#fucking disarming your opponent works i gUESS

[rainbow-arrow]

me after reading and re-reading the first three aftg books: okay yeah i think i can pretend to understand how exy is played.

me reading the sunshine court: wait they can steal each other's racquets???

[girlcrushart]

Unf Zendaya. She's so beautiful and sexy and classy and elegant. As a fashion icon, she looks great in pretty much everything and anything and seems to be able to pull off pretty much any look. And woah does this look ever work for me. This is from her Challengers press tour, and I think is kinda tennis-related. I mean, it would certainly be an effective outfit to wear while playing tennis to completely disarm your opponent. I guess that's why there's that little clip that anchors the top to the bottom? It's functional, so that whilst playing tennis, the sporty action doesn't cause your top to ride up, exposing your boobs. I mean, there are subtle ways to disarm your opponent and then super unfair ways, and that would be unfair. I did make a small edit to the original photo. Her outfit is almost white... with like a very subtle hint of pink. But almost unintentional? Like, an accidental washing of whites with colours pink? So I upped the pink a bit. I like it more pink. There's something excellent about the contrast of this soft girlie pink with that pose and look on her face that basically says: "yeah, fuck you, I'm wearing pink and I'm going to fuck you up real bad in this tennis match." I just like that, ok? Today's girlcrushart guardian is Zendaya.

[shroomcult]

@soulxmakaweek

Day 4: Apologize

I fell way behind with Soma week because I got slammed with work and this monster of a fic took me too long to write.

Summary: 

Maka comes to realize that Soul had never felt fully comfortable around Crona, and in ignoring this entirely - she unknowingly hurt her closest friend.

Special thanks to Tori @chichirichick (she betas all of my dumpster fires, bless her) for proofreading this mess of emotions and also to Zi @azroazizah for coming up with the concept for this fic. 

**Disclaimer** This story is not about putting blame on Crona, but instead about acknowledging the fact that Soul went through trauma due to their actions and it was never taken into consideration by Maka before inviting them into their friend group. I'm not saying Crona didn't deserve support, but it's also completely valid for Soul - a victim of Crona - to not feel entirely safe around them regardless of their tragic background and circumstances. If Crona is a big comfort character for you and you feel you would likely be upset by this concept, then I recommend not reading it altogether. We all interpret things different and we're all entitled to our own opinions, and I'm not going to get in arguments with people over this.

It’d been a while since the Spartoi team was all together again.

After the fall of Asura, they really had no purpose to join forces as a team. No big baddie to unite them in ass-kickery. 

The skies were blue again. There were still Kishin eggs to take down, and a shaky new diplomatic relationship with the witches to maintain as well. 

Things were more or less … normal. Boring, even.

The only big difference Blackstar could discern was that nobody seemed to have time to just hang out and be friends anymore.

Kid was over his head with his new responsibilities, and while he was doing an admirable job filling his father’s shoes; there was a steep learning curve and his perfectionist tendencies only made it more challenging to overcome. He upheld a calm and collected demeanor in the public’s eyes, but Liz and Patty spent most of their time holding him together behind the scenes. 

Soul and Maka were a different situation entirely.

It was odd enough to adjust to the recent change in the nature of their relationship. They claimed to be the same as they’ve always been - just Soul & Maka. Only, they grew much closer after the hardships they had endured both in the book of Eibon and on the moon.

They had been close to begin with, but this was a different kind of close. Stolen glances, hands reaching for each other when they thought nobody was looking. Blushing for almost no damn reason. 

Something was going on between them - he could be sure of that.

More recently, however, Maka had been particularly obsessive about solving the dilemma of Crona’s entrapment on the moon. She was driving herself to a slow-burning insanity, considering every moment that she hadn’t rescued them yet to be a personal failure.

She’d been spending much of her time in the restricted section of the library, consuming every piece of relevant research for hours on end. Soul often stayed up there with her doing the same, or at the very least keeping her silent company when he was too burnt out to read anymore.

He’d also spent much of his extra time with Stein, training to perfect his sound-wave abilities into his own form of wavelength attack.

He’d been giving his all ever since making deathscythe status to hone his strength and better serve Maka. He’d even been able to hold his own for a surprising amount of time in the sparring ring against Blackstar, and that was a feat in and of itself.

All of the focus on Crona’s rescue had appeared to be wearing on him, though. 

Soul may have accepted Crona into his friend group for Maka’s sake, even empathized with them - but he had never fully trusted the demon sword meister. Although Soul was outwardly friendly towards them, Blackstar noticed the way his friend had watched them like a hawk before they turned back to Medusa. He was always ready for a scenario like that because he had never felt entirely safe around them to begin with.

Not that Maka had bothered to even take Soul’s feelings into consideration before forgiving Crona on his behalf.

She couldn’t have possibly been that dense. She had to have been actively ignoring the signs of Soul’s discomfort because she couldn’t handle acknowledging them.

And now she was doing the same thing all over again even with Crona as far away as the moon. It was obvious that Soul was doing what he always did - shoving his own feelings aside in favor of Maka’s. The loyal mutt of a boy valued her wellbeing far above his own, that was for certain.

He just seemed so exhausted of it all now. Searching tirelessly with Maka for a solution that may not even exist took up much of his time and energy.  

He never had the time to shoot hoops or play video games like he used to, and Blackstar was far above begging for his attention. He stopped even bothering to ask him.

Just for one night though, by some divine luck - everybody was willing to clear their schedule to have a late night dinner at the most beloved and heart-attack inducing burger joint in town. 

Every member of Spartoi was crammed into the largest booth in the restaurant and their chatter was loud enough to fill the whole section. 

There were multiple conversations happening at a time, but Blackstar was zeroing in on Soul who had his chin resting on his palm and that stupid, dopey look he got on his face when he was proud of Maka. Yuck. Keep it in your pants, loverboy.

Maka was next to Soul, his arm stretched out behind her on the booth, while Ox engaged her in a fiery debate over god knows what across the table from her. Judging by the redness in baldy’s face - Maka was on the winning side. He really couldn’t understand Soul’s hard-on for a bossy know-it-all personality, but whatever floats his boat he supposed.  

He decided he’d seen enough of that look on his best friend’s face and crumpled up a straw wrapper, dipping it in his soda and sticking it at the end of his straw.

He blew on the other end, sending the sticky wad of paper flying across the table. The projectile hit its target directly on the cheek.

“Fuck’s sake dude, how old are you?” he grumbled, reaching over the table to grab a handful of napkins to clean his face off with.

Maka snatched some of his napkins for herself, rubbing it vigorously into the flecks of cola that stained her uniform. “You got my shirt all wet, idiot.”

Blackstar simply threw his head back to cackle obnoxiously. “I just thought I should break up your lame little debate team fight before Ox over here pops a blood vessel. You know he can’t handle losing well.”

“I wasn’t losing!” Ox hissed under his breath.

Maka only met her opponent’s glare with a shit-eating grin.

“Hey, Maka! What had you stopped to talk with Professor Stein about earlier today?” Tsubaki cut in, obviously attempting to diffuse another argument between the two competitive brainiacs.

Maka’s expression relaxed into something a little more neutral, seemingly caught off guard by the question. Debate-mode successfully disarmed.

“Oh. Well… I just had some questions about my black blood research for him.” 

Blackstar didn’t miss the way Soul tensed up beside her at the mention of black blood. His face was void of any distinct emotion, but something was off in his body language. The way his shoulders squared as if he were instinctively bristling.

Anyone with a shred of social awareness could have deduced that black blood, Medusa, and Crona were not Soul’s favorite topics. It wasn’t unusual for him to shut down and discontinue any contributions to a conversation when any of these things were brought up. 

Unfortunately for Soul, all of those subjects were constantly on Maka’s mind since she began her obsessive pursuit for a solution to Crona’s ordeal.

“Oh? And what did he have to say?” Tsubaki pressed, completely oblivious to the tense situation she was potentially triggering.

“As you’re already aware, there’s not really any official research on the black blood that exists. We’ve been digging through countless books - gathering as much information about madness and Kishins as we can, but it can only get us so far. It would be so much more useful if we could get our hands on a physical sample of the substance itself.”

Soul’s eyes widened in concern, but only for a second before he slipped his usual poker face back on. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously despite the veneer of calm he displayed.

“Anyways,” she continued, turning to look at Soul, “I was going to talk to you about this later, but maybe some of the black blood still remains in your system? I know we believed it was all gone, but surely there’s some residual amount of it lingering behind? Something we could maybe isolate, extract and create a concentrate of? Stein said it was unlikely, but technically possible. We have to try for Crona, right, Soul?”

He was no longer wearing his mask of apathy. Unmistakeable, visible discomfort was etched into his facial features and he was clenching his hands, knuckles whitening from the pressure. Everyone at the table was hushed and the tension was palpable.

“He doesn’t have to try anything,” Kid’s voice cut sharply through the silence, golden eyes flashing sternly at her.

A soft gasp escaped her and her eyebrows shot up, clearly taken-aback by the sudden burst of hostility from her boss and close friend. Her eyes darkened seconds later, determination setting in.

 “I think that’s his decision to make, and I’d like to hear what he has to say,” she turned her attention back to Soul, hope still shining in her eyes.

He fidgeted with his necktie, loosening it and clearing his throat. “Yeah, s’fine. Whatever you need, I guess.”

Maka’s face lit up into a bright smile that turned Blackstar’s stomach and she pulled Soul into a brief hug. “I knew we could count on you, Soul! You’re the best partner ever.”

“Whatever, it’s no problem. Just try not to drain me of all my blood, alright?” he chuckled weakly, avoiding her eyes in favor of staring a hole in the middle of the table.

She gave an easygoing laugh in response, and went back to conversing with Tsubaki as if she hadn’t just pressured her partner into volunteering himself as a guinea pig for the sake of someone who had literally sliced him open from shoulder to hip and infected him with black blood to begin with.

Is she fucking serious?

Blackstar was practically vibrating with fury from the interaction he’d just watched, and Tsubaki’s normally soothing hand on his shoulder did little to calm him down. When he glanced at Kid, he instantly knew the death god had shared his frustration with Maka’s obliviousness. 

It wasn’t long before Soul abruptly stood from his place at the end of the booth, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and placing it on the table in front of him.

“Soul? What are you doing? The food hasn’t even gotten here yet,” Maka blinked at him in confusion.

“I’m not feelin’ too great - gonna head out, sorry guys. Could you just bring my food back in a to-go box?” he said with an apologetic quirk of his lips. He squeezed her shoulder gently before turning on his heels and making his way out of the diner in long strides.

Why does she look so shocked? Does she really not understand that she’s been hurting him?

After that, the night passed by in a haze for Blackstar. He hardly spoke for the rest of the meal due to the fact that he was using all of his mental capacity to keep his impulse to stand up and loudly call his friend out in front of everybody in check. 

The only thing truly stopping him was the knowledge that Soul would likely be embarrassed and more than a little pissed off if he’d made a big scene over something that he wasn’t even willing to talk about.  

So he waited - held his tongue until he could lash out in private.

As everyone was saying their goodbyes, Blackstar watched her rise from her seat gathering her to-go boxes carefully and giving him a nod of acknowledgement before she headed out.

His eyes bore into the back of her head as she left, and Tsubaki’s hand clamped gently on him for the second time that night. Her eyes were crinkled with a gentle concern.

“I think you should leave this between them. If Soul wanted all of this out in the open, he would have had that conversation with her himself.”

A heavy sigh settled in his chest, “You know how he is. He’s the suffer in silence type and he always does her bidding. If nobody says anything, then nothing’ll change. I just want to talk to her - not like I’m gonna beat her ass or anything … unless she gives me a reason to.” 

“Blackstar,” she chided, fully aware that he would make good on that threat.

“I know, I know. I won’t be long, see ya at home,” he said, throwing up placating hands before stuffing them in his pockets and striding in the direction Maka had gone. 

            _______________________________________________

Maka set her walk home at a leisurely pace, dragging her feet slightly as she watched the sunset bleed into the sky above.

It wasn’t that she was trying to prolong seeing Soul, or that she wasn’t worried about the way he’d acted back in the diner - like something was eating at him. 

She was pretty positive that he wasn’t physically ill, which only left the option of it being an emotional issue. 

And getting Soul to talk about emotional issues was like trying to pull teeth from a temperamental bear. 

She had to figure out a way to go about this delicately, and she had to figure it out soon because their apartment block was fast approaching.

She stopped in her tracks when she felt the presence of a familiar soul behind her. His steps had been so quiet, she wouldn’t have even been aware he was stalking her from behind if it weren’t for her exceptional soul perception abilities.

“I know you’re following me, Blackstar.”

In moments, he was stepping out in front of her. “Wasn’t trying to hide. I need to talk to you,” his voice was uncharacteristically stern.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew Blackstar had some kind of problem with her since dinner. He was deathly quiet and glowering at her for most of the night; very unusual behavior from someone who never shuts up or hesitates to start a fight. 

“Okay, I’m listening,” she said, already preparing to defend herself against whatever absurd argument he wanted to pull her into.

“The whole situation with Crona - have you ever once thought about how Soul feels about it?”

Whatever she had been expecting to come out of his mouth - that wasn’t it.

“What? I mean, I know how Soul feels. He wants Crona to be safe, just like I do. What are you trying to get at?”

“I’m not talking about what he thinks about Crona being stuck in the deathdamned moon, Maka! I mean have you ever thought about how he felt when you forced Crona into his life to begin with? After being sliced open?” 

Maka’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline and her mouth opened and closed a few times, baffled by the question. 

“Soul understands why I welcomed Crona as a friend. He trusts me,” she answered, hoping her voice conveyed the confidence that she couldn’t find in this moment.

This entire conversation was throwing her off.

“Yeah, okay. He accepted your decision because he trusts you, or loves you or whatever the fuck. We all know that - but that doesn’t mean he was comfortable with it. It doesn’t mean he felt safe. He just stuffed his own feelings down, because he knew it made it easier for you.”

Her throat tightened as her own conflicting emotions overcame her. He had no idea what he was talking about. Soul was fine. He’s always been fine. 

“Did he say that to you? That he didn’t feel safe?” she choked out. 

“Soul? You think he tells people things? About his feelings?” he snorted. “No, he doesn’t have to tell me shit. It’s clear on his face every time you mention Crona, or Medusa, or that fucking blood.”

“Maybe you’re just making assumptions about how he feels!” she shouted back, gripping handfuls of the front of his shirt.

He leaned in, completely unfazed by the rage burning in her eyes. “You ever noticed how when Crona was around, he was always watching them out of the corner of his eye - twitching every time they made some sudden move. You ever noticed how quiet and withdrawn he’d get around them? Or any time they were brought up? You didn’t - because you didn’t want to.” 

“Shut up! Y-you’re making something out of nothing. Are you trying to tell me that I should just give up and forget about Crona? That they don’t deserve to have a friend?” 

Some of his aggression was fizzling out as he released a heavy sigh, placing his hands calmly over hers, still clenching in his shirt. “I’m not trying to say that you shouldn’t have helped Crona, or that you shouldn’t keep trying to help them now. I’m only telling you that even if Soul has forgiven and moved on - he’s still a victim of Crona’s actions. He suffered trauma from that, even if he’s too fucking stubborn to admit it. Just acknowledge that maybe he needs a break from thinking about them - all of that shit that happened - every now and then. Get your head out of Crona’s ass long enough to check if he’s okay too.”

She stumbled over wordless sounds as her hands went limp and released their vice-grip on his clothing. She was trying desperately to think of a way to refute the awful things he was saying, but Blackstar wouldn’t give her the chance. 

“If you gave him even half the thought you gave to Crona - maybe you would have noticed it like everybody else has. I just want you to think about it for a bit, that’s all,” his voice softened towards the end, shoulders sagging slightly as he turned away, leaving her to deal with the aftermath of his confrontation.

The heat of tears prickled behind her eyelids and she clenched her fists tightly to her sides. 

She wanted so badly to swing around and scream at Blackstar’s retreating figure that he was wrong, that he had no idea what he was talking about and of course she thinks about her weapon.

But the longer she allowed his harsh words to sink in; the more she could feel the sting of truth settling into her heart.

Had she really been so blind? 

             _______________________________________________

Soul had been laying on his back in bed, hands resting on his stomach and eyes pointed at the ceiling, unmoving for some time. He wasn’t entirely sure how many hours, but he knew his playlist had ended long ago - no music played from the earbuds that were still jammed in his ears.

He couldn’t explain the heaviness in his heart. The anxiety that often set in whenever Maka mentioned Crona or the black blood. It was all water under the bridge, wasn’t it? There was no point in allowing himself to wallow in all the negative emotions that punched him in the gut at the mention of their name. It was selfish to feel those things - it was his job to give Maka his full support. His own feelings were irrelevant.

It was just harder on this particular night. Sure, she droned on about those sore subjects often. Their research revolved around it anyways. He’d just hoped that it could have been different just for one night.

He’d secretly been ecstatic when Maka begrudgingly agreed to shelve her research just long enough to get a late dinner with all of their friends. A break had been long overdue. 

Things had been different between them, after all. They’d been sharing a bed, and they’d even shared a few kisses in the small, rare moments that they’d spent alone together - focused only on each other. They were chaste kisses, but he’d greedily take whatever he could get. 

As she became more frantic about her lack of results in helping Crona, he may as well have not even existed to her. 

He’d just needed that one dinner to pretend things were normal, to pretend as though he was on a date with her and she was willing to spend time with him and think about literally anything aside from her latest fixations. Instead, she’d asked him to play part in some unsound experiment - to prod for things that he hadn’t wanted to find again. It had only been made more uncomfortable by the scrutinizing presence of all of their friends. 

He’d felt used.

Soul perked up at the familiar sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut. He was immediately ashamed of the pavlovian response he had to the sound of his meister returning - the little flip in his heart that made him feel like a stupid dog wagging its tail at the sound of its master.

Just keep to yourself. She doesn’t need to interact with you in this useless state of self pity. You don’t deserve her comfort.

Self-loathing curled in his gut and he kept his eyes stubbornly trained on a water stain in the ceiling.

Suddenly, light flooded into his dark room as his door was hesitantly opened. He reflexively brought himself to sit up on his elbows only to meet a teary-eyed Maka.

All self-indulgent angsty thoughts instantly evaporated from his head, and he was ripping his earbuds out and swinging his legs over the side of the bed to get up.

She made purposeful steps across his room, throwing her arms around his neck and forcing him back onto the bed with the motion.

“I’m so sorry, Soul,” she warbled mournfully into his sweater. 

“Huh? Sorry ‘bout what? What’s going on, Maka?” he tried to nudge her into looking up at him, but she adamantly refused.

She took a few shallow breaths before rubbing her wet cheek against the quickly-dampening fabric and looking up at him with dewy eyes.

“I haven’t been a good friend to you - have I? 

Was that a trick question?

“I-I don’t get what we’re talkin’ about here,” he stuttered uselessly, attempting to compensate for his lack of eloquence by brushing his fingers comfortingly through her soft hair.

“I never asked if you felt okay with Crona being around you. I never asked you if you forgave them at all - I just brought them into your space, your home. I just wanted them to have a chance at a normal life so badly - I ignored your pain, and I’m so sorry,” she rushed her confession out like it had been a breath she was holding in.

He had to fight the urge to bark out a laugh. It wasn’t that he found anything that she said humorous - it was just so strange that she was addressing this out of the blue. She’d seemed completely unaware as usual back at the diner, where had this even come from?

He was so lost in thought, he’d almost forgotten to respond and instantly regretted the prolonged silence he’d left her in. “Maka, it’s fine,” he insisted, “I get why you forgave Crona. I admire you for it.”

“But that doesn’t mean you were okay. I should have at least checked on you, or asked you about how you felt - or literally anything,’ she mumbled numbly from his chest.

“Hey. Look at me,” he said, lifting her cheek from its resting place against his sweater, “Sure, I didn’t feel the most comfortable around Crona. I think it was pretty awkward for both of us to be near each other. That doesn’t mean I dislike them, or didn’t want you to be their friend. You can’t beat yourself up over something I hadn’t bothered to tell you.”

His words hadn’t brought the comfort that he’d hoped they would, and her brows remained stubbornly crinkled. “If it had been me - if I was the one who’d been cut by that sword, would you still say that you don’t dislike them? That you’re okay with us being friends?”

It was a question that he instantly knew the answer to, but he was reluctant to say it out loud. He finally caved, bringing his eyes back to hers, “No. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive them if it was you.”

She closed her eyes tightly, nodding her head in grim acceptance of that truth. She had likely known that would be his answer already, but hearing it must have been difficult.

“But I love that about you. You have so much compassion. I only care for the few people that I’ve decided I love - I don’t have room in my heart for others like you do. I’d like to be more like you,” he whispered reverently, taking her cheeks in both of his hands and briskly wiping away all of the moisture he could reach with his thumbs.

“I should’ve had more compassion for you,” she lamented softly under her breath, eyes downcast.

“You’re not a fuckin’ mind reader, Maks. It was my choice not to bring anything up.”

She nodded slowly, but the way her grip tightened on him only confirmed his suspicion that she wasn’t going to forgive herself for it.

Minutes passed before a word was spoken, but Soul eventually cleared his throat. “You know, I don’t expect you to ever stop being friends with Crona, or to give up on rescuing them. I don’t want that. I don’t mind helping you like you’d asked earlier tonight, too. If that’s what you need from me, then I’m here.”

She brought herself to her elbows on top of him to get a better view of his face.

“I know. I’m not going to give up on them. But It matters to me that you’re happy too, and if that means you need a break from all that, then I want you to know that it’s okay to ask for that.”

“Right, I’ll keep that in mind,” he said in a hushed tone, distracting himself with a piece of her hair twirled between his fingers.

“And I don’t want to use your blood for research. It was wrong of me to even think of asking you that. We’ll find another way,” she assured him, voice tightening with emotion, “I definitely got carried away with all of this. It wasn’t healthy, and I really am sorry I’ve pushed you away in the process. We can’t solve this thing if we don’t have time to properly take care of ourselves. You’ve been working so hard with me, and I think we need more actual quality time together.”

“Yeah, I could get on board with that. I kinda walked out on dinner tonight, so how about we do something - just you and me tomorrow? Movies sound good?”

“Movies sounds great,” she hummed in agreement, hands idly playing with his hair.

As much as he would have preferred for her to continue her ministrations, he stopped her movements to grasp her hand, bringing it to his chest to rest above where she knew his scar was. He pressed down on her hand lightly.

“I’m glad it happened. I’m glad they gutted me, ‘cause I hadn’t understood what you meant to me till that moment,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head.

She only exhaled shakily, hand tightening against the evidence of his devotion.

“I just hate that it took a lecture from Blackstar of all people for me to realize that I’d been hurting you.”

