#good morning and-! [falls through the trapdoor]

[keeps-ache]

good vibes this morning :DDDD

[syntia13treeman]

Case files 10.02

what I think happened in:

Case 10.02, the case of "The Trapdoor Opens" or "Releasing ancient evil – a guide."

One might say it's cheating, making a file for an event that technically isn't a case yet, in that it hasn't been noticed and recorded by OIAR. (Yet). Buuuuuuut… I don't care. :)

So. What we know: Nearly 25 years ago, in December 1999, a paranormal research facility in Manchester, Magnus Institute, burned to the ground. Reportedly, there were no survivors.

However, this might not have been true. Let's put a pin in it for the moment.

On a dark and rainy night on 09th of March 2024, two OIAR employees (on their own time) entered the ruins and conducted a very soggy and inefficient search.

The instigator of the expedition, Samama Khalid, as a child was part of some (rather shady) program for gifted children conducted here. His hazy-yet-unsettling memories of the place had resurfaced recently, and he was determined to find some answers. The resident voice of reason, Alice Dyer, assisted him by way of holding the umbrella and trying to talk him out of the whole thing.

Before she succeeded, the following things happened:

Sam found a mystery key among the debris.

Sam successfully (eventually) broke through the door to an old office (probably owned by someone named Archibald. Ha ha.)

Sam was not careful enough walking around the rotten floor, and part of it collapsed under him.

Sam did not fall into the hole, thanks to quick reflexes of Alice, who pulled him back.

Sam did, however, drop the hard-won key into the newly created hole.

Sam gave up, and agreed to leave.

And now we return to our pin. Because down below the rotten floor of the office, something did survive. It heard the key falling down. It managed to find it, and fumbled in the darkness to fit it in the lock. It unlocked the padlock. It opened a trapdoor. It breathed free air for the first time in decades.

After 25 years of imprisonment, the Ę̴̊̆R̶̗̟̝̒͛̈́̍R̵̛̯͍̠̗Ö̴̮̤́́R̴̞͍̲̞̐̓́͠ͅ ̸̡̫̣̟̏̊̇̍͜ ψ walks free.

Unnoticed by all, a lonely tape-recorder hidden somewhere in the office keeps spinning its tape.

Thus concludes the thrilling Saturday Night adventure.

I... Have Questions. Not many, but pressing ones.

The most pressing one is WHY did you crazy kids go to explore literal crumbling ruins at night? Urbexers do it for 'vibes' and 'clout' (and they don't always come back with the same number of eyes they went in with), but why would you? What made you think it was a good idea to look for clues in the feeble light of torches? Why? Just… WHY? (And why a work night? Did you take a day a night off? Are you exploring on company time? Couldn't you wait till Sunday morning?)

Another good one: does Alice really believe this is a dead end (haha) and can't be bothered with it, or is she dragging Sam away because she knows something's there, and doesn't want her baby shrimp anywhere near it?

And finally – what did they just unleash on the world? My first thought was "one of those gifted kids did not make it back home," and that's as far as I'm willing to let that thought go for the moment. Another one was: "what magical monstrosity did they create in the Artefact Research"? And another: "holy shit, it's been 25 years. How sane is ERROR after all that time (assuming it was sane to begin with)? (I know there are clues on RQ's backstage page, where the casting calls dwell, but going there feels like cheating, so I won't. Today).

[persephonememes]

* (  DANCE FEVER BY FLORENCE & THE MACHINE /  SENTENCE PROMPTS

the very thing you’re best at is the thing that hurts the most

but a woman is a changeling always shifting shape

just when you think you have it figured out something new begins to take

i never knew my killer would be coming from within

i was never as good as i always thought i was

i was never satisfied

the feeling comes so fast and i cannot control it

i’m on fire, but i’m trying not to show it

i’m always running from something

i push it back, but it keeps on coming

and being clever never got me very far

it’s all in my head

you’re too sensitive

and for a moment, when I’m dancing, i am free

is this how it’s always been?

to exist in the face of suffering and death and somehow still keep singing?

i am free

i don’t know how it started

something’s coming

i just kept spinnin’ and i danced myself to death

this is the end and I’m thinking about her

Never really been alive before 

I always lived in my head

sometimes it was easier hungover and half-dead

i’m back in town, why don’t we go out?

you’re the star of the show

it’s always the same

i came for the pleasure, but i stayed for the pain

when someone looks at me with real love, i don’t like it very much. kinda makes me feel like i’m being crushed.

is this something that you would like to discuss?

you’ll be sorry that you messed with this

but as my sister said, i’d probably last six days

you’ll be sorry that you messed with us

you’ll be sorry that you messed with me

did you miss me?

i’ve been expecting you

deliver me that bad news

at least you’ll sanctify me when i’m dead

did I disappoint you?

i used to see the future and now i see nothing

heaven is overrated

i’m not bad

i’m not good

you practice resurrection every night

a generation soaked in grief

i never thought it would get this far

i don’t think that i can cope

so tell me where to put my love

am i quiet enough for you yet?

this could have been the best thing that ever happened to you

unavailability is the only thing that turns you on

england is only ever grey or green

i remember falling through these streets

it makes my chest hurt to think of it

you’ve never been so in love

the world is so much wilder than you think

i just sweated it out in a hotel room

i pressed my forehead to the floor and prayed for a trapdoor

and if i make it to the morning, i should’ve come with a warning

i swear i’ll quit

i’ll show you what it means to be spared

[howdoyoudothedew]

Rated: G

Pairing: Maribug (Marinette/Ladybug)

Word Count: ~500

A/N: @mlbfemslashfebruary I don’t know if they’ll count since it’s technically selfcest femslash (even if they’re separate people in this), but I’d already had this all written up when I found out about the mlb month and figured ‘hey, why the heck not?’

Being a superhero was hard. Being the lead superhero, with all of Paris on your shoulders and a box of miraculi to protect, just made it seem impossible. But there was one place she could go where she wasn't just a superhero. A place she could go to relax and forget about her responsibilities. The Dupain-Cheng bakery. Just the smell of the baked goods took all the tension from her shoulders. Ladybug swings onto the roof, then down through the trapdoor. Once she's in Marinette's room, she lowers the hood of the jacket she's taken to wearing when she wants to see Marinette but doesn't want to be recognized by any outsider who might be watching. (Not transforming would be the easiest solution, of course, but much as she trusts the other girl she can't share her secret identity, so a jacket, jeans, and sneakers over her costume is the next best thing. The fact that Marinette is the one who made the jacket for her when Ladybug mentioned the problem just makes it better.)

"Marinette?" Ladybug whispers, toeing off her sneakers. The light is on, but Marinette is hunched over her desk and Ladybug doesn't if she's awake or asleep. She tiptoes over to touch the other girl's shoulder and Marinette jolts. Asleep, then. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No, no," Marinette waves away her apology, yawning wide. She stretches backwards and the chair tips with it but doesn't fall. "It would've been bad for my spine if I stayed like that. So what's up?"

Ladybug shakes her head. "Nothing, I'm just done for the night and wanted to see you."

"Oh." Marinette looks down at her open sketchbook, blushing, and Ladybug smiles to herself. The other girl blushed so prettily, freckles stark against the soft pink. "Then do you want to hang out here?"

"I'd love that," Ladybug says, sitting down in the beanbag Marinette placed in the corner just for her.

"So what are you designing?" Ladybug says. Marinette lights up, blue eyes sparkling.

"It's a vest for you!-" Marinette speaks excitedly, words fast, and Ladybug listens as she explains the vest she wanted to make so Ladybug would stay in uniform and recognizable, but also warm during the colder months. Ladybug doesn't have the heart to remind her that whatever magic is behind her suit actually regulates her temperature. The conversation drifts from there and eventually Ladybug directs Marinette to the bed where both of them sleep for a few hours.

Ladybug wakes at sunrise. For a moment she watches Marinette sleep, face calm and eyelashes fanning across her cheeks, then she sneaks away into the pinks and golds of the early morning. It's best if she's not discovered, either by Marinette's parents or anyone connected to the news. Even Marinette's best friend. She leaves a note for Marinette, though Marinette is used to this by now. She knows the thought will be appreciated. Plus, it's nice.

The morning feels soft as Ladybug swings to her own place, and she smiles to herself, knowing in a few hours Marinette will be looking her direction with her own smile and a note clutched in her hands.

[maconthepen]

the trapdoor

Beneath me sits a trapdoor, barely hinged shut.

It leads through to the ocean floor, though it is not the ocean we imagine on Earth. Oh no. It is something much more dangerous—closer to Alice’s Wonderland or Wonka’s factory. It’s a place where the angler fish glow, toothy and luminescent, and the sharks are neon. They offer a grin at the door, their smile a promise of a trip somewhere. There are no guarantees it’ll be a good trip. It might be a bad one, but the underworld’s guest will not know until they’re in it, far beneath the door facing a terrible abyss.

I’m standing on the trapdoor now, and everything is quiet. The lock is engaged, lying still on the wood. Today, after all, is a good day. I’ve been on a run. I’ve had one well-made coffee, not three manically-made ones. I’m sitting amongst people in the real world, eating lox on rye.

The sharks below are asleep. But they are circling, and the trapdoor groans. Always.

Yesterday was not a good day.

I woke up, curled around the edge of the door, to find water lapping through its cracks. The water didn’t smell like water at all. It smelled like vodka, like gin, like bourbon, like a hazy that wanted to make me hazy a few sips in.

Creatures bumped against the wood, howling and laughing. The vibrations rocked my body.

I was jetlagged and up at five am on one of those ceaseless winter mornings. The creatures beneath the door cared not for the rising sun or the cat bumping against my ankles or the sentences of the book I was trying to read over and over again and again. They wanted to drag me down, down, down. All day, they shrieked and groaned and chanted. Each time I refused them, the cacophony grew louder until it was time for another neverending winter’s night, and the lock to the trapdoor seemed warm and bright and welcoming.

Like salt water to a stranded sailor, I ought not to go to the sea to drink; it would make everything worse. And yet, the thought of drinking gleamed. Sparkled. I wanted neon.

As I said, it was not a good day. I cannot even remember it now. My memory is a carcass these days, a whale fall for despair to feast on. It is nothing but bone and scrap. The water has made it that way.

I have made it that way.

Last night, I dragged a finger through the liquid seeping from the trapdoor and thought just a taste. Just a few sips. I’ll just duck my head it to see what’s what. Just for an hour or two.

The water was bitter hops last night—a beer I didn’t even like much.

And yet, I opened the trapdoor, and I fell. In freefall, I thought not of failure—that was for the day coming—but of floating, of giving my body to the tide and feeling it freed from the gravity of the Earth.

Today, the world beneath the trapdoor is quiet. It is still gorging itself on my soul.

[jaws-and-canines]

Burying the Last Man

A Count the Days story. Contains mentions of death.

---

I hate Wednesdays. Midway through a long week, too tired to feel fresh from last weekend, and not close enough to the next to make an effort. Not least this one, because we’re burying one of the Councillors. It’s so cold.

The priest reads over a passage from the New Testament and looks around as if he’s expecting one of us to do a reading as well. None of us will volunteer, none of us planned to, because we don’t want to put ourselves at risk like that. We’re all painfully aware that the coffin below our feet is State-issued, and the man inside it was put to death by the State- and although in some way, the Council is the State, we all know the Department is really in charge. Not a single one of us wants to cross the Department with any particularly impassioned speech in defence of a dead man. Not even me- possibly even particularly me, given they could do far, far worse to me.

