, you say, "Bye, Suguru!" and blow him a kiss. Suguru makes a gesture like he's swatting away a mosquito.

As they leave, the assistant nearly runs into the door frame in his eagerness to keep fawning over you, and Suguru feels like his soul's trying to climb out of his body.

Then again, that is the effect you tended to have on people. There were times when you were married when the both of you went to an event, your lethal face cards alone could get people to drop their drinks.

You smile and the assistant blushes. "Someday, we'll all meet for a nice lunch. I wish I could today, but I have a meeting with my father," you tell them with a wave, wiggling your fingers and the poor thing looks like he's about to devote himself to your every desire.

Suguru, however, has been there, done that. "Let's go." He grabs the assistant by the collar and tries to drag him out as fast as possible. If he could teleport out of here like Satoru, he would.

"Geto, sir," the assistant says, eyes never leaving your office door. "You were married to that woman? Isn't she just stunning? She's incredible! How could you ever have let her go?"

To each statement: Yes. Yes. I know. You'd be surprised.

"It's much more complicated than that," Suguru grumbles.

Suguru throws open the door to the hallway just to run into two men in suits. Behind them is their employer whom Suguru knows all too well, and behind him, another set of bodyguards.

"Suguru," the man greets lowly.

"Inspector General, sir." Suguru bows respectfully while the assistant nearly bashes his head on the floor in his haste.

"If you'll excuse me, I have business with my daughter," the Inspector General says. The two move right out of the way and watch as the entourage heads into your office.

It takes the assistant a moment to compute, but by the choked sound he eventually makes, it's clear that he's begun to comprehend just how complicated your marriage was.

I promise I haven't abandoned Sen and his family! I just wanted a little break/practice in Geto x Nepo Baby!MC and the much pettier divorce where I have free reign for them to be more problematic towards each other without having to worry about how horrible it would be for their child to have to witness it

[Masterlist] | Tag for this AU is #geto's nepo ex

[embersofnovember]

CLIPPED WINGS

“your mind is restless,” — hearing damage

summary: stryker's taken you hostage with the means to find a way to eliminate half the global population. logan doesn't like the idea too much.

warnings: injury, slight gore(?), referenced/implied trauma and torture, strykers lowkey an obessive weirdo for a bit, a little ooc oopsie, reader's pov (part two is logan's pov), not as epic as the summary sounds i fear

wc: 1882

you aren’t sure what scares you more: the aching in your side or the realisation that you’re still here. surrounded by four rust stained walls, you’d grown to sleeping on the stone cold floor and counting each crack in the ceiling, each drop of water, each beat of your heart. 

   how long have you been here again? 

   they named you x twenty seven, whenever you were first brought here. you weren’t sure why. they all stare at you with cruelty, like you’re some insect, a weapon they only care to use against your own kind. the front man, stryker—the only name you cared to remember as each guard said his name—speaks of his ideas. his fascination, his disgust, his intense desire to eliminate what he believes, the ‘worst half of the population.’

   his own son. 

   you see other subjects—mutants—just like you and scott and logan and you wonder. 

   you saw him once. jason. you stared at him like he was one half of you and you were one half of him: exhausted. a mutant in a large base with no concept of time and a monster at both of your feet.

   you were just the end of a beginning. a ‘cure.’ an ‘experiment.’ 

   naturally, stryker didn’t talk to many people about his ambitions. you were there to fill his void, someone to talk to and not give any response back. of course, you did at first, but the longer it went on, the less fight you had in you.

   “i remember wolverine all those years ago. even if he doesn’t remember me.” he sighed, observing you as a guard strapped you down to a table, fingers unforgiving, leather tight and a dull ache in the back of your head. 

   “i used to think he was one of a kind.”

   it isn’t that your ability is exactly dangerous. not uncontrollable like scott’s, or anything like that. you could tell what people felt. an on or off sense. in a way, it felt like a curse. you could feel what others felt, but people couldn’t do the same for you. you didn’t blame them; how could you when no one asked for any of this? feeling a presence mere miles away isn’t an ability you admire, or cherish, but it isn’t one you despise. 

   which is why you’d been sent out to scout around an area with scott. a snowy area that didn’t leave very good footprints. the cold was blistering, the tips of your own fingers tingling. one of you took a wrong turn, and the fog had grown so dense it was hard to see three feet in front of you. 

   now you’re here, and they’re trying to rid you of your ability. the start of a global killer. 

   they’ve already made so much progress. 

   you don’t know where scott is; stryker tells you he’s dead, but that can’t be true. cyclops, leader of the x-men, couldn’t be dead, but now as you sit here curled into a ball on your side wondering if everyone forgot about you, you’re starting to think otherwise. 

   yesterday, they beat you within an inch of your life. the day before that, they pricked and prodded you, the day before that they didn’t let you sleep. blood used to make you feel faint. not anymore.

   moral of the story, thinking about logan is the only thing keeping you sane. 

   the drops of water are endless, irregular. the beats of your heart fall slower and slower as each day goes. stryker’s voice is firm in a similar way to logan’s, but logan’s is deeper. it’s more gruff, more honeyed. you think of the times where you both would sit on the roof of the mansion silently, slowly learning to become more and more comfortable with everyone else. as they beat you, you think of the first toke logan finally gained the confidence to sleep in your bed, or when you slept in his. as they make you bleed, you think of the time where he had a nightmare and his claws nicked your forearm, because it’s a lot better feeling pain from someone you love than someone you hate. 

   when the door slowly swings off its hinges, you stiffen. you didn’t want to be vulnerable at all. though, after a while, it was hard. you shrink in on yourself, have no choice but to live through the throb in your shoulder. 

   at least two of your ribs are broken. every breath is more of a wheeze. the position you're in, curled into a ball on your side with your back facing the long, metal door in the corner, you hug yourself a little more. it’s a protective shell you’ve learnt to build in case a guard comes in and kicks you with combat boots thick enough to crush your skull for the fun of it.   

   no, you think to yourself. not again. 

   the second a hand is on your aching shoulder, you’re scrambling, wincing in pain like a wounded animal as you shuffle back on a bruised hand and a dislocated shoulder. you attempted to put it back in, but with a sore wrist, you could only do so much. 

   “hey!” a voice says in a hushed whisper, like consoling a hysterical and understandably upset child. this time, the presence doesn’t seem so daunting. intimidating, but not cold. gruff, but not as sinister as stryker’s.

   “i made him like that, you know,” stryker grinned, flexing his wrist and pushing it into a fist as if to show who he was hinting at. 

   “made him what he already had been. an animal.” 

   you hear the voice and for a second you don’t think it’s real. how could it be? after… days, weeks, months. it doesn’t feel real, but when you shift the shaky arm obstructing your sight a little, and you see his dishevelled appearance, it’s almost too good to be true.

   the tufts of hair pointing outwards. the fuzz of his beard. the crease between his eyebrows that’s never gone away. 

   “lo?” you whisper out. 

   and at that, logan doesn’t really know what to do when he feels his heart sink further in his chest. 

   “‘s me, baby, it’s logan,” he nods, as if assuring both you and himself. 

   though you’re still unsure, this time you don’t let yourself pull away when he reaches out again, hands a lot more softer than before. sure, you flinched, and logan had grimaced at that, but the wonder in your eyes makes your vision swim a little, because he’s really here. 

   “it’s you,” you manage to say. throughout your time in the underground base, over time you spoke less and less. only when spoken to, which, even then, wasn’t often.  

   despite everything, it’s still you. 

   his beard looks a little more grown out than you remember. his teeth are the same shade of white. his skin is as rough as always, like his personality, similar to the way he retreats back into his far more reserved ways after a bad day, and he’s here. 

   “lemme look at you,” he murmurs in that drawl of his. a hand cups your jaw. a tender thumb grazes the apple of your cheek and you’re too busy gazing at him. it’s as if you’re trying to commit him to memory. eyes are darting all along his face, looking at every feature and trying to figure out which one you missed most.

   logan’s been able to stomach a lot of things, but he isn’t sure if he can stomach this. 

   even when they tried to take away your abilities, you can still feel. although it exhausts you every time, you still can, and you feel the shock settle in his regenerative blood vessels when he swallows. for the first time in a long time, terror. it’s subtle, but you pick up on it. 

   “fuck,” he whispers under his breath. you didn’t hear it. he looks up at you, eyes not lying or being able to conceal the sheer amount of both relief and dread that’s washing over him in a violent wave. he’s never liked water. “think you can walk f’me?” 

   a silence engulfs the two of you. the door is still open. maybe it isn’t a trap. you really are being saved. a wave of relief crashes over you so intensely you almost feel as though you could live without the burden again. despite the shrieking alarm outside in the halls (that you can’t really hear anyway) and the crimson flashing from the alert, you can’t believe it. unable to trust your wording, or your head, you nod.

   which you end up regretting, anyway. 

   logan hooks an arm around your waist, the other pulling your arm behind the back of his neck to support most of your weight (since when did you grow so light?), but not even when he holds you to his side, it doesn’t help. your legs are giving way, your knees numb and you can’t help the strangled noise in the back of your throat.

  it’s three poorly strung together words. it’s murmuring in the background as you lay on a table, unable to move partly in fear of what would happen if you did. it’s smelling the damp and using it as your only comfort for when it got a little too cold. he’s trying to be careful, but he’s desperate. 

   “i’m gonna carry you, okay?” he murmurs, but you don’t even take it in before he’s already curling an arm under the back of your knees and your back, lifting you into his arms like you were nothing more than a sack of flour.

   he feels warm. strangely like the sun, even if his personality reflected everything but that. you’ve always been tempted to fly a little too close to the sun.

   “i can walk—“

   “don’t.” his voice is demanding—the smallest waver hidden in the very back of his throat, near his tonsils. he’ll bleed for you. over and over. for a second, he wonders if you can hear the pounding in his chest, but he pushes the thought away like everything else in his life, and he walks.

   he walks for a while, it seems.

   past dead bodies, oddly splayed out in ways that similarly reminded you of yourself. flickering lights and crackles of sparks. electricity. shouting. gunfire. 

   “you came,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. it had been a battle trying to convince yourself everyone still remembered you after stryker was breathing it down your neck. 

   “‘course i did,” he murmurs, more focused on the fact that you’re alive and breathing rather than listening. he’s more focused on getting you out so he can look at you and love you like breathing. his eyes are clouded, darkened with unwarranted and directed anger. 

   he’s oblivious to who stryker even is, but you’re not, and faintly, before you pass out with agony in your eyes and threatening to spill down your cheeks, you feel the taste of snow on your tongue.

   snow, one that reminds you of the last moments you were with scott before this all happened. purity, a nice cold chill that shakes your already trembling bones. 

   “don’t ever do that again.” 

   and whatever he means, you don’t plan to.  masterlist!!

[fandom-go-round]

Good evening. Can I request some headcanons of Shockwave and Starscream (both from Cyberverse) dating smart but shy human S/O?

Shockwave:

He enjoys talking with you about different topics, comparing what you know. Shockwave is always going to have a deep knowledge of science and likes to do fact sharing. Whatever topic you enjoy and know a lot about, he’ll happily trade interesting facts for your own tidbits. Others think it’s boring but the two of you look forward to your little game.