His eyes widened a little at that new piece of information. Blackstar was the one that brought all of this on her mind? He could’ve sworn it would have been Kid if anyone. He couldn’t help but feel a little touched that Blackstar had been so concerned about him, but he was also somewhat irritated that his friend had distressed Maka as much as he had.

“Blackstar, huh? Remind me to have a conversation with him about mindin’ his own business,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“No, don’t. I’m glad that he said what he did - I needed to hear it,” she urged him.

“Doesn’t matter. He didn’t have to make my girlfriend cry from guilt over bein’ friends with someone,” he muttered, but his face immediately burned a bright red as soon as he’d caught what he’d called her.

She was a similar shade, holding her breath as well as his gaze with a tortuously difficult to decipher expression on her face.

“That is, uh- I mean… fuck.”  

Very articulate. Great job, Soul.

He hadn’t needed to agonize over whether or not he’d just fucked everything between them for long because her face soon melted into a warm, genuine smile.

“Girlfriend, huh?” she said with a glimmer of mischief in her eye.

“I’d like that. If that’s w-what you want,” he wanted to kick himself for the voice crack he just experienced. Not cool in the slightest. 

At least she got a good giggle out of it. The melodic sound squeezed something in his chest and he swallowed nervously as a response.

She brushed back his bangs, leaning in to place a soft kiss to his forehead. She peppered a trail of kisses down his cheek until she reached his lips. 

This kiss was far from chaste. She cradled his cheek and jaw as she slanted her mouth sweetly over his, pressing fervently, constantly moving against him and eliciting a breathy moan from him that he would never admit to making. 

When she tried to separate, he followed her, bumping noses for a moment and giving the corner of her mouth a few more enthusiastic pecks before backing up and allowing her room to look at his face. 

“Girlfriend sounds nice, actually,” she smiled broadly, letting her fingers brush against the back of his neck.

“Glad that’s settled, then,” he laughed easily, not even bothering to feel any embarrassment over the flush of his skin or the lightness of his breath.

He crushed her to his chest, and they stayed like that for a while, just listening to the other’s loudly beating hearts until they were lulled to sleep. 

He’d have to thank Blackstar with a game of basketball later.

[vanserraseris]

END OF PART VIII - Sorry everyone, this part is a little short and a little boring lol. It’s just some more Lucien and Eris stuff. Thanks to everyone for reading and I hope you enjoy!!!

its not boring!!! i love them!!!

Prince of Ashes. Part VIII.

masterlist.

“Your footwork is absolutely shit,” Eris heard Maddox say. Even though Maddox sounded angry, he almost rarely was, but the permanent scowl that always graced his features made him look the part as well.

“Your footwork is absolutely shit,” Lucien echoed, more high-pitched and sort of nasally.

Eris heard Lucien yelp as he walked to the large, open space they all used for training. Lucien was in the middle of the fighting ring, a sword hanging loosely from his one hand as he used the other to rub his forehead. “What the hells was that for?”

Maddox smiled, barely a flash of his white teeth, “It slipped.”

“Not a very good teacher, are you, Maddox?” Eris looked to the apple core that was still sort of rolling away from Lucien.

Maddox shrugged from where he was leaning up against the raised training ring, “Can’t be good at everything.”

“Eris,” Lucien looked at his eldest brother, his forehead red from all the rubbing or red because Maddox had put a little too much strength into throwing that apple core at him, “Tell him to stop throwing fruit at me.” He said it in a way that made Eris think that Maddox did it quite often.

Maddox merely rolled his brown eyes, “Eris, tell him to pay attention to his lessons so father doesn’t beat him for being useless.”

Eris sighed, “Lucien, listen to Maddox and pay more attention to your tutors.” Lucien sputtered, probably trying to find something sarcastic to say, but Eris raised a hand, “And Maddox.” Maddox raised his brows, still not scowling, just waiting for Eris to scold him. Eris wasn’t very good at scolding, Maddox so he just settled for, “Don’t throw fruit at Lucien.”

“He’s lucky we don’t live in the Day Court,” Maddox grumbled, “I’d be throwing watermelons at him instead.” Eris would have laughed if he were in a better mood. He’d spent the better half of the morning with Cato, torturing some criminal his father insisted was causing upheaval among the lesser faeries of Autumn, and he was feeling like absolute shit.

Lucien frowned when he looked at Eris, his brows furrowing in concern. “You alright, Eris?”

Eris couldn’t help but wonder what Lucien had seen on his face to warrant that question, “I’m fine,” he lied. Even to his own ears, that sounded a little flat and emotionless.

“Didn’t know you’d be coming over today.” The words were a little bitter coming from Maddox. Eris understood why, no one really bothered telling the younger brothers what was going on in The Forest House.

Being the middle child, Maddox never really listened to their father and never really fought to be High Lord, but he still liked knowing what was happening. Eris guessed that perhaps he was annoyed at Owain a little as well. Owain and Maddox were close, Owain leading the Royal Guard and Maddox having been at his side as soon as he was able. Eris supposed he would have been bitter, too, if no one was telling him anything important.

“Father had some things for me to do,” Eris replied, deciding that he wasn’t going to give Maddox any details of what he’d been doing with Lucien around. Maddox’s eyes flicked down to Eris’s hands before he turned away from him to look at Lucien again. Eris hoped there was no blood left under his fingernails. He felt as though he’d washed his hands a hundred times, but the smell still hadn’t gone away entirely.

“Better for us,” Lucien said with a smile, “It’s been a millennia since I’ve seen you.” In truth, it had been almost a year since Eris had last seen Lucien.

“Well,” Maddox said, pushing himself away from the ring, “If you’re staying, I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” Eris asked, more from curiosity than concern. Maddox could take care of himself.

“To find Owain, and if I can’t find him, I’ll go to Priam.” He flashed Eris a lupine grin, “Try to teach the little runt a thing or two, great eldest brother, perhaps he’ll be able to learn something from the best of us.” Before Eris could respond, Maddox had winnowed from the training area, the smell of roasting chestnuts left in his wake. Eris frowned, he wasn’t particularly happy about being mocked.

Maddox and Eris weren’t necessarily close, but Maddox was too young to ever really fight his way to the throne. If he’d managed to kill Owain and Cato, killing Eris might have proven very difficult. Little did Maddox know that Eris wouldn’t have lifted a finger against him. Eris didn’t know if he could live the rest of his life knowing that he’d caused his mother the grief of losing a child.

If his father knew how easily he’d give up if one of his brothers truly wanted him dead, Beron might have killed Eris himself.

“I challenge you, Eris Vanserra,” Lucien said in a loud, clear voice from his place in the training ring. - Eris shook his head, not feeling up to it. “Lucien, I’m not really in the—”

“Come on, Eris, humour me,” he grabbed a second sword from the rack on the other side of the ring. “I’m challenging you.”

Eris sighed, taking off his very expensive jacket and throwing it on the floor. It would probably wrinkle, but he didn’t want to risk it getting ripped. Lifting himself into the ring, Eris muttered, “Fine, I accept your challenge, Lucien Vanserra.” He was feeling a little horrible for having avoided Lucien for so long.

After Eris had rolled up his shirtsleeves and tied his hair back, Lucien handed him the sword, “I’m sure I’ll be able to beat you this time, I’ve gotten a million times better.”

The smile on his face was a little contagious. Eris took the sword, raising an auburn brow, “Have you now?”

“And I’m sure you’ve gotten rusty, spending all that time behind a desk,” Lucien flashed him a wide smile, “You know, doing father’s paperwork.”

Eris huffed a small laugh, if only Lucien knew what Eris had been doing for Beron lately. Eris tossed his sword from one hand to the other, “You shouldn’t underestimate your opponents.”

Lucien hummed his response before getting into the ring and raising his sword so that the tip was pointing at Eris, “Prepare to lose, brother.” He'd gotten quite tall, Eris noticed, probably as tall as Rufus.

Eris shook his head, kicking Maddox’s apple core off the ring, “I hope you know, fox, that I won’t be holding back.”

“Neither will I.”

Before Eris could get into his fighting stance, Lucien had lunged at him, a blur of red hair and brown fighting leathers. Eris lifted his sword, meeting the blow that had been aiming for his legs. He cocked his head to the side, raising an auburn brow, “Is that the best you could do?”

Lucien shook his head, “You haven’t seen anything yet, Eris.” He drew back his weapon and rushed at Eris once more, his attack deliberate and from many angles.

Lucien’s footwork seemed just fine, Eris noticed, and had to wonder whether Lucien was just being a bit of a nuisance to get a reaction out of Maddox that wasn’t a scowl. Given that Maddox had been ordered to make Lucien’s life miserable, Maddox had taken to just sort of bothering their youngest brother. The same couldn’t be said for the others, but Lucien had assured him more than once that he was fine.

Eris was actually quite impressed with how well Lucien was fighting. He’d been handling a sword for years, starting with a real weapon as the rest of his brothers had, but Eris still saw him as small and clumsy.

They went back and forth for some time, and when Eris tired of it, he disarmed Lucien efficiently. His sword clattering to the ground on the other side of the ring, Lucien raised his hands in defeat.

Eris grinned, “You should be less confident, fox, arrogance does not become you.”

Lucien rolled his eyes, “You think it becomes you?”

“Yes, yes I think it does,” Eris was still smiling, “You accept defeat, Lucien Vanserra?”

Lucien returned the smile, but there was mischief blazing in his russett eyes, “Never.”

Eris frowned, “What do you mean—”

Eris gasped as he felt someone grab the back of his shirt and pull. Before he realized what was going on, Lucien kicked out his foot and knocked the sword from Eris’s hand. Eris fell on his ass with an inelegant “oof” as the person behind him pulled down on his collar.

“I have a feeling arrogance is not becoming on anyone,” drawled Rufus from behind him, pressing a small knife to Eris’s neck.

Eris definitely should have been paying more attention to his surroundings. “Fucking cheaters,” Eris mumbled.

Lucien stood over him, grin wide, “You accept defeat, Eris Vanserra?”

Eris threw his hands up, palms out. “Yes, fine, I accept, you win.”

Lucien laughed, dropping down to sit next to Eris. He had just turned sixteen and he was still growing into his bones. Much too gangly and tall to be useful at much else other than one-on-one combat.

Eris was glad, Owain, who had been big and muscular for most of his life, had been sent to a war camp at seventeen. Rufus dropped down on Eris’s other side, his shoulder-length red hair tucked behind his pointed ears. All of the small hoop earrings going up the arch of his ear glittered in the light of the training ring. “You’re becoming cocky in your old age, brother, I think me and fox have taught you an important lesson.”

Eris snorted, “What was the lesson, exactly?”

Lucien looked at Rufus, “Yes, Rufus, what was the lesson?”

Rufus made a face, “Not sure yet, but there’s bound to be something he’s learned.” Lucien laughed, Rufus laughing with him after a moment, and even Eris smiled. Rufus knocked Eris’s shoulder with his own, “Did Widge show you what he’s been working on?”

Eris nodded. Widge had come to him earlier that week, running into the sitting room of Eris’s cottage, his copper hair a mess and ink stains on his face. The last time Eris had seen him like that, he had discovered a way to get fire to stay aflame on water. He’d had a mad sort of sparkle in his eye as he’d thrown a large scroll onto Eris’s lap, shoving Micah aside as he sat down between him and Eris to show them what he’d done. “He’s brilliant.”

“What did he do?” Lucien asked.

Eris turned to face him, “Found a way to make a shield out of flames that might protect an entire legion. Only problem is, he’s made all his calculations using our magic,” he waved a hand at Rufus.

“Which means that he’s got to convince three Vanserras to test his theory, or convince 30 soldiers with average magical abilities instead, I suppose.”

“I could try,” Lucien offered.

He could, but Eris wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out what would happen if Lucien tested the limits of his magic. And he also wasn’t as strong enough as the rest of them when it came to his flames. Eris wasn’t entirely certain that asking Lady Morai to suppress Lucien’s magic hadn’t affected the flames he’d gotten from their mother as well.

“We’ll see,” Eris mumbled.

“That means no,” Rufus said, reaching past Eris to ruffle Lucien’s hair.

Lucien swatted away his arm, “I’m challenging you, Rufus Vanserra.”

Rufus sighed, but stood up. “Not this again, you never win.”

As Eris watched Lucien and Rufus, he decided that he had learned something. He’d learned that Beron was a fool for trying to pit them against each other when clearly they could have been a force all of Prythian would have feared had he pushed them closer together.

[4haechie]

spell it out

➵ request: can i request for a (light-ish) angst w/happy ending (or like fluff but w/ jealousy idk does that make sense?? for 6 + 1 + 17? thank you so much!!! -💙

➵ lee donghyuck x reader | fluff, comedy (?), hogwarts au, enemies to lovers au | 2,773 words | “you’re the single most annoying person i’ve ever met.”

➵ warnings: swearing (shouldn’t even be a warning anymore. i curse like a sailor)

➵ a/n: ur the sweetest little bean, 💙 anon! i hope u like this <3 also, this is written in donghyuck’s pov :D

want to request? check this post out!

“i don’t know what’s so great about him, anyway. like, okay, he’s taller than me. maybe even a little stronger and buffer? but he doesn’t know the first thing about y/n.”

renjun groans for the nth time during lunch. “donghyuck, my dude, let it go. it’s not like they’re dating.” he butters his croissant before adding, “and it’s not like you two are dating either,” with a not-so-subtle wiggle of his eyebrows.

donghyuck glares daggers at his best friend. “shut up, huang!” then, he goes back to sulking.

it’s been like this for a few weeks now, ever since you became all buddy-buddy with one of the students from the visiting school. donghyuck is not jealous, don’t get him wrong. he’s angry because he’s your one and only enemy. but here you are, competing in all sorts of lame contests with the new guy when that’s something you and donghyuck do–or did.

he watches from the other side of the slytherin table as you and the new guy compete to see who could fit the most number of marshmallows in their mouths. donghyuck rolls his eyes, “losers.”

renjun’s ears perk up, “if you’re so pissed, then maybe do something about it? do you know how annoying it is to watch you complain loudly?”

“do you know how annoying it is to watch someone steal your enemy away from you?”

“yeah, i was pretty mad at y/n for stealing you away from me when we were twelve.”

“exactly my point!”

renjun flicks his friend’s forehead and gets up to leave for the next lesson. “c’mon, loverboy, it’s potions time.”

/

donghyuck reads the instructions, once, twice, three times, before tossing the necessary ingredients into the cauldron. today, the wizards are required to make any potion of their choice, test to see if it works, as well as say why they chose it.

donghyuck chooses to make liquid luck, just because he’s made it before and is confident in brewing it. he stirs the mixture in the cauldron, making sure it’s perfect, before scooping some up and pouring it into a flask. he labels it with his name and house, and raises his hand.

“yes, mr lee?” the professor says.

“i’m done with my potion, sir,” he says a little smugly and glances at you, at the front of the class. you’re already looking at him when you mouth ‘fuck you’.

he smirks; bet you don’t do that with your new “friend”, do you?

“may i know what you have brewed over there, mr lee?”

“of course, sir. i made felix felicis,” donghyuck announces proudly.

“wonderful! now, test it out to see if it works,” the professor says.

“um, sir, i can’t exactly–” donghyuck protests.

“oh, that’s right...its effects won’t be seen immediately. but i know you’ve probably done a good job since you’re not new to felix felicis. tell me why you’ve chosen it, mr lee.” the professor tugs on the string of his reading glasses hanging around his neck.

“oh, yeah, of course. um, i just have the most confidence in making it. i’m not new to it like you said.” donghyuck says.

the professor sighs. “very well. who else is done?”

“i am!” you beam, with a hand raised.

donghyuck watches keenly as you finish stirring the liquid in your cauldron.

“what have you made, y/n?” the professor inquires.

“amortentia.”

the class goes pin-drop silent. no one ever brews the love potion unless they want to confess to their loved one or check to see who loves them. why did you decide to make amortentia? donghyuck prays to all the gods out there that you didn’t make it for the new guy. donghyuck has known you since you were both twelve–he knows pretty much every single thing about you (the new guy doesn’t, but that’s irrelevant), but he has no clue why you chose to brew amortentia. he definitely can’t ask you right now. he figures you’ll tell the professor some lame excuse, and he’ll have to find out by asking you while everyone’s distracted.

“i beg your pardon?”

“amortentia, sir. the strongest love potion in existence,” you say confidently. donghyuck now, for sure, knows you’re up to something.

“i’m not going to ask you to consume it, as that would simply be too risky. why have you made amortentia, young wizard?” the professor walks over to you and takes a look at your potion. he seems to be satisfied by its appearance and aroma.

“i’ve never made it before, so i wanted to give it a shot. i added all the necessary ingredients and stirred it the right amount of times. i think i did well, professor.” you insist.

the professor nods and goes over to examine the other students’ potions.

donghyuck gets up, brushes his hands over his robes and walks towards where you’re seated. he gives the new guy, who’s sitting right beside you, a look of pure loathing, but gives you a slight upturn of the lips. “hey, y/n.”

you give him one look and start writing your report. the class is noisy and the professor isn’t paying donghyuck any attention. “why did you make amortentia–really?” he bends down a little so that he’s eye level with you.

you glance at him again, “why do you care?”

donghyuck rolls his eyes, “y/n, i want to know.”

you exhale. “because i needed to know something.”

“know what?”

you push your chair out and stand up to face donghyuck. you’re nose-to-nose now, and donghyuck has a perfect view of all your features. not that he cares. he also catches the scent of your sweet-smelling lip balm–again, not that he cares.

“donghyuck, what do you smell?”

“what kind of a question is that?”

you clench your fists and huff out a breath. “you’re the single most annoying person i’ve ever met,” you say as if that clears up everything.

the professor, upon ensuring every wizard performed well in potions, dismisses all of them back to their respective common rooms. even though donghyuck leaves you alone after that, why can he still smell the sweet, annoying scent of your lip balm all the way here, in his room?

/

“i’m going crazy, man.”

renjun shoves his friend away from his desk. the moon shines brightly outside their dorm room’s window, the sky is a navy blue colour, and renjun is busy working on an assignment for defence against the dark arts. but of course, donghyuck isn’t going to let him without ranting about you first.

renjun takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, counts to ten, and spins his chair to face donghyuck, who’s sat on the edge of his own bed now. “i’m gonna go out on a limb here and say this is about y/n.” donghyuck nods sadly and renjun almost feels sorry for the guy. “is this about what happened in potions earlier? look, you know y/n’s obsessed with that lip balm. maybe it’s really strong-scented? you don’t have any proof that it’s because of the amortentia.”

donghyuck groans at the sound of the cursed potion. he didn’t even ingest it, but just standing next to it was enough to fill his stomach up for a lifetime.

“i guess you’re right. y/n always wears that lip balm, but it was super strong today,” donghyuck falls on his bed, closing his eyes as if in deep thought. he gets up suddenly, “wait! if y/n made amortentia to check something...” he trails off, lost in thought. donghyuck groans again and paces around the room.

“donghyuck, do you really hate y/n?” renjun asks.

donghyuck doesn’t have the courage to answer. he simply sighs and crawls into bed, tucking himself under the covers. he falls asleep watching the shimmering moon that night.

/

“today, you’ll be learning the disarming spell! it’s very commonly used in battle, so it’s a useful skill, nonetheless,” the defence against the dark arts professor says, walking on the small runway situated between the two rows of students. “the spell might seem simple, but you have to concentrate. you have to focus on your opponent’s weapon only. it’s very easy to get distracted while trying to disarm the other, so focus, and you shall be victorious.”

donghyuck glances across the runway and his eyes find yours in the crowd. you raise an eyebrow and point at him with your index finger, before retracting the same hand and jutting the thumb out, dragging it across your neck threateningly. donghyuck scoffs.

“now, watch closely, students. huang renjun, come up here. he’ll be my example.” the professor beams at renjun and pulls out her wand, renjun following suit. he stands his guard as the professor chants, “expelliarmus.” she points her wand at renjun’s and it goes flying out of his hand. renjun lets out an airy laugh, and upon receiving an okay sign from the professor, he collects his fallen wand and goes back to his place in the crowd.

“ten points to slytherin! oh, and you’re going to work in partners.” the professor says, smiling brightly as if this is a party and not a magical defence class. “you may challenge someone to a duel or–!”

“i challenge lee donghyuck to a duel!” you shout, your voice echoing in the defeaning silence that follows your sentence.

donghyuck winces, but manages to regather himself and nod at you. “bring it on, y/l/n.”

you chuckle and gesture at him to join you on the runway. the professor steps down as donghyuck climbs up. you stand a few feet in front of him, in position, wand raised. donghyuck doesn’t even have time to blink before you cast the spell. “expelliarmus!” you chant without hesitating, and his wand gets knocked out of his hands, clattering against the floor of the runway. you smirk and blow air at the tip of your wand.

donghyuck looks at you sheepishly before grabbing his wand and heading straight to renjun. his eyes drift to where you’re standing again, but this time they see the new guy closer to you than ever. he’s saying something, whispering something in your ear, and you’re laughing. laughing because of what he said. donghyuck grinds his teeth and glares at the floor.

“what the fuck was that?” his friend shoves him.

donghyuck groans, “i don’t know!”

/

later that day, donghyuck runs into you at the common room.

“oh, hey, y/n.” donghyuck glances around the room. no new guy in sight. that’s odd since you've been joined at the hip with him ever since he arrived. you guys must’ve been surgically separated, huh.

“he’s not here. he’s leaving tomorrow night, so he wanted to check the school out. you know, explore and stuff.” you say, making him widen his eyes in surprise.

“who?”

“don’t play dumb, lee. i know you don’t like the new guy.”

he feigns a look of hurt and clasps a hand over his mouth in a silent gasp, “why would i ever hate that guy?”

you roll your eyes and walk to lean against the back of the leather couch. “i don’t know? but i’ve seen the way you look at him. it’s okay, by the way. i don’t care. he’s nice, but he’s...not my type.”

he takes a few steps and stands in front of you. “then who’s your type?”

you look into his eyes as if trying to communicate through them. “donghyuck,” you pause, and for a second he thinks that’s your answer, but you continue speaking. “what did you smell? when i made amortentia?”

donghyuck gulps, “i–uh, peach lip balm.”

the corner of your mouth lifts to a smirk. “do you know anybody who wears peach lip balm?” you inch closer, decreasing the proximity between the two of you to mere centimetres. donghyuck’s eyes momentarily flicker to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

“i–!”

“what are you two doing up so late?” renjun enters the scene with an amused expression on his face. he looks at you two like one watches a tennis match, and his lips are drawn to a smug upturn. “what’s going on here?”

when you don’t answer, donghyuck clears his throat, “we were just talking about–uh, what we learnt today.”

renjun doesn’t look impressed. “right, and i was discussing strategies on how to become headmaster with mark at the library. no, seriously, it’s almost midnight and it’s just the two of you here.”

donghyuck glares at the boy, “fuck off, renjun!”

renjun throws his hands up defensively, “alright, alright. but hurry up, okay? i need your help with the potions assignment.” he’s about to leave when you call out his name.