The priest gets the message and motions to the soldiers with their shovels to start filling the grave back up. The simple coffin is quickly covered up. As it stands, Berkov was lucky. A Department man who crosses his employers puts himself in the sights of at best, a quick death before a firing squad. 

Berkov was not amongst the luckiest, being shot on his knees for the part he played in betraying an entire submarine to the Euros. To die on your knees is a small humiliation in the grand scheme of things, but he was not nearly the unluckiest out there. He died with good grace, shaking hands with the man with the pistol before they put his hands behind his back, quietly refusing to be hooded, but kneeling of his own accord and staying perfectly still. He went easily and he went in a dignified manner. I can respect that. That’s why I’m even here in the first place. I wouldn’t go to the funeral if I didn’t respect him. 

I watch the clergy leave, walking back to St George’s, still following my train of thought. On the other hand, for the most disgraced amongst us- the murderers, the spies, the war criminals- the Department simply washes its hands of them and hands them over to the civilian courts. And invariably, they end up hanging for it. 

I was asked- by Berkov, somewhat ironically- to act as a witness to a hanging after the whole Ambleby affair, and if you could describe something as impressive and horrifying at the same time, that was it. It was all over in a matter of seconds. The man was sentenced to die at eight, and he was dead at the bottom of the pit before the hour had finished tolling. Not a single fucking word was said in the whole thing. I bought the hangman a pint of beer the same evening, shook his hand, made my excuses and left. I drove home in silence, the resounding bang of the trapdoor opening and the man falling through still echoing in my ears. 

All in all, Berkov was lucky to go with his honour as intact as it could be.

I’m pulled back to the current moment by the chiming of St George’s- the bells of the refrain of the alleluia and then the chiming of the hour. Eleven in the morning and I’m already tired. My scars sting and I get headaches from turning and squinting at things out of my view. I’ve still not gotten used to it. 

Sometimes my eye aches as if it’s still there. It’s not, of course, but it still hurts. 

The whole thing hurts, really. I should be out there beyond the Meridian, being useful. Instead I’m here, at a funeral, out of polite obligation more than anything else.

I dig my hands into my pockets and brace myself against the bitter wind, staring at the wooden cross lain flat on the ground. I look at the pitiful crowd of people standing around the half-filled grave and wonder if the Councillors blame me for Berkov’s death. In the end, I was the one who took his office. Amongst other things, that surely doesn’t paint me in a fantastic light.

As the grave slowly fills, and the end of the ceremony really sets in, the crowd of Councillors begins to morosely disperse. A scattering of strained conversation starts up, stifled by the Department officials spread around the grave. Myself probably included. The wooden cross is dug into the ground by one of the gravediggers. I look up to the sky and realise I’ve forgotten how to pray for the dead. Some Catholic you are, Haveter. It’s a good job I remember the fucking Creed at this point. Though I think I’d struggle to tell you the difference between the Nicene Creed and the Apostle’s Creed off the top of my head.

Chairman Kay wanders over to me. The white haired herald of a disagreement. He’s taller than me, but his bulk is all fat from years of drinking. I have no fear of him. “You should have taken that off,” he says, flicking the enamel Department insignia pin on my lapel. He knocks it off centre. No introduction, no pleasantries, nothing. Prick.

I tut. “I’m not supposed to, this is a formal event.” I turn the badge back around again so the double white slash insignia is facing the right way. “Uniform regulations say so, under the non-combat personnel section.” If I was in uniform, he’d pick at me in a different way- commenting on my haircut or my ironing or an imagined piece of fluff. It’s constant. He has zero respect for me.

“You’ve no respect for the dead, then?” he says. He knows exactly what he’s doing, trying to set me up between a rock and a hard place to then brandish my response as a weapon against me.

“I’m not supposed to take it off, Kay, leave off,” I snap, and brush off my jacket where he touched me. “I have my rules, you have yours. I follow mine.”

“Don’t start on me at a funeral, Haveter, Christ,” he says, holding his hands up. He backs away as if he isn’t the one who started this. I think about punching him in the face and sending him flying into the open grave but that would really only prove his point- not to mention the military police milling around Memorial Park, as usual, would probably put a very swift and decisive stop to any physical altercation we would have. A very swift and decisive stop that would end up with the two of us being marched down to the guardhouse and thrown into two separate cells to wait for General Davies to come and deal with us.

But still, a quick shove into the open grave remains tempting. For now, I resist the urge, scowling. “Fuck off, Kay.” One day, one day, I’m going to hurt him. I know I am. I’ll probably regret it, and he’ll probably make my life hell afterwards, but what can he really do? I’m with the Department. He’s not. He can’t lay a fucking hand on me in any way that really matters.

“Oh, so you are going to start on me at a funeral?” He laughs quietly, incredulously throwing his arms wide. “Are you really going to start an argument in front of a grave?”

Yes, yes I am. I’ve started arguments in worse places.

“None of us even fucking knew Berkov! Let’s stop pretending we did!” I say, raising my voice- not at all loud, just above the hushed mutterings of the rest of the Councillors. Everyone’s staring at me now. I have that effect, apparently. In the Council Chambers and outside, when I speak, people stare. “He sat in his office, chain-smoked, barely spoke in meetings- because he was fucking taking notes to sell them to the highest bidder.”

“A man has just died-”

I interrupt him, poking him in the chest, driving my point home. “And yet here you are, playing the funeral card left right and centre. Whoring out his memory to get your way. You’re spineless!” I throw my arms apart. “You are absolutely spineless,” I hiss.

“Don’t make yourself unpopular,” mutters Kay under his breath. I turn around. Everyone- and I mean everyone- is looking at us. All the Councillors are staring at me. Hell, even the gravediggers are looking at me between shovels of dirt.

“What are you all staring at?” I say, and shoo the Councillors away from the grave. “Get back to work, go on!” Whilst they slowly start to disperse I turn back to Kay. My turn to threaten him. My fucking turn. I draw myself up to my full height and stare him in the eye. “I might be unpopular, Kay, but don’t think for a single fucking moment you’re the one in charge here. I am. And if I can’t work with you, you’ll be the one to go. Not me.” I smile a shark’s smile at him. “So make your fucking choice. Grow up, or move on.”

“We’re not burying the last Chairman, Haskell,” he says. “We’re burying the man whose office you just took. I’d bear that in mind that you don’t end up the same way.” He looks at me for a moment longer then just walks by me as if I’m not there, trudging back towards Council Halls. 

“Is that a threat?” I call after him. He says nothing. I watch him go, and straighten my tie, brushing down my suit. “Asshole,” I mutter to myself.

[pyronicpathogen]

Knife To Meet You

    Villain had been staring up at the suspended hero in disbelief. The net swung from the hook on the ceiling with Hero inside. How long they had been here was a question Villain couldn’t answer, but given the sawed hole nearly big enough to squeeze through it must have been a middling time frame. Villain spotted a reflective metal on the floor from the sunlight streaming in through the window. It was a knife they assumed the hero dropped. They were likely here for longer than originally thought. 

    “That’s quite the pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.” Villain sipped their morning coffee, indifferent to the hero above them. 

    Hero offered a defeated sigh, falling lax in the net. 

    Villain strolled off out of sight, returning with a vibrant keyboard the Hero knew controlled the base systems. Security, heating, lights, the entire property managed by this orange clicky keyboard. An arrow key pressed and the hero was being lowered, but not to the floor. No. They were still a good several feet from the ground, only now the villain was within arms reach of them. 

    Villain set down the keyboard and strode over. “Do tell me how you got in here without my security noticing.” Their demeanor was sweet, but their words spoke murder. The glint of hostility in their eyes did nothing to curb the hero however. Not even when the villain bent over and picked up their knife, pressing it against the jugular in Hero’s neck. 

    Hero grinned like a fool. “I can think of some other things I could be doing here.”

    Villain narrowed their eyes. “Such as telling me how you got in here?”

    “How about telling you how pretty your eyes are when you’re trying to put together a puzzle?” Hero felt heat crawl up their cheeks. Villain scrunched up their nose. “Or how photogenic you are? I saw your article in the news yesterday. The photographer did very well to capture your good side.”

    “Or how you got in here?” Villain refused to let up as the knife twisted against their skin, blood beading forward. Hero swallowed, thinking of a way out of this sticky situation. Not that they wanted to escape the villain.

    “I could tell you,” Hero paused, “over dinner.” 

    “Why do I get the feeling you won’t tell me then, either?” Villain was crossing their arms at this point, twirling the knife in their fingers. The knife was gone from their throat. Hero willed their pounding heart to be still. 

    “I do get so lost in your eyes so easily.” Hero smiled only to have Villain turn their back to them. “It’s easy to forget the world with you here.”

    Villain walked over and typed something into their keyboard. The hero fell from their trap with a heavy thud. Their coccyx bruised and throbbing now as Hero tried to free themself from the net once more. Did Villain need to drop them like that? They blinked open their eyes to see Villain standing over them with keyboard in hand. “You promise to be there at the date?”

    Hero’s heart stuttered. A date? They were actually going on a date with Villain? The one villain that held their heart in a vice grip and let it bleed dry until the only emotions they had left for the criminal were  limerence and fanfiction worthy pining? 

    “Well?”

    Hero sputtered. “Oh-! Yeah of course, how about eight tomorrow night at the tepanyaki place downtown?”

    “Only if you hand over that crucial information,” Villain nodded. “Don’t be late now. First impressions are awfully important.” They smiled cheek to cheek, and before Hero could react they were sent tumbling through a trapdoor into the dumpster behind the building. Their knife soon landed to the side of them.

    Covered in trash and still restrained by the net, they couldn’t focus on anything but the date tomorrow. 

[florencwrites]

ignoring is bliss 〚technoblade〛

in which [reader] struggles with her lover's inconsequent affection, and a good talk is unfortunately inevitable; the silent treatment has never worked well with techno.

"I don't know what you want me to say." His back had still been turned towards me at this point, the rake heavy in my hands as I tried using it to steady myself in the muddy stable. He kept loading dirty plucks of hay onto his pitchfork, the thinly lined buttoned shirt he was wearing easily letting his back muscles shine through.

I stood silently behind him, deliberating my words thoroughly. I hated when he acted like this, I absolutely despised him. He was one of the smartest men I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, however, the second things went sideways conversation-wise he always played it painfully personally. He would start correcting my grammar or suggest synonyms for otherwise satisfactory sentences. "I don't either."

"I guess that marks the end of this conversation." He turned around to dump his gathered muck in the makeshift wheelbarrow Phil had built us. His face was hard, his brows furrowed and his features lax. He seemed indifferent, his attitude scaring me to pieces.

"Tech, please." I tried, putting one of my hands up to gesture for him to stop walking. He was now barely lifting the barrow from the ground, ready to head off to the dump. He huffed, his eyes meeting the floor as he put the wagon down. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

"I'm sorry," I muttered softly.

He ducked to grip his hands around the handles again, lifting it from the ground. His knuckles were white where they held onto the leather-covered grips. "Speak up."

"I want to have a conversation with you, okay? Stop acting so fucking stuck up and talk to me." His shoulder brushed past mine as he exited the stables, my voice was high in emotions, definitely on the verge of breaking with desperation.

He snorted. "I'll listen to whatever you have to say when you've calmed down."

-

"He won't talk to me, Phil." I groaned almost obnoxiously loud, taking a sip of water to wash down both my dinner and my agitation. "You know how he gets."