Shockwave doesn’t like to share; Autobot, Decepticon, it doesn’t matter. He’s wary of letting anyone spend too much time with you. It helps you don’t enjoy interacting with other people and are content to spend more of your time in his lab. He’s quick to chase off anyone who gives you a hard time, especially Soundwave.

He prefers going on dates off base, surprisingly. Shockwave feels like everyone is watching the two of you on base and when he wants a private moment, he’s going to guarantee it. He likes going to cities to people watching, or at least watching the flow of humans. He won’t pick nature first but will take you where you want to go. Shockwave is always looking to make you smile and come out of your shell; he’ll do whatever he can to see your joy.

Starscream:

Starscream loves hearing himself talk and you’re a good listener, a match made in perfection. It helps that when you do speak, it’s always thoughtful and something fascinating. Your comments are always welcome and even if he can be grating, he’s not going to cut you off. He always wants to talk to you and have your attention.

He refuses to let the other Decepticons walk all over you, physically or otherwise. He’s protective of you to the point of possessiveness, making sure everyone knows not to touch you. It’s a double-edged sword; if people want to get at Starscream they try to get to you. He loves watching you run circles around the other cons; he’s proud you can outsmart them.

He likes to show off for you in whatever way he can. Taking you flying in spinning dances, winning a debate; anything that makes you give a proud grin has him preening. Starscream does that same for you. The first time you talk back to Soundwave and you’re right, he wants to laugh and rub it in that mechs face. Of course you know what’s going on! You’re his partner, you’re just as smart as him.

[idanit]

ok now i need to know about your niche country-specific jeeves AU

"Every valet takes great pride / in cooking what his husband likes" an edit of a makatka by @maidblues

(You've probably forgotten about sending this ask. I almost forgot I had a reply sitting in my drafts.)

This is incredibly niche and very hard to do for numerous reasons, but I've been thinking about a Polish Jeeves AU for a good while now. I'm not the best person to come up with the best way to cut almost all politics out from a story set in the 1920s in a country that has just become sovereign and is about to go through some further enormous transformations, so I'm not going to try very hard. Wodehouse's stories already take place in an idyllic sort of fantasy on the theme of interwar and postwar Britain, so I suppose a Polish AU would have to just lean into that even harder.

(Polish aristocracts lost their legal protections in 1921, but let's not think about it too much. Don't think about how you could possibly make "Comrade Bingo" work in a post-1920 Poland either. Etc., etc.)

So we've established that this would have to be some sort of barely recognisable fairytale Poland. But something in me is compelled by the idea of trying this out anyway because there are not a lot of wodehousian stories in Polish literature of the time. Not a lot of comedy without other genres mixed in in general. And one does wonder what it would look like.

Names are tricky. I want Bertram to be Bartłomiej or Bartosz (Bartek in the diminutive). @maidblues likes to give him the surname of Kogucik (rooster) and I toyed with the idea of giving him the Kur (another word for rooster) crest.

As for Jeeves's name, his case is more complicated because as far as I know servants in Poland were usually called by their masters by their first name, and the most common servant (as well as Polish in general) name would probably be Jan. So I'm tempted to make Reginald Jeeves a Jan Regulski or a Jan Reguła (reguła means "a rule").

This choice has the advantage of turning the "Jeeves?" / "Yes, sir?" exchange into "Janie?" / "Tak, jaśnie panie?". It rhymes. I find this amusing.

Servants at the time were overwhelmingly female, especially those who worked alone and for a single person/household, but we're going to ignore that.

Bertie is an aristocrat living in Warsaw, since it's the capital city, but his family is from some Mazovian dworek (manor house).

Aristocracy was not quite as much of an exclusive club as it was in Britain (some historians say it made up 10% of Polish society). Bertie probably says his ancestors fought at Grunwald, but he would likely bring up the Romanticism and the XVII century a lot as well, because they were as alive in the Polish public consciousness of the time as Middle Ages were in the mind of a certain kind of Englishman. Bertie could lean into something commonly called "the pride of the Sarmatians" (duma sarmacka).

Bertie's school is important. Everything depends on this, I think — Bertie's language, his friends, his club. Wealthy aristocrats did send their children abroad sometimes, so he could even have a typical British public school education even if he'd be unlikely to attend Eton and Oxford, specifically, but this feels like a cop-out, so I'm going to assume he was a student at some Polish university and not think about it too much lest I get caught up in the timelines of what university in what partition of Poland it would make sense for him to attend.

Bertie's way of speaking. My heart wants to make Bertie use some elements from the Warsaw subdialect because it's very fun and it would fit him, but regrettably, I think it's too working-class for him. I am fascinated by the idea of Bertie borrowing words from German and Russian in addition to French, though. He'd probably make use of some form of gwara uczniowska (student slang), too.

And Jeeves could know the Warsaw subdialect well, even if he would probably not use it while speaking to the members of the aristocracy (I'm pretty sure an early version of canon Jeeves spoke with a subtle Cockney accent, calling Bertie "guv’nor"). I wanted to make him a Warsaw local, perhaps with some family in the countryside, perhaps in the former Prussian partition, since I think the level of literacy was higher there and I need a way for Jeeves to have a chance of getting some education.

The Drones. There were no gentlemen's clubs, so I think the Drones would have to be a coffeehouse, a restaurant, or a szynk / pub called "Truteń"/"U Trutnia"/"Pod Trutniem". It's a significant change because they were not exclusive places, but it's the best I can think of. Coffeehouses in particular had a rich tradition as cultural places where people spent hours and hours on discussions. I think a Polish equivalent of a Drones Club could even serve as a tongue-in-cheek satire on artistic groups like Skamandryci. The Polish Drones would just have to take their gambling elsewhere. (@maidblues came up with another name for a Drones-like place that served food: Darmozjad. I love the pun — the word means someone useless, lit. someone who eats for free.)

As for the Junior Ganymede (Ganimedes), I think it would be a stowarzyszenie (club/society) without its own venue. Its members would probably meet at regular conventions. Here, I see an opportunity of some comedic nods to the tradition of "zjazdy", which in the centuries past were politically significant meetings of the aristocracy.

Bertie sings Mieczysław Fogg's songs.

Jeeves knows quotes from Mickiewicz and Słowacki (Polish Romantic poets) by heart.

Bertie is bi/multillingual enough to run off to Paris instead of New York City every now and then. Not quite putting an ocean between you and your aunt, but far enough for Ciotka Agata not to follow him.

I'm unlikely to ever finish writing anything for Jeeves in Polish, so, to finish things off, have this contextless excerpt from some draft of mine:

Mam na myśli tyle tylko, że podczas półtygodniowego pobytu, w którym jaśnie panowi udało się wpaść do sadzawki, zaręczyć, zostać pogryzionym, rozsierdzić Spodkowskiego i obrazić trzy stateczne matrony, choć nie dokładnie w tej kolejności, Jan ocalił mój ulubiony garnitur (bez krawata), zgrabnie mnie odręczył, opatrzył i odwiózł do Warszawy, a skroni jego nie zrosiła nawet mgiełka potu. Wspaniały człowiek. Obsypałem go, rzecz jasna, pewną ilością marek, ale wydawało mi się to zgoła niewystarczające. Dusza moja śpiewała, wolna jak ptak bez obrączki, a mój wybawca miał z tego tylko trochę świstków papieru, które i tak natychmiast wyśle rodzinie spoza stolicy — znałem go doskonale.

[pocket-lad]

CH 1- Origin: Mystery Shack, Gravity Falls, Oregon

In which a borrower forms an unlikely alliance with Ford Pines.

~

Everything was fine until the new guy showed up.

Life wasn’t necessarily cozy beforehand - she still had to keep an eye out for the nosy humans that milled about (especially the boy) - but this guy took nosy to a whole new level.

One day, everything was normal. The next, gravity just stopped working in short bursts. The next, there was a new, mysterious man in her home that snooped around, studied the supernatural, and shared a face with the man that already lived here. Quinn’s life was certifiably weird.

Weird enough that one night, she found herself atop this guy’s journal, reading his musings. It was a bad idea. Quinn knew that well before she even climbed up the table. But she always had this yearning deep inside her, this need to know more. The town they lived in was full of strange, magical beings, and she wanted to know all about it. Maybe she’d finally find out where she came from or why she was so different. And it wasn’t fair that humans got to have all the answers, just because they were bigger. So a few moments of reading wouldn’t hurt.

At least, that’s what she thought. The more Quinn read, the more her mind strained, which gave her a massive headache. According to this guy, he came out of an interdimensional portal that he was stuck in for thirty years because his twin brother Stanley (the old man whose walls Quinn lived in) wanted to bring him back after accidentally pushing him in. There were mentions of a memory ray, the U.S. government, dimensional rifts…Oh boy.

The page ended with:

First, I must focus on the present and on the problems created by a man who is responsible for my latest twist of fate…

And that was it. That was all Quinn would get to read for now. She likely wouldn’t be able to turn the heavy page, and even if she could, the racket would definitely wake the sleeping human nearby.

Speaking of, the room was suspiciously quiet, outside the ever-present buzz of machinery. The man’s faint snoring had stopped while she was lost in the book.

As the reality of the situation set in, Quinn turned around just in time to be knocked off her feet by a solid wall longer than she was tall. It slammed into her with the force of a semi-truck, squeezed her tight, and swept her into the air. She then found herself freefalling, and at last collided with the ground.

Quinn thought she had a headache before, but the impact with the wall and the hard ground combined with the dizzying speed with which she was yanked around made it infinitely worse.

She blinked open her eyes, wondering what could possibly have happened. And the sight was so horrific that she retched, on the verge of throwing up. She was caught. She was caught by the human and was thrown into a jar and he had her right where he wanted her.

He studied her with squinted eyes, scanning her whole body up and down and up and down. He hummed to himself, then wrote some notes in his journal. The process repeated.

Quinn had to force herself to breathe. In and out. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. His face was so big, his demeanor so intense, his attitude so…detached. In and out. But all knowledge of how to breathe fell out the window when he addressed her.

“What are you? Can you speak?”

His voice echoed inside the jar, bouncing around and assaulting her ears. She cried out, covering them.

The man’s eyes widened. “Fascinating.” He wrote something down in the journal.

“Wh-What are you writing?” Quinn asked hesitantly. He couldn’t document her there. Nobody was supposed to know about her. She learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago.

The man’s head snapped back toward her at full attention. He looked at her expectantly, but Quinn didn’t know what he wanted her to do. “Say something else,” he prompted, his pen at the ready. So he heard her, he just didn’t listen to her.

“What are you writing?” she repeated, louder.

“Yes, yes, you said that already. Say something different.”

Oh, so he didn’t actually care what she had to say, too tickled by the notion that she could even speak at all. She could say anything in the world and it would have no impact. She watched as he thoughtfully tapped his pen to his chin. And that’s when she noticed perhaps the strangest thing she’d ever seen. “You have six fingers!” she blurted.

This seemed to delight the man, and yet again he wrote something down. “Observational skills…” he muttered under his breath.

Six fingers. As if she wasn’t already scared of a normal human hand. This one had one more digit just to knock her over with, to hold her captive, to obscure her from the world. “It’s like you were specifically designed to terrify me,” she laughed wryly.

“Tell me,” he said, ignoring her, “Were you a human that was shrunk? Did you find the crystals in the forest? Or are you some kind of wingless fairy?”