“renjun, what were you doing here so late?”

he whips his head around, “well, i was at the library with mark. but we weren’t discussing strategies on how to become headmaster. we were just looking at some ancient spell books,” he says, and walks away to his dorm.

you cross your arms over your chest. “so, where were we?”

donghyuck presses his lips together for a second. “i asked you who your type was?”

“nice try, lee. but, seriously, do you know anyone who wears peach lip balm?”

donghyuck clenches his fists. “y/n, fucking hell. you! you wear that stupid peach lip balm. you made that stupid amortentia and i smelled your stupid peach lip balm. you probably smelled whatever cheap cologne the new guy wears, anyway. so why does it matter?” donghyuck heaves a sigh and is about to back away from you when you tug on his sweater.

“wait.”

donghyuck glances at you, “what?”

“i, um, didn’t smell anything that’s to do with the new guy.” you tug on your lower lip, unsure of how to put your thoughts into coherent words, but donghyuck focuses on the fact that you’re calling the new guy “new guy” instead of his name.

“then?”

you’re tongue-tied, but you manage to sputter out a few words. “i smelled lavender-scented fabric softeners and chocolate.” you look up at him through your eyelashes.

his heart stops beating. his brain melts into a puddle of goo. his organs stop working, his nerve endings go haywire. he’s frozen, a block of ice. he’s not even able to comprehend your words. you...smelled...him?

donghyuck’s favourite fabric softener is scented with lavender and his favourite food is anything chocolate. he makes sure to use the fabric softener for his uniforms, sweaters, pants–pretty much all his clothes. and he’s pretty much always munching on those blasted chocolate frogs whilst trying to collect all the best cards.

“y/n...” he says. that’s all; just your name.

you remove your hand from his sleeve and use it to push your hair back. “yeah,” you whisper. “it’s getting late. i better get to bed,” you step away from him.

“no, wait!”

you turn back around, eyebrow raised.

“what does this mean for us?”

you exhale, “it means whatever you want it to mean. you smelled my peach lip balm. i smelled your fabric softener. it’s a lot for me to take in. but that’s amortentia, i guess. tells you what you’re really feeling, without even saying anything.”

“y/n, i want it to mean this. i want it to mean that we can be together. we don’t have to be enemies any more. i...i like you, y/n. and seeing you with that guy, all happy and having fun–it made me,” donghyuck closes his eyes, “jealous. i’ll admit it, but if that’s who you wanna be with, then i can’t decide–!”

“you idiot! you absolute loser!” you exclaim, taking angry steps and landing in front of donghyuck. you push him back, causing his lower back to crash against the back of the sofa. “you’re so fucking annoying.”

“gee, uh, thanks...”

“shut up! god, do i have to spell it out for you? fine!”

donghyuck’s in a pure state of shock when he feels your soft lips on his, slowly kissing him, while also trying to knock some sense into him. he doesn’t waste any more time; he kisses you back just as slowly and carefully. he smiles when the familiar peach scent embraces him. you pull away first, but your angry demeanour seems to have washed away.

“thanks for spelling it out for me,” donghyuck circles his arms around your waist.

you reach to loop your hands around his neck and smile. “you’re most welcome, lee.”

/

(donghyuck’s hand never leaves yours the entire way to quidditch practice.

“what the fuck are you guys doing?” renjun gawks at your interlocked fingers.

“what does it look like we’re doing?” you ask, tip-toeing to press a kiss against donghyuck’s cheek.

“i could’ve gone my entire life without seeing that.”)

[wearevillaneve]

While We're Waiting for S4: What's Next for Hélène and The Twelve?

I can count on both hands everything I liked about Killing Eve's wonky carrot of a third season, but one of them was the introduction of Camille Cottin as the enigmatic Helene. She projects a chilly confidence and provides something to the show it has lacked for its entire run: a quantifiable "bad guy" who loves their work and has no reluctance to use whatever means required to achieve her goals.

Cottin, best known for the French TV series Call My Agent quickly established herself in the fourth episode as the lady in the dazzling red shoes who gives the orders and demands results. You could see that in the way Dasha lost all her swag when Hélène showed up and how eagerly the elderly assassin tried to reassure her boss that she had Villanelle focused and under control.

Helene killed all that noise. You want to go back home, to Russia? Where the people will be dancing in the streets and chanting your name. "Dasha! Dasha! Dasha!" Well, you can't. Until we say you can. Skittish is not acceptable. Get her working. Without this, um, extracurricular crap.

Dasha tried to recover and somersaulted into Plan B. "I can kill Polastri!" she suggested helpfully, but Hélène wasn't hearing any of her bullshit. She told the aging acrobat/assassin that killing Eve would only cause more problems and directed Dasha to drive a wedge between Eve and Villanelle.

This prompts the question of Why? Certainly, killing Eve would piss off Villanelle, but there's all sorts of ways to take Eve out that doesn't point back to The Twelve. Why did Hélène spare Eve's life when taking it would be the simplest way to remove a pesky distraction for Villanelle's attention?

Best guess is the nosy ex-MI6 agent in the drab turtleneck factors somehow into Hélène and The Twelve's plans. Whether by recruiting Eve to their cause or using her as leverage to keep Villanelle in line, nobody can say, but there's something else going on by sparing Eve's life. Before she met an Asian woman with amazing hair in the restroom of a hospital, Villanelle was a flamboyant, but fairly goal-oriented assassin for The Twelve. She does have a bad habit of defying and killing her handlers as Konstantin can testify to (and Dasha, Raymond and Anton can not). Hélène's handling of the unpredictable killer is more subtle and seductive. She flatters Villanelle, strokes her ego and disarms her with charm and a motherly approach that shifts to being coyly seductive. Here is an approach Villanelle is unfamiliar with. She doesn't necessarily like it when Hélène strokes her hair, but isn't sure how to respond to it. Is Hélène trying to seduce Villanelle? Not necessarily, but she is definitely trying to manipulate her.

Back in Season One, this disarming approach might have worked on that version of Villanelle. However, this one however doesn't trust Hélène's display of feigned affection. Villanelle doesn't trust anyone completely (not even Eve), but she definitely is not so off her game as to put any trust in Hélène.

Even after all this time, nothing is clear about what The Twelve is trying to accomplish. Their motivations remain murky and unclear and nobody's to blame for that except the writers. With the last season looming on the horizon, The Twelve and their incompetent crew of killers (Diego, Nadia, Felix, etc) don't seem like all that much of threat. Going into the next season, Hélène has to be high up in The Twelve's chain of command, if not it's leader. There's really no one else who could be unless Carolyn chooses to reveal herself in the 11th hour. When she executed Paul it seemed as if it was as much Carolyn punishing him for fucking up, plus shutting him down so Eve couldn't grill him. "Do you know why I love you Villanelle? Because you're an agent of chaos. And I love chaos. Chaos disrupts. It rips apart and starts again. It's like a forest fire. It burns, it kills. It's monstrous, but it's beautiful." Villanelle didn't know how to respond to that, but when Hélène called her a beautiful monster, that's when she finally realized she would never be seen as fully human by The Twelve and when running to Carolyn and then Eve. I think the only reason Villanelle wanted to become a Keeper was to get closer to figuring out who The Twelve is and then work out how to kill them all. But one thing she's never had to face is an opponent who isn't afraid of her and is coolly confident she's not a threat.

Villanelle tries to rattle Hélène with a threat that she's trying to figure out how to kill her, but that doesn't phase the older woman in the slightest. She responds dismissively: "You wouldn't be able to, by the way. Kill me before I kill you. You're a child, you have no idea what you're dealing with." Can Hélène throw hands if she has to? Could she kick Villanelle's ass and snap Eve's neck like a chicken? Questions in search of answers, but here we have a highly controlled and calculating woman, who like Carolyn, sees all the moves on the chessboard before they're made by her opponent.

Villanelle has never faced a physical battle with a superior fighter, but Hélène may chose to extract revenge for the killing of Rhian with her bare hands and that is a tantalizing prospect of woman-vs-woman in combat.

Besides Villaneve content, Hélène's return for revenge in Season Four makes for an intriguing subplot as Villanelle and Eve try to escape the Big Bad that casts a shadow over any possible future together. Hélène will have to be confronted because she cannot be escaped.

That is, unless the KE writer's room simply throws Hélène out like they did with Raymond, and she's never mentioned again, which while ridiculous, is always a possibility with this show.

[tiffdawg]

Keep Quiet | A Paz Vizsla x Reader Oneshot

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Reader (fem; no y/n)

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: E | Warnings: NSFW – explicit sexual content, sex, public-sex, dirty talk. Mild language. 18+ only.

Request: The first fic request from the 500 Celebration! @huliabitch requested 72 (We’re in public, you know?) from this list with Paz Vizsla. Thank you, Julia! 

A/N: I’m a sucker for this big blue bitch... so this accidentally turned into a whole oneshot. Oh, and can you believe after all this time LF finally fixed the spelling of his name? Guess it’s officially Vizsla now.

Read on AO3

My Masterlist

… . …

Keep Quiet

He was late.

You’d been pacing the length of that skinny back alley in between the shop where you toiled away your days and the neighboring warehouse for what felt like hours. Really, it had hardly been longer than thirty minutes. But they were thirty excruciating minutes. The two of you met there once a week at the same exact time. Never earlier. Never later. It was a perfectly timed routine – more for his safety than yours – and he was never late. 

“Where the fuck are you?” you murmured to yourself. You glanced to your right and then left, double checking both ends of the passage. Still, there was no sign of him.

Another ten minutes of pacing passed. In your frustration, you kicked a piece of scrap metal, sending it flying towards one of the empty plasteel containers from the warehouse that were scattered throughout the alleyway. It struck true and you grimaced at the noise it made, not expecting it to ring quite so loudly in the quiet night. Luckily, the only place still open in that neighborhood at the late hour was the cantina a few buildings over – and those patrons were well-occupied. 

“This is supposed to be a covert meeting, mesh’la,” a deep voice rumbled behind you. Turning on your heel, you found the man you’d been waiting so impatiently for. A deep breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped you at the sight of him alive and unscathed. “Do you want all of Nevarro to know what we’re up to?” 

“You were taking forever, Mandalorian,” you said with an overdramatic roll of your eyes, feigning nonchalance. “I can’t help it if I get bored when you make me wait.”

“Bored?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice even through the vocoder. He stalked towards you, slow and measured and only stopping when he was directly in front of you. He moved leisurely as he dismounted the blaster cannon on his back and leaned it against the exterior of the warehouse, acting as if the two of you had all the time in the galaxy. “Are you sure it was just boredom?”

“I might’ve been a little worried,” you admitted, pointedly refusing to look at him as you said it. “Where were you?”

“Do I look like someone who needs to be worried about?” he asked, ignoring your question. He drew closer until the edge of one of the cargo containers dug into your lower back. His massive form took up most of your sight, completely blocking out the rest of the world.

“No,” you sighed. You ran your hand across his blue chestplate, feeling each jagged scratch and scar marring the armor beneath your palm. He’d clearly managed to best his opponents in battles and brawls of the past. You had some faith that he would always do what was necessary to return to you. “I just can’t help myself.”

He regarded you for a long moment. His dark visor gave nothing away about his expression underneath. Sometimes you liked to believe you knew what was going on inside that man’s head, but more often than not he was unreadable to you save for what he wanted to share with you. Everything else remained hidden. 

“I didn’t mean to worry you, mesh’la,” he said quietly, lightly tracing a gloved fingertip across the lines of your face. He followed the curve of your lips to the round of your cheek and down along your jaw. It was something he did sometimes in the rare gentle moments you shared with him. You wondered idly if he was memorizing your likeness with his careful touch; it seemed too deliberate to be without purpose. “I don’t have long tonight, but I think I can make it up to you.”

Slowly, his hand moved lower, down your neck and across your chest. And his sweet caresses turned into something else. Something hungry and needy. He palmed at your breast, kneading it harshly and easily tearing a heady moan from your throat as you arched into his touch. 

“We’re in public, you know,” he admonished cheekily, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. From anyone else it would’ve sounded condescending. From him, it only sent a rush of arousal straight to your core. 

You scoffed at him. “Like that’s ever stopped us,” you simpered as you reached for his belt.

That was the truth of the matter. Your meetings, hidden only by the blackness of the planet’s short night, were always a passing thing in that same dark alley. Once a week, he dared to leave the safety of his covert – where they were hiding, you could only guess – to run out to the lava fields to meet the smuggler who supplied his people. You assumed the credits came from the one Mandalorian that was allowed to walk freely through the streets, only ever stopping in the cantina to collect payment and pucks. There was an entire tribe of Mandalorians living in the city, but he was the only one that anyone ever saw on Nevarro.

Until you.

You’d caught your Mandalorian one night as you were locking up the shop. The shop owner had asked you to stay late and take inventory for him, knowing you couldn’t turn down a chance for extra credits when you were perpetually short on rent. When you’d stepped out into the alley and accidentally ran into a wall of blue armor, your eyes went as wide as one of the infamous thousand moons of Iego. Really, you shouldn’t have been there, and, considering his first impulse was to kill you, he hadn’t intended to find you either. 

It was sheer dumb luck that you dodged his vibroblade. And nothing more than your loneliness-induced horniness that saved you after that. 

In what you knew even then was not an act of self-preservation but rather your own troublesome curiosity getting the best of you once more, you’d flirted shamelessly with him. Your effect was disarming; both the blade and his inhibitions were abandoned. The next thing you knew, he had you pinned against the wall, skirt hiked to your waist and a leg hooked around his hip, as he pounded into you.

Apparently, he was lonely too because your illicit rendezvous became a regular occurrence. Now, it was the highlight of your week. 

“I hate this stupid thing,” you grumbled as you struggled to free him. That godsforsaken codpiece was the literal bane of your existence. “It’s ridiculous.” 

“You want me to be able to breed you one day?” His words sent an electric shock through your system, exciting you in a whole new way. The implication was not lost on you. You nodded eagerly, eliciting a low rumbling laugh that reverberated in his cuirass. With your chest pressed against him, you felt it more than you heard it. “Then you’ll thank me for wearing it.” 

“Fine,” you conceded, “But right now, I really want your dick inside me, and this is getting in my way.”

He graciously helped you and you made to kneel in front of him, intent on tasting the pearl of precum already leaking from his head. He’d clearly missed you as much as you’d missed him. But a firm hand wrapped around your wrist and hauled you back up before your knees could even touch the ground.

“I told you we don’t have long. It’s not your mouth I want tonight,” he growled as he turned you around, bending you over the container and knocking your stance wider. 

“I can work with this,” you said, throwing a smirk over your shoulder. You hastily undid your own belt and he pushed your trousers down your thighs, baring only was necessary of yourself to him. It didn’t matter that he always fucked you in a dark alley. He still seemed intent on protecting your modesty. Or what little was left of it.

Although, if you were being honest, you didn’t think you needed to worry about anyone catching you. Any creature that walked down that alley would certainly meet the end of his blade or blaster. His mercy for you was exceptional.

But one day, you hoped it would just be the two of you. No threat of strangers finding you. No layers of clothing and armor barring you from each other. No clandestine meeting in a seedy passageway. Just you and him finally alone together. Granted, it was little more than a fleeting fantasy. Just because the two of you shared that indulgent illusion, whispering deep desires in the heat of the moment, didn’t mean a damn thing. Dreams didn’t come true in the Outer Rim.

Fortunately, you didn’t have long to dwell on the notion, as the blunt head of his cock pushed through your slick folds until he was fully sheathed inside of you, knocking the air out of your lungs and every last thought from your lust-riddled brain. 

“So wet for me and I hardly touched you,” he mocked. He landed a playful swat on the swell of your ass before squeezing it with a greedy hand. He was clearly in a mood that night and it lit fire in your belly, igniting flames that licked across your body. It burned even hotter as he slowly pulled out only to push deeper into your dripping cunt. He let you feel every inch of him drag against your walls as he stretched you out and filled you completely. It was the sweetest torture, reducing you to a whimpering mess.

But it wasn’t enough.

“You said we had to be quick,” you implored him as you ground back against him, begging him to move. 

One of his gloved hands ran up your body to wrap around your jaw, holding you in place and forcing you to look back at him. “I still want to have my fun with you, mesh’la,” he drawled. You could almost imagine the mischievous grin that surely pulled at his lips.

“Well, when you’re done, maybe you could actually fuck me,” you challenged.

He answered your provocation by driving into you and setting an unforgiving pace. His strength and size were impressive – even more so when he used it to fuck you senseless. He was a man that was rough around the edges. A hardened warrior. And he fucked you like it. You expected nothing less. You didn’t want anything less. Even after the initial attraction gave way to a deeper affection, he always had his way with you.

“Is that what you wanted?” he snarled.

“Harder!” you demanded in response. Your desperation burned you from the inside out, threatened to overwhelm you in the best possible way. You wanted to feel him in every step, every turn, every movement, long after you parted. It was your favorite reminder of what took place between the two of you. Of course, he obliged you.

“Fuck–” he panted, his breath crackling through the vocoder, “You take me so good. You were made for this cock.”

“I’m all yours,” you sobbed as you clenched around him. “Always wanna be yours.” 

He leaned over you, caging you in against the container as his heavy build pressed into you exquisitely. His palms covered the backs of your hands as he pinned you to the crate, trapping you beneath him so that you were entirely at his mercy. You gasped for breath, mouth agape as he pounded into you. At that new angle, he hit that soft spot deep inside of you that made you see stars even behind closed eyes. 

“You’re splitting me in two,” you whined deliriously. 

“You like it,” he grunted, punctuating each word with a thrust. 

“Yes! Please– Please, don’t stop!” 

“Not until you cum on my cock,” he promised. “Can you keep quiet for once?” 

You nodded even though you both knew if was pointless. Still, he held out a hand and you knew instantly what he wanted. You tore off his glove and his bare hand slipped down the front of your body. His fingers circled your swollen clit with fevered intent.

Your whole body went rigid beneath him, every muscle pulling taut, until the pressure building in you finally shattered and your orgasm tore through you like a blinding white light. Your wobbling legs practically gave out under you and you would’ve slumped to the ground if it wasn’t for his weight against you holding you in place.  

“It’s too much,” you babbled, pushing his hand away as a few stray tears ran down your face, “I can’t– It’s too much.”

“You’re doing so good for me,” he rasped darkly. His normally even voice had an unsteady edge to it. It was a reminder of the hot-blooded man under the cool armor. With the way you pulsated around his cock as he fucked you through the aftershocks of your release, you knew he was getting close. “Gonna reward you with my cum. You want it?” 

“Yes!” you mewled.

His throbbing length stilled inside you as he filled you, painting your pussy with hot ropes of cum. As you both recovered, he rested against you for one indulgent moment as if loath to leave you. And despite the fact that you could hardly draw in a breath with his weight pressing into you, you would’ve stayed like that for hours, luxuriating in the feel of him. His movements were almost gentle as his hands skimmed up and down your sides, feeling what you would give him. You wondered if he knew the answer to that was everything. 

When he finally pulled away and slipped out of you, you felt much too light and much too empty. He hiked your pants back up, leaving you only to secure the fastenings, before growling low in your ear. “Keep it in you.”

You hummed an affirmative response, unable to utter a single word in your euphoric state, as you listened to the clink of his belt as he adjusted himself behind you. You could picture him rearming himself without even needing to look. It was, after all, routine.

“I have some things for you,” you announced, gesturing lazily in the general direction of a few small containers full of rations near the shop door. When you could, you liked to put a little something aside for him to take back to his people. The shop owner had yet to notice, and you justified your skimming based on the fact that he overcharged every customer who walked through his doors. And severely underpaid his best employee. “It’s not much this time.”

“It’s always too much. I can’t accept this.”

“If you don’t take those rations, the Jawa’s will,” you reasoned. You finally righted yourself and moved to stand beside him. “Maker knows those greedy little scavengers get more than their fill around here.” 

“I don’t want you in trouble,” he murmured as he inspected your offering.

“I’m the one who always has to do the inventory, so one will ever know.” This was a familiar conversation, repeated almost every week. You stepped closer to him, trying to get him to look at you again. “Please let me help you.”

“In your dishonor, you are honorable, mesh’la.” You thought he might’ve meant to tease you, but there was something sincere in his words. And when he held out a hand to you and pulled you into his chest, only to touch his helmet to your forehead in that unique gesture of affection, you knew his appreciation was genuine. “You spoil me,” he whispered. It was only just loud enough for you to hear. 

“I care about you, Mandalorian,” you said, leaning into his embrace. You wrapped your arms around his middle as best you could, unbothered by his armor. That was him, after all.

“I’m going to take care of you one day.”

“How about we just take care of each other?”

“Always so stubborn,” he grumbled, but there was no menace to his words. A quiet moment passed between the two of you as you both savored the other person’s presence. When he did pull away, you swore you felt his reluctance. He gently cupped your chin as if to ensure you were paying attention to his next words. “I’ll see you next week, mesh’la.”

“Try not to be late.”

“You’d still wait for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Always,” you answered with a soft smile before tilting your head to place a kiss on the palm of his hand. He nodded once and took his leave. 

You remained stuck in your place as you watched the man you loved disappear into the darkness, knowing full-well that your desire for him could never be satisfied by a hurried late-night tryst. Only when his figure was gone from your sight did you finally start the long walk to your empty apartment.

… . …

You’d given up on your agitated pacing weeks ago. The incessant wringing of your hands had given way to idleness shortly after. And you’d all but stopped listening for the sound of heavy footfalls. Now, you just sat slumped against the shop door creating your own constellations with the stars hung in the sky above.

You still waited in that alley every week at the designated time, usually lingering for hours. You vowed freely to continue to do so. If you didn’t, you feared he’d never be able to find you. You certainly had no idea where to look for him. You didn’t even know his name. So, you did what you could; you waited. You waited and you tried not to count the days since you saw him last.

Fifty-six. 

And it’d been fifty-two days since the showdown between the Bounty Hunters’ Guild and the Mandalorians. You knew he would be counted among them – he didn’t strike you as one to shy away from a fight. He was someone who lived for the action. 

You’d heard the battle from your apartment. Blaster fire woke you in the dead of night, but like the countless other occasions a fight broke out in that city, you’d dismissed it as just another day on Nevarro. It wasn’t until you heard the gossip in the market the next morning that you’d learned what happened.

While the city had quickly repaired itself after the bout of violence, your heart wasn’t healing so easily. That night marked eight long weeks – two whole months – since you saw him last. You knew what that most likely meant.

He wasn’t coming back to you.