"All pissy? Tell me about it." He chuckled softly, his forearm shielding his bowl from my sight. He shoveled another spoonful of beef stew into his mouth. Phil and I had never been extraordinarily close, he reckoned Techno and me to be undeserving of each other. A terrible pair. And perhaps we were, at times like this I couldn't help but doubt whether or not we truly were the destined lovers we often thought ourselves to be. "I'll bring him some food later."

I laughed at him, a father at heart. A father to anyone but his actual sons, really. A playful grin on my lips, "You're an enabler, Phil."

-

That night I crawled into an empty bed. One I hadn't even doubted would be just that; empty. He was weak like that, he'd do anything to avoid conflict. Whether that was because he was afraid of what his blinding rage fits would conjure, or whether he was just an impotent coward. Someone who didn't know how to act around uncertainty and immorality and thus resorted to blaming everything on his treacherous temper.

The sheets still smelled of him, I held them to my nose.

There was no reason for us to fight, I hadn't meant to start one. I simply wanted him to realize how different he acted towards me when surrounded by any crowd. He acted so distant it made me doubt not only us, but myself. My heart ached anytime he pulled his hand away from where I tried leaving him a subtle touch. My skin crawled when he no longer referred to me by the mild, but unmissably warm names he had for me.

However, nothing would ever hurt me as much as meeting his eyes in a room of our friends and seeing the love seep from his irises. Physically witnessing his affection turn into nothing short of mere acquaintance.

Everyone knew us. There was no reason for him to act so cold, so distant. Though, I also recognized that perhaps there was an underlying reason. One I simply hadn't thought of, or perhaps one that I couldn't ever imagine. One that he had retained from his troublesome past.

The thing is, it hurt me to think he didn't trust me enough with his reasoning. That he didn't want to tell me about his thoughts. I'd been extremely careful and meticulous with any information he'd granted me, I was sure to never let what he told me change my opinion of him. I vowed to never look at him any different.

So, why could he not promise me the same?

-

There was no point in pushing myself from my sheets the next morning. I knew how long his episodes usually lasted, I wouldn't even have to try talking to him for at least two more days. Normally, I'd try, though. I'd sit in the grass right next to where he was working outside, just talking to him about anything and everything I could think of. Back then I thought for his silence to mean confusion, I thought his swirling mind simply needed a break. That a distraction would do him good.

I sat in the barely-molten grass for hours, never getting a reply.

His smell was constricting my airways slowly, every inhale making it harder and harder to breathe. What if Phil was right, what if he truly didn't love me, or not anymore at least? What if it was all an act to have a warm body to fall asleep next to, to have an extra set of hands around the cottage.

I kicked at the sheets, desperate to get them away from me, to get them from clinging to my sweaty body. I only tangled my legs further into the mess. The bed creaked loudly against the wooden floor of the attic, a gust of wind running through a small gap in the roof.

I shot up, finally being able to rid my body of the sheets. I huffed a few times, the annoyance getting the better of me. I slung my legs over the side of the bed, now just sitting on the wooden frame, letting my eyes wander over the walls. The pictures of us that were tightly tacked to the planks, photos of our favorite pets and our best of friends. Photos of us with Phil and Tommy, and even a stray photo of me and Wilbur, back when we were kids.

My gaze found its way towards the singular window behind our bed, the only one of two walls that weren't entirely slanted. His red robe stood out like a sore thumb in the feeble blanket of slushy snow that had been slowly accumulating over the course of the night. Summer was officially over once again, and the cold would soon make it so we could no longer afford to sleep alone.

He rarely wore his robe outside of special occasions, he usually would simply opt for one of his brown ones. One was trimmed with a thick deer fur, the leather on it sure to keep all frost out. The other one was his summer one, the more dirty one of the two. It was always stained with blood, since it would also be the one he went hunting with. He disliked hunting in the winter, the harsh winds and easily discernible prints made it no fun, according to him. He stacked up during the summer, drying his meats to allow them to be kept safe for months, if not years.

But now he was wearing his red robe, lined with the finest of polar bear fur. The one that had the special compartments for his potions, and the one I had sown a totem into. For good luck. He rarely wore it for any occasion but war.

He pushed himself from the ground, turning around swiftly; the velocity making his cape whisk dramatically up in the wind. His eyes seemed fixated on the ground until they unwarrantedly shot up to the window I was sitting at. Any other day, I would've averted my gaze. Not now. He knew I was staring, and he was allowed to know so. I held my eyes on him until his feet carried him out of sight, into the house. I sighed softly, I felt entirely forlorn without him, without his caring hands and loving eyes. I let myself fall back into the bed, cuddling the sheets once again as I curled away from the entrance. I reckoned he would have to change out of his robe soon, and I didn't want to face him when he did.

-

I heard the front door slam, and as predicted the rungs of the many ladders soon creaked in his hold. The worn, practically ancient, trapdoor was pushed ajar behind me. I couldn't be bothered to turn to meet his eyes. However, instead of quietly changing out of his clothes, I felt the bed dip. He sat on the side of it, much alike to how I had found myself just minutes before.

"I don't like feeling weak." His voice was rougher than usual, it kept its usual monotone aura, but for some reason, it felt more emotional than ever before. He cleared his throat as if to try and mask it, to no avail, "I don't love you any less."

I shifted in the bed, though, he quickly stopped me, "Don't look at me, that just makes it harder."

I obliged. He let out a trembling sigh, taking his sweet time to deliberate his next words, "Sometimes we are outside together and I'm afraid that when they see how much I care about you, they will realize that you make me weak." I stared at the wall, still curled into the blankets. I wanted nothing more than to hold his face, look at him as he spoke. Instead, I had to make do with the pictures of his face plastered on the wood. His pointy, flappy ears and peaked nose. The two sharp-looking fangs set in the corners of his lips, ones that seemed to disappear when he smiled. He didn't like smiling for pictures, I didn't have a single one of the two of us together where he smiled. The only ones that showed his beautiful pearly whites were the ones that had me behind the camera, something I only then realized might've not been a coincidence.

"It scares me to think they could hurt you for loving me, that's why I don't like holding your hand in town." I shot a quick look over my shoulder, his back was slouched over, his head in his hands with his elbows propped on his knees. He wasn't crying, he simply seemed lost."I never realized that what scares me even more is the idea of you not loving me at all."

I slowly crept from under the sheets as his words fell silent. I crawled over towards where he was sat, near the foot-end of the bed. I took one of his hands from where he had rested his face on it and pulled it out of the way.

I snaked my arms around his neck, pulling my body into his. I draped my legs over his lap as I held him. His built arms felt tender against my exposed back, however, he held me tight. He squeezed softly as another quivering breath escaped his lips. We sat in embrace for a while.

"That's all I asked for, Tech." I smiled into his neck. "I just wanted to talk, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?"

"Shut up." He playfully tried pushing me away from his torso, underestimating the power of my cling. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

[scullymurphy]

Falling Dark Chapter 24 is Up!

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13886657/24/Falling-Dark

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31444262/chapters/94473175

Draco picked up a scroll he'd flung carelessly toward the sofa when he'd come in earlier. It had arrived this morning via the Malfoy eagle owl, bearing the Malfoy crest. He unrolled it again and let his eyes skim over Narcissa's curling script, trying to absorb a little more than when he'd first read it.

Ostensibly, it was a summons—to the Manor for some sort of planning session-cum wedding rehearsal next month—but under the surface it was message telling him what he already knew. Narcissa had been unsuccessful, Lucius had won, and the wedding would go forward as planned. Not that Draco had doubted it. But now it was official; all avenues exhausted and all hope extinguished.

"The daylilies should be in some profusion by late June, so the ceremony will be in the West Garden. And after an afternoon reception, you'll be at liberty to go. Assuming you'd rather not have a traditional honeymoon, your father has agreed to provide a suitable dwelling in a locale of your choosing, so please confer with Ms. Greengrass and inform me of your choice.

London would be convenient. Paris may suit.

I will also be granting you an independence that will allow you to live comfortably, although you may want to consider further studies or even work. Your activities, at least for the next few years, will be your own to determine."

Another read between the lines told Draco that Lucius hadn't prevailed without concessions. It was a major boon that he and Astoria wouldn't have to live at the manor or even in Britain at least for a while. And the money—the "independence" (loaded word)—sounded as if it would be provided by Narcissa, likely out of her Black inheritance, and thus not subject to Lucius's control. So, Draco would get to do what he wanted with his time rather than act as his father's apprentice. This had to have been a highly disputed point and Draco could only imagine how it had all come about. He found himself rather glad he hadn't been at home the last few months.

He almost smiled, but then the expression faded.

What did any of it matter?

He let the scroll drift from his fingers.

Even with the money and his freedom, even in Paris with Blaise, he'd still be miserable.

He closed his eyes as Hermione's face drifted through his mind again. The way she'd looked when Astoria had spoken for him. When she'd reached for him, but let her hand drop. He'd seen some kind of finality in that dropped hand. The start of real acceptance, perhaps.

And he needed to do the same. Snap out of this strange fugue-state he'd been in since he found out she knew about the spell. Get back to the place where he'd surrendered to his fate.

In only three months, he'd meet it. In the bloody West Garden.

Draco flung up and walked to his liquor shelf, splashing some Ogdens into a glass and taking a long drink.

In some ways, it would be a mercy, leaving here and not having to see her everyday. And in other, more potent ways, it would be torture. He stared into nothing, feeling the bite of the whiskey at the back of his throat. What would she be doing and where would she go? She'd spoken of muggle university once. A long time ago in a warm meadow. But now she had friends in London and family in Australia…

Maybe Paris would be best for him. It seemed like he'd be least likely to cross her path there. And depending on his N.E.W.T. scores, he could get an apprenticeship—Potions or Charms. Maybe even Transfiguration. Something to occupy his mind.

Draco took another deep drink, welcoming the harsh burn of the alcohol. Although—he held up his glass—maybe his occupation should be finding a way to make a better wizarding whisky…

He almost laughed at this thought as he heard the trapdoor jostle and turned to see Astoria's slight form climbing through.

He raised a brow at her as she stood and dusted at her long, fitted skirt. She looked about as good as he did, pale and sickly. He hadn't been able to bring himself to look Hermione's way at all today, but he had come face to face with Pansy, who appeared as if she hadn't slept in days.

All of them wrecked and ruined by this thing.

"Oh good, you're here," Astoria said, looking up. Draco noticed spots of hectic red in her cheeks, stark against her papery skin.

Draco shrugged. "Want a drink? I think it's almost five o'clock."

Astoria shook her head impatiently. "No." She stepped forward. "Draco, Theo and Daphne want to talk to us."

[birdcoats]

sasharcy week day 3 - sun & moon

--------

She knows it’s gotten bad by the fifth day in a row of waking up at the same time Marcy decides to go to bed.

Granted, Sasha does wake up at 4 am every day. After living in the military and then on a farm for the better part of a year, it becomes natural to want to get the most out of any daylight. To sense the first semblances of sunrays as they pierce the horizon like her body is on a timer. 

Marcy, on the other hand, has become nocturnal. Each night she’s on the couch blinking awake from sleep at the same time Sasha shoves open the door and nearly falls down the stairs into the basement containing her bed. Both of their beds. Anne’s bed?

It’s complicated. 

She might be keener on calling it Marcy’s bed, at least, if she ever saw her actually sleep in it. They’d initially agreed to share, because Sasha and Marcy are practical people who understand the importance of a good night's rest over their dignity. (Not that there’s much of that left to lose, anyway.) The Plantars’ couch, when sat upon for any longer than ten minutes, feels much like somebody threw a blanket over a slab of rock. So sharing is the most convenient option, and probably the most healthy. 