“What the heck is a fairy?”

“Hmmm.” With that, the man grabbed the jar with both hands, casting Quinn in a dark shadow. She eyed each of the twelve fingers coiling nearly all the way around the jar, the only barrier between her and the fingers, the only thing stopping the fingers from closing in. He picked it up and set it on a high shelf, then left the room.

“Wait! Wait, you can’t leave me in here! WAIT!” she cried. Once the rumbling footsteps faded, Quinn collapsed to a seat, defeated. So this was her life now. Some experiment of a mad scientist in a musky, old basement. Would he study her and poke and prod her all day? Would he take her through an ‘interdimensional portal’? Or would he forget about her and leave her here to die, distracted by some newer, more exciting creature? Whatever the case, it was completely out of her hands. Her life belonged to a crazy giant.

BANG !

The loud noise startled Quinn out of her pity party. Next to her, a large, green, slimy being with tentacles had thrown itself into the walls of its own jar. It had one menacing eye that told her all she needed to know. It wanted to eat her.

Quinn instinctively retreated to the other side of her prison, as far away from the monstrosity as she physically could. It seemed contained, but if it broke the glass, she was done for.

She sighed, watching it repeatedly ram into the walls. It was another one of the man’s specimens, just like her. She wondered if it had once been a normal, peaceful creature, but its time in the jar drove it mad. It was probably starving. She couldn’t say she blamed it.

Quinn looked around. She was done moping. She needed to work on an active solution. And she might have just found something that could work.

The lid of the jar was closed tight, but the man at least cared enough to use a lid with holes in it so that she could breathe. They were tiny, tiny holes, but there was only one way to find out if she could squeeze through them.

Quinn easily pulled out her hook, caught it on one of the holes, and climbed to the top. Just as she thought, the holes were indeed too small. She could fit her arm through, she could fit a leg through, but nothing would get her fat head through.

But she climbed all the way up here. She wasn’t going to let this man make her into some plaything. With all her might, Quinn shoved at the hole, trying to loosen the lid from the inside. Needing more leverage, she squeezed her climbing thread with her legs, balancing precariously as she used both hands to push.

The ground shook. Footsteps sounded in the distance, getting closer and closer with each second.

Come on! Push!

Quinn made the mistake of looking to see who it was. She locked eyes with the man. He had returned, and she was caught trying to escape.

“Holy molasses!”

The frighteningly loud exclamation startled Quinn right off her thread, and she fell to the bottom of the jar, letting out an unintentional exclamation. She shakily pushed herself to her feet and backed up, hands raised as if she could legitimately fight off the giant.

But when she really looked at him, she faltered, her balled fists dropping a hair. This wasn’t the man. It was his brother, Stan. And it was worth a shot.

“Please,” Quinn said, running to the side of the jar closest to him. “Please, you’ve gotta get me out of here. That man put me in here, and I can’t-”

“Woah, Ford put you in there? Yeah, I’m not surprised. What are you, some kind of fairy?”

“What? No, I’m not - I’m scared there’s not much time. Please!” By now, Quinn really wanted to know what a ‘fairy’ was, but there was a larger issue at hand.

Stan looked hesitant. “I don’t know…Who’s to say you’re not some supernatural being that’ll kill me as soon as I let you out?”

Quinn was baffled. “Look at me!” she cried. Her eyes started to well up, and she could feel the tears about to spill over any minute now. She sniffled.

Stan suddenly looked very uncomfortable, like he wanted to be anywhere but here. “Oh - oh, gross, it’s crying. Uh…If I let you out, will you stop doing that?” But he was already moving toward the jar. He slowly unscrewed the lid, set it to the side, and plucked the little creature out by its leg.

Quinn yelped as two massive fingers pinched her foot, hoisting her into the air. She dangled in front of his face, trying to catch her bearings while fighting the fingers that held her captive.

“Haha, you are small! Say, kid, you want a job?”

“Huh???” It was hard to think with the blood pooling in her brain.

“Yeah, yeah, come to the Mystery Shack to see the world’s smallest person!” His eyes lit up as he saw it all play out before him. Crowds, money, fame, more money…

If Quinn heard that right, it sounded like she would be put on display for all the world to see like those other strange things scattered throughout his weird mystery museum. That was not going to happen.

“Stanley! Put that down!”

Uh oh. The man was back. Ford, Stan had called him.

“C’mon? This thing? It’s harmless!” He gave Quinn’s leg a little shake for emphasis, and she grasped her stomach to keep from throwing up.

“You don’t know that!” Ford came rushing at them, and Quinn flinched away as best she could. She now dangled by the leg between two giants who were very close to an argument. Claustrophobia crept up on her.

Stan lifted her up further and held her out to Ford as if to show how non-threatening she was, and it felt like her ankle ripped out of its socket from the quick movement.

Now out in the open air, Ford took the opportunity to snatch her out of Stan’s hands. Quinn groaned, then remembered she was supposed to be fighting back. But once again, she was unceremoniously dropped back in the jar. Back to square one. This time though, she had two giants peering in at her, both wearing the same face. It was eerie.

Before Ford could screw the lid back on, she held up her hands placatingly. They shook so hard she was sure the humans could see it.

“Wait! Okay, hear me out. You’re curious about me. I get that. But I’m curious about me too. I - I don’t know why I’m smaller than every other person in the world, but I want to find out, and I could really use your help. I just - please don’t put me away in a jar. Please.”

Ford hummed again, deep in thought. Quinn’s fate was up to him. This one decision.

“Alright,” he shrugged. He turned the jar upside down and Quinn came tumbling out, head over heels, onto the desk. She took a moment to catch her breath. Her plan worked, but she didn’t feel much better.

***

Quinn’s time with Ford was rough, to say the least. He had no qualms about poking and prodding her. The only real advantages she gained from her negotiation were regular access to food (which she had to remind Ford of, as he was often blind to the passage of time) and freedom to move around. At least, to an extent.

Quinn was suddenly yanked back from her position on Ford’s desk, all six of his fingers closed tight around her, and she was deposited in the center, right under his nose.

“Don’t wander too far. I’ll need you,” Ford said, but his eyes didn’t leave the journal. He had this uncanny ability to never let Quinn out of his sight without even looking at her. He always had her right where he wanted her, and she’d hardly gotten a moment of privacy since the day he caught her.

Quinn threw her arms in the air, exasperated. It wasn’t like she would’ve gotten far. If Ford needed her, he could just say, “Hey Quinn, I need you,” and she could use her own two legs to walk the negligible distance. But he still never bothered to ask her name and he just grabbed her whenever he pleased. He didn’t see her as a person. It was humiliating.

Quinn thought about standing up to him, or even just asking him politely not to do any of the things on the laundry list of annoying things he did. While Ford seemed to have no ill intent and he never purposefully harmed her, she felt how strong he was in the way he handled her. The thick muscles flexing beneath the skin. It wasn’t uncommon for him to squeeze a little too tight, to push a little too hard. And so any time she thought about speaking up, images of what could happen flashed through her mind, and the words died in her throat.

Lost in thought, Quinn didn’t notice the intruding fingers until they touched her. They held some kind of wire and wedged themselves under her arms to wrap that wire around her middle. Even then, Quinn could feel the force with which her arms were shoved upward. It wouldn’t take much more effort to snap them off completely. This was why Quinn didn’t speak up.

But she did want to know why wires were being wrapped around her. She jumped when the cold casings touched her skin. She jumped again when a loud, rhythmic beeping started up behind and above her. It picked up pace, and she soon realized that it echoed in time with her heartbeat.

“Your heart’s going a mile a minute!”

At the sound of Ford’s booming voice, the speed of the beeping increased even more. More still when they made eye contact.

A realization struck him. “Oh, I see. There’s no need to fear. You’ll be fine,” he said matter-of-factly. On the word ‘fine’, the beeping got faster.

Ford frowned and hummed to himself. (That annoying hum. The one that showcased to the world that he was thinking. And he was never not thinking.) With much slower, restrained movements, he reached toward her. Quinn had been willing him to move slower ever since they met. Everything humans did always seemed to happen at a blinding speed, and for once, she wished they would just slow down. But now that he did, Quinn hated it. Sure, she also hated the whiplash from being whisked around at human speed, but as she sat there, feeling the seconds drag on, dread blossomed in her chest. It grew with each passing moment. Each moment was a moment closer to getting grabbed - each moment the hands grew and grew and grew as they got closer and closer and closer, towering over her, casting her in their shadow - and she found herself wanting him to get it over with already.

Quinn backed up, confusion and fear duking it out in her head. She was vaguely aware of the ever-accelerating beeping.

Ford snagged one of the wires wrapped around her chest, stopping her in her tracks and holding her in place. Quinn let out a shaky breath and watched as he carefully undid the contraption. His hands were so big that they blocked her whole field of view. All she could see was a mess of fingers working in front of her, jostling her this way and that, until they pulled away and let the wires fall to the surface of the desk.

“I can assure you that I am careful, precise, and intentional. These experiments will help me get a baseline understanding of what you are and how your body and brain function. I didn’t intend to scare you.”

He didn’t intend to scare her? He could’ve fooled Quinn.

Regardless, when she didn’t respond, he returned to his journal. After an awkward pause, he said, “You may go.”

That was it.

“I may go? You haven’t told me anything about what’s going on!”

Ford looked up, mildly surprised by the long sentence and the angry tone within it. He hadn’t seen anything like this from her yet. “There’s nothing to tell,” he said, disappointed. The slow pace with which new discoveries arose was disappointing.

“Yeah, but you grab me, you wrap me in wires, you take measurements, and I don’t even know what they’re for. You write little notes in your journal about me but don’t tell me what they say. I mean, I’m a person! You know I’m a person, right?”

“Of course you’re a person. The real question is whether or not you are human. My knee jerk reaction is to say no. But a person? I have no doubt-”

“Well I don’t feel like one when you’re around.”

Silence filled the air and Quinn wondered if she’d gone too far. She tried to read his face, but it was blank, as per usual. And somehow that was even more terrifying than anger.

Suddenly, Ford pushed his journal along the desk toward her. Quinn backed up in surprise, but the journal stopped a couple relative inches away from her feet. She glanced up at Ford again, who nodded at the book. He wanted her…to read it?

Tentatively, she climbed on top and took in the words on the page, as well as a drawing of her with measurements written alongside it. It looked exactly like her. It was no different than the other illustrations in the journal, she was just another strange anomaly of Gravity Falls. The notion left an uneasy feeling in her stomach, but she was too curious not to read what he thought about her.

The girl appears human in all regards except for size. Is this enough to categorize her as a separate species entirely? She insists that she did not meddle with the height-altering crystals hidden deep within the forest, but further testing is required. Could it be genetic? A curse passed on through the generations?

“Quinn,” Quinn said.

“Pardon?”

“My name is Quinn. Not, ‘the girl’.”

“Ah, yes, where are my manners? Stanford Pines.”

Quinn couldn’t help but laugh. It had already been a number of days spent together, but she wasn’t so sure Ford knew that. He hardly left the basement. In any case, it was more than enough time to learn his name. And it should have been more than enough time for him to learn hers. If he wasn’t over one hundred feet tall and holding her captive, this behavior would almost be endearing. Almost. “I know.”