And yet, you waited. Your worry for him that last night when he was late was almost humorous to you now. Now, all you did was wait for him. Patience was a virtue you learned the hard way.

As the moon passed its zenith, you reluctantly pushed yourself to your feet, slung your pack over your shoulder, and started off. At least for that night, it was time to give up.

Of course, it was probably time to abandon that futile exercise completely. It only caused your heart to break all over again week after lonely week. That was a cold truth to accept. As you tried to blink back the tears pooling in your eyes, you lashed out, kicking a piece of debris littering the alley. The old binary motivator crashed into the warehouse wall with a bang.

“Mesh’la.”

You froze in place at the sound of the one word you wanted to hear most, certain that you were imagining the sound of his voice.

“What have I told you about keeping quiet?”

... . ...

Mando’a Translation

Mesh’la: beautiful

... . ...

Thank you for reading! 

Forever Tags: @leo-moon @readsalot73 @frietiemeloen @huliabitch @jerusomeeno @benedrylcumbersnatch @b0n-chann @scapricciatello @liadamerondjarin

[a-monsters-love]

hi! could i request a story with deku, bakugo, and todoroki in third year with y/n (so it’s like the big three but four people). y/n has a earth bending type quirk and they are all getting introduced to the first years and like them training them? tysm for considering!

Oh god I’ve had so many ideas for this since you sent this request, like I rewatched The Big Three episode like 5 times for this.

Also just as an FYI it’s cannon that Aizawa is only a freshman/first year teacher so like, our cast for the fic is in 3-A and Aizawa is still gonna be class 1-A’s teacher 😹

Beta read by: @hxwks-gf

[Master List]

(Y/N) = Your name (L/N) = Last name

The Big Four:

[Image found here]

“Why the FUCK are we doing this again?” Bakugo hissed as the four of you walked towards your old classroom.

Izuku chuckled, “Because Aizawa asked us to, we have to meet 1-B later too.” He scanned through his most recent notebook that he filled with notes on the current class 1-A. “Thanks again for recording the sports festival for me, (Y/N).”

“Of course,” You croon, watching him start to spiral, “And Katsuki, before you start whining more; Aizawa has been through enough because of us. This is literally the least we can do.” You chide. Bakugo simply responded with a huff and a unintelligible grumble.

Shoto hums in response from ahead of the group as you near the room. “Let’s just do what we were asked,” He says glancing back, his hand is on the door waiting for the rest to get in ‘formation’ and Aizawa’s cue for you to enter.

When the cue is heard the door opens and the four of you walk in, the new class 1-A gasps in your presence. You smile softly at the freshmen, excitement and nostalgia running through you. “You may already know them as the Big Four, but-“ He looks over at each of you, “They’ll introduce themselves now.”

Izuku’s face goes beat red as he stammers to introduce himself, “I-I’m Midoriya Izuku, I’m r-really excited to meet you.” He bows violently, earning a handful of chuckles from the class and from you.

Shoto, who seems to be spacing out, continues without a beat: “I’m Todoroki Shoto.” Everyone just stared, starstruck by him, but also surprised at his simple disposition.

“It’s Bakugo Katsuki,” He says pointing at himself. “I have better things to do than deal with a bunch of EXT-“ You slap your hand over his mouth hard enough for it to echo through the room.

Izuku and Shoto both drop their heads and sigh in embarrassment. However, the freshman class looked at you in horror; everyone knew Bakugo had a horrible personality, and they could see pink and purple swelling form under where your hand still sat over his mouth.

His yell was muffled under your hand, but you ignored it. “Sorry about him,” A chuckle escaped you. “Come-on, best behavior—we owe the man.” You whispered and pointed your head at your old teacher, Aizawa rolled his eyes but Bakugo relented. “I’m (L/N) (Y/N), today is gonna be a lot of fun.” You wiggled your eyebrows and the class laughed awkwardly, you could hear them all muttering among themselves.

“These four are here to talk to you about the work study program, they’ll also be in charge of your gym class for today.” Aizawa muttered while stepping into his sleeping bag.

The four of you watch him and snort a bit, “Some things never change.” Izuku laughed out, looking back at the class he started. “Okay, so, work studies. Work studies...” He hummed to himself and pulls out his notebook. You stifle a laugh and shoot Aizawa a knowing glance. “Well, whenwewerestillinclass1-Awemetthebigthree,andtheywerelikeusbutnotus.Wait,ohmanimgettingofftrack.Whatiwantedtotalkaboutwastheworkstudiesyoullbein.Youknowyoullbasicallybedoingtheherostuffwithoutbeingtheproandyoullbeshadowingherostogettheswingofthingsbeforeyourinterships.Honestly,whenwedidourswefoundourselvesinalotoftroublebecauseoftheherokil-waitimnotsupposedtotalkaboutthat.Wellicouldstartwithlearningyourquirks,imeanthebestwaytofigureouthowtohelpaherohopefulistoknowexactlywhattheycanandcantdoplusihavemynoteswhichcouldprobablyhelpifyouwantedtotakealookattrainingideasorusagesuggeationsimeaniveseenalotofdifferentquirksinmylifeandivetakennotesofallofthemforthefutureandyouguysarethefuture.”

“You fucking idiot! That’s not- WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?” Bakugo cuts him off, throwing his hands up.

Shoto put a hand on his shoulder, “We’re friends now, calm down.” Bakugo screeches something along the lines about not being friends and you take the opportunity to scoot over towards your freshman teacher.

Aizawa’s glare froze his class while the three continued to do what they do best.

“Remember when I told you this was a bad idea?” You say leaning over, he just groans in response. “This is the part where I say I told you so.” You snicker and clap your hands loudly, “Well as fun as this is, let’s show you the difference.” You smile towards the class, “Between where you are and where you can be.” Your three classmate make unintelligible noises but oblige as they walk out of the classroom.

———

“Katsuki doesn’t remember because he was suspended but when we met our seniors while we were still class 1-A, we fought as an entire class against just 1 senior. Can anyone guess how that went?” You ask, as the four of you and the class were now dressed in your gym uniforms. The freshmen share looks between each other and no one answered. “We had our asses handed to us without landing a single blow.” That earned a collective gasp from the class.

Aizawa split the students up among the four of you. Izuku was assigned students who focused on close range attacks, Shoto was assigned long range attackers, and you and Bakugo got a split of those who can do both.

“Don’t expect us to go easy on you.” Katsuki sneers, you and Izuku chuckle and Shoto just nods in agreement.

As much as the freshmen think they have the upper hand, it was quickly evident that they in fact did not. Izuku surprised his group when he send air pressure shots at each of them. Shoto’s attacks, while not surprising, were more intricate than they’ve ever seen. You’ve barely moved an inch dodging all their attacks whilst sending stone slabs and boulders at them. Bakugo’s started by sending AP shots at his before making a loud whistle and the four of you swapped. Shoto takes Izuku’s kids, Izuku takes Katsuki’s, Katsuki takes yours and you take Shoto’s. Whines and complaints are heard but every time any of you hear one you slam the kid who complained twice as hard as the rest.

After swapping 2 more times you stop, while the four of you seemed fine the class looked on the verge of death, “What did we learn?” You ask them.

After incredulous noises are heard, groans and cries, the four of you snort in amusement.

“I told you they were idiots, you really don’t get it do you?” Bakugo hissed, and you waved a hand to let him rant. He points at three students, “You three gave (Y/N) a run for her money! When she ‘escaped’ why didn’t you run after her??” He barked out questions and pseudo complements.

“Well, Aizawa-“ One of them started.

“Do you really think in a real villain attack you can afford to just wait for orders? Or stay in some planned formation?” Shoto asked.

The class got silent and thought, “If we were really villains, you’d all be… well, dead by now.” Izuku commented and rubbed the back of his head. A few chuckles are heard from the four of you and you walk to fix the gym, with simple motions the rubble and debris caused from the training to level out.

“Wait, we could have-“

“Oh yeah! Maybe it would have worked-“

“We should try training like this-“

Conversations erupted from your juniors and the four of you split again to help them train. You forced stone platforms up for each student, and Izuku suggested a sparring match to give them an example.

You stood at a distance while Izuku and Bakugo aimed to shoot their respective bullets at you, as soon as they were about to fire you flicked two beams of stone upright to collide with their wrists. After knocking their shots off target, “Disarming your opponent can buy you time to strategize,” You slide your foot and cause the earth below Shoto to loosen and knock him on his right side. The ice he attempted to send out froze Bakugo and Izuku in place. “And use their strengths against them.”

With a shrug and a groan the lecture continues, you even caught Bakugo with a smirk while helping someone out. Aizawa watched in silence, he wouldn’t say he was surprised but he was glad to see how much the four of you had grown. Being able to see an unashamed smirk on Katsuki’s face and to hear Shoto genuinely laugh was proof enough that they had made great strides towards adulthood.

✨Bonus✨

“Are.. Are you tearing up??” Present Mic asks as he enters the gym.

Aizawa scowls and rubs his face, “I have dry eye.” He hissed, “You’ve known that for years!”

Hizashi grins ear to ear, “You must be really proud of your kids.” He teases, “I always knew you were the dad type, Shota.”

“Oh, for fucks sake..” He groans, palming his face. “I hate it here.”

“We love you too, dad!” You shout jokingly in the distance, Hizashi doubles over laughing while Aizawa’s face started to twitch.

“I didn’t know Aizawa was your dad...” Shoto mutters, earning himself face palms and laughter from you and the other students.

The world isn’t ready for the four of you, and it’s gonna be an interesting place.

[popculturebuffet]

Life And Times of Scrooge McDuck Retrospective: The New Laird of Castle McDuck! “And I’ll Remember It Poppa! There’s Always Another Rainbow!”

Hello all you happy people! And welcome back to my look at the Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck! And to make up for lost time im’ doing two instalments this month, and with luck and my schedule holding out I plan to finish the main series in September, doubling up again for the last two months to finish this up. 

Background wise there’s honestly not a lot this go round, as it’s less rooted in history and more Don Rosa’s need to settle an annoying flaw with continuity. Man oh man do I relate to that and having read comics for at least half my life, i’ve seen writers do this by the bucketload to fix decisions from other writers. Sometimes for the write reasons and sometimes because EVERYTHING WAS BETTER ON MY EARTH. Don Rosa, like most writers.. has done both. 

Here though it’s for the good and for understandable reasons: Barks had Scrooge’s origin as a poor shoeshine boy from Glasgow.. but also had a rather famous and awesome story, the Old Castle’s Secret, that also gave them a giant ancestral castle. Rosa fixed this by having the McDuck’s having lost it due to a combination of being driven off the land by a fake ghost dog and poor turns of fourtune meaning they coudln’t pay the taxes to live there and were behind on taxes on it, hence the Whiskervilles having taken it over in part one. 

But obviously the Whiskervilles coudln’t KEEP the castle as Scrooge owned it in present day, thus this chapter explains how he got it. It was a stroke of genius plot wise too as it allowed him to open each act in Scotland and using the castle to measure where Scrooge is in life: As a boy dreaming of getting it back, as a young man who while not a success succeeds at this, and as an older hardned man who realizes he simply doesn’t belong here anymore who has to leave his family’s legacy here behind to start a better one in America. 

The only other real story is that a sequence here was based on the film A Matter of Life and Death, and Rosa detailed in his notes his quest to get a copy as the distribution rights here were a nightmare at the time. Thankfully that’s clearly changed as a quick look on Amazon shows both a standard DVD release, mentioned by rosa in the book and a snazzier release by the Criteron Collection are both easily available. He ended up getting a copy from Canada, and while he didn’t get any insight at least got a neat addition to his collection. Admittedly this dosen’t add much to the story, I just thought it was neat. So with all of that settled, join me after the cut as Scrooge tries to buy back his family’s legacy.

And Scrooge has already arrived in Scotland, having reunited with Downy and Matilda, who as a refresher is more responsible and straightlaced here versus the 2017 incarnation.  Part of me DOES wish they hadn’t glossed over the reunion especially since this chapter is the last time we’ll see Scrooge and his Mom together before her utterly heartbreaking passing a few chapters down the road. But I get why we opened here instead: it’s a captivating open, with Scrooge speeding to the castle, his mother and sister trying to stave the rain off and time clearly of the essence. It sucks you in as we don’t know WHY Scrooge was summoned last time, only that it was bad enough he needed to come home, and thus ratchet’s up the tension until we find out shortly. 

It turns out the back taxes on Castle McDuck are up and the castle is being sold., doing so with some glasses, foreshadowing his iconic specs wearing as the snow and brightness of the praries in various seasons mean his eyes are all done fucked up like mine.  The Whiskervilles are naturally not only the prospective buyer but already trying to take the property prematurely, with Fergus and Jake holding the line, because love isn’t always on time. But Hortense is and when the Whiskervilles mock her daddy and uncle, planning to tear down the castle out of spite, her response reminds us why donald is a ball of rage and badassery...

Have I mentioned she’s my favorite part of this story? Because she is. Her response to scrooge being back is also just pure adorable. 

Scrooge does get a big reunion with his dad and uncle, getting a big hug from Fergus, if squshing his cream cheese sandwitch... and yes that’s apparently a real thing. I mean I do love me some cream cheese don’t get me wrong, but it just feels weird to put it on bread as the only thing, but I guess i’m a bit spoiled with crackers and bagels in my day and age or putting it on tosat with salmon and.. saying all of this both makes me very hungry for cream cheese. So I guess i’ts not all bad it’s just weird to me, especially since I don’t think it’d keep all that well unregrigrated but I also don’t know the times that well. Or maybe when your that poor and hungry, it dosen’t matter how good it is and maybe i’m just spoiled by my upper middle class existance. I dunno. The point is i’m going to go get me some cream cheese be back in a minute. Here have some music. 

For all two of you that didn’t clear out, Fergus naturally for the time, turns out to be sexist, insisting Jake get “The Women” home.

Though Rosa gets a great joke out of it by having Jake wonder if he can even reign Hortense in. And I do love Hortense’s character. Whlie i’ts simple, she’s simply an angrier version of her son without the penchant for half-assed schemes, it works and makes her stand out against the more subdued rest of the McDuck family outside of Scrooge. 

Fergus explains HOW it got so bad to Scrooge: While the McDuck ancestors pooled resources to automatically pay the taxes, eventually only having two poor old men who could barely keep their family fed and a slightly less poor pulp fiction writer somewhere in America meant the taxes piled up and the Whiskervilles are within a whisker’s reach of gettng the castle, something mentioned in part 1. 

It also provides a great payoff to the first part of Scrooge’s journey: while the boy bemoans only having gotten the 10,000 dollar check from the mine sale, and that will only just about cover the castle’s taxes, he feels disheratned as it’s ALL he’s accomplished.. but in a nice moment from Fergus he points it WASN’T all for nothing: Thanks to his work they get their home back. His family can move from the cramped confines of Dismal Downs back to their ancestral homeland like they always deserved. While he may of not achieved his goal of being rich yet.. he still achieved his goal of buying the castle back, the very thing that set him on this path in the first place. It’s telling though that it takes a reminder of that, that Scrooge is loosing sight of the very human, for lack of a better term, reasons he set out: while he’s finally built a better life for his family, if just so.. all he can see is that he’s not RICH. The money is starting to cloud his judgement.. and i’tll roll over him entirely before the series is over. 

The Head of the Whiskervilles shows up with the Sheirff.. whose also a Whiskerville lest you thought unfair and crooked policing was a strictly american thing. But Fergus points out their too early.. and Scrooge flashes his check. And when the Head Whiskerville scoffs at a mcduck having money... Scrooge points out he didn’t believe in ghosts either and brags about his awesomeness in the first chapter, revealing what he did and leaving The SHierff pissed and the older whiskerville ready with a plan: he decide......

Sadly not with children’s trading cards but with swords, and gets past the legality issue by simply challenging Scrooge’s pride and angering him into accepting. Argus, the head whiskerville whose name I just got from the comic, reveals his plan to the Shierff: While he’s dueling Scrooge Sheirff can snatch the bank statment.. though why Scrooge didn’t you know, cash it before coming and how an american banks tatment is valid in early 1900′s Scotland...

So the Duel is on.. and like the money he’s made, the Duel is another Marker of how far Scrooge has come and how despite still not having made his fortune yet he’s rich with EXPERINCE. His experince fighting cattle rustlers and pirates means he has the reflexes to easily outfight his opponent.. though him saying he learned how to fight “Injun Style from Buffallo Bill”, i.e. learned how to fight like a native american from a white guy and beat Sitting Bull with it just makes me feel like i’m watching that episode of Saved by the Bell where Zach has to learn not to be racist but then thinks this outfit is acceptable. 

Scrooge also tracks the guy using the tracking skills he learned from the blackfeet which again feel like the picture above , but send Argus running.. only to lure Scrooge into a fight on the castle battlemnt in the pooring rain and disarming him. Luckily the spirit of Sir Quackly gives the lad his sword back and Scrooge wins the fight.. but promptly gets hit by lighting while celebrating Caddyshack style. 

No really Scrooge is.. or close as he got knocked into the water and is now in heaven. Sir Quackly naturally doesn’t want to see the last hope of the Clan McDuck dies and goes to talk to the tribunal of McDucks to sort it out hence the Matter of Life And Death connection. 

The Tribunal is made up of former McDucks.. it turns out Scrooge is here because of Quackly: the lighting was SUPPOSED to hit the tower, distracting Argus, and they prepare to write Scrooge off because their more concerned with golf than the fact that their whole clan’s future is on the line.. which I do not get because unless you are Tiger Woods or the Film Caddyshack, golf usually is the boring garbage water of sports and this is from someone who dosen’t like sports to begin with. I do like the Missing Links of Moorshire though so there’s that. And golf episodes of shows are usually good.. the sport itself is just incredibly boring. And I sat through Mank. I know boring. I know wanting hours of my life back. Golf is the Mank of Sports. 

What we get is a pretty tiresome sequence honestly: Quackly points out the tribuanls faults while their just dicks who only care about golf. Which again, Mank of sports. Or if you prefer the Cloud Atlas of sports but with SLIGHTLY less untetionall racisim and sadly much less Tom Hanks and Hugh Grant. The point is golf sucks and while I ilke the REST of this chapter this bit just dosen’t work for me and was clearly funnier in Rosa’s head, with the assholes not thinking much of Scrooge’s achievements and only liking him when they find out he’ll be a tight wad, the only funny joke in these draggy as hell three pages, not counting the start and finish of the sequence which arnet bad, as they send him back to earth with Quackly mentioning the dime, but not giving out WHY it’s important. That he has to figure out on his own and all that good stuff. 

So Scrooge uses his dime to unscrew the bolts and back at the castle while Argus TRIES to pawn it off as Scrooge being a coward and depart with the bank draft.... 

Damnnnn that’s badass, he gets the bank note back (only knowing because one of his ancestors mentioned it, though with his memory of the dying dream gone he dosen’t know WHY), and has Fergus run into town to pay the taxes tonight before any other shenanigans happen while he keeps the two scheming dogmen captive long enough for Fergus to get too far for them to catch up.  Argus plans to go with plan “Do a murder on Scrooge”.. but fines Scrooge is far from unprotected and not the only badass in his family.. I mean Hortense exists but I mean that ther’es more than two... you know what jut look at the ghost heads. 

So the two run for their lives..... also they forgot you know Hortense exists.. she’d revenge murder all of them and they both know it. 

So with the land safe and the taxes paid so the Family can implicitly move in, we end on a beautiful sunrise as Scrooge prepares to leave soon. Despite all the setbacks and hardship Scrooge is deterimend to still make it and knows he won’t fail forever. When Fergus mentions Gold at the end of a rainbow, Scrooge takes that, and the golden dawn as a sign. WHen Fergus understandably asks if he’s sure he’ll make it this time.. we get a nice nod to Bark’s best and most notable painting “always another rainbow to close us out”

It’s a beauitful and inspiring statment.. no matter what you face.. there’s always a light at the end of it. Always another opportunity, another goal to reach, another hill to climb.. and life to live... and it’s one i’ve taken to heart and always will.. and one that will land Scrooge his fortune yet. 

Final Thoughts: This chapter is alright but like I said the two page sequence in heaven dosen’t really work for me. It’s just not funny enough and really shoudl’ve been trimmed down a page so we could get more character stuff with Scrooge and his family> Otherwise it’s a tightly paced thrilling chapter in Scrooge’s life, showing just how far he’s come and how far he has left to go. The DIsmal Downs chapter serve as a good marker of where Scrooge is and where he’s heading as I mentioned earlier, with this one showing that while he’s not hit his goal yet, he still got his family their true home back, beat his enmeis and is a legend to be. Ther’es always another rainbow.. and he just needs to find it. All in all a decent chapter outside those two pages, and a good setup for the next three glorious chapters. 

Next Month on LIfe and Times: One is Scroogey and the other is FLINTHEART GLOMGOLD, as Scrooge meets his arch enemy and rides a motherfucking lion. And if “rides a motherfucking lion” doesn’t make you come back I do not know why you read this.  Next Time On This BLog: What is that, that Freaky Thing? It’s A naked Mole rat as we return to Kauai this time with Kim Possible and Co as Drakken tries to capture stitch and Jumba wonders if Rufus is one of his or not. 

See you at the next rainbow

[stufftippywrote]

not my type, chapter 5

Read it from the beginning--

"First off," Shitty says, holding Jack by the shoulders, "you're not killing anybody."

"What was he thinking?" Jack hates this feeling, hates when the shakes seem to be reverberating through his blood. It's like every cell in his body is wobbly, like he won't be able to hold himself together. "How can he make all that up?"

Lardo's over at the computer, frowning as she reads the story through. "Actually," she says, "he did kind of a good job."

"What?" Jack takes in a gulp of breath, exhales it out in a whoosh.

"He did okay," Lardo says, turning. "Not too many details, but enough of a story to keep 'em interested. Easy for you to memorize," she adds, meeting Jack's gaze.

"Calm down, brah." Shitty's still got a hand on Jack's shirt. "It's all gonna be okay."

Jack lets them lead him to the sofa and sit him down, but he's still quavering.  "He didn't have to say anything," he says. "He didn't have to go to the press."

"Sounds like the press came to him."

"And he couldn't say 'no comment'?" Jack drops his head into his hands. How could they have screwed this up so completely? How could Lardo think this guy was the perfect fake date? He went way overboard from the beginnning, with that stupid kiss hello. Jack should have walked right out. He should have never agreed in the first place. "So stupid," he mutters.

"Look, Jack, blame us if you have to," Shitty says. "We didn't think this cunning plan through. We should have realized it wouldn't be over and done in a single night."

"And I should have realized Bitty would talk," Lardo says. "You met him, you know how he is."

"I've never met him myself," Shitty says, "but yeah, bro, I hear he's that type. We shoulda known."