Why Sasha feels the need to justify this to herself, she doesn’t know. It doesn’t even matter, since they never end up sharing for longer than ten minutes. Any possible health benefits are negated by their refusal to keep a reasonable sleep schedule. 

“Marcy,” she says on this particular morning, walking into the kitchen. 

Marcy is stood at the sink rinsing out a cup. She pours sink water and the remnants of a probably-caffeinated beverage down the drain. “Yes?”

“You need to stop doing this.”

She places the cup at the bottom of the sink and turns around, jostling the navy blue blanket over her shoulders. “S’not just me,” she says through a yawn. “We both do.”

“I’m being productive,” Sasha counters. Just because she wakes up earlier now doesn’t mean she’s magically become one of those annoying chirpy morning people. She does this because she has to. An angry sense of pride blazes in her. “Are you even accomplishing anything when you stay up? Besides making yourself too tired to get any research done during the day, I mean.” She sighs, running a hand down her face. “Whatever. I guess it’s my fault for trusting you to get us home again. Just go to bed.”

Marcy pulls the blanket tighter around herself in silence, to shield what hasn’t already been burned, and Sasha knows she’s made a mistake. 

She does that a lot. It might be in her nature, to leave ash and charred earth in her wake. 

“Marcy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just frustrated. I shouldn’t have-”

“I would if I could,” Marcy interrupts, and vanishes under the trapdoor in a wave of dark fabric. It’s silent again. 

Sasha gets right to work making breakfast. Something that doesn’t take much effort. She stores Marcy’s portion for later, and watches the sun rise while eating her own meal on the front porch. The eggs are overcooked. 

As per usual, Sasha ends her day sporting a dozen new scrapes along her arms at the same time Marcy begins hers, bright-eyed and rested at eight o’clock at night, ready to work or do whatever it is she does by moonlight. Sasha stumbles into bed, collapsing under the weight of herself while Marcy sits upright at her feet, poring over a thick volume from the local archives. Before she falls asleep, Sasha knows she’ll feel Marcy’s weight lift from the end of the bed, and another night will begin. 

For a moment it seems that way. The weight lessens just as she curls into her pillow, pulling the blanket tight over her shoulders. She sighs. She’d wanted to apologize again for this morning, but it’s looking like she won’t get the chance, with Marcy distracted and her own body refusing to stay awake for much longer.  

But then the weight doesn’t leave. Sasha tracks its movement, spreading itself out evenly behind her. She holds her breath, though she doesn’t know why. 

“Sash,” Marcy breathes, inches behind her head. “Can you turn around? I want to talk to you.”

Slowly, she does. She keeps herself right up against the edge of the bed. This is new.

“There’s not much room on this thing, is there?” she says. 

“Nonsense.” Marcy waves her hand and almost hits her face. “We shared a sleeping bag back home once, remember?”

Sasha feels uncomfortably warm, thinking back on it. They were just kids then. At their first, ill-prepared sleepover since jumping hard enough to break the boards in Anne’s bed the prior weekend. She nods. 

“Anyway, I wanted to talk about-”

“About earlier? Because I am- I’m sorry for what I said. There’s so much going on right now for both of us. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Marcy puts her arm under her head to act as an extra cushion. She looks down. “I know. It’s hard. I just wanted to tell you why I haven’t been sleeping.”

Her free hand wanders over the edge of the blanket she’s laying on top of. Sasha feels the inexplicable urge to hold it. 

“Y-yeah, sure. What’s up?”

She chews her bottom lip. “I keep having nightmares,” she says. “Isn’t that silly?”

Sasha gives in, joining their hands, and lets her keep going. 

“They’re worse when it’s dark,” Marcy says. “But when I make myself tired enough now, I don’t get them as much during the day.” She turns her head. Her hair glides over the pillow case. It looks soft, like it would flow pleasantly between Sasha’s fingers if she touched it. Black like the midnight sky. “I know it’s counterproductive, and we need to be working, but-”

“It’s okay, Marcy.”

“No, no. You were right, it really-” The rest of her sentence is lost upon being pulled across the short gap into Sasha’s chest. 

For a moment everything stills. Marcy’s breathing seems a bit heavier, maybe. And then she curls in, her hands taking fistfuls from the front of Sasha’s tunic. Sasha holds her around her shoulders. It’s… odd. They haven’t hugged like this in years. Even back then, Sasha was never the one to initiate it. 

So it makes sense that it would feel weird. Being so unfamiliar. Nothing else.

“Do you want to come under the covers?” Sasha hears herself ask. “It’s warmer.”

She feels Marcy nod against her chest. Sasha slides the comforter out from underneath her and guides it over her body. Marcy latches onto her again as soon as she’s done. 

“You could talk about it if you want,” Sasha says. “The nightmare, I mean. I get them sometimes, too, and it can help.” In her case “talking about” usually ends up as “obsessing over until you’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t matter and none of it was real,” but she assumes the two are similar. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” Marcy says. “I think I’ll go up in a few minutes and start some work on translations, and it’ll be fine.”

“You could stay here.”

Everything freezes, down to the steady chirp of crickets outside. But maybe they’re still there, and Sasha just can’t hear them past the pound of her heart in her chest, so loud it sounds as if it’s coming from just behind her ears. 

“That’s… also a possibility,” Marcy whispers. Her hands are still curled between them, but she brings up one finger to trace the stitching that goes up the side of Sasha’s clothes. And Sasha is warm all over her body like they’re still in that old sleeping bag, and nothing has changed. Like she hasn’t become snapping and bitter and terrified in these years, staring ambition in the face and not seeing how it blinds her. Like she could still look out Anne’s bedroom window at the moon and think it’s a particularly big star. That it and the sun are one and the same, instead of two completely unrelated objects, given significance to each other by the very thing that makes them different. Like the moon wouldn’t burn up if it got to close.

Marcy had cleared that misconception up for her, of course. Back then. But now she pauses and says, “You don’t hate me.” Very quiet. An observation. It shouldn’t have taken someone so smart that long to figure out something so obvious. 

Sasha will make sure she never forgets again. 

Their sleep is fitful, with schedules so contrasting. But they stay together through the night and into late morning, and somehow the universe doesn’t implode.

[merminns]

Bad influence

Fred Weasley x Reader

❧ Content: fluff, just the Weasley Twins and Lee being trouble makers

❧ Word count: 1.8k

❧ Notes: this is a repost from my old blog

It has been a calm, peaceful morning. It was finally the weekend after a long tiring week. You had agreed to spend the morning with your friends in your dorm to make up for the lack of time you spent together during the week, then the rest of the day is reserved for your boyfriend, who has grown restless over the lack of attention you’ve been giving him.

The sun was giving off enough warmth as you walked through the hallways to where you and Fred agreed to meet. Your walk held an air of blissful silence that you rarely ever get. Being a student in Hogwarts and dating one of the infamous Weasley twins, ‘peace’ and ‘silence’ aren’t words that usually made it into your daily vocabulary.

You love Fred, so much that it sometimes feels unbelievable, but sometimes you just long for some peace after all the chaos that comes with dating him.

Unfortunately for you, today wasn’t a day where peace would find its place. Your peaceful walk was cut short when you noticed all the noise in the hallway ahead of you. You walked closer to the noise, only to come face to face with a chaotic scene.

The first thing you noticed how the hallway was unusually filled with students. It was very unlikely for this number of students to be packed in one place on the weekend. But that wasn’t even the problem. Almost every student was on the ground struggling to stand, and those standing seemed to be struggling with keeping their balance.

The chaos should have been enough for you to stop in your tracks, but the confusion you felt kept you moving forward. Before you knew it, your feet were slipping fast. The world started spinning as you lost all balance and you closed your eyes in preparation for your awkward fall.

But the cold hard surface of the ground didn’t come. Instead, you felt an arm wrap quickly around your waist as you were pulled into a broad chest. Your eyes opened cautiously to meet the familiar red sweater with a golden ‘F’ in the center.

“Fancy meeting you here,” your gaze shifted upwards to come in level with your boyfriend’s grinning face “Seems like you quite literally fell for me.”

Despite the panicked state you were in a few seconds ago, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Fred’s silly comment as he helped steady you on the slippery floor. It’s not even a surprise he is here, wherever chaos is Fred was sure to be found.

“Let me guess, you’re responsible for this.” you stated. Chaos and Fred in one place, it’s only reasonable to assume he caused the chaos rather than just be there. Fred confirmed it when his goofy grin turned into a smirk. A smirk matching those on George’s and Lee’s faces as they waved to you from where they stood behind Fred.

“We figured a spell to wax the floor without making it obvious,” he replied proudly “here, have some fluffy socks, they should do the trick.”

Of course, it is never possible to spend a single boring moment when these three are around. “Wax the floor don’t you think that’s k—”

“MR WEASLEY!”

The booming voice unmistakably belonged to professor McGonagall. You felt the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

It won’t be hard for her to figure what was going on, and despite usually living up to their pranks, the trio was in serious trouble this time. It’s not even about this silly prank, it’s more about the amount of trouble they get themselves into.

These three had been getting into plenty of trouble lately. Some Slytherins think it’s funny to tail after them and inform the closest professor about their newest prank. The number of house points they lost was horrifying. It even reached the point where they were threatened that if they were found causing more trouble, they’d be forbidden from joining any quidditch activities till the end of the year. So they agreed that if they ever got caught again, the first action of defense is to escape.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see George and Lee taking baby steps away from the scene to avoid getting into trouble, leaving you and Fred into the direct line of fire.

Fred, whose arm was still wrapped around your waist, tried to retreat as well, dragging you with him before McGonagall’s figure is close enough to prevent your escape. And it would have worked, had it not been for your clumsiness.

You managed, with the help of the waxed floor, to trip over your own feet. This time no one was there to break your fall. You fell face first dragging Fred and a couple of the standing students along with you, leaving you trapped under a mass of bodies.

By the time you recovered from the fall, professor McGonagall’s stern face was towering over you, wand in her hand, and the ground beneath you had lost its waxiness.

“Care to explain, Mr. Weasley?”  

It’s common for you to not be one of those held responsible for such chaos. You were always known to be the goody-two-shoes. The model student, one who’d never cause any trouble.

It was even a common wonder to Hogwarts how you ended up with a trickster like Fred. No one had any idea that sometimes, you would be the mastermind to one of the trio’s pranks. Only a select few knew that you could cause a lot more trouble than Fred could.

But now, Fred was the only one around to blame for the complete chaos and the coupe of minor injuries caused by the silly prank. You know there’s no way for him out of this one. He’d be prevented from playing quidditch.

The thought filled you with an uneasy feeling. You know how much he loves the sport, separating him from his broom was like taking away part of him. And a glance at your boyfriend’s face was enough indication that he is thinking the same.

“It’s my fault!” you said before Fred could open his mouth to speak. Now, you aren’t any good at lying, and McGonagall wouldn’t just believe that a ‘perfect’ student such as yourself could cause so much trouble.

You slowly reach for your wand and hold it up. "I was trying to practice a new spell but it went wrong.”

You definitely are not a good liar but you had no choice here. Lying is your only way out of, or rather, into trouble.

“See, professor?” you said with a shy smile “Fred was just trying to help me… I’m sorry for causing trouble.”  