“Well, Quinn, feel free to add any contributions you deem necessary. There’s scrap paper everywhere. Please try and write as large as possible.” Ford pushed himself to his feet and began gathering equipment.

“Where are you going?” Quinn asked.

“To collect a sample of crystal.”

“I want to come with you.”

Ford laughed. “No, no, it’s too dangerous for me. It’s much too dangerous for someone your size.” With that said, he left.

Quinn didn’t waste too much time sulking. Ford hardly listened to her to begin with, so there was almost no chance he would take her with him. It was for the best, though. That would be putting a lot of trust in a man who forgot to feed himself on more than one occasion.

So, instead, she busied herself with the journal. A particular passage stuck out to her.

She is very reactive to my every move. I would describe the behavior as anxious and fidgety, not so different from Dipper’s default state of being. Perhaps over time, I can gain her trust and she will calm down.

Yikes. Part of her was angry at the fact that he acknowledged her anxious behavior and still chose to act the way he did, but a larger part of her was just embarrassed. Next time, she’d insist on going outside with him. To show him that she wasn’t just some small, skittish animal. She could be a helpful resource. And to prove this, she filled in a spot in the journal, writing as large as possible but still falling short of the man’s big, curvy lettering.

Origin: ??? Mystery Shack, Gravity Falls, Oregon

The now familiar sound of footsteps tromping down the stairs made its way to her ears.

It was Stan, who Quinn hadn’t seen since that first day. Her defenses were instantly up, especially without Ford around to stop anything from escalating.

But Stan seemed to be in a good mood. “Hey, glad to see my brother didn’t kill you!” Before Quinn could ask for clarification, he continued. “Where is the loser, anyway?”

Quinn stammered, trying to find words. “Um, uh, he went…outside.”

“And left you down here? Yeesh.” As he spoke, Stan picked up a piece of paper (that looked like it had mostly been eaten away by some kind of acid) by the corner and regarded it with distaste. He let it fall to the floor and returned his attention to Quinn. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Without waiting for an answer, he scooped Quinn up and set her on his shoulder. She screamed. Even though she should have been plenty used to this by now, this was a virtual stranger who, last time they met, wanted to make her an exhibit in his wacky gift shop. His hands also felt distinctly different than Ford’s. Quinn didn’t like that she could tell the difference.

What wasn’t any different though, was the sheer strength in each hand, so whether it was Stan or Ford, she wasn’t getting out until they let her out.

And he let her out…right on his shoulder.

Quinn felt the cushioned fabric underneath her and wondered absently if the man wore shoulder pads. That thought vanished when he started to move, and she was left clinging on for dear life as he climbed up the stairs.

This was unlike anything she’d ever done before. To her left was a giant ear about as big as her. To her right: absolutely nothing. Open air. And underneath her, a living, breathing human, taking her…somewhere. Anywhere. Out of the basement.

A strong mix of excitement and anxiety filled each and every one of her bones to the point that they felt like they were vibrating. She was getting out of the basement! She would get fresh air! Sunlight! God, she missed sunlight.

But to leave the basement was to enter a whole new world. She’d seen the entire ‘Mystery Shack’ from her vantage points in the walls, but to be in the middle of it, out in the open among other humans milling about with only Stanley Pines as her protection, was not for the faint of heart. And Quinn’s heart was feeling pretty faint.

***

A high pitched shriek so ear piercing that it ruptured the sound barrier poured out of one of the small children. Well, small being relative. The girl regarded Quinn with a bit lip and sparkling eyes. “Oh my gosh!” she squealed. She immediately tried to jump up and snatch Quinn off Stan’s shoulder.

Stan angled his shoulder away, but if Quinn thought he was trying to protect her, she was dead wrong. “Woah, easy kid,” he laughed. The sensation of his voice rumbling underneath her at such an amplified volume made her jump. He wrapped his hand around her and set her on the table so the twins could get a better look. 

“Nonononono, hang on!” Quinn blurted, but it was useless. She was surrounded on all sides by humans, two of which were literal children. A strong force shoved at her back and she stumbled forward. Stan had nudged her.

The girl, Mabel, leaned in close and rested her chin on the table. “You’re adorable ! You’re like, so tiny I could put you away in my pocket and take you on adventures and we could solve crimes together! Quick question: Do you have any tiny hats?”

Quinn let out an uneasy laugh. “Uh…no.” She backed up a little, afraid that Mabel would just shove her in her pocket anyway, but the boy, Dipper, spoke up from behind her.

“Why are you so small?” His inquisitive eyes reminded her of Ford’s.

“I don’t know,” Quinn whispered. “That’s what your…grunkle,” She looked at Stan for confirmation on the strange word, who nodded, “Ford is trying to figure out.”

“Wait, that’s what he’s been doing? How long have you been down there?”

Quinn shrugged. Her neck was starting to itch uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Boring!” Mabel whined. “Let’s show her big people things.” Her eyes brightened. “Have you ever had popcorn?”

***

The twins found it incredibly amusing to watch her eat human sized food. Every time she hefted up a piece of popcorn, Mabel let out the same shrill noise that Quinn learned indicated joy. Dipper seemed to find it funny too, though his reaction was much more subdued. But she was just eating. She wasn’t sure what was so ‘adorable’ about it.

At one point, the kids tried to convince Quinn to ride Mabel’s pet pig like a knight on a horse going into battle, but she saw the way that pig chewed on everything. She would be lucky to make it out unscathed. The comments, she could put up with. The fawning over her interactions with food, she could more than put up with. (Food was food.) But this was where she drew the line.

The front door slammed and, before anyone could catch him, Ford stomped right past them and straight into the basement.

Quinn thought about calling out to him, but despite all odds, she was kind of having fun up here. They invaded her personal space without qualms all the same, and if she thought too much about the future (particularly whether Mabel would let her go), she got antsy and nervous. But they were having fun with her, not at her expense. Quinn got the feeling that, if she truly freaked out, they would ease up. That was not always the case with Ford.

They were in the middle of a game to see who could launch the most walnuts into Stan’s mouth (Quinn was losing horribly) when the basement door burst open. Quinn leapt what felt like twenty feet in the air and only relaxed slightly when she saw it was Ford.

“Ah, there you are,” he said when he located her on the table. “Come along.”

Everyone booed him.

“Ducktective will be on in a couple minutes, and Quinn said she’s never seen TV before. Can you believe it? TV!” Mabel said.

“I have a crystal waiting in the basement. It’s at its strongest when-”

“I don’t want to,” Quinn said firmly. Her voice sounded very quiet compared to his, but her stance was firm. Perhaps she was emboldened by the fellow giants around her, who all seemed to want her to stick around. Perhaps she was just sick of Ford’s ‘experiments’.

Ford didn’t waver. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He made a move toward her, like he was going to snatch her up. Quinn instinctively backed away, but as she did, Stan shot to his feet and placed himself between her and Ford. One second, Ford was coming at her, and the next, a solid wall blocked everything from sight. Stan moved so fast that Quinn wasn’t even sure what happened until he spoke.

“The lady said no.” His tone was impressively combative. Quinn stayed on guard. With so much tension in the air, she couldn’t be sure she was entirely safe in this situation. If a fight started, she wanted out.

Everyone held their breath.

“Fine,” Ford said shortly, though Quinn couldn’t get a read on his inflection and she couldn't see his face. As soon as he disappeared, Stan flopped back into his worn, yellow chair.

“Um…thank you?” she tried, still trying to shake off the stress.

“Ha! Don’t flatter yourself. I’ll take any opportunity I can to pick a fight with my smarty pants brother. And win.” He popped another walnut in his mouth and ruffled Quinn’s hair with his knuckle.  Her neck cracked and she nervously pulled away from the massive finger.

Mabel announced that the TV show was starting, so they all quieted down. Quinn tried to follow along. She really did. But there was a duck that definitely quacked like a duck, yet apparently all the characters in the show could understand it anyway, and there was mystery and murder and a twin duck and honestly she had a really hard time keeping everything straight.

It didn’t help that she could hear each breath the giants took, could hear them munching on food as big as her. They had been nothing but kind, albeit touchy, but it was hard to forget the way Ford and Stan easily plucked her up whenever they wanted her to be elsewhere. The anticipation of even the possibility that that would happen again was enough to keep her on edge and distracted.

And occasionally, her mind wandered to Ford. Did she do the right thing, standing up to him? Was he mad? Did she care if he was mad?

Cursing her inability to ‘stay out of it’, Quinn got to her feet, lodged her hook in the table, and began her descent.

“Do you need any help?

Quinn jumped, then compensated by clenching the string tighter with all four of her limbs to keep from falling. She slowly lifted her gaze to make eye contact with Dipper. His huge face rose before her, a kind smile on his lips.

“No…thanks. Just watch your step. Please.”

“Okay,” he said, then returned his attention to the TV. And that was it. No push back. No grabbing. He just let her go about her business. (Though she did notice the way he watched her descent. It was unnerving, but overall harmless. He was just curious.) Quinn relaxed a hair, then finished her long, arduous journey to the basement. The old door was easy to duck under, but each stair felt like it took a lifetime to navigate.

When she made it to the concrete floor, she took in the state of the lab around her. It was an absolute mess. Papers everywhere, drawers pulled out, boxes upended. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say that Ford tore the place apart trying to find her. And speaking of Ford…

He sat at the desk, his head once again buried in his journal. He absently twirled a crystal in his hand and muttered unintelligible phrases to himself.

Quinn cleared her throat. His head snapped up and it took him a couple seconds to locate her.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Ford strained to hear her, but he was pretty sure he heard an apology. “Ah, no reason to be sorry. I am quite alright.”

Quinn kicked her feet at the ground. “Well, thank you for helping me figure this out. I want you to know I do appreciate it, but… I can’t continue to live like this. It’s demeaning.”

Ford glanced away, maybe in embarrassment, maybe disinterested, maybe just thinking, it was hard to say. His eye caught something in the journal. “You’re not from the Mystery Shack.”

“Wh-”

“I wrote ‘origin’ in reference to your species, where you began. Not where you specifically are literally from.”

He picked up his pen to cross it out, but Quinn stopped him. “My mom lived here her whole life. Her dad lived here his whole life. But even before this place was built, we’ve been here for as long as anyone can remember. Stories dating back from my great-great-great grandma passed down. We’ve always been in Gravity Falls.”

Ford’s face lit up. “Interesting.”

“And I can tell you all about it, if you’d like,” Quinn added sheepishly. “I can tell you anything about me or my past or my family…if you promise to ask before picking me up and you tell me what you’re doing before you do it and you let me go about my own life.” She took a deep breath before continuing. Down on the ground, looking up at him, even from across the room and even while he was seated, was daunting. “I’m not gonna run away. I like you guys. You’re just big, and I’m gonna need time to get used to that. I can’t stop you at this size, and I can’t imagine you’d like to get whisked away by a giant with no idea what its intentions were.”

“Ha, it’s funny you mention that! The nightmare realm had quite the-” He stopped after he saw that train of thought would not prove useful. Instead, Ford stood and approached the impossibly tiny girl on the floor.

To Quinn, each step was a small earthquake. She thought about making a break for it, but Ford moved slowly, an attempt to appear non threatening. She knew logically that he could see her - his eyes never left her - but they were so high up and his dirty boots so big, it was hard not to retreat a couple defensive steps. Ford bent down next to her and reached for her.