Jack can't stand to hear his friends blaming themselves. The desire to comfort them breaks through the web of anxiety, and he finds a bit of sanity to cling to. "Right," he says, "okay. Doesn't matter whose fault. What are we going to do now?"

"Well, for one, we should probably talk to him." Lardo has her phone out already.

"And by 'we,' we mean you," Shitty says, slapping a hand on Jack's back.

This very nearly brings the panic back. "W-what should I say? Wait..."

But Lardo's already entered the phone number. When it starts to ring, she thrusts the phone in Jack's direction.

"Lardo, Shits, come on--"

"Hello?" A soft high tenor voice comes from the phone's speaker. "Hello? Is someone there?"

Lardo gives him a look that might as well be a dagger. Jack takes the phone tentatively in one hand.

"Um," he manages, "yes, hello. Eric?"

"Who is this?" Hearing Bitty's voice near his ear stirs something in Jack, a strange vibrating in his chest.

"This is Jack Zimmermann."

Silence on the line.

Jack tries again. "Hello?"

"I... yes, sorry, I'm just surprised." Bitty's tone becomes cheery. "Mr. Zimmermann. What can I do for you?"

What can he do? Jack's flying blind. He's been shanghaied into this conversation.  "I saw you talked to some reporters."

A gasp on the line. "Did I actually end up... in the news?"

Sounds like he's as horrified as Jack was. But what did he expect? "Yes."

Bitty gives an audible sigh. "Oh, lord. Well, of course you'd want to ask me about it. I really did my best to not tell them anything. I'm just not so great at keeping my mouth shut, especially not when they're customers in my shop. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you..."

Bitty is still going on, and Jack is still searching for the next words, when Shitty stage-whispers at him, "Invite him over!"

Jack answers him silently with wild, panicked eyes.

"What? You need to talk in person."

It's not Jack's apartment, but he abruptly has a better idea. "Eric," he says, "is your shop still open?"

---

The three of them take the short walk a few blocks down to Bittle's Bakeshop, and although it's evening, the lights are still on inside. When they come in, there's only one table occupied, a couple of kids that look college-age to Jack. Bitty is there, behind the counter, and Jack's heartbeat goes unsteady and weak for a second. He's not sure whether he's infuriated or delighted to see him again.

At the sight of Larissa, Bitty comes out from behind the counter and gives her a hug. Then he turns to Jack to give him a nod and a smile. "Mr. Zimmermann."

Jack looks him over. He's wearing a baker's apron, but it hasn't protected him very well from what looks like it must have been a hurricane of flour. It's smeared all over his shirt, and there's a light dusting over his face as well. Jack's thumb itches to pass over his cheek, just to clean him up.

But along with the flour, there are the bright brown eyes and careless smile Jack remembers, and for just a moment he's back at that gala, dancing with him, wondering idly what it would be like to reach out and touch him. His thumb itches even more. Jack curls his hand into a fist.

"So you know Jack," Lardo is saying, "and this is my boyfriend, Shitty."

Bitty blinks. "I'm sorry. Your boyfriend what now?"

"It's a long story," Shitty says.

A few minutes later, they're all congregated at a round table toward the back of the shop. Bitty has provided everyone with decaf, and once he's finished passing out pastries ("sorry, they are leftovers from today, I would of COURSE have baked some fresh if I knew y'all were coming"), Shitty stands up and raises his mug of coffee. "So! Friends, acquaintances, unfairly good-looking NHL players. We are gathered here today to figure out what we should do about Jack and Bitty's predicament in re: the press. Now that we know that the vultures won't leave these two poor gentlemen alone, we should think of solutions for how to handle the situation."

"You could stage a messy breakup," Lardo says, picking at the strawberry atop her tart. "Big public fight."

The thought makes Jack recoil. He and Bitty say "No" at the same moment, then turn to look at each other.

"It's just," Bitty hastens to explain, "I don't think I'm as good an actor as all that? I'm plenty good at pretending to be close to people, but I don't think I could play mean or angry."

"An unobtrusive breakup, then," Shitty suggests. "When the press comes after you, you just say you're not dating anymore, and when people ask why you just say GIMME PRIVACY YOU FUCKING VULTURES." He pounds the table as he says it, and Jack wonders if this is really decaf they're drinking.

"Will that work, though?" Lardo wonders. "I mean, Bitty's just given this interview where he sounds head over heels."

Bitty clears his throat. "Um... we could also keep pretending."

Jack's gaze flies to him. Why would Bitty suggest that? Isn't he the one who wanted out of this after a night?

"I mean. Just to keep everyone satisfied." For the first time since Jack's met him, Bitty looks a little shy. "Just for a while. Then have a fake breakup."

"How long is a while?" Jack's voice comes out hoarse.

"Until the press loses interest," Shitty fills in. "Problem is, that could last a week, it could be months. They could still be on your doorstep next season asking what you did together over the summer."

Bitty visibly shudders. "I don't know if I can keep pretending for a year."

"Then let's make it a week," Jack says. He turns to Bitty. "If you're willing to do a week. I can get someone from PR on our team in on it, and they can probably help with the details." He pauses. "What do you think?"

He's not sure what kind of answer he wants, what kind he's afraid of. And for a moment Bitty keeps him guessing, surveying him like he's sizing up an opponent before a fight. Finally, he nods. "I suppose that wouldn't be too much trouble, if it's only for a week. What would we have to do?"

"Go on dates," Lardo says.

"Be seen going on dates," Shitty clarifies. "Doesn't matter if you actually go on them."

Jack addresses Shitty and Lardo. "He should probably come to a practice, and then if he doesn't mind meeting the other -- the wives -- he should come to a game."

"Good opportunities for the cameras to catch him," Shitty notes, drumming his fingers on the table. "And you all don't actually have to spend any time together if you don't want to."

"I don't mind." The words tumble out of Jack in a rush, and he blinks, as surprised to hear them as anybody. Bitty is staring at him, those brown eyes wide, and Jack feels a flush creeping up his cheeks as he turns to face him. "I mean. If you don't mind."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shitty and Lardo exchange a look, but he doesn't pay much attention to it.

Bitty seems to have lost his everpresent words. He blinks right back up at Jack, mouth open. God, his eyes are just so wide, like Jack could dive right into them. Is it possible that for just a moment he's considering -- but no, he knows Bitty isn't attracted to him. He'd just be building false hope, thinking of something like this. All he needs is for Bitty to tolerate him. That's as much as he can reasonably ask for.

Shitty quickly rushes in to fill in the silence. "It probably is a smart idea to actually be seen together. Even if it means going on some dates."

Lardo coughs. "Fake dates."

"Right. Fake dates." Shitty reaches across the table and slaps Jack on the shoulder. "There ya go. Just be seen together a couple of times this week and then say adieu. When the press asks what happens, you just say it didn't work out. The end, finito, take a bow."

Bitty finds his voice, as well as a disarming smile. "Well, now," he says, "that's no trouble at all. We can survive a few evenings together without killing each other, right?" He winks at Jack, a movement that makes Jack's heartbeat skip. "I'll just take a couple of days off from the bakery, let Ransom and Holster take care of the place. I've been meaning to take a little break for a while now! Been working day and night between this and the catering." He rolls his shoulders back. "Gosh, this could actually be fun. I've always meant to go to a hockey game!"

Jack finds himself smiling, too. It's hard not to when Bitty's going on like he is. There's something contagious about his cheer, and even Shitty and Lardo seem affected by it. They're both smiling as well.

"I'll talk to Georgia -- that's the PR person from the team -- and we'll make a schedule," Jack says. "And if you need any pocket money for when you're not working, I can take care of that."

"As if!" Bitty turns up his nose. "I may be your escort for the week, but I am not an escort for hire, Mr. Zimmermann."

"You can call me Jack." Again, Jack is surprised to hear his own words.

But Bitty just smiles again. "Well, of course," he says, crossing his arms over his chest like he's in a huff. "We're dating, after all."

Lardo makes a small sound that sounds almost like a squeak. Jack and Bitty both turn to her. "Sorry," she says, covering her mouth.

They finish their coffee and treats, and Bitty walks the three of them to the door. "Well, I suppose you'll be in touch?" he asks, and Jack nods. "I feel like we ought to shake hands on it. Looking forward to working with you, Jack." Bitty holds out a hand.

"I appreciate your doing this," Jack answers. He takes Bitty's hand to shake.

Oh no. That hand in his feels far too perfect. One more time, Jack's taken back to their dancing at the gala. Bitty's hands felt good then too, on his waist and in his palm, and Jack finds himself mourning that they won't be able to end tonight with a kiss as well. Even a fake kiss.

His heart sinks. He actually likes this boy. Wants him, even. And now he'll have to spend a week with him, all the while pretending he cares (for the camera) and also pretending he doesn't.

He also can't wait to get started.

Shit. This could be the most miserable week of his life.

[anika-ann]

Hands Too Cold, but Heart of Gold - Pt.3

The Mission

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader, Matt Murdock x reader (no SR x MM x r)

Word count: 2700

Summary: Avenger!reader AU, love triangle. Mission in progress; You’re going in. Spoiler alert: it goes about as well as Steve expected.

Warnings: violence, blood, swearing, banter, unconsensual drug use (kinda?), injury 

Story Mastelist

────── ·❆· ──────

“Alright, guys. We’re clear about everything? I’m coming in first, opening the door for you. Natasha, you’re with Clint, you’re going after Vasiliev and intel. Frosty and Daredevil are onto the girls and their guards. Tony, try to get to the basement level, I’ll join you as soon as possible. Questions?”

“Won’t Secretary Davis be pissed about Frostbite coming to save his daughter instead of Captain America?” you noted, a bit annoyed that you actually had to ask that question. You couldn’t care less and you were actually fine with your task, but… sadly, this was politics too, not just a rescue mission.

Steve sighed. “I’m the leader of the mission. I’ll be everywhere, that has to be enough.”

“What’s in the basement?” Clint questioned and you could see a shadow of worry covering Steve’s face as he put on his helmet.

“I don’t know. And I don’t like it. That’s why I’m sending the least vulnerable people there.”

You gulped, chill running down your spine. You didn’t like they should be going there just the two of them. “You should wait for us.”

Steve shook his head. “Can’t do. If there are weapons the guards can use against you, we need to secure them.”

“Goddammit, Steve! You told me-“

“You have your orders, Frosty. Follow them. You know this distribution of resources makes sense as it is,” he shut you down, his blue eyes piercing yours in warning.

You knew he had told you something he didn’t want to tell the others and you shouldn’t have pulled it out. But you trusted his instincts and you felt like this was the source of his concerns and the others should know that.

You raised your chin, crossing the short distance between you and the Captain.

“You don’t go there alone. You stay with Tony.” He escaped you gaze and you grabbed his forearm. “Steve.”

He looked back at you, his eyes burning with honesty. “Same goes to you, Snowflake. Everyone. Don’t do anything on your own. We’re a team. Don’t forget that.”

As if someone could ever forget being a teammate to any of you – you were all a bit too special for that. But you could see what he meant.

The team nodded in agreement, gradually leaving the jet. They ‘parked’ it about a mile from the building Tony had located the girls in, nothing but woods around you. You kinda envied Tony his suit – what you wouldn’t give for a flying suit to avoid the running right now. Or any time, really.

Alright, stop whining. Let’s do this.

────── ·❆· ──────  

You hated Steve sneaking in alone, but he was your best shot; he could be the most subtle apart from Natasha, who lacked the super-strength needed for breaking the locks. You could have frozen the locks, made them fragile and broken them easily, but Steve was better at hand-to-hand combat, which allowed him to get rid of the guards. Also, his body was less vulnerable. You agreed with Steve being the best choice; however, that didn’t mean you liked it.

When he opened the back entrance for you, you couldn’t supress the wave of relief; he seemed unharmed. It was ridiculous, because the mission barely started, but you hoped that from now on, he wouldn’t be alone.

“The hostages are in the west wing of the building,” Tony’s voice sounded in your ear and you nodded, glancing at Steve one more time. He smiled at you warmly before taking off.

“Stay safe,” you murmured as if he could hear you.

“Let’s go,” the Devil encouraged you softly and you both broke into a jog. Time to save some sorry asses.

The Devil turned out to be a good partner in crime – he always stopped you before taking a turn, warning you when someone was close, which gave you enough time to prepare yourself and won you the element of surprise. Also, he totally kicked ass; so far you had had the opportunity to see him in action once, because your own opponent had already been knocked out, and if you would say you didn’t forget how to breathe when seeing his quick sharp blows, you would be lying through your teeth.

“You okay?” he had asked you then and you had just shaken your head to snap from your trance and beckoned to him to move.

And then there was the door. The door, because Daredevil tilted his head to side, his hand on your forearm to pull you closer.

“Fifteen heartbeats. Four of them younger and scared. That’s our girls,” he whispered almost soundlessly into your ear and you bit your lip, nodding in acknowledgement.

“Weapons?”

“Few riffles.” His jaw tightened. “Probably knives, it’s hard to tell. There is no wood or water in the room as far as I can tell, but there’s lots of metal, the sound is bouncing off it – I think the girls are on the floor, leaning their backs against it.”

You stared, awe-struck, forgetting to try to imagine the picture he was drawing for you; instead, you were watching him as he had a look of the highest concentration on his half-face.

“You okay?”

You blinked, waking up once more. Jesus, get a hold of yourself, loser. “Yeah, sorry. Just… it’s incredible.” He seemed puzzled. “What you can do.”

A brief smile raised the corners of his lips. “Thanks. Not too bad yourself. Work your magic.”

You obeyed, touching the round doorknob, its metal immediately covering in a layer of ice and spreading to the whole door – its temperature dropped enough for the molecular structure to change.

Daredevil spared one more glance at you and the two of you simultaneously kicked out; the door shattered as if it was made of thin glass.

All hell broke loose. You barely managed to disarm two shooters by icing their weapons before a spray of bullets rained your way and you had to take cover behind one of the metal cabinets, the Devil throwing his billy clubs and disarming two others while knocking one out.

“I’m icing the main alley, you okay with that?” you hissed over the distance and he immediately nodded.

Your hand hit the floor, sending a thick belt of ice down the route – to your satisfaction, you could hear the gunmen curse and few of them went down with a thud and blind gunfire to the ceiling as they slipped.

A second later, the path was clear of ice, the distraction allowing you to attack again while the Devil sneaked into one of the smaller alleys, surprising the men from behind.  

Freezing their hands was the priority; the weapons fell on the ground one after another. Unfortunately, that also meant the men went after you and they were really pissed. The ones who could still handle to carry some kind of a weapon switched to blades; Daredevil had been right.

You did your best to fight off everyone who came at you, using an icicle through their limbs when necessary. It was a method far from your favourite, but it was efficient when needed.

The floor was quickly covering in a layer of bodies of unconscious men. It took them a while to realize that their buddies were being attacked from behind by Daredevil – idiots, lots of them.

Receiving a kick to you lower back sending you into a cabinet, making your belly meet the edge, put you into the category of idiots too.

Shit, how had you missed this one? You quickly turned, still leaning onto the cabinet and blocked his lunge by kicking his stomach, making him stumble backwards. Next thing he knew, he was frozen to the wall and you punched him unconscious.

You spun on your heels to look for another opponent, ducking on instinct – a second later, a knife was sticking out of the wall in the same level your head had been.

A crack echoed in the room, followed by an agonized scream. Your gaze shot in that direction immediately, seeing the Devil cracking a guy’s wrist and dislocating his shoulder. You winced. With the man being the last one standing, you only guessed he had been the one to throw the knife. And Daredevil just elbowed his face, his own teeth barred in a savage grin which only a fool would call a smile. The man fell to the ground.

“Remind me to not to piss you off. Ever,” you panted, approaching Daredevil’s masked figure. His hands were clenched in fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he seemed fine. He snapped his head higher to face you better, his posture relaxing just slightly.

“Same goes to you,” he beckoned to one of the bastards who had their thigh stabbed with an icicle, impressively big even for you.

“Didn’t have the time to be gentle.”

“Incoming. Six more men. Fair sharing? Four for me, two for you?”

You gaped at him, not sure if he was kidding or not. The smug was so evident even on his half-face and you just couldn’t-

“Wipe that smirk off!” you hissed at him, laughing, spinning to the girl who didn’t get the memo and hadn’t hid yet. “Go to the corner, take cover. Things might get messy again. Anyone hurt?”

You took the zero response as a no. Devil confirmed your theory. Because of course he would know. He knew fucking everything.

“Which door?”

Daredevil beckoned to the one that were still in place. You grinned, creating a layer of black ice right away. They deserved a proper welcome. Daredevil gathered his weapons and prepared himself too.

Three fingers on Devil’s hand raised.

Two.

Now you could hear the gunmen too.

One.

You hit the ground with your palm once more and let the black ice spread under edge of the door too – they threw it open with their balance already shitty. You and your partner used the advantage immediately. They were disarmed before they even realized what was happening.

The Devil was right in the end – you only got stuck with two opponents, the thugs probably assuming you were the lesser problem. Sweet summer children… the winter is coming, bitches.

By the time you were done with yours, Daredevil was still fighting two of his own, one of them just throwing himself on the armoured figure; you quickly created ice for his feet to be stuck in. He almost lost his balance from the momentum with his feet suddenly disabled. The Devil sent the other man down with a powerful hook, soon elbowing the one standing pretty much frozen behind him to his face. The man lost consciousness immediately, his body going limp; you released his feet.

“Thanks,” the Devil called out and you spent one precious moment shooting him a smile. A second later, his billy club flew inches from your face, successfully taking down a guy behind you that you apparently hadn’t knocked out properly.

“Thanks,” you parroted, your smile faltering. Sloppy.

“That’s why we’re partners, right?”

For a second, you lost yourself in the lopsided grin he gave you. Shit. You heart. His smile widened.

“Get a room,” one of the girls whined and you snapped from your trance, squatting to her to untie her hands. “Thanks.”

“Fuck,” Natasha cursed in your earpiece and you tensed. Had not everything gone as smooth as with you and DD? “Steve, get out of there. NOW.”

Your heart must have stopped that second; she sounded as if she was panicking. Natasha Romanoff never panicked.

“What is it, Romanoff?” Steve asked lowly, a little out of breath. You could hear him fighting and your feet itched to get to the basement. But someone had to stay with the hostages.

“I’ll go,” Devil whispered, brushing your arm and you wordlessly pleaded him to rush. He disappeared in the doorway.

“Just get out! It’s a set up. They’re experimenting, developing an antidote to the serum that-”

She was cut off by gunshot and you sprang to the door as well.

“Stay in position, Gerda! I’m heading his direction,” Devil’s voice sounded in your ear and you had no doubt he was talking to you. You forced your feet to stop, gritting your teeth. If you weren’t so on edge, you might appreciate the nickname he had come up with.

“Steve, run,” you ordered adamantly, silently praying and absently checking on the four girls in the room. They were just bait. Vasiliev knew that taking Secretary’s daughter was a way to get Captain America here. Fucking shit.

Come on, Steve, don’t be a dick, don’t play hero and just get your ass out of there. It’s over anyw-

Three more men burst into your room. Shit. So much for things being over.

You didn’t worry about getting them seriously hurt now. You froze their guns first, their shocked screams echoing in the room as the icy metal gave them an immediate frostbite. Then you created a layer of black ice under their feet, their lunges in your direction ending up in their limbs tangled together. Some of them were frozen to the floor by hands, some of them by their feet, sides. You didn’t give a fuck. You knocked out all of them, stabbing one of the other goons who came back into consciousness with icicle through his forearm. He roared in agony and passed out again.

A different scream made your blood run cold.

You never heard that sound before, but you were sure as hell whom it belonged. It was Steve’s. Steve was in pain. And in horrible pain, because you had never heard him scream.

“Shit!” Tony cursed through the comms and the sound of his repulsors came next. “Romanoff, get the documents on that substance and head to the jet. I’m bringing him in and calling Banner right now.”

You barely heard him over Steve’s cries, though they were falling silent. You didn’t think that was a good sign.

And then they died out completely.

For a second, the world stopped. Everything froze as if you had blasted your energy, yet nothing went cold. No, the time itself must have frozen.

“Get out of your asses!” you yelled after the girls, startling them all. You were coming to the jet right now, all of you, because you couldn’t leave them here, but you wouldn’t worry about the goons. Others would take care of them or the clean-up squad of agents coming after. You needed to see Steve. Now. “NOW!”

The girls shrieked, but complied, stumbling to their feet.

“Move it,” you hissed. “Down the corridor, stay close so I can protect you, but for fuck’s sake move.”

You barely heard them muttering something under their breath, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Steve was hurt. Steve was probably injected with some fucking anti-serum and— you blinked away your tears. Not now. You would see him first and then came to catastrophic conclusions. Not now, not now…

The way out of the building was endless.

“Faster!”

The girls immediately did as you ordered. They were probably scared of you; you couldn’t care less. Your friend was in unbearable pain. And shit, you felt cold all over your body. You hadn’t felt that for a while.

Tony had cut himself off, so you couldn’t hear him until you stumbled into the quinjet, seeing his figure hovering over Steve’s, lying unconscious on the improvised bed. There was a hologram of Bruce’s face, Natasha flipping pages for him; at your incoming, she handed the file to Tony and went to help you with the hostages.

“Stay here,” you hissed at the girls, pacing to the bed.

Steve’s back arched, his body in spasm and you gasped, reaching for him.

“Don’t touch him now, let it be.”

“You’re kidding right?!”

“He’s right, convulsing person shouldn’t be held down-“

“Read you fucking files, Bruce!” you shot back, but clenched your hands in fists to stop yourself from touching Steve. You vision blurred.

“Hey, cool it, Elsa!” Tony snapped at you, trying to make a sense of the files as well. “We’re trying! You have a Ph.D. you haven’t mentioned ye-“

“That’s it,” Bruce called out, astonished. “She needs to cool him down until you get him to me!”

Glares of everyone in the room locked you in. You tensed, horrified at the suggestion.

“You want me to WHAT?!”

────── ·❆· ──────

Part 4

────── ·❆· ────── 

Tags: @mermaidxatxheart​, @murdermornings​, @elisaa-shelby​ 

As always; anyone wishes to be added/removed, shoot me an ask or a message.

Thank you for reading!

[department-shoe-stud]

Mitch and Erik’s First Tutor Session

Well, unofficially.

As the class filed out, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher's Assistant raised his voice to call over the din. "Mr. Hodge -- would you stay after for just a moment. I'd like a word." His voice wasn't stern exactly, but it was predictably blunt.

Mitch paused in his steps, tension in every muscle as he turned to face Mr. Apollo, eyes going wide behind his glasses as he nodded. Watching his classmates leave, Mitch’s thoughts spiraled, thinking back on any possible missteps he could have made.