If your lie wasn’t obvious, then the incredulous look on Fred’s face was enough evidence that you’re lying. It was very clear to McGonagall you are trying to get your boyfriend out of trouble.

A brave move. And if McGonagall admired anything in the world it is small brave actions like this.

You could see a tiny smile on her face. She can call you out for your lie and punish Fred. But she couldn’t bring herself to let your effort go to waste.  The only downside? Someone has to be punished, especially because of the audience of students watching the scene, and you choose to be that someone.

Detention is boring, a complete waste of time and energy. But you’re thankful McGonagall was going easy on you. Having detention where you just sit around practicing transfiguration spells over and over again is so much better than any other outcome that could have taken place.

Though if Fred thinks he’s off the hook after this, he’s dead wrong. How dare he get himself into enough trouble that you’d have to go through detention to save his ass. You’re going to have to watch over him, he can’t get into any more trouble! And you just want to spend more time with him.

Your train of thoughts was rudely interrupted when a loud knock sounded at the closed door of the almost empty class. As McGonagall got distracted by whoever’s at the door, you caught movement through the corner of your eyes.

You shifted your attention to where the movement came from to see Fred waving at you from behind a statue placed at the far corner of the room, a wide grin covering his face as he motioned for you to come over. You mentally facepalmed, this is only getting you into deeper trouble.

You slowly inched closer to where your boyfriend was hidden out of McGonagall’s sight. He waited until you were close enough to pull you into him behind the statute.

“What are you doing? We’ll get in trouble?” you whispered as he crouched to the ground to pull on an almost invisible trap door. “What the hell?! When did this get here?”

“Shut up, you’ll get us caught!” he whispered back as he helped you down through the trap door and jumping in after you.

You walked through a dark tunnel the only light coming from Fred’s wand. You mattered a quick ‘Lumos’ to allow yourself more light. The walk wasn’t comfortable; the space was cramped and dark and completely unfriendly. Only kept moving thanks to Fred’s encouragement until you noticed another source of light ahead of you. As you walked closer you could see another trapdoor wide open above your heads.

As you walked closer, you noticed a hand reaching down to help you out of the claustrophobic space and into a dusty classroom that seems like it has been deserted for quite a while. The room was empty, aside from you and George who was now helping his brother up.

You waited until George closed the trapdoor and pulled a small worn out rug over it before you turned to your boyfriend.

“Before you ask, yes, we used the map” Fred beat you to it as he started explaining their little plan to help you escape.

Lee acted as a distraction as Fred helped you escape, George was to help you out of the trapdoor and then leave to notify Lee that the plan worked.

Your goofy little boyfriend managed to come up with a plan to ‘get you out’ of detention along with these two troublemakers. It won’t be long before McGonagall notices your absence, but your detention was just for show anyway, you doubted she’d punish you for this.  

But this was still escaping detention and it’s something that you never thought you’d ever do. You never even got in detention before you started dating Fred. You were never a saint, you liked to do be a little mischievous sometimes, but you always managed to keep your front as the model student.

But now, your beloved boyfriend was slowly turning you into a troublemaker as well, but you couldn’t say that you didn’t enjoy every exciting moment you spent with him.  

Masterlist | Share thoughts with me ☺

[the-golden-ghost]

September prompts: 9, Goemon

Goemon, 9: “Your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

~

She was warm and inviting and smelled like springtime, but Goemon had to refuse her. Even when her voice grew plaintive, saying softly in the dark that she wanted him, maybe more than she’d ever wanted anything, he kept quiet.

He didn’t believe her, for one thing. She was a woman who thrived on lies and told people what they wanted to hear. The sweetness, then the knife. And she was a woman who wanted much. She would never be satisfied with love alone - especially not the love of a single person. Goemon knew all this about her and so he didn’t fall for that lie. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear anyway.

What he wanted was more than her, too. He could never be satisfied by one single woman - the concept of true love eluded him, he looked down on it, dismissed it, scorned it, and yet in a dark secret part of his heart, envied those who claimed to have it and lived their lives as if it were true.

But Goemon knew better.

In spite of that, and in spite of all the reasons why not - his vows, his responsibilities, his dark heart - he wanted her. He craved her deeply, in his blood and bones and all through his skin. He wanted her to touch him, and he wanted to touch her in return. But such a simple thing would lead to more, and worse, and so Goemon closed his heart like a trapdoor and turned his mind forward to the great and honorable man he desired so much to be.

He refused her. And later, when she’d moved on to try her luck elsewhere, he burned inside and wished to the ends of the earth that he’d taken what was given him.

~

He was warm and intense and smelled like roses, and Goemon accepted him. It was almost a mistake, but that lilting voice and that pleading smile worked its way past Goemon’s defenses somehow, and before he knew it, he was taken up in the mind and body of the man he’d sworn an oath of loyalty to.

He’d never been with a man before and wasn’t prepared to be kissed like it was a rivalry and a fight and a consummation all at once. He could guard against being stolen away, heart and soul by a man who was a master of that very craft - but he could not shield against that which he was ignorant of. The pleasure, and the rush.

He said he’d never do it again. Just once, just one time he would sate his curiosity and then he would lock that part of himself away until it withered in the lack of light

(And the thief was light, was light itself)

And it didn’t bother him anymore.

His acceptance could have been something violent, cruel, and vile but instead he was made love to in the most delicate and sensitive way he could have ever imagined. He was broken apart gently, privately, on a night so dark there was no moon and nothing but the two of them together, and the sound, and the scent.

In the morning Goemon was stronger and brighter than ever. And the strangest part of all was that the only regret he had was that he could never do it again.

~

He was warm and reticent smelled like ash, and Goemon desired him. Madness, of course. To reject love was necessity, to accept it was weakness, but to pursue it was stupidity.

And he certainly didn’t need this man. Goemon’s previous lovers had been bright - vibrant, bold, dramatic. They shone with a brilliance that could almost match Goemon’s own.

This man was shadows. Darkness. He had a rasping voice and glittering eyes and a hollow face. His heart, what remained of it, had been broken so many times that it had warped and twisted and was no longer whole, or sustainable. Trying to love him would be like loving a field of shattered glass and splintered wood. Impossible to fix, and more likely to cause suffering and harm for the attempt. Goemon did not need him.

He wanted him anyway. Not for long and not for good - he’d begun to realize that for good and for long were useless things in life and love regardless - but yes. He wanted to take this tired old warrior into his arms and breathe life and vitality back into him.

Or maybe he just wanted sex, he didn’t know, not everything had to be so damn pure and that was another thing Goemon was learning. Purity was overhyped and underrepresented.

Truly, there wasn’t much room anymore for noble samurais. Or classical mobsters, for that matter. And even femme fatales and gentleman thieves had their time and their place and that was probably coming to a close any day now.

He had a choice to make and maybe that choice was to make bad choices.

Either way, Goemon knew one thing. He could handle it.

[novelconcepts]

novel, just look at this https://www.instagram.com/p/CMILP2ZAjsw/?igshid=1ve4cwcbiy69y

mayhaps you could use this as a prompt sometime? 👀 (no pressure)

The greatest injustice in the world, Owen Sharma thinks, is in how many women he’s buried. How many loved ones--why are brilliant young women always punished?--he’s laid to rest. How many times he’s looked away for only a second, only to find they’ve slipped through his fingers.

The greatest injustice in the world, Owen thinks, is in how many times he’s stood over the graves of women who should have had so much more time. Women with new recipes untested, new cities left unexplored, new experiences permanently unlived. Rebecca Jessel will never practice law. Hannah Grose will never see Paris. Dani Clayton will never...

Dani will never...

He’s never even there. Maybe that’s the worst part of all--that he’s always just off-camera, always just this side of where he ought to be. At home, when Rebecca drowned; at the manor when his mother passed; looking at his shoes while Hannah...

And now: now, with no warning at all, the phone ringing in the middle of the night. The voice on the other end is almost unrecognizably flat. The voice on the other end, he thinks, will haunt his dreams for years to come.

“Come to Vermont.”

“Jamie?” She sounds wrong. Not simply too calm, not simply too level, but as though all the life has been wrung from her body. As though she’s calling him from another plane altogether, and Owen will later be embarrassed by his first awful thought: She’s dead. She’s calling me from her own grave. It’s Hannah all over again.

But of course nothing ever could be. Nothing could ever match Hannah, the impossibility of her that summer. The impossible, cruel way the universe had of pushing her nearly into his arms before letting that trapdoor fall open beneath his feet. Jamie isn’t dead; Jamie is breathing into the other end of the phone, as though straining to keep herself together. Which can only mean one thing. 

He’s on the first flight. A bag with a few changes of clothes, a passport, a photo he is to this day unable to travel without. The plane juddering beneath him, his legs crammed into the small space, he presses his thumb to the smile beneath the plastic sheet. 

Hannah, I don’t know how to do this again. He’s never quite known how to do it at all, how to be this person--and wasn’t that because of Jamie all along? Jamie, who had found Rebecca’s body and made all the appropriate calls, her expression stony as she’d explained to the police how they’d found her. Jamie, who had answered the phone that night, turning on her heel with eyes that suddenly took up half her face, apologizing as he’d never heard her do before. Jamie, who made arrangements for food and drink while he stood like a puncture wound in blue jeans staring at what was left of his mother’s estate. 

Jamie, who stood beside him in front of a well, looking down even when he hadn’t been able to stomach it any longer. Jamie, always looking down into the face of cold reality. 

He’s never quite where he needs to be when it happens, but Jamie is. Jamie has always been. She is almost unfairly good at it: standing tall, accepting the truth, holding them all up when they shatter. 

And now, here she is: opening the door in cuffed jeans and a rumpled brown flannel shirt. Here she is, a few years older than Paris, looking at him like she’s never seen him before. Like the woman who called was someone else entirely. He thinks he sees a little of his mother in the blank distance of her eyes, and his heart cracks. 

“What happened?”

She turns from him, gesturing for him to come in. The flat, which has every hallmark of home, is surprisingly warm. Surprisingly messy, too--there are clothes on the couch, most of them things he recognizes as Dani’s from the photos they’ve been mailing his way for years. The floor is covered with pots, lemongrass and tiny succulents and a large-leaved plant he doesn’t recognize standing proudly amid clods of dirt, a watering can, several crumpled packs of cigarettes. 

She reaches for one of these now, taps out the final smoke into her palm, crunches the wrapping. “Want one?”

That voice again, that strange timbre--the accent a little less than he remembers, a little ironed-out by nearly fifteen years in this country, though that isn’t what works a shiver up his spine. It’s so flat. It’s so toneless. Jamie has been many things since he’s known her--angry, aggressive, cool, even violent--but never this detached. 

He’s never seen her like this. He’s never thought to worry he ever would. Jamie has aways been the most stable of them, taking up the mantle when even he couldn’t carry it. 

We, he thinks wearily, are the survivors. The witnesses. No one ever talks about what that’s like. 

Untrue. People talk about it. People who do useful things, like attend support groups, or get themselves to therapy. Henry does, sometimes--nursing seltzer, smiling ruefully at Owen over dinner. We think it’s the losing them that hurts the worst, until it happens, he’d said once. It isn’t. It’s the part where you have to keep waking up, dreaming for a split second each morning they’re still here. 

Nearly fifteen years, and there hasn’t been a single morning Owen hasn’t thought absently of calling her up. Not one where he hasn’t thought, Been too long without her voice. Without her laugh. God, that woman’s laugh. 

“Jamie...”