Quinn let out a surprised yelp and tucked into a crouch, covering her face. This served the dual purpose of blocking the imposing sight of six fingers barreling toward her while also keeping her arms from getting pinned to her sides. The seconds dragged out, but still nothing happened.

Tentatively, Quinn peeked between her fingers. What laid in front of her was a large hand, over twice her size…But all it did was lay there. Confused, she looked up at Ford, whose face was neutral. “I think I can abide by those terms,” he said.

Quinn glanced between his face and hand repeatedly, to the point where it felt comical.

A faint smile spread across Ford’s face and he elaborated. “You know, I happened to come across the most curious creature while I was out looking for the crystals. I could use a hand hunting it down.”

Quinn jerked away when he wiggled his six fingers in invitation. But was this not what she asked for? She asked to go outside with him, and she asked him not to grab her. This was it.

After one last hesitant glance at Ford’s expectant face, she slowly inched toward the waiting hand. And then, she took her first step on the waiting hand. As soon as both feet were firmly planted, the hand skyrocketed into the air and Quinn fell to her hands and knees. She didn’t even have time to catch her bearings before the world tilted sideways and she fell, hollering all the way until she landed softly in a dark, dank enclosure.

As she tried to fumble her way to a stand, the ground shifted unpredictably. Each step threatened to send her sprawling again, and the fabric contorted around her every move. She had no idea where she was, but the faint light that poured in told her she should be able to climb ‘up’, and so that’s what she did.

Only when her face made contact with the light did she realize Ford had dumped her in the breast pocket of his coat. Wind rushed at her as he walked and the steady thumping behind her made itself known as his heartbeat.

Quinn didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. It made sense logically - Ford would need his hands free and she would be in no danger of falling to the ground, but the overwhelming bigness of everything around her made her feel unbelievably small. Even the pen that was clipped to the lip of the pocket was larger than her. His heartbeat drowned out her own thoughts. She could completely disappear in this pocket.

But maybe it would just take time to get used to. After all, she had a front row seat to all the action. She was close in case anything went awry. And more important than anything, she had a real chance to discover the reason for her small size. A chance to finally find answers.

When the fresh, outside air met Quinn’s face as Ford opened the front door, she knew that everything would be alright, and her life had certifiably changed for the better.

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest

Sweaters part 02!

hi everyone! haha i wrote this in Spain next to the hotel pool! darn it’s hot! i hope you like it! i worked hard on it!

A few days had passed since Adam’s fiery encounter at the Hazbin Hotel. He had thrown himself into his work, every fiber of his being focused on fulfilling the avalanche of orders that poured into his shop. His hands moved mechanically, stitching fabric with practiced precision, but his thoughts? They swirled in a storm of anger and resentment.

“Fuck Lucifer,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and venomous as he carefully stitched teeth and bones onto a particularly macabre sweater requested by one of his more eccentric regulars. Each tug of the thread felt cathartic, like he was stitching his anger into the fabric itself. “Stupid fucking Lucifer, thinking he’s better than me!” His fingers worked deftly over the seams, his golden eyes narrowed in concentration. “As if I’m scheming something! Like I give a shit about his stupid kingdom.”

The rhythm of his work soothed him, but it also kept the thoughts at bay. He found himself repeating the same curses over and over, weaving his frustrations into every stitch, every scarf, every sweater. His shop was filled with the soft hum of the sewing machine, the scratch of needles against fabric, and Adam’s incessant grumbling.

Later, as he worked on a long scarf with a blue and black striped pattern, he found his focus sharpening on the intricate details. There were three ‘Vs’ stitched into the ends—a design request from a client with an eerie fascination with symbols. Adam paused for a moment, his hands hovering over the fabric, his eyes far away.

“Why the hell does everyone think the worst of me?” he hissed, the words slipping out, quieter this time, tinged with exhaustion rather than fury. His shoulders sagged slightly as he sighed, the weight of everything catching up to him. “Why can’t they see I’m just… trying to live my life?”

The shop felt colder suddenly, the air thicker, as though the oppressive presence of Hell itself was closing in on him. Adam’s hands slowed, his movements more deliberate as he carefully folded the finished sweater. He took a deep breath, eyes tracing over the delicate patterns he’d woven. His heart wasn’t in the insults anymore, the anger beginning to ebb like the receding tide.

He placed the sweaters and mittens into a box, the soft rustle of tissue paper filling the room as he packaged them with care. Each item was perfect, flawless in design, because despite everything, Adam still took pride in his work. It was the one thing he had control over, the one thing that he could do without question or judgment.

But the memory of Lucifer’s sneering face gnawed at him. The King of Hell’s words replayed in his mind, taunting him, filling him with a lingering sense of doubt. The way Lucifer had mocked him—mocked his very existence—stung deeper than Adam had anticipated.

“What did I generally do to them?” Adam whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking it aloud would solidify the painful truth. “Why does everyone hate me so much?”

His hands stilled over the box, his wings trembling slightly. It wasn’t just Lucifer. It was the way Vaggie had looked at him, the disbelieving scoff she gave. It was the way even Charlie had seemed uncertain, like she was waiting for him to prove her wrong.

Adam’s chest tightened. He wasn’t scheming. He wasn’t up to anything shady. He was just a man—or whatever he was now—trying to survive in a place that was never meant for someone like him. And yet, no one seemed willing to believe that.

The anger that had fueled him earlier had melted away, replaced by a hollow ache. He sighed quietly, his fingers tracing the edge of the box. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but what good would that do? It wasn’t like anyone would listen. Not here. Not in Hell.

His shop was his sanctuary, the one place where he could escape the chaos outside, the sneers, the assumptions. Here, he could create. Here, he could be useful. But even that felt fleeting. It was only a matter of time before the rest of Hell started thinking the same thing as Lucifer, wasn’t it?

“Fuck them,” he whispered, but the words lacked the venom they once held. They felt empty now. Hollow. He sealed the box with a finality that felt heavier than it should have and stepped back, surveying his work. Everything was perfect. Yet, nothing felt right.

For a moment, the room was still, the weight of his thoughts pressing in on him. Then, with a soft exhale, Adam turned away from the neatly packed orders, wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes drifted to the window, where the neon glow of Pentagram City flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the floor. The Hazbin Hotel loomed somewhere beyond those lights, a constant reminder of everything he wanted to leave behind.

But as much as he wanted to forget, as much as he wanted to bury the past and move on, the encounter with Lucifer had opened old wounds. The doubts, the fears—everything he thought he had put behind him was crawling back to the surface.

And yet, despite it all, Adam knew one thing for certain: he was never going to beg. Not for anyone. Not even for the fucking King of Hell.

With a deep breath, Adam picked up the next piece of fabric and threaded his needle. The anger may have melted away, but the determination? That still burned fiercely inside him.

And for now, that was enough.

Adam looked up as the bell above his shop door chimed, the familiar sound cutting through the quiet. He blinked a few times, pushing the lingering storm of thoughts away as his most loyal customer stepped inside.

Rosie. The cannibal with her floating black-and-red dress, gliding across the floor as if the laws of gravity didn't apply to her. Her eyes, black and pupil-less, sparkled in the dim light, and her high-pitched, almost sing-song voice greeted him with that same unsettling charm she always carried.

"Hi, sugar!" she chirped, her voice carrying an old-time accent that had always made Adam wonder just how long she'd been in this Hellhole. Her red hat was perched perfectly atop her head, framing her perfect white curls. As she walked further into the shop, her heels made no sound on the floor, a ghostly glide that sent a chill down Adam’s spine no matter how many times he’d seen it.

Adam swallowed, trying to pull himself together, but it was too late. Rosie had already fixed her gaze on him. Those shining black eyes, sharp and unblinking, zeroed in on his face. He could feel her stare peeling back layers of him, seeing more than he wanted to reveal.

"Oh! Pumpkin!" Rosie gasped, a dramatic gesture that had her hand flying up to her chest. "What's with the long face?" Her voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something that always left Adam feeling like prey. Before he could pull back, she was already upon him, her fingers cupping his face with a surprising amount of force for someone so dainty-looking.

"With a face this handsome, you shouldn’t be crying or frowning! No, no, nope!" she tsked, her red lips pulling into a sharp grin that sent a shiver down Adam’s spine. Her fingers were cold against his skin, her long nails tapping against his cheekbones in a way that made him feel like she was sizing him up—like a cut of meat in her butcher’s shop.

Rosie leaned in closer, her teeth gleaming in the low light, wickedly sharp as they caught the glint from the overhead lamps. “So cute, I could just eat you all up!”

She snapped her teeth playfully, but Adam knew the threat was never entirely absent. Every word she said was always dipped in a hint of menace, even when she was just being Rosie.

Adam forced a smile, gently pulling his face from her hands. “Thanks, Rosie,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to avoid her piercing gaze. “Just… you know, busy with orders.”

Rosie wasn’t convinced. She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head in that bird-like way she did when she was trying to read someone.

“Busy, huh?" She glanced around at the shelves, her fingers idly grazing one of the mittens on display. "Hmm, maybe that’s part of it, sugar, but I’ve been coming here long enough to know when something’s eating at you."

Her lips curled into a sinister smirk at the pun, the tips of her sharp teeth peeking out again.

Adam stiffened, trying not to let her words get to him, but damn if she wasn’t perceptive. He turned back to his workbench, threading a needle and pretending to be focused on the sweater he was stitching. “It’s nothing, Rosie. Just business stuff. Hell’s a tough crowd to please.”

Rosie sauntered over to the counter, her movements fluid, like a predator closing in on weakened prey.

“Oh, come on now, sweetheart,” she cooed, resting her elbows on the counter as she leaned forward, watching him like a hawk. “You’ve got a face that screams, ‘I’m about to rip someone's head off,’ and I’m guessing that someone’s not one of your lovely little customers.”

Adam’s hands stilled, the needle frozen mid-stitch. His thoughts flicked back to Lucifer, to the hotel, to the humiliation he nearly faced at the hands of the King of Hell. Anger bubbled up again, hot and bitter in his chest.

Rosie was watching him closely now, her eyes glittering with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Come on, darling,” she purred. “Spill. What’s really going on?” She straightened up and fixed her hat again, her nails tapping on the countertop like claws against bone. "I won't bite... unless you ask me to."

Adam let out a heavy sigh, his grip tightening on the sweater in his lap. He wanted to keep it to himself, to shove it all down and keep pushing forward, but something about Rosie—whether it was her unnerving charm or the fact that she was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place—made him want to unload, even if just a little.

“My…old friend,” he finally said, spitting the name like it tasted bitter on his tongue. “Gave me shit. Tried to make me beg for help in front of everyone at the hotel. Like I need him or his damn protection.”

He shook his head, his wings bristling at the memory. “I don’t know why they all think I’m some... charity case. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

Rosie’s smile widened, dark amusement glinting in her eyes. “Oh, sugar, I bet he loves to remind everyone he’s top dog, but trust me, half of it’s just for show.” She tilted her head, tapping a finger to her lips. “Still, you’ve been ruffling some feathers, haven’t you?”

Adam scoffed, finally meeting her gaze, feeling some of his frustration seep into his words. “Apparently. He thinks I’m scheming something because I’ve got a business. Like I’m up to no good just because I don’t need him.”