Erik settled himself on top of the desk at the head of the classroom and patiently waited for the rest of the class to file out and for the door to close behind the last student. Once everyone else was fully gone, he lightly crossed his arms over his chest and addressed Mitch. "Mr. Hodge," he said levelly, "I would like to see you attempt the Disarming Charm on that dummy, please." He nodded to the black training dummy he'd placed in the center of the room.

Mitch’s eyes darted to the dummy, and back at his teacher. His hands gripped the sleeves of his school robe nervously, the sleeves spooling past them. He blinked in confusion. “P-Pardon, Mr. Apollo?”

Erik inclined his head slightly. "I would like to see your wandwork up close, one-on-one," he explained, his voice remaining very level. He again nodded to the dummy. "When you're ready."

Ready. As easy as that. Mitch looked at the dummy again, and shuffled forward. He grabbed the wand from his pocket — It still felt too big, too long, too clunky — and looked between the wand and the dummy. He could feel Erik’s eyes on him as he stood there. Just stood there, staring and not saying a single word. Oh God. “Um, I think... I think I forgot the spell, s-sir.”

Erik could see Mitch's nerves. As he suspected -- there were insecurities there, getting in the way. His eyes softening ever-so-slightly, just enough that his face became much more casual, he sidled up onto his feet and over to Mitch. "Put the spell out of your mind, for the moment." He took out his own wand, holding it out in front of him just as Mitch was holding his. "Focus on your wand and your grip. I know it seems too big for your hand, too temperamental and wild -- like some crazy wild horse you're afraid to let go of, for fear it'll trample you. But your wand isn't where the magic comes from -- it's merely a conduit for it. The power comes from inside of you, not the wand. Think of it like a lightning rod, helping you focus your power and control it. You don't need to hold it in a vice grip -- you don't need to control it -- instead, see it merely as a tool. Picture the way you hold your pencil in your mind. Your wand is like a pencil. It's a tool -- the only difference is that it helps you express yourself through magic, rather than through the written word." As he speaks, Erik's focus is largely on the dummy in front of him and Mitch: he could sense that Mitch was growing uncomfortable, with how much he was looking at him and thought it might work better to merely show the proper posture by example, holding his own wand out the proper way, rather than staring at Mitch or physically adjusting the Hufflepuff's grip himself.

Mitch took in his instructor’s words carefully, feeing embarrassment come through him. He wanted to do better, he really did, and it was... nice, that Erik seemed to understand, but it didn’t stop him from feeling foolish. He shook his head and looked at Erik’s posture, slowly moving to match. When they did, he took a deep breath and looked back at Erik, nodding to show he was ready to continue.

Erik gave Mitch a curt nod of approval in return, his edges of his mouth touched by the faintest hint of a smirk. “Now then,” he said, keeping his focus on the dummy, “we’ll practice the wand movement next. To cast the Disarming Charm, you’ll move your wrist to the right and then down — kind of like an upside down backwards ‘L,’ see?” He demonstrated the wand movement slowly several times as he spoke. “Get the movement in your wrist, nice and easy.”

Mitch gave a nod back, setting his jaw, tamping down his nerves. He trusted that his teacher knew what he was doing, with the spell and with his help. Mitch watched the movement and repeated, slowly flicking his wrist a few times before taking the wand in it. “Mr. Apollo? Just out of curiosity... How badly can this spell go wrong?”

The question made Erik laugh. His laugh was a low cackle in the back of his throat — one that could’ve sounded evil, were it not for how sincerely amused and honest it was. He looked down at the Hufflepuff with a rather mischievous gleam in his eye. “Worst case scenario for you? You lose your balance and fall over. Best case scenario? You both disarm your opponent and knock them clean off their feet, making them look like an idiot for underestimating you.” The teacher’s assistant looked quite a bit younger, with that look in his eye. His lips spread into a brighter smirk. “Are you up to try the spell with the incantation? I’ll make sure you don’t fall over.”

Mitch let out a small, nervous laugh, little more than a huff of breath. He looked at the dummy and nodded. “If I do fall over, sir,” He said, gripping his wand the smallest bit tighter, “Promise you won’t laugh?” Feeling more confident in his posture and hand movement, he looked up at his teacher once more for support. “Please?”

Erik’s smirk loosened slightly and his ice blue eyes became a little smaller. “I give you my word,” he said, before adding with a broader smirk, “And whether I’m swearing an oath or swearing like a sailor, I mean what I say. Now then...the incantation is ‘Expelliarmus.’ Take your time and remember to enunciate the consonants. Ex. Pell. Lee. Air. Moose.”

Mitch nodded once more, repeating the syllables under his breath a few times before taking one last deep breath. He inhaled, stood at posture and stared the dummy down. “Expelliarmus!” While not the most powerful of spells, the dummy wobbled back a few inches, enough to show the spell had succeeded. “FUCK YEAH!” Mitch shouted in triumph, only realizing after the fact that he had shouted right in his teacher’s ear. “Oops. Sorry.”

The volume had startled Erik, but not long after Mitch had apologized, the TA burst out laughing. His loud, low cackle filled the room as he flicked his own wrist, silently moving the dummy back into its starting position with his wand, and then turned back to Mitch with a more devilish smirk. "So you DO have some fire in there," he said. "Thank God -- it's a pain in the ass, trying to drag students by their ears to their fullest potential."

Mitch quickly recovered from his apologies and headed straight into pouting. “I want to be good at magic, I do! I’m just not used to it like you are! It’s all so, so... weird! I’m used to everything being one way and then suddenly, guess what! Magic is real and you have it! Here’s a stick that helps you make things float but also set things on fire but also turn cats into cauldrons and also kill people. Have fun!” He scuffed at the floor, shoving his wand back into his pocket and sighing. “I want to be good but it’s... scary. Does it... Does it ever stop being... a lot?” He twisted his hands in his robe sleeves again. “I mean, it’s got to get easier, practice and all that but... I’m just... scared that I’ll hurt somebody.” He blinked and screwed up his face. “I’m also scared of the tree that hits you in the front lawn. Seems like a safety hazard.”

Erik's smirk slid slowly off his face, making him look a bit more serious. "You're Muggle-born too, then?" he said softly. He turned, strolling over to the desk at the head of the classroom again. He sat back down on top of the desk, patting the wood next to him as if offering Mitch a seat on it too. "It is very overwhelming, you're right," he said patiently. "Having so much thrown at you, all at once -- having your whole world up-ended, and everything you thought you knew disrupted -- making you feel like you're constantly falling behind...like...it's you, against the whole world." There was something almost haunted in Erik's eyes as he looked at Mitch. The memory of him as a boy Mitch's age standing in front of Dolores Umbridge and the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, cowering under the dark, draining, despair-inducing shadow of the dementors rippled over his mind. "...It will take a while to get your bearings," said Erik, his voice a bit lower in his throat with muted sympathy, "and it will take longer to find yourself and a place that can be all yours in this new World you've been enveloped in. The good news is...along with all of the scary stuff that you don't understand yet, there is also a lot of amazing stuff. And even if everything at once can seem overwhelming...if you take it a bit at a time, patiently making notches in your belt for everything you've learned -- you can look at each thing with awe, not just fear. And if you don't lose sight of that good thought you've got -- that desire not to hurt people -- then you'll be able to work hard to understand that magic as much as you can so that you never do." His mouth then twisted into another smirk. "As for the Whomping Willow, I don't blame you for that. That plant is fucking nuts."

Mitch laughed, nodding. “It’s insane.” He looked at Erik. His advice was sound and it was... nice, knowing that he wasn’t alone in this. That it got better. But he knew a far off look when he saw it, and he hoped that whatever Erik saw, it wasn’t something he had to deal with. He really did hope to be as used to the Wizarding World as everyone else one day, but Erik was just... so much cooler than Mitch, could do SO much cooler shit than him. Whatever haunted Erik’s memories would no doubt make Mitch piss himself. Mitch nodded once more and smiled. “Thank you Mr. Apollo. Do you... um, I heard Jordi, uh, Prewett was taking tutoring with you. Is that... Do I have to sign up for that, is that a special thing for him, should I just leave now and save you the trouble, or...?”

Erik's smirk broadened, revealing white teeth. " 'Save me the trouble?' Mr. Hodge, I *love* trouble -- and I reckon a nipper like you is *exactly* my kind of trouble. I could use more students with both drive and a good sense of humor." He adjusted his crossed arms over his chest. "I 'tutor' on a person-by-person basis, based on when both of our schedules are open. Week-days only -- even assholes like me deserve a good night's sleep once in a while. You may either bring something Defense-related that you would like to practice to me, or I will pick something myself." His ice-blue eyes twinkled mischievously again. "I'll warn you -- I'll expect you to give me 120%, both in class sessions and especially when we work one on one. If you're willing to put in the work, then I will do whatever I have to to make sure you succeed. But you'll need to be ready to kick some ass, got it?"

Mitch nods back, grinning. “Kicking ass is my middle name. That’s what the C really stands for.” Distantly, a bell rang in the hall, and Mitch felt himself blanche. “Potions. Shit.” He scrambled to shove his books away and nodded at the still smirking TA. “Week-days, bring material, 120%, got it.” With his bag haphazardly packed away, he sprinted towards the classroom’s door, only to stop at the threshold and turn back towards Erik. He raised his hand to his forehead and saluted him. “I’ll come back with my A Game, Mr. Apollo, or my name isn’t Mitch ‘Cicking Ass’ Hodge!” He swung the door open and sprinted down the hallway, muttering cusses at himself the entire way down to the dungeons.