Her head comes up sharply, her eyes flashing--and then, like it was never there, the expression passes. She lights the cigarette with a steady hand, settles herself back on the rug with it clamped between her teeth. There’s soil smudged on her cheek, caked into her hair, and he wonders when last she showered. 

“Jamie, do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t. He knows that. He remembers too well how she’d sat beside him on a sofa in 1987, passed him a bottle of wine in silence. How she’d said simply, covering all bases in two words, “Fuck it.” 

It had been Dani, he remembers, who spoke of it first. Dani, looking paler than normal, looking shaken, saying firmly, “We should do something. We should do something for her.”

“Sit,” Jamie says without looking at him. She’s already getting back into it, he realizes--working her hands carefully back into a terra cotta pot, brushing the soil from spindly roots with loving care. It’s how she looked after Rebecca, brow furrowed, smoking and working in silence. There are problems that can’t be managed, he understands, and the only way someone like Jamie can tolerate that fact is to find new troubles to set right.

“Where is she, Jamie?” She’s not going to like this, he knows. He’d hate it, in her place. Had hated it, whenever someone dared speak Hannah’s name for those first few months. She’s going to hate him for it now.

But someone has to speak. Someone has to throw the line, lest she drift too far to come back. She called. There was a reason for it. 

“Jamie. Where is she?”

She gives him nothing. Jets smoke, taps ash into an empty beer can, keeps her eyes on the work. This isn’t like after Rebecca, he can see--Jamie back then had been hard-edged, furious that she hadn’t gotten to Becca in time, but she’d at least been willing to hold conversation. More than willing. It had seemed to ground her, reflecting on the Peter Quint of it all, on the shame of not being able to help enough, on how to explain it to the kids. 

Now, she sits with her back against the couch, her eyes not tracking the progress of her own hands. Owen, kneeling beside her, feels as though the room is waiting for something. Waiting for a knife to slide into the bubble she’s built, tearing it open to allow all that building water to rush in. 

He changes tack. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Three days,” she says. Her face is scrunched with concentration, her fingers testing something he can’t track in the roots. 

“Have you eaten?”

“’Course,” she says, gesturing recklessly with the cigarette at a stack of pizza boxes, several empty wine bottles, a dozen abandoned mugs. “All the food groups.”

“Slept?” He remembers that was the worst part, sleeping. Before it had all gone wrong, he’d gone to bed each night with a promise: Tomorrow, I’ll tell her. Tomorrow, I’ll finally do it. 

After, he’d stayed up until dawn in the kitchen, kneading dough, testing wilder and wilder concoctions. Jamie would stumble in at three in the morning, still half-asleep, to find him shoving a bowl of batter under her nose. 

Here. Try this. What does it need?

Cinnamon, she’d say gamely, though she’d clearly only been craving a glass of water. He’d slump against the table, head hanging between his arms.

She’d say it was divine as-is. 

Yeah, well. She always did like to see that idiot grin. 

“Jamie,” he says now, patiently. “Have you slept?”

She shrugs. He doesn’t need to walk down the hall to know the bed is likely sitting untouched, perfectly made--or, worse, exactly as she’d rolled out of it the last time. Exactly how she’d left it, when whatever had gone wrong had happened. 

It’s so easy, leaving things. 

It’s nearly impossible, setting them right again when the bigger problem can’t be fixed.

“Where is she, Jamie?” He hates himself. Hates pushing her. Hates the way her shoulders square a little tighter, her jaw clenching, her muddy fingers stretching to find an unopened pack of cigarettes to replace the one burned to nearly nothing between her lips. “Jamie. You called me.”

“Wouldn’t have,” she grumbles, “if I’d thought you’d talk this fucking much.”

Not true. He can see it in her, the shade not of the woman she’d been when they had met--hardy, rugged, a little grin around her mouth that said she’d make him regret it if he even considered pulling on her strings--but the one Dani had loved into being. We are all, he thinks, shaped by the love they give. Changes the molecules. Turns us from dough to something worth serving. 

The woman he’d met, tempered by a past she never discussed, patience she couldn't quite get a handle on, wouldn’t want him to talk this much.

The woman she is now, the one who had sat in his restaurant watching Dani like she was written in the only language worth knowing, called for a reason.

“Jamie.”

“Stop.” She closes her eyes. Her hands are shaking too hard to work out another cigarette, too hard to urge the Bic to light. 

“Where,” he asks gently. She’s shaking her head. When did so much silver slip into her hair? When did those lines crop up around her mouth? How long has it been, since he was where she needed him to be?

Didn’t need me. Not then. Had everything she needed, with Dani, but now--

“Jamie, where--”

“She’s gone.” Her eyes are blazing, her lips trembling. He has never, never seen this look on her face. This shattered, almost exultant misery is impossible to endure. She doesn’t look like Jamie now. She is only a collection of her worst fears made real. “She’s gone, Owen. She’s--”

She hunches into herself, a single crack splitting like a windscreen beneath a thrown rock. One foot lashes out sharply, sending a pot cartwheeling over onto its side. 

“She’s fucking gone,” she repeats in a voice like a woman kicked in the stomach. She raises her eyes, red-rimmed, and almost smiles. “I fell asleep.”

Strange, he thinks as he shuffles across the rug to wrap his arms around her, the last thought that kicks out when they’re gone. Not I should have told her, not I should have been there, but: I was in the kitchen. Not I should have stopped her, not I should have been faster, but: I fell asleep. The should doesn’t matter anymore, once they’re gone. All that matters is what you did. Where you were. What you can never change. 

“I fell asleep,” she repeats, and there’s nothing flat about her voice now. Even speaking of Rebecca, the Wingraves, Hannah, she’s never sounded half this shattered. “I fell asleep, Owen. I fell--”

He’s pressing his face against her shoulder, feeling unforgivably enormous draped this way over her slight frame. She folds double, rocking back and forth, one hand digging so hard into the other arm that he’ll be gently patching bloody gouges in an hour’s time. For now, he only sways with her, allowing the momentum of her grief to rock him back and forth, back and forth.

“She’s gone,” she says again. “She’s gone. She’s--”

He’ll stay a while--not quite feeling secure leaving her on her own, not quite willing to risk letting her slide back into this space. He’ll stay, helping her in the kitchen (She was better at it. Less likely to poison us, anyway.), and with the nightmare of making those phone calls (Her mum needs to know. Hated me, but still. And Judy O’Mara. And Henry. Fuck. The kids won’t even...). She won’t let him near the bedroom, won’t let him tuck her into that bed. The one and only time he’ll offer to help sift through Dani’s belongings, she’ll flex a fist around a bottle like she’s thinking of swinging it at him. 

She won’t look at him when he steps into the bathroom to find the tub draining over the side onto the floor, either, the sink full of clean water. When he opens his mouth to question, she’ll reach past him, slap down the plunger, stride out of the room without a word. 

Leave her whatever rituals she needs, he’ll think, remembering all those unnecessary three-a.m. cakes. Leave her whatever ghosts she can’t let go. 

He’ll stay as long as she needs, he decides with her beginning to sob at last. He’s never quite been there, when it happens--never been able to look death in the eye as Jamie has. It’s the greatest injustice in the world, how many loved ones have gone on without him, leaving only stories in their wake. 

He’s never where he needs to be, to stop it happening--but he can be here. For a little while, at least. He can hold her, and he can look down. 

There is no justice, this time, in letting Jamie believe she needs to be strong enough to do it alone.

[mellointheory]

Old Burns, New Scars

----- @themaximummax this one's for you <3 -------------------

Sapnap couldn't help but admit that Kinoko Kingdom got lonely at nights.

He had two fucking boyfriends, and yet for some reason he was going to a party alone. Karl had disappeared into his library yet again, and the only thing that ever made Karl upset was other people going into the library. Karl wouldn't have agreed to dress up for that stupid party, but it would still be nice to se his bright smile and the same ragged multicolored hoodie he always wore in the middle of Bad's fancy banquet.

Quackity would have dressed up if he was going; he was the only one of them who actually owned any suits. The one Sapnap was wearing right now was plundered from the drawer of Quackity's shit that they had moved to Kinoko from El Rapids. It was a lot closer to his size than he would have guessed, a little loose at the stomach and short at the sleeves, but good enough.

Sapnap took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror, leaving the bedroom and the all-too-empty bed and heading downstairs for the door. He stopped at the bottom of of the stairs, casting a glance at the trapdoor that covered the ladder down to Karl's library.

"Karl?" He called down hesitantly, hoping that Karl would hear him and come up and he wouldn't have to make the journey to his father's party alone and stand awkwardly while everyone else danced.

"The fuck you mean, Karl?" A familiar voice demanded from outside.

Sapnap whipped his head to the door. "Punz?"

"Let me innnnnnn," Punz whined, banging on the door. "It's cold outside."

"It isn't locked, dumbass." Sapnap rolled his eyes.

"Why so aggressive?" Punz pushed the door open and slid inside. He was wearing the same ripped jeans and stupid white hoodie he always was. God, Sapnap hadn't seen him in months. His hair was a little longer and shaggier, but otherwise--

"What happened to your eyes, dude?"

Punz blinked, plopping down on one of the mushroom stools and leaning back. The chain around his neck was the same ruby red as his eyes now, as were his earrings.

"What about my eyes?" Punz asked.

"They're red, idiot." Sapnap sat down as well. "Dude, are you high?"

"Hell no." Punz laughed. "Look at this, though."

Sapnap watched as his older brother rolled up the bottom of his hoodie, exposing his stomach and side. The skin there was reddened and rough scar tissue, only barely healed. Burn scars.

"How did you get--" Sapnap started.

"Are you wearing a suit?" Punz interrupted, letting his hoodie fall back down. "Why're you wearing a suit?"

"For the Banquet." Sapnap spread his arms. "Isn't your group of guys running it?"

"That's today??" Punz yelped, jumping up. "Oh, fuck. Do you have a suit or something I can borrow?"

"Why the hell would I have a suit?" Sapnap tugged at the too-short cuffs of his suit. "I stole this from Quackity's drawer."

"That's not Quackity's, it's Schlatt's." Punz said offhandedly, rushing to look at the clock on the wall. "Oh god, it's starting. Nope, no. If I don't have a suit I'm not going." He folded his arms and sat resolutely on a mushroom stool.

"If you're not, then I'm not. Fuck going alone." Sapnap started unbuttoning the jacket of his suit. Schlatt's suit. It had been in the pile of stuff they'd moved from El Rapids to Kinoko. Why, though? Why would Quackity keep anything that belonged to his ex husband?

"Alone?" Punz asked, startling Sapnap back into paying attention. "Don't you have Karl and Quackity?"

Sapnap hunched his shoulders, avoiding his brother's eyes. "Well, yeah. I guess. But Karl's always in his library and I'm not allowed in there, and Quackity...I don't know where he is."

"George?" Punz tried.

"I don't know where he is either half the time, he's always sleeping." Sapnap realized his hands were clenched around each other, knuckles whitening, and forced himself to release his grip. "I just--I dunno. Karl made this place and he's trusting me to protect it." Then, quieter, almost hoping Punz wouldn't hear him. "I'm just sick of being alone so much."

Punz was quiet for a minute. Sapnap's words hung in the humid night air, too true to fade away and leave him alone.

"I kinda miss the early days too." Punz said, standing and running the links of his chain through his fingers. "Back when we were all exploring and building and fighting on the same side."

"Back before Alyssa and Callahan left." Sapnap agreed.