Rosie chuckled softly, a sound that was both soothing and chilling. “That’s Hell for you, darling. The moment you start standing on your own two feet, everyone assumes you’ve got some dirty little plan up your sleeve.” Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial, as she added, “But I wouldn’t worry too much about this friend of yours. He’s just pissed you don’t fit into his neat little box. You? You’re different, and that scares him.”

Adam blinked, taken aback by the comment. Different? Scaring Lucifer? He hadn’t thought of it that way. But something about Rosie’s words lodged in his mind, planting a seed of doubt and intrigue. Maybe he was different. Maybe that’s why Lucifer had been so intent on knocking him down a peg.

Adam sighed and placed Rosie’s latest order down. He arranged it with tissues and everything he gives to his best customers.

Rosie smiled sweetly, her sharp teeth flashing as she patted his hand. “Now, chin up, sugar. You keep doing what you’re doing, and let the King of Hell stew in his own insecurities. Besides,” she winked, taking her package. “if anyone tries to give you trouble, you just let me know. I’ve got ways of dealing with those kinds of problems.”

Adam let out a small laugh, despite the weight still pressing on him. “Thanks, Rosie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rosie tipped her hat and turned to leave, her dress floating behind her like smoke. “Take care now, pumpkin. And remember—don’t let anyone, not even Lucifer, make you feel like you’re less than you are.”

With that, she disappeared into the night, leaving Adam standing there, the shop feeling emptier but a little less suffocating.

It took Adam a long moment before realising Rosie knew he was talking about Lucifer. Adam bummed, glancing back at the closed door in awe.

Was he that obvious?

Rosie had a way about her, a strange, unsettling charm that somehow always managed to lift Adam's spirits. Her voice, though pitched in that almost-too-sweet tone, could cut through the thickest fog of his mood like a knife. After her visit, Adam had felt lighter—more focused, more himself. Her teasing words still echoed in his mind, "Pumpkin, with a face this handsome, no one should dare frown!" It worked, somehow. His hands moved with renewed energy, and the orders he had been dreading seemed to disappear as quickly as they arrived.

For days, he immersed himself in his work. Each stitch, each thread pulled taut with care and precision. His fingers danced over the wool, coaxing life into the fabric. He was no longer muttering under his breath about Lucifer, no longer grinding his teeth with resentment. Instead, a strange calm had settled in, and for the first time in weeks, Adam felt... proud. Proud of his craft. He'd completed more orders in that stretch of time than he had in months.

Days blurred together until, one afternoon, the familiar chime of his computer snapped him back to reality. A new order.

Humming the catchy, macabre tune of "Hell's Forever," Adam turned to his screen. But as soon as his eyes settled on the name of the sender, the lightness in his chest collapsed like a house of cards.

The Hazbin Hotel.

Adam’s frown deepened into something almost cartoonishly exaggerated, his brow furrowing so hard it could’ve cracked marble. He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was seeing things—some glitch in the system. But when his vision cleared, the reality remained, staring him dead in the face like a slap.

There it was, all neatly typed out with a message attached.

"Hi Adam, I’m so, so sorry for how everything turned out! Please come back to the hotel. You don’t have to stay, but we’d really love to talk. – Charlie"

Adam’s lip curled in disdain. Of course it’s Charlie, he thought bitterly. He quickly scanned the rest of the order. She hadn’t just ordered a couple of sweaters; she’d tripled the amount of money offered, the sum flashing on his screen was enough to make most Sinners lose their damn minds.

But Adam wasn’t most Sinners. He wasn’t just anyone. He was Adam—the First Man—and he didn’t give a shit anymore.

With one swift movement, Adam canceled the order. No hesitation. He shut the laptop with a decisive click, the sound echoing in the silence of his dimly lit workshop. "Fuck them," he muttered darkly, running a hand through his wild hair. "Fuck them."

As he trudged upstairs to his bedroom, his thoughts swirled in a storm of anger and exhaustion. "Maybe tomorrow will be better," he whispered to himself, pulling the covers over his head. But a bitter voice in the back of his mind scoffed at the idea. Nothing in Hell ever got better.

And, as expected, tomorrow wasn’t better.

The day after that, another order from the Hazbin Hotel. He canceled it. The day after that, same thing. Canceled. And the next day. And the next.

For a full month, Charlie kept sending orders, each one with a desperate little note attached. The amounts of money offered became increasingly ludicrous. At first, it doubled. Then it tripled again. Until, one day, Adam opened his computer to see they were offering him one million Hellbucks.

It was insanity. Complete, unbelievable madness. The kind of money that would make anyone else in Pentagram City salivate.

But Adam wasn’t just anyone.

Without blinking, he canceled the order again. And this time, he went a step further—he blacklisted the Hazbin Hotel, blocking them from placing any future orders. That’s it, he thought. That should finally shut them up.

He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk creeping across his face as he folded his arms behind his head. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was finally in control again. That was the end of it. Had to be.

But deep down, a shadow of doubt lingered.

In Hell, nothing was ever that simple.

The next day, Adam stood behind the full-length mirrors in his shop, working meticulously on his latest creation—a new dress for Rosie. It had been his most challenging project yet, every stitch and fold demanding the utmost attention to detail. Adam knelt beside her, carefully hemming the skirt, the copper-red fabric gleaming under the dim light of the shop. The color had been her special request, matching her signature look, and it wasn’t just any shade of red. Adam had made sure it was the exact tint that would blend perfectly with the bloodstains from her rather grisly meals.

Rosie admired herself in the mirror, her sharp grin reflecting back at Adam. She let out a delighted chuckle, her voice high-pitched and dripping with that old-timey charm that always made Adam smirk.

“Oh sugar!” she cooed, her black, pupil-less eyes gleaming with mischief. “It’s positively delightful!”

Adam couldn’t help but beam as he stood, brushing off his hands with pride. “I made it that copper-red just so the bloodstains will blend in,” he said with a wink, his voice carrying a mix of dark humor and satisfaction.

Rosie giggled, her laugh sounding like the sharp tinkle of broken glass. “Oh, darling! You’re so talented! You really do know how to treat a girl, don’t you?”

Before Adam could respond, the familiar sound of the door chime echoed through the shop. He tilted his head, expecting to see the usual—a loyal customer, maybe even that pretty white-haired succubus who frequented the place. But as he looked toward the entrance, his stomach dropped.

Standing in the doorway was something far worse. Something unexpected. Something... horrifying.

Charlie.

Adam squinted his eyes in disdain, a deep frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. Of course, it’s her, he thought bitterly, his golden eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of Hell’s naive princess. She stood there awkwardly, her fingers nervously twitching at her sides as she glanced around the shop.

Rosie, who had been admiring her new dress, turned slowly toward the door. A dramatic, high-pitched gasp escaped her lips as she spotted the newcomer.

“Oh, Charlie!” she exclaimed with mock enthusiasm, her grin wide and sharp. “If it isn’t the little pumpkin princess herself!” Her voice was sugary-sweet, but it dripped with a venomous undertone that made Adam’s sneer grow.

Charlie glanced nervously at Rosie before letting her gaze sweep over the shop. Her expression shifted from weary caution to something more innocent, almost childlike wonder, as she took in the sight of Adam’s work. Sweaters, scarves, and dresses adorned the walls like intricate pieces of art, each one meticulously crafted with a sinister elegance that only Adam could pull off. Slowly, her eyes brightened, and soon enough, she was smiling that same wide, hopeful grin.

“Rosie!” she squealed, her voice full of relief upon seeing the cannibal. She took a few steps forward, but her eyes were drawn back to the clothes surrounding her, the admiration plain on her face.

“This... this is amazing!” she said, her gaze flickering to Adam, though she seemed hesitant to meet his eyes directly.

Adam’s stomach churned with irritation. He hadn’t blocked the Hazbin Hotel from his shop just to have Charlie stroll in here like nothing had happened. The sheer audacity of it grated on him.

Rosie tilted her head, watching the scene unfold with amusement, her sharp teeth peeking out as she grinned at Adam.

“Well, sugar, seems like the princess has come to grovel. Isn’t that sweet?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but there was an edge to it that hinted at a dark kind of curiosity.

Adam’s fists clenched by his sides, his knuckles turning white. He had half a mind to throw her out right there, but something held him back. Maybe it was the way she looked at his work with such genuine appreciation, or maybe it was the memory of how things had been before the Hotel incident. Either way, it didn’t stop the flood of anger bubbling inside him.

Charlie, however, seemed to steel herself, her expression softening but determined as she stepped forward. “Adam,” she started, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “I... I’m so sorry about everything that happened. I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care,” Adam cut her off sharply, his voice cold. He crossed his arms, glaring at her like she was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing in his shop. “If you’re here for another order, you can turn right around and get the hell out.”

Charlie flinched but held her ground, her smile faltering. “I didn’t come here to place an order,” she said quickly, her eyes flicking toward Rosie, who was still watching with that ever-present, predatory grin.

“I just... I wanted to talk. To explain.”

“Explain?” Adam’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Explain what, exactly? How you and your pompous ass of a father tried to humiliate me? How you keep sending me orders like I’m some fucking charity case? Please, enlighten me.”

Charlie winced again, but this time, her gaze hardened slightly, just enough for Adam to notice. “I’m not trying to make you feel like that. I just—look, I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

Adam let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You could’ve left me the fuck alone. That would’ve been a great start.”

Silence hung heavy in the room, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rosie looked between the two, her grin growing wider as if she were enjoying every second of the standoff.

Finally, Charlie sighed, the weight of her frustration and regret evident in the slump of her shoulders.

“Please,” she whispered, “just... give me a chance to explain.”

Adam stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, his heart pounding in his chest. Every instinct told him to throw her out, to slam the door in her face like he had done with her orders. But there was something in her voice, something that made him hesitate.

Rosie, sensing the shift in Adam’s demeanor, leaned closer, her voice a low, teasing whisper. “Well, pumpkin, what’s it gonna be? Are we keeping the princess, or tossing her to the wolves?”

Adam’s golden eyes flicked to Rosie, then back to Charlie. He exhaled through his nose, frustrated beyond belief.

“Fine,” he muttered. “You’ve got five minutes. Say what you need to say. But after that, I want you gone.”

The tension in the room thickened, an uncomfortable silence enveloping them. Charlie shifted on her feet, fidgeting with her hands as if trying to find comfort in the motion. Her wide eyes, full of nervous energy, darted to Adam’s face, then away, unable to hold his intense, unwavering stare. Adam, standing tall, his arms crossed over his chest, broke the silence first.

“So,” he began, his voice low and biting, “where’s your bodyguard? No way you came to a place like this by yourself. Vaggie wouldn’t let you step foot in my ‘shady little business’ without her breathing down your neck.”

Charlie gave a weak, half-hearted laugh, the sound fragile, almost broken.

“Vaggie doesn’t know I’m here,” she admitted, her words falling flat, and Adam scoffed, a bitter smirk twisting his lips.

“Of course not,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if the situation was almost too ridiculous to believe. His golden eyes flickered with something dark, like a fire barely restrained.