Erik cackled as the Hufflepuff dashed out of the room. He liked this kid. It was going to be a lot of fun, training him.

~~~

Thank you so much @carewyncromwell for the rp session to help flesh Mitch and Erik’s dynamic out! It was so much fun having the Sour Patch and the Anxiety Boi interact and I hope we can do it again sometime!

I hope everybody else enjoys this exchange too! I really need to upload more original content for Mitch, my poor son :’(((

[fic-for-fic-sake]

Snapshots of Life

A/N: Hey! This is the new oneshot series I mentioned. Read the first part, Sunlight, here

The First Date: From Eden (Hozier)

Bucky had a problem, one he’d had for a while. If he were being honest with himself his problem started the day he met you. 

Being Stark’s new PA you were always around the tower, always near him. After his morning run he would hear your bright laughter ring through the halls and his heart rate would pick back up again. He tried to steal glances at you whenever he could. He wanted to see what you looked like when you thought nobody was watching. 

He noticed the way you would examine your iPad everyday like it was always the most thrilling news. Whenever you read something that was especially troubling you would tug on your plump bottom lip with your teeth and twirl a strand of hair around your finger. Not being able to stand it any longer Bucky would walk in the room. Needing to be close to the warmth that seemed to radiate from you. Inevitably you would look up at him and your eyes locked for a second and Bucky felt like he couldn’t breathe. Felt like every nerve in his body was on high alert, seeing how you would react to him, to his darkness. But then, every time, you would break into a smile so brilliant it made his knees weak and his hands shake. 

Babe, there’s something tragic about you. Something so magic about you, Don’t you agree? 

He would try and hold light conversations while you waited for Tony but he always fumbled over his words. His once smooth self suddenly absent in your presence. Something about you made him second guess everything he did. How would you react to him? Would you run off if he said the wrong thing? 

That day training went agonizingly slow as usual. Steve tried to change things up but Bucky knew every trick Steve would do before he did them. Years being trained to sense any weakness your opponent has before they know it were drilled into him. Sometimes fighting was something he knew more than his own name.  

He mindlessly dodged Steve’s attempts to disarm him and happened to look up in the gallery to see Y/N there, watching him. You truly were a vision. You wore a maroon blazer with a black top and matching pants. Your hair was slicked back into a ponytail and your feet were wedged into kitten heels. His eyes trailed over your form before locking with yours. Fuck, how long had you been watchng him for? Your eyes were the size of dinner plates as you stared at him in shock and he worried. Worried that the Winter Soldier side of him had scared you off. That you had seen too much of him too soon. 

Babe, there’s something lonesome about you, something so wholesome about you, get closer to me 

It was in that moment, vulnerable from the effect you had on him, that Steve struck. Saw Bucky’s weakness and took him down. Bucky fell onto the mat in a huff and when his eyes went back to the spot you were standing in, you were gone. He almost yelled at Steve for hitting him but then something stopped him. 

The sound of heels clicking on the linoleum of the training floor flooded his senses. You walked towards them, iPad in your hand and a small smile playing on your lips. 

“Hey sweetheart.” Steve breathed out, between sips from his water bottle. 

“Captain.” You nodded back. 

“Captain?” He questioned, brows furrowing. 

“You have a mission, wheels up in 20.” You responded, pulling something up on the iPad and showing to to Steve. His lips turned into a slight frown as his eyes roamed over the text. He sighed as he picked up his gym bag and pressed a  kiss into your hair as he left. 

“Sorry Buck, gonna have to continue our training sesh another time.” Steve called out behind him, the doors to the gym swinging shut with the momentum. 

Without Steve in the gym, Bucky became very conscious of the fact that he was alone with you for the first time in a while. He could feel his breathing turn shallow. Fuck, what were you doing to him? He can hardly remember the last time someone got him as worked up as you did. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time. 

“That was impressive.” You broke the silence with your observation, calling on the fight you had witnessed earlier. 

“How much did you see?” Bucky asked hesitantly. He was worried you would never want to speak to him again. 

“Enough.” 

“Oh.” Bucky felt his shoulders slump and his eyes turn downcast. So this was it, it was over before it even started. He could feel what was left of his heart constricting in on itself, felt like a little part of himself, the last part of his humanity, was breaking off. Dying. 

But then he felt the light flutter of your fingertips on his bicep and met your sparkling eyes with his, a shocked expression written on his face. “Bucky, it was incredible! I mean I heard rumors about how well you fought, had seen videos, but it’s nothing like the real thing.” You replied, seemingly mesmerized with him of all people. He realized that your hand was still on his bicep, clutching it lightly. 

“You mean that doll?” He questioned, cocking his head to one side, letting his black hair fall over his face like a curtain. He looked at her through his locks and could see your earnest nod. 

“Of course I do, Sergeant.” You whispered back, giving him a devilish smile and a wink before turning around to leave. Bucky watched your hips swing and was taken by the sound of your heels as you exited the gym. 

No tight side, no rolling eyes, no irony. No ‘who cares’, no vacant stares, no time for me.

Bucky had been a wreck all day since his encounter with you in the gym. With Steve gone on a mission there was nothing he could do but pace and think. He tried, really tried to think of anything /but/ you. Except, every time he would close his eyes he would see your stunned face watching him fight. Hear the earnest confession leave your beautiful lips. Lips he so badly wanted to kiss. He was battling with himself. He knew he was bad for you, because how could you, someone so beautiful and perfect and so fucking innocent, fall for someone as damaged as Bucky? How could he knowing let you fall for someone as damaged as him? 

But the thing is, you bring back something in him. Something he thought was lost back in ‘45 when HYDRA took him. 

Honey you’re familiar like my mirror years ago, idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword.

He took a shower to try and clear his thoughts but it didn’t work, it was no use. You were like a drug to him, he had a taste and he wanted, no, needed more. Your honeyed voice and bright eyes were healing balm to him. Stitching up all the broken parts of him and added back things he didn’t even know were missing in the first place. 

Innocence died screaming honey ask me I should know.

Hair still dripping wet, Bucky left his room on a mission. He let his feet guide the way. He needed to ask you out, had to. He couldn’t imagine his life without you and god dammit he wanted to be closer to you. Stolen glances and clever smiles weren’t enough for him. He wanted all of you, needed you like he needed air. He reached your door and hesitantly lifted his vibranium arm and knocked. 

I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 6: There Are No Saints in New Orleans

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Come one, come all to the exclusive (even among the elite) event of the evening; a show not to be missed and sure to be the talk of the town for years to come. That's right, you'll only find it here at Persephone. Werewolf vs. Minotaur — to the death!

[READ IT ON AO3]

An old-fashioned iron elevator lines Persephone’s back wall. Pull back the metal doors and step in to crystal-clear glass without a smudge or streak in sight. It would be a nice way to look down on the club’s main floor from above — to take in all the things limited by distance and closeness.

But when Taylor sees the equally-clear panel that slides aside to allow the elevator to descend into a plunging endless black he rethinks how cool it is. Like, immediately.

They approach keeping close behind Cadence and Katherine. Ryder catches him looking over his shoulder and throws a subtle arm around his shoulder, whispers “keep your eyes ahead, you look like you’re up to something” in his ear, and remains at ease.

Some people just aren’t used to this sort of life, but thanks for the tip?

An attendant presses the call button on the elevator’s rigging. Summons it from the topmost floor in the smoothest glide he’s ever seen. There’s no way that’s just human technology at work.

Another attendant — similar, not identical — pulls open the grate doors where a third steps aside for them to enter.

He guesses she’s fae by the way her skin shimmers like glitter beneath the surface and the point of her ears. Doesn’t say anything just in case he’s wrong and might somehow offend them, but the golden highlight under almost obsidian skin is breathtaking nonetheless.

Though she becomes breathtaking in a whole new way when Taylor watches her eyes drift subtly to the signet rings on the hands of their guides.

She holds up a long-fingered hand before Ryder, Taylor, and Cal can join them.

“Rings, sers.”

Ryder jumps at the opportunity — cocks a brow and starts what has to be a prepared monologue; “I knew you’d ask. Wouldn’t you know, what happened was —”

“Rings, sers.” She cuts him off, unfazed.

He looks behind her to Katherine; already inside the elevator and leaning against the back railing. But it’s Cadence who steps forward, places a feather-light touch on the attendant’s arm to draw her attention.

How the towering man manages to look so unassuming is a mystery. Even his smile seems genuine — but it can’t be. Especially not from the way Ryder spoke to him earlier. If Taylor hadn’t seen those red eyes for himself he’d have a hard time believing the man was anything potentially dangerous.

“I can vouch for them, miss.” He offers.

Just when it looks like he’s disarmed her with his smile, the fae shakes her head. Though when she replies she’s kinder in tone; recognizes his status as assumed by the ring.

“It is my job, ser.”

“I don’t remember security being this tight during the Lunar Eclipse.”

“Increased measures due to recent events, ser,” she nods imploringly, “all for the protection of the guests, Persephone-assured.”

Taylor blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “We just lost our rings in one of the rooms, that’s all!”

But it’s not enough. She starts to wave down the other two workers. “These things happen, ser, we understand. However until your rings are recovered we cannot allow use of Persephone’s services.”

When Katherine finally joins the conversation she’s got a furrowed brow and a hint of ire on her tongue.

“Jesus, Nik, leave it to you and your new boyfriends to make everyone’s fucking lives that much harder.”

Everyone’s startled for different reasons. Taylor and Cal exchange glances, mouth ‘boyfriends?’ in absolute bewilderment. Nik looks ready to smother her with his sleeve it it’ll stop her current train of thought. The attendant’s cheeks go slightly blue with what must be their version of embarrassment at her vulgar language.

Only she doesn’t stop there. “Let me guess — while you had me and Cade waiting at the poker game you were… what, getting off in the steam room?”

And because he’s always been a sucker for improv Taylor takes Nik and Cal’s hands in his and squeezes. “I don’t really think that’s your business.”

“What, my partner isn’t my business?” she snaps.

“When he’s with us he’s definitely not your partner, honey.”

Katherine’s got a twinkle in her eye — elbows Cadence into action subtly while the attendant looks between them to see if she can settle their tiff on her own or if she’ll need backup.

“Like I care what your newest little toy has to say,” Katherine rolls her eyes dramatically, “but you kept us waiting then and you’re holding us up now! If Izzy’s gone by the time —”

“Pardon her,” Cadence leans down and apologizes to the fae in a low voice, “she’s had a bit of a night.”

“I—I can tell.” Comes the squeaked-out reply.

“We really don’t want to cause a scene.”

“Of course.”

“Oh come on,” jeers Taylor — now fully in-character, “like poker compares to what we can give him? You’re out of your mind.”

Cadence hisses through clenched teeth and lets the fae fill in the rest for herself. This doesn’t have to turn into a big scene. You only have to let them through.

She finally cracks; lets out a helpless little noise and stands aside. “We’ll have the spa searched for your missing belongings. Forgive us for delaying your — er — Persephone experience.”

The attendants are probably meant to stay in the elevator for the duration of the ride but as the three of them shuffle in — Taylor and Katherine now coming to verbal blows about some throwaway comment from “Miami last year!” — she worms her way out, presses the button for the lowest floor behind her, and helps her fellow worker close the gates to send them on their way.

Only when the glass panels close and plunge them into darkness does the fighting end.

He can hear Katherine’s smirk. “Not too shabby… who are you, again?”

“Taylor. That was actually kinda fun.”

“You really dropped the ball there, Ryder.”

“Hey, Kathy?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Not a chance.”

The noise is first. Cheers of joy and frustration and a distinct thudding followed by the clap-clap of hooves.

Then come the lights; less fancy and bright than the ones back on the main level but they’re probably there for an ambiance or something — part of the fixation the rich have with things looking shabby and poor. And through the glass floor it doesn’t take long for their eyes to adjust.

The last piece of the puzzle is the smell — old things like rust on chain-link fences and concrete that bring him back to the city for a flash. And underneath it the sour, coppery smell Taylor’s only recently come to understand is blood, freshly spilled.

It’s not just a cage match — it’s a bona fide Fight Club being held a couple stories underneath the wealthiest properties in New Orleans.

The crowd hangs in a thick mass of sweat and expensive perfumes around the center cage. Sways like the tide to keep their eyes on the fighters within as they rumble around their confines.

Up high they get a rare chance to see the fighting full-blown. Rare, and terrible.

Taylor barely has time to clasp his hand over his mouth and hold back his exclamation. Watches as the hulking stone troll — it’s not Krom, it’s not Krom, it’s not Krom — with geologic muscles pounds its fists against its chest and rushes at a startling speed towards the opponent.

The owner of the hooves is a satyr; half the troll’s height with horns included and stocky rather than built. There’s a chip in the curved ram-like horns and blood running down its face from a broken nose.

It stomps against the concrete — and he has to ignore the splatters of dried blood in various colors to focus on the fight itself — and braces. Makes Taylor want to yell for it to move because there’s no way it can hold back the sheer weight alone of the troll. He almost can’t watch. But it’s like a train wreck — he can’t look away.

The crowd erupts with noise at the collision. The satyr is stronger than it looks; holds back the troll first with its horns and doesn’t give it time to grab for the softer, fleshier parts before charging, bull-like, to push the heavier opponent all the way to the other side of the cage.

Then it goes dark; the hand over his eyes just a little clammy. The troll roars in agony.

He pulls Ryder’s hand away just in time to see the troll fall face-first. Thin, watery blood pools beneath it. His confusion doesn’t last long when he notices a jagged, torn edge of the caging bent into the cage like a spike.

“No weapons inside,” Nik explains lowly; like he’s holding some sort of reverence for the troll now being dragged limp by its arms from the arena, “but that doesn’t stop the resourceful.”

A shirtless duo, what look like a brother and sister with a beauty so striking it can’t possibly be of this world, enter and take the satyr’s hands to raise it up as champion. Most of the crowd boos and jeers — Taylor can see why when the money begins changing hands near the shaded back of the space.

“People enjoy this?” He can’t help it when his voice cracks.

“Violence is just another luxury when you’ve got enough money.”

The elevator grinds to a halt and Cadence pulls the doors open for their exit.

“Keep close.” Ryder doesn’t give him much of a choice, what with the arm around his shoulders, but Taylor’s definitely not arguing right now. Not with what he just witnessed.

Several steps and something feels off — missing. Makes him look around to find Cal a few paces behind with a sickly pallor and his hands balled into fists.

“Cal, what’s wrong?”

It draws the attention of the others. Katherine follows the werewolf’s line of sight and mutters more than a few expletives under her breath.

The walls are lined with (no doubt expensive) graffiti and posters larger than life. Some are peeling at the corners and bear ink faded with time and what might have once been sunlight. Now they’re almost relics of a bygone era — no, eras — of fighting.

Nearest the elevator has to be the most recent title match. Glossy paper smoothed down and tacked in with polished nails, colors still vibrant and with a large piece of tape bearing SOLD OUT across the front partially obscuring the words.

But it doesn’t take a genius to piece it together.

MARDI GRAS EXCLUSIVE!! ONLY FOUND AT PERSEPHONE!! MINOTAUR VS. WEREWOLF!! $5K BUY IN!! ASK YOUR ATTENDANT FOR DETAILS!!

Before Taylor can reach his side Cal doubles over and empties his stomach at his feet. They’re far back enough that it doesn’t grab anyone’s attention. Already the next round of bets is beginning and the mob is losing itself with greed and a hunger for blood.

“Hey — Cal, hey,” he rubs the man’s broad back as he gags up the last of his spittle, “we’re here, we’ll get Donny before anything happens. He’s not gonna fight.”

Cal rights himself shakily; wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

“How do you know — guh — he hasn’t already?”

He doesn’t. And doesn’t want to try and give Cal false hope. But his face says everything before he can try to put on a smile — makes Cal nod grimly.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

A gaggle of goblin onlookers herd aside just in time for them to spot the bouncers haul away the unconscious stone troll through a metal warehouse door.

Ryder jerks his head that way. “Likely where they’ve got all the fighters.”

“So let’s go.” Cal growls; starts to push his way through the bodies before Ryder grabs him and holds him back. “What the hell?”

Katherine clicks her tongue. “You don’t know what match they’re on. Storm in there now and every fighter who wants to be here could be back there waiting to turn you into ground beef.”

“But Don —”

“We’ve come too far to risk it now, Cal. Please…” The wolf looks into Taylor’s eyes — then his shoulders sag with a nod.

“Fine. Just until we see what round they’re on.”

Ryder lets out a low whistle that draws Katherine’s attention. Sweeps her gaze over to what has to be some kind of VIP corner with a poor excuse for bleachers dotted with better-dressed guests smoking cigars and being served by attendants.

Most of those guests are crowded around an older woman in all black. Set lines from an unkind tussle with the years around her thin lips and deep in her forehead. She doesn’t sacrifice her wealth for her mourning; and the high-cut thigh slit on her gown isn’t something you’d expect at a funeral anyway.

“Let me guess, Izzy?” Taylor asks as quietly as he can — practically whispering it in Ryder’s ear.

But he doesn’t get the chance to answer as Isadora's ruby eyes fall on their group from across the crowd. The same color as Cadence’s back up on the floor.

Oh.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Katherine scoffs; throws a dirty look back Taylor’s way before resuming her position on Cadence the vampire’s arm. “Don’t have any fun without us.”

With a tittering wave they’re gone — being let passed the velvet rope to Isadora's section and too far away for any of them to hear.

“What do you suppose they’re talking to her about?” He doesn’t bother whispering this time — knows they can hear him even if they don’t look his way before the movement of the crowd obscures them from view.

Ryder shakes his head grimly. “Nothing good. So let’s not be caught making it our business.”

Though the betters and onlookers are of the same caliber as the party-goers back upstairs, the ambiance of the space is just different. Taylor isn’t the only one who feels it, either. Every time he grabs for Cal’s arm to keep them all together he feels the shiver of goosebumps — the wolf within knows something here is inherently wrong.

Up above it hadn’t seemed like all that shining wealth could be housed within the same realm as the thing that had gone after him in the cemetery. Now, though, he gets it. This is the real world; all the paint washed off and costumes put away.

He definitely doesn’t find it as beautiful anymore.

An unseen announcer takes to a pitchy speaker system to let everyone know the next match is in fifteen minutes and that all bets are final. It incites those around them to start placing their final calls — jostles them like a sudden storm at sea.

He stumbles as a figure forces himself between Taylor and Nik. Scrawny shoulders like cut stones and a rusty mop of hair that ends just above a set of pointed ears suddenly turning to look at him with way too much malice for a stranger to have.

“Watch where you’re going, mortal.” When he speaks the fae’s accented voice cracks in a way Taylor’s all-too familiar with. It makes him grin despite himself and when the stranger takes an almost comical level of offense to it he laughs, too.

With no shame, of course.

“What in the blazes is so funny?!” It’s obvious the kid — god, he can’t be more than a teenager or… whatever that is in elf years — puffs out his chest to look a little bit more intimidating. Obvious and wholly ineffective.

Lucky for Taylor the only kind of people that make him look less masculine are preteen boys.

“I’m —” pause to breathe again, “— I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I…” No, yeah, he is.

“How dare you,” is the sneered response, “do you know who I am? When I tell my father of your impertinence you will rue this!”

Well that just kind of kills the joke. Makes Taylor look back to Cal who doesn’t make a show of hiding his curled upper lip.

“Whoa there. Calm down Little Elfen Annie, you bumped into my friend, here. So how about instead of empty threats you try an apology?”

Somehow the youth finds more of himself to puff out but it’s no match for Cal’s werewolf physique. He dwarfs the redhead effortlessly. And only then does the kid notice.

“Of course you’re a shifter. One of the impure, no doubt.”

Taylor gawks. “Hey, watch it. Now you’re just being a dick.”

“You vulgar —”

“You wanna talk vulgarity twerp you ain’t heard —”

“Oh god — N-Nik! Nik! Ni —”

They all three fall silent when Ryder’s calloused hand falls on the elf’s decorated shoulder. Makes him look up (and up) into the Nighthunter’s stone-cold expression with the barest flicker of fear showing through his bravado.

“Get. lost.”

Ryder doesn’t have to tell him twice. Though he does make it look like he’s choosing to leave — rights his blazer and mutters something in a lilting language under his breath that Taylor thinks he catches a bit of but, obviously, doesn’t speak so he lets it go.

“What the hell happened to ‘laying low?’” Nik scolds the pair of them. Barely enough to get Cal to calm down. “Put it on ice, Kujo. Before you get us kicked out and then no one’s gonna save your brother’s sorry tail.”

Whatever curse Cal throws at Ryder’s turned back is lost when the crowd starts cheering and chanting around the cage. Draws their attentions to the far end where the back door opens and a large, hulking shadow casts over the dim lit hallway beyond.

“We know you’re all buzzing for the fight of the night, folks!” comes the Announcer’s voice overhead. Cal whispers a “no…” and Taylor feels his stomach drop out from under him.

“But we thought we’d give the poor wolf pup a fightin’ chance. So who wants to see our reigning champion take on the as-yet undefeated Corbyn the Satyr?!”

All around come shouts and chants of “bloody him!” and “break his face!” — along with the odd “get me my money’s worth, damn goat!”

Then a loud snorting noise rings through the arena and makes a hush fall over the crowd.

“Min-o-taur.”

“Min-o-taur.”

“Min-o-taur! Min-o-taur! MIN-O-TAUR!”

Soon the chant fills the air like a gospel. Draws out the god in question from the doorway in a prayer.

The Minotaur is everything and more. Just like in the movies but real; a real bull’s head on top of a real hairy body covered in mottled scars and wounds that fade into two of the biggest blackest hooves Taylor’s ever seen.

Atop his head are polished horns that, even from a distance, he knows could impale him without resistance.

The Minotaur stomps into the middle of the cage and raises its large arms. Encourages the crowd to chant higher, louder, faster. It revels in the sound of its name; tips back it’s enormous head and lets out a deep howl that actually shakes the metal of the cage. The crowd bursts into cheers like animals possessed at the sound of it.

For the first time Ryder actually looks worried.

“We gotta find that kid wolf before that thing tears out his spine.”

Taylor cringes at the mental image. “Jesus, Ryder, have some —”

“No,” Cal interrupts hollowly; never looks away from the Minotaur as it riles up the crowd by hammering its fists on its chest and bellowing in their faces, “he’s right. Donny’s dead if he gets in that cage.”

Just as the creature huffs in a group of faces at the front there’s a hot breath on the back of Taylor’s neck. Makes him yelp and jump sky-high away from the shiver that curdles up his spine.

“Hnn what the hell?!”

The perpetrator, a lemon-yellow goblin with a head almost as tall as his torso, grins his equally yellow teeth at them with fingers folded at his chin.

“Did Meerl hear right?” the goblin eyes Taylor up and down like a snack and it’s an experience he never wants to have ever ever again, “When Meerl was hearing that little mortal man wants in cage?”

Meerl (apparently) wiggles his fingers like long spider legs. “Meerl can make this happen.”

“Wha —” — nope, nope, a big fat fucking nope — “— no way, I —”

“Yeah, we want in.” Nik interrupts, holds Taylor back and snaps several times to grab Meerl’s glittering glance.

“How much?”

Cal snarls. “Ryder, what the fuck?”

“Shut up, wolfpack,” then he repeats; “I asked how much, worm.”

“Meerl only asks for small percent — small percent of mortal’s winning.”

“That’s assumin’ he wins.”

“Meerl can make this happen.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, yes. Come speak with Meerl — Meerl will make mortal rich.”

Before Taylor can protest any further Meerl starts off; pushing his spindly way through the throng just as the cage door shuts with the satyr Corbyn and the Minotaur locked inside.

He grabs onto Ryder in a panic. “What are you doing?!”

The answer he gets isn’t verbal — instead it’s just a look on his bodyguard’s face that (against his body’s wishes, very much so) makes Taylor’s heart do a backflip and stick the landing.

“Do you trust me to keep you safe?” Nik doesn’t take. Not this time. Instead just offers his hand cuts and all. He can hear Cal start to protest behind him and, farther up, sees Meerl turn and give them what he probably thinks is a sweet smile and a wave of his claws.

“Taylor.”

Nik’s voice brings him back to himself. What the fuck am I doing?

He hesitates… then puts his hand in Nik’s.

“I trust you.”

“Then come on.”

He throws back a pleading look at Cal — who definitely still opposes, but follows with a single nod.

Nik pulls him along in a secure grip to where Meerl waits. The closer to the cage the tighter the fit but they manage. All the way across the room to the metal door guarded by two suited stone trolls.

“Shit,” says one, and looks the three of them over, “you actually found one?”

“Meerl does good business, should not doubt Meerl,” the goblin croons. With a doubtful glance to his companion the troll shrugs and opens the door.

“Come, come friends,” Taylor tries not to let the goblin’s chuckling dissuade him from trusting Ryder as they’re led inside, “good business to be done.”

If he squeezes Nik’s hand a little tighter when the door slams shut, the hunter is a real bro and doesn’t mention it.

The thing about Meerl’s deal is that it isn’t a bad one in theory.

It’s Their way of keeping the fighting interesting and preventing people from accusing the club of rigging every match. Bring a Joe Schmoe in from the crowd itself and, should he win, most of the winnings are his. It’s a good return of investments for those who spend a little bit too much time and money betting on fighters.

And little Meerl gets a cut of the winnings. Not even half, not even a quarter! There would definitely be enough left over for the inevitable medical bills.

So it’s a sound theory — for someone like the Minotaur.

For the human going up against said Minotaur? Well yeah it’s a fucking death sentence; a warm-up routine for the hulking creature and an easy paycheck for the goblin whose job it is to bring in fresh meat.

Not that any of this is said out in the open but it’s obvious. Like, painfully obvious.

Which is why Ryder isn’t actually considering entertaining the idea.

Wait… right?

The fact that they’re led to a small room with only a desk and some paperwork should raise way more alarms on his so-called ‘bodyguard’ than his behavior would suggest.

Cal tries to keep out of the way; “I’ll wait out here, keep an eye on things,” but Meerl isn’t having it and ushers him in alongside. Closes the door to give them ‘privacy to discuss business matters,’ or whatever.

Doesn’t stop the wolf from nudging Taylor’s arm and jerking his head back out to the dark corridor. Not that they’ve gotten close enough in the—oh—three, four hours they’ve known each other by now but he doesn’t have to be psychic to get it.

Cal’s caught Donny’s scent. They’re in the right place at the wrong time.

The goblin scrambles to work; a fire lit under his yellow ass as he starts grabbing and shuffling piles of paper, packets, and waivers of various official pastels. Starts explaining everything in that hasty way one does when things aren’t completely legit. But Ryder eats it up like he’s just won the lottery.

Frankly it’s disturbing seeing him smile that much.

Before they suffer death by a thousand paper cuts, though, he puts his palm down on the already too-high stack of liability forms. His smile is so greasy it makes the goblin look positively angelic.

“I think this is a great starting point, Meerl,” he grabs Taylor by the shoulder and shakes him with camaraderie, “but this is my kid’s first fight — cold feet, you know.”

“Oh yes yes, yes Meerl knows.”

“So may~be you could gimme a few minutes with him? Help settle those nerves in a special way.”

It’s the wink that makes Taylor lean back. “Uh, excuse you?”

But Meerl is already stood and skittering towards the door. “Oh yes — yes Meerl sees this quite often, Meerl does. Give you, hm, say five minutes, yes?”

“Ten.”

“Six.”

“Fifteen!”

Turns out yellow skin goes sort of orange when it pales. But Meerl accepts with a huff and a nod. “Ten minutes, Meerl will give. Then new mortal will face champion — then champion will face wolf pup.”

The pop pop of Cal’s cracked knuckles as he clenches his fists echoes through the concrete walls.

“Or maybe the new mortal — er, me, you know what I mean! — maybe I’ll face the wolf pup.” Taylor jibes.

Any sensible person would take the way the goblin throws his head back in laughter as a clear sign to get the hell out.

“Yes,” Meerl’s tone is nothing short of placating as he closes the door behind him, “yes maybe—maybe…”

And though he may not be perfectly sensible, Taylor’s sensible enough to smack Ryder over the head the moment they’re all alone.

“Hi, yeah remember that ‘trust’ you asked for? It’s waning — fast.”

Maybe a little less so when Ryder scoops the paperwork onto the floor in a colorful confetti-like array. There’s no imagining his satisfaction.

“I got us back here, didn’t I?”

“With the sleaze-ball right outside the door.”

Ryder ignores him for Cal; “Can you track him from here?”

“He’s definitely close,” he’s almost breathless with anticipation, fear, worry; “he’s terrified.”

“I would be if I had to face that thing, too.”

Either the stone walls suck at muffling sounds or the crowd is losing its collective shit over the match. He knows which is more likely.

Ryder continues; reaches into one of the inside pockets on his coat and winds something long and dark around his fist. “So we’re all clear on the plan?”

Cal nods tersely. Taylor, not so much.

“Uhm, when was there a plan? Did I miss talking about a plan?”

“Jesus,” the hunter pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m gonna start calling you Rookie if you can’t keep up.”

Before Taylor can protest, though, Cal comes to his rescue. “Same thing it’s always been. We got in — now we find Donny and get out as quick as we can. And probably try not to get our faces busted in on the way.”

“And once we’re out?” He looks back and forth so fast he gets a bit dizzy, “You said Kristof was sending some of the Pack after him. Won’t you be on the run?”

“You let me worry about that. I’ll get you your Sage and we can part ways.”

Ryder nods curtly; flexes what Taylor can now see clearly as a thickly braided leather cord between his hands. “Sounds good.”