"When the community house wasn't blown up and everyone lived around the lake." Punz gazed up at the ceiling, as if he'd see their memories projected there.

"Back when Dream was still my best friend." Sapnap added softly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"Hey." A hand dropped to his shoulder and he looked up into Punz's eyes. Red eyes, nothing like the blue they used to be. Sapnap lowered his gaze back to the hand on his shoulder. That was familiar, wide hands with burn scars from years and years ago, back when Sapnap was a baby with no control over his flames and Punz was a kid trying to comfort his younger brother, too human to go unscathed but too protective to stop trying.

I've got you, okay, he would say, arms wrapped around Sapnap, barely wincing at the heat. We can handle this together.

"Our friends change sometimes." Punz sat down next to Sapnap, nudging him a little with his shoulder. "Sometimes people are distant. I can't--I can't fix that for you, Sapnap, even though it'd be great if I could. But I'm still your brother, yeah?"

Sapnap nodded a little, a wistful smile rising to his lips.

"Yeah, exactly." Punz wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "That's not gonna change. We're gonna skip the party and hang out and in the morning we're going to go and track down Quackity. Okay?"

"Really?"

Punz nodded. "I've seen him around. Besides, you and I are epic warriors. We'll find him."

Sapnap cracked a full smile--a relieved one, stemming from pure thankfulness that he had someone at his side right now.

"Let me change out of my suit, then." He stood and started unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"Oh god--go change in a bathroom, I'm not your boyfriend." Punz ducked as Sapnap chucked a balled-up shirt at his face.

"This is my house. I can walk around butt naked if I want." Sapnap started up the stairs to his bedroom, then hesitated.

"Thanks," he said, glancing back downstairs at Punz sitting on a mushroom stool with his eyes gone red, newer scars, longer hair.

His brother looked up and smiled. "I've got you, okay?"

[alyasgf]

Teenage Rebellion -Adrinette April Day 2-5

Previous || Next

Summary- Marinette convinces Adrien to sneak out! Featuring a daring escape, Jagged Stone concert, André’s ice cream, game night, and cuddling!

Notes- knocking out 5 prompts in 1 because I’m late! Featuring prompts 2-5 rebellion, game night, best friends, and jagged stone! I decided to skip the commission prompt, at least for right now, which is why this was made :)

Side note! they know each others secret identities identity but Chat never officially said he had a crush on Ladybug. Therefore Marinette is fully aware of Adrien’s crush on her and is a huge flirt about it.

AO3

She had been trying to convince Adrien all day and if she kept using those faces he just knew he’d cave soon.

“I told you I can’t! I have a photoshoot and fencing practice Mari.” He said, avoiding her eyes.

“I barely got Jagged to give us these tickets last minute! And they’re backstage passes. Backstage Adrien. Picture it with me.” She pulled him in my his shoulders, looping her arm around him.

Adrien tried to suppress a chill and conserve his nerves. Her arm was around him. No big deal.

“Just you, me, the biggest rockstar in the world, and his huge pet alligator! Tell me its not worth your fathers wrath. You could even hide out at my place and spend the night! You wouldn’t have to deal with him until the next day.” She then turned to him, holding his shoulders and staring into his eyes.

“You have got to live a little Adrien. What’s the worst that could happen?”

And with that he caved.

“Fine what time is the concert.” He said, signing defeatedly.

“Yes!” Marinette pumped her first in the air and excitedly told him her plan.

————————

At exactly 3:01 pm the next day he heard tapping at his window.

“You’re late.” He said to the girl two stories down outside his window.

“By a minute, I think you’ll live. Now throw down your bag.”

“Nathalie will be coming to get me in 30 minutes. I need to be long gone.” He explained, throwing his tied lined of curtains down for her to hold still as he climbed.

“Be careful, we don’t have time to stop at a hospital due to a broken leg and I don’t need you getting rope burn or messing up that pretty face.” She teased.

“Oh shut up I’m trying to focus over here.” He struggled to get down without accidentally sliding.

“You’re taking too long! You’re more than halfway just jump I’ll catch you I promise.” She said, and when Adrien looked down she was tapping her watch.

“Are you insane? I don’t have a death wish Mari, just wait a second.”

It was at this moment she chose to start silently chanting jump.

“This is peer pressure you know!”

“Shut up and jump already.”

“No!”

“Jump!”

He jumped.

As he braced himself for the short fall he felt himself feel in soft, unsteady arms.

They both toppled to the ground laughing with the rush of adrenaline.

“You’d catch me huh.” He said once they calmed down.

They laid shoulder to shoulder in the grass heads turned to one another.

Before Marinette could come up with a witty reply they heard something that made them freeze.

“Adrien I heard noise whats going on in her-“

They turned up to see Nathalie’s head sticking out the window, a look of surprise in her eyes.

Adrien knew he was doomed. Still stood up and gave her pleading eyes with his hands formed in a prayer form.

“I didn’t see this. As far as I know you said you weren’t feeling good and I had to cancel your appointments. Understood?”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Adrien said, beaming brighter than the sun.

“Does this mean we can go through the front gate?” Marinette asked sheepishly.

“What was your plan if you couldn’t?” Nathalie asked with a disappointed look.

“Sneak through unnoticed?” Marinette offered.

“Mari! You said you had a plan.” Adrien said turning to her with his arms crossed.

“I never said it was a good one.” She said shrugging.

Nathalie nodded and they went on their way.

Outside of the gate was Marinette’s bike and two helmets.

“Where am I supposed to get on?” Adrien asked, confused.

Then he saw Marinette eye the handlebars.

“No no no! Absolutely not!” He protested.

“Do you wanna see Jagged or not?”

Adrien rode on the handlebars.

—————————

“Marinette would you slow down! I don’t wanna fall off!”

“Watch your sharp turns!”

“Sidewalk! Sidewalk! Sidewalk!”

“Adrien, lean left I can’t see!”

“If I lean we’re gonna fall Mari!”

“Have a little faith in me!”

“Dear god help us.”

“Would you calm down drama queen!”

“Hey!”

They rode with his small suitcase on wheels dragging behind them, tied with a single rope Marinette had brought.

By the time they got to Marinette’s house Adrien had lost count of the near death experiences he had on that bike.

“Never again Marinette.” He huffed as he got off the bike with shaking legs.

“Bonding experience!” She said with a smirk.

She pulled him into the bakery. He said a quick hi to her parents before he was yanked over to the trapdoor.

“Hurry and put your stuff in my room. If we start running late we won’t have time to walk which would mean another fun bike ride Sunshine.”

“Marinette I would really like to see Jagged Stone in one piece if thats not to much to ask.” He huffed, climbing the trapdoor, throwing his suitcase in, and coming back down.

“Are we going or what?”

“Get ready for the time of your life Agreste.” She said in a way that lit Adrien’s heart on fire.

Adrien could get used to that tone.

—————————

By the time they left the concert Adrien wasn’t sure anything ever could top that day.

He and Marinette had spent the last 5 hours singing at the tops of their lungs front row at a Jagged Stone concert. They danced together and Adrien had never felt more alive.

Adrien bought them matching t-shirts (as a thank you to Marinette for getting the tickets, not because he thought they looked like a couple when they matched or anything.) When they went backstage to meet Jagged, he signed their shirts and gave them signed CDs and posters.

Needless to say they were on top of the world.

Marinette suggested they take the long way home because it was such a beautiful night, and who was Adrien to disagree?

Their luck led them to André and his magical ice cream.

“Oh I don’t know Adrien I don’t think i can finish an ice cream right now.” Marinette said, trying to pull them along.

“Then maybe we can share?” Adrien suggested nervously.

Marinette shrugged and Adrien took it as a yes. She decided to sit on a bench as Adrien went to get the ice cream.

“Hey André.” He greeted.

“Ah yes Adrien! I see you brought a girl! Would you like one to share with the lucky lady?” He asked while preparing his scoops.

“Yes please.” Adrien was curious what flavors he would get. He hoped it’d be something Marinette would like.

“Hmm... blackberry and peppermint. An explosive mix and thats a fact! But oftentimes it’s the opposites that attract." He said adding the flavors onto a cone. “What do you think?” He handed Adrien the ice cream.

“Perfect.” Adrien said, almost breathless. “Thank you so much André have a good night.” After paying him Adrien turned to Marinette.

She was sitting on a bench looking at some birds fight over bread. The sun was setting right behind her and it lit her up in the most beautiful way.

Adrien took out his phone to take a picture and just as he clicked it Marinette turned toward him. She had a soft look in her eyes that made the picture come out perfectly.

“Bring the ice cream over stalker.” She said with a giggle.

“Oh I thought you didn’t want it.” Adrien said teasingly as he took a large bite while the ice cream was still out of her grasps.

“Adriennnn.” She whined, and again Adrien caved.

“Oh fine.”

And they shared the ice cream walking home. And although both got sticky fingers and mouths from the melting mess, they wouldn’t have had it any other way.

—————————

“So what’s the plan now?” Adrien asked as they entered Marinette’s room. “I’ve never been to any sleepovers before so you’ll have to guide me.” He walked over to the chaise and sat down.

“Hold on I’m gonna grab some things.” She said rifling through the trunk at the foot of the lounge.

She ended up grabbing out a deck of Uno cards and Monopoly.

“The biggest tests of friendship known to mankind.” She brandished the boxes with a smirk. “So which one first?”

Marinette spent almost an hour trying to get a smooth game of Uno going but Adrien was pitiful. She almost felt bad for how hard he was getting beat. Almost.

After about 5 minutes of explaining Monopoly she gave up.

“You know what? Maybe this is for another time when we aren’t so tired from a day of excitement.” She said packing up the games. “Ultimate Mega Strike?”

“Oh I thought you’d never ask.” Adrien replied, bouncing up and down with anticipation.

“Wow I’ve never seen someone so excited to meet their doom.” Marinette smirked while turning on the TV and game.

“I could play circles around you any day, bug.”

“Then lets test it.” She challenged. “First to 10 wins picks the movie or show we watch after.”

“You’re so on.”

—————————

Adrien lost. Adrien lost bad.

Turns out what Marinette wants, Marinette gets. And what she really wanted was to rub that smug smile off of Adrien’s face.

Now there he sat with his jaw dropped.

“No way I only won one.” He stared in shock at the losing screen.

“Aww its okay Adrien.” She said condescendingly. “Since its your first sleepover you can still pick. Its only right.”

“I’m going to choose because I want to not only because you said I can you know.” Adrien said with scowl on his face and his arms crossed.

“Right.” Marinette let out a small fond laugh. “Im going to grab some blankets and change into my pjs downstairs. You change in here and I’ll knock before I come back. Cool?”

“Mari can we build a fort?” Adrien asked with childlike innocence just radiating off of him.

“Of course we can kitty.”

————————————

They stayed up until the early morning hours that night, building forts, watching anime, and talking.

Adrien took dozens of pictures to remember the moments because he swears its the most magical think he has ever experienced.

The next morning, Adrien awoke with a sleeping Marinette across from him. Her hair was sticking out in odd places. He could see her rise and fall with each breathe. He could hear her soft snores.

As he admired her, she opened her eyes and looked into his. He blushed, embarrassed for being caught staring.

Then in a whisper she said, “Are you a cuddler?”

Adrien nodded with wide eyes and a red face.

She then proceeded to move closer and lay her head on her chest. Adrien instinctively put his arms around her.

“Can we stay here a while longer?” She asked in the same whispered voice.

“Please.” Adrien whispered back.

If teenage rebellion always felt this good, he never wanted to stop.