Charlie swallowed, her throat tightening as she glanced back up at him. “Adam, I’m... I’m so sorry for how I acted... for how we acted,” she stammered, her voice soft but filled with guilt. “I should’ve... I should’ve controlled the situation better. I just—”

She paused, the words catching in her throat. “This hotel... it’s mine. It’s my responsibility. No one decides who stays or who gets thrown out but me. And you... you shouldn’t have been treated like that. If you needed help, I would’ve helped you.”

Adam snorted derisively, but didn’t respond. He just stared at her, his arms still crossed, his gaze as hard as stone. The silence that followed was deafening, and Charlie visibly winced. She took a deep breath, clearly struggling to keep her composure.

“My hotel... it’s about giving people second chances,” she whispered, her voice faltering. “It’s about helping others, giving them a chance to change...”

Adam’s snort turned into a dry, bitter chuckle, but he still didn’t speak. He just let the weight of her words hang in the air like a dead thing. Charlie shifted again, her hands trembling as she tried to continue.

“But Adam, you... you hurt a lot of people...”

Before she could finish, Adam cut her off, his voice sharp as a knife. “I don’t care.”

Charlie’s eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth opening slightly as if she had been physically struck.

“You... you don’t care?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, her face painted with shock. “How can you say that?”

For a long moment, Adam said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. The two just stared at each other, locked in a silent battle, neither one willing to back down. Finally, Adam spoke, his voice low and filled with a quiet, simmering rage.

“Do you have any idea,” he began slowly, his words deliberate and measured, “what it’s like to have your entire life decided for you the moment you’re born?”

His eyes bore into hers, sharp and unyielding. “Do you?”

Charlie blinked, her lips parting as if she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she looked away, her expression growing more and more uncertain.

“Of course you had a choice,” she finally said, her voice weak, unconvincing. “Everyone has a choice.”

Adam shook his head, his jaw tightening even further.

“No,” he said firmly, his tone dark and unwavering. “I never had a choice. Never.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, her confusion evident, but she stayed silent as Adam continued, his voice cold and bitter, like a man recounting a life of suffering.

“I was born in Eden,” he said, his eyes distant as though looking through time. “And from the moment I opened my eyes, I was told what I had to do. I had to name all the animals, tend to the fruits. I had to care for Eve, make sure she survived after we were cast out. I worked my ass off to make sure my children didn’t die from some illness or a bad wound.”

His words grew harsher, more guttural, as memories of ancient pains and burdens he had carried for millennia clawed at the surface. “And when I finally made it to Heaven,” he said, his voice darkening, “do you know what I was told? That humanity was my responsibility. That because too many of my descendants had sinned and ended up in Hell, it was somehow my fault. And I had to ‘deal’ with them.”

Charlie’s breath hitched as she listened, her eyes growing wide with dawning horror.

“They made me their fucking executioner, Charlie,” Adam spat, his voice a razor-sharp whisper. “I didn’t get to decide whether there’d be an extermination or not—that was already decided by Heaven. But I was the one who had to swing the blade, to kill them. And when I didn’t want to, when I so much as thought about refusing, I was punished. I was hurt.”

The room seemed to grow darker as Adam’s words sank in, the weight of centuries of anguish pressing down on the air around them. Charlie stood there, frozen, unsure of what to say, her own guilt and confusion written across her face.

Adam’s gaze darkened as he looked her in the eyes, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Do you know who my first children were?”

Charlie blinked, stunned into silence, her mind racing to catch up. After a long pause, she nodded slowly, her voice barely audible.

“Cain and Abel...”

Adam rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Cain and Abel, sure. But I had more. Many more. Seth, Alimica, Miriam, Rachel... the list goes on. But they’re not around anymore.” His voice dropped lower, filled with a haunting sadness that carried the weight of endless grief. “Do you know why?”

Charlie’s mouth clamped shut, her heart sinking as she felt the answer lingering just beyond her understanding.

Adam’s voice grew dark, almost venomous. “Every time I tried to stray from Heaven’s rules, they eliminated one of my children’s souls. Cain and Abel might be the last of them, but I have no fucking clue where they are now. And that might be for the best because if Heaven finds them, if she finds them, she’ll erase them too.”

Charlie’s face paled, her hands trembling as the full weight of Adam’s words fell upon her. She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t deny the pain in his voice, the absolute conviction in his stare.

“So don’t you dare talk to me about hurting others,” Adam said, his voice barely more than a dangerous whisper, “when the so-called ‘sinners’ you’re trying to protect are the same reason Heaven wiped out my children.”

Silence fell like a hammer, the air thick with the gravity of Adam’s confession. Charlie stood there, speechless, her world shaken to its core as she struggled to process the depth of the suffering that Adam had been forced to endure for so long.

“did as what I was told because I had nothing less.” Adam said blankly. “All I have left now is this shop. Something I built myself, there’s no shadiness behind it, no scheme to hurt hell or your sinners…”

“I just want to live happily and peacefully.” Adam whispered. “Please let me do that.”

Charlie opened and shut her mouth, trying to speak and failing. Her eyes watered and she gave a sharp nod, bowing deeply.

“I’m so sorry Adam! Of course you can live here happily and peacefully!” She let out with a sob. “I’ll make sure nobody will bother you!”

Adam nodded. Charlie’s breath hitched and she turned around, leaving the shop without another word. Adam felt guilty for making her cry but he was so tired. Tired of being blamed.

Adam stared at the door after Charlie had left, her sobs still echoing faintly in the shop like the remnants of a storm. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and shattered promises. He clenched his jaw, blinking away the faint sting of guilt that crept into his chest. He didn’t want to hurt her, but what choice did he have? He’d been carrying centuries of other people’s burdens, their sins, their mistakes—and for what? For this endless cycle of blame and expectation that never seemed to let him go.

"I did what I was told because I had nothing left," Adam murmured, his voice hollow, echoing in the dim light of the shop. "All I have now is this place... my own space. Something I built with my own hands, something that’s mine."

He looked around, his gaze tracing the sweaters and scarves he had crafted, each stitch a small rebellion against a fate he never asked for. "There’s no shadiness behind it, no scheme to hurt Hell or anyone else."

His voice lowered into a whisper, as if he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. "I just want to live happily and peacefully. That’s all I want... just some peace."

Rosie, who had remained silent until now, slid her hand onto his shoulder, her touch light but grounding. Adam didn’t flinch, but he didn’t look at her either. His eyes remained fixed on the door, the silence in the room broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath their feet.

Behind him, Rosie’s soft chuckle broke the tension. "Sugar, you did good," she said gently, her voice laced with approval. "You stood up for yourself. That's what matters."

Adam finally shifted his gaze to her, his brow furrowing. "But I don’t feel good," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Rosie tilted her head, her sharp smile softened by a rare look of understanding.

“It’s never easy, standing up for what you need," she said quietly.

“Sometimes it feels like crap. But give it time." She squeezed his shoulder lightly. "It’ll get better. It always does."

Adam nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he believed her. The tiredness in his bones ran deeper than anything he could articulate. It was the kind of exhaustion that didn’t fade with sleep or rest. It was the weight of centuries of being told who he had to be, of being molded into something he didn’t recognize anymore.

Rosie gave him one last reassuring pat before turning to the mirror, admiring the dress he had crafted for her.

"Gotta say, sugar, this copper-red is divine. Almost makes me feel like a new woman," she cooed, twirling with a grin that was both wicked and playful. "And you know what? It hides the bloodstains perfectly."

Adam managed a small smile at that, the smallest flicker of warmth creeping back into him. At least some things could be predictable. Rosie’s dark humor had a way of anchoring him when everything else felt uncertain.

As he stood there, watching Rosie twirl and tease, the faint sounds of the bustling street outside began to seep into the shop. The world kept turning, Hell kept moving, and Adam... Adam was just trying to find his place in it.

Maybe Rosie was right. Maybe things would get better.

But for now, all Adam could do was keep stitching, keep working, and hope that somewhere down the line, peace—true peace—would finally find him.

~#~

A full month had crept by since Charlie had stumbled upon Adam’s tiny, unassuming knitting and stitching shop. Each day that followed was a silent vigil, tense with the dread of her return, perhaps with her little bodyguard in tow this time. Adam’s heart had pounded with each chime of the bell above the door, every creak of the floorboards outside, bracing himself for the worst. But no one from that cursed place came. By the fourth week, the heavy knot of anxiety in his chest began to loosen.

He could breathe again. Maybe, just maybe, it was truly over. The quiet promise of peace settled over him like a fragile veil.

With his fears momentarily silenced, Adam threw himself deeper into his craft, pouring every shred of himself into fulfilling the requests of his customers. The rhythmic click of needles and the gentle swish of fabric under his hands became a kind of sanctuary. It wasn’t just about making scarves, sweaters, coats, or mittens anymore—it was about creating something that soothed his soul.

Happiness, real and pure, flickered within him as he lost himself in the intricate patterns and soft textures. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt truly at peace, the fear of judgment slowly dissolving like mist in the morning light. And as the days stretched on, the gnawing worry that had once haunted him receded into the background, leaving him to bask in the quiet joy his craft brought him.

The door to Adam's shop danced and chimed, a playful melody signaling the arrival of a new customer. He paused mid-weaving, his fingers frozen in a delicate dance of yarn and needle, and turned expectantly toward the entrance. But there was nothing—only the dimly lit street beyond, empty and quiet. Frowning, he shrugged off the strange chill that crept up his spine and returned to the sturdy boots he was meticulously crafting, trying to ignore the unsettling sensation that settled over him.

The soft chime of the bell rang out again, echoing through the stillness. Adam glanced up, his heart racing, but once more, the doorway was void of life. This peculiar game continued, the bell announcing an invisible presence at least five more times before frustration bubbled over. With a growl, he leaped to his feet, his heart pounding like a war drum, and stomped toward the door, flinging it open with a dramatic flourish.

His golden eyes flared dangerously as they locked onto a figure standing just beyond the threshold—Lucifer. The king's crimson and gold gaze flickered with surprise, as if he hadn’t anticipated being caught so easily. Adam's face twisted into a fierce sneer, a mix of anger and disbelief flooding his veins.

“Stop fucking around! If you want to talk to me, fucking man up and come the fuck in! God knows nothing’s ever stopped you from taking what you want before. There’s no point in being considerate now!”

Lucifer blinked owlishly, momentarily taken aback, but before he could retort, Adam turned sharply, storming back into his sanctuary, leaving the king to navigate the storm of his own thoughts. The air grew heavy as Lucifer hesitated, shoulders sagging under an unseen weight. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the alleyway as if expecting some lurking shadow to leap out and drag him back into the darkness.

With a measured breath, he finally crossed the threshold, closing the door delicately behind him. The small bell above chimed softly, a quaint reminder of the world outside. As he turned to survey the interior of the shop, his eyes widened in awe, absorbing the myriad of colors and textures, the treasures Adam had poured his heart and soul into.

“Welcome to my shady little shop, where I’m definitely scheming something!” Adam announced with a mock flourish, thrusting his arms out wide, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Lucifer flinched at the proclamation, guilt and shame etching lines on his otherwise handsome face. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken tension, as the vibrant chaos of the shop contrasted sharply with the solemnity of their uninvited meeting. The king seemed to shrink under Adam’s gaze, as if he were a mere boy caught in a web of his own mischief.