“No, no it doesn’t!”

“Taylor,” and Cal shouldn’t sound as sure as he does given his situation — not just the one he’s in but the one he’s going to be in, “hey — we’ll be okay. Thanks for the concern but… we’ll be okay.”

It’s likely Ryder’s keen Nighthunter-honed senses that spring him into action because any more time to delay and Taylor might just talk them into a newer, tighter corner than the one they’re already in. But just abandoning Cal after, well, after everything? It just doesn’t sit right in his gut.

“On my signal.”

He barely paints the fake smile back on before rapping his wrapped knuckles on the door. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Is that the signal? No, because he doesn’t move when the wiggly door knob turns and Meerl’s scratchy voice sing-songs through the gap; “Good good! Meerl promises —”

No, the signal is the cutoff and choking gasps of Nik winding the bulk of the cord around the goblin’s skinny throat. Hands flailing, grasping for purchase where there is none while his tongue lolls out and eyes bulge even farther out of their sockets than they already do.

“Knock him out!” hisses Ryder through clenched teeth. Angles their dear friend Meerl over to Cal’s drawn-back fist.

The punch collides with a sickening cracking noise; something definitely broken in either the wolf’s hand or the goblin’s face. Taylor and likely the betting crowd outside would have all their earnings on the latter.

But just before he falls Meerl manages a single attack; sharp nails digging unforgiving into Ryder’s forearm before his eyes roll back into unconsciousness.

Ryder recoils and the body falls through the doorway just as Taylor catches the sound of footsteps halting. His heart stops — only barely starts back up again when he recognizes the distinct metal-tipped sound.

Cadence peeks a head around the doorway; pushes up his glasses before they fall off of his nose. Behind him Katherine appears with a long dagger in hand.

“Here they are.” Cadence announces with all the glee of a man stating the obvious. He catches sight of Meerl and quickly steps away from the long tongue just an inch from his boot. “Ew.”

He gives Taylor a slight wave. Entirely too optimistic for the current situation. Unsure of what else to do Taylor just… waves back?

Ryder, however, is furious. “Kath—what the hell —” he looks around them both to check the coast is clear, “— are you doing back here?!”

Katherine barely has time to return the dagger to a well-concealed holder on her thigh before Cadence pulls her in for a disgruntled side-hug.

“She was worried about you.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You didn’t need to,” he admonishes, “I could tell. Kept watching them during our meeting with Isadora — she noticed, by the way. So thanks for that.”

“You didn’t hire me to kiss her ass.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Without being asked Cadence joins Ryder in dragging Meerl’s body fully into the room.

Cal looks between them as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “If we’re done with the childish bullshit? My brother’s about to get beaten to death.”

He pushes past Katherine with nothing more than a grunt. If she wants to say anything she doesn’t; bites her tongue and probably everyone’s benefit.

Taylor calls out, “Cal, wait up!” and follows on his heels as quickly as he can. Doesn’t look back to see if the others will follow but he doesn’t have to.

Bodyguard, remember?

The corridor seems to stretch on forever. Open doors lead to empty rooms and closed doors — well — Cal may be in a hurry but he has the sense not to open them without being absolutely sure what’s on the other side.

They’re so far back he can barely hear the noises from the arena. All it takes is one look down to his feet and he collides hard into the werewolf’s solid muscle. Flails a hand out only to be caught by his strong grip.

“Here — he’s here! Donny! Donny can you hear me?! It’s Cal! Donny!” He tries the handle; growls in primal frustration at the lock. Starts trying to knock it down with the brunt of his weight in a frenzy.

“Donny! Donny hold on!”

Cadence and the Nighthunters arrive just as Cal lets out a bestial growl; teeth grit and definitely more canine than human as he gives a final shove and breaks a splintered hole in the door. Knocks it off its hinges and sends it flying inward.

Cal rushes in — zeroes on a dark-haired and twiggy kid pressed against the bars that hold him captive.

“Cal!” The kid cries, voice thick and choked with eyes red-rimmed from tears. His hands shake as they grasp for one another like sheer force of will can make the bars disappear between them. Cal buries his nose in the mop of dark hair and inhales deeply, lets something wild shift underneath his skin before it settles; satisfied with the scent of kin.

“Christ, Donny —” he pulls back and thumbs away a fresh wave of tears, “— you’re such an idiot! I was worried sick about you!”

“I’m so sorry Cal, I’m so so sorry.” Donny hiccoughs; tries to right himself like he has something to prove.

But how can anyone prove themselves trapped in a cell? One of a dozen on either side stretching further into the labyrinth underneath Persephone.

Taylor and the others follow in — no door to close behind them but they’re far beyond that now. Take in the state of not only the kid but a couple others who press themselves up to their bars in desperation.

“Please get me out of here!”

“I’ve got the money, I swear! Get me out and I’ll pay off Lady Smoke I promise!”

“Please, please!”

“I don’t want to fight anymore!”

It’s involuntary how Taylor turns away and into the newfound safety of Ryder’s shoulder. He can feel the shaking of the man’s hand as it falls on his back.

Katherine lets out a choked noise beside them. “Holy shit, this is…”

“This is too far.” Cadence answers; knows they were thinking the same thing by the way she’s left speechless.

His grunts of effort and frustration fill the room as Cal tries to yank off the door — instinct overriding common sense.

Ryder reaches out, tries to stop him, but ends up on the business end of those same pointed teeth when the wolf rounds on him with bright yellow eyes.

“Whoa now,” Ryder holds up his hands and shimmies down his left sleeve to show a long metal tool, “I’m just tryin’a help.”

“Cal — I already tried that.” Donny reaches out and his touch soothes the beast within. Makes Cal remember himself enough to give Ryder an apologetic nod of his head before stepping aside.

He huffs in silence like he’s the one caged, not his brother. But not all cages are metal, are they?

Ryder takes a knee in front of the door, starts to fiddle with the lock. Katherine takes his cue and procures a lockpick of her own to start working on the other cells.

Cadence keeps his distance from the occupants but looks them over with almost medical appraisal. “You’re here because you owe Lady Smoke on some level?”

A few cells down hooves echo and a woman leans forward; presses her face against the bars and peers at them through two swollen blackened eyes. The centaur leans down and rubs the tight muscle of one of her front legs — she favors it when she shifts in place.

“Some of us couldn’t pay up; others just not in time.”

“Were you given a choice to fight?”

She nods. “Again; some. I wouldn’t fit on her private floor, though, so I was just brought down here to fight.”

It makes Katherine let out a wordless, mindless shout of anger. She struggles with the lockpick. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

“It’s gotta be illegal…” Taylor tries. Only to be met with pitying faces.

Cadence shakes his head. “Not here. Though when it comes to Lady Smoke they’re lucky to still be alive.”

The centaur scoffs. “At least if I die in the cage there’ll be a body to bring back to my wife.”

It makes his blood run cold. “Who is this Smoke woman?”

Not even the captives have anything to say and that says a whole lot. Whoever she is she’s a part of this world that he doesn’t want to get involved in — that much is clear.

A thunk and Donny’s door swings open. He and Cal embrace without restraint this time and there’s such a heavy importance to it that Taylor finds himself looking away. Like he’s intruding.

Ryder moves on to the next cell and together he and Katherine work as quickly as they can to free the others.

Katherine sweeps the trail of her dress aside in front of the centaur but stops when a hand of bloodied knuckles rests over hers. Looks up into the human face with reverence.

“Don’t. I asked for this.”

“You didn’t. Nobody asks for… for this.”

“It was fight or let them take my home; my livelihood. It’s hard enough for the glamourless to get by these days. I didn’t want my wife to lose the roof over her head, too.”

Kathy’s jaw sets. “Then we’ll find you a new livelihood. Get you and your wife out of the city —”

“And where would we go?” Her laugh is rueful with a whinnying touch. “My family cast me out for marrying a biped. This is the only place we’ve found to call our own.

“Sssh, Nighthunter,” her thumb caresses Katherine’s hand gently, “no more arguments. I do not intend to die in a cage. And when I return to my love we’ll be free of the Smoke’s reins.”

“She deserves to keep her choice, Kathy,” Ryder coaxes her up and though his touch might intend to comfort her it doesn’t; makes her pull away as if in pain.

In that intimate moment Taylor was sure he saw a different person in her eyes. But whoever that person was — maybe caring, maybe mournful — she’s gone now. Replaced with Katherine and her hard edges.

“Whatever.”

The four other freed prisoners don’t stick around long enough for similar sentimental moments. Hopefully they’ve been down there long enough that they know their way out.

Donny, his hand in his brother’s like a vice, tries to follow them. “Let’s get out of here.” But Cal doesn’t move — makes him try again. “Cal, come on. I hate this place let’s go.”

There’s an unspoken understanding between those left standing.

It’s not enough to just open the doors. The cage needs to be torn down.

Cal sighs in defeat. “Well, they were promised a wolf in the cage. I can go — hey, what the—?”

They all watch as Cadence rounds on a metal heel and abandons them. Katherine barely has time to look back before hiking her skirts up for her dagger and following; calling out for him to wait for her to catch up.

“What’re you thinking? Cade? Cade! Cadence Smith you stop right there! Or at least let me catch up!”

Everyone catches up in time for Cadence to shove the back passage door open.

The pair must have initially gone through without confrontation — judging by the surprised looks on the guard trolls faces. One reaches out with a large sandstone grip but the vampire is too fast for him — moves faster than Taylor can blink and turns the tables with a grasp of his own.

“Oi — let me — GAH!”

He’s too loud not to be noticed. Draws the attention of the nearest patrons and from there it’s a domino effect as the mob pushes and jostles one another to try and get a look at the action.

The stone troll holds up a stump where his hand used to be. Looks down in horror at the remains of two limp fingers and the rest of his hand as a pile of sand. Cadence steps through the pile rather than over it. Leaves him to his agony without so much as a word.

Even the Minotaur — now alone in the cage and egging those still watching on with demonstrations of rippling muscles and the shine of its nose ring — stops. And that — that gets the arena’s attention.

In one last attempt to stop him Katherine reaches out; misses him by a bare inch and can’t stop Cadence from grabbing the announcer by the throat to pin him to the cage.

The seemingly mortal man is already red in the face from his work shouting. Lack of oxygen makes him almost purple under the flickering lights. Anger, outrage quickly melts into confusion then fear when he realizes his large and seemingly impenetrable guards aren’t coming to rescue him.

“I—gek—Can I hh-elp you, frie-end?” He chokes into his mic.

Before Katherine can lunge forward Ryder grabs her; holds her back. For her own safety.

“Cade — don’t do this!”

Her protest falls on deaf ears. When the vampire answers he does so close enough for the speakers to catch him — his barely repressed rage translates even though the static.

“Tell your audience your main event is canceled!”

And doesn’t that get everyone riled up.

“Wha—what?!” He covers the mic with a shaky purpling hand. “What the fuck are you on, man? Le-et me do-own!”

He falls back on his feet. Just in time to catch Cadence’s suit jacket before it hits his face; blinds him.

Cadence liberates him of his microphone for his trouble. “Though first you should tell them that your promised contender is nothing more than a child!” A jabbed finger parts the wealthy sea; Donny clings tighter to his brother as all eyes fall on him. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is the werewolf that was promised! Not a wolf but a cub — who you would see torn limb from limb!

“And because I know there are far too many of you who aren’t sickened — nay, repulsed — by the idea of a child being mauled for your delight; to those I offer you this sobering thought! Not much of a fair fight, is it?!”

His words spread like a wildfire — dissent beginning to rile those who have shared money and hands through the night. Taylor catches sight of a man too late — doesn’t have time to stop him from shoving the announcer back against the cage with a shout.

“I should’a known this shit was rigged!”

“Hey, watch it pal!”

“No, you watch it!”

There’s electrical feedback as Katherine renews her attempts — tries to wrestle the mic from her employer to no avail. He brushes her off like a hurricane would a butterfly.

“Fear not, vermin, you will get the fight you were promised. And a fair one at that.”

He’s done with it now; shoves it into Katherine’s claws and busies himself rolling up his sleeves.

“Cadence — you’re not yourself.” And because he doesn’t know better she actually sounds afraid.

“How do you know?” There’s a dry laughter to his words. “You don’t. I don’t, either. But maybe this is it — maybe this is me. And even if it isn’t I’m not going to let a child pay a debt like a man.”

But Cal’s had enough. “If they want a wolf they’ll get a wolf! This isn’t your fight!”

“No,” and it’s with a foreign tenderness that Cal removes his spectacles and pries the single golden loop from his ear; drops them into Katherine’s waiting hand, “but neither is it yours.”

“Don’t let him do this.” Taylor tries to push his way through the crowd; but is stopped by Ryder’s hand on his jacket sleeve. He’s deceptively stronger than he looks. “Nik!”

“No, Rookie. We’re sitting this one out.”

Taylor struggles but to no avail. “But—”

“I said no.” Means it, too, by the end-of-discussion way he clips his teeth. “This guy is nuts, Kathy.”

And it seems the Nighthunters have finally found one thing on which they agree.

“Yeah,” she can’t — or won’t — look away from Cadence’s back, “desperation does that to you.”

When he’s ready, scarlet eyes fall on the announcer still shivering in place. Make him jump to Cadence’s attention.

“Open the cage.”

[jui-imouto-chan]

Part 6 of the Mostly Human AU

Level Select:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Connor walks into the DCPD with Conan and Collin in tow, and everyone is immediately confused.

Why? Because the three of them are all dressed in the exact same clothes—Connor’s clothes, more precisely.

“Connor!” Hank calls from behind them, opening the door.

All three of them turn to the door at the shout of the name.

It seems Conan got contacts for this.

It also seems like Connor and Collin both wore heeled shoes to elevate them to Conan’s height, though it took an extra inch for Connor.

They all had an LED on their temple, so it was confusing af

Gavin cries a little bit when he sees the three of them??

He is kinda scared.

He knows one of them is the one he actually (kinda) likes but he can’t tell who’s who from here

The other two can fuck off

The DCPD staff is just so determined to guess which is which.

They’ve tried straight up guessing and the three are so committed they all say that they’re Connor.

Hank’s already knows but he’s not telling anyone, content to just chuckle into his coffee cup as he downs the brew.

Somebody gets so desperate they get one of Connor’s many spare Thirium bags and spill some on the floor.

Two of the Connors go down to analyze.

The third one is ruled out. Must be Conan.

So, they need to figure out which one is Collin and which one is Connor.

Unfortunately, Conan can’t entirely tell the difference either, so they’re both just pushed away from the blood with a firm, “No!” from the eldest.

Conan gets that he’s out of the game, so he takes out his contacts and switches out his RK800 jacket for one that Connor made him, an RK900 jacket.

“Shit he’s kinda hot in that.” Says one female officer.

Collin and Connor hold hands wherever they go, and then switch places when they’re turning corners or doing anything. Still, nobody can guess. Until Ben gets a strike of genius.

Ben gives them sweets, and Conan and Collin both know the game is over.

Connor’s reaction to sweets is just

It’s overwhelming

Cougharousingcough

Collin keeps the jacket on, but he then informs them that there were multiple clues.

His jacket has 60 written on it, while Connor’s has 51.

Connor’s eyes are less gold and more of a milk chocolate brown.

He brings a hand down and squeezes Connor’s ass and then says, “But also, his ass is literally the softest thing, and he doesn’t freak out when you touch it. That’s another way to tell.”

Conan and Collin would freak out if anyone touched their asses, or Connor’s if it’s done in front of them.

Hank choked and threw a stapler at the younger twin, then threw a folder at Conan when he nodded in agreement to Collin’s claims.

It’s time to use some suggestions! Thank you, @manadrite !

Your other suggestions will come up in the next one, since the one I used first is really long.

It‘s during the night, while his three humans are preparing for bed, that Connor hears noise at the window.

He lowers the brightness of his LEDs and settles himself against a wall, ready to get up at any moment.

The last of the lights turn off, the ones in Hank’s bedroom, and the house is cast in shadow.

There’s silence for twenty minutes, and by then, everyone in the house is asleep, sans Connor, of course.

That’s when the window is opened.

Sumo is resting near the bathroom door, and he doesn’t even stir when a few people enter the house.

Connor waits, watching what they do.

He has a call to the Police Department at the ready.

They people are looking through the house, and they start to move towards the bedrooms.

They awaken Sumo, and that’s when Connor strikes.

He’s hyper focused on his targets, he’s tuning out everything but those he needs to protect his home from.

They have guns, and he’s quick to disarm them, disassembling each gun while dodging attacks from all sides.

It’s really hard to fight in the hallway.

He calls the DCPD as he continues to dance around his opponents.

It seems the commotion woke everyone else up, since Hank is standing on the sidelines with Conan and Collin.

Collin has his phone out, recording Connor’s fight.

Conan is giving Collin a judging look.

Hank is too concerned with Connor’s fight itself.

He is shouting out a lot of instructions. “Dodge left! Duck! Kick—atta boy!”

“Dad, this isn’t a like an MMA match.”

“I’m trying to help Connor, dammit!”

Two of the six intruders are already unconscious on the floor, and one of them pulled out another gun they hid under their jacket.

He grabbed Connor and held the gun to his head while turning to Hank and the twins.

“Hank, Conan, Collin, don’t worry! If I get shot, Kamski can repair me!”

“Hell no, we’re not letting you get shot!”

“But—“

“Connor, don’t get shot, you hear me!? That’s a fucking order!”

Connor’s eyes sharpened and he elbowed the guy holding him in the face, which caught him off guard. He swung around the man’s neck, who barely managed to support himself on his feet, then sat in the guy’s shoulders.

He wrapped his legs around the man’s neck and throat and then leaned backwards and went into a handstand before releasing his grip and letting the man slam into the ground face first.

At the same time, he remains in the handstand and kicks at another man close to him, hitting him in the gut. The man is winded, leaning forward and Connor just slams his hand into the man’s now exposed neck and knocks him out.

When Connor looks up, he sees that one of the two men had been taken out by Conan and Collin when he went to attack them and Hank.

He hears Sumo barking and is suddenly remembering that there was one man left.

He just barely dodges the first swinging towards him.

He does something similar to his attack on the guy with the gun, sitting on the guy’s shoulders, but this time he was in front of the guy’s face.

“Lucky bitch” mutters one of the twins

He squeezes the man’s neck between his thighs and cuts off his blood flow until he passes out, and is unable to unwrap his legs until after the man has fallen to the ground.

When he lands, the man’s face is pressed against the center seam of his shorts, making him squirm a bit.

“I don’t know exactly why, but I’m uncomfortable.”

Collin and Conan step on the man’s body as they yank him off of the man’s face, Collin’s phone off and tucked into his pocket.

The police come in just then, and Hank is excused from working tomorrow, since it would be difficult to sleep now and then wake up early tomorrow. They leave soon enough, the intruders with them.

Connor goes to enter sleep mode on the couch

But his humans only just realize that he’s been using the couch the entirety of his time living with them.

Hank says he should sleep in a bed, and Connor tries to tell him that it’s not necessary.

Connor was already in the process of entering sleep mode when the argument began, so his voice was getting slurred and his voice synth made him sound whiny

Conan and Collin then both say they’re willing to share their beds with him.

After a heated discussion, Conan gets to share with Connor first, to Collin’s rage.

Conan hugs Connor like he’s a teddy bear, which is kinda unexpected

But cute

He breathes into Connor’s ear from where he rests his head in the crook of Connor’s neck as he sleeps, and Connor finds it oddly soothing.

Collin wakes Connor up first that morning, gently coaxing him out of Conan’s hold.

Then, once Connor is out of the way, he pours ice water onto Conan’s face

Collin wanted to sleep with Connor first, so this is his revenge.

Hank bursts into the room as Connor yelps in panic, Collin being choked and held in the air as Conan glares at him menacingly.

Hank sighs. “I’ll set up the funeral.”

Then Collin barely manages to say, “This is so sad, Connor, play Despacito.”

Hank joins in on trying to kill Collin as Connor is suddenly playing Despacito over the Bluetooth speakers all over the house, looking confused and mildly terrified.

Collin is using his last few breaths to cackle.

X | Continue to Part 7

O | Save Progress And Quit to Main Menu

——————— •

Wow this is long. Anyway! Suggestions are always welcome! The rest of @manadrite ‘s suggestions will be up soon!

[rwdestuffs]

Done dirty: Blake.

So……… Her best disguise is putting on a bow?- That’s like Superman showing up to the daily planet in a pair of glasses, still in his full suit, and introducing himself as Superman while trying to claim that he’s not at all related to the Superman who regularly bench-presses planets!

Oh Blake Blake Blake Blake… What the fuck is up with your character?

You wanted to go to Beacon so that you could reform the White Fang, and there’s not really anything that indicates that this would be at all effective outside of taking it back by force?

It’s blatantly clear that the introduction of Ghira and Kali are retcons, along with the fact that her father created the WF, and the fact that she’s essentially the princess of Menagerie. The biggest reason for this is that there’s no evidence that “Belladonna” is a common name. So there would be nothing stopping an informed person  (Like someone whose family had supposedly been at war with the WF for years) to ask, “Like… the Blake Belladonna that’s the daughter of the chieftain of Menagerie who is also the creator of the White Fang?”

Another reason would be Blake’s lack of a tan. I stand outside for eight hours a week, and I get a tan. But Blake lives on this tropical, sunny island, and she’s about as pale as Ruby?- That makes no sense. Then again…

……… Most of the other denizens of the place also don’t have tans, so I guess the point is moot……… or it would be, if we didn’t see other people with darker skin tones.

So yeah. Blake not having a tan?- I don’t buy it. The island is sunny, and there’s a lot of open space. There’s no reason for the people there to not have a tan.

Then again, Sun’s last name is “Wukong” and they portray him to be a white guy, so I guess there’s no real reason for anyone to have any appropriate skin tones.

Blake’s story makes no sense. Like I alluded to in the intro, thanks to the retconning that happened, Blake’s disguise being at all effective is total nonsense. Say what you want about the Clark Kent disguise, but I doubt that you’d think that the geeky guy who had trouble opening a bottle and works for a news company would be the same person who just beat up Darkseid and his Parademons.

Not to mention that Blake’s parents come out of left field.

THIS is the only indication that Blake had at least one parent in the White Fang, but the way it’s worded doesn’t imply any parents. Kali and Ghira are neither foreshadowed, or mentioned. If you never saw Volume 4, you would be forgiven for believing that Blake was missing either one or both of her parents. Most of the fans believed it, due to there being no indication that Blake still had parents. Now, granted, this could be from a belief that she thought that she had driven them away, and she didn’t deserve to have them anymore, but there wasn’t any mention of it.

Blake is hardly her own character. She has one of the more generic backstories of the main cast, and the characters she interact with are far more interesting than her. Say what you want about Sun, but at least we know what his interests are. Blake’s love for books isn’t mentioned as often as it could, and is only really given a spotlight in the spinoff show. Blake being a bookworm is an interesting idea. We could have mentions of her wanting to have rather stayed back at Beacon instead of being out in Vale because she wanted to read some books instead of “Checking out the competition,” but no. We don’t get that.

(As a side note: How exactly did Weiss know about Sun stowing away?- There were no mentions of other team leaders arriving, so Weiss’ desire to go to the docks makes no sense. (My idea from the Done dirty: Sun edition is right there, if anyone wants to make a fix-fic for that)).

Blake then decides that it’s safer to hang around the stowaway thief that followed her around instead of……… anywhere else. You know what?- Tukson could have been a character that Blake knew. Like… an honorary uncle or something, and she could have run to him. Not only would have it made Tukson a character that we would actually care about when he gets axed in volume 2, but it also could have built Blake’s relationships better.  And she’d be in a bookstore.

Enough with the tangent, let’s start at her trailer where, much like Yang and Junior’s bar, she receives little consequences for her actions on the train. Admittedly, she feels regret for her actions (which is more than I can say for Yang), but really?- That’s not exactly a whole lot.

Her introduction to Volume 1 is also jarring and weird. She knows all this unkind evidence about the Schnee Dust Company, and Weiss thinks… nothing is suspicious about that? The rest of her time in the volume involves picking the person who is basically her antithesis as a partner, and doing the aforementioned things I listed above.

Volume 2 is where we get her obsession arc, and… it’s actually pretty good. We see her wanting to fix a problem, and we see her passion behind it. And we see the results of her finally getting some rest and having a nice time. But Volume 2 also has the Mount Glenn scene, where sh is questioned on how she plans on helping the Faunus.- She has no answer. And this is realistic. Sometimes, people with a passion for a major cause have no real idea as to what they need to do. But in the case of Blake, this makes little sense. She’s had years to think of how to do this, and this is all she has to show for it?

Not to mention her tirade of only wanting to use non-violence is stupid. People like to think that Martin Luther King Jr was all peace, and that everyone agreed with him because he was peaceful. But that’s not true. MLK was imprisoned because of his beliefs, and it took a lot of time and effort for his teachings to make some headway. Contrary to (an unfortunate) popular belief, the Civil War was indeed over slavery, and equal rights. And contrasting the name, the Civil War was anything but civil.

So when the writers go around, spouting that “only nonviolence is okay” then they clearly haven’t read a history book.

Not to mention that Blake (much like the rest of her team, and Oobleck), feel no remorse for all the White Fang members they trapped and killed when they were fighting on the train. “Violence isn’t okay, unless the opponent is a minority.”- That’s the sort of message that the writers are conveying. Unintentionally or not, they seem to be saying that minorities need to suck it up, and take the abuse if they want equal rights, but if any of them are being unruly, then it’s okay to attack them. I didn’t see any member of that team trying to disarm and entrap them. They seemed to be fighting with intent of “kill or be killed” and they chose “kill.” Quite a lot actually. I don’t know how many of those WF members were on that train, but I’m willing to bet that it was a lot.

Volume 3 is just there to show that life isn’t a fairy tale, and Blake gets stabbed. But her reacting apprehensive to Yang is interesting. It shows that her mentor went down a similar path, and she wants reassurance that Yang isn’t going down the same path. It’s understandable, but the way that Blake so easily trusts Yang is… off-setting to say the least.

Volume 4 and 5 is where Blake is so out of character, I’m surprised that she didn’t change her name.

And speaking of name changes, you know how I mentioned how Blake is the daughter of the White Fang founder?- Well, as it turns out, she NEVER CHANGED HER NAME!- This is what I meant when I said that it felt like a retcon that her parents were WF founders, and that she was basically the princess of Menagerie.

Not to mention that Blake slaps Sun around. I get that he was putting her on edge, and his company was unwelcome, but she’s an abuse survivor. That sort of behavior should horrify her. She would be worried that she might be turning into another Adam.

But aside from that, there’s another problem: The narrative doesn’t seem to want to say that Sun was in the wrong here. Instead, it plays off the abuse for comedy, and we’re supposed to sympathize with Sun, fairly similar to how we’re supposed to sympathize with jaune for his Volume 2 behavior. At least Sun faces punishments though, but again, the narrative seems to want to say that Sun doesn’t deserve it, and some of the audience is saying that Blake is being irrational because he’s trying to help.

And then Blake basically only gets back into the fight when Sun gets hurt. The narrative was treating Sun like Blake’s prop. At least she didn’t get him killed…

But Volume 5 shows that it’s more the characters that Blake interacts with, rather than Blake herself that is interesting. Ilia?- Her backstory is way more interesting and sympathetic than Menagerie Princess’ backstory. Sun?- His motivations to help out Blake and get some payback is more interesting than Blake’s.

Blake literally describes her friends in one word.- Y’know, most people don’t do that. They would go on and on about their friends. The least the writers could have done was have Blake explain why she chose those words. But no. We don’t get that even.

She sets her house in fire, and gives a speech that seems really lacking in self-awareness. I get that the idea is that Adam’s actions would reflect poorly on the Faunus, but from a narrative standpoint, there’s no real worry. There’s no mention of how “If this guy acts up again, we’re going to bomb Menagerie.” Blake wouldn’t even have to know that. She could just be unwittingly saving her home from an attack that would perpetuate the cycle of violence. There should have been interviewers sent over to Menagerie to at least get Ghira’s word that they don’t condone Adam’s actions.- But I think that last part can be blamed on the CCT going down.

Blake forgives Ilia for nearly bringing her back to her abuser and being complicit in her parent’s murder, but the other guy (I forget his name) isn’t?- The guy lost his brother!

And then there’s Blake’s fighting style of how she went from dual-weilding her sword and sheath, to her holding her sword with two hands. Blake’s fighting style used to be interesting an unique. She was the only one outside of jaune and Pyrrha to use two different weapons. But unlike jaune and Pyrrha, Blake’s weapons were both for offense.

The writers’ lack of understanding racism is dragging Blake down into the realm of mediocrity. Soon she will join Renora in this regard.

She once said that “life isn’t like a fairy tale”

So,  why does she keep going on her spiel about nonviolence being the only answer?- It feels as if she knows that life isn’t a fairy tale, but she isn’t going to stop living in one.

Because it feels like she wants validation.

Or, alternatively, her abuse at the hands of Adam has made her detest violence so much, that she can’t stand it being used to get one’s way………

Which contradicts her beating up Roman to get her way of stopping the White Fang.

Blake’s consistency is like one of her shadow clones. Once you try to grasp it, it dissipates.