End notes- Thinking of making a second part where Adrien tells Mari how he feels or where I actually write out the fort scene. Let me know which one you’d prefer and what you thought of the fic in the replies!

@adrinetteapril

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Yamata-No-Orochi (Part 1) Uncle Caesar

We’re finally getting to the tail end of the Story Quests. Thanks for reading this far if you have. :D I’m so happy writing this, I’m just plugging story beats out like a happy like choochoo train, but this took a bit of thought.

This scene does not appear in the novel, manhua, or the game, however, it logically sets up a conflict that should have been there had the MC had real relationships with the characters and actual agency in the story. 

Enjoy!

It was about 9 am in the morning when Caesar got you out of bed and dressed you up as usual. He didn’t choose anything too casual or too sexual. He chose a yellow pleated skirt, a simple cotton white blouse and warm navy jean jacket, and knee high waterproof boots and invited you out with him for the day.

“Where are we going?” You had asked him.

“Just out shopping. Whatever you like. You’ve had a hard time. So it will be good for your mental state to get out and not be shut in feeling sorry for yourself.” He replied. But his eyes are not sunny, but clouded, like the sky over Tokyo.

So you spent the day shopping after breakfast, mostly for clothes and shoes. But Caesar took you to a toy store and insisted you buy something to play with. “You never played as a kid right?” He had asked you.

“No… not really. I liked to watch movies.” 

“Pick out a game. Anything you want.”

He didn’t accompany you shopping for the toys. He stood outside, smoking the cigar with his umbrella, not minding the rain. You were concerned about Kaguya but the disturbed weather was disrupting a lot of the internet access around Tokyo and the umbrellas provided physical disguise against searching surveillance cameras. Caesar didn’t mind being out, and while you shopped, he was keeping watch.

You spent a long time pacing the shelves, back and forth until finally you settled on a Sailor moon action figure. You pick it up and smile at the signature phrasing. “In the name of the Moon, I will punish you!” You could still hear the words clear in your head.

You come out with your single doll in the small bag and you put your two fingers in a V-shape over your eye playfully, just like the heroine in the Anime.

Caesar grinned broadly, but the sadness did not leave his eyes. 

You’d spent so much time in the stores that the sun  was already going down. “I’ve made reservations for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Won’t Nono get jealous?” You snort.

“Not at all. She knows she has all my heart in her hands. But it's important to talk to you. You gave a starheart to Ruri Kazama last night. That means he reached you, right?”

“Yes, but … he’s the lead member of a yakuza group and he’s kinda out of my league.”

He waved the cigar in his hand airily. “It’s good for a young woman to raise her station through marriage in any case. But in your case, I don’t think any man is out of your league. If you think he is above you, then that’s a good thing. There are not many men like that. Much less, a man like that who you’d find attractive enough to grant a star-heart.” 

You laugh. “You sound like an old Uncle playing matchmaker.”

“I know and I hate it, but I’ve given it a lot of thought.” He grimaced. “I thought you would be good for Lu Mingfei, but he’s a stable European Hybrid who grew up in a stable household. You’re a wild thing of the White King. You’d never be a good match.” Caesar mused. “Ruri, on the other hand, knew more about you than you did about yourself. You seem to understand each other well. You clicked at the Takamagahara Club. I was pretty pissed about that but now… not so much.”

You’d walked until you reached the historical luxury district. There were restaurants here that were passed down generation to generation for hundreds of years. They survived both World War I and World War II. The bricks and mortar were older than Anjou.

He reached over your head to open a small glass door. Inside, you saw only an old Japanese man behind a counter, who looked at you through his craggy face. You figured that this place was by reservation only simply because it was so small. “Let me guess? You bought out every table in this place?”

“That’s right. Lu Mingfei helped me with the Japanese.”

“Is he doing alright?” You ask.

“Yep. He’s got that girl wrapped around his little finger.”

“That’s kinda messed up.” You say, recalling your last conversation with Chance about Izanami using Izanagi’s feelings to further her own ends.

“Well, hopefully it will turn out to be genuine.”

You shake your head smiling. “You really are an Old Uncle.”

Caesar pulls out the chair for you and you sit. “Don’t worry about ordering anything. Everything here is good.”

A waitress came and poured sake into saucers from a black bottle and you remember that you promised Caesar to have a date over Sake and this was it. You can’t believe you forgot about that but given everything that was happening it was understandable. It was more incredible that Caesar actually remembered.

Once the sake was poured, Caesar raised his saucer and you joined him in a toast. “A toast to the best damn freshman I’ve ever met.”

“And a toast to the fearless friend of justice!”

The sake was good, not quite sweet but full of the aroma and taste of rice in the alcohol.

“I want to discuss your future at Cassell after this. It’s unfortunate to say, but once this mission is over, even if I’m alive at the end, I won’t be able to shield you from the school board or anyone else.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Oh? The Gattuso heir admitting that he can’t protect a lady? Did I wake up in an alternate universe?”

But Caesar didn’t laugh or crack a smile. “It’s the official policy of Cassell College not to admit anyone with unstable blood, like yours. My family pursued Chu Zihang because they suspected him of being of poor bloodline. Had they succeeded, they would have sent him away on an island, far from human civilization. I was able to vouch for him at his trial and foil their plans, but I won't’ be able to help you if you run afoul of them because after this mission, I’m graduating, MC. I will go back to Italy and marry Nono.”

Your expression falls and you feel a trapdoor has just opened underneath you. You were still heartsick over losing Chance. But Caesar was your support staff you could lean on. Without him, you would have given into despair long ago. How could you stand on your own now? You would find a way surely but you hadn’t expected to part from him so soon.

He stares at you now and you understand the cloudy look in his eyes. “I want to make an arrangement with you. For your safety. But it will take you far away from me. So I don’t like it. But I feel it's the best for you. If you agree, then… alright.”

“Alright,” You echo. “Let's hear it.”

“We talked a little last night about how Ruri Kazama wants the Devil Clan to join Cassell and replace Hydra as the Japan Branch. But Ruri Kazama does not want to stay at Cassell and run the Devil Clan. His dream is to become a Kabuki actor and singer. He also mentioned that he recently lost his lover, and cannot help but feel extremely lonely. When he feels very lonely he looks for the loneliest girl and keeps her company. I think you can tell what I’m getting at.”

“Yes, we’re like mirror images of each other now.” You murmur. “So I will join the Devil Clan until Ruri can get them settled with Cassell College and then leave the Clan and Cassell to be a companion to Ruri Kazama?”

“You’ll be safer, and happier, with your own kind.” Caesar said, gloomily

You let out a breath. “But you’ll miss me.”

“I already do.” He reached for a cigarette and pulled it out. Old places like this didn’t mind smoking.

“Thank you for thinking of me. Of course, it really depends too on how well we get along.”

“You don't just give out star-hearts. Pursue him. I think it’ll be nice.”

The plate of artfully crafted fresh sushi was carried to you. Even though you have seen so many wonderful things in Japan, you continue to marvel at the creative ways they put rice together with fish and vegetables to make a bright and colorful display. Even the heads of the prawns served as a splashy centerpiece, their antennae waving slightly like bright orange fountains.

You eat in silence for a few minutes. Neither of you are adept with chopsticks so you just use your fingers. 

Finally Caesar broke the silence. “Can you tell me something? You mentioned Ruri Kazama would have to fight another lion. Who is this other lion? I saw that there is a mystery contender that also received a star heart.”

“He doesn’t have a name. I just call him Z, and he’s followed me my whole life. He won’t give up easily.” You lower your eyes and your chewing slows.

“Also a hybrid?” He glances at you, his blue eyes suddenly clear and sharp.

“Yes. The strongest hybrid out of all of Black Swan Bay.”

“Your old boyfriend.” Caesar looked out of the glass door at the front of the store.

“We were never really boyfriend and girlfriend. He trained me to fight. He’s specifically told me not to fall in love with Ruri Kazama.”

“Any particular reason why?” Caesar balanced the cigarette on his fingers.

“He says he knows how that story will end.” You look at him seriously. “He’s possessive and very jealous. It might not go well for Ruri if we end up together.”

“If you’re not boyfriend or girlfriend, what does he care who you end up with?” He put the cigarette between his lips and inhaled.

“I don't know.”

“What will happen if you defy him?”

“I’ll probably die. He’s the one who has guarded my life. My guardian angel. He says that he has known how to keep me alive from the very beginning. If I don’t do what he says, then he probably won’t keep guaranteeing my life.”

Caesar’s eyes narrowed and you saw the killer aura rise in his eyes. “Where can I find this Z person?”

You shrug. “He’s a mysterious thing. All these years and I still can’t figure him out. He just… has a lot of control over things that happen. Like everyone is a puppet on a string and he’s the ultimate puppetmaster. Even Chu Zihang couldn’t help but notice how fortunate it was that we ended up in the backyard of Genji Heavy Industries to hide. Or how the fortunate earthquake I caused managed to assist you in battle. He was the one who took me down to the Genji Elevator and showed me the deadpool even though Chisei Gen didn’t know about it. He was the one who told me to cause the earthquake that saved Lu Mingfei in the elevator.”

Caesar leaned forward. “So is he our ally?”

You lower your voice. “I think your purposes align. He views you as no competition to him. He only gets annoyed at my love interests. Since you are not pursuing me, he couldn’t care less what you do. But I’m telling you this, because if you do send me away with Ruri, it could have consequences both for Ruri Kazama and you.”

“A love triangle?” His eyebrows raise.

“Yes.” You chuckle. “I guess you could call it that.”

Caesar lets out a breath and a puff of white smoke. “Just when I thought I had it all figured out.”

“You almost did.” You giggle freely.

“I do have one ace in the hole. If I can guarantee your life, then that will free you right?”

“But I’m dying as an unstable hybrid… I���”

“Yes but so is that Uesugi girl. The documents in that folder said that the Black Swan Bay children only lived to age 20 and at that age they inevitably turned into deadpool. Erii was created as a dying ghost, the same as you, by the same people that created you. You’re both alive, but you are 18 and Erii is 21.”

You gasp, suddenly breathless. Z’s words to you, that the key to your survival is in Tokyo, come roaring back.

“If I can figure out the secret to how they’re keeping her alive, then you won’t need the Z person.” Caesar smiles, but it’s challenging, snarling.

“You’re kidding! You’re not seriously considering competing with Z!” You always felt that Z, deep down, was a killer, who taught you to be a killer. What Caesar was doing was a dangerous thing, putting himself in the line of fire of someone who wouldn’t hesitate to arrange his death the same way he had arranged everything else.

But Caesar was always like this, running headlong into danger and saying, ‘I’ll figure it out when I get there’. And appealing to fear would never dissuade him.

“I’m not competing for your heart, only your freedom. I don’t like men who threaten the lives of women. There’s actually more I can say, but given your position, I’ll keep it to myself.” He was still smiling that deadly smile, staring out the door as though seeing an unseen person.

“Oh… my god…” You sigh. “Well, if anyone could do it, it would be you.”

Your appetite significantly diminished. You felt cold and anxious. You wondered what Z would say if he ever appeared to you again. You wondered if Z would ignore Caesar, or if Caesar would simply disappear without a trace, as though he never existed.

You left the restaurant and Caesar pulled you close, one hand over your narrow shoulders. “You’re afraid of him. Aren’t you?”

You don’t answer, not even with a nod.

“That makes me more curious. Stay close to me then. That way, if he wants to keep you, he’ll have no choice but to show himself.”