Lucifer swallowed hard, a nervous gulp that echoed in the tense silence of the shop. He stepped further inside, moving cautiously toward Adam, his expression a kaleidoscope of emotions—fear, uncertainty, and something that flickered like a fragile flame of hope. It was a mess of feelings that left Adam bewildered, unable to decipher the depths of the fallen angel’s intentions.

“What do you want, Lucifer?” he finally demanded, crossing his arms defensively. “If you’re not here to attack me again, then what do you want?”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, he fell silent, his brow furrowing as he began to fidget with the sleeves of his sweater. It was then that Adam's gaze snagged on the garment itself, and his breath caught in his throat. The sight of it—the sweater he had crafted with such care—stunned him.

“You’re wearing my sweater?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lucifer nodded shyly, pulling at the hem of the fabric as if it were a lifeline.

“Yeah, it’s made really well…” He hesitated, then added earnestly, “you are very talented.”

Adam scoffed, a wry smile curling his lips. “Shocking, right?”

But the playful tone fell flat when he noticed the way Lucifer’s face fell, guilt shadowing his features as he bowed his head.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice palpable. “It’s amazing. You are really impressive to have been able to make all of this.”

The honesty struck Adam like a bolt of lightning, leaving him momentarily speechless. He blinked in surprise, grappling with the unexpected compliment. After a moment of stunned silence, he managed a soft, “Thanks,” his voice barely above a whisper. He looked away shyly, taken aback by the warmth of the moment. Lucifer had never had a nice thing to say to him before, and the unexpected praise felt almost disorienting.

But the pull of curiosity tugged at him, and despite his instinct to look away, Adam found himself glancing back at Lucifer. His heart raced as he took in the sight of the sweater more fully. It was a cheerful golden hue, adorned with playful black and white highlights—a duck-themed creation that radiated an innocent charm.

Adam turned away quickly, a flush creeping up his cheeks as he remarked, “That sweater suits you.”

Lucifer's face lit up with a genuine smile, his eyes sparkling as he glanced down at the garment.

“I really like it,” he admitted, his voice softening. “It’s become one of my favorites.”

Adam nodded slowly, a sense of warmth blooming in his chest, even amidst the simmering tension between them. The world outside faded into the background, and in that small, cluttered shop filled with the scent of yarn and the echoes of unspoken words, something inexplicable began to shift in the air

Finally, the silence fractured as Lucifer took a deep breath, his golden eyes shifting under the weight of the moment.

“I’m really sorry,” he began, the words spilling forth like a dam breaking. “I was an ass towards you. I was out of line to talk to you like that.”

Adam remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest as he let Lucifer's apology hang in the air, heavy with unspoken histories and hurt. He could see the turmoil swirling within the fallen angel, but it only served to deepen the chasm between them.

“You’ve never been on my side before,” Adam interjected, his voice low and edged with pain. “Even in Eden, you thought the worst of me.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to deny it, but Adam pressed harder, fueled by a mix of anger and hurt. “You were assigned as my guardian angel, but you never liked me. You treated me like a pet, a dog you didn’t mind babysitting. But the moment you got bored, you disappeared and never looked back.”

The accusation hung between them, taut and crackling with tension.

“Do you even know what it’s like to adore somebody to the high heavens?” Adam continued, his voice rising with passion. “To treat them like they mean the world to you? To think they’re your best friend while that person sees you as nothing but scum? A pet?”

Lucifer tried once more to claim that wasn’t true, his brow furrowing with distress, but Adam shook his head vehemently. “You were so quick to believe Lilith’s lies about me, so quick to abandon me, and then you ask why? Why I don’t give you the time of day? Why I won’t listen to you?”

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills igniting the space between them.

“Hell,” Adam challenged, his voice steady, “I never raised my voice to Lilith. I never yelled at her, never raised a hand, never so much as touched her. Yes, I told her what to eat, but I guess she never told you why, right?”

Lucifer fell silent, the realization creeping into his features as he slowly nodded.

Adam huffed in disbelief, the anger boiling beneath his skin. “Well, there you go! She didn’t tell you she wasn’t given the ability to see what fruits and vegetables she could consume. I was made for Eden; nothing in Eden would make me sick or die. But for Lilith, it was the opposite. If I left her to her own devices, she’d kill herself by accident! I had to tell her what would be poisonous to her and what wouldn’t!”

Adam’s voice rose, punctuated by a mixture of desperation and indignation. “Unless you would have preferred me to just, you know, let her figure it out herself?”

The air crackled with the weight of Adam’s words, echoing off the walls of the cozy shop that felt more like a battleground than a sanctuary. The unspoken truths loomed like specters, and the silence that followed was heavy with the acknowledgment of past failures and missed opportunities.

Adam let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his shoulders.

“It’s fine,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “I’ll accept your apology because honestly, I’m so tired. I’m exhausted from just…being miserable all the time. From being depressed and angry at how my life has been dictated.”

Lucifer’s lips curled into a weak pout, and he sniffed, his expression reflecting a vulnerability that Adam had never seen before.

“I’m tired too,” he admitted, the admission hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

Adam forced a pained smile, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“Then let’s just agree to tolerate each other,” he suggested, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. “I’m not asking for your help. I’m not asking you to do anything for me. I just…like doing this stuff. There’s nothing sinister behind it.”

Lucifer met Adam’s gaze, and in that moment, something shifted. The fallen angel seemed to relax, his tension easing as he gazed around at the colorful array of items Adam had created.

“I believe you,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “I can do that. I won’t get in the way of your business.”

“Thanks,” Adam replied, a genuine warmth flooding through him.

In that instant, a true smile blossomed between them, tentative yet brightening the shadowy corners of the shop. They might not be friends, and they might never have been, but it was okay. They were both much too old and tired to keep beefing with one another.

But the moment of peace shattered when Lucifer suddenly asked, his tone serious, “What if I want to help you?”

Adam’s heart skipped a beat, his brow knitting together in suspicion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, the tension in the room thickening once more.

Lucifer fell silent, his golden eyes flickering with thought as he wrestled with the implications of his words. After a few seconds that stretched like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“I want to work here.”

The declaration stunned Adam into silence, the words echoing in his mind like the chime of the bell above the door. The thought of Lucifer—a being of power and mystery—working alongside him in his small, humble shop was almost surreal. “What?” Adam managed, his disbelief evident.

Lucifer’s expression was earnest, stripped of its usual bravado. “I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer, the tension between them morphing into something tangible and electric. “I want to be here, to help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Adam’s mind raced, thoughts swirling like the yarn around his fingers. This was a proposition he hadn’t anticipated. “But why?” he asked, searching Lucifer’s eyes for the truth behind his sudden desire to join him in this mundane world of crafts and colors.

“Because,” Lucifer replied, the weight of his words lingering in the air, “I want to understand you. I want to learn what it means to care for something outside of myself. I want to be part of something real.”

The vulnerability in Lucifer’s voice caught Adam off guard, piercing through the tension like a ray of light. Adam’s heart thudded loudly in his chest as he processed the gravity of what was being offered—an unlikely partnership, perhaps even a strange sort of friendship, forged in the crucible of their shared history.

“I… I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Adam finally said, his voice a whisper. “You’re not just some ordinary guy. You’re Lucifer.”

“And you’re Adam,” Lucifer replied, his gaze steady. “Maybe it’s time we stopped letting our pasts dictate our futures.”

Adam felt the stirrings of something new and unexpected—a flicker of hope intertwined with doubt. But the allure of this strange alliance was undeniable, pulling at the threads of his heart. He had spent too long being miserable; perhaps it was time to embrace the unknown.

[gingermintpepper]

One of my biggest pet peeves is the assumption that something has to be sad for it to be tragic.

I've always been a big believer of the 'Apollo has an awful love life'/'Apollo is plain unlucky with love' line of thinking but it does bother me that the general reasoning for that statement is given to the concept of 'Apollo is somehow undesireable and thus rejected' (Cassandra/Daphne/Marpessa) or 'his lovers die young and thus their love is unfulfilled' (Cyparissus/Hyacinthus/Coronis). I personally think that's a very unfortunate way of looking at things - not only because it neglects the many perfectly cordial entanglements and affairs Apollo has had, both mortal and divine - but because it presents a very shallow interpretation of the concepts of love and loss and how loss affects people.

Apollo can still grieve lovers that have a long, healthy life. The inherent tragedy of an immortal who knows his lovers and children will die and cannot stop it does not stop being tragic simply because those lovers and children live long, fulfilled lives. The inherent tragedy of loss does not stop being tragic simply because someone knows better than to mourn something that was always going to end.

What is tragic is not that Apollo loves and loses but that loss itself follows him. Apollo does not love with the distance of an immortal, he does not have affairs and then leaves never to listen to their prayers again. He does not have offspring and then abandon them to their trials only to appear when it is time to lead them to their destinies. He raises his young, he protects the mothers of his children, he blesses the households that have his favour and multiplies their flocks that they may never go hungry. He educates his sons, he adorns his daughters and even in wrath he is quick to come to his senses and regret the punishments he doles out.

Apollo loves. And like mortals, there will always be some part of him that wishes to protect the objects of his affections. Apollo, however, is also an emissary of Fate. He knows that the fate of all mortal things is death. He knows that to love a mortal is to accept that eventually he will have to bury them. There is no illusion of forever, there is no fantasy where he fights against the nature of living things and shields his beloveds from death. Apollo loves and because of that love, he also accepts.

And that, while beautiful, is also tragic.

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

“i believe in the idea that old bits of equipment have songs built into them already, like a ghost in the walls.”

[eldritchqueerture]

you never realize how much of our language for emotions is rooted in experiences from our bodies until you have to write emotional experiences of an entity that only possesses an arm up to the elbow, a foot and two eyes.

[butwhatifidothis]

shout out to two-years-ago me for spittin' this bit of Claude meta in the tags of a random post lmao

[fear-no-mort]

slams fists down on beautifully crafted oak desk

[starlooove]

The woobification of Gotham rogues needs to be studied

[well-dressed-sewer-rat]

[wonder-worker]

Any judgement on (Richard III)’s reign has to be seen as provisional. The critic of the reign only has to consider how the Tudors would now be regarded if Henry VII lost at Stoke, to realize the dangers of too many assumptions about the intractability of Richard’s problems. But it would be equally unrealistic to ignore Richard’s unpopularity altogether. The fact that he generated opposition among men with little material reason for dissent, and that the disaffection then continued to spread among his own associates, says something about what contemporaries regarded as the acceptable parameters of political behaviour. There is no doubt that Richard’s deposition of his nephews was profoundly shocking. To anyone who did not accept the pre-contract story, which was probably the majority of observers, the usurpation was an act of disloyalty. Gloucester, both as uncle and protector, was bound to uphold his nephew’s interests and his failure to do so was dishonourable. Of all medieval depositions, it was the only one which, with whatever justification, could most easily be seen as an act of naked self-aggrandizement.

It was also the first pre-emptive deposition in English history. This raised enormous problems. Deposition was always a last resort, even when it could be justified by the manifest failings of a corrupt or ineffective regime. How could one sanction its use as a first resort, to remove a king who had not only not done anything wrong but had not yet done anything at all?

-Rosemary Horrox, Richard III: A Study of Service

[lexalovesbooks]

Kihrin going from yelling at thurvishar for describing his parents having sex with each other to him spending an entire chapter relating he and teraeth and janel flirting badly in the middle of the night… my dude your hypocrisy is